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Morning at U.A. had a particular sound. It wasn’t loud—not really. It was a layered hush made of footsteps echoing down polished halls, lockers clicking shut, distant laughter bleeding through open doors. A living rhythm. A heartbeat. Izuku Midoriya moved through it like someone afraid of disturbing the air. He clutched his notebook to his chest as he walked, fingers curled too tightly around the spine. Every step felt measured, cautious, as if the wrong one might tilt the world. Because Katsuki Bakugou was already there. Izuku saw him before he meant to. He always did. Bakugou leaned against the classroom doorframe, arms crossed, posture loose in a way that was entirely deceptive. Sunlight spilled across his shoulders, catching in his hair and turning the ash-blond strands into something warmer. Sharper. Dangerous in a quiet way. Izuku’s breath stuttered. There it was again—that pull. That ache. That impossible awareness that snapped into place the second Bakugou entered his line of sight.
Don’t stare.
He failed immediately.
Bakugou looked up.
Red met green.
The hallway fell away.
t was never dramatic. No sparks. No explosions. Just a moment stretched too thin—Bakugou’s eyes narrowing slightly, Izuku’s pulse kicking hard against his ribs, the faintest tightening in Bakugou’s jaw like he’d bitten down on something unsaid.
Then Bakugou scoffed and turned away.
The world snapped back into place.
Izuku exhaled shakily.
Too late. Too obvious. Every time.
Class began with Aizawa’s voice, flat and merciless.
“Sit down. If you’re late, don’t bother explaining. I don’t care.”
Chairs scraped. Bags thumped. Izuku slid into his seat two rows behind Bakugou—always two rows, always just far enough that he could pretend not to watch the way Bakugou’s shoulders rose and fell when he breathed.
Pretend.
He lasted maybe three minutes.
Bakugou leaned forward, forearms braced on his desk, muscles shifting beneath his uniform. Izuku’s gaze caught on the movement before he could stop it.
God.
Why was it always him?
Why did everything—every thought, every stray emotion—circle back to Katsuki like gravity?
Izuku swallowed and forced his eyes back to the board.
Focus.
He tried to write.
The words blurred.
Behind him, Kaminari whispered loudly, “Ten bucks says Midoriya’s staring again.”
“I am not,” Izuku whispered back, mortified.
Jirou snorted softly. “You don’t even deny it convincingly.”
Uraraka leaned closer, voice gentle but knowing. “Deku… you okay?”
Izuku nodded too fast. “Y-yeah! Totally fine.”
From the front row, Kirishima grinned, sharp and relentless. “Bakugou, you feelin’ the lasers burning into your back or what?”
Bakugou stiffened.
Izuku’s heart stopped.
Slowly, Bakugou turned in his seat.
Their eyes met again.
Closer this time.
Bakugou’s gaze flicked—not to Izuku’s eyes, but lower. Mouth. Then back up.
Izuku forgot how to breathe.
Bakugou’s lips parted like he was about to say something.
Aizawa’s scarf snapped out, cracking against Kirishima’s desk. “If you have that much energy, you can run laps after class.”
Bakugou clicked his tongue and turned back around.
Izuku slumped, pulse roaring in his ears.
Almost.
It was always almost.
Lunch was worse.
The cafeteria buzzed with noise and movement, but Izuku felt trapped inside a glass bubble—every sound muffled, every sensation dulled except for the overwhelming awareness of where Bakugou sat across the room.
Bakusquad had claimed their usual table.
Bakugou sat with his back half-turned, posture rigid, jaw tight. He laughed at something Kirishima said, but it sounded forced. Wrong.
Izuku’s chest ached.
“You’re doing it again,” Jirou said mildly.
Izuku flinched. “D-doing what?”
“Looking like your heart’s about to crawl out of your chest and beg.”
Uraraka winced. “Jirou.”
“What? I’m not wrong.”
Izuku stared down at his tray. “It’s… it’s nothing.”
Tsuyu hummed thoughtfully. “It doesn’t look like nothing, kero.”
Across the room, Kaminari elbowed Bakugou. “You know Midoriya’s staring at you again, right?”
Bakugou’s grip tightened around his chopsticks.
“I don’t care.”
Sero leaned back. “You care enough to notice.”
Bakugou shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Drop it.”
Kirishima’s grin softened—not teasing now, but curious. “You okay, bro?”
Bakugou didn’t answer.
Because the truth sat heavy in his chest, burning and impossible to name.
Because every time he looked at Deku lately, something inside him pulled too tight—like a wire stretched to snapping.
Because he wanted—
Bakugou clenched his teeth.
No.
The near-kiss happened by accident.
Or maybe it didn’t.
The hallway outside the music room was quiet, most students already filtering toward their next class. Izuku rounded the corner too fast, notebook slipping from his hands.
“Ah—!”
Strong hands caught his wrists.
Izuku crashed forward instead of down.
Straight into Katsuki Bakugou.
Time slowed.
Katsuki’s hands were warm. Solid. Fingers curled instinctively, steadying Izuku like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Izuku’s breath hitched.
They were too close.
Katsuki smelled like smoke and soap and something uniquely his. Izuku’s head barely reached his chin. He could feel Katsuki’s breath ghosting across his hair.
“Watch where you’re going,” Katsuki muttered.
But he didn’t let go.
Izuku looked up.
Katsuki looked down.
Eyes to eyes.
Katsuki’s grip loosened—then tightened again, like he’d realized what he was doing too late.
Izuku’s lips parted.
Katsuki’s gaze dropped.
The space between them vanished to a breath.
A heartbeat.
Another.
Katsuki leaned in.
Izuku didn’t pull away.
“Bakugou—Midoriya.”
Aizawa’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.
They sprang apart as if burned.
Katsuki turned sharply away, fists clenched. “Tch.”
Izuku stood frozen, heart pounding violently.
Aizawa’s tired gaze flicked between them.
“Control yourselves,” he said flatly.
But his eyes lingered a second too long.
Like he knew.
Izuku spent the rest of the day shaking.
Because something had almost happened.
Because something was coming.
And because, deep in his chest, beneath fear and denial and longing, his bracelet pulsed once.
Warm.
Waiting.
__________
Night changed the city’s shape.
Tokyo softened after dark—edges blurring beneath streetlamps, glass towers reflecting constellations that didn’t exist. The noise thinned to a low, distant hum, like the city was holding its breath.
Izuku felt it from his bedroom.
He stood at the window with the curtains half-drawn, watching traffic bleed into ribbons of light far below. The bracelet rested against his pulse, cool and patient. He told himself the tightness in his chest was anticipation, not fear.
(It was both.)
“Okay,” he whispered, more to steady himself than anything else. “Okay.”
The emerald band warmed.
A soft chime echoed through the room—wind through leaves, glass brushing glass—and green sigils bloomed in the air, slow and deliberate. Light gathered at Izuku’s feet and climbed, wrapping him in a spiral of verdant glow.
The spirit emerged last.
Sleek and luminous, the lynx padded out of the light like it had always belonged there. Its eyes glowed a gentle gold, clever and kind.
“You’re late to noticing,” the spirit said mildly.
Izuku startled. “I—what?”
The lynx’s tail flicked. “Your heart. It’s loud tonight.”
Izuku flushed even as the transformation took hold—fabric knitting itself from light, armor forming with organic curves, emerald lines tracing his silhouette like living veins. “I’m just… nervous.”
“Mm.” The lynx circled him once. “You’re bonded. That tends to do this.”
Izuku froze. “Bonded?”
The spirit’s ears twitched. “Later.”
The last thread of light snapped into place.
Emerald Lynx stood where Izuku Midoriya had been.
Across the city, Katsuki Bakugou braced his hands on the concrete railing of his balcony and breathed out smoke.
Not literal smoke.
Not yet.
The ring burned against his finger, heat blooming under his skin like a promise. He welcomed it. He always did. It drowned out everything else—the doubt, the frustration, the image of green eyes widening in the hallway that afternoon.
“Tch.”
He clenched his fist.
“Don’t start,” he muttered.
The ring answered anyway.
Crimson light detonated outward, sharp and fast, carving sigils into the night like claw marks. Fire wrapped around Katsuki’s body, roaring and alive, and with it came laughter.
The spirit burst free in a spray of sparks—a fox made of flame and arrogance, eyes bright and knowing.
“Someone’s wound tight,” it crowed.
“Shut up,” Katsuki snapped as armor formed around him, plates locking into place with satisfying finality. “We’ve got patrol.”
The fox grinned wider. “We’ve got feelings.”
Katsuki snarled.
Crimson Blaze stepped off the balcony and vanished into the night.
They met above the river.
They always did.
Emerald Lynx landed first, boots touching down without a sound, senses flaring outward in gentle waves. The city spoke to him at night—vibrations through concrete, heat signatures, the subtle tug of magic like threads woven through the dark.
Crimson Blaze arrived like punctuation.
The air split.
Fire bloomed and collapsed into a familiar shape, boots skidding as Katsuki straightened with a sharp roll of his shoulders.
“You’re early,” Crimson Blaze said.
“You’re late,” Emerald Lynx replied.
They faced each other.
The space between them hummed.
Not with hostility.
With recognition.
Crimson Blaze tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You feel weird tonight?”
Emerald Lynx hesitated. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
A beat.
Their spirits exchanged a glance.
The fox snickered. The lynx’s ears flattened.
“Focus,” Emerald Lynx said quickly, turning toward the city. “Patrol route A?”
“Route A,” Crimson Blaze agreed.
They moved together.
Always together.
Patrolling with him was easy.
That was the dangerous part.
Emerald Lynx adjusted a shield mid-run without looking back; Crimson Blaze veered instinctively, explosions feathered just enough to redirect without shattering glass. They spoke rarely, and when they did, it was clipped—efficient. Underneath it all, something quieter pulsed, steady and warm.
Trust.
When Emerald Lynx stumbled on a rooftop slick with rain, Crimson Blaze caught him by the elbow without breaking stride.
“Careful,” he muttered.
“Thanks,” Emerald Lynx said, breathless.
Their hands lingered a fraction too long.
Crimson Blaze pulled away first.
The fox groaned softly. “You two are exhausting.”
The lynx flicked its tail. “You’re not helping.”
They reached the warehouse district just as the air changed.
Magic.
Not wild.
Curated.
Emerald Lynx slowed. “Stop.”
Crimson Blaze did, flames dimming instinctively.
From the shadows between stacked containers, something shifted.
Someone stepped forward.
The villain wore a mask like shattered glass—fractured planes catching light at wrong angles. Violet eyes glowed behind it, bright with interest.
“Oh,” the villain breathed. “You really are beautiful together.”
Crimson Blaze bristled. “Back off.”
Emerald Lynx raised a shield, heart pounding. “Who are you?”
The villain smiled.
“I listen,” they said softly. “To threads. To echoes. To the places where magic overlaps.”
Their gaze slid between the two heroes, lingering.
“And you,” the villain continued, voice almost reverent, “are tangled.”
Emerald Lynx’s chest tightened. “What does that mean?”
The villain’s eyes shone brighter.
“It means,” they said, stepping closer, “that when one of you breathes, the other feels it.”
Crimson Blaze laughed sharply. “Bullshit.”
The villain tilted their head. “Is it?”
They snapped their fingers.
The world lurched.
Emerald Lynx staggered as images flooded his vision—classroom sunlight, ash-blond hair, red eyes burning into his. His shield flickered.
Crimson Blaze hissed, clutching his head. “What the hell—”
The villain sighed, delighted. “See? Even your memories hold hands.”
Emerald Lynx gasped. “Get out of my head!”
“Oh, I’m not inside,” the villain said gently. “I’m simply… listening.”
They raised a hand.
The fight began.
The villain moved like smoke.
Not fast—not slow—but deliberate, each step placed with care, as though the ground itself had agreed to part for them. The fractured-glass mask caught the city’s stray lights and bent them into wrong shapes, scattering reflections across the wet concrete.
Emerald Lynx braced himself.
His shield flared instinctively, translucent green blooming outward like a living thing. His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might bruise his ribs.
Something was wrong.
Not just the villain.
The air itself felt… stretched.
“Stay close,” Emerald Lynx said, forcing his voice steady.
Crimson Blaze scoffed, but he shifted half a step nearer anyway, heat licking low around his boots. “Like hell I’d let them separate us.”
The words landed heavier than either of them expected.
The villain’s head tilted.
“Oh,” they murmured. “That instinct. That pull.”
Their voice softened, almost fond. “You don’t even notice when you orbit each other.”
Crimson Blaze snarled and launched forward.
The explosion cracked the night.
Fire tore across the ground, shattering concrete, forcing the villain to leap back—but they were smiling when they landed, coat fluttering like wings.
“Anger,” the villain said. “Bright. Loud. Delicious.”
Emerald Lynx followed, shield expanding, vines of light snapping out to bind.
The villain laughed.
With a sharp twist of their wrist, the vines unraveled—no, not broken, but untied, like someone had simply found the knot and loosened it.
Emerald Lynx stumbled.
His breath left him in a startled gasp.
Crimson Blaze was there instantly, palm at his back, grounding him.
“Hey.” Low. Urgent. “You good?”
Emerald Lynx nodded, even as unease crawled up his spine. “Yes. Just—be careful. They’re not fighting us. They’re… studying us.”
“Exactly,” the villain said pleasantly.
The bond shimmered.
It was impossible to miss once you knew how to look.
Two signatures—distinct, powerful—yet braided together so tightly that pulling on one made the other sing. The villain tasted it in the air, sweet and sharp as lightning before rain.
They had hunted many kinds of magic.
Fear.
Rage.
Despair.
But this—
This was rarer.
Longing left unattended. Love denied so thoroughly it forgot its own name.
The villain inhaled, slow and reverent.
“Yes,” they thought. “You will do beautifully.”
The villain raised both hands.
The city fractured.
Not physically—reality didn’t shatter—but perception did. The warehouse blurred, shadows stretching into familiar shapes.
Emerald Lynx gasped as the world lurched sideways.
Suddenly—
—sunlight through classroom windows. —chalk dust in the air. —Bakugou’s voice, sharp and close.
“No—!”
He staggered, clutching his head.
Crimson Blaze froze.
Because he saw it too.
Midoriya, hunched over a desk, biting his lip as he tried not to look back.
Midoriya, eyes shining when he laughed.
Midoriya—
“Stop it!” Crimson Blaze roared, flames surging violently.
The vision shattered.
But the damage lingered.
Emerald Lynx dropped to one knee, chest heaving. “They’re… they’re pulling memories.”
The villain circled them slowly. “Not pulling. Resonating.”
Crimson Blaze turned on them, rage barely contained. “You don’t get to say his name.”
The villain paused.
His.
Oh.
Their smile widened.
Emerald Lynx pushed himself upright despite the tremor in his hands.
“Whatever you’re doing,” he said, voice shaking but firm, “it won’t work.”
The villain regarded him thoughtfully. “You’re lying.”
They stepped closer, boots echoing softly.
“Your magic reacts before you do. Your heart moves first.”
Crimson Blaze’s flames flared in protest. “You don’t know a damn thing about us.”
The villain’s gaze flicked between them.
“I know this,” they said quietly. “If one of you falls, the other will follow.”
The words landed like a blade.
Emerald Lynx’s breath caught.
Crimson Blaze went still.
The villain lifted a hand—and struck.
Not at Crimson Blaze.
At Emerald Lynx.
Emerald Lynx barely had time to react. The blow sent him skidding across the ground, shield shattering into fragments of green light.
“Lynx!”
Crimson Blaze screamed it.
The sound tore out of him, raw and unfiltered.
Fire exploded outward, uncontrolled, furious. The villain laughed as they danced away, feeding on the surge.
“Yes,” they breathed. “There it is.”
Emerald Lynx struggled to rise, pain screaming through his shoulder.
“Crimson—don’t—!”
Too late.
Crimson Blaze was already burning too hot, vision tunneling, every instinct screaming one thing:
Protect him.
Destroy anything that threatens him.
The fox spirit shouted in his ear. “Katsuki—focus!”
Crimson Blaze didn’t hear it.
Emerald Lynx reached out, hand shaking. “Please—don’t lose yourself.”
Crimson Blaze turned back toward him.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time, the bond hurt.
Pain arrived quietly.Not as an explosion. Not as fire.
As weight.
Emerald Lynx hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. The world went white at the edges, sound collapsing inward until all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears.
His shield was gone.
Not cracked.
Gone.
The absence felt obscene—like realizing too late that a bone had snapped.
“Lynx—!”
Crimson Blaze’s voice tore through the night.
He dragged in a breath that burned.
The villain watched.
They didn’t rush.
Didn’t strike again.
They simply observed, head tilted, as if witnessing a long-anticipated experiment reach its most interesting stage.
“Careful,” the villain murmured. “If you break him too fast, you’ll miss the reveal.”
Crimson Blaze snapped.
Fire detonated outward, uncontrolled and furious, blowing chunks of concrete into the air. Heat roared, wild and incandescent, flames spiraling high enough to kiss the underside of the clouds.
“Shut up!” he screamed.
The fox spirit materialized at his shoulder, fur bristling, voice sharp with alarm. “Katsuki—listen to me! You’re burning wrong!”
Crimson Blaze didn’t hear it.
All he could see was Emerald Lynx on the ground.
All he could feel was the tearing inside his chest, like something vital was being pulled apart thread by thread.
He launched himself at the villain with a feral snarl.
They slipped aside easily.
“Predictable,” the villain said softly.
They flicked two fingers.
The ground beneath Crimson Blaze warped.
He staggered mid-stride, balance thrown, flames sputtering.
Emerald Lynx saw it.
“No—!”
He didn’t think.
He moved.
Emerald light flared weakly as he threw himself between them, arms raised in a reflexive, futile shield.
The strike hit him full-on.
Something inside him gave.
A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the air.
Emerald Lynx screamed.
The sound ripped straight through Crimson Blaze.
“IZU—”
The name burst free.
Unfiltered.
Unmasked.
Real.
The world stopped.
Fire guttered.
The villain froze.
Even the city seemed to hold its breath.
Emerald Lynx stared up at Crimson Blaze through tears and pain.
“…Kacchan?”
The word was small.
Shattered.
Crimson Blaze felt his heart collapse in on itself.
The armor dissolved.
The flames died.
Katsuki Bakugou stood there, bare-handed and shaking, staring at Izuku Midoriya broken on the ground.
“No,” Katsuki whispered.
His knees hit the concrete.
“No, no, no—”
Memory crashed down on him in brutal clarity.
Green eyes in a classroom.
A smile caught and hidden.
Hands steadying him on a rooftop.
Every look. Every instinct. Every time his chest had tightened for no reason.
It all had a reason.
Izuku coughed weakly, blood spotting his lips. “I… didn’t want you to find out like this.”
Katsuki’s breath fractured.
“You idiot,” he choked. “You absolute—”
His hands hovered uselessly over Izuku’s shoulders, terrified to touch.
“I told you not to get hurt,” Katsuki whispered.
Izuku smiled faintly. “You never said that.”
The villain laughed.
It was quiet.
Satisfied.
“There it is,” they said reverently. “The truth you buried so deep it tried to kill you.”
Katsuki looked up.
If rage had a shape, it would have worn his face.
“You,” he said.
The villain inclined their head. “Me.”
“You used him.”
“Yes.”
“You hurt him.”
“Yes.”
Katsuki stood.
Something old and feral woke inside his chest—not rage this time, but certainty.
“You don’t get to exist anymore.”
The villain’s smile faltered.
They had expected anger.
They had not expected clarity.
The bond, once fractured and bleeding, snapped taut instead—no longer fraying, no longer leaking.
Recognized.
Named.
Accepted.
The magic changed flavor.
Hotter.
Brighter.
Dangerous.
The villain took an instinctive step back.
“Ah,” they thought distantly. “That’s the mistake.”
Katsuki turned back to Izuku.
His voice broke when he spoke. “I’ve got you. I swear. I’m not letting you go.”
Izuku reached for him with trembling fingers. “Kacchan… you’re shaking.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki said hoarsely. “So shut up and stay with me.”
Emerald light stirred.
Crimson embers answered.
The spirits appeared together this time.
The lynx bowed its head.
The fox grinned, sharp and fierce. “Took you long enough.”
The air thrummed.
Two threads—no, one—tightened.
The villain screamed as power surged.
Emerald and crimson light fused, violent and radiant, rewriting the night.
And Katsuki Bakugou finally understood.
He had never been fighting beside Emerald Lynx.
He had been fighting with Izuku Midoriya.
The moment Katsuki screamed Izuku’s name, something ancient snapped into place.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.
Magically.
The bracelet on Izuku’s wrist burned emerald-bright, light spilling between his fingers like something alive. Katsuki’s ring detonated in crimson heat, the metal reshaping, locking tighter around his finger as if it had finally found its purpose. The air between them warped—pressure, heat, gravity bending inward.They felt it at the same time.
Not I.
We.
The villain staggered back mid-laugh.
“No—wait—”
For the first time since the fight began, genuine panic flickered across their face. Their Quirk—emotional siphoning, the ability to feed on longing, denial, unspoken desire—suddenly found nothing loose to grab onto. The ache that had once bled freely from the two heroes had sealed shut, fused, reinforced.
“That’s not—” the villain hissed, eyes darting between them. “You named it. You weren’t supposed to name it yet.”
Izuku’s breath came shaky. Katsuki’s was ragged.
But when their eyes met—green blazing into red—there was no hesitation left. No confusion. No space for doubt.
“Stay behind me,” Katsuki growled automatically.
Izuku didn’t argue.
He stepped beside him.
The bond surged.
Not louder.
Clearer.
They moved together like they’d trained for this their entire lives.
Katsuki launched first, explosions sharper, more precise than ever—every blast calculated not just around Izuku’s position, but with it. Izuku felt the trajectory before it happened, adjusted his movement instinctively, vines of energy snapping into place exactly where Katsuki needed an opening.
They weren’t reacting to each other.
They were anticipating.
The villain shrieked as the first real hit landed, thrown back into a concrete wall hard enough to crater it. They scrambled upright, eyes wild, power flaring—but every attempt to provoke doubt slid uselessly off the bond.
“You don’t understand!” the villain snapped, voice cracking. “This thing between you—it’s dangerous. It will hollow you out. It will consume—”
“Shut up,” Katsuki snarled.
The bracelet flared.
So did the ring.
Together.
The villain screamed as the combined strike hit—emerald and crimson spiraling into something incandescent, something new. Not destructive for the sake of it. Purposeful. Protective.
And then—
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”
Boots hit pavement. Voices shouted.
Class 3-A spilled into the ruined street in a chaotic wave of horror and recognition.
Bakugou froze half a second too late.
Midoriya realized it at the exact same time.
Too late.
Denki’s jaw dropped.
Kirishima’s eyes widened, then softened in stunned understanding.
Uraraka sucked in a sharp breath, hand flying to her mouth.
Jirou stared—then smirked, sharp and knowing.
“...I knew it,” she muttered.
Aizawa landed last, scarf snapping, eyes already glowing red as he took in the scene—the transformed heroes, the villain restrained, the unmistakable overlap of posture, proximity, instinct.
All Might stood frozen behind him.
Pride and heartbreak warred on his face.
The villain laughed weakly from the ground. “Congratulations,” they rasped. “The secret’s out.”
Katsuki stepped forward, placing himself fully between Izuku and everyone else.
Possessive. Unapologetic.
“Look all you want,” he said, voice shaking with restrained fury. “He’s mine. And I’m his.”
The bond hummed—warm, steady, chosen.
Izuku reached out, fingers brushing Katsuki’s wrist.
Not to calm him.
To stand with him.
The night finally fell silent.
And nothing—nothing—would ever be the same again.
Silence didn’t come gently.
It fell in pieces—sirens winding down, concrete dust settling, the villain dragged away in reinforced cuffs that glowed dull and empty now that their power had nothing left to drink from. The street lights flickered back to life one by one, washing the wreckage in a pale, ordinary yellow that felt wrong after all that color.
Izuku noticed it first.
The absence.
Not the bond—it was still there, a steady warmth coiled around his heart, breathing with him—but the pressure. The constant ache of holding back. It was gone. In its place sat something fragile and terrifyingly calm.
Katsuki swayed.
Izuku caught him without thinking.
Hands at Katsuki’s elbows. Katsuki’s fingers fisting into the front of Izuku’s costume like a lifeline. Their foreheads nearly touched, breaths tangling. For half a second, the world narrowed to just that.
“You good?” Katsuki rasped.
Izuku nodded, then frowned. “You’re bleeding.”
“Don’t care.”
“You should care,” Izuku said softly—and felt the bond echo it, not as pain, but concern.
Katsuki huffed a humorless laugh. “Tch. Snitch.”
Behind them, the class hovered in an awkward semicircle—close enough to be present, far enough to give space. No one cracked a joke. Not yet.
Aizawa broke the spell.
“Bakugou. Midoriya.” His voice was tired. Grounded. The voice of someone who had seen too much and understood more than he ever let on. “De-transform.”
The command slid easily into the bond.
Emerald light softened, petals of green dissolving into motes that kissed Izuku’s skin goodbye before sinking into the bracelet. Crimson heat cooled, the ring returning to metal with a final, reluctant pulse against Katsuki’s finger.
They stood there in their school uniforms, scuffed and torn, reality crashing back in.
Present Mic exhaled loudly. “Welp,” he said, pushing his glasses up with a shaking finger. “That answers about… a thousand questions.”
Denki finally found his voice. “BRO.”
Kirishima snorted, relief breaking through his shock. “Man, it’s kinda badass though.”
Uraraka smiled through wet eyes. “I’m just glad you’re both okay.”
Jirou leaned closer to Momo and murmured, “Called it.”
All Might approached last.
Izuku straightened automatically, guilt blooming sharp and familiar—but All Might’s expression wasn’t disappointed. It was soft. Overwhelmingly proud. And sad, in that quiet way that came with understanding the cost of loving as a hero.
“You protected each other,” All Might said gently. “That is never something to be ashamed of.”
Katsuki scoffed, looking away. “Wasn’t gonna let him get hurt.”
Izuku squeezed his wrist.
Aizawa cleared his throat. “Medical. Now. We’ll talk later.”
Later hung heavy in the air.
Recovery Girl the school nurse clicked her tongue the moment they arrived.
“You two,” she scolded, already waving them onto beds. “Honestly.”
They sat side by side, knees brushing. Neither moved away.
As bandages were wrapped and salves applied, the adrenaline finally ebbed—and what rushed in to replace it was terrifying.
“What if—” Izuku started.
Katsuki turned to him instantly. “Don’t.”
“What if I hadn’t—”
“I said don’t.” Katsuki’s voice cracked. He swallowed, jaw tight. “I felt it. Through the bond. You going down. You thinking you deserved it.”
Izuku flinched.
Katsuki leaned closer, forehead resting against Izuku’s temple. “You don’t. Ever.”
The bond thrummed.
Not loud.
Certain.
Izuku’s eyes burned. “I was scared.”
“Me too,” Katsuki admitted, barely audible.
They stayed like that until the room emptied.
Until the night finally felt safe.
Then Izuku spoke the thing that had been sitting between them since the moment his name had been screamed into existence.
“So… we’re really doing this.”
Katsuki snorted softly. “Kinda past ‘doing’ anything.”
Izuku smiled, small and real. “I like you. As a hero. As a student. As—”
“Deku.” Katsuki cupped his cheek, thumb warm against his skin. “I’ve always loved you.”
The words didn’t explode.
They settled.
Home.
Izuku leaned in first this time.
The kiss was gentle. Careful. Not a spark—but a promise.
Outside, the city breathed.
Inside, the bond rested.
And for the first time, neither of them wondered if loving each other would make them weaker.
They already knew the answer.
_____________
Spring arrived quietly.
Not with explosions or villains or screaming sirens—but with sunlight through UA’s windows, with dust motes drifting lazily over desks, with the ordinary miracle of days continuing.
Izuku noticed it most in the small things.
In how Katsuki’s hand found his without looking when they walked between buildings. In how the ring warmed whenever Katsuki smiled without baring his teeth. In how the bracelet hummed contentedly whenever Izuku laughed.
The bond no longer demanded.
It rested.
Aizawa called them in one afternoon.
No preamble. No scolding.
Just tea steaming quietly on his desk.
“You handled the bond well,” he said, eyes half-lidded but sharp. “Better than most.”
Izuku blinked. “Most…?”
Katsuki stiffened. “You knew.”
Aizawa didn’t deny it.
“I knew something,” he corrected. “All Might knew the rest.”
The door slid open.
All Might entered—not in his hero form, but as Toshinori Yagi, carrying something small and wrapped carefully in cloth.
The air changed.
The spirits stirred.
The lynx stepped forward first, tail flicking, emerald eyes thoughtful.
The fox followed, grinning. “Took you long enough.”
Izuku’s breath caught.
All Might smiled softly. “Long before One For All… there were other legacies.”
He unwrapped the cloth.
Inside rested an old box—wood worn smooth with age, etched with symbols that pulsed faintly with familiar color.
“Guardianship,” All Might continued, voice gentle. “Not ownership. Protection. Guidance.”
Aizawa took a sip of tea. “Someone had to make sure two stubborn children didn’t burn themselves alive before they were ready.”
Katsuki scowled. “…You compared us to children?”
“Yes.”
“…Fair.”
All Might knelt. “The spirits chose you,” he said to both of them. “But choice must be protected. I serve as their guardian. Aizawa ensures the secret stays buried.”
Izuku swallowed. “So when you told us to de-transform…”
Aizawa’s mouth twitched. “Damage control.”
The lynx bowed its head.
The fox crossed its arms, smug. “About time you caught up.”
Life moved on.
UA adapted.
So did the world.
Emerald Lynx and Crimson Blaze became a symbol—not of perfection, but of partnership. Of trust chosen openly.
The Bakusquad never let Katsuki live it down.
“Hey, remember when you said feelings were dumb?” Denki cackled.
“Shut up or die.”
The Dekusquad just smiled fondly.
Uraraka squeezed Izuku’s hand. “You look happy.”
“I am,” Izuku said.
______________
One evening, months later, they stood on a rooftop.
The city glowed below them.
Katsuki leaned back against the railing. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You still scared?”
Izuku considered it.
Then smiled.
“No.”
The ring warmed.
The bracelet answered.
The spirits curled closer.
And somewhere, watched by guardians who had trusted them enough to let go, two heroes stood not because destiny demanded it—but because they chose each other.
Katsuki brushed their foreheads together, slow and deliberate, like he was giving Izuku time to pull away—time he never used. Their noses bumped softly, breaths mingling, Katsuki’s thumb warm where it rested against Izuku’s jaw. He lingered there, just close enough for the bond to hum, just close enough for anticipation to ache, before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Izuku’s lips—unhurried, gentle, a quiet chase rather than a claim. Izuku kissed him back just as softly, like a promise whispered instead of spoken, and Katsuki exhaled against his mouth, forehead resting there again when they parted, unwilling to go any farther than that.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Izuku laughed softly.
Neither was.
Love was never the weakness in the bond. It was the reason the world survived it.