Chapter Text
It was.. confusing, for lack of a better word.
His relationship with Katsuki.
It wasn’t bad per say. Just interesting.
It was as rocky as the harshest waves on a great storm, like a map for a different world. But it could also be as peaceful as a beating heart, as beautiful as the blooming flowers. Making him feel warm and comforted- however, despite this: it was overwhelmingly confusing.
“Ay nerd, why the fuck are you spacing out again?” Katsuki snarled, a frown etched on his features. Actually scratch that, the frown seems to be permanent. Izuku doesn’t remember a day without the frown being visible at least slightly. A smile began to form as he thought about baby katsu-
“WAKE UP, NERD” His thoughts were rudely interrupted.
Izuku blinked, the moment snapping back into place like a rubber band against skin. He was sitting at the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee he’d forgotten to drink, his laptop open to a tab full of reports, and Katsuki across from him like an unavoidable weather event.
Katsuki had his elbows braced on the table, shoulders tense, hair still messy from sleep in a way he pretended wasn’t adorable. He looked like he’d woken up angry at the concept of mornings. Which seems ridiculous when you take into account his sleep schedule. (and Izuku wanted to take a bite of hi-)
“Sorry,” he said, with a small smile, because that was easier than saying I was thinking about you.
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “You've been staring at the same page for five minutes.” A grin forming as if he knew what Izuku was imagining.
Izuku glanced at the screen. It was an incident report from a bank robbery gone wrong three days ago. He’d been tasked with writing the final evaluation because, apparently, being joint number two meant the public expected them to have opinions that sounded polished and heroic. He’d gotten through the first paragraph and then… drifted.
"Erm" Izuku sputtered intelligently
“Erm" Katzuki mocked, the grin from earlier sliding off. "Dont forget this is due soon, shitty nerd"
Izuku’s mouth pulled into a helpless smile. “I didn’t forget.”
Katsuki leaned in a little, the air pressure in the kitchen shifting with him. “Then why the hell are you looking at the wall like it owes you money?”
“I wasn’t looking at the wall,” Izuku said, because it was technically true. He’d been looking at the steam rising from Katsuki’s tea, which was conveniently right infront of Katsuki's bicep.
Katsuki scoffed, a sound that was almost a laugh if you squinted at it. “Sure.”
Katsuki said it lightly, like he was done with the conversation, but he did not look away. He stayed leaned forward, forearms still braced on the table, eyes following Izuku’s hands as they hovered uselessly over the keyboard. The attention was not heavy. It never was. It was just there, constant in a way Izuku had stopped questioning years ago.
Izuku cleared his throat and tried to reorient himself. The cursor blinked at him, patient and irritating. He reread the sentence he had written and added another beneath it, then another, momentum finally catching. His thoughts slid back into place once he focused on facts instead of steam and muscle and the way Katsuki took up space like he belonged everywhere he stood.
Behind him, Katsuki stood and crossed the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing with familiar efficiency. He did not ask if Izuku wanted anything. He never did. Never really needed to. He set a plate down anyway, toast still warm, nudging it toward Izuku’s elbow with the back of his fingers.
"Eat" the words came out soft.
Izuku blinked at the plate. “I wasn’t hungry.”
Katsuki snorted. “Liar.”
Izuku smiled despite himself and broke off a piece, eating it mostly because Katsuki expected him to. The routine settled them both, tension easing into something quieter. By the time Izuku finished the paragraph and saved the document, Katsuki was already pulling on his boots.
The interview loomed in Izuku’s mind as they left the apartment. Channel Eight had been persistent, circling their ranking like it was a story waiting to be told. Izuku knew the questions before they were asked. Katsuki knew them too, even if he pretended not to care.
The studio was bright and too clean, lights already warming the set when they arrived. Staff moved around them in practiced patterns, microphones clipped, cues whispered. Izuku answered politely, nodded, smiled when appropriate. Katsuki stood beside him, posture loose but alert, eyes sharp as he scanned the room.
When the host finally sat across from them, the questions came fast and familiar. Teamwork. Strategy. How long they had been partners. Izuku answered first, measured and calm, words shaped to give nothing away and everything at once.
“We’ve worked together a long time,” he said. “We know how each other thinks.”
Katsuki huffed quietly. “He means we don’t have to talk much.”
The host laughed, delighted. “Is that true?”
Izuku glanced at Katsuki and nodded. “Usually.”
Katsuki did not look back, but the corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. It was enough.
When the subject of rankings came up, the air shifted. Izuku felt it immediately, the way Katsuki’s focus sharpened, attention narrowing. The host asked something about ambition, about the pressure of being so close to the top.
“We’re not chasing a number,” Izuku said carefully.
Katsuki clicked his tongue. “We’re taking it.”
Izuku did not contradict him. He never did when Katsuki said it like that.
The interview ended without incident, and Katsuki was on his feet the second the cameras cut. Outside, the noise of the city swallowed them again, grounding Izuku in the familiar rhythm of movement and motion.
They did not get far before the call came in.
The warehouse was already half destroyed when they arrived, one side of the building caved in and smoke drifting out of shattered windows while an alarm shrieked unevenly from somewhere inside. Izuku took it in quickly, broken beams, unstable stacks of crates, too many places for civilians to be trapped, but Katsuki was already moving before Izuku finished mapping it out.
An explosion sent Katsuki up and forward, clearing the upper level in a tight arc that shoved debris away from the entrances instead of deeper into the building. Izuku followed immediately, boots hitting concrete as he crossed the threshold, senses flaring as the air changed.
The smell hit him hard enough to make him blink.
Cheese.
Not melted. Not food. Something sharp and artificial that clung to the air and felt wrong in a place like this.
“What the hell,” Katsuki muttered, landing near a collapsed shelving unit.
Something bright orange streaked past Izuku’s shoulder and slammed into the wall behind him. It burst apart on impact, scattering dozens of smaller cheese balls that ricocheted across the floor like shrapnel without the damage.
Izuku spun, heart kicking. “That wasn’t-”
Another one flew.
Katsuki blasted it out of the air on instinct, and the result was worse. The single projectile split mid explosion, raining smaller ones down in every direction.
Izuku swore under his breath as one bounced off his boot.
A man popped up from behind a stack of crates, arms thrown wide, cape fluttering dramatically despite being stained orange in several places. “FEAR ME,” he shouted, voice cracking with enthusiasm. “FOR I AM MISTER CHEESEBALL.”
Izuku stared.
He laughed before he could stop himself, a sharp, startled sound that echoed embarrassingly through the warehouse.
Katsuki’s head snapped toward him. “You are not laughing right now.”
“I’m sorry,” Izuku said, breath hitching. “He just- he really committed to the name.”
Another cheese ball hurtled toward them. Katsuki blasted it again, irritation bleeding into the force this time, and the warehouse floor became a minefield of bouncing orange.
“Okay,” Izuku said, scanning rapidly as he redirected a few away from the civilians’ hiding place. “Okay, that’s not working.”
“No shit,” Katsuki said, dodging sideways as another projectile burst near his head. “They keep multiplying.”
Izuku ducked behind a crate as several smaller ones rolled past his feet. His brain kicked into overdrive, trying to track trajectories, timing, volume. Mister Cheeseball threw again, slower this time, the wind up exaggerated.
Izuku noticed it then.
The pause.
The way the villain hesitated, jaw tightening like the throw cost him something.
Izuku grabbed one of the smaller cheese balls off the ground and immediately regretted it. It was warm. Spongy. Slightly greasy.
He dropped it with a grimace. “Ugh.”
“Focus,” Katsuki snapped, blasting another incoming ball and immediately scowling when it split. “What’s his deal.”
Izuku watched carefully this time instead of reacting. Mister Cheeseball threw one large ball. It burst. Smaller ones scattered. He did not create more until he wound up again, shoulders tense, breathing heavier.
“That’s weird,” Izuku muttered.
“What,” Katsuki demanded, skidding to a stop beside him.
“He’s not maintaining them,” Izuku said slowly, eyes never leaving the villain. “They’re not regenerating. They’re… spent.”
Another throw. Another split. Mister Cheeseball stumbled slightly afterward, frustration flashing across his face.
Izuku’s pulse picked up. “Katsuki. Stop destroying them.”
“The hell are you talking about.”
“Just don’t,” Izuku said, sharper now. “Give me a second.”
Katsuki shot him a look. It was filled with frustration and a slimmer of undeniable trust.
Izuku moved differently now. Instead of dodging, he reached out.
The next cheese ball hit his arms hard enough to knock him back a step, but it stayed whole. Izuku stared at it in his hands, breath caught.
Behind him, Mister Cheeseball froze.
“Hey,” the villain said. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
Izuku’s heart thudded as the realization snapped into place, messy and sudden. “You can only make so many.”
Mister Cheeseball’s face twisted. “No I can’t.”
Izuku shoved the cheese ball into a nearby crate and looked back up, adrenaline surging. “Yes you can. You hesitate before every throw, and you don’t replace the ones that split. You want us to break them because it keeps them in circulation.”
Katsuki’s grin spread slowly, dangerous and delighted. “You’re telling me all we had to do was grab them.”
Izuku nodded, already intercepting another throw. “Catch and store. He runs out.”
They moved instantly, no discussion needed. Katsuki pressured hard, explosions snapping close enough to force throws without actually detonating the projectiles. Izuku caught everything he could, arms aching as he stuffed cheese balls into crates, bins, even an overturned locker.
The orange stopped spreading.
Mister Cheeseball looked down at his empty hands, panic setting in fast. “Wait! Hold on! This isn’t fair.”
Katsuki did not give him time to adjust. He launched forward and drove Mister Cheeseball into the concrete with a tight, controlled explosion that cracked the floor without touching anything else. The villain went down with a wheeze, cape fluttering uselessly.
Izuku was already there, restraining him cleanly as the sirens grew louder outside.
Izuku looked up, breathless, grin breaking through again. “Okay. That one was kind of fun.”
Katsuki snorted. “You laughed at him.”
“You cannot blame me for that! his name was mister cheeseball"
Katsuki shook his head, but the satisfaction was obvious. “You’re unbelievable.”
The familiar ease settled between them as naturally as breathing. Katsuki looked at him, eyes scanning, checking. Izuku shook his head slightly, a silent assurance. Katsuki nodded once and turned away, already done with it.
Back home later, the apartment felt quieter than it had that morning. Katsuki dropped onto the couch, boots kicked aside, arms stretched along the back. Izuku joined him without thinking, close enough that their knees pressed together. Neither of them moved.
Izuku leaned back, head brushing Katsuki’s shoulder. It was brief, accidental in the way things always were with them. Katsuki stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, weight shifting just enough to accommodate him. They stayed like that, the day settling around them. Izuku stared at the ceiling and felt the familiar confusion curl in his chest, warm and steady all at once. This worked. Whatever this was.
And that thought, more than anything else, made him uneasy.