Chapter Text
The city had finally exhaled. What had been a restless sprawl of noise and motion only hours ago now lay subdued beneath a thin veil of rain, its energy reduced to a low, steady murmur. Traffic lingered in the distance, a soft, ceaseless hum threading through the night, while neon signs buzzed and flickered against rain-slick pavement, their colors stretching and distorting in every puddle. Somewhere far off, sirens wailed—not urgent anymore, not for him, not for tonight—just echoes of a world that never fully slept. Patrol was over. The mission had gone clean. No casualties, no last-minute scrambles, no names added to the quiet list of things that couldn’t be fixed. It was the kind of outcome they all chased but never expected to come easy. Everyone had made it back. That should have been enough.
And yet, Katsuki Bakugou stood alone on the rooftop.
He told himself it was for the view—the sprawling skyline, the way the city lights blinked like distant stars dragged down to earth. He told himself it was for the air, cool and sharp with rain, cutting through the lingering heat in his lungs and the faint sting in his muscles. He told himself it was habit, the instinct to stay alert even when the job was done, to keep watch just a little longer than everyone else. A pro never lets their guard down. That’s what he’d always believed.
But standing there, unmoving, with his hands resting loosely at his sides and his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, he knew better.
Across the rooftop, just minutes ago, Izuku Midoriya had been there. No pacing back and forth, no endless muttering over tactical possibilities, no scribbled notes clutched in trembling hands. He had simply been standing. Still. Watching the same city, under the same dim glow of neon reflections and distant headlights. The wind tugged gently at his hair and the hem of his clothes, carrying with it the faint, restless scent of asphalt and rain yet to fall. He was barefoot, toes curling against the rough, cold surface of the rooftop.
“You’re gonna catch a cold, dumbass.”
Deku laughed—quietly, almost as if the sound had escaped without his permission, a small, reluctant exhale. It wasn’t the loud, jittery, high-strung laugh Bakugou remembered from their earlier days, the one that used to carry urgency, anxiety and fear. This laugh was softer and frayed at the edges, it lingered in the cool air, blending with the faint hum of the city around them. Even with the fatigue dragging at his posture, even with the faint tremor in his shoulders and the way his breathing hadn’t fully evened out yet, there was something undeniably steady about him. “It’s grounding,” he’d said, like it was the simplest explanation in the world. “After a fight, I mean.”
“It’s not gonna feel so ‘grounding’ when you’re sneezing your head off at your own damn wedding, dumbass… and Ochako is gonna kill you too. Hell, she might kill me just for letting you stand there like an idiot.”
“Like always, you’re right, Kacchan.”
And then he left. Still barefoot, toes brushing against the cold, rough rooftop as he vanished into the night, leaving only the faint echo of his presence behind. Maybe he had said a hundred things along the way, or maybe not a single word—Bakugou didn’t even notice. His attention had drifted elsewhere, tangled in memory and thought, caught on something he had said long ago. At the time, Bakugou had believed it completely, as if it were an unshakable truth: Giving everyone special treatment… means no one is truly special to you.
A humorless breath escaped Bakugou, dragging itself from his chest like a reluctant confession as he ran a hand through his damp hair, fingers catching against stray strands before falling away. “Tch…,” he muttered, a low, almost reluctant sound that seemed to vanish into the night around him. His eyes lingered on the empty rooftop where Deku had vanished. “I suppose… Ochako is really that special to you, huh.”
Because now… he would be hers. Not the world’s, not everyone’s, not some abstract idea of responsibility or heroism. Just hers. The thought settled on him slowly, like a weight he didn’t quite know how to carry, pressing against his chest in ways he hadn’t anticipated. And yet, alongside that certainty, a question that had no easy answer clawed at the edges of his mind: had Izuku Midoriya ever truly been his? Had he, at any point, been the center of Midoriya’s world the way Bakugou had once assumed—or demanded—without ever daring to ask?
Midoriya didn't trip over himself trying to keep up with him anymore. Didn't orbit him like he used to, didn't center his attention in that obvious, overwhelming way that had once been so easy to mock—so easy to reject. That relentless focus, that unwavering priority Bakugou had spent years pushing away…
At some point—before he had said that, before the words had ever left his mouth, before everything that had come after, before the war, before all the chaos that had carved them both into what they were—Bakugou sometimes believed that all the small things, all the little pieces of attention, care, and focus that he had thought were theirs alone, had been just that: theirs.
And now… all of that was gone, scattered, dispersed like light through a prism. Shared. Spread wide. Not just to him, not just to the handful of people Bakugou might have expected, not even just to those he could name. Midoriya smiled at others the same way now. Worried about them the same way. Fought for them, protected them, stood beside them with the same stubborn, selfless intensity he had once directed solely at Bakugou—an intensity that used to feel, whether Bakugou wanted it or not, like it was his. Like he had been something singular. Something untouchable. Special.
And watching that—seeing it, understanding it, feeling the quiet sting of it—Bakugou realized something he had never admitted, not even to himself: the very thing that had once made Midoriya his had been the same thing that made him… for everyone else too.
Except her.
Bakugou’s jaw tightened, muscles rigid beneath the tension he didn’t bother hiding, and his gaze fell briefly to the darkened concrete beneath his boots, tracing the faint cracks and puddles like he could anchor himself to something solid. Then, almost violently, he snapped his eyes back up to the skyline, the jagged edges of buildings slicing against the night like reminders that the world kept moving, indifferent to him or his thoughts. He tried, briefly, to will the feeling away—to pretend that looking too closely at it might dull the sharpness—but it didn’t. Not in the least.
Midoriya had taken that advice. Had listened, had understood, and had acted. And somehow, in doing so, he had made her special. Her. Not the world. Not everyone. Her. And he was going to become something that could not be shared, something that was theirs alone. Something singular, sacred, claimed in a way Bakugou could neither reach nor contest. Those two—the thought made his chest tighten further—were going to get married.
It should have been satisfying to watch. It should have been a confirmation, a vindication, a quiet proof that Bakugou’s old logic had been correct in some twisted, roundabout way: that understanding value, recognizing importance, marking someone as “special,” could mean everything.
But it wasn’t.
Instead, it ached.
—
Bakugou sat behind the wheel, shoulders tense, hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. The car hummed beneath him in quiet, steady reassurance, tires rolling over the asphalt with the soft, irregular crunch of scattered gravel and the occasional bump from a sun-warmed seam in the road.
“I… I can’t believe this is really happening,” Midoriya said, voice slightly breathless, as though the words themselves were almost too big to contain. His eyes caught the sunlight streaming through the car window, reflecting off the buildings rushing past, glinting like tiny prisms along the streets and steel beams. “I mean, we are going to get married today… I mean, I am getting married… to Ochako.” The words tumbled out in a rush, not hurried, but weighted with disbelief and wonder all at once. And then he laughed—a laugh that was light, careless on the surface, almost flippant, yet layered with something far more complex underneath. Pride, surely. Joy, yes. Relief, maybe. All of it, folded together into that single, luminous sound that somehow made the air in the car feel warmer, fuller, almost sacred in its simplicity.
Bakugou’s jaw tightened as he processed it, the muscles along his face straining almost without conscious effort. He wanted, instinctively, to match it—to grin, to chuckle, to feel that same soaring joy that poured from Midoriya like sunlight itself. He wanted to be happy for him, to celebrate the moment alongside him, to let that brightness touch him in the way it always seemed to touch everyone else. He tried. He tried to conjure a smile, to soften his gaze, to let some of that careless, infectious happiness slip inside him.
But he can’t.
Beside him, the groom was running late for his final preparations—nothing serious, nothing alarming, just the usual last-minute scramble that seemed inevitable whenever Midoriya had a schedule to keep. Not too late, Bakugou reminded himself. He would be ready in time. Meanwhile, Ochako was probably already in her dress, surrounded by her bridesmaids, the soft murmur of their laughter and the rustle of fabric filling the air around her as she moved through the final moments before the ceremony. He had seen her once, in a quiet, fleeting glimpse, and even in passing, she had looked radiant—her hair carefully arranged, the dress hugging her form just so, her smile effortless and bright. She looked… beautiful, more than that, almost impossibly perfect, and even Bakugou, whose heart usually refused to soften at anything sentimental, felt a flicker of awe.
Midoriya, on the other hand, only needed to change into a suit—like the one he was wearing now, only cleaner, pressed, and appropriate for the occasion. Almost the same, though, Bakugou thought, with that familiar, grudging admiration, and so it wouldn’t take long. Nothing complicated. Nothing that could delay them. The simplicity of it should have been comforting, should have been enough to let him settle into the rhythm of the morning, the ease of a world that had slowed just for this one perfect day.
Instead, Katsuki Bakugou’s mind—sharp, relentless, and at times unbearably cruel in its honesty—betrayed him. It dragged him away from the fragile structure he had been trying to build, away from the simple reassurances of timing and preparation, and plunged him back into something far more treacherous: memory, distorted by longing and shaped by everything he refused to name. It did not come all at once, nor did it announce itself as anything significant. It slipped in quietly, almost innocently, disguising itself as just another passing thought. But the moment it took form, he knew—instinctively, immediately—that it was something he should not follow. Something he did not have the right to hold onto.
And yet, he did.
In that fleeting, treacherous space his mind created, the scene beside him shifted—not in reality, but in meaning. The details remained almost unchanged, and perhaps that was what made it so unbearable. He was still behind the wheel, the car still cutting smoothly through the city streets, sunlight still catching against glass and steel in fractured reflections. He was still dressed in his finest formal attire, every detail precise, controlled, intentional—hair styled, posture sharp, composure intact. And beside him, Midoriya Izuku sat just as he was now: suit neat but not perfect, tie slightly off-center, hair refusing to be fully tamed, a quiet, radiant energy about him that no amount of formality could contain.
They were on their way to a wedding.
His wedding.
Their wedding.
And in that imagined future—so vivid it almost hurt—nothing was shared. Nothing was dispersed or given freely to the world. What Midoriya offered, what he was, was singular. Directed. Chosen. His laughter, bright and unguarded, belonged here, in this space, beside him. His attention, his care, that relentless, all-consuming devotion that Bakugou had once rejected, once pushed away with both hands—it wasn’t something to escape from, or fight against. They were driving toward something that was theirs alone, something that would mark the rest of their lives as undeniably, irrevocably intertwined. And for that one reckless, impossible moment, Bakugou allowed himself to feel it—the sharp, aching rightness of it, the way his chest seemed to expand around the thought, the way everything else faded into irrelevance.
It felt… special.
Like nothing in the world could reach them, like they could leave everything else behind—expectations, history, the weight of who they had been—and simply go, together, into something that belonged only to them. And then—
“I love her so much, Kacchan,” Midoriya said, his voice open, unguarded, carrying a depth of feeling that left no room for misinterpretation, no space for doubt or hesitation. “She’s the love of my life.”
And then it settled.
Not all at once, not like a sudden blow he could brace against or fight back from—but slowly, deliberately, like something inevitable lowering itself into place with quiet, crushing certainty. The remnants of that fleeting, impossible thought didn’t linger as a dream or temptation anymore. They didn’t twist into something he could deny or shove aside. They simply… clarified. Because the truth had always been there.
Izuku Midoriya was getting married today.
Not to him.
Never to him.
He was not the one sitting at the end of that aisle, waiting.
He was not the one Midoriya would walk toward, not the one whose name would be spoken in quiet, irrevocable promise, not the one who would be chosen in front of everyone and everything as singular, as the one that mattered above all others. That place—whatever it meant, whatever it held—had never been his. Not before. Not now. Not in any version of the future he had almost, foolishly, allowed himself to imagine.
Today, he had a role. He would stand at the side, dressed just as sharply, just as deliberately, positioned close enough to witness everything, to be part of the moment without ever belonging to it in the way that mattered. Close enough to hear every word, to see every expression, to understand—completely and without illusion—what was being given, and to whom.
A groomsman.
He has to remember that. He has to anchor himself to it, or risk letting the rest of the world—the warmth of Midoriya’s laughter, the ease in his voice, the unguarded way he spoke of love—erode every carefully constructed wall he’s built around himself. Bakugou tightens his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as he wills his mind to focus, wills it to strip away everything that tempts him to drift into impossibilities. He ignores the faint brush of sunlight across the dashboard, the steady hum of tires against asphalt, the subtle sway of the car as it rides over imperfections in the road. He fixes his gaze on the white lines stretching out ahead, guiding him forward in a straight, unbroken path, a path that he can follow without wandering into memory or fantasy or what-ifs. He traces them with his eyes, lets the speed of the car blur the edges, tries to strip the world down to something elemental, something he can control.
And still, the thought returns. It always returns, persistent, unyielding. So he forces it into words, lets himself speak it aloud in the silence of the car, almost as if saying it will make it real—or perhaps, as if saying it will make it bearable. “I’m your groomsman.” The words taste strange on his tongue, unfamiliar and bitter, even as they claw their way out of him.
And then Midoriya answers, light and steady, with none of the hesitation or faltering that Bakugou feels coursing through his chest. “Of course you are, Kacchan.”
And his heart beats—loud, insistent, almost painfully alive—because there is something in the way Midoriya says his name. Kacchan. Soft. Personal. Almost intimate in a way that twists at him, the way it carries a weight that Bakugou has never fully admitted he craves, and yet, here it is, wrapped in the sound of Midoriya’s voice, clear and unwavering, and it hits him like a jolt he cannot dodge. He feels it deep in his chest, in the sinews of his ribs, in the tense muscles along his neck and shoulders, a pulse that is equal parts ache and hunger and something dangerously close to longing.
And Midoriya’s eyes—green and bright and entirely too perceptive—are on him, holding him in a way that feels both grounding and destabilizing. For a moment, he allows himself to imagine what it would be like to drift entirely into that gaze, to let everything else—the ceremony, the expectations, the roles and responsibilities—fall away, leaving nothing but them. Just the quiet intensity of being seen, truly seen, by the one person whose opinion, whose attention, whose acknowledgment has always mattered most. And he feels that tug in his chest, the pull toward that impossible intimacy, and for a split second he wants to surrender. Wants to lose himself in it.
But the world insists on moving. The wedding venue looms ahead, its architecture rising against the sunlight in sharp, clean lines, and the car carries them forward like a drumbeat that will not pause. The moment cannot linger. The illusion, fragile as it is, cannot take root. Bakugou swallows hard, and tightens his grip on the wheel again, forcing himself back into the motion, back into the role he has chosen—or, perhaps more accurately, the role the day has chosen for him. He exhales, slow and deliberate, as though he can empty himself of the pull of longing, the weight of desire, the magnetic force of Midoriya’s gaze.
And so, once more, he drives.
—
His eyes rest on her with a quiet intensity that makes Bakugou’s chest tighten in a way he’s never learned to name. It's a look that carries affection, weighty and warm, as if he’s memorizing her presence in that single, fleeting moment. There’s love there, unmistakable and full-bodied, that kind of love that isn’t performative or filtered through duty or habit, but raw and absolute in its focus. There’s admiration, too—an awe that isn’t boastful but quietly steady, the way he notices the little things: the way her hair catches the light, the subtle curve of her smile, the way she moves without realizing how gracefully she occupies the space around her. And beneath all of it, Bakugou detects something almost dangerous in its intensity, something he cannot define but feels in the hollow of his stomach and the tightness of his throat: desire, restrained but not denied, yearning that has been collected and folded into every glance, every pause, every infinitesimal gesture.
Bakugou notices it all. He notices the way Midoriya’s gaze lingers, reverent and unflinching, as if seeing her fully, entirely, is a privilege, a moment of singular connection that cannot and will not be shared with anyone else. He is hyper-aware of it—painfully aware—because he has never seen him look at anyone that way before.
And then he speaks her name. Just her name—softly, deliberately, like it carries the weight of every unspoken promise, every memory, every heartbeat that has led to this singular moment. It is intimate, tender, imbued with a reverence so profound that Bakugou feels it cut straight around his own heart. Every syllable is measured, deliberate, as if saying her name aloud somehow anchors the entire world in its orbit, aligning every joy, every fear, every hope around her alone. And then comes the “I do,” carried on the same soft, unwavering breath.
And then they kiss. The world seems to pause for the fraction of a second it takes for their lips to meet, for the quiet, electric hum of anticipation to dissolve into something tangible and irrevocable. Bakugou watches, rooted in place, heart hammering against his ribs in a way that feels both painfully aware and absurdly alive. It’s not just the act itself—though it is beautiful, tender, and breathtaking—but the way it frames everything else around him: the sunlight catching in Ochako’s hair, the delicate fold of her dress, the way her eyes close in that fleeting surrender to the moment. Every detail presses into him, and he is hyper-aware of how utterly right it is, how entirely theirs it seems, and yet how achingly distant from him.
He claps, hesitantly at first, as if the sound of his hands might somehow tether him to the reality of the day, to the fact that he is here, that he is present, that he is part of this—if only on the sidelines. Then he steps forward, almost without thinking, pulling Ochako into a hug. There is warmth there, unmistakable and grounding, the subtle weight of her against him, her laughter brushing against his chest in the same bright, carefree way Midoriya had laughed in the car earlier, carrying a lightness that seems almost dangerous in its joy. He murmurs something, words that feel both automatic and insufficient: how beautiful she looks, how radiant she is, how genuinely happy he is to see her like this. Each syllable comes from a place of truth, from the part of him that cannot lie about what he feels in this moment—even if it is colored by envy, longing, and a peculiar, unshakable ache.
Ochako laughs again, that same laugh, full and bright, carrying a warmth that fills the space around them like sunlight pouring through a window. Bakugou shakes his head, a reflexive gesture, as if to ward off the flood of sensation threatening to overwhelm him. He wants to stop, to step back, to deny the way his chest tightens and his pulse spikes, but he cannot. He is aware of every little thing: the tilt of her head, the gleam in her eyes, the simple, quiet joy that radiates from her. And in that awareness, that painfully sharp clarity, it hits him—not as a revelation, not as a surprise, but as an undeniable truth: she loves him. She loves him, fully and completely, with a depth and intensity that mirrors everything he has ever felt.
She loves him as much as Katsuki does.
And then, as if the world itself could wait no longer, Midoriya throws himself into Bakugou’s arms. The motion is urgent, desperate, yet somehow tender, carrying with it every ounce of relief, joy, and unspoken emotion that has accumulated. Snot streaks his cheeks, tears glint in the sunlight, and the sound of his muffled, shuddering breaths fills the space between them like a fragile, living thing. Bakugou wraps his arms around him without hesitation, firm but careful, as though the mere act of holding him might steady not only Midoriya but himself as well. His hands move instinctively, stroking the edges of Midoriya’s face, brushing away tears, wiping at the damp strands of hair plastered against his forehead.
“I’m so happy for you, Izuku,” he murmurs, low and steady, each word deliberate, carrying the weight of everything he has felt and held back for so long. The name itself—Izuku—floods his mind, filling every corner of his consciousness, a tide of green, bright, living intensity that carries with it the memory of every shared battle, every harsh word, every fleeting smile, every quiet victory they have ever known together. And in that instant, when Midoriya is pressed into him, shaking with emotion, so vulnerable and alive in a way Bakugou has rarely been allowed to witness, something in him finally cracks.
He allows the tears to come, finally, unrestrained, unashamed, spilling down his own cheeks in tandem with the sobs that tremble through his chest. For the first time in years, in the quiet, unremarkable chaos of the moment, Katsuki Bakugou cries. Not for himself. Not entirely. Not even for Midoriya. But for everything—the years that shaped them, the choices that separated them, the love that persists despite distance and circumstance, and the breathtaking, impossible beauty of seeing the one person he has always cherished so utterly, irreversibly, overwhelmingly happy.
“Oh, Izuku,” he whispers again, broken, trembling, letting it tumble into the world like a confession, a prayer, a vow to himself that the memory of this—of him—will never fade, no matter what comes next.