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When Izuku feels the cold air tickle his toes, his first reaction is to shift them over in search of Kacchan’s furnace calves. All he finds is more cold bed, decidedly devoid of his boyfriend’s quirk enhanced body temperature. He makes a disgruntled noise and tries to burrow further into the thick quilt Kacchan pretends he doesn’t leave out specifically for occasions such as this, when Izuku is alone.
His sleep-heavy brain puts it all together slowly. Right. Kacchan is on patrol until 6 am. But… why is it so cold? He had closed and locked all the windows before getting into bed, and Kacchan had double-checked all the locks before leaving. Even half-asleep, he feels a surge of helpless fondness rise as he thinks of Kacchan’s particular brand of grouchy concern.
They live in a safe neighborhood, and anyway, crime’s been, um, down since Dynamight moved onto the block. Their old lady neighbor still brings them cookies every Thursday to thank Kacchan for putting a stop to a mugging incident outside the grocery store. He hadn’t even used his quirk—just put the kid in a mean headlock and twisted his arm until he dropped her purse and apologized.
“Tch,” he’d said, scowling as the kid booked it. “What a fuckin’ loser.”
Crime up or down, Izuku knows he’s the root of Kacchan’s paranoia. The public doesn’t even know they’re together, but there’s always a possibility a nutjob will break in to get back at Pro Hero Dynamight and find a quirkless Izuku instead.
Which is… potentially the situation he’s currently in.
Izuku keeps still and silent as his brain starts to wake up. Are those footsteps? It must be the balcony door in the living room that’s open. His feet are facing their open bedroom door, and the other windows that would allow a draft in are too small to be worth opening.
After a few seconds of waiting, he hears a faint crackling, and the familiar swoop of adrenaline wakes him up like no amount of caffeine ever has. There’s a person in their apartment. A potentially hostile person, with a quirk that produces a crackling sound. Electricity?
Izuku feels pretty confident in his ability to come out on top in a fight, quirk or no quirk, but he’s had to learn his lesson about rushing into things alone enough times. He can’t make it through one round of drinks without Kaminari howling in laughter about him fighting Gentle on the way to the convenience store, so.
Plus, Kacchan will kill him and then his killer if he dies, and he’s not interested in shouldering that moral burden. He fumbles under his pillow for his phone and winces as his screen lights up.
He opens Kacchan’s chat first and then hesitates. He won’t check his phone while patrolling unless Izuku calls, which he’s not sure he can get away with right now. And maybe luring Kacchan home is exactly what a villain would want. The intruder could be some deranged villain acting alone, or a group with his patrol schedule trying to get him away from backup.
The crackling gets louder, and Izuku panics. He exits Kacchan’s chat and opens the group chat right below it, sending off his location and shoving the phone under a blanket.
There’s a chance they won’t understand, with it showing him at home. But it’s fine. He can handle himself, and Shouto and Iida, at the very least, will remember. If they were even awake.
Izuku rolls out of bed into a crouched position just as his bedroom door is pushed open.
“What is this?” a voice snarls, as the disruptor of Izuku’s sleep comes into view. “You’re not Dynamight.”
Izuku stands and tries to keep his body language loose— it’s better to avoid a fight if he can.
The villain is a little taller than him, dressed casually. He’d look unassuming if not for all the knives hanging from his belt. Izuku files away helpful identifiers to share with the police later. Red hair, mid-30s, black eyes, scary smile, skull tattoo on his neck.
Most distinctive of all is the ugly pink scar on his shoulder. For a moment, Izuku thinks it’s star shaped. But then, with a sinking feeling, he realizes it’s a handprint. A raised, ugly, burn scar in the shape of a hand he’s intimately familiar with. His wish to avoid a fight, it seems, will not be granted.
“I’m not,” he says, quietly.
Red Hair squints at him, and abruptly cackles. His face contorts with glee.
“No,” he says, grinning. “No, no. You’re former Pro Hero Deku, aren’t you?”
Izuku doesn’t reply; there’s nothing to say. Being recognized could go either way—maybe he realizes Izuku isn’t as defenseless as he seems, maybe he thinks now he’s got an interesting target.
“And what in hell would former Pro Hero Deku be doing in Dynamight’s bed?”
His phone buzzes on the bed, and Izuku prays its Shouto replying. Red Hair notices, too, and lifts his palm, releasing a black wave that kills the phone and sends Izuku’s hair on end. It looks just like All for One’s radio quirk. His rabbit heart races. It can’t be. Ugh, he needs to calm down.
The villain turns his palm forward and tilts his head, a clear threat, grin gone.
“Where is he?”
Izuku almost laughs at the absurdity of the question. Kacchan’s debut was all over the news and he works more than anyone else in their class, not that Izuku can ever figure out why. If Red Hair wants to find Dynamight, his apartment was probably the least likely option.
“I have no idea,” says Izuku, knowing his patrol schedule block for block.
Kacchan would probably prefer that Izuku send this psycho his way, but he’d never be able to live with himself if someone got the drop on him because Izuku couldn’t handle himself.
Red Hair sighs theatrically. “I know you know. And even if you don’t tell me, my partner’s probably found him by now.”
Izuku fights the anxiety that threatens to rise in him and focuses his attention. Red Hair’s left hand is resting by his hip, too close to his knives, and the other won’t give him any warning before the black energy hits him. He needs a plan, fast.
“What do you want with him?”
A play for time is never a bad move, even if this one doesn’t seem stupid enough to monologue at him.
Red Hair plucks a knife off his belt and twirls it. “I want him dead.”
“He’s a little difficult to kill these days.”
“He is,” Red Hair agrees, “That’s why I was hoping to catch him asleep. A little birdie told me he can’t hear so good these days.”
Then he smiles, quick, and flexes his palm. “But I might have found something better. Killing you will do for now.”
Izuku lunges. He pushes off his left leg, moving out of the way of his quirk and aiming to immobilize the knife hand. Red Hair’s eyes widen with surprise, obviously not expecting the speed he sees, but he only has a second to fire off his quirk before Izuku has his body pinned to the ground, one arm held down with a knee and the other fastened in Izuku’s grip.
“You’re not getting anywhere near him,” hisses Izuku, releasing some of his anger. He’s so tired—it’s been such a week, and he was hoping for one night of good sleep before exams start up again. And— Kacchan is going to insist they move once he finds out about this. He likes this apartment. It has nice light and it was perfectly located for both their jobs.
Later, Izuku will reflect that he should have knocked the villain out before beginning with the self-pity, but as it stands, he feels the knife in his ribs a second too late. Red Hair lets the finger on his left hand drop and says, “got you,” just as Izuku slams his head into the floor with almost enough force to crack it. Not quite like AFO’s radio wave, then.
He stumbles off him and looks down at his chest. Fuuuuck. Kacchan is going to kill him. For real this time. The first aid kit is right under the sink in the bathroom, but the ten steps it’ll take to get to it abruptly seem impossible as adrenaline and blood seep out of him. Both the rug and his Froppy t-shirt are gonna have to go.
He shuffles to the bed and checks his phone. Still dead. He tries to turn it on, but whatever Red Hair did to it seems semi-permanent.
He’s not making it to the bathroom. Even the three steps to the bed felt impossible. Izuku sits down, heavily, and grabs a tshirt from the floor to ball up against his chest. He hisses in pain as the pressure and the horrible, wet sound it makes.
He just needs to stay awake until his friends get here. The knife didn’t hit his ribs as it went in, and his organs are definitely, probably, undamaged. If he can just staunch the bleeding, maybe he can even convince Kacchan that they don’t need to move.
Finding this place had been so lucky. At their graduation party, Kacchan had grabbed his hand and demanded, “Live with me,” as Kirishima and Mina groaned and booed behind him. Izuku, utterly hopeless and completely infatuated, had immediately agreed. It was worth it just for the private, pleased smile on Kacchan’s face whenever he looked at him for the rest of the night.
Izuku isn’t sure how much time passes. He tries to stay awake, but he’s so tired, and it’s so cold. He can’t tell if that’s the balcony breeze or the blood loss, but he tugs the blanket off the bed to cover his legs. Black dances on the edge of his vision. It’s so comfortable, and it would be so, so, easy to sleep.
“Izuku? Where are you?”
Oh. Not the balcony, or the blood loss, then. The voice had seemed to come from very far away, but Izuku blinks, and Shouto is crouching in front of him, concern marring his features. There’s ice covering the side of the building.
“Izuku,” he says urgently. “Stay awake.”
“’m awake. Villain…” says Izuku, trying to lift his arm to point. Someone needs to restrain him.
“I got him,” Shouto says, and he realizes that Red Hair is indeed encased in a block of ice. “You’re going to be okay. Uraraka and Iida will be here soon. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No,” Izuku winces, feeling a little more alert. “I dunno how he got me. His quirk… I thought it was just radio waves. Because of my phone. But he got me with the knife after I had him down.”
Shouto frowns. “What did he want?”
“Kacchan.”
There’s a loud sound of splintering wood and a cracking thud from somewhere outside. Whatever it is, it’s going to hit the security deposit hard. Must be Iida and Ochako.
But then a different, more welcome, head of red hair pops into view.
“Kirishima-kun??”
“Hey, man,” says Kirishima, releasing hardening as he sees the situation under control. “Sorry about the door.”
Ah. “’s okay.”
“Is Deku okay?” Ochako is right behind Kirishima, looking frantic but determined, floating a stretcher into the room.
“Yes,” replies Shouto, “Where’s Iida?”
“He dropped us here and ran off. Emergency in Hosu,” she explains as she drops the stretcher and taps Izuku. As many times as it happens, the weightlessness still feels strange. He fights the nausea. His fingers feel numb.
They work efficiently to get him securely fastened on the stretcher, and Ochako floats it out while Kirishima and Shouto work on moving the villain.
“Ambulance will be here in a minute, and the police are on their way. Honestly, Deku-kun…”
Izuku wants to defend himself. None of this was his fault. He also wants to ask for his phone. He has to text Kacchan and tell him he’s fine. Or that he was attacked. Or find out where he is and if he’s been attacked and if he’s okay, but getting any of these words out of his mouth suddenly feels impossible. The last thing Izuku sees before he passes out is the shattered glass of their balcony door. Oh man, he thinks, there’s glass in my tomato plants.
~
Izuku wakes to the unfortunately familiar feeling of bandages around him and a needle in his arm. Ugh.
“Hngggg,” he says, trying to push himself up.
“You’re awake! Wait, wait, wait, let me help.”
Two strong hands pull him upright and fix the pillows behind him so he can sit up without straining his injury. Izuku blinks Kirishima’s smiling face into focus, thanks him and then reaches out blindly to where a glass of water should be until he feels the cool glass. Bingo.
He lifts the straw to his lips and drinks greedily while Kirishima watches with a smile that thinly conceals his concern.
“What’s the time?” he asks blearily, eyes still adjusting to the bright light of the room.
“6:30 am,” states Shouto, walking into the room and pocketing his phone, “You’ve been out for two hours.”
“Oh,” hums Izuku. “That’s not bad.”
Shouto cuts him a flat look, and even Kirishima lets out a disappointed “Dude.”
“Hey,” objects Izuku, “It’s not like I was trying to get sta—wait. Did you say 6:30?”
“Um, yes,” says Kirishima, “Are you okay, bro? You didn’t hit your head, did you?”
Izuku groans and covers his face.
Kirishima materializes by his side to pull his hands off his face. “Midoriya, bro, should I call the doctor? Are you—” And then he goes white.
“Ah,” says Kirishima, “Fuck.” Izuku nods miserably.
Kirishima turns to Shouto, who has been watching this exchange blankly. “Please tell me you texted Bakugou.”
Shouto raises both eyebrows, and says, “Why would I text Bakugou?”
“He is going to turn me into a chandelier.”
Izuku wants to comfort Kirishima. Really, he does. But it’s too late. Right then, they all hear the explosive pop pop noise that precedes doors slamming open and yelling. Izuku near sags with relief. He spares a prayer for Kirishima, who looks like he’s wondering whether the hospital would fine him for jumping out of the 9th floor window and denting the curb.
Izuku hears heavy footsteps of the combat boot variety moving fast, followed by lighter steps.
“Dynamight-san, please—there are patients trying to rest.”
“Emergency contact, my ass—fat load of good that did, ambulances outside my damn building, police can’t tell me shit—”
Oh, he’s fuming.
“He was accompanied by pro heroes—there didn’t seem a need—”
“Oh, I’ll show you a fuckin’ need, alright.”
Kacchan slams the door to his room open and takes in the sights. Kirishima’s hulking frame trying to seem as small as possible. Shouto looking down at his phone, unbothered. He’s breathing heavy, his entire frame heaving, but the frantic look in his eyes dims as he sees Izuku, upright and conscious.
“Hello dear,” says Izuku, reaching a palm out and wiggling his fingers. Look, I’m fine, don’t worry.
Kacchan’s scowl slips for a millisecond, but Izuku catches it. He’s been training in the art of noticing Kacchan’s little slips his entire life, and look how it paid off. He kicks the door closed behind him, right in the face of the harried nurse who was following him and Izuku is too happy to see him to scold him for his rudeness.
“Izuku,” he growls.
Dynamight is covered in dirt and sweat but Izuku doesn’t care, and when Kacchan strides to the bed and crushes their fingers together, he sighs happily. He uses his other hand to card through Izuku’s hair and brush over his cheekbones. Scowl or not, Kacchan’s hands are gentle as they brusquely check for hidden injuries. Izuku is too in love to be offended.
“You smell,” says Shouto disapprovingly. Kirishima makes a slashing motion across his neck, and he, as always, does not care enough to get it.
Kacchan rears around to face them, face handsome even under the dirt and his enraged glare. “Don’t even get me fuckin’ started on you two unbelievable idiots,” he snaps, very much getting started. “Door fuckin’ smashed, ice covering our building—neighbors freaking the fuck out cuz they thought they got attacked—sirens everywhere, not a single fuckin’ text or call for the guy who—”
“Bro,” interrupts Kirishima, laughing nervously, “We—”
“Sorry we were too busy saving Izuku’s life to worry about your neighbors,” drawls Shouto, crossing his arms over his chest.
Kacchan, shockingly and honestly, heroically, ignores this jab and turns back to Izuku. “Imagine—I get home at the ass crack of dawn from a patrol having been attacked by every motherfucker in Japan, and what do I find? Oh yeah. My apartment broken into, boyfriend missing, big ass blood stain on the bedroom floor. Not to mention—”
He squeezes his fingers painfully and Izuku yelps. “Blood all over the bed.”
“I’m okay,” he tries to reassure, knowing it won’t help. His chest doesn’t even hurt now that Kacchan is here, but his heart clenches a little to think of how worried he’d be if he’d come home to the same sight. Exhausted from patrol, too. Oh, Kacchan.
“He is. Doc said it’s just blood loss. Knife missed anything vital,” adds Kirishima, “And he got the villain too. Out cold by the time we showed up.”
Katsuki’s hand stills for a second at knife before it resumes petting Izuku’s head. He mutters something like of course he did and Izuku wants to preen but he can sense Kacchan’s oncoming aneurysm over the entire situation—stab wound, exhaustion, peanut gallery—and so he takes matters into his own hands.
“You two must be so tired,” he says, meaningfully, as he tugs Kacchan down by the hand to sit on the bed. He rolls his eyes as though this is a huge ordeal for him but follows without resistance. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you didn’t come.”
Shouto’s eyes soften. “Anytime,” he says, seriously. He seems to get the hint too, because he grabs his scarf and starts herding Kirishima towards the door. “I’m going to get some sleep. Call if you need anything.”
“Feel better, Midoriya,” says Kirishima, and then winces as Kacchan turns to him.
“I’m not done with you, asshole. But—tomorrow.” Then he adds, grudgingly. “And thanks.”
Kirishima, misty-eyed, gives a little salute and closes the door behind softly. Kacchan rolls his eyes, but he sags a little more once their friends leave, resting his weight more fully on the bed. Now that he’s closer, Izuku can see the patrol damage. His hair’s a mess, and his suit is torn around his shoulder. Worst of all, under the grime, he has a cut on his face. Izuku reaches up to touch under it.
“What’s this?”
Kacchan leans his face into his hand and blows out air irritably. “I don’t even fuckin’ know,” he admits. “Some dipshit had my route. Jumped at me outta nowhere.”
“Oh, baby,” Izuku murmurs, petting at his cheek, then around the shell of his ear and into his sweaty hair.
“’s fine. You should see all the other guys.”
Izuku snorts but doesn’t say anything. He knows a conversation is coming, but it can wait a few minutes. Right now, dawn is breaking outside, and the orange light gently streams into the room. It lights up Kacchan’s face, all angled lines and shining scarlet eyes. Izuku’s heart will, maybe, always skip a beat when he sees him like this, just like he used to years and years ago, when he had no idea what it meant.
Kacchan drops his forehead to Izuku and breathes him in, and he feels a small tremble run through his frame as he leans down. It’s all his worst fears confirmed, and Izuku doesn’t know what to say to make it better.
“Stop thinking,” grunts Kacchan.
“I can’t. You’re worried. I’m—”
“Don’t fucking apologize for getting stabbed.”
“It’s my fault,” Izuku admits, a little ashamed, “I should’ve knocked him out.”
“And I should’ve been there.”
“Kacchan,” says Izuku tiredly, “You were at work.”
His face has migrated into Izuku’s neck, and he likes the feeling of his warm weight on top of him. Solid, safe.
“Ugh. Fucking hate this.”
“Me too,” he replies quietly, all of a sudden feeling very tired and very sad. “He recognized me. Wanted revenge on you, but. I guess he decided he could settle for me.”
Kacchan sits up slowly and scrubs a tired hand over his face. “Tell me what happened.”
Izuku does. He tells him about waking up, about texting Shouto, Ochako, and Iida, about the weird radio waves quirk and the subsequent fight. He describes the villain and his scar, and Kacchan mutters that bastard. He tells him about the knives and his injury, about their friends showing up and going to the hospital. About passing out and his very dead phone, with some apology in his voice.
During his retelling, he realizes he actually has no idea why Kirishima showed up. But Kacchan fills in that blank for him, explaining Cheeks called the police as soon as your text came in and that Kirishima had been on patrol nearby, so they’d looped him in. Kacchan sounds, understandably, furious as he relays this. Izuku gets it, a bit—maybe they should have called the guy the address was registered under, too.
When Izuku finishes the story, Kacchan appears to be seriously mulling something over. He has a little tell, when he’s conflicted, and Izuku fights a smile as his lips purse together and his brow furrows. He looks like an angry bunny.
“We need to move. And. We should go public.”
“Fine, we can—wait, what?”
Keeping their relationship a secret was a mutual decision. There seemed no benefit in announcing it, not with Kacchan’s independent debut so close and the inherent danger of being recognizable current (or former) heroes. Everyone who needed to know already knew, and in some cases, seemed to know much before they did. There was speculation on the fan sites and blurry pictures of them together, but that was all unavoidable. The point was: no one was going after one of them to get to the other. And as much as Izuku chafed at the idea of being a burden, he knew the risk he could be at.
But, well, all of that was a moot point now. And still, Izuku regarded the declaration warily. He didn’t want a freak villain attack to upend their entire lives.
“We should talk about this later.”
“I’m talkin’ about it now. We’d need to do it before the awards.”
Izuku’s jaw drops open. Maybe he should have also been surreptitiously checking for injuries. Maybe Kacchan is, actually, severely concussed.
The Hero Awards were new, courtesy of the Public Safety Commission. To increase public morale or reward heroes or something. There were tons of categories, some as ridiculous as Best Hair (hello, Togata-senpai), but some more prestigious, like what Dynamight had been nominated for—Best New Hero. He had some stiff competition; Gale Force, Shouto, Uravity, Ingenium. But Izuku wasn’t worried.
Announcing their relationship before the awards… Kacchan has lost it. Izuku really isn’t in the mood to fight, but he’s not about to be responsible for a PR crisis.
“I don’t want to.”
“Izuku..” A warning. But two can play at this game.
“Bakugou Katsuki I am being so serious right now. I had a knife in my chest 3 hours ago. Be nice to me.”
A dirty trick, but it works. Kacchan drops his head back down to his neck with an annoyed growl, and Izuku tries not to be smug. He only kind of succeeds.
“Fine.” Muffled into his neck, Izuku feels the vibration. “But then you’re coming to the ceremony. I don’t give a fuck.”
Izuku reaches both his hands around to wrap under Kacchan’s arms and around his back, pulling him closer. He can tell he’s going to fall asleep soon, dirty and in the hospital and all. This used to be so frequent for them—weird intimacy and quiet conversations on gurneys and hospital beds. It’s been a while since it was Izuku in the bed. He feels a familiar swoop of grief, knowing his friends are out risking their lives while he’s safe playing civilian.
“Babe, the invite says no plus ones. It’s heroes only.”
“You’re a hero.”
Izuku sighs through his nose. “Kacchan, that’s not how this works.”
Kacchan shifts so he’s looking up at Izuku rather than buried in his neck. Aw, man. This angle really isn’t fair—Katsuki is all long blond eyelashes and sleepy eyes, and Izuku can feel himself caving before he even speaks.
“I want you there,” he states, serious and saying each syllable with intention. “And, anyway—the fuck are they gonna do? I’ll kill ‘em.”
Ugh, his heart. He makes one last half-hearted attempt to be stern. “You are not starting a fight at the hero awards.”
Katsuki grins, victorious. “Fine.” He drops his head back down and gets comfortable. “But y’know, IcyHot would do it if I didn’t. Round Face too.”
Izuku snorts at the image. Shouto serenely freezing the poor security guard tasked with checking the guest list. Ochako floating him away. Kacchan’s breath evens out, and Izuku pulls his mask off his face and wiggles to get comfortable. He feels a little ashamed of the contentment purring in his chest, but, well, they haven’t overlapped at home in days, and he misses him.
He also feels bad for waking everyone up and disrupting patrols. Of course he does. But he used to wonder, after the war. Wonder all sorts of things, whether there was even a point to him, whether Kacchan would leave him behind, whether his friends would still care about him.
When they graduated, he had steeled himself for a slow fade and losing touch. But they all came. Like they always did, to movies and birthdays and when Izuku is sad and lonely on the couch. It’s good to be reminded, he thinks, that he can take care of himself. But he never has to.
~
Izuku is let out later that day with orders to rest and change his bandages twice a day. He’d grabbed the roll and gone into the bathroom, but Katsuki flat-out refused to let him to it himself. He said Izuku always did it wrong, but he’s just a control freak. And a secret softie.
He’s sitting on the edge of their tub, keeping still as Kacchan tears a stretch of bandage with his teeth. He’s shirtless, and Izuku is failing to not stare. But it’s tough—Kacchan looks so good right now. He always looks good, but as his eyes sweep over his shoulders, arms, chest, everything seems more defined this evening. Wait—
Izuku blinks and the world comes back into focus. Katsuki is grinning and stops flexing when Izuku fixes him with a disappointed look.
“My eyes are up here,” he says, like an asshole.
“Ugh. You are so mean to me.”
“Right,” he snorts, fixing the bandage against Izuku’s chest. “I’m the worst. What’re you wearing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“The ceremony, dummy.”
A beat of silence. Katsuki pinches his nose and sighs.
“You fucking forgot, didn’t you.”
“Ummmm. Ah, I mean.” A hand grabs his face and squeezes until he’s fish-faced. “Eyy ca’ just—”
“You’re not wearing your stupid sensei suit.”
Izuku shakes out of his strong grip and glares. “Hey!”
The thing is, Izuku isn’t a clothes guy. He has the stuff he likes, and he wears it, even Kacchan groans and says he dresses like a dad. He definitely doesn’t have more than one type of suit. But it’s a nice suit! His mom said he looked handsome. And based on Kacchan’s behaviour in the mornings, it’s not like he disagrees.
“Ugh, whatever. I’ll just—stay still.” Kacchan pulls the bandage around his abdomen tight. “I’ll handle it.”
~
Dynamight is named Best New Hero, and Izuku’s cheers are the loudest in the auditorium. He tries and fails to feel guilty about rooting for him over his best friends. But they know where his ultimate loyalty lies, and they cheer right along with him.
Katsuki gets up slowly, and looks unaffected as he walks up to the stage, but Izuku knows how much he’s wanted this. How much he deserves it. He shakes the announcers hand, grasps the award tightly, and leans in close to the microphone for the acceptance speech he refused to write, much to the agony of his PR agent.
Izuku is watching him, like he always is, wearing the perfectly fitted new suit he’d found on the bed this morning.
Kacchan takes a breath and appears to pause before the mic.
“I fuckin’ deserve this,” he says, and Izuku sighs, fond as anything. He loves him so much.
Kirishima and Mina holler from their table. Izuku can imagine Auntie at home, howling at the TV as the start of her son’s speech comes through the speakers, all censored and redacted. Everyone can look and see Pro Hero Dynamight casting his classic glower at the camera, standing tall and menacing, holding a symbol of all his sweat and blood and scars like he couldn’t care less.
But Izuku can see something in the set of Kacchan’s mouth, the line of his shoulders. He’s muted, more serious than usual. He might even be a little nervous. Izuku tries to pour all the confidence he feels in him into his gaze, so Katsuki can feel it across the many feet separating them.
And then, as if he knows, Kacchan looks straight at him, eyes burning, and Izuku’s breath catches in his throat. Ochako hears it and puts a hand on his shoulder in support.
“But I’m not—fuck—I’m not the only one. We did this together. Every step, we took together.”
Izuku’s heart drops into his stomach, his body processing Kacchan’s words way before his brain does. What on earth?
Kacchan looks faintly embarrassed now, like he can’t quite believe what he’s doing. But he’s still looking at Izuku, and Izuku still isn’t breathing.
On stage, Dynamight stretches out the hand that isn’t holding the award, and murmurs fill the auditorium. The news anchors covering this must be going wild.
One second passes. Another. Izuku can’t remember how to use his lungs. Or his legs.
But Ochako punches him in the shoulder, and he snaps out of it.
“Ow,” he says, flatly, automatically, even though it does really hurt. Thank you, Gunhead. She giggles behind him, and he realizes their entire table is staring at him with affectionate exasperation. Kirishima, Mina, Kaminari, Sero, Shouto, Ochako—they mean everything to him. He stands on wobbly legs.
The audience explodes in whispers. Maybe he’s delusional, but. They look pleased. Supportive.
The walk up passes in a blur—all he can see is Katsuki, in the spotlight, arm still raised towards him. He looks at him and his memories blur into reality: muddy in the river, during the war—how many times has he reached out his palm like this? Chasing each other forever, he’d said.
He climbs the stairs, hoping the camera won’t pick up on him sweating bullets, and walks to the podium. He can hear their friends cheering as if through water, muffled under the sound of his heart beating out of his chest. As soon as he’s in range, Kacchan grabs his hand and holds it tight.
“Thank you,” he says, quiet, into the microphone, and steps back.
Kacchan raises their joint hands and lets the cameras click. Lets millions of viewers all over Japan see Pro Hero Dynamight accept Best New Hero alongside their favorite Deku. Lets the world know.
He looks at Izuku, a small quirk to his lip and a slight raise in his eyebrow. Questioning—as if to say: Well?
Izuku looks back, flabbergasted, blinking back tears.
He never thought he’d feel this sort of pride again. Not after everything, not in himself. But he feels the warmth of Kacchan’s hand in his grip and lets his heart swell with joy. This is what he’s wanted—to be seen. To be remembered. He glances over at Kacchan and catches him watching him with an expression that’s so fierce and gentle that it makes Izuku’s teeth hurt.
He thinks of Kamino, when he was so scared to reach out. Of getting impaled and apologies in the rain. Of UA and all the times he hoped Kacchan would look at him, just one more time. And when he did, he’d greedily think again. Another. Just one more. He thinks of all the fear he felt that their time together would be finite, that he’d have to savor a drop Kacchan’s time and attention for years, just to make it last. Jeez, the tears are really coming on now.
“I lo—”
“Not now, nerd,” Kacchan says, and leans down to kiss him. It’s quick, it’s innocent, it’s being livestreamed on national television. There’s a wolf whistle that is almost certainly Mina.
Head completely hollow, he’s tugged off stage, too dazed to do anything but let Kacchan drag him back to their seats. He manages a breathless, “I cannot believe you did that.”
“What? You didn’t like it?”
“Some warning would have been nice.”
Kacchan rolls his eyes as he flops down in his seat and tugs his tie loose. “Sorry princess, the next time I decide to out us both on national TV, I’ll send you a fuckin’ memo so you can freak out and not show up.”
Izuku does not appreciate the attitude, and he almost says so, but Kacchan’s now undone shirt button and cartilage piercing are glinting in the light and doing really super weird things to his stomach. Why does he have to lean forward against the table like that? Ugh, years later and his ridiculous biceps still put hornets in Izuku’s stomach. Or maybe it’s late onset stage fright. Let’s go with that.
“You two are so dramatic,” says Shouto, alerting Izuku to their audience. They’re all grinning at him like sharks, and Izuku flushes.
“Bite me,” Katsuki snarks, tossing a toothpick that Shouto deftly dodges.
“No thanks,” Shouto says in Kacchan’s direction, and then, to Izuku, “Damn. He really does not give a fuck.”
Kacchan flips him off with the hand holding his chin up against the table, and Izuku smiles. He supposes he can understand how a stunt like that would give the impression that Katsuki doesn’t give a fuck. Izuku, anxious and overthinking and a consummate people-pleaser, certainly, could not have pulled it off.
But as much as he loves that Katsuki can tune out the bullshit and not care when he needs to, he knows what this was. How difficult it must have been, for such a private person. But Katsuki has tried, now, for years, to be careful with Izuku, to twist himself into a person who can give Izuku all the care that he can’t bring himself to give to himself.
He sees Katsuki’s palm facing up on the table, and smiling, interlocks their fingers. He’s an endless flow of grace and kindness for others and he’ll bleed himself dry with it. But with Kacchan’s attention, he allows himself to be a little selfish, to hoard it for himself.
~
Izuku nurses his beer in a corner. The ceremony turned into an afterparty as soon as the open bar was announced, and Katsuki got mobbed within seconds. Between that and getting ambushed by Shindo, Izuku figured it was best to step away for a second to collect himself.
His friends disappeared to the bar a while ago, and he hasn’t seen them since. He sees Hatsume, though, in her usual oil-covered get up and goggles a few tables away. She probably came straight from her lab. She’s talking loudly with her hands to a very serious looking businessman who appears to be handing her his business card, and makes a mental note to find her before he leaves. He hasn’t seen her in ages.
He hasn’t seen so many people in ages. Yaomomo was here somewhere, and Jirou must be with her. Mirio, Amajiki, Hado, even Hawks. These are, Izuku thinks with some bemusement, people who could have been his coworkers. He supposes some of them actually are—Present Mic and Principal Nezu are surely somewhere in the mix.
He spots Kacchan, finally, walking away from the bar with Best Jeanist. Jeanist is saying something to which Kacchan is nodding. He’s holding two drinks; a glass of wine and a glass of bubbly orange liquid—a fruity monstrosity that must be for him. Izuku debates waving him over, but decides against it. He’ll find him when he’s done with Jeanist.
It’s for the best because, a moment later, Ochako spots him and hurries over with Tsu and Shouto.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, setting her drink down heavily and leaning on the table. “I thought I was going to have to float to get out of there.”
Tsu nods seriously, and Izuku grimaces supportively. “It looks, uhhh—”
“It’s hell,” agrees Shouto grimly.
“I didn’t even get a drink, kero,” Tsu complains. Izuku slides his almost untouched beer over.
“Here,” he says, “Kacchan is getting me another one, anyway.”
Tsu takes it immediately with thanks, without pretending she doesn’t want it out of politeness. One of the many things Izuku is charmed by, when it comes to her. No nonsense. Maybe that’s why she was never scared of Kacchan.
Ochako’s expression turns sly. She’s wearing such a cute outfit, light brown dress with a big bow on her head, and somehow he still finds himself menaced.
“Sooooo. Kacchan.” she teases, “That was, like, basically a marriage proposal, right?”
Izuku squeaks in horror and whirls around, hoping no one is close enough to eavesdrop. He covers his warm, warm face with his hands and hopes they take pity on him.
“Stooop. Stop. Please.”
They completely ignore him.
“It was almost worse,” muses Shouto, sipping his cocktail, “Marriage proposals usually aren’t so—” He gestures like he’s searching for the word.
“Public?” Ochako offers.
“Dramatic?” Et tu, Tsu.
He snaps his fingers, like hello, eureka. “Gay.”
Ochako snickers and Tsu smiles, amused. Izuku thinks he might be flushing all the way down to his toes.
“Oi,” comes a voice, right as Izuku feels an arm drop heavy around his shoulders. He leans into it, suddenly feeling less under attack, like he’s in the safe zone of a game he didn’t know he was playing.
Wow, it’s nice to be able to do this in public. Katsuki deposits his drink in his waiting hands and peers down at him. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing,” says Ochako primly, “That was all you.”
“Don’t get cute with me.”
“Awww, you think I’m cute?”
“He doesn’t think anyone except Midoriya is cute, kero.”
Izuku tunes it out. Katsuki’s hair is all fluffy again, like he’s been running his hands through it and messing up the gel. He’s so bad with formal attire. He looks amazing, sure, but everything about him is in a slight state of disarray: messy hair, loosened tie, open top button, undone cufflinks. No wonder he got mobbed.
They’re not long for this party—both of them have early starts tomorrow—but he’s content to sip his drink and watch his friends talk for a minute. Before long, Ochako and Tsu are waving goodbye, and Shouto is checking his wristwatch.
“We should go too,” murmurs Izuku.
“Yeah,” Katsuki says. “In a minute.”
“What were you and Jeanist talking about?”
Kacchan rubs a hand over his face. “Same bullshit. Old bastard is obsessed with appearances.” He deepens his voice to mimic Jeanist. “Watch your frayed threads.”
Izuku turns this over in his head. He frowns. “Wait. Am I the fraying thread?”
Izuku sees Katsuki actually considering how to reply, and that (ha) frays his nerves. “Kacchan,” he says, “I don’t want to be the fraying thread.”
“Chill,” he huffs. “Babe. You’re not a fraying anything. He just wants me to be careful. And I am.”
Izuku is still frowning, not sure he likes this line of conversation. He’s about to open his mouth to say so, when they’re interrupted.
“Dynamight! Deku!”
He recognizes the pitch of the HNN reporter before he even turns. Since when were the media allowed at these things—what happened to heroes only? Izuku feels Kacchan tense next to him and is ready to politely decline a conversation to save the reporter from getting yelled at. But Katsuki actually turns around and raises an eyebrow. From him, basically an open invite. What the hell?
“You have three questions. Make ‘em count.”
The reporter looks like she’s been told Christmas has come early, and Izuku tries to keep his expression neutral. Kacchan has a look on his face that has literally never meant good things.
She pulls out her notebook. “Is it true that you and former Pro Hero Deku are in a romantic relationship?”
Kacchan’s expression sours. Whether it’s at how Izuku is labelled or the nature of the question, he can’t tell. Izuku gets it, seems a bit dumb to ask after what just happened.
“What the f—”
“Yes,” says Izuku, intervening. “We are.”
The reporter nods and scribbles something down. “And how long—”
“Forever,” barks Katsuki. “Next question.”
Izuku’s stomach does a funny flip, and he tries not to smile too dopily. But whatever, he’s allowed now. The reporter eyes them for a moment and pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. She looks at Izuku.
“Deku-san, is it true at you were briefly hospitalized at Central Hospital on Monday as a result of a stab wound from the villain known as Scarlet Fever?”
His heart sinks. Someone must have let something spill at the hospital. From her expression, Izuku can tell that this was the question she came to ask to begin with, and she’s very pleased that she got two bonus questions to start with. Her bosses will be thrilled. Izuku is… less thrilled. Nezu and Aizawa already know what happened, and he had called out sick the day after, but he was hoping not to have his students find out.
But there’s nothing to be done now. They’ll run the story whether or not he comments, so he tries to formulate something polite and professional to respond with. Something that doesn’t give away too much. Also, Scarlet Fever? Seriously?
His spiral only lasts a split second, but it’s long enough that he fails to notice that Katsuki has opened his mouth.
“Finally, a good fuckin’ question.”
Wait, what?
“It’s true. And the next time—” Oh god, he’s building up steam. “—some piece of shit useless ass villain tries to break into my home and attack my boyfriend—”
“Kacchan—”
“—they better pray to god they end up in Tartarus because I swear I’m gonna rip them a fuckin’ new—”
“Ookay,” laughs Izuku, kind of charmed despite himself. He claps a hand over Katsuki’s mouth. “We have to go now,” he says to the reporter, who looks completely unsurprised at the tirade she’s receiving. “Goodnight!”
“Thank you Deku-san,” she says dryly, pocketing her notebook. “We hope your recovery is going well.”
With that, she turns and disappears into the crowd. Crisis averted. Ish.
Katsuki licks his palm.
“Eww Kacchan,” he whines, wiping his hand on his pant leg. Kacchan smirks at him.
“Serves you right,” Katsuki states. “I was just getting to the good part.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Can we leave now?”
Katsuki looks him up and down; once, twice, before his eyes settle on his mouth. The expression on his face is downright evil. “Yeah, I need you out of that damn suit yesterday.”
Another rush of warmth on his face and, um, other places. “Please,” he says, pink, “Not in public.”
Kacchan mutters yeah, whatever and puts a hand on Izuku’s back as they start weaving through the crowd. His hand is a little low for a public setting, but Izuku isn’t a saint. Kacchan’s not the only one with a horrible lizard brain.
They’re stopped about a dozen times for hellos that they turn into goodbyes, and it strikes Izuku that no one really seems surprised by the news Katsuki dropped tonight, by their close contact through pleasantries.
It’s right when they eye an exit and Izuku starts to relax that he feels a tug on his suit jacket. Aw, man. Not another reporter. Katsuki feels him stop and groans.
“Jesus fu—”
He falls silent. It’s not a reporter at all. It’s Rock Lock, holding his small son. Rock Lock looks a little sheepish, but his son looks serious. Way too serious for a five year old, but he really did have his father’s copy-and-paste genes.
“Midoriya, Bakugou,” he says, by way of greeting. “I’m sorry to delay your exit, but he was so excited. He really wants an autograph.”
The kid thrusts a trading card at them, and Izuku smiles, thoroughly charmed by the determination he displays. It was so sweet to be on the other side of this, even he was only adjacent to it. Only licensed Pros could have cards, and Kacchan’s was amazing. Izuku would know, he spends way too much of his salary collecting them. He steps to the side as Katsuki pulls out a pen.
“Ah—” begins Rock Lock, before his son cuts him off.
“NO!”
All three of them freeze. Katsuki gets it before Izuku does. Glancing down at the card, his lips twitch, and he hands Izuku the pen. Izuku follows his gaze, and oh god. It’s a counterfeit Deku training card. It’s not quite as polished as the official ones, but that’s him, in his hero costume. He knew they existed, but. He’s never seen one. Izuku doesn’t know what to do with himself, but he gets it together enough to sign DEKU in shaky letters.
“Thanks, Midoriya,” says Rock Lock, smiling, as his son reverently tucks the card away in his pocket. “We had to look everywhere for those. Deku is his favorite. He’s going to keep that forever.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “O—Of course! Anytime!
They wave goodbyes, and Izuku can feel the tears welling up. He manages to hold them in for a few minutes, until they get in the car, and then wobbles out:
“Oh my god.”
“I knew the waterworks were comin’” Katsuki snorts and reaches over to get a hand around his knee. Izuku grabs a fistful of tissues from the dash and blows his nose.
He looks at Kacchan and meets his eye. He looks so fond, and it makes Izuku cry harder. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Who can say? Izuku feels wrung dry— overwhelmed from the week and the day and the last few hours. So much has happened that he doesn’t know where to start.
“I just…”
He trails off, and Katsuki waits. He looks out of the window and tries to collect his thoughts.
“I just felt like a hero again. For a little bit.”
Katsuki doesn’t say anything for so long that Izuku thinks he didn’t hear him. It wouldn’t be the first time that he mumbled and didn’t realize. But he glances over, and he has a funny look on his face.
“Did you like it?”
Izuku laughs. Like it? It was only his dream for his entire life. But Katsuki’s expression doesn’t crack.
“It’s okay, Kacchan. I’m happy.”
“That’s not what I asked. Did you like it?”
What’s not to like? Like a slice of a dream handed to him, fleeting and ephemeral, he’ll savor it while he can. He knows how that feels. In his way, Kacchan makes the answer easy. Liking is different than deserving, or even wanting.
“Yes,” he says, placing a hand over the one on his knee and squeezing. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” says Kacchan, gruffly. “That wasn’t anything.”
It was, but Izuku doesn’t argue. Kacchan already knows how he feels, otherwise he wouldn’t have done any of it. The rest of the drive passes in silence. It’s a strange kind of silence, not heavy or awkward, but Izuku can tell that Kacchan is sitting on something. Pushing him has never led to anything good, so Izuku waits, knowing he’ll hear it when he hears it.
He fiddles with his phone, replying to his mother and sending off a few pictures of Katsuki with the award to Auntie.
From Shouto, he sees:
> heronewsnetwork.com/breaking-news/dynamight-confirms-secret-relationship
> twitter.com/status/9362074: “forever? FOREVER?! and they’ve been calling me crazy for years…”
> twitter.com/status/0173862: “idk whether to be more depressed about deku or dynamight being taken but happy for them I guess”
> does he need to go to media training again?
Muffling a laugh, he exits out of the chat and marks it as unread. That’s a tomorrow problem. And an above-his-paygrade problem. He’ll let the professionals deal with it. Then he remembers that he has school tomorrow, and his students very much have phones and access to the internet. Oh, they’re going to eat him alive.
Startling him out of wondering whether he’d get fired for calling out sick again, Katsuki says:
“You’ll feel it again.”
Sometimes, in moments like this, Izuku is forced to remember the devastated expression on Kacchan’s face when he found out he was quirkless. Mostly, it’s his dream to mourn, and he forgets that, somehow, without him knowing, it had become Kacchan’s dream, too.
“That’s not how this works,” he says, a little pained. The words sound so familiar in his mouth. Kacchan thinks he deserves it more than anyone else, but it doesn’t matter. That’s not how any of this works. He got lucky, and now it’s over.
“I’m gonna make it work,” mutters Kacchan, almost too softly for Izuku to hear. They’re pulling onto their street.
“What?”
“I said, what do you want for dinner?”
It’s midnight, and that is so not what he said, and he’s going to ignore Izuku’s stated preference and make something random and delicious from the scraps in their fridge. Call Izuku naïve and soft-hearted, but Kacchan sounded too serious and too certain to disagree with. He pulls at his seatbelt and grabs his bag as Kacchan comes around the side of the car and opens the door for him, pretending to be exasperated.
“You coming, nerd?”
Izuku grasps the hand outstretched to help him. “Lead the way.”