Archive of Our Own

The key turned in the lock with a heavy, metallic click that usually signaled the start of Katsuki’s favorite part of the day: the part where everyone else stopped talking to him.

It hadn’t been a catastrophic day. Nothing had gone wrong, nobody had pissed him off enough to start a physical fight, and he hadn’t failed anything important. It was just one of those long, grinding days where every minor inconvenience stacked itself neatly on top of the next until he felt like a live wire wrapped too tight around itself. He wanted two things: silence and food. Preferably in that order.

Instead, the second he shoved open the apartment door, he heard laughter coming from the kitchen.

Katsuki stopped dead in the entryway. For one terrible moment, he genuinely considered turning back around and walking down the stairs. Then he recognized the laugh. It wasn’t Kudo’s. It was worse.

Taking off his shoes with growing irritation, Katsuki stalked toward the kitchen, alredy prepared to start a problem. “What the hell—”

The words died in his throat.

Standing by the counter, leaning against the lip of the sink with entirely too much casual comfort, was Yoichi. He was wearing a pair of fuzzy gray socks, a faded sweatshirt that Katsuki knew for a fact belonged to Kudo, and he was currently lifting a mug to his mouth.

Not just any mug. Katsuki’s favorite black ceramic one with the chipped handle. The one Kudo knew better than to touch.

Yoichi glanced up, completely unbothered by the hostility radiating off Katsuki in visible waves. “Oh,” he said, taking a slow sip. “Hey, Katsuki.”

Katsuki stared at him. Then at the mug. Then back at him. “Why are YOU here?”

“Kudo invited me.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“It literally did.”

Katsuki felt a vein twitch in his temple. Before he could continue an incredibly justified argument about tenant rights, the heavy rattle of the front door cut him off.

Footsteps approached down the narrow hallway, accompanied by the rustle of heavy plastic. Then, Izuku walked into the kitchen, carrying two bags of takeout containers hooked awkwardly over his arm. He stopped dead the moment he saw Katsuki.

Katsuki’s brain, a traitorous thing, noticed several things at once.

Izuku had gotten taller. Not dramatically—just enough that the difference felt strange after years of memory insisting otherwise. His dark curls were damp around the edges, clinging to his forehead like he’d been caught in the mist outside. His sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, exposing forearms that didn't look like a kid's anymore, and there were faint, dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked tired. Older. In a way Katsuki suddenly hated.

Izuku looked him over once, letting out a long, heavy sigh like the mere sight of Katsuki exhausted him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Izuku said flatly, walking past him to set the heavy containers on the counter with a loud thud. “Your brother said it was a group dinner.”

Then, after the slightest pause: “Kacchan.”

The nickname hit Katsuki directly in the sternum.

It was entirely wrong. When they were kids, Izuku used to say it like the word itself was bright—filled with a breathless, frantic reverence as he trailed three steps behind Katsuki on the playground. Now? It was dry. Flat. It carried the exact same tone someone might use to describe a minor inconvenience, like a train delay.

Katsuki scowled instantly. “Don’t call me that.”

Izuku’s eyebrows lifted, completely unfazed. “What, Kacchan?”

“There it is again,” Katsuki snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh growl.

“Oh no,” Izuku said, his voice maddeningly level as he started unpacking the plastic containers. “Well hello to you too.”

Yoichi made a visible, highly unsuccessful effort not to laugh into Katsuki’s stolen mug.

Katsuki was seriously considering homicide when a loud, booming laugh echoed from the hallway. Kudo strolled into the kitchen, carrying a fresh gallon of milk and looking entirely too delighted by the thick, awkward tension vibrating in the room.

“Oh, good,” Kudo beamed, kicking the fridge shut with his foot. “Everyone’s here. Katsuki, grab plates.”

“No.”

“Great, thanks.”

“I said no.”

Izuku snorted softly under his breath. Katsuki whipped around immediately, his shoulders rigid. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Izuku said, which was obviously a lie.

And that was the most irritating part of all. Everything about Izuku was irritating now. Not because he’d changed, but because of how he had. Katsuki remembered a version of Izuku that folded into himself whenever Katsuki got angry—a version that apologized too quickly and shrank away. This version leaned against their kitchen counter with tired eyes, sarcasm tucked into the corner of his mouth, looking at Katsuki directly.

And somehow, that was worse.

Dinner itself was a disaster of domestic proportions.

Kudo and Yoichi moved around each other with a horrifying, subconscious ease that made Katsuki physically ill. One would reach out a hand, and the other would place a napkin or a bottle of soy sauce into it without either of them breaking conversation. At one point, Yoichi lazily reached over and stole a piece of chicken directly off Kudo’s plate. Kudo didn’t even blink; he just nudged Yoichi sideways with a casual elbow.

“You two are disgusting,” Katsuki informed them, aggressively stabbing a piece of beef.

Yoichi pointed his chopsticks lazily across the table. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“I live here.”

“Debatable,” Kudo chimed in.

Katsuki ignored him on principle, but across the table, Izuku quietly laughed into his drink. The sound hit Katsuki weirdly. It was lower than he remembered, rough around the edges from a long day. Real. Katsuki shoved that thought directly into a metaphorical garbage disposal and slammed the lid down.

Halfway through the meal, Kudo casually cleared his throat. “So, are you helping me move next weekend?”

Katsuki narrowed his eyes immediately. “What move?”

“The move I told you about three weeks ago.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“I absolutely did. I said I was thinking about moving.”

“Yeah, you thought about it. Then you just did it. That’s not how normal people communicate.”

Kudo shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Anyway, Yoichi’s helping.”

Katsuki instantly saw the trap snapping shut. “No.”

“I didn’t ask anything yet.”

“You were about to.”

Izuku pointed a fry at Katsuki from across the table. “Wow. He really does know you well.”

A strange, unwanted warmth flared in Katsuki’s chest at the comment, and he hated himself for it.

Kudo’s grin widened, looking like the worst person alive. “Midoriya’s helping too.”

“Absolutely not,” Katsuki barked.

“Oh, come on,” Yoichi said. “It’ll be fun.”

“It’ll be lifting heavy boxes in a cramped stairwell.”

“Exactly.”

Katsuki looked toward Izuku, expecting agreement for once in his miserable life. Surely Izuku didn't want to spend his Saturday trapped in a tight space with him.

Instead, Izuku sighed dramatically, popping the fry into his mouth. “I already told Yoichi I’d help. I need the exercise anyway.”

Traitor.

Kudo clapped his hands together once, victorious. “Perfect. Settled.”

“This is a dictatorship,” Katsuki growled, leaning back in his chair and glaring hard enough to qualify as a health hazard.

Across the table, Izuku caught his eye. For a fleeting second, the sarcasm dropped, replaced by something small, crooked, and genuinely teasing.

“Kacchan,” Izuku said mildly, a tiny smirk playing on his lips. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”

Katsuki decided he hated him. Possibly more than he ever had before.

Which would have been a lot easier to believe if his pulse wasn't behaving like a glitching engine every single time Izuku looked him in the eye.

————————————————————————

Helping Kudo move turned out to be exactly as miserable as Katsuki had predicted.

Which would have been deeply satisfying if he wasn’t currently hoisting a massive solid-wood bookshelf up three flights of concrete stairs, while Kudo supervised from the landing above like a man contributing absolutely nothing to modern society.

“A little to the left,” Kudo called out helpfully, leaning over the banister. “Watch the drywall.”

Katsuki nearly dropped his end of the shelf on purpose. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You say that every birthday, too.”

“That’s because surviving another year with you feels like a personal insult.”

Behind Katsuki, holding the lower half of the weight, Izuku barked out a sharp laugh. He immediately gasped, his grip slipping a fraction before he hooked his fingers tighter under the base.

“Can you save the homicide until after we get this thing onto flat ground?” Izuku gasped, his voice strained from the incline. “My arms are literally dying.”

“You volunteered for this,” Katsuki grunted, adjusting his footing on the narrow step.

“No, actually, Yoichi volunteered me for this. There’s a distinct difference.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Wow,” Izuku deadpanned, his breath coming in short, even bursts against the back of Katsuki’s neck. “Your compassion is truly inspiring, Kacchan.”

Katsuki shot a sharp look over his shoulder.

Izuku was flushed from the exertion, damp curls sticking to his forehead, his oversized t-shirt hanging loosely off one shoulder where the heavy wood had dragged it down. He was glaring at the final flight of stairs like it had personally offended his ancestors.

It was an incredibly irritating, entirely unhelpful distraction. Katsuki looked away first, his jaw tightening as he lunged up the remaining steps.

Unfortunately, Kudo noticed everything. From the top landing, he watched the two of them drop the bookshelf with a synchronized, heavy thud onto the linoleum, his expression mimicking someone witnessing a rare astronomical event.

“Oh my god,” Kudo muttered under his breath.

“What?” Katsuki snapped, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

“Nothing,” Kudo said, far too innocently.

Yoichi appeared from the apartment’s interior, carrying exactly one desk lamp like he was helping. He leaned into Kudo’s space, shoulder-to-shoulder. “One of them looked away first?”

“Katsuki did,” Kudo whispered back.

“That’s massive.”

“I can still fucking hear you,” Katsuki barked, shoving past them into the new unit.

“Good,” Yoichi replied, completely unphased as he handed the lamp to Kudo without a word, a gesture Kudo accepted without looking down.

The apartment itself wasn’t terrible. It was smaller than their old place but significantly brighter, with huge windows that let in the afternoon light and a decent kitchen layout. It was also suspiciously within a twelve-minute walking distance of Yoichi’s building.

Katsuki noticed the proximity immediately. Unfortunately, so did Izuku.

“You moved three blocks away from my brother,” Izuku noted a few hours later, his tone dry as he unrolled a sheet of bubble wrap at the kitchen island. “That’s not a coincidence.”

Kudo didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed as he unpacked a box of mugs. “The rent was competitive.”

“Sure.”

“The neighborhood has great character.”

“Mhm.”

“There’s a 24-hour convenience store on the corner.”

Izuku just stared at him, a flat, unimpressed look that Kudo completely ignored.

From across the living room, where he was pretending to organize a stack of vinyl records, Yoichi called out, “He checked the walking distance to my front door before he checked if the building had hot water, Izuku.”

“I hate all of you,” Katsuki informed the room at large.

“Liar,” Kudo said cheerfully.

Katsuki flipped him off, but the gesture lacked its usual heat. His attention was pulled back to the island where Izuku was carefully wrapping a set of glasses.

The day dragged on in predictable stages of organized suffering: furniture assembly, stripping tape off cardboard, and arguing over where things belonged. But as the hours bled into late afternoon, the sharp, defensive friction from the night before began to dull into something else.

It happened in tiny pieces. Automatic, unthinking habits that neither of them seemed to have the energy to stop.

At one point, Yoichi drifted into the kitchen, entirely unannounced, and silently bit off half the sandwich Kudo had just made for himself. Kudo didn’t even break his stride; he just nudged Yoichi sideways with his hip and said, “You could’ve made your own.”

“You make them better.”

“That’s because you cut tomatoes like a criminal.”

Katsuki watched the exchange with deep, spiritual exhaustion. Beside him on the floor, Izuku snickered quietly into the box of books he was sorting.

“You look physically ill,” Izuku murmured, not looking up.

“I am physically ill. This is disgusting.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“They’re legally single and they share a grocery budget, Izuku. It’s a sickness.”

Izuku grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re just jealous.”

Katsuki’s hands froze around a heavy stack of textbooks. His chest tightened. “What?”

Izuku blinked, his expression completely level, his voice dropping into that maddeningly casual cadence. “What?”

Katsuki stared at him for a full second too long, trying to find a trace of the old timid boy who would have flushed red and taken it back. There was nothing. Izuku just watched him, entirely comfortable in the silence.

Katsuki turned away hard enough to pop his neck. “Shut up.”

A small, pleased shadow of a smile flickered across Izuku’s face before disappearing. Katsuki pretended his heart hadn't just skipped a beat.

The worst part was how easy the rest of it felt. When they went downstairs to clear out the recycling, Izuku reached over absentmindedly to straighten Katsuki’s crooked hoodie strings while explaining where Kudo wanted the microwave. He didn't even look down while doing it.

Later, walking through the crowded sidewalk toward the dumpster, Katsuki realized Izuku had naturally matched his stride—falling perfectly into step beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, just like muscle memory. Like they’d never really stopped walking home from school together.

It wasn't awkward. It wasn't forced. It was just familiar in a way that made Katsuki’s lungs feel entirely too small for his chest.

By the time the final boxes were cleared, gold, late-afternoon sunlight was spilling thick through the apartment windows. Kudo and Yoichi had disappeared onto the small balcony twenty minutes ago under the guise of "checking the structural integrity," and they hadn’t returned.

Katsuki was crouched by the bookshelf when Izuku walked over, carrying a single, heavy hardcover that had slipped under the sofa.

“You missed one.”

“I didn’t miss it,” Katsuki said automatically, his voice gruff. “I was getting to it.”

“Hm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Kacchan.”

The nickname slipped out entirely without weight. It wasn’t sharp like it had been the night before, and it wasn’t sarcastic. It was just an old word used in a quiet room, spoken because Izuku had stopped thinking before he said it.

Katsuki looked up before he could stop himself.

Izuku froze slightly, the book still held between his hands. For a strange, suspended second, neither of them moved. The sunlight caught the amber edges of Izuku’s eyes, dust motes floating lazily in the space between them, and the distant sound of a car horn echoed from the street below.

Katsuki looked at him, and for the first time in years, he recognized the expression on Izuku's face. It was the same way Izuku used to look at the sky before a storm when they were kids—quiet, intensely observant, and caring despite himself.

The moment snapped cleanly apart when the balcony door slid open. Kudo burst back into the apartment, entirely too loud, carrying a cardboard tray of iced coffees he’d apparently snuck out to grab.

“Good news,” Kudo announced.

“No,” Katsuki said instantly, dropping his gaze back to the shelf.

“I signed you two up to assemble the sectional couch.”

“That’s not good news.”

“It is for my lower back.”

Yoichi wandered in behind him, handing one of the cups automatically to Izuku before taking his own. Kudo handed the last one to Katsuki.

Izuku took a sip from his straw, his forehead immediately wrinkling in distaste. “Um.. This has milk in it. I think it’s the wrong order.”

Katsuki looked down at his own cup—black, no sugar, exactly what Izuku always drank when he stayed up too late studying. Without thinking, without processing the entire room of people watching him, Katsuki extended his arm.

“Take mine. It’s black.”

An immediate, suffocating silence dropped over the kitchen.

Katsuki realized what he’d done exactly one second too late. His arm remained extended, the plastic cup sweating against his palm.

Izuku blinked at him, completely caught off guard. Kudo slowly lowered his own coffee from his mouth, his eyes widening. Yoichi looked up at the ceiling briefly, his lips moving in a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever god was engineering this soap opera.

A violent, hot flush crawled straight up Katsuki’s neck. “Don’t make it weird,” he snapped, his voice dropping an octave. “Just take the fucking coffee.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Izuku replied softly.

He reached out, his fingers carefully brushing against Katsuki’s as he traded the cups. The contact lasted barely half a second, but it felt stupidly warm—like touching a live wire in a dark room.

Katsuki jerked his hand back, his pulse spiking into his throat.

Yoichi made a tiny, choked-off noise into his napkin. Kudo looked like he was about to pull a party popper out of his pocket.

“I’m leaving,” Katsuki announced, turning on his heel.

“You live here now, too,” Kudo reminded him, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Then I’m moving out.”

“No, you’re not.”

From behind him, Katsuki heard Izuku let out another laugh—soft, genuine, and entirely unbothered by the chaos. And this time, against every defensive instinct Katsuki possessed, he caught himself wanting to stay just to hear it a little longer.

————————————————————————

The thing nobody warned Katsuki about was that once he started noticing Izuku again, it became impossible to stop. It was a constant, exhausting background noise in his own head.

Three days after the move, Katsuki found himself standing in the doorway of the kitchen at one in the morning, watching Izuku argue quietly with the microwave like it was a perfectly rational way to spend his night.

“Come on,” Izuku muttered, pressing the buttons with a bit more force. “You worked five minutes ago.”

The microwave beeped in open defiance.

Katsuki leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You’re losing a fight to an appliance.”

Izuku startled, his shoulders jumping as he nearly dropped the bowl in his hands. He whipped around, glaring. “That’s creepy.”

“You scare too easy.”

“You move like a ghost.”

Katsuki considered that for a fraction of a second. “Fair.”

Izuku snorted softly, the tension leaving his shoulders. The sound settled low and warm somewhere unpleasant in Katsuki’s chest.

The apartment was entirely quiet tonight. Kudo had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through a movie, and Yoichi—who had absolutely no logistical reason to still be here past midnight—had apparently decided this was acceptable and stayed. Katsuki had walked past the living room earlier to find Yoichi half-asleep against Kudo’s shoulder while Kudo casually scrolled through his phone one-handed. It was a level of casual, unacknowledged domesticity that made Katsuki’s head hurt.

The microwave finally gave a defeated, low hum, lighting up inside.

Izuku lifted his arms slightly in victory. “Yes.”

“You’re celebrating a machine doing its baseline job.”

“Negativity like this is why people don’t invite you places, Kacchan.”

“They literally keep forcing me to come to places.”

“True,” Izuku admitted, leaning back against the counter while he waited for the food to heat.

With the microwave hum filling the background, the kitchen fell into something softer. Not awkward, but quiet. Katsuki hated the quiet around Izuku now. It gave his brain entirely too much room to pace.

Izuku looked worn out tonight. He was wearing an oversized hoodie that swallowed his hands, his eyes heavy with sleep, and his green curls were a chaotic mess from where he’d clearly been running his fingers through them while studying. Katsuki knew that habit; he remembered it from middle school. The sudden rush of recognition irritated him instantly.

Izuku caught him staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That look usually means something.”

“You think you have all my expressions mapped out?”

“I had years of practice,” Izuku said easily. Too easily.

The microwave beeped, signaling it was done, but neither of them moved to open the door. Izuku looked down at the linoleum counter instead, his voice dropping into a quieter, more serious register.

“I used to think you hated being around me.”

Katsuki’s entire body locked up. The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted instantly—sharp, fragile, and dangerous.

“When we were younger, I mean,” Izuku clarified, still looking at the counter.

Katsuki looked away, his jaw tight. “Tch.”

Izuku gave a short, humorless laugh. “See? You still do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like talking is physically painful.”

“It is physically painful when the conversation sucks.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Izuku finally looked up, his green eyes steady. There wasn't any anger or accusation in them, just an unblinking honesty that Katsuki didn't know how to defend against. “You pushed me away every single time I got close to you. After a while, I just figured you didn’t want me around.”

Katsuki’s throat felt suddenly, annoyingly tight. The problem was that none of what Izuku was saying was wrong, but it wasn't the whole truth either.

“I didn’t—” Katsuki started, the words snagging halfway out of his throat.

Izuku waited. He didn't interrupt, which was somehow far worse.

Katsuki scrubbed a hand hard down his face, exhaling a sharp breath. “You were just... always there,” he muttered, defensive and frustrated.

Izuku blinked slowly. “That’s your explanation?”

“You wanted one.”

“I wanted honesty.”

“You made everything weird,” Katsuki snapped, cornered by the sheer vulnerability of the room. “You were always looking at me.”

Izuku stared at him, genuinely bewildered. “I was ten.”

“Yeah, well, you were intense.”

A beat of heavy silence stretched between them. Then, the corner of Izuku’s mouth twitched, and he actually laughed—a soft, genuinely amused sound. “Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you look at me like I’m an idiot.”

“I’m looking at you like you’ve been emotionally compromised since childhood.”

Katsuki pointed a finger at him immediately. “See? This is why I don’t talk to you.”

“No, it isn’t.” The response came so fast Katsuki almost missed it.

Judging by the sudden stillness in Izuku’s expression, he hadn't meant to say it that clearly either. The kitchen suddenly felt entirely too small.

From the living room, Kudo’s sleepy, muffled voice drifted faintly through the darkness. “You know... avoiding people doesn’t magically make feelings disappear.”

Katsuki whipped around toward the hallway, his face burning. “You were awake?”

“Unfortunately,” Kudo groaned from the couch.

Yoichi’s voice followed a second later, clear and entirely amused. “Trust us. We tested that theory for about six years.”

“I thought it was seven?”

“Ah, no your right, seven years”

“I am surrounded by actual freaks,” Katsuki muttered violently, turning toward the hallway. “Go to sleep!”

“Can’t,” Yoichi called back. “The unresolved tension is too loud.”

Izuku made a strangled noise that was a direct mix of a laugh and a sigh, covering his face with one hand. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s hell,” Katsuki corrected, but the sharp, venomous edge of his anger had dissipated into something much more confusing.

————————————————————————

The rain started halfway through the drive home later that week.

It was a torrential downpour, heavy enough to blur the windshield into sheets of gray, the streetlights smearing like gold paint against the wet pavement. Katsuki gripped the steering wheel tight, the wipers thudding a steady, rhythmic beat back and forth.

They had spent the entire evening helping Kudo organize the last of his heavy storage, and both of them were hollowed out by pure physical exhaustion. Izuku sat slumped in the passenger seat, his head tipped back against the rest, staring out the blurred passenger window.

The silence between them stretched too long, thick with the damp warmth of the car's heater. Katsuki could feel a familiar, restless pressure building under his skin—that old, defensive instinct that flared up whenever things started feeling too close, too real.

Izuku shifted slightly in his seat. “You know,” he said quietly, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain, “I meant what I said the other night.”

Katsuki’s shoulders tightened instantly. “About what?”

“About you pushing people away.”

The pressure in Katsuki’s chest sharpened into a defensive spike. His fingers clamped harder around the leather of the wheel. “You act like you know everything about me.”

Izuku frowned, turning his head to look at him. “That’s not what I said.”

“You’re always dropping shit like that lately.”

“Because it’s true, Katsuki.”

“And you’re so perfect now?” Katsuki let out a sharp, mean laugh, the kind designed to force distance before things got too heavy. “My problem is you walking around acting like you’ve got me completely figured out just because you finally learned how to talk back.”

Izuku’s expression went completely rigid. “Pull the car over.”

Katsuki blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Pull over,” Izuku repeated, his voice entirely devoid of its usual soft cadence. It was quiet, steady, and furious.

Katsuki steered the car to the curb before his brain could even process the command. The vehicle rolled to a stop beneath a flickering streetlight, the rain hammering a frantic rhythm against the roof.

Izuku turned fully in his seat, his eyes locking onto Katsuki with a fierce, burning intensity. “You don’t get to treat me like crap just because you don’t know how to talk to people.”

Katsuki opened his mouth to snap back, but Izuku cut him off instantly.

“No. You’re listening this time,” Izuku said, his voice entirely level but carrying an immense amount of weight. “You don’t get to say awful things every single time someone gets close to you, and then act surprised when they leave. Grow up, Kacchan.”

The nickname hit sharper than a shout would have. It wasn't teasing, and it wasn't soft. It was just deeply disappointed.

Katsuki froze, the words dying in his throat. He looked at Izuku, and a sudden, ugly realization landed hard in his chest: he respected this version of Izuku. Not the childhood memory he kept frozen in his head, but this one—the one who refused to shrink away, who demanded honesty, and who wouldn't settle for scraps of his temper.

Katsuki looked away first, staring out at the rain-slicked dashboard. He didn't put the car back in drive for a long time.

The rest of the ride passed in a heavy, absolute silence. Ten minutes later, Katsuki glanced sideways at a red light.

Izuku had completely passed out, his head resting against the cold glass of the window. The physical exhaustion of the day had finally overtaken him, pulling all the anger and tension from his face. The faint glare of the streetlights flickered softly over his damp curls.

Katsuki stared a second too long, a dull, aching pain tugging beneath his ribs.

Careful not to make a sound, Katsuki reached across the console. His fingers caught the edge of his own heavy jacket resting on the back seat, and he quietly, carefully draped it over Izuku’s shoulders so he wouldn't wake up cold.

Izuku shifted slightly under the warmth, letting out a soft breath, but didn't open his eyes.

Katsuki pulled his hand back immediately, staring straight ahead at the changing traffic light while his pulse completely refused to slow down for the rest of the drive home.

————————————————————————

The problem with Kudo and Yoichi was that they had become entirely too comfortable in the apartment.

Correction. Kudo’s apartment. Technically.

Unfortunately, it had been less than a week since the move, and Yoichi already had a toothbrush in the bathroom holder, a designated rotation of socks in the laundry basket, and very specific opinions about the organization of the kitchen cabinets. Katsuki found this level of unchecked invasion deeply disturbing. Especially because Kudo seemed absolutely thrilled about it.

“Can you hand me the soy sauce?” Yoichi asked casually, gesturing toward the counter from his spot by the stove.

Kudo passed it over immediately, his eyes never leaving his phone screen.

Katsuki watched the exchange from the table, his eyes narrowing. “You didn’t even check if it was the right bottle.”

Kudo blinked slowly, finally looking up. “It’s soy sauce.”

“There are two different bottles in that cabinet.”

“Yeah,” Yoichi chimed in, stirring a pot of noodles. “He handed me the low-sodium one because he knows I can't stand the regular brand. See? Efficiency.”

Katsuki stared at them. Then he looked at Kudo, who just shrugged.

“I hate both of you,” Katsuki said flatly.

Beside him, Izuku snorted into his glass. Katsuki’s gaze snapped over to him automatically, a defensive retort rising to his lips, but the words caught in his throat.

Izuku looked unfairly comfortable tonight. He was curled sideways against one of the tall kitchen stools, swallowed up by a thick, dark green sweater with sleeves that hung slightly past his hands. His curls were still damp from the rain outside, catching the warm overhead lighting of the kitchen.

Katsuki had spent the last two hours aggressively trying not to look at him. It had been an entirely failed enterprise.

Things had been distinctly strange since their drive home in the rain. Not bad—almost worse, honestly. The sharp, volatile edges of their old friction had quieted down, leaving a heavy, lingering awareness between them that neither of them knew how to handle.

Izuku caught him staring, his left eyebrow lifting in silent inquiry. Katsuki immediately jerked his gaze away, reaching for his water glass with entirely too much force.

Yoichi noticed, tracking the movement with the deeply unsettling, sharp perception older siblings seemed biologically engineered to possess. He traded a fleeting, knowing look with Kudo.

The four of them settled around the small kitchen table shortly after, eating leftovers directly out of mismatched plastic containers because nobody felt like washing actual plates. Outside, the steady rhythm of rain tapped softly against the glass, underscored by the distant, low murmur of the television from the living room. For once, the room was peaceful.

Katsuki should have known that meant a disaster was imminent.

It started entirely without warning. Kudo swallowed a bite of rice, leaned his chin on his palm, and said completely casually, “You know, this whole transition would’ve been a lot easier if Katsuki had just admitted he was in love with you before age sixteen.”

The silence that followed was absolute, immediate, and entirely nuclear.

Katsuki stopped breathing. His lungs locked up tightly.

Across the table, Izuku froze mid-bite, his green eyes blinking once. Twice. “...What?”

Kudo continued eating as if he hadn’t just detonated a landmine in the middle of dinner. Yoichi nodded thoughtfully beside him, reaching over to steal a piece of broccoli from Kudo’s container. “Honestly, it got painful to watch after a while.”

Katsuki felt his soul actively trying to vacate his body. “Shut the hell up,” he hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, warning register.

“No, seriously,” Yoichi continued, completely ignoring the heat radiating off him. “Back in high school, you’d walk into a room and your eyes would immediately track his coordinates like radar. It was exhausting.”

“I am going to throw both of you out the window.”

“You’ve threatened that three times this week,” Kudo noted mildly. “It’s losing its emotional impact.”

Izuku was still completely motionless, staring across the table. He wasn’t laughing, and he wasn’t offering a sarcastic comeback. He was just looking at Katsuki, his expression shifting as a massive wave of sudden, terrifying realization began to connect behind his eyes.

To Katsuki, that look was infinitely worse than any threat of death. He pointed a finger sharply across the table. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Izuku asked, his voice sounding slightly faint.

“Like that.”

“That explains literally nothing, Katsuki.”

Kudo leaned back in his chair, looking thoroughly pleased with the chaos he had manufactured. “He used to stare at you like a kicked dog, Izuku. Every single time you walked away.”

“Kudo,” Katsuki growled, a dark flush crawling violently up his neck.

“It was embarrassing, really,” Yoichi added calmly. “We honestly assumed you knew he was pining and were just actively punishing him for being a jerk.”

Izuku’s eyes widened a fraction more. Katsuki could practically see the gears turning, the historical timeline of their entire teenage relationship being radically rewritten in Izuku’s head in real time. The distance. The sharp, inexplicable hostility. The weird, suffocating tension. The jacket in the car. The quiet staring.

Understanding settled over Izuku’s face like a heavy sheet. “Oh my god,” he whispered softly.

Katsuki considered the logistics of climbing directly into the kitchen sink and letting the drain swallow him. “Everyone is being incredibly dramatic,” he muttered weakly, crossing his arms and refusing to meet anyone's eye.

“Dramatic?” Kudo scoffed. “Katsuki, you spent three straight years acting like making direct eye contact with him would cause physical medical distress.”

“I hate this family.”

“You’re the one who chose to pine in absolute, angry silence,” Yoichi pointed out.

“I WAS NOT PINING.”

All three of them leveled a deadpan look at him simultaneously. Even Izuku.

“You absolutely pined,” Kudo informed him.

“It was borderline pathetic,” Yoichi added. “Thank you, by the way. I’ve been waiting half a decade to say that out loud.”

Suddenly, Izuku let out a strange, strangled noise, burying his face directly into his hands. Katsuki’s head snapped toward him, his defensive instincts flaring. “What is your problem?”

When Izuku pulled his hands away, his face was slightly flushed, and he looked like he was trying desperately to swallow a laugh. The sight did something deeply unfair to Katsuki’s chest—a sudden, warm twist that completely bypassed his anger.

“You,” Izuku said, his breath hitching slightly, “were avoiding me for years because you had a crush on me?”

“Do not call it that.”

“What else am I supposed to call it?”

“A tactical error,” Katsuki snapped defensively.

Kudo almost lost his balance laughing, leaning back so far his chair creaked dangerously. Yoichi just shook his head, a fond, vindicated smile on his face.

Izuku didn't join in the loud laughing. He just stared at Katsuki across the small table, his expression softening into something entirely devoid of sarcasm. It was quiet, observant, and deeply fond.

Katsuki’s pulse stuttered a ragged beat.

“You are genuinely unbelievable,” Izuku murmured, the sharp edge of the past few days completely melting away.

Katsuki locked his arms tighter across his chest, staring stubbornly at a spot on the wall. “You’re still incredibly annoying.”

“Yeah,” Izuku replied easily, his small, crooked smile returning. “But at least your behavior finally makes sense now.”

“That isn't comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be, Kacchan.”

The remaining tension in the kitchen dissolved into a much softer, easier atmosphere. Kudo eventually stood up, gathering the empty containers to drop them into the recycling bin. Then, with an entirely too-smooth, rehearsed transition, he cleared his throat.

“Oh, by the way. We’re completely out of milk.”

Yoichi checked his phone, playing along instantly. “At eleven-thirty at night? Tragic.”

Katsuki’s eyes snapped toward his brother, the alarm bells ringing instantly. “No.”

“No what?” Kudo asked with total innocence.

“You’re doing that thing. Stop it.”

“Wow,” Yoichi said to Kudo. “His trust issues are really standing in the way of his personal growth.”

Kudo snatched his wallet off the counter and tossed it across the room. It landed squarely against Katsuki’s chest. “The 24-hour convenience store on the corner is still open. Go get a carton.”

Katsuki caught the leather wallet automatically, his entire body freezing as he realized Izuku was already sliding off his stool, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Katsuki muttered, looking between the two older brothers.

Kudo just smiled—the victorious, insufferable smirk of a man who had successfully cleared the board. “Have fun, you two. Don't forget the receipt.”

————————————————————————

Katsuki knew he was being set up. That was the worst part. It wasn't even subtle.

Kudo and Yoichi had practically shoved him and Izuku out the front door like overinvested sitcom parents.

“Buy the good milk this time,” Kudo had called out as the door swung shut behind them.

“You bought oat milk once and I’m still recovering,” Yoichi added.

Then the deadbolt clicked. Traitors.

The apartment hallway fell completely quiet. Katsuki stared at the painted wood of the door for a long, heavy moment before exhaling sharply through his nose. “This is a hostage situation.”

Beside him, Izuku let out a soft, breathy laugh. “You could’ve refused.”

“And let them win?”

“You already lost the second Kudo got involved.”

It was unfortunately, undeniably true. Katsuki muttered a curse under his breath, shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, and started down the concrete stairs. Izuku followed beside him easily—not too close, not too far, matching his steps with a familiar, fluid rhythm that tugged at something deep in Katsuki’s chest.

Outside, the city had gone mostly quiet. Streetlights glowed a soft, hazy gold against the damp pavement left over from the earlier downpour. Somewhere in the distance, tires hissed quietly over wet roads, but their immediate surroundings were wrapped in an rare, midnight stillness.

The convenience store sat only three blocks away. It was close enough that neither of them bothered checking their phones or pretending they had somewhere else to be. For a while, they just walked. It wasn't the volatile, tense silence of their high school years, nor the sarcastic friction of the past week. It was careful. Deliberate.

Katsuki could feel the conversation waiting for them anyway, hovering heavily in the space between every stride.

Izuku pulled his hands deeper into his sleeves against the sudden chill of the night air. “You know,” he said eventually, his eyes fixed on the empty sidewalk ahead, “Kudo and Yoichi are never letting this go.”

Katsuki groaned immediately, tipping his head back toward the sky. “I’m moving out. Tomorrow.”

“You say that every single time they embarrass you.”

“They embarrass me constantly, Izuku.”

“Fair.” A small, genuine smile tugged briefly at the corner of Izuku’s mouth.

Katsuki looked away quickly, before that look could do something catastrophic to his internal organs.

The crosswalk light blinked red, and they came to a halt at the curb. Izuku rocked slightly back on his heels while they waited for a lone car to pass. Katsuki’s brain, entirely unprompted, supplied a memory of a much smaller Izuku doing the exact same thing outside their middle school gates—the same nervous, restless energy. It felt like no time had passed at all, yet everything had.

Katsuki spoke before his defense mechanisms could talk him out of it. “I wasn’t lying earlier.”

Izuku stopped rocking. He looked over sharply.

The city hummed quietly around them. Katsuki kept his gaze locked stubbornly on the blinking traffic signal across the street, refusing to look at Izuku’s face yet.

“I was awful to you,” Katsuki said, his voice dropping into a rough, low register.

Izuku’s expession shifted, his brow furrowing slightly. “Katsuki—”

“No,” Katsuki interrupted, tougher this time. “I know I was. Don't do that.” He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced the words up his throat. “Every time you got close to me back then, I felt... I don’t know. Weird.”

Izuku waited silently. He didn't push, didn't mock. He just listened.

Katsuki let out a short, frustrated laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “Insane, honestly. It felt insane.” He finally turned his head, his red eyes locking onto Izuku’s green ones under the amber glow of the streetlight. The tension was pulled tight through Katsuki's shoulders, but he didn't look away. “You looked at me like I mattered all the time. Like everything I did was important. And I didn’t know what the hell to do with that.”

Izuku’s breath caught softly in the quiet air, a small cloud of mist forming and dissipating between them. “So instead,” Izuku said carefully, his voice entirely devoid of sarcasm, “you decided to become the most unapproachable person alive?”

Katsuki grimaced, a faint touch of his usual scowl returning, though it lacked any venom. “Pretty much.”

The bluntness of it pulled a startled, breathless laugh out of Izuku despite himself.

Katsuki continued before he lost his nerve entirely. “I thought if I pushed you away hard enough, eventually you’d stop getting to me. I thought it would just go away.” He let out a slow exhale. “That obviosuly didn’t work.”

Izuku looked down at the sidewalk for a long moment, his shoe tracing the edge of a crack in the concrete. When he spoke again, the last of his sarcastic guard had completely vanished.

“I stopped chasing you because it hurt,” Izuku said softly.

Katsuki’s chest tightened instantly, a dull ache blooming beneath his ribs.

“Every time I thought things were getting better, or that we were finally understanding each other, you’d panic and shove me away again.” Izuku smiled faintly, but it looked incredibly tired, heavy with the weight of years of confusion. “After a while, I figured maybe you just didn’t want me around as much as I wanted you around. I got tired of feeling like an embarrassment.”

Knowing Izuku had every logical reason to believe that felt like a physical blow. Katsuki took a half-step closer wthout thinking.

“I did,” Katsuki said immediately.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the sheer speed of the response.

Katsuki looked briefly horrified at his own lack of control, a hot flush spreading behind his ears. He rubbed the back of his neck aggressively. “I mean... I wanted you around. Obviously. I just... I was stupid.”

Izuku’s mouth twitched, the warmth returning to his eyes. “Obviously?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m highly considering it.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes automatically, but the heavy, suffocating weight that had lingered between them since high school had finally, completely dissolved. The air felt lighter.

The convenience store lights glowed brightly just a few yards ahead, casting a clean, white light across the pavement. Neither of them sped up to get inside.

Katsuki glanced sideways. Izuku looked incredibly warm under the streetlights, his damp curls starting to wild out as they dried, looking completely comfortable standing right there. For years, Katsuki had convinced himself that distance was the only way to keep himself safe, the only way to survive the sheer intensity of how much he cared. But standing here now, shoulder-to-shoulder with Izuku at two in the morning, he realized the ultimate truth: he’d been completely miserable without him anyway.

Izuku looked up suddenly, catching Katsuki’s gaze. They held it.

Katsuki’s pulse stumbled a ragged beat. “You’re still annoying,” he muttered, his defense mechanisms making one last, weak attempt to shield his pride.

Izuku’s smile spread slowly this time—small, real, and completely unbothered. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Katsuki shoved his hands even deeper into his pockets, taking a breath. “But I want you around anyway. For real.”

The words settled between them, grounded and solid. There were no dramatic confessions, no grand gestures, just a quiet, long-overdue honesty.

Izuku looked at him for a long second, as if he were looking at something incredibly fragile that Katsuki had hidden away for a decade and was finally handing over willingly. The relief on Izuku's face was palpable.

He smiled softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Took you long enough, Kacchan.”

The nickname didn't sting. It didn't feel like a weapon or an insult. It sounded exactly like it used to when they were kids, wrapped in a deep, permanent fondness that Katsuki finally allowed himself to accept.

Before Katsuki could get overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it, Izuku stepped in closer and bumped their shoulders together lightly. It was casual, natural, and entirely unprompted.

Katsuki nudged him back a little harder on instinct, watching Izuku laugh quietly as they finally walked through the automatic sliding doors of the store. For the first time in his life, the sound of Izuku's laughter didn't feel like something he had to run away from. It just felt like home.

————————————————————————

BONUS

Kudo woke up thirsty at three in the morning. This turned out to be the worst decision of his adult life.

Half-asleep and shuffling in his bare feet, he wandered down the dark hallway toward the kitchen, expecting nothing but silence and a glass of tap water. Instead, a flickering, dim blue glow was emanating from the living room.

Kudo stopped dead in the hallway. He blinked slowly, rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

Katsuki and Izuku were sitting on opposite sides of the couch. A terrible, late-night reality cooking show was playing quietly on the television, casting shadows across the room. They were sharing a massive bag of convenience store chips, but that wasn't what caused Kudo’s brain to short-circuit.

Katsuki was smiling. It wasn’t a sharp smirk, it wasn’t a sarcastic twist of his mouth, and it wasn’t a mean laugh at someone else's expense. He was just looking at Izuku and actually, genuinely smiling.

Worse yet, Izuku looked entirely too pleased about it, his ankles crossed on the coffee table.

For one horrifying second, Kudo seriously considered turning right back around, walking into his bedroom, and pretending he had seen absolutely nothing. But as he took a step back, his foot creaked loudly against the floorboard.

Katsuki’s head snapped toward the hallway instantly. The smile vanished so fast it was as if it had never existed.

“Kudo,” Katsuki said, his voice immediately dropping into a suspicious, defensive growl.

Kudo raised a hand, pointing dramatically at the sofa. “You’re sitting together. Willingly. In the dark.”

“We’re literally on opposite sides of the couch, idiot,” Katsuki snapped, stiffening.

“You’re sharing a bag of barbecue chips.”

Izuku looked down at the open bag resting in his lap as if he’d only just realized it was there.

Katsuki snatched the bag out of Izuku's hands immediately, pulling it to his chest. “They’re mine.”

“You literally handed them to me five minutes ago,” Izuku said, turning to look at him with a deadpan expression.

Kudo let out a low noise of profound emotional suffering, covering his face. “Oh my god. It’s happening.”

The rustle of a hoodie signaled Yoichi appearing from Kudo’s bedroom behind him. He was wearing Kudo’s oversized gray sweatshirt, his eyes squinted heavily against the light as he peered into the living room. “What’s going on? Why is everyone yelling?”

Kudo didn't lower his hand. He just pointed blindly at the couch. “They’re flirting, Yoichi. Look at them.”

Izuku nearly choked on his own spit. Katsuki looked ready to commit a localized felony.

“We are NOT fucking flirting,” Katsuki barked, his face turning a brilliant, violent shade of red.

Yoichi stared at the couch for a long, quiet moment, his gaze shifting from Katsuki's tense shoulders to the absolute chaos in Izuku's wide eyes.

Then, Yoichi let out a soft, flat: “Huh.”

“What do you mean 'huh'?” Katsuki demanded, half-rising from his cushion.

“You are sitting significantly closer than you usually do,” Yoichi noted calmly.

“We are sitting on two entirely different cushions!”

“Barely,” Yoichi countered, leaning his shoulder against Kudo’s.

Katsuki looked less than two seconds away from spontaneous combustion, his hands gripping the chip bag so hard the plastic crinkled violently.

Unfortunately for his dignity, Izuku couldn't hold it in anymore. He let out a sharp snort, and then he started laughing. Actually laughing—his head tipped back, bright, helpless, and completely warm.

Katsuki froze, his anger completely evaporating as he stared at Izuku before he could stop himself.

Yoichi noticed the look immediately. Then Kudo noticed Katsuki noticing.

Kudo dramatically clutched Yoichi’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. “Oh, look at him. They’re absolutely doomed.”

“I hate both of you. I hate everyone in this room,” Katsuki informed the wall, though the heat had completely left his voice, leaving him looking mostly just intensely embarrassed.

“No, you don't,” Izuku said automatically, still chuckling.

Katsuki whipped his gaze back to him, his eyes dangerous.

Izuku froze, realizing what he’d just casually blurted out. A beat of tense silence passed over the living room.

Then, very slowly, Izuku muttered, “Oh no.”

Kudo collapsed sideways against the hallway wall, laughing so hard he didn't have sound coming out of his mouth. Yoichi just stood there, looking genuinely emotional, clapping his hands together once. “This is the greatest night of my life.”

“You people are clinically insane,” Katsuki muttered, aggressively tossing the bag of chips onto the coffee table.

Kudo wiped a tear from his eye, letting out a long, exhausted sigh of relief. He pointed toward the kitchen. “Anyway, congratulations on finally resolving whatever weird, angry Victorian romance nonsense you two had going on for the last five years.”

Katsuki grabbed a heavy throw pillow from the side of the couch and launched it directly at his brother's face with perfect accuracy. Kudo took the hit right in the nose, his laughter cutting off into a grunt.

Yoichi applauded the throw.

Izuku laughed so hard at Kudo's expression that he lost his balance, leaning entirely sideways until his shoulder knocked heavily into Katsuki's chest.

Katsuki grunted at the impact, but as Izuku settled against his side, still breathless and smiling, Katsuki didn't move away. He just adjusted his arm on the back of the couch, keeping him right there.