Work Text:
Katsuki hated how much he noticed everything.
The summer air clung to his skin, thick and wet, pressing down on him with the weight of a storm that hadn’t yet broken. The pavement beneath his feet burned through the soles of his sneakers, the ghost of the sun still clinging to the asphalt long after it had set. Somewhere, the scent of grilled meat curled through the heat—soy sauce, charred fat, the sharp bite of sizzling spices. It churned his stomach. Too heavy. Too much.
And then there was him—Izuku, walking beside him, careless, light, untouchable. Hands shoved in his pockets, eyes crinkling with that stupid, unshakable grin. But Katsuki saw past it. Past the way Izuku’s smile stretched too wide, the way exhaustion pooled in the deep shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of a world that never let up.
He was tired.
Katsuki knew that look too well. He wore it too—in stiff muscles and a bone-deep ache. He felt it—the pressure, the crushing weight of being alive when all you wanted was to breathe. But there was no way to tell him. No way to say “I know you’re drowning, because I am too” without tipping them both over the edge of oblivion.
So instead, he watched Izuku sip obnoxiously at his smoothie, his straw making that goddamn slurping sound that set Katsuki’s teeth on edge. Then, too casually—too dangerously—Izuku tilted his head and asked, “Okay, but seriously, Kacchan—why painting?”
Katsuki forced a smirk, but it was tight, strained, the muscles in his face aching from how hard he held everything in. He couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t tell him about the nights alone, brush in hand, knees drawn up. Couldn’t tell him about the nightmares that gripped his throat like a noose, the ones where he wasn’t enough, where bodies slipped through his fingers like sand. Couldn’t tell him about the way colors on a canvas made it easier to breathe, how paint quieted what explosions couldn’t.
Paint didn’t disintegrate.
So he did what he always did.
“Why the hell does it matter?” he lied, shoving his hands into his pockets, knuckles tight, nails digging into the scarred flesh of his palms like crescent moons.
Izuku shrugged, the glint in his green eyes knowing—too knowing. “I dunno. Just curious.”
“Because I feel like it, okay?” Katsuki snapped, kicking a stray pebble across the cracked pavement. It skittered into the gutter.
Izuku hummed, rolling his straw between his lips.
“Nothing about you is casual.”
Katsuki stiffened, glaring sideways at him. “Oh, so now you’re an expert on me, huh?”
Izuku’s grin widened, bright and unbearable, eyes shimmering like the surface of the ocean on a bright summer day. “Kacchan, I’ve been studying you my whole life.”
Katsuki’s stomach dropped. Heat crawled up the back of his neck, pooling in his ears, and he turned away before Izuku could see it. Before he could see him. Katsuki’s fingers twitched at the frayed edge of his sleeve, worrying it between his thumb and forefinger, as if he could unravel something other than himself.
Fucking nerd.
The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. It was something else, something soft, something that had settled between them ever since they stopped running—from each other, from themselves, from whatever the hell this was.
“Why not sculpting, Kacchan?”
Katsuki’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing, his face scrunching in confusion. “The fuck?”
Izuku grinned wider, his teeth flashing, his cheeks dimpling with the force of it. “You’ve got great hands for it.”
And just like that, Katsuki forgot how to breathe. The world went silent. His pulse stuttered, choked. His fingers curled, grounding himself. But it was already too late.
Great hands? His hands? The same hands that had torn through buildings, that had left scars in the shape of destruction, that had ruined and burned and broken?
“What the hell does that even mean?!” His voice came out too sharp, too desperate, the words edged with something he didn’t want Izuku to hear, something he didn’t want to admit was real.
Izuku laughed—warm and golden, like he hadn’t just destroyed him. “You know—dexterous! Long, slender fingers and nails that shine when your quirk’s active! Like stars! And you’ve got good control! I bet you’d be great at shaping clay.”
Katsuki stared straight ahead. Frozen.
Izuku kept talking, oblivious to the way Katsuki’s entire fucking body had just imploded. To how his stomach twisted, to the way his chest felt like it had been split open, ribs pried apart, lungs exposed.
No.
No, he wouldn’t.
Everyone knew that. Everyone but Izuku. He wasn’t there that day and Katsuki sure as hell wasn’t about to tell him now.
“You can paint, but you won’t sculpt. Why?”
Katsuki’s jaw locked, his teeth grinding so hard his skull ached. He hadn’t thought about it in years. Hadn’t let himself. But, thanks to the nerd’s stupid curiosity, the memory dragged him under along with the weight of that goddamn river.
Katsuki had never been prouder of anything in his entire five years of existence.
His aosagibi was perfect. No—better than perfect. It was a goddamn masterpiece. While the other kids had made stupid, boring, basic-ass aosagibis with limp little feathers and lumpy clay bodies, Katsuki had a phoenix-aosagibi. A firebird. A legend.
His tiny fingers had pressed deep into the cool clay, tongue poking out in concentration as he shaped each feather with surgical precision, carving jagged flames into the edges until it looked like it could take off any second. This wasn’t just art. It was power. And power felt good.
Energy buzzed under his skin, a fire waiting to burst. His chest had felt too full, too tight, and every time he let out a breath, it tingled—sharp and electric, like something wanted out. But he ignored it, too focused on his masterpiece, on making sure it was just right.
And it was.
Katsuki had glazed it red—his red, the same color as his eyes because Izuku always said, “Kacchan’s eyes are my favorite! They’re so pretty!” His tiny hands smeared orange across the wings, the color of Izuku’s soul, because every time Izuku said “Amazing, Kacchan!” his voice warmed his belly like a campfire. He added green too—because green was the best color in the universe. It was Izuku’s. How else was he supposed to make the greatest, most powerful, most badass fiery aosagibi hybrid in the universe?
He was a genius.
The other kids had gathered around, oohing and aahing, their dumb little eyes wide as if they even understood what they were looking at. They didn’t, of course. But they knew it was special.
Even the teacher—old and wrinkly, glasses so thick they made her look like a wise owl—had smiled at him, adjusting her frames as she peered down at his creation. “Katsuki-kun, this is very creative!” she’d said with a voice soft and sweet as honey.
Damn right it was.
Katsuki had grinned so hard his pudgy cheeks hurt, fingers twitching with restless energy, so goddamn proud of himself he thought he might explode. But he wasn’t done yet. He still had to show him; Izuku was gonna love it.
He’d saved the seat next to him, waiting all morning for his nerd to show up, bouncing in his chair, too excited to sit still. His little legs swung back and forth under the table, kicking at nothing, ready to shove his phoenix-aosagibi in Izuku’s face and watch him light up like he always did.
He could already hear it—“Wow, Kacchan! You’re amazing!” Because, obviously, he was.
But Izuku never showed up. The teacher said he had a dentist appointment. And just like that, everything was ruined.
Katsuki had pouted through snack time, arms crossed tight over his chest as he stomped his angry little feet under the table like maybe, somehow, if he hit the floor hard enough, Izuku would appear.
But he didn’t.
Katsuki shook it off—because he was the coolest, and Izuku always thought so. He needed to see that look on Izuku’s face. The one that made his chest feel warm and fluttery and too big for his tiny body to hold. So when the teacher carefully lifted his perfect, badass, phoenix-aosagibi hybrid and carried it toward the kiln, Katsuki puffed up with pride.
This was it.
This was gonna be the coolest fucking aosagibi the world had ever seen. His hands clenched into tiny fists, his whole body humming, like his skin couldn’t contain it. He watched eagerly as she opened the furnace, placing his masterpiece inside.
He had no idea. Nothing could’ve prepared him.
BOOM.
BOOM. BOOM. POP. BOOM.
The kiln exploded. The classroom shook. The air cracked open with heat and noise—Smoke. Shattered clay. Tiny embers, sparking from the furnace like fireworks.
Katsuki froze.
His ears rang. The world tilted, and for a moment, everything slowed. Then—screaming. There was so much screaming. The teacher yelled for everyone to back away, her voice sharp and frantic. The other kids cried, panicked, and shoved their chairs back. The sound of their tiny sneakers squeaking against the linoleum only tightened the cage restricting his heart. Forcing it to bleed.
And Katsuki—Katsuki stared into the charred remains of that furnace, eyes stinging, biting his lip, as the last embers of his phoenix curled into smoke. His masterpiece was gone. Destroyed.
Just like that.
A weird, hot feeling rose up in his chest, something thick and sharp that made his throat burn. It clawed at his lungs, and suddenly—
Pop.
His palms tingled. Tiny star-shaped sparks snapped against his fingers, popping in the empty space between them.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The first explosion was tiny, barely a flicker, but it scared him anyway. The second one stung. The third one sent a shock up his arms, right into his bones. And suddenly, he knew. His hands weren’t made for beauty or for making things Izuku would love.
They were meant to destroy.
Katsuki snapped out of it, his breath hitching like he’d just been yanked out of a dream mid-fall.
The past still clung to his skin, seeping into the present like fading heat. His fingers twitched at his sides, tingling with the phantom memory of sparks, of power too big for his tiny hands to hold.
But it wasn’t then anymore. It was now. And Izuku was staring at him.
Not obviously. Not outright. Just enough. Just his head tilted slightly, gorgeous green eyes searching his face like there was something hidden there—something Katsuki hadn’t meant to slip.
Katsuki’s stomach twisted. He clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t say it, but the words clawed out. But he didn’t.
“You seriously wanna know?” The words came out rougher than he meant, scraped raw from the back of his throat, like they’d had to rip their way out.
Izuku nodded. No hesitation.
Katsuki took a deep breath and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to smother the heat creeping up his spine. Stupid. Weak. Pointless. But the words were already there, rolling off his tongue, falling into the space between them before he could think twice.
“Kindergarten. Aosagibi sculptures. Mine went into the kiln and—”
He paused.
The admission tasted like ash in his mouth. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, so he let his hands do the talking. He held them out in front of himself and lit a few explosions in his palms. Then, he froze.
Silence.
Katsuki didn’t look up. He braced himself, arms locking tight across his chest, already regretting everything. For half a second, he thought maybe—just maybe—Izuku would let it go. Maybe he wouldn’t react. Maybe—
Izuku wheezed.
Katsuki’s glare snapped to him, ears burning, heat crawling up his neck like wildfire. “The hell is so funny about this?!”
Izuku was already folding in on himself, arms wrapped around his stomach, his laughter so sharp it came out in gasps. “You—” Izuku wheezed between ragged breaths, doubling over like his lungs had just given up. “That’s why the kiln in the art room broke—because of your aosagibi?!”
Katsuki’s scowl deepened, heat simmering under his skin like a fuse burning too close to its end.
“Shut the hell up.”
But Izuku wasn’t done. He wiped at his eyes, still grinning like this was the funniest goddamn thing he’d ever heard in his entire life. “Kacchan, that’s—” He gasped for air, his shoulders shaking with leftover laughter. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever heard!”
Heat surged in Katsuki’s chest. Not anger. Not entirely. Something else, something hotter, something he didn’t want to name. He scoffed, rolling his eyes so hard it almost hurt, shoving his hands in his pockets before Izuku could see the twitch in his fingers.
“It’s not like it happened on purpose,” he scoffed and pouted, pushing open the art studio door, desperate to escape. “My nitrosweat affected the clay, and I didn’t even know it existed until...”
Izuku’s laughter softened. Faded into something warmer. Something worse.
By the time they reached their workstation, Izuku’s voice had dropped, just barely above a whisper. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”
Katsuki froze.
The words weren’t heavy. They weren’t pointed. They weren’t meant to mean anything. But they hit him like a Detroit Smash to the chest anyway.
Izuku had missed it.
Hadn’t been there when the first sparks popped against his palms, when the truth had settled deep into his bones like something rotten—
Katsuki swallowed hard. Didn’t respond. Didn’t trust himself to.
The air shifted as they settled next to each other, standing side by side. It wasn’t like walking onto a battlefield—not sharp, not electric, not crackling with imminent danger—but it was heavy. The scent of oil paint, damp clay, and faint traces of turpentine thickened the space, curling in the back of his throat like something raw and unfinished—transformation, trapped.
And yet—Katsuki felt like an intruder.
This wasn’t his arena. This wasn’t a place where his body knew exactly how to move, where instinct ruled and hesitation could get him killed. There were no threats here. No villains to take down. Just blank canvases and empty space, waiting. Expecting.
Izuku, on the other hand, belonged here.
Katsuki didn’t have to look to know it. He could hear it in the way Izuku’s breath eased when he gathered his nerd supplies, in the way his shoulders dropped, in the way his feet carried him forward without hesitation, without tension. Katsuki followed—less ease, more dread.
Izuku picked up a hooked sculpting tool, flipping it between his fingers—testing the weight of it without thought. Katsuki swallowed and looked away. Izuku always made things seem easy.
“Kacchan.” Izuku’s voice, warm and expectant, snapped his attention back.
Katsuki turned just in time to see him rolling up his sleeves, the muscles in his forearms shifting beneath the studio lights as he set his materials down.
“What are you painting today?”
Katsuki stiffened. He hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t planned anything. He never did. His brushstrokes were too messy, too impulsive, unlike the way he fought. The paint just poured out of him, like a wound he didn’t know how to close. Yet, it always relieved the pressure that burdened his shoulders.
He muttered something under his breath, grabbing a brush.
Izuku, predictably, didn’t let it go.
“You always take this so seriously,” Izuku mused, watching him as he leaned against the bench.
Katsuki’s eye twitched.
Izuku grinned. Dangerous. Too knowing.
“You furrow your eyebrows a lot,” he said. “And you bite your lip when you’re focused. Oh! And your nose scrunches when you’re frustrated.”
Katsuki almost dropped his brush. His ears burned. His stomach flipped. His existence short-circuited.
Izuku grabbed a chunk of clay and started kneading it, humming under his breath.
Fucking. Nerd.
Katsuki inhaled sharply, shook himself, and turned toward his canvas. He needed to focus. Needed to paint. Before Izuku unraveled his soul any further.
The instructor clapped their hands together. “All right, activating now!”
And then—heat.
Not the kind Katsuki was used to—not the violent burn of explosions, not the adrenaline spike of battle. This was different. Warmer. It curled beneath his skin like sunlight slipping through cracks. The brush in his hand wasn’t just a brush anymore. It pulsed. Alive. A heartbeat against his palm, echoing his own. And suddenly—the colors weren’t just colors.
They were memories.
A deep, burning red—frustration. The way Izuku made him feel seen, whether he wanted it or not.
A soft, golden hue—laughter. The way Izuku’s dumb grin could pull Katsuki out of his own head.
A slow, suffocating green—something terrifying. Something unspoken.
His hand shook slightly. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Just painting.
Every stroke carried a piece of himself, like carving his heart straight onto the canvas. He knew exactly how to shape Izuku’s reflection—the way his eyes gleamed like shattered emeralds when he smiled, how his freckles scattered across his cheeks like a constellation only Katsuki had the privilege of tracing. He painted the way Izuku’s face lit up when he flew, the way his entire body moved with unshackled joy, his laughter ringing through the air like the only sound that had ever mattered.
He painted his Izuku—the one who fought, the one who soared, the one who had always been too much and never enough all at once. And when he finally took a step back—his heart lurched. There was so much more than just colors on canvas. He could almost feel the warmth radiating off of Izuku’s skin as if it was his own.
Fuck.
Katsuki needed to move. Needed to step back, to breathe, to stop himself from looking at the goddamn painting for even a second longer. His chest tightened, like his ribs couldn’t hold what he’d birthed into existence.
So he turned away. Desperate for anything else—
His breath caught.
Because right there, sitting on the table next to Izuku’s workspace, was a sculpture. And it wasn’t just anything. It was a hand. His hand. Katsuki froze. The studio faded. His mind scrambled to catch up.
Izuku had sculpted him.
Not just his hand. Not just a part of him. But the way his fingers curled, the way his grip tightened, the way his veins ran like rivers beneath the surface of his skin.
And most of all—his hand wasn’t alone.
Izuku had sculpted his own hand locked within Katsuki’s. It was them. Holding on. Holding each other. And just like that—the dam inside him cracked. Breath caught between a gasp and a curse.
Izuku had memorized him.
Every scar and ridge. When Katsuki’s fingertips brushed the hardened clay—Izuku’s breath hitched behind him.
Katsuki’s head snapped up. And that was when he saw it. The moment Izuku saw the painting. Katsuki’s world tilted. And then—Izuku moved.
It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t planned.
It was an explosion.
One second, Katsuki was standing there, mind fried, chest tight, heat coiling in his gut like a live grenade. The next—Izuku crashed into him. Fingers fisting into his collar, yanking him in, dragging him forward, stealing his breath. And then—
Their mouths collided.
Heat detonated in his skull, spreading too fast, too hot, flooding his bloodstream like liquid fire. His knees nearly buckled, fingers spasming at his sides before they found Izuku, gripping him tight, tighter, like letting go would unravel him.
Izuku’s hands were just as frenzied as his heart. They trembled, gripping Katsuki’s shirt like he’d die without him. His mouth was hot, desperate, like he’d been starving for this.
Katsuki’s brain blue-screened.
For a full second, he forgot how to move, how to breathe, how to be a person— a person with a functioning brain and lungs and oh god he’s kissing me he’s kissing me he’s kissing me—
Then his body caught up.
Heat ignited, bursting outward, crackling through every nerve ending like a lit fuse. His hands found Izuku’s waist, grabbing, anchoring, pulling—
Not close enough.
It would never be close enough.
Izuku was a feral beast. Katsuki knew that. Everyone knew that. His hands were shaking, clutching, demanding, dragging Katsuki down, down, down into something raw and all-consuming. His mouth was hot, urgent, moving against Katsuki’s like he was pouring every unsaid word, every held-back feeling straight into him. Katsuki bit his lip. Izuku gasped. And just like that—Katsuki lost himself.
It was messy, reckless, the kind of kiss that burned through hesitation like a fuse hitting drywall. There was nothing soft about it. No patience, no slow, careful build—just want. Just need. Just years of everything unsaid, breaking free.
They slammed into the supply shelf. Paint cans toppled. Brushes scattered. A bucket of murky water crashed onto the floor, spilling across tile, splattering up their legs, soaking into their clothes. The air filled with the acrid scent of turpentine, wet clay, and oil paint, mixing into a chemical storm of disaster. And then—
They fell.
Katsuki hit the ground first—hard, unforgiving, knocking the wind out of him. Izuku landed on top of him, the weight of him solid, grounding, inescapable. Katsuki couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved, lungs struggling. His head spun, body caught between air, heat, and Izuku, Izuku, Izuku—
“What the actual fuck?!” A voice. Sharp. Unamused.
Katsuki’s stomach plummeted.
The class. The general public. And an instructor who specialized in enhancing her students’ emotional connection to their work. The realization hit like a punch to the throat.
Somewhere behind them, chairs scraped against the floor, feet shuffled, whispers spread. A wet paintbrush rolled lazily past Katsuki’s head, dragging a streak of cerulean blue across the tile like evidence of their crimes.
“Did they just—?”
“Holy shit.”
“Deku just—jumped him.”
“I think Dynamight’s unconscious.”
Katsuki’s soul left his body. A shadow loomed over them. Heavy. Judging. Utterly unimpressed. The instructor.
Artist name: Aoyama Kiyomi. One of Japan’s most respected creative minds, sought after by professionals across all industries for her ability to enhance emotional connection through artistic expression using her quirk—Resonance. The ability to heighten a person’s deepest, rawest emotions and channel them into their work. Or, in this case, channel them into one extremely disastrous, extremely public make-out session.
Katsuki wanted to die.
Kiyomi’s eyes swept over them, unimpressed, assessing, fully aware of how her quirk had been at play in this disaster.
She folded her arms. “Midoriya, Bakugou.” A slow exhale. A long, long moment of silence. “…Would you like to explain why you just made my class experience what can only be described as the climax of a shoujo doujinshi?”
Katsuki opened his mouth, then shut it.
“…Uh,” Izuku wheezed, still half-collapsed on top of him, shaking with something between hysteria and exhaustion.
Kiyomi exhaled sharply, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “I take it my quirk worked a little too well.”
Katsuki shriek-squealed in response.
“Midoriya, get off your boyfriend and clean this up. And Bakugou—” she glanced at his paint-smeared face, the utter carnage surrounding them, and sighed again, “if you’re going to make out in my class, at least avoid the goddamn supplies next time.”
A snort came from the back. Someone choked on their own laughter. Katsuki wanted the ground to swallow him whole. And then—the final, fatal blow.
“We’re boyfriends now!” Izuku, breathless, laughing, unrepentant, lifted his head just enough to grin down at him, and before Katsuki could even process what the fuck had just happened, Izuku giggled. “I’m gonna make you an aosagibi mermaid.”
Katsuki choked. Izuku cackled, burying his face in Katsuki’s shoulder, shaking so hard the mess trembled with him. Katsuki let him. Because, honestly? If this was what getting wrecked by Izuku Midoriya felt like—
Then Katsuki was never letting go.