Chapter Text
1. spring, april
It’s fuckass 7AM on a Monday. Sky crowded with dark, angry clouds. Katsuki’s scrambling around the house. His head is throbbing and he’s annoyed as hell. Normally he wouldn’t slip like this—has perfected his bedtime routine so he can wrangle his mornings into submission—but the family reunion last night had been another level of exhausting, with probing questions and passive-aggressive jabs that eventually devolved into screaming matches between aunts, uncles and cousins.
So many damn cousins.
Ma’s shoving an umbrella in his hands while Pa packs a bento of leftovers into his bag. They look as shitty as he feels, eyebags hanging heavy. Katsuki throws his bag over a shoulder and nods a curt thanks at them at the door. Steeling himself, he jams open the umbrella and starts sprinting towards the train station.
Water splashes against his shoes with every step. It soaks through the fabric. Great. Just his luck that he’d start the first day of the new school year with wet fucking socks. He kicks a stray can out the way and tears through the streets, a force of nature in his own right. He glares challengingly at the sky. The storm can suck his ass.
A distressed sound grabs his attention. Ahead of him, there’s a kid—his spoiled brat of a neighbour, he recognises as he squints—under a shelter near the park. He’s crying, loud and high-pitched, clutching onto a hero figurine. Stranded.
This early, though? Where the hell is his mother? Does she know he’s out here?
Well, sucks to be him, Katsuki thinks, running past. The brat’s house is right across the street. It’s, what, a minute walk? Lesser if he runs for sure. The brat should tough it out. It’d be good for building character, and maybe when Katsuki runs into him next time, he’ll be less insufferable to deal with.
Katsuki had to go through that. He fucking died in the rain once, and it’d changed him forever.
And Katsuki had gotten close to a clean record last year, has his eyes set now on a spotless attendance to end his high school career. He doesn’t really have the time for dumbass kids who can’t tell their left foot from their right, and who likes to shout at him as he walks past because they think it’s funny how angry he gets without being able to do anything to them.
But. Fuck. He’s a hero, goddamnit. Shouldn’t he at least—?
Izuku would’ve been unhesitant. Would find a way to use the few embers he has left on this undeserving, snivelling brat somehow, the damn bastard. The thought has Katsuki slowing his steps.
Fucking. Shoto would stop his driver. Step out into the rain with a stupid, fancy umbrella, and personally escort the brat back to his house—after getting manipulated into buying him sweets, airhead that he is.
At the pedestrian crossing, the traffic light glows red.
And Katsuki, well. He’d—
Would he, really?
Shit. Fuck it all to hell. The station’s right there. Is he really going to waste his time on an already shitty morning to—
Eijirou would have done it sweet.
Katsuki can picture it so vividly: Eijirou in the rain—because he never has an umbrella on him—using his body to shield the kid from the downpour. Sees him waddling with the brat home, like a family of damn ducks. Spiked hair drooping over his face. His laughter, clear as water.
Cursing vehemently under his breath, Katsuki turns back around.
“Oi, brat!” he shouts above the rain. “T’hell are you doing out here!”
He slams the door to the classroom open.
“’M not late,” Katsuki insists, panting.
Sir Aizawa meets him with a withering look. “You’re sopping wet.”
“Sure,” Katsuki says. “Wet, and present.”
From his desk, Kaminari snorts. He buries his face in his arms, shoulders shaking. Ashido shoots Katsuki a scandalised look, but fails to conceal her own repressed giggles. Sero doesn’t even try hiding his amusement, flashing all his stupid teeth at him.
Fuckers. They’ll all be the first to die in a stealth mission, he’d make sure of it. No one would be able to trace it back to him.
Eijirou’s already halfway out of his seat, frowning. Katsuki stares back, miffed.
Sir Aizawa sighs. “The infirmary has towels and extra uniforms.”
“But—”
“You won’t be marked late. Go.”
Eijirou raises his hand, “Sir, can I—?”
“You’re hero students,” Sir Aizawa says, like he's trying to remind himself. “He does not need to be babysitted going to the infirmary. No.”
Eijirou puts his hand down with pursed, downturned lips. It makes Katsuki’s hands twitch.
“It’ll be quicker,” his mouth runs. “If I had someone drying my shit. Stuff.”
He shrugs his schoolbag off from where it clings to his shoulder, drops it in front of him. It lands on the floor with a wet squelch. Sir Aizawa looks at it long-sufferingly.
“Kirishima. Head to Support Class-3A and ask for Mizutome. Her quirk’s Dehydration, it works safest with objects. Tell Mic I sent you. Bakugou, infirmary. Go.”
Eijirou’s taking quick, big strides across the room before Sir Aizawa had even finished his sentence.
“3A Support, Mizutome, Dehydration quirk. Got it! We’ll be right back, sir!”
He collects the sad lump of a bag from the floor and slides the door firmly shut, sealing off all possibilities of Sir Aizawa changing his mind. Then, dropping the bag again, Eijirou takes off his jacket and starts rubbing Katsuki’s whole head with it.
“Fucking hell—what are you doing?!” Katsuki does not yelp against the fabric, ambushed and struggling.
“You’re gonna get sick, man!” Eijirou say, voice muffled. “Just hold still!”
Ignoring his protests, Eijirou insistently continues to pat him dry. Like Katsuki’s a damn dog. Katsuki blindly reaches for Eijirou’s person and pulls the fabric tautly into his fist.
“Let go right now,” he growls. “Or your shirt fucking gets it.” He lets his other hand sizzle and pop to really drive home the threat.
“Fine,” Eijirou huffs, unreasonably unthreatened, acting like Katsuki’s the one being unreasonable here. “Okay, but at least—there.”
He lets Katsuki free only after he rearranges his jacket to hang on Katsuki’s head like a shawl, tying the sleeves loosely together under his chin. Katsuki glares at Eijirou, who only blinks at him with stupidly big eyes in return.
“Dude, what happened? Your puddles have puddles. How’d you finally run out of umbrellas?”
Katsuki looks away. “It’s your fault,” he says viciously to the ground.
“What! I wasn’t even there!” Eijirou laughs, wrapping an arm around him to start tugging him towards the infirmary. He swoops down to get Katsuki’s bag from the strap, hangs it on the crook of his elbow. The wetness bleeds through his sleeve.
“Fucking—exactly,” Katsuki mutters. Eijirou’s jacket smells sweet, like canned cherries.
“You’re not making sense,” Eijirou says, huddling closer. “The cold getting to you?”
“Get off, idiot. You’re getting yourself wet.”
Eijirou gives him a look at that, badly wiggling his small-ass brows. Katsuki jabs his elbow hard into Eijirou’s side. He responds with a wounded oof, but Katsuki felt how he hardened just in time for it not to land, the cheater.
“Seriously, though. What happened?”
Katsuki groans. “Kid was in the park at 7. Fuckass 7! In this fuckass weather! Apparently followed his ma to the market and got bored, then the rain came pourin’, and neither had the common sense to pack some damn raincoats or umbrellas or anything so of course they were stuck separated waiting for someone to come save ‘em. Losers.”
Eijirou goes suspiciously quiet. Katsuki glances at him and immediately hates the look on his face.
“Shut the hell up.”
“’M not saying anything,” Eijirou protests, still with that stupid smile.
Katsuki glowers, “Shut your face the hell up.”
“That’s not very friendly neighbourhood Dynamight of you.”
Katsuki yanks the jacket down so he can shove his wet-mutt hair into Eijirou’s meticulously spiked one.
“Shit—wait, Katsuki, please!” Eijirou yelps, laughing helplessly. He leans as far as he can away without losing bodily contact, but Katsuki’s relentless.
Eijirou eventually resorts to holding Katsuki’s nape with a hardened hand, fingers buried in his hair. The mirth on his face gives way to worry as he holds a clump of blond hair between his thumb and index, pressing at its wetness. He ruffles the back of Katsuki’s head to shake off some of the moisture, ignoring the indignant squawk that comes out of Katsuki.
“Let’s get you dry already,” he says, linking an arm around Katsuki. He pulls him along with a renewed determination.
Eijirou knocks on the infirmary door, “Sorry to bother, Mrs Shuzenji, I’m here to drop off a stray!”
Katsuki stomps at his foot, smirking at the way Eijirou winces for real this time.
The door slides open to reveal Recovery Girl, immediately taking in the state of Katsuki. “Oh my. Come in, dear, let’s get you warmed up.”
Satisfied, Eijirou starts backing up while holding Katsuki’s bag up.
“I’ll meet you back in class after I handle this! Oh, and Katsuki!”
“What.”
“I can’t stop imagining you with the kid and their mum,” Eijirou grins, all cheek. “It’s super cute. Real manly!”
He jogs off before Katsuki can do anything in retaliation, waving at them. Eijirou looks—undone, with his ruffled hair, white button-up half untucked from Katsuki’s threat. The wet spots on his sleeve.
His jacket’s still around Katsuki’s shoulders.
Mrs. Shuzenji’s laughing softly. Katsuki turns to her, caught.
“It’s—I’m getting sick.”
She smiles, offering him a bowl. “That’s what my candies are for, dearie.”
2. summer, june
“What the hell’s wrong with your face,” Katsuki says, immediately on edge.
It’s lunchtime, and Eijirou’s upset. He’s poking around his bowl of udon, staring off at a distance with his cheek slumped against his palm.
Eijirou turns to him, blinking. “Oh. Hey. I was wondering where you were.”
Katsuki just kind of stares at him, hard and insistent, until Eijirou breaks, lips pressed into a thin line.
“I think they’re fighting.”
“Who?”
Eijirou gestures at the empty seats around him.
“Denki won’t tell me what’s going on, but he’s really pissed off. Mina and Hanta are off doing—something. Who knows. Not my business, apparently.”
Eijirou looks put-out by that, perturbed and a little hurt. He blows out a breath, tacking on a smile, “So I guess it’s just you and me today.”
Katsuki mulls over that for a moment, then tsks. He has half the mind the hunt the idiots down, tell them to get their acts straight and stop bothering Eijirou with their bullshit like this. He plops down on the seat across Eijirou.
He’s packed beef noodles for lunch today, with the meat cut squared and cooked so tender, it melts on the tongue. Yeah, he’s perfected his method. He’s worked on it long enough to know that this, right here, it’s a goddamn work of art.
Katsuki whistles at Eijirou before launching a piece of meat towards him with a flick of his chopsticks.
It breaks Eijirou out of his stupor, scrambling to catch it with his mouth on pure reflex. He shoots Katsuki a disapproving look. Then his jaw starts moving and his eyes are lighting up.
“Holy shit, dude. What,” he savours it. “Is this a new recipe?”
Katsuki smirks, smug. “Finally weaselled it out from IcyHot’s sister.”
“It’s so good,” Eijirou groans, swallowing and smacking his lips mournfully.
Then he looks at Katsuki with pleading eyes. “Hey. Katsuki. Wanna trade? I got spicy beef gyoza and I saved my egg whites for ya.”
He tilts his sideplate towards Katsuki, batting his camel lashes at him. Katsuki sneers at him and starts fishing out some beef pieces.
Eijirou grins, “Thanks man! I swear, you could do this professionally if you wanted. If you ever opened up a spot, I’d come by every day.”
Handing his plate to Katsuki, he eagerly takes the small bowl being pushed towards him. He digs in with gusto, troubles momentarily forgotten.
Katsuki leans back on his chair, studying the way Eijirou’s jaw moves as he chews.
It unnerves him sometimes; how easy this is.
Then again, there are times where it’s just as inconvenient and unmanageable as he’d always found it.
He should turn around right now, walk back into his room. There’s an unfinished essay document with his name on it. There’s—fucking—revision to do. Fights to review. His laundry’s piling up. He could meal prep. A hundred better ways to use his time than deal with stupid, petty fuckass friend drama.
But Eijirou’s in his goddamn room with his goddamn face that’s making Katsuki feel like he just kicked a goddamn pup.
Before Katsuki left, Eijirou was staring at his phone. Bouncing his knee, refreshing his messages obsessively until Ashido sent him something that made him shoot up from the bed, fingers flying across the screen.
“Ah, man, I gotta handle this,” Eijirou said, running a hand through his hair.
Katsuki threw a pen at him. “You haven’t written down a damn word.”
Eijirou dodged it easily. “I’ll work on it after, I swear! I’m just—” he frowned. “I’m worried.”
It bothers Katsuki, when Eijirou gets like this. His constant attempts to take on the brunt of other people’s problems like they’re his own, like he has any business to.
They’re heroes. It’s what they do. Katsuki’s seen the same shit in Izuku, and All Might, and just about every other inhumanly self-sacrificial asshole on the current hero ranks, in the streets of Japan, or roaming the halls of U.A. Hell, he’s done it himself, that one time—when his body had moved before he could think, and when he came to he was staring down at a dark, jagged thing lodged in his chest. A warmth soaked through his costume, and splattered across his tongue when he worked his throat, the taste of iron. Then the buckling pain.
But there’s something about Eijirou.
Where Katsuki blasts forward, scaling with tooth and nail and primal grit to get to the top, and get there first, there’s something in Eijirou that hesitates for a split-second. A flash of uncertainty, fearful and damning. Then he grits his teeth, diverts the focus from himself and digs his heels into the ground. Eijirou stays. And Katsuki has known it since Kamino: Eijirou is the type of person to turn around. To look back, with a hand already outstretched. His red eyes glinting, blinking brilliant across impossible distances. Refusing to leave anyone behind.
In a fucked circumstance with no easy way out, it’s Eijirou who holds the ground steady. Even now it’s Eijirou’s face, honest and vulnerable and bright, that pierces through every dark fear and grim possibility that fogs Katsuki’s mind.
Though it doesn’t always work. Sometimes Eijirou tries to take on the hurt and he just gets hurt, with nothing fixed. Most times, he takes the full force of an attack in someone’s stead and then gets left on the battlefield to pick himself back up. There’s a cost to it that Eijirou has never really talked about.
“Mina and Hanta’s trying to figure out a way to make it up to him. I’m thinking: how ‘bout making him something sweet?” Eijirou mused out loud. “Denki gets snacky when he’s mad.”
“What’d the idiots do this time,” Katsuki sighs.
“Made a bad joke that crossed a line, is what I’m getting,” Eijirou picked at his shorts. “I mean, Denki’s a good sport. But they touched a really bad nerve. Like—you know. Jabbing at his intelligence, and stuff.”
“He still won’t talk to me though, so I don’t know the whole story,” Eijirou sighed, flopping onto Katsuki’s bed again. “Just hope he’s alright.”
“He’s not fucking dying,” Katsuki felt compelled to point out. “Shit. Leave it alone. He’ll get over it in the morning.”
Katsuki got a pillow to the face for that.
“I know he isn’t, you jerk. It’s just—it’s not nice, stewing in those kinda thoughts. And—if they’re thoughts you’ve had about yourself, and your friends say them back to you?” Eijirou got lost in his own mind a little, then shook his head. “It’s just not a great feeling.”
Reaching out with bleeding heart first, then offering his unwavering support. Taking in the full injury, then breaking out the shield to match.
Katsuki really doesn’t know where Eijirou finds the fucking energy.
When Katsuki knocks his fist on Kaminari’s door, the first think he hears is: “I really don’t want to talk right now, bro!”
He kicks at it this time. “It’s me.”
A pause, then the door’s unlocking. “Oh, what the hell? What’s up? Something happened to Eijirou?”
Katsuki glares at him. “Yeah, dipshit. You won’t talk to him.”
Kaminari looks at him for a moment, then groans, head thumping against the door.
“Ugh, I know, okay,” Kaminari says, face smushed into the wood. “I’m not trying to be an ass. I really can’t talk to him right now.”
A flare of inexplicable indignation. “Why the fuck not!”
“Because—it’s Eijirou!” Kaminari splutters. “One conversation and he’ll make everything good again! But I just—damn, I just want to stay angry for a while! Is that so crazy?”
Katsuki pauses. “So stay angry, what the hell. It ain’t rocket science.”
“Like it’s that easy,” Kaminari mutters. “You ever seen his puppy-dog eyes? They’re lethal, dude.”
Something about all of this strikes as ridiculous to Katsuki. “Sparky. You forget who you’re talking to?”
This makes Kaminari consider him. “Oh. Heh. Right.” He purses his lips in thought.
“Okay, well. This works out, then!” he claps his hands, looking at Katsuki expectantly. “I’m mad as hell. Got any pointers for raging it out, O Great Murdery One?”
And—well. This, Katsuki can handle, easy.
Taking a moment to appreciate the title, Katsuki furrows his brows and scans Denki’s room. It’s a fucking pigsty, which makes him click his tongue. Then his eyes land on the electric guitar hanging on the wall, pristine.
“Yeah,” he says, jutting his chin towards it. “Let’s fuck shit up.”
Kaminari whips his head to look at him, aghast.
“You want me to smash my baby?!”
“No, dumbass! I meant—you’re into artsy shit. So, fuck, I don’t know. We could jam.”
Understanding lights up Kaminari’s face.
“Oh ho ho,” he thrills.
It’s been a minute since their last practice, so of course they’re a mess.
Kaminari’s guitar is screeching. He’s screeching, shouting incoherent, angry garbles into the mic. Katsuki’s got perfect tempo and hasn’t needed a metronome since he was seven, mind you, but maybe he misses a beat or two, badly, on purpose. So what, it’s nice to let loose. He definitely plays louder than he needs. His eardrums are beginning to ring. His bad arm, too, faintly twitching.
Kaminari is wincing with every badly-executed chord—but he’s also laughing. He calls it quits after a few songs, places his guitar on the stand and waves his hands at Katsuki to make him stop.
“We’re so—oh my god,” Kaminari wheezes as Katsuki ends with a loud, flourishing clang. “That was so fucking bad.” He’s bowling over.
“Surprised you even know how to hold it anymore,” Katsuki snarks. “The guitar’s a damn waste in your hands.”
“Geez, my bad. Fighting a war kind of derailed things for me,” Kaminari rolls his eyes from where he sprawls now on the floor. He looks over at Katsuki, grinning, “Man, it’s fun though. I should pick it back up. Get Jirou to teach me again. You should join us.”
That’s when Ashido bursts into the band room, Sero and Eijirou following closely behind.
“Denki, I messed up,” Ashido announces. “I’m sorry if I ever implied that I think you’re—less-than, somehow, when I know how hard you work, and I definitely would’ve failed English last year if it weren’t for you.” She puffs up her cheeks, resolute.
Sero steps up next to her, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I shouldn’t have run my mouth. I’m sorry, man. You know I think your wits are unmatched. We’ve been trying all day to make a grand apology speech and coming up empty. For watt it’s worth.”
Holy shit. Katsuki grips his drumsticks, practicing restraint by not bludgeoning Sero with it.
With the expression he makes when Eijirou is trying really, really hard not to laugh, he crouches down next to Kaminari. He holds up a baking pan.
“We made lemon cake,” Eijirou smiles. “Got the recipe from Sato. I know it’s your favourite.”
Kaminari looks at the cake, then at the three of them consideringly. He sits up, takes a big whiff of the baked goods, then gingerly places it on the ground, next to his guitar.
Then he drags Eijirou up to stand by the shirt, grabs Ashido and Sero by their waists, and throws his full weight at them.
“Hanta, that was the worst thing you’ve ever fucking said to me,” he grumbles, squeezing them tightly. “Using my weaknesses against me. You guys suck.”
It makes Ashido laugh, patting Kaminari’s hair. Sero sags into it, relieved. And throughout it, Eijirou’s beaming, nuzzling against their heads.
The idiot brigade, back together again. Like a litter of helpless, needy kittens, and it’s such a blatant display of softness that it makes Katsuki feel vaguely like hurling. Gruffly, Katsuki gets up from the drum stool.
From a weird angle that has to hurt his neck, Eijirou turns to look at him with twinkly eyes. He holds out a hand to Katsuki, wiggling his fingers. Katsuki intends to slap them away, but Eijirou’s quick to grab his hand and pull him into the pile that readily absorbs him. Eijirou traps Katsuki’s arm, sandwiching it between his and Denki’s bodies. Ashido grabs onto Katsuki’s shoulders, and Sero somehow manages to tape them all closer together. Fucking great.
Eijirou runs warms. When Katsuki tries to move his hand, his fingers curl into Eijirou’s waist. Chest against Eijirou’s back, Katsuki carefully leans into it. For a stolen moment, he closes his eyes.
Then with his free hand, he sends an explosion to the ceiling.
It’s more sound than anything, but the idiots still flinch, and it’s enough of a warning that they let him go, rubbing their ears and groaning in protest. Good.
“Hit your feelings threshold already?” Eijirou teases, unmoving.
“I’m using your damn punching bag,” Katsuki mutters, stalking out of the room—but not before snagging a piece of that lemon cake.
3. autumn, september
A hero’s title functions as a declaration. A goal of sorts, or a wish. That’s what Best Jeanist told him, all those months back. Before everything.
But this is too damn obvious. Katsuki stares at the official certificate crumpling in his grip. What the hell was he thinking?
It’s honest. That’s what he kept landing back on. When he jotted down Bombshell Hero, next to Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, it had felt right. Complete.
Might, an homage, Baku, his roots, and Retsu, his strongest desire. Everything he stands for, all succinctly captured within the strokes of these characters. And Katsuki can be called many things, but he’s no goddamn liar.
Still, he could’ve kept some things to himself.
He’d fail to account for this, this situation where Eijirou comes barging into his room with his mail. Tearing the envelopes open for him with a hardened hand, as he always does. Telling him “Hey, there’s something from the Heroes Association!” Reading it out loud, going, “Huh, Bakuretsu? Retsu like in my name, Red Riot? As in—huh. Oh. Oh.”
Katsuki had snatched the paper out of Eijirou’s hands, but it’s too fucking late, he’s already—
“You love me,” Eijirou whispers. He’s wide-eyed, surprise breaking open his face.
Katsuki watches his cheeks blossom pink. The slow unfurling of Eijirou’s smile like spring, revelatory.
It’s mortifying. He feels exposed, rubbed red and raw and sensitive. He needs to—run, blow something up, blast off the damn roof, do anything else—but Eijirou’s looking at him like he’s something miraculous. He can’t quite bring himself to look away.
“So what if I do,” Katsuki hears himself say back, voice hoarse.
“So what if you—Katsuki.”
Eijirou is fully red now, eyes vermillion and bright. His small brows are scrunching up the way they do when he’s frustrated. His chin, quivering from the force it’s taking to suppress his helpless grin, He looks fucking ridiculous.
Katsuki aches.
He swallows harshly around the lump in his throat, “Don’t think too hard about it, Hair-for-Brains. It’s my own thing.”
“What do you mean, your own thing,” Eijirou splutters. He’s practically vibrating, starting to pace around the room. “This is—I didn’t think you’d ever—woah.”
“Shitty Hair,” Katsuki says, through the ringing in his ear. “Quit it.”
“You’re killing me!” Eijirou says, unheeding. There's a bounce to his steps. “Should we—do you want to—wait, shit. Katsuki, what do you mean—”
“I mean it’s not a big fucking deal, so quit fucking making it one!”
His outburst makes Eijirou stop in his tracks.
Something about the way Katsuki looks right now must raise alarm bells in Eijirou’s head, because he immediately drops to a low, unthreatening stance.
“Katsuki?”
“Eijirou,” Katsuki says, a sudden desperation thrashing in his chest. “Don’t make me do anything with it.”
“I—”
“Don’t,” Katsuki interrupts, the panic rising. “‘M not asking for anything, but this is—fuck. Ei, this is mine. It’s mine, Ei, so don’t make me—I won’t,” his breath catches. “Fuck!”
He feels his hand start to spark, so he slams the laminated paper onto his desk, wrenches the balcony door open, and shoots an explosion into the night. It travels above the trees, fizzling out harmlessly. In its wake, it leaves only a trail of smoke, and the sound of Katsuki heaving.
He snatches a rag hanging on the balcony railing, starts wringing his hand dry with it.
Eijirou steps out after a long while.
“Hey, man,” he hears Eijirou say, voice careful and hesitant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that you—to assume that you l—” Eijirou cuts himself off. “Um.”
Katsuki stubbornly scrubs his palm over and over. And he hates this. He hates this. He fucking hates this.
“No. Shit. What I mean is—they’re your feelings, yeah? You keep them, and decide what to do with them. I shouldn’t have assumed that it meant you—Katsuki,” Eijirou calls him solemnly. “I’m sorry.”
The apology hangs in the air, suspended.
Katsuki squeezes the rag one last time before stuffing it in his pocket. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he turns to Eijirou. He’s already looking back, sombre.
Such a stark difference from his joy, just minutes ago. The scalding warmth of that already so far away.
“T’fuck you’ve got to be sorry for?” Katsuki mutters. When Katsuki’s the one who’s still so fucking lacking.
Eijirou still has that look on his face. Eyes downcast, gnawing at his lips.
“Shitty Hair, don’t hurt yourself tryin’ to use your head,” Katsuki sighs, tearing his gaze away. He leans his elbows on the railing, petulant. “Just forget it.”
Eijirou joins him. Next to his side, Eijirou taps his fingers against the metal railing.
“...Can I tell you how happy it makes me first?”
Katsuki gathers what little remaining patience he has left in his body. Then, through gritted teeth, he relents, “Three seconds.”
He hears Eijirou take a deep breath. “Katsuki, I’m so insanely touched, holy shit, you’re crazy sweet, you know that? You’re what I hope to be more like too, if that wasn’t obvious—”
“Time’s up, fucker,” Katsuki growls, face burning. “One more word and I’m throwing you off.”
Eijirou clamps his mouth shut.
Katsuki feels his eyes on him, prickling. It makes him want to crawl out of his skin, like a fucking chump. He opens his mouth—
Then Eijirou’s peering down, “What, from this height? Pfft, easy work. Try me.”
“What?” Katsuki barks out a surprised laugh.
“I've dropped from higher heights, c'mon, you know this! Bet I won't even leave a dent from here.”
“Bold claim,” Katsuki feels his face contort into a smirk.
“So try me!”
“You insane adrenaline junkie.”
Eijirou just flashes all his sharp teeth at him, the show-off.
So of course they had to test it out, with Eijirou climbing up the railing, spreading his arms and freefalling. Katsuki blasts a surprise explosion on his back for a little extra boost. That really makes Eijirou leave a dent. They get told off badly by Class Prez for it, but the Eijirou-shaped crater left on the ground is fucking hilarious—the way Eijirou’s scurrying around to fix it, tail between his legs as he’s yelled at, even more so.
“Ah. Lay off him, Prez,” Katsuki calls out from the balcony, after he’s gotten his fill of loud jeering and cackles in. “We’ll handle it.”
Prez turns to him sharply, glasses glinting. “This marks the third time this month, with you two!” He gesticulates wildly. “I refuse to cover for you anymore!”
“You won’t have to!” Eijirou says, slapping his hands together and bowing in apology. “I’ll take full responsibility!”
“Calm the fuck down,” Katsuki grouses. “No one’s gonna get in trouble.”
He climbs up the railing and blasts down to the ground floor, landing beside Eijirou. He kicks some dirt into the hole, staring straight at Prez’s affronted face.
“See? Handling it.”
“For my own sake, I’ll pretend I didn’t just witness your display of unauthorised quirk usage,” Prez says, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. He turns around, looking pointedly away from the scene of the crime. “It’ll be gone in the morning.”
“It will,” Eijirou promises, face still dripping with guilt. “You have my word. Sorry to trouble you, Iida! Rest well! Good night!”
“...Good night, Kirishima,” Prez says back, another unwilling victim of Eijirou’s goodwill. Katsuki snorts.
Eijirou waits until Prez closes the front door at them, then glares at him. “I hope you’re happy with yourself.”
Katsuki grins. “Fuckin’ delighted.”
“Your sense of humour is seriously messed up,” Eijirou sighs, kneeling to scoop some of the dirt back into the crater.
On the lawn littered with red leaves, the crater has a perfect outline of Eijirou’s spiked hair. It’s the best thing Katsuki’s seen all week.
All in all, not a completely awful night.
4. winter, january
Things don’t change much after that. Katsuki gets caught wanting and the world keeps turning. Eijirou keeps being Eijirou: he treats Katsuki’s shoulders like they’re his personal armrest, greets him every day with a ‘Morning, Katsuki! Spar later?’ and keeps getting math concepts pummelled into his head every Thursday evening. It settles into their routine like dust, layered and unnoticed, only—
Only Eijirou gives him this look sometimes, when he thinks Katsuki’s not paying attention. Across the table, along the track fields, on the practice ground while lying next to him after a long match.
It’s one where he bites his lips, with eyes half-lidded. Mind a million miles away—his body too close, too warm.
Katsuki enters those moments like syrup, thick and heavy with the way it drips onto everything. The clock hands, caught in its sweetness, slowing down. Those scant seconds lingering, impossibly stretched out.
Then Katsuki grunts, nudges into him like an accident, and the expression falls off, easy as ever.
Whatever.
In any case, it’s a busy few months. They’re swamped with work-study commitments and reconstruction projects all over the prefecture, and suddenly it’s their last term, graduation only a few months away.
Eijirou’s head lands on the desk with a thunk.
“It’s done it,” Eijirou mumbles into the floor table. “Calculus, it’s finally killed me.”
Katsuki rolls up some loose paper and whacks the back of Eijirou’s head with it.
“Fuck right off with that loser talk,” he hisses. “What, you’re gonna waste all my time like this and have nothing to show for it? Forget integrals, I’ll kill you myself.”
Eijirou’s bandana goes loose from the assault. When he lifts his head to jut his bottom lip out at Katsuki, the fabric droops to his brows. Red hair strands falling freely against tanned face.
“Argh, damn it, you’re right,” Eijirou says, shaking his head. The motion makes the bandana fall uselessly around his neck. Eijirou’s hands land heavy on Katsuki’s shoulders, eyes burning with determination.
“Katsuki. You’ve been sacrificing your evenings for me since we were freshmen. I won’t let your efforts go to waste,” he promises.
Here’s the issue. Katsuki has never been one to be moved by pretty, precious things. He lives and breathes practicality. A spice and savoury kind of guy. He prefers it brutish, punchy, coarse. He appreciates it when things are straightforwardly mean. When they’re uncomplicatedly strong, and deadly.
But Eijirou’s been defying his categories since day fucking one, with his soft cheeks hiding sharp teeth—his gentle heart, bleeding under unbreakable skin. Eijirou redefines; he challenges Katsuki, pushing against the edges of his strict, clear definitions, breaking open the walls of it. Eijirou expands, leaves Katsuki grasping for names to explain strange, unbearable sensations, like the alarming swirl in his stomach. So of course, in another instance of Eijirou-induced disorientation, what pops up in Katsuki’s head in this moment is—
Beautiful.
He’s beautiful, his mind repeats, like a kid discovering the word for the first time.
Suddenly, there’s an inexplicable urge to tuck Eijirou’s hair behind his ear. Tilt his head up with a thumb hooked under his chin, just to see those red eyes better.
What the fuck.
Katsuki shoves a hand into Eijirou’s insulting face, pulling the bandana up to put those damning eyes away from view.
“Bro—” Eijirou splutters, falling sideways onto the floor when Katsuki pushes a little too hard. “Okay, okay, I get it! I’ll focus! I’ll beat calculus’ ass! It won’t know what hit ‘em!”
“You'd better,” Katsuki snaps. His ears feel hot.
This is such bullshit. Is this what Izuku feels when he malfunctions around Round Cheeks? Fuck.
Eijirou stays lying on the floor. After a moment, he lifts the bandana up to peek at Katsuki. There’s a small smile hanging on his lips that makes Katsuki pause, distracted by the curve of it.
“I’m gonna miss this,” Eijirou confesses quietly, almost to himself.
Katsuki’s throat tightens.
Like honey, the way it clings. He feels it stretch between them, hanging. Sweet, golden. Sticky.
He looks away.
“We’re nowhere near done yet, asshole,” he says lowly, when he can trust himself to speak.
He snatches Eijirou’s worksheet, flips it over. He lets out a tch when he sees the blank page.
“Get back at it already,” he says, sliding the worksheet back to Eijirou’s designated space on his table. Then, annoyed he even thought of this, he says, “Finish this before 8 and I’ll think about watching that stupid documentary. Maybe.”
Eijirou sits back up immediately. “Crimson Riot: The Age of Chivalry? That just came out? With me?”
Like a damn pup, this guy. Katsuki nods noncommittally, and that's all Eijirou needs to dive headfirst back into his work. His nose is parallel to the desk, pencil scribbling furiously. He’s about to make so many mistakes Katsuki’s going to have to correct.
Katsuki tamps down the beginnings of a truly deranged smile by pressing a palm against his mouth. Eijrou’s tongue is poking from the side of his mouth in concentration, and Katsuki thinks—
Shit.
Him too. He’ll miss this too.
5. spring, march
Copycat fucker really pulled through. Katsuki’s still buzzing from the stunt, grin stretched untameably across his face. Childhood dream he’s always had, that, to fuck up school property with virtually no consequence, and it’s been nicely fulfilled. Adulthood is off to a great start.
He’s making his way to where Izuku and Yagi are, sauntering. He sees Aunt Inko running towards her son, her tears swelling up the same way Izuku’s does. Pa’s patting an embarrassed Izuku’s back, face shiny with pride. Beside him, Ma’s talking to Yagi animatedly.
It makes Katsuki pause, taking in the sight. A sharp pain flares up in his chest, and he rubs on it. It hurts. Why does it fucking hurt?
Everyone there is waiting for him. They look happy. They’re looking at him, waving him over, and they look so fucking happy Katsuki can’t stand it.
Everyone there is waiting for him, and Katsuki thinks: fuck. Fuck. How the hell is he going to make it up to them?
The year after the war is a haze in Katsuki’s head, fuzzy at the edges. He remembers having to sit out of training after a period of time. He remembers long hours in the PT room, trying to get his arm to respond. He remembers the frustration, the countless nights spent staring up at the ceiling, with a barely functioning heart beating weakly against his ribcage. He remembers the year like a crushing weight, drugged out of his mind, his dreams loud and violent and unforgiving. And he remembers Izuku, with a half-shaven head, body bruised with an arm and face scarred to hell. Remembers not being able to look at him for too long without wanting to scream.
Katsuki feels the tendrils of a well-worn temper snaking up his body. An irrational spike of anger, hot and prickling. Suddenly, it’s all he can do to not start screaming at all of them.
Because— Why did Deku let Katsuki do that to him? How did Katsuki manage to get away with it for so goddamn long—why wasn’t he stopped? How did he let himself get so blinded, so unchecked in his mindless ambition, and not catch himself before it was too late, before—why didn’t he listen? How could they still look at him like that, knowing how long it’d taken him, knowing the senseless, unreasonable sacrifices that had to be made before he finally got his head out of his ass—how could they forgive him so damn easily?
And how could Katsuki still—after all that he’d done, still—
“Kacchan!” Izuku calls, holding his new camera up. “Let’s get one with All Might!”
It’s a happy occasion. A happy fucking occasion, so he grits his teeth and drags his feet towards them. Deku’s smiling like crazy, like he isn’t devastated, like he didn’t have his dream ripped away from him for the second time, despite having saved everyone in the yard, despite having saved all of fucking Japan.
It shouldn't be this fucking simple. Not after everything. How could he accept this, another victory wholly unearned, when Izuku’s the one that had done everything right, had been the one born worthy and righteous and more like what a hero should be, now with fuckall to show for it?
Izuku doesn’t deserve this.
Katsuki doesn’t deserve this. He never fucking had.
When Yagi puts his arms around the both of them, his frail hand lands on Katsuki’s shoulder like a gavel, sealing a fate.
"Kacchan, are you—"
“Hey!”
It’s Eijirou, running towards them. He skids to a stop and drops to a deep, respectful bow towards Katsuki and Izuku’s parents.
Ma laughs, patting his back to have him stand upright again. Eijirou acquiesces to it with a bright, beaming grin.
“I’m sorry for imposing,” Eijirou starts. “But could I have Izuku and Katsuki for a bit? My folks would like to get some pictures with me and all my friends—they’d like to meet you guys too, if you’re up for it!”
Katsuki notices, not for the first time, how much more Eijirou’s shoulders fill his uniform now. With freshly-dyed hair spiked up as high as mountains, Eijirou looks strong, capable—confident. He’s definitely laying on the charm thick now, standing just a bit straighter and wearing his best good boy face.
Katsuki lets out a long, drawn-out breath, some small tension leaving his body.
“Where are your folks, kid?” Ma asks. “Think I’ll ask for tips on raising good, filial sons.”
The hag ruffles Katsuki’s head as she says this. He puts up with it for a grand total of two seconds before dodging out, holding back a snarl.
“Mum’s thinking of asking you and Mrs Midoriya the same thing,” Eijirou admits, laughing embarrassedly.
He gestures towards his family standing some distance away, his two sisters gawking at them. Ma has a concerning glint in her eye as she links arms with Pa and Aunt Inko, pulling them towards Mrs Kirishima.
“Young Kirishima,” smiles Yagi. “Congratulations on graduating.”
“Thank you, Sir,” grins Eijirou. “And, uh, if you and Izuku don’t mind, some fans of yours might wanna say hi?”
He beckons his sisters over, who come stumbling towards them with their husbands in tow. Another, much younger kid is more hesitant, trailing behind them. Yagi laughs in that booming way he always does when stepping into All Might. He waves to them amicably.
“Oh,” Izuku says, pointing at himself. “Me too?”
“Oh yeah,” Eijirou snorts. “My baby niece’s crazy about you, dude. You’re all the rage these days among middle schoolers, so I’ve been told!”
Then he leans closer, eyes softening. “Tsukishi’s super shy, but she really looks up to you. Would you—not that I doubt you’ll be amazing with her, but it would really help her, I think, if she heard from you directly.”
Izuku reddens. His eyes have a sheen to them as he nods determinedly. Already, he’s crouching down to Tsukishi’s level, who’s peeking out from behind her mother’s legs. In his peripheral, Katsuki catches sight of Round Cheeks, Prez, and Shoto heading towards them. He takes that as a cue to grab the cuff of Eijirou’s jacket, dragging him away.
“Play nice! And don’t embarrass me!” Eijirou calls out to his sisters. He’s ignored, of course, their attention entirely wrapped around All Might. In the flesh.
He turns to Katsuki, voice dropping. “Hey man, you good? Looked like you needed an out.”
Katsuki leads them to a more secluded place under a tree, a little ways away from the rest of the ceremony. The thing inside Katsuki’s chest has settled into a dulled hurt. A scab, freshly picked on, itchy and sensitive.
“Fine,” he mutters, then clears his throat. “Where’s the rest of the circus?”
Eijirou pauses. He looks around with a frown. “I swear they were right behind me.”
“Kirishima?”
They turn around to see a girl. Dark blue hair, round glasses that take up most of her face. She holds her hands behind her back, shuffling awkwardly. She glances at Katsuki before looking up at Eijirou.
“Oh, Mizutome,” Eijirou greets happily. “Happy graduation!”
“You too,” she laughs softly. She ducks her head, tucking hair behind her ear. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah?” Eijirou rests an elbow on Katsuki’s shoulder—Katsuki, who’s turned rigid beside him, an awful drop in his stomach. “What’s up!”
Bottleface takes a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut as she says, “I was wondering if I could have your second button.”
He feels it when Eijirou flinches. Eijirou drops his arm from Katsuki’s body.
“Oh! I didn’t realise you… I, uh, wow!”
Katsuki takes a step back. He watches as Eijirou continues floundering, face turning pink.
“Uh, first of all, ‘m super flattered! That must’ve taken courage. Real guts. Super manly—um,” Eijirou swallows visibly. “I mean, brave. You’re really brave, Mizutome.”
He glances at Katsuki for one incriminating moment, then back to Bottleface. “I’m sorry, I can’t give you my second button. But—here.”
With a hardened finger, he neatly cuts off the button of his right sleeve, then presses it into her palm when she holds out a pale blue hand.
“It was nice getting to know you in U.A,” Eijirou says, smiling carefully.
“You’re so nice,” Bottleface sighs back, wistful. “I thought this might happen, but I figured I’d try anyway.”
Then she bows to the both of them.
“Sorry for the interruption,” she says. She curls the hand with the button into a fist, pressing it into her chest. “And thank you, Kirishima. You’re a really good, really easy person to like.”
“I—” Eijirou blinks rapidly at that. “Thank you, Mizutome.”
That makes Bottleface smile, satisfied. With one last wave, she turns to leave. She disappears into the crowd in an instant, leaving only a tense, dry silence to hang above them in her wake.
Eijirou coughs. “Uh, so that was—”
“Why’d you say no?”
“What?”
“Fucker, why’d you look at me? Why the hell did you say no?”
Eijirou looks confused for a moment, staring at Katsuki. The longer he does, the more his face drops.
“You can’t be serious.”
Eijirou’s angry. But fuck, Katsuki’s angry, too. In the pit of his stomach, the rage rekindles steadily, fire licking at his throat.
“Fuck off, I’m not serious,” he snarls, shoving Eijirou’s shoulder. “The hell’s your issue, Shitty Hair?”
Eijirou opens his mouth to retort. Then he catches himself, looking at the passing crowd around them.
“No,” he decides, grabbing Katsuki’s arm. “We’re not doing this here.”
Katsuki puts up an initial struggle, but ultimately follows with minimal resistance, if only because he might genuinely start exploding shit if he doesn’t get the hell out of there.
Eijirou leads them into one of the school blocks. He finds an empty classroom, pulls Katsuki in, and slides the door shut behind them. Then he turns to Katsuki, aggravated.
“You—tell me you’re joking.”
“Does it look like I’m fucking around?” Katsuki explodes. “How ‘bout you tell me what your problem is! What’d I ever say to you, huh?” He pushes Eijirou again. “Have I ever—stopped you, from sucking faces with stupid extras? Why’d you look at me? Acting like I’m your fucking—” he stops himself, growling. “What'd I tell you about using your damn head?”
It's mean. He steps into the unfairness of it, craving a physical altercation from this. But Eijirou doesn’t take the bait, just takes the hit and stares at Katsuki in growing disbelief. The room, unlit, casts shadow on Eijirou's face. Soft spring light trickling in from behind him, how Eijirou seems to glow white with it.
“You had to have known already, Katsuki.”
Katsuki glares at the sight, defiant. “Know what?”
Eijirou makes a frustrated sound, eyebrows scrunching together. “That I—dude, what the hell, seriously! That I love you!”
It lands like a punch to the stomach. Or like being woken up with a bucket of ice water thrown over your head, painfully cold and cruel, sudden in the way it shoots down your spine.
All at once, the anger is doused out, spluttering dead. Quickly flooding in its place, a dark, heavy dread. A fear that presses, presses, presses down on him, until all he can see are their scuffled shoes bumping into each other.
Katsuki hangs his head.
“You can’t want this,” he says, snatching his arm back.
Eijirou lets his hand fall. “Why can’t I want this?”
Katsuki scoffs. “Stop playing, Ei. Because—shit, because it’s me. I don’t know how to do this. I’m not—”
“Katsuki,” Eijirou interrupts, frown in his voice. “Are you serious? You already do. I’ve never felt more loved than when I’m with you.”
Stung, Katsuki hunches his shoulders. “Stop saying shit!”
“The only thing that would make me not want this,” Eijirou stubbornly says, “is if you don’t.” He wavers at his own words, but sucks in a breath to continue strongly, “So don’t—don’t put this on me. And don’t tell me to take it back.”
“Ei—”
“—No. Katsuki, listen. You get to keep yours, so I get to keep mine. I am using my head. Don't act like I'm—I know you, Katsuki. I know what I want.”
Katsuki’s eyes are burning, because Eijirou’s strong and brave and he doesn’t deserve this, he deserves better, and Katsuki wants to be better—
But he thinks of Izuku. Yagi. All the things he’s found it in himself to ruin. All the things he hasn’t fixed.
“Shit,” he spits out, scrubbing his face roughly. “I can’t. Fuck, Ei, I won’t. Drop it already.”
The room falls silent. Only the curtains, rustled by the spring breeze, breathe between them.
Katsuki doesn’t look up.
Finally, “Okay. That’s alright. I just needed to know.”
A nudge on his shoulder, light and unlingering.
“Hey, really! I’m not, like, mad or anything. If you’re worried. I get it. It’s a lot, right? So it’s fine. I wasn’t—and you’re still—” he hears Eijirou breathe a shaky, almost inaudible thing. “You’re my best friend, you know?”
With that, Eijirou makes to leave, brushing past Katsuki. He reaches for the door. “Right, so. We should get going. They’ll wonder where we—”
Katsuki’s hand darts out. It catches the hem of Eijirou’s jacket. He fists it into his palm.
“Eijirou,” he says. It comes out in a rasp. “‘M sorry.”
For a moment, Eijirou doesn’t move.
Then he’s sniffling. He swings an arm around Katsuki, pulling him into a tight hug.
“It’s fine,” Eijirou says, into the crook of Katsuki’s neck. Even though Eijirou is clearly not, even though Katsuki’s plainly making him cry like a scum-of-the-earth asshole.
“I swear. Just—” Eijirou pulls him in closer, bodies pressing together. “We won’t change, yeah? Just—tell me we won’t change.”
He knows he shouldn't. Knows that it starts with denying this.
But Eijirou is a kind and sturdy warmth, and Katsuki is tired. Fully wrung out, he gives in to it this one time. He wraps greedy arms around Eijirou’s waist, sprawls his hands possessively against his hips.
“...We won’t change,” he mumbles into the fabric of Eijirou’s jacket, the scent of canned cherries. “I’ll kill you before we do.”
“You keep saying,” Eijirou laughs, wet and weak. It lands against Katsuki's pulse. “Three years and you haven't come close, so. Keep trying,” He sinks into Katsuki’s hold, almost sagging. "Take your time with it."
Katsuki holds him up. Holds on to Eijirou for as long as he’s allowed to.
It’s all he can do.