Work Text:
Izuku
The kitchen is too quiet for something that has already been decided. Izuku knows that's a contradiction. Still, it sits in his chest like a weight that hasn't chosen where to settle yet. The mug in his hand has gone cold, though he hasn't noticed, and on the counter beside him is the packet. He has read it three times. That is not normal behaviour for him anymore. Not because he is careless now—he isn't—but because repetition usually means uncertainty, and he is rarely uncertain about documents like this anymore. That is the part that bothers him. Not what it says. What is it doing?
Behind him, Katsuki leans against the fridge like he was placed there by physics rather than intention, arms crossed, watching. Izuku is aware of it without needing to look.
"You've been staring at that for ten minutes," Katsuki says.
Izuku blinks once. The room reassembles itself around his attention.
"Yes," he replies.
That is not a defence. It is just true.
Katsuki huffs. "That's not normal even for you."
Izuku looks down again. The words on the page are clean, professional, carefully softened. That is part of the problem. Nothing is ever just language in these documents. Language is always doing something. He lifts the packet slightly.
"It's the announcement protocol," he says.
Katsuki's tone flattens. "Right."
There is a pause after that—not empty, but waiting. Izuku is good at recognizing when to wait now. It usually precedes instruction. Katsuki pushes off the fridge and takes the packet from the counter. Izuku lets him.
Katsuki flips it open immediately, skims it, and, predictably, says, "Yeah, this is bullshit."
Izuku exhales once through his nose, almost a laugh and almost not. It is easier to agree with Katsuki's summaries than to articulate his own. Katsuki drops the packet back onto the counter.
"So don't use it."
That should be simple. It is not. Izuku looks at it again. The Hero Commission does not usually ‘ask’ them to do things like this. It presents structures—pre-shaped pathways that feel like a choice if you do not examine the edges too closely. This is not an exception. It is simply more visible. He sets the mug down properly, deliberately, like his body needs a stable action to attach itself to.
"We've never actually hidden it," Katsuki says.
Izuku nods. That is correct. They have never hidden it in the way people expect hiding to look. There were no dramatic deceptions. No elaborate lies. No careful staging of absence. Just omission where omission was convenient, silence where silence was easier, and a kind of natural privacy that formed around them the way weather forms around mountains.
"We're just not idiots about it in public," Katsuki adds.
Izuku accepts that as well. But the document on the counter is not about public awareness. That is what is wrong with it. It is about interpretation control. He hears himself say it before he fully finishes forming the thought.
"This is not just disclosure. It's framing."
Katsuki snorts. "Everything is framing to them."
"Yes," Izuku says. "That is the problem. Everything."
He finally looks directly at Katsuki.
"It is not about telling people. It is about deciding what people are allowed to understand from what is said."
Katsuki stares at him. Izuku realizes, distantly, that this is the part where he is supposed to simplify. But he does not. He cannot.
"If we let them dictate how it is said, then they also dictate what it becomes."
A pause follows—not silence, but absorption.
"So what?" Katsuki says. "We just say it ourselves?"
Izuku does not answer immediately because that is the turning point. It should feel like relief. It does not. It feels like stepping off something without knowing how far the ground is.
"Yes," he says finally.
The word lands heavier than expected.
Katsuki's expression shifts.
"That sounded like you didn't like it."
Izuku looks down at his hands.
"I do not like how many variables it introduces," he admits. Honesty is easier when it is precise.
"Good," Katsuki says immediately.
That surprises him.
Izuku looks up as Katsuki pushes off the counter and comes closer, like the conversation has moved from abstract to actionable.
"If they're gonna try and control it anyway, we don't give them the chance to do it first."
Izuku processes that. It is not strategic in the way institutions define strategy. It is simpler. Remove the premise. Do not negotiate within it.
"That would remove their interpretive authority," he says quietly.
"Yeah."
Izuku studies him. Katsuki is not thinking in systems. He is thinking of refusal. That distinction matters more than it should.
"If we do it without their framing, they will react."
"Yeah."
"There will be consequences."
"Probably."
Izuku exhales slowly. He is aware, distantly, that his mind is still searching for containment strategies, mitigation paths, predictive branches. None of them feels clean.
"I am aware that I am overthinking this."
Katsuki huffs.
"You think?"
Something in Izuku loosens slightly. Not resolution—just fatigue giving up its claim to urgency.
"I just do not want it to become something that is not us."
That is the core of it—not fear of publicity, but fear of distortion. Katsuki is quiet for a moment.
"Then don't let it."
Izuku looks at him.
It is not advice. It is not reassurance. It is a directive that assumes agency already exists.
"We decide what it is. Not them."
Izuku understands that sentence more deeply than he wants to, because it implies something he has been avoiding naming. They have always been participants in their own interpretation—just not the authors.
A long silence settles. Izuku feels it shift in his chest—something like alignment, but sharper.
"Yes."
Then, after a moment:
"I think I am ready to stop letting them translate us."
Katsuki's mouth quirks faintly.
"Good."
He turns toward the hallway.
"So, tomorrow we walk in there and do it our way."
Izuku corrects him softly.
"Today."
Katsuki pauses, then grins.
"Even better."
Izuku picks up the mug again and drinks. It is still cold. That is fine. Some things are still correct even when they are not warm.
"This will likely cause disruption."
Katsuki is already moving away.
"Yeah."
"Significant disruption."
"Probably."
Izuku follows him out of the kitchen. He is aware, as he walks, that nothing external has changed yet. Internally, however, the decision no longer belongs to the Commission. It belongs to them. And that, more than anything else, is what feels irreversible.
"Yes," Izuku says again, quieter now.
No agreement—confirmation.
·· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The conference room is silent except for the soft sound of paper turning as Izuku flips through the packet, one page after another, the rhythm steady and unhurried in a way that feels almost more controlled than the document itself. After a while, he pauses, lets his thumb hold the corner of a page, and says quietly, “…Interesting.”
The PR director smiles immediately. “We’re glad you think so.”
“I didn’t say that,” Izuku replies without looking up. The smile falters slightly. He lifts his gaze then, calm and precise. “I said it was interesting.”
His fingers tap lightly against the packet. “This document has been revised twenty-three times.”
“…Yes?” the PR director says, uncertain now.
“So, twenty-three separate people approved language that removes every instance of individual agency,” Izuku continues.
Silence follows, immediate and heavy. A younger PR assistant shifts in their seat, brows knitting together.
“I’m sorry?” they ask.
Izuku turns a page again, then another, the motion unbroken. “‘Heroes Deku and Dynamight are pleased to announce—’” He pauses, finally looking up. “Why are we pleased?”
“…Excuse me?” the assistant echoes.
“You wrote that we’re pleased.” His head tilts slightly, as though genuinely considering the logic. “Were you under the impression you had access to our emotions?”
Behind him, Katsuki presses his tongue briefly to the inside of his cheek, not laughing, not yet, but close enough that the effort is visible in the tension of his jaw.
The PR director clears his throat. “It’s standard phrasing.”
“No,” Izuku says immediately. “It’s assumed emotion.”
He turns another page without breaking rhythm. “‘Together, they hope to inspire—’ Did we say that?”
No one answers.
Another page. “‘Their relationship demonstrates the importance of trust within hero society.’” He looks up again, genuinely curious now. “When did our dating become public infrastructure?”
The room does not respond. Katsuki folds his arms a little tighter, watching now in silence, his expression unreadable but sharpened.
Izuku keeps going.
Another page, then another. His pace increases slightly, but his voice remains even, almost clinical, as if he is reading data rather than being described inside it. “Do you know what fascinates me?” he asks, without waiting for permission to continue. No one speaks. “You never once ask us what we’d like to say.”
The PR director opens his mouth. “We—”
“No.” Izuku cuts him off cleanly, no rise in volume, only certainty. “You wrote it how you want us to sound.”
The packet shifts in his hands as he turns another page. “You aren’t writing a statement,” he continues. “You’re writing characters.”
Katsuki exhales sharply through his nose, a short, controlled sound that might almost be a laugh if it weren’t restrained by disbelief. He doesn’t interrupt. He just watches.
Izuku begins to move now, stepping slowly along the edge of the table, not confrontational in posture but deliberate, like someone presenting a conclusion rather than arguing one. “You removed contractions. You replaced active voice with passive voice. You replaced ‘love’ with ‘partnership.’ ‘Boyfriend’ becomes ‘personal associate.’ ‘Happy’ becomes ‘grateful.’ ‘Private’ becomes ‘carefully managed.’”
Each example lands with quiet precision, accumulating weight not through volume but through pattern recognition, the structure of it becoming harder to ignore with every line. Izuku stops walking and sets the packet down carefully in front of him.
“You systematically stripped every trace of humanity out of our relationship until all that remained was a public relations asset.”
Silence stretches. No one interrupts it.
Then Izuku exhales once, almost soft, almost disbelieving. “You know what’s funny?” he asks.
Nobody answers.
“I almost missed it.”
A faint pause follows as he looks down at the document again, expression briefly distant, as if reviewing his own memory of reading it.
“I read this three times. The first time, I thought it was just corporate writing. The second time, I realized every word had been chosen intentionally. The third time…” He lifts his gaze slowly, meeting each person in the room without urgency. “…I realized you weren’t trying to tell our story.”
His voice steadies further.
“You were trying to stop us from telling it.”
The room goes still in a way that feels almost structural, like even the air has stopped negotiating.
Izuku lets out a short, quiet laugh. It is not amused. It is recognition. “Oh. I get it now. I finally get it.”
He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t trust the public.”
A pause.
“No,” he corrects himself, voice sharpening just a fraction. “Worse. You don’t trust us.”
The PR director finally tries to regain control. “Deku, I think you’re misunderstanding—”
“No.” The interruption is immediate, sharper now, the first real break in his calm. “No.” He looks directly at him. “You keep saying I’m misunderstanding because it’s easier than admitting I understood perfectly.”
He steps closer to the table, not aggressive, but immovable. “You don’t want authenticity. You want predictability. You don’t want honesty. You want compliance.”
His hand rests lightly on the packet again. “You don’t want an announcement. You want permission to censor us before we’ve even opened our mouths.”
A long silence follows. Izuku draws in a slow breath, then another, as if grounding himself in the structure of the room.
“I’m tired,” he says simply. “So incredibly tired of being treated like a symbol before I’m allowed to be a person.”
He pauses, then exhales once more, quieter but final. “Screw it.”
The packet closes with a soft sound as he pushes it across the table.
“We’re not using it.”
A PR manager stammers, scrambling for recovery. “You can’t simply reject—”
“No.” Izuku interrupts again, immediately and absolutely. His gaze is steady now, clear in a way that leaves no room for reinterpretation. “You don’t understand.”
He lets the words settle before finishing them.
“We’re rejecting the premise.”
Katsuki, who has been silent through most of it, finally lets out a low, sharp breath that borders on a laugh, his expression shifting into something openly approving now. He looks at Izuku like the room has changed shape around him, like something has been revealed rather than spoken.
The PR team doesn’t respond. They don’t have a clean place to land.
Izuku remains still at the table, hands relaxed now, as if the act of refusal has already resolved something internal. The decision is no longer in the room with the Commission representatives. It has already moved elsewhere.
The PR team doesn’t respond. They don’t have a clean place to land. Izuku remains still at the table, hands relaxed now, as if the act of refusal has already resolved something internal. The decision is no longer in the room with the Commission representatives. It has already moved elsewhere. Nobody moves. For several long seconds, the only sound is the quiet hum of the ventilation system. The PR director is the first to recover.
"Deku," he says carefully, rebuilding his professional composure one word at a time, "if you reject the prepared statement, then we'll need time to draft another version."
Izuku looks at him.
"No."
The director blinks.
"...No?"
"We do not need another version."
"You need an approved statement."
"No," Izuku says again.
"We need an honest one."
A different manager leans forward.
"Dynamight, surely you understand the importance of coordinating public messaging."
Katsuki finally speaks.
"I understand that you're wasting my morning."
No one laughs; the director forces a smile that doesn't quite survive.
"If you'll just give us another forty-eight hours—"
"No."
This time, they answer together, and the room falls silent once more. Izuku reaches across the table and gathers the packet that the Commission had spent weeks refining. He taps the pages neatly against the tabletop before sliding them beneath one arm. The gesture is almost polite—almost.
"We appreciate the effort," he says.
"But we're not going to let you speak for us anymore."
He turns toward the door. Behind him, the PR director's composure finally slips.
"You can't walk into that press conference unprepared!"
Izuku pauses with one hand on the handle.
"We aren't."
Then he opens the door.
"We're prepared."
Neither of them looks back.
·· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The hallway outside is lined with security staff, assistants, camera operators, and Commission employees who had clearly expected another hour of revisions. Instead, conversations falter as Japan's number four and number five heroes walk past without slowing. Someone calls after them.
"Deku! The press room is this way!"
Izuku doesn't break stride.
"I know."
A beat.
"That's exactly where we're going."
No one follows.
·· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The press conference had been scheduled for eleven, and at eleven-oh-three the doors opened to reveal a room already full of journalists, television crews, photographers, and every major news network, with the Hero Commission seal dominating the backdrop behind the podium as rows of cameras lifted the instant the two heroes stepped inside, and questions began immediately.
"Deku!"
"Dynamight!"
"Is today's announcement about agency restructuring?"
"Has the Hero Commission approved today's statement?"
"Is this about retirement?"
Neither of them answers. Izuku walks directly to the podium, Katsuki taking his place beside him instead of behind him, and that alone sets off another wave of camera shutters. Izuku places the packet onto the podium, the microphones catching the sound—tap—before he waits, not for permission, but for silence. Eventually, the room gives it to him.
"Good morning."
His voice carries easily across the room.
"Thank you for coming."
A hundred cameras continue recording.
"This morning, the Hero Commission prepared an official statement for us to read."
His hand rests lightly on the packet.
"We won't be reading it."
The room erupts as hands shoot into the air and questions overlap.
"What do you mean?"
"Was there a disagreement?"
"Has the announcement been delayed?"
Izuku raises one hand.
Gradually, the room settles again.
"The statement was professionally written," he says.
A faint smile appears.
"Very professionally."
A ripple of uncertain laughter moves through the reporters.
"It also wasn't ours."
The laughter dies.
"It described our emotions."
"It assigned us motivations."
"It explained our relationship."
He rests his fingertips against the folder.
"No one asked whether any of that was true."
The atmosphere changes. The reporters aren't waiting anymore; they're listening. One journalist slowly stands.
"Deku..."
Her voice is careful.
"Are you saying the Hero Commission tried to script a personal announcement?"
"Yes."
One word. No embellishment. No anger. Just the truth. Pens begin moving furiously, and another reporter speaks before the first has even sat down.
"Then what is the truth?"
Izuku glances sideways for just a second, and Katsuki meets his eyes with a tiny nod.
Go.
Izuku looks back at the room.
"The truth," he says quietly, "is a lot simpler."
He reaches across the small space between them, not dramatically, not for effect, and simply takes Katsuki's hand like it's the most ordinary thing in the world, drawing a collective intake of breath from the room as the cameras go wild.
"We're together."
No flourish. No speech. No slogan.
"We have been for almost two years."
The silence afterward is almost unreal, lasting perhaps two seconds before every reporter starts talking at once. Katsuki exhales through his nose.
"Took you all long enough."
A startled laugh breaks across the room, and not everyone joins in, but enough do that the tension cracks. Another reporter manages to call over the noise.
"So... you've been hiding your relationship?"
Izuku shakes his head.
"No."
"We've been living it."
He smiles faintly.
"Those are different things."
"We weren't ashamed," Katsuki says, folding his free arm across his chest.
"It just wasn't anybody else's business."
Izuku nods.
"It belonged to us before it belonged to a headline."
A reporter near the front raises her hand.
"So why announce it now?"
Izuku looks down at the packet resting on the podium, then back up.
"Because this morning I realized someone else had already decided to announce it for us." A pause, "They just planned to tell a different version."
Another silence settles over the room.
One journalist asks quietly, "May we... see that?"
Izuku doesn't hesitate.
"Yes."
He lifts the packet.
"I think transparency should apply to institutions too."
He sets it gently on the press table in front of the microphones.
"You're welcome to compare what was written..."
His eyes move slowly across the room.
"...with what we actually said."
No one reaches for it—not immediately, not because they don't want to, but because they understand exactly what it represents. The story is no longer simply that two of Japan's top heroes are dating; the story is that someone tried to decide how they were allowed to tell the truth. Today, that story no longer belongs to the Hero Commission. It belonged to the people who lived it.