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Kacchan’s dorm room is barely lit: the faint blue of a laptop standby light, the fainter red of an alarm-clock’s time, dull gold from the hall, all washing together into gray. Izuku eases the door shut behind him in silence. Kacchan, a featureless lump on the bed, makes a snuffly inquisitive grumble-noise. “Took you long enough.”
Izuku ducks his head, smiling into the dark. “Were you waiting for me?” he asks. They haven’t really talked about how they keep ending up in each other’s rooms at night, not yet. They’re still learning how to give voice to things. Something else Izuku’s learned how to do by trying it under live fire first.
“Course I was, c’mere.” Kacchan’s grumpiness hasn’t fooled Izuku in months, but when Kacchan’s half-asleep like this the pretense becomes paper-thin. He sticks one hand out of his covers and gestures at Izuku, as if he can grab him and pull him closer. Izuku checks the door again and then heads over, tugging at the blankets until he can burrow underneath. Kacchan growls blearily at him: “Cold.”
“I can’t get into the bed without moving the covers,” Izuku points out, wriggling until they can fit their limbs together. Kacchan moves with him, shifting until he can hook his chin over Izuku’s shoulder and Izuku can nestle into him. “I can’t go through fabric.”
“Shoulda gotten here earlier,” Kacchan complains.
“I didn’t know you were waiting.” Izuku kisses his cheek, because this is one of the quiet twilight hours when he can get away with it and Kacchan doesn’t get embarrassed. “You hadn’t said.”
“Well, I was and now you know, so shut up.” Kacchan’s arms tighten around him, though, curling his fingers into the fabric of Izuku’s shirt. Kacchan’s body is still more honest than his mouth, and often what he says that way is I’m sorry and stay.
“Your hair’s still wet,” Izuku says. “Did you shower tonight?” Kacchan showers in the morning, usually, before the rest of the class is awake. Izuku wakes up to him coming back into the room in a waft of soap-scent and tossing a damp towel at the bed, saying, “Wake up, nerd.” Sometimes Izuku can drag him back into bed for a few minutes of cuddling while his skin is all steam-soft. Other times Kacchan calls him a goddamn octopus and then kisses him. He kisses more gently when it’s very late at night or early in the morning, like affection can’t be held against him when they’re the only ones awake.
“Got dirt ground all through my hair at training,” Kacchan says, still sleep-slurred. “Rinsing didn’t do it, wasn’t gonna fuck up my sheets.”
“Makes sense. You smell nice.”
“You sayin’ I stink normally?”
“Nope.” Izuku hides a smile in the side of Kacchan’s neck. This kind of simple, straightforward contradiction still disarms Kacchan, and it’s still kind of funny. Cute. Izuku likes doing it, anyway. “I’m saying you smell nice.”
“Hmph. Shut up.” Kacchan shifts, hooking his ankle over Izuku’s. “You were being weird at dinner.” He must be waking up, because he adds, “Weirder than normal.”
“Was I?” Izuku blinks, biting back a yawn.
“Yeah. One for All?”
“No, nothing happened. I didn’t realize I was doing anything, I’m not sure…”
“Took you like a million years to eat anything. Wasn’t burned, at least mine wasn’t.”
“No, it was fine.” Izuku blinks into the dark. “Oh, um — my hands are kind of bad today, I guess that’s why? I wasn’t doing anything on purpose, but… I guess I was moving slower.” Very, very quietly, he admits, “Little things hurt, sometimes.” The worst is washing his hair, because he — obviously — can’t wear a compression sleeve in the shower, and moving his hands around a lot without it is… not fun, on bad days. Scrubbing hurts. But if he skips a day it’s just gross immediately.
“Mrrm?” To his surprise, Kacchan disentangles them, sitting up. The covers slide off his shoulders. “Gimme.”
“What?”
“Your hands, dumbass.” Kacchan reaches for him before Izuku can do anything, though, grabbing Izuku’s right hand between both of his own. He rubs a slow circle into the flesh at the base of Izuku’s thumb; the pressure of it is firm, deliberate. Izuku blinks at Kacchan, and is ignored as Kacchan works slowly across his palm, down to his wrist and up towards his mangled fingers. His face is screwed up in still-bleary focus, barely visible in the muted light.
Kacchan works his way over Izuku’s fingers, rubbing individually at each knuckle and each span between. “Is this doing anything?” he asks, midway through the third finger; his shoulders hunch. Sleep clouds his voice less, by now.
Izuku bites back the urge to agree by reflex, gives it a moment of thought instead. “Yeah,” he says at last. “It feels nice.” He’s not sure whether it’s lessening the pain exactly, but it feels nice. The pressure, the touch, the tenderness of it. His hands have been an unpleasant undertone on the day, one ignored with the ease of practice but never completely. Having something about his hands feel good for once, having some kind of pleasure come from their muscle and skin — it helps. Even if that’s all it does, it helps. “Is this something you do for yourself?”
“Sometimes, yeah. Depends on what I’m using my quirk for.”
“I’ll do it for you, next time,” Izuku promises. Kacchan shrugs.
“Whatever.” It’s quiet, soft, Kacchan’s version of a thank you. Izuku smiles in the quiet glow. “Want me to do the other one?”
“Please? If you don’t mind.”
“I offered, dipshit.” Kacchan picks up his other hand, starts with the same slow dig at the base of his thumb. “Ice ‘em next time.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea.” Izuku curls on his side, leans his forehead against Kacchan’s hip. Kacchan presses into the center of his palm, digging out a sudden ache that feels like a relief. Unbinding.
Something wells up in him, then, lying in the quiet dark, while above him Kacchan bends all his focus to soothing Izuku’s pain. He can feel every callus on Kacchan’s hands as he rubs Izuku’s crooked fingers. It feels so long ago, needing to tear his bones apart just to keep up with anyone, but coming to UA still feels like only yesterday. Middle school is mostly aeons away now; sometimes it throbs up startlingly. It’s usually like hitting a knot in the muscle, leaving it looser once the pain is gone.
“What’re you crying about now?” Kacchan asks. Fondness shows around the edges of his exasperation. His thumb works again over the back of Izuku’s hands.
“Just happy,” Izuku says, very soft. His voice wavers more than he expected. “I never thought about…” About this kind of peace, about the happiness in a private little bubble of time. “I’m just happy.”
“Hmph.” Kacchan shifts until his body blocks Izuku’s view of his own hand, and, as if that will keep Izuku from noticing, presses a furtive kiss to the back of Izuku’s fingers. Izuku smiles into the dark. Okay, Kacchan. Whatever you need. Whatever lets you give me this. “Go to sleep, nerd.”
“Okay.” Izuku closes his eyes. He’s asleep before he notices Kacchan letting go of his hand.