Archive of Our Own

Izuku found nostalgia to be a funny thing. And at the age of twenty-five, he was perhaps too young to be feeling as nostalgic as he did. He hated it. Looking back made the pores of his skin open up in defying flares, the feeling worse still if his memories were indulgent. Bouts of nostalgia had been attacking him since middle-school, but back then it used to be bearable. At fourteen, he’d look fondly at Katsuki’s back and his mind would supply stupidly, ‘forward march and here we go, members of the agency Bakugou.’ 

The first time it happened, it wasn’t so bad. But the next time he was liable to stuff his ears with cotton so far up that it had to reach his fleshy, humming core. 

There were other times too. Like whenever he’d pass by Katsuki’s house, a wave of memories would flick by in singular, slow-moving frames, and he would feel as though he were dying. It didn’t take long to discover a pattern there. He hated his memories with Katsuki, simply because they were gone and would never come back. Katsuki hated him. 

At UA things changed. Izuku didn’t have time to remember, and maybe subconsciously he had trained himself against it, forced upon himself blinders and moved ahead like a caparisoned horse. 

But now it was especially bad. 

Izuku understood how privileged he had been to find harm in fond memories. The ones he made at sixteen shattered the grit of his eleven-year-long, methodically cultivated hope, and imposed upon him a new worldview. He did not look back—would not—living somehow with the peripheral existence of his gross nostalgia, yellowing and rotting, leeching even. Yet it always made a dominant appearance in his dreams, and Izuku would wake up drenched in sweat, trembling, crying, and forgetting. 

On one of those nights Izuku came upon a realisation. What he was feeling could not be sufficiently chalked up to ‘nostalgia’, and though he could easily find a better, more accurate and true word for it, he didn’t dare to. 

On most days, his mind was a tunneling darkness without entry steps. There was a whole lot Izuku hadn’t shuffled through; it was difficult to sieve with a blindfold, but it was fairly easy to stuff. He had stuffed himself, and if he ever decided to crack a sliver open, everything would unravel. Izuku feared that there was no time for it now. The time for it had gone by.

Katsuki was one constant who had adapted quicker than Izuku’s avoidance. He couldn’t help but always think of him—not in a nostalgic way, though, that too, was heavy with stifled hunger, but in a shameful, disgusting way he couldn’t quite name. He thought of Katsuki ceaselessly and persistently, in a maddening fever sometimes, and others in a calming joy, like he had all the time in the world and all that time was predestined and pre-booked for just one. Izuku did set limits on his thoughts though, never allowing himself any satisfaction. He could become obsessive, and he felt he needed to guard even Mind Kacchan from it. 

Other times, when Izuku wasn’t thinking of Katsuki, he was thinking of self-improvement. The way to happiness, he had learnt, was 1) ask himself what he wanted, 2) convince himself that what he wanted was not what he deserved, 3) come to terms with it, and 4) find new meaning. Only when he’d accept every bit, would he be truly happy for once and for all. In the meantime, he had to suffer. And he suffered more at the loathing he had for his suffering. He had reached step two, before one. Izuku realised there were too many things he wanted, some he was even too scared to have to confront.

With a bowl of rice and curry, legs folded beneath his old All Might blanket, and the TV blaring blue light on his freckled face, Izuku was giving way to Mind Kacchan. Today was a turn for fever. He thought of how Katsuki must feel now with the hero rankings gone. Izuku, of course, had been pleased by it, going as far as to invite a few of his friends over. Ochaco, Todoroki and Iida had felt the same as him. They celebrated with red wine and fried chicken. 

Izuku was happy to have discovered their agreement on that matter. He had been worried that his take on the banality of the hero ranking system would be unpopular. Not that it would have mattered anyway, they were not going to leave his side over it.

After all, Ochaco had promised to keep in touch with him following a night of drinking. Izuku had not expected that, within a couple of months, they’d grow as close as they did. It felt a lot like high school again. Somewhere along the reconstruction of their friendship, Todoroki and Iida joined in, and Izuku felt a surging gladness that, for once, he didn't fight off. 

Katsuki must find the hero rankings banal too. Not when they were sixteen, no. Back then it was all about being the number one hero! Being the greatest! It didn’t take long for them to realise that the two were hardly synonymous. After everything they had been through a fucking hierarchy was the last thing they needed. That too of power, and not even actual power, just perceived power. 

Mind Kacchan (and Izuku liked to think his antics were in total congruence with the real Kacchan) confidently said that it was all “a fucking bullshit popularity contest,” which was cute because there was a time when he cared the world about it. Mind Kacchan was great at impressions. Izuku had memorised every rising inflection and every dipping rasp of Katsuki’s voice. He shivered underneath his blanket, the soles of his feet still cold. 

He thought of how much Katsuki had grown—not only physically (though he was so big now, had always been, but more than ever; arms the size of his head!)—but as a person. A hero. He was so amazing. Too amazing, even. Katsuki was perfect when they were four, perfect even when they weren’t friends, perfect at UA, perfect now—and yet he had gotten progressively better. Izuku didn’t know how he did it, but he knew very well how to marvel at it. Only Katsuki could redefine perfection countless times. There should be a superlative of the term invented for him alone, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought it.

Izuku’s admiration had always been vast and almost monumental to the point where it couldn’t be put into words, but with how often he tried, he’d found his way around. Sort of. For everything that Katsuki was, and for however long he had known him, Izuku had never been unsure of his assessment. 

Lately, that had changed. Katsuki’s ignitable brilliance did not settle in the marrow of his bones the way it used to. There was a gaping unfamiliarity where they had once made peace, and it was Izuku’s fault. He knew it was his, didn’t know exactly what he had done wrong, but knew that even though he had wronged Katsuki it was for his own good. At the moment, it seemed selfish, but in the long run Katsuki would be grateful that Izuku had created the space between them.

Izuku just hadn't expected that it would feel so wrong on both ends. Despite how often Katsuki had laid himself bare, he was still always surprised to see how much he cared for him. For him specifically. And Katsuki wasn’t to blame for that. It was all Izuku again. He couldn’t believe that he was blessed with that kind of a remarkable, Kacchan-like tenderness. Sometimes, blessings like those, which were so powerful and giving, felt more like a curse to him. 

Izuku was shrimp-backed, scraping his empty bowl, collecting scattered bits of rice and lined belts of curry before he got up, wiggling his toes. That was enough. He had to let Mind Kacchan go. It was time to correct all the test papers. School night. Having taken up Aizawa’s batch as well, he had about forty to get through. Izuku sighed. 

He wondered how Katsuki was spending his Thursday night. Shaking his head, he switched off the TV and stood stock-still in complete darkness.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“You have to come, Deku-kun! I mean, I know you will. You can’t say no,” Ochaco dragged the ‘o’ out. Izuku smiled, pinching the bridge of his nose. His glasses slipped down, pressing against his nostrils. He shoved his phone between his ear and the ball of his shoulder, licked the pad of his thumb and flipped the remaining pages of the mammoth manuscript titled ‘A New Hero.’ Aizawa had dropped it on his desk during lunch break. You’ll like this, he had said.

“Why can’t I say no?”

“Bakugou-kun will be there.” 

Ochaco didn’t know Izuku was trying to avoid him, but she did know that Izuku couldn’t. Hell, she didn’t even need to know he was trying. How pathetic! And stupid. But Izuku was quick to self-assure that he wanted to see Katsuki, not talk to him. That was still avoidance. 

“That’s not why I’m about to agree, by the way,” Izuku snapped, a bit too quick and derisive. Then: quieter, calmer, “I want to meet them all. The others, I mean. Mina-san’s organizing, right? I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

“I know! She was telling me how she misses you. They all do! We get to see you the least!”  

“Sorry, work’s all busy.” It wasn’t that. They didn’t need him there. Not when he was like this. 

“Sometimes I think teachers do more work than heroes. Well, I mean, they are heroes too,” Ochaco said contemplatively. She could go through seven different moods in the span of two minutes. 

“My students don’t really think I am much of a hero after the last assignment I gave.” Izuku laughed. “They’d respectfully disagree.”

“When they are older, that won’t be,” Ochaco replied. “They’ll forget how much they hated the assignment. I forget sometimes when I look back. When I look back sometimes, I see all the positives.” 

Izuku wished he could do that. Though he knew that it hadn’t come easy for Ochaco. In the course of their rekindling, Izuku had learnt of the heavy guilt she battled with. It mirrored his own in some ways. She had told him about Toga. And they cried together over it. Izuku still remembered how the chili noodles they ordered that night had singed his stuffy sinus.

“Do you know what you’ll wear? Please don’t show up in a suit again! Not that you don’t look good. You really do, really,” she dragged the ‘y’ this time, “but it’s as if us heroes showed up in our uniforms. You should wear that cute shirt you bought.” Ochaco was swift. 

“Oh! Yes, that’s nice.” Izuku had been concerned when buying it. Where would he wear it? “It’s good enough, right?” 

Ochaco hummed. “What should I wear?” she mused. Izuku was never any good at deciding. So, they had to add Todoroki to the call. And then Iida. No decision was made. 

Izuku was the first to hang up, apologising for leaving early. Except it wasn’t early at all. He didn’t need to see the time to confirm, the weariness spreading on his t-zone let him know. Izuku had promised himself that he’d read at least five pages of the manuscript. “Plus Ultra,” he murmured, and got to it. 

Izuku was on page three when he decided that Aizawa had been wrong. He didn’t like this. That was too casual a word to sum up. The document began by stating that the idea of Quirkless Heroes wasn’t as impractical or dangerous as it had previously appeared. With the annulment of the rankings, the display of ‘strength’ and ‘heroism’ was no longer dependent on quirks. 

Under the heading ‘Assisting Heroes : Quirkless Gear Development ’ an idea was presented in size ten font (even with his reading glasses the miniscule letters annoyed him endlessly), to make teams based on quirkless gradings and the compatibility of a quirkless hero’s gear with the quirk of another hero. 

The gradings would be based on three levels of gear and four levels of training. The levels of gear were still under works but a draft for the training levels had been listed. 

The first level was quirkless combat and quirk studies of the five most recurring hero-type quirks, the second was gear affinity with chosen quirk specialisation, third was training with students in the hero course, and the fourth was internships. There were talks going on about instating another course at UA (and consequently other schools), along with the Hero Course and General Studies Course. The name for it was still undecided, which was a good thing, since ‘Quirkless Hero Course’ sounded sort of offensive. 

Izuku yawned, long lashes begging to clamp down on his lower eyelids. He wouldn't be able to give the document the care and consideration it deserved in his current state. Still he couldn't bring himself to put it down. He flipped through it again, pausing on random pages to spoil himself. On the twentieth page, the title stood out, in big bold letters, ‘Rehabilitation of Dangerous Quirks.’ 

Izuku’s heart settled in his chest in a way that felt right. Phlegm surged up; he hated that Shigaraki had to die. Toga had to die. All of them had died. He hated the word Dangerous Quirks. There had to be a more fitting term. He flipped through more pages, fighting against wobbly patches of passion bubbling up in his throat and the slight, stinging tremor that lined his salivary glands. Finally tears slipped down his cheeks and balanced on the edge of his chin. 

The forty-seventh page had the most beautiful title Izuku had ever read. ‘Redefining Dangerous Quirks and What They Can Mean.’ There were pages and pages on the work of specialists who had studied dual deadly quirks (those that not only harmed others but the user itself) and how they could be balanced according to the user’s body.

Izuku immediately thought of Dabi. He knew he couldn’t tell Todoroki anything yet, but he would later. There might be useful input there. Maybe it could even bring him a steadier kind of relief. For the longest time, Todoroki had acted like things just happened. There was a fatalist quality to his acceptance of what was over and what had passed. He was often troubled by how quickly he’d go about it all, afraid that it was rude. In their third year, he confided in Iida, who told him that there was nothing wrong with how he processed difficult things. Iida had his own way too. He’d discovered it when he sought vengeance for his brother, filled with a dutiful sense of retribution that had later brought him much shame. 

Izuku’s shirt stuck to him uncomfortably. It was such a loose-fitted shirt too. He’d talk to Aizawa for Todoroki. 

There was research on the mental toll quirks could take on their users, and measures that had been taken to educate families about certain types. Trial camps had also been set up to teach quirk users at a young age to understand and learn the limits of their bodies, minds, and powers. They had started on a few sample families, and so far it seemed to be going well—all corroborated by the extensive case studies. Izuku choked as he skimmed through the end, arranging the papers and placing them gently on the bedside table as quiet streams of tears slipped into the ends of his mouth. He set down his thin-rimmed glasses on top and wiped his eyes furiously, until the corners were rock dry and burning. 

Shigaraki should not have had to die for this. Izuku had never wanted any justification or redemption from it. He had wanted Shigaraki to live. Like hell he was going to let his gratefulness for the changes step over what he, or anybody for that matter, could never change. There was nothing even the greatest of heroes with the greatest of minds and hearts could do to retroactively redeem loss of that magnitude. 

Loss of life. Izuku wasn't going to make himself believe that all those who had died had not died in vain. A sentiment like that turned death into martyrdom. And nobody was calling Shigaraki a martyr. He had died in vain. 

Staring at the darker indents of his ceiling, he wondered how Katsuki would feel. Wondered if it was the work he had put into his Iron Suit that had sparked off the idea for Quirkless Heroes. That night Izuku woke only once.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mina hugged the living daylights out of Izuku and Ochaco. She smushed her face between their shoulders, yelping excitedly. “Ah! So glad you guys made it! I missed you both!” She pinched their cheeks, smiling with all her teeth. 

Kirishima jumped up from somewhere behind Mina, throwing his heavy arm over her and beaming at them. “Looking good!” He gave them a thumbs up.

“You too, Kirishima-kun, Mina-san! So happy to see you.” And Izuku meant it, he was happy. 

“I can’t wait to down some beers. Get ready, Kirishima-kun! This time I am beating you,” Ochaco said, eyes bright. Her competitive streak didn’t rival Izuku’s but sometimes she was dangerously close to it. 

“Oh, you are on!” Kirishima pumped his fists together, the way he always did before a fight. Izuku felt happier. He was glad Ochaco had made him come. 

“Remember Ei, you are my karaoke partner. You better not get shit-faced before that.” Mina hit his arm lightly, pouting. He put his hands up in defense. 

“After karaoke, you’re on!” Ochaco smiled, rubbing her hands together like an evil grasshopper. 

Mina linked her arms with Izuku’s, dragging him in impishly. “Mido sweetie, you are going to have the best night of your life!” Izuku didn’t know if she was planning anything, or if Ochaco had told her about his miserable, lacklustre schedule, but this was already a night better than any. She shouldn’t have to bother with him. 

“Mina-san,” he began, stopping abruptly. Katsuki was approaching them. Shit. 

Izuku hadn’t thought of what to do if this happened. Which was, on his part, a grave mistake, really, because if anybody was good at thinking through multiple possibilities it was him. He didn’t think he could have had a solution for this anyway, but some preparation was miles better than none. He looked around, smiling and nodding at others, urging them to approach him as Katsuki did. Todoroki would have been oblivious enough to take the bait, but he wasn’t here yet—probably busy picking up Iida.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, frowning. Then he scoffed, arms folded. Oh god! Izuku had a bad feeling, and he didn’t need Danger Sense to know it.

“Boo! Don’t tell me you are here to steal him,” Mina whined, pulling Izuku’s arm closer to her. She looked ready for a tug of war. 

“Shut up.” Katsuki rolled his eyes. “I am saving him from you. Come along, Sensei.” Katsuki had the gall to smirk. Mina gagged. Izuku flamed red. What was going on? This was new. 

“Kacchan!” he squeaked. That was his most instinctive response. It was the easiest thing to say. “I am not even in my Sensei uniform!” Gosh, Izuku was unbelievably embarrassing. 

“Bakugou, if this is your angle, I’ll give you Izuku. This is out of pity.” Mina shoved him forward. Was he being bartered? And what was the exchange anyway? Mina’s sly smirk answered no questions, but Katsuki seemed to know. He sneered at her. 

“You’re fucking annoying,” he told her. Mina only shrugged, unimpressed. 

“I’ll come for you again, sweetie!” She waved goodbye mournfully, blowing Izuku a kiss. 

“Kacchan, I am feeling a little out of loop here,” Izuku laughed. He looked up at Katsuki, lips wobbling with the pressure of a nearly escaped, too-happy a smile. He touched his cheeks consciously. Hopefully they weren’t too red. 

“I’ll put you in the fucking loop then. Come sit with me, Sensei.”

“Stop with that!” Izuku didn’t need to touch his cheeks to know their colour this time. “Imagine if I went around calling you Pro-hero.” 

“I’d like it as much as you like Sensei,” Katsuki said simply. Izuku was going to detonate like one of Katsuki’s support gears. What did that mean? Was he too obvious? Could anybody tell he liked it? He didn’t like it. He appreciated it. Which were interchangeable terms if Izuku really thought about it. Obviously it didn’t mean anything. So, what if he liked—appreciated it. He appreciated Deku too. Nerd as well. 

“Have you been drinking?”

“Holy shit, Deku. I am only teasing.” But Katsuki’s face screwed up all weird. Should Izuku apologize? He kept messing up, this was awful. Katsuki was being a friend and Izuku let—well, just let the mush in his brain get the best of him. 

“You are always teasing, Kacchan.” Was that good? Katsuki’s face returned to normal. Izuku was not going to mess this up. He had always wanted to be Katsuki’s friend. 

“You’re too fucking easy not to. The brats give you a hard time?” They walked to the last two tables of the bar. The most secluded. Katsuki poked his cheek. 

“If you mean my nice, talented students, then nope.” 

“If they do, let me know.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do?” Izuku raised a brow. He adjusted his seat forward then backward. Katsuki grabbed the rear leg of his chair and pulled him in and towards him. Izuku bit his tongue. 

“Blast them.” Katsuki’s face was set in stone as he said it.

“Kacchan! You can’t blast the heroes in training!”

“If they are any fucking good they’ll survive.”

“We barely survived against All Might.” Izuku didn’t know why he said that. He scratched the back of his neck. He didn’t like to remember, but with Mind Kacchan’s reign that’s all he had been doing. Along with letting his imagination run its wheels (not run wild! Izuku was always careful). 

The memory pricked at him, and he watched closely to see if it pricked at Katsuki too. Izuku wanted it to, and at the same time, he was afraid if it did, he would really detonate. Nothing should ever hurt Katsuki again. Nothing related to him especially. He had caused everybody plenty of hurt. Izuku was relieved, for the first time then, that Katsuki had a poker face. 

“You fucking punched me. I remember that.” Katsuki swiped his tongue over his canine, taunting. 

“You were being stubborn,” Izuku said pointedly.

“If I punched you every time you were being stubborn.” Katsuki let his words hang—forearms flexing as he braced them against the table. Obviously he worked out, but his muscle definition was really out of this world. Izuku took a mental note of the lines of his arms. Gulping, he tried to focus on Katsuki’s face again. Izuku’s gaze dropped to the point where the angle of his sharp jaw met his ear. That was, he decided, a harmless spot to focus on.

“You are definitely more stubborn than me!”

“I never give up, Izuku. That's what it fucking is. I especially don't give up on things that matter.” Katsuki looked serious. His brows were furrowed, lower jaw pulsing, and lips pursed in a way that was meant to provoke. Provoke Izuku into considering something stupid. They weren't on the same page anymore—Katsuki meant something else entirely. Maybe he would have told Izuku, and stopped frying him with the blazing intent in his eyes, had they not been graciously interrupted.

“Oh my god! Midoriya!” Kaminari waved them down, his fingers dancing like he was tickling a piano. 

The last time Izuku and Katsuki had spoken, it was in his really expensive, and really cool car. When things got heavy, Izuku had relied on the company they had. He had escaped by sinking into the plush seats, not meeting Katsuki's eyes in the rear-view mirror, and relying on a buzzed Kirishima to interrupt and save him. This time he didn't need saving. But when Kaminari floundered to them, Izuku told himself that he did. He was supposed to be avoiding Katsuki.

“Dunce face,” Katsuki groaned. 

“Woah! I am happy to see you too, Bakugou!” Kaminari smiled. “And Midoriya! My man!” 

“He’s not your man.” Katsuki clicked his tongue. Izuku sucked in his cheeks. He should get a drink.

“Yeah, yeah. How have you been?”

“I have been good!” Izuku giggled. It was a tactic he used to hide the instability in his voice. Giggle while speaking. It was pretty genius. “How are you? I haven't seen you in forever!” 

“And whose fault is that?” Kaminari said it light-heartedly. It still stung.

“Sorry! Work’s kept me real busy,” Izuku replied, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear shyly. His nail found the old notch on his neck and he scratched it again. Izuku couldn't recall exactly when he had developed the nervous habit. He used to scratch the side of his face before, but after all the scarring…

“Don't sweat it! I know we were such a handful for Aizawa. Especially Bakugou.”

“It was you who was the biggest pain in the ass, Dunce. Stupid as you fucking are.” Katsuki was seething. It was one of Izuku's favourite Kacchan expressions. He looked so stupidly handsome with his features twisted like that—all charming and assertive and heroic! A signature look, like All Might’s smile. Somewhere out there, there had to be a kid practicing in front of the mirror, trying to perfect their Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight sneer.

“Hey! Midoriya, calm your guard dog. He’s going to bite my head off!” At times Izuku didn't quite get Kaminari’s humour. Guard dogs were possessive. Katsuki was—he had his arm on Izuku's headrest, and he was half-hiding him with his broad back—he definitely looked possessive. But he wasn't being! No, not really. 

“Kacchan likes his space!” Izuku provided helpfully. 

“Yeah I fucking do. Go get Deku a beer!” Katsuki dismissed Kaminari with a flick of his wrist, caging Izuku with his body further. Kaminari swallowed every brewing complaint. He understood what Katsuki wanted. It wasn't about space.

“Sweet, sweet Midoriya,” Kaminari mumbled, smirking. He thought of how he’d like to find a good spot to watch them, but the way Katsuki was hovering over Izuku meant he had guessed that Kaminari’s voyeuristic tendencies (and Kirishima’s. And Mina’s, and Sero’s, and Todoroki’s. They were all equally bad) were going to make an appearance. 

“By the way, I would like you to know that I am not doing this for you, Bakugou.” Kaminari couldn't help himself. Katsuki flipped him off.

“So, work’s been tough, huh?” He turned to Izuku, brows pinched to mean inquisitive concern and not frustration. 

“Uh, yeah Kacchan. Well, there is this thing. I am not supposed to,” Izuku bit his lip, “Can I tell you? It's kind of cool? It's a lot, actually. And I am so glad Aizawa Sensei trusts me with it. But it is confidential. I am telling you because,” Izuku paused. He could never keep anything from Katsuki. Under his attentive stare, Izuku always came undone. Another reason why he was supposed to be avoiding him. “Don't tell anyone. I mean I know you won’t—”

“Get to it, nerd.” Katsuki was facing him completely. Izuku could only see Kacchan. Kacchan’s chest, Kacchan’s arms, Kacchan’s shoulders, Kacchan’s face. Oh god. 

Izuku spluttered, flailed his hands and then beckoned Katsuki to bend low. “I–Well, there’s now a lot more research on quirks and the quirkless. I mean quirkless people can be heroes. There’s a lot, but yeah, UA is going to have a course for them soon. Isn't that kinda cool?”

Katsuki’s face softened. He was giving himself away, he was consolatory. It was enough to look at him and feel strengthened. Izuku’s sheepishness dissipated, “Isn’t it cool, Kacchan?” That was the thing about Katsuki, he was so amazing that he somehow made Izuku feel amazing. He felt steadier around him, even though his insides were a little disbalanced, heart beating a tad too fast, a road given for a strange glory in his body—matter made feeling in the trembling of an instant—jerkish pauses, stutters, scratches, picked skin. 

“Fuck, that is cool. Izuku, it's really cool. There will be brats who can dream like you and have a chance at achieving it now.” 

“Kacchan! You’re amazing!” Izuku chirped, eyes wide enough to contain everything he felt and deep enough for him to not know.

“The fuck did I do?” But Katsuki was too smug to be questioning Izuku's heartfelt words. He was not abating it. For fuck’s sake, he'd never! Katsuki wasn't the type to argue with praise. And Izuku knew he hardly argued with his. 

Blushing bright red again, Izuku stumbled words out in a single breath, “My suit—for me—that you! It must have inspired it and I don't know. But I was thinking it. Maybe. Hah!” 

“Breathe, Izuku. That’s it,” Katsuki said, smiling crookedly. “Calm down, idiot. The fuck you so riled up for?” Which was a very good question! Izuku had no idea why he felt like he had just woken up from a dream where he had been falling. And he still felt like he was falling, and falling, and falling. 

“Sorry! I am just excited, I guess. You know, they are also working on understanding dangerous quirks. There are some good things happening.” 

“Yeah, about time. Shit, this is great. It makes sense they’d have you look over it. There’s no one fucking better.”

“Kacchan,” Izuku’s mouth fluttered around the syllables of his name. He was being pushed to make a terrible discovery. Fuck that. Izuku was going to be a boulder. “Kacchan.” 

“You are fucking special like that. Everyone sees it.” Katsuki looked at Izuku like he was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. He looked at him the way Izuku sometimes looked at furniture when he was anxious. It was at those precise moments that Izuku would appreciate furniture and how it kept them on the ground. They were not mounting up trees or spreading on grass. That's what Izuku was under Katsuki's intensity—an anchor, the first salvation—fucking rigid. 

“Special?” That wasn't the first time Katsuki had said it. Special. He had said to Izuku once before that if everyone was special to him, then no one really was. At that time (even now the same notion persisted), Izuku thought it was an ideological battle. Katsuki was challenging him with his long-standing belief in meritocracy. Challenging Izuku's long-standing belief in the goodness of all of mankind. Only the strongest rise to the top. Good doesn't mean strong. 

It was ironic as hell. Katsuki berated him even as he commended him. To Katsuki, it was Izuku's brand of heroism that made him special. He kept trying to save everyone. He was strong because he was good. A good heart, an honest heart. He picked up on things. He wasn't dull. 

Katsuki continued, “Not just special as a hero. As a fucking nerd too. You really see extras—”

“I got your beer!” Kaminari banged a pint glass on the table. The white foam on top separated, and somewhere in the middle was a discernible sad, collapsing face. 

“Fucking! Shit fuck.” Katsuki ran a hand over his face.  

Shit fuck indeed, Izuku thought. It was ruined. Breath built in his throat, ready to vibrate and trip out in annoyance. Instead, Izuku said, “Thank you, Kaminari-kun!” 

“No problem!” 

The night transitioned from there, and Izuku lost his connect with Katsuki. They continued to talk, but felt disallowed from bringing back what had been left unsaid. People swarmed around them, Izuku felt like the centre of a growing whirlpool. He asked Katsuki, amidst all those who came to breach their seclusion (Sero, Todoroki, Iida, Aoyama, Jirou, Momo…he was losing track. The whole world seemed to have missed him!), how work was. Then beat himself about it, moping internally. Katsuki better not mention sidekicks again. And he didn't. He smiled conceitedly—which was another one of Izuku's favourite Kacchan expressions—and said to him, “Like you don't know the shit I do, you damn stalker!” Izuku deflected at that, pink in the face. 

Soon after, the karaoke music started and their enduring string of conversation snapped. Kirishima and Mina were up first. It was very, very loud. Izuku's beer remained untouched. The foam fizzled until all that was left was a frothy girdle around the rim of the glass. 

“Izuku,” Katsuki called out to him when it was time to leave. “I’ll drop you, nerd. C’mon. Just you and me.”

“Just us!” Izuku cried, shoulders grazing his earlobes. 

“Yeah, Icy Hot is taking Shitty Hair and Pinky. I have no other idiots to deal with.” Katsuki pocketed his hands, slouching. 

“You have this idiot! I don't want to be any trouble, Kacchan,” Izuku mumbled, knitting his fingers together.

“Ain’t any trouble if I asked you, shitty nerd.” 

“Kacchan, it's fine! I’ll just walk. I am not drunk or anything. Plus I have to take Uraraka-san with me. We came together!” Izuku scrambled for an excuse. It couldn't be just them. He wasn't ready for that yet. And on top of that he hadn't drank any alcohol. In such a right state of mind, Izuku was too hyper-aware of Katsuki and he was too hyper-aware of himself. He'd totally ruin everything.

“Round face,” Katsuki said quietly, his mouth twitching in brave resistance against impassivity. 

“Yeah!” Izuku's eyes darted around the place, trying to spot Ochaco. As soon as he did, he ran towards her, trying to make a point. 

She slumped against him, laughing. “I won, I won!” she cheered. 

“At what cost?” Izuku said fondly, grabbing her arm and placing it around his neck. He felt Katsuki’s eyes on him. Turning around, he waved, smiling. “Bye Kacchan!” 

Katsuki raised his arm, left it suspended in the air, motionless. “Nerd.”

Ochaco laughed again, leaning her head on Izuku's side. “It's funny,” she hiccuped. “You told me you wanted to see everyone. After Bakugou,” she laughed some more, “you forgot everyone.”

“Shut up!” Izuku thought that was too astute an observation for someone as drunk as his friend. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mina tapped Katsuki’s shoulder. He was staring at the empty spot where Izuku had bid him goodbye, unmoving. “You did good.”

“Was I not direct enough?” He raked his fingers through his hair. 

“You were. I thought last time you were plenty direct too.” Mina smiled assuredly, though Katsuki couldn't see her.

“Then why doesn't he fucking get it. Fuck, maybe he doesn't feel the same. This is just him letting me down—”

“Bakugou, cut that out! I promise to you he feels the same. Everyone sees it.” Mina squeezed his shoulder.

“Izuku's nice. He's always been. He’s the fucking golden boy. You think I mean something more to him, but the truth is, I am the same as everyone.” Katsuki’s voice did not waver, in fact it was the most steady it had ever been—a process of simple realisation. Realisation that was destroying his wholesale illusion and creating an irrational depression. 

“That's not true!” Mina was indignant.

“Fucking! Pinky, your ugly claws are digging into my skin!” 

“It's not true, ok?” Mina only tightened her grip.

“Ok, ok!” Katsuki sighed. She let go, though she was sure he did not believe her.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Katsuki was right. The way he often was. Izuku could never take his eyes off him—or, in this case, his ears. He couldn’t quite afford to glue his sights at the blaring TV since he was cooking breakfast. It was his day off, which meant he could actually watch the damn Hero Network, instead of mindlessly scrolling on the HeroGlimpse twitter account during his lunch break. But the term ‘stalker’ was harsh. Izuku preferred watchman, guard or sentinel. Sentinel?! He scrunched his face. Gosh, so weird. In all honesty, stalker was better. 

Not that it was only Katsuki he kept an eye on. The others didn’t escape him either. When he scrolled through the HeroGlimpse media tab, he found posts tagging nearly all of his classmates. Sure, he really only stopped for Katsuki’s pictures, only ever clicked on those, only ever read the replies under them—the quote tweets too. This was his guilty pleasure. More accurately, his guiltiest.

As Izuku chopped mushrooms and bell peppers for his egg, he found himself tuning out the reporter’s droning voice, till it beat against the walls of his ears in a lulling drum. Naturally, and at a very young age, Izuku’s attentional resources had developed superbly to catch, process, filter, and select the word ‘Katsuki Bakugou’ (and his hero name as soon as he had learnt of it), out of every occurring type of indecipherable mumbo-jumbo. It was a skill he had been exercising to its fullest since middle school, remorsefully then, and mechanically now. 

“Reports have just arrived from Musutafu’s Institute of Medical Sciences, in the Shizuoka prefecture, of a villain attack. The villain is described to have a flame quirk and has set the building on fire. Thirty or so employees remain stuck on the fifth floor where the emergency exits have been blocked. Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight…”

Izuku’s head whipped so fast, his curls sprung up like coiled cucurbits before falling defenceless and flat. “Kacchan,” he whispered, fingers tugging the valve of his stove upright, shutting it off.

“…the building is crumbling…all safe…no sight of Dynamight!”

Izuku was filled with equal parts fear and dread. He was seeing what he had already seen before, play by play—only this time, under different circumstances. Four months ago, when he was lounging in UA’s staff room, feet propped up, Aizawa had burst into his room, slamming the door so hard it met with the wall. He’d said, in a voice deprived of its usual banausic calm, Katsuki’s been injured in a rescue mission. He managed to save all the children.

Which—of course—he did. This was Kacchan! 

Later, it was reported that the daycare had suffered collateral damage from a minor villain attack in the area. Too fucking bad that the damage hadn’t been minor. Katsuki was in the hospital for weeks. When Izuku finally saw him standing—no longer bedridden—he found that his shoulders were still bandaged. It was horrible. Even then, Izuku saw what he had already seen before. 

He was just as useless as he had been all those years ago, when Katsuki had apologised to him in the rain. 

Katsuki, who hated the rain. 

Katsuki, who had held Izuku with bandaged shoulders in the rain. 

Izuku recoiled from how much he wanted to be held by Kacchan again. 

This time things had to be different. And as Izuku saw the big building engulfed and withering on his TV, a belief of his changed fundamentally. Impulse was not the opposite of anxiety. They were not conflicting responses to what was terrifying. Not to him, no. Not when it came to Kacchan. In fact, he had discovered a consonance between the two. Izuku was afraid and he was willing, teetering on a familiar isolation and wired by a need to move. And so he did. 

Frantically, he rushed to his bedroom, sweating and panting, wanting to throw up. He practically pulled open his wardrobe by its hinges, swearing, bending down low, and dragging out from the far corner of the bottom shelf a briefcase. On it was engraved the number eighteen in silver. Quickly, he snapped it open, peering inside like he had the first time he’d seen its contents. 

The hero suit glowed. 

Last he’d worn it, Katsuki was at his side, pointing out every feature. We’ll train till you make this suit your bitch, like you did One For All, he had said, petting Izuku’s cheek. 

In the end, they didn’t train much at all. Izuku kept insisting he was too busy. When he thought ‘busy’ got repetitive, he’d switch to ‘tired’ and when he had said that too many times in a row, he’d go back to ‘busy’. 

Now he was brimming with a willingness that stemmed from the torment of his polluted meditations, full with morbid omens of a dead Katsuki. He was without his heart again, bleeding again, quiet, stabbed, spindled, hollowed. Izuku saw Katsuki die at least twice or thrice every week, and in the time that he had rushed to his room and pulled out his hero suit, he saw him die enough times to make up for two weeks worth. In a tearful paralyzed silence he’d watch as they pulled out a stretcher and laid Katsuki on it, sullying the white sheets red. The type of red Izuku hated. Not red like Katsuki’s eyes, not brave and intimidating and beautiful. But a shrivelling kind of red. A sticky, pungent kind. Izuku swallowed. 

He started undressing in the middle of his room at such speed that there was no space for him to fantasize and squeeze in some new variation on dying. He stumbled over the legs of his costume, hopping on one foot, grabbing the bed post, almost falling on his ass. Fuck! 

The suit metalled around his body creating a hard shield. He tapped his knuckles against his abdomen, mesmerised by how the cloth had transformed. There was no time for him to steal a glance at the mirror and really study the suit. And that he was thankful for—not wanting to have to look at himself. Izuku didn’t deserve to be wearing a hero suit. He wasn’t a hero. There was nothing special about him. But his reckless need for Katsuki outweighed any other feeling, outweighed even rationality. Had he ever been rational when it came to Kacchan anyway? He already knew that at this very moment, other heroes were being deployed. But none of them were him. Their priorities mirrored his only in principle, not in intensity. He couldn’t rely on them to make sure Kacchan was safe. 

Izuku opened the big window in his room, pulled back the All Might curtains, and jumped. The little gold protrusions on his gloved knuckles lifted up like tiny surveying cameras, shooting out shadowy extenders similar to Black Whip, which expanded and moved with biological precision. Its sprawling tendrils bound around light poles and buildings, as Izuku swung his body forward, with the vestigial dewclaw of his metalled feet webbed to assist his landing. Some footing and then an immediate push and his feet closed up. Another leap—each faster, faster, faster! The reconstruction of Black Whip was nearly perfect, and Izuku almost felt the kind of rush he had at sixteen. Almost.

The way to the Medical Science Institute was mapped out neatly in front of him, and he concentrated on that, letting the feel of the wind, the flight of his hair, the roaring sound of civilians below, and a dead Katsuki recede in the back of his mind to afflict him ambiently. 

He knew he was near—a minute away, a stretch of his arm really—when he saw the large green cross on top of a shattered glass building, blackened. And dark, billowy smoke tapering and curling like a crooked finger. This was it. Musutafu’s Institute of Medical Sciences. He flew down to it. Fifth floor, fifth floor, fifth floor: he chanted, lips moving silently, in an unintelligible farce. Below him, heroes called out his name in surprise and worry, but they had shifted from being granted border-existence to a full expulsion. The only thing that was real to Izuku was the damned building, the damned fifth floor, his damned maneuvering, and Kacchan. 

Izuku grabbed the hood of his suit and pulled it over his face, stuffing its end between his teeth. He swung his leg and kicked the large glass panes. They spurted out in the sharp-edged shapes charted by the cracks, and fell to the floor, tinkling like a wind chime. Izuku ducked his head low, and floated in, careful to not touch any jagged corners. Didn’t matter all that much anyway—he already felt as though his body was being dragged through broken glass. 

The orange-black smoke was thick, almost opaque, drifting with an inoculated furnace-heat which throbbed against its gaseous confines and made breathing feel like an unbearable idea. Izuku had trapped a fresh gulp of air before he entered through the window, and slowly drank from that supply, chest heaving in rapid progressions as he did. He told himself that it was all just like Smokescreen, and trudged on. 

He felt sweat flowing and settling between his joints, his suit heated up easily, and in his head was the storm-surge wash of a fainting spell waiting to crash. But Izuku’s dimensions, senses, and affections were of little interest to him. At that moment he was hardly human. His hands inched towards the blades stashed under the booster metal guard of his right thigh. He wished he could slice through the smoke and heat, slice, slice, slice…

And then—Kacchan. 

Find Kacchan. 

The parts of the building that he could see were blackened and solidified like a carcass, others crumbling like fresh chalk. He felt the weakness of the ground beneath his feet—surely it would collapse.

Find Kacchan. 

Concrete pillars lay bare on the ground, uprooted like trees, their spaced slots empty and drooping. Izuku stepped over them, head bent low. Pockets of the ceiling sank like water loaded on flimsy paper. Even the ground above was weak. Everything was going to collapse. That could all happen, Izuku decided, after Katsuki was out and safe. As he turned to what seemed like the open area for a reception, he saw three pillars stacked like wood for a bonfire, and under it—red-toed boots and silver knee pads.

“Kacchan!” Izuku screamed. It was a strong scream—loud and lasting—but it was without summit and without base, just circles and circles of crackling despair. His heart took up the patterns of a familiar ache, beating in a way that threatened to crush his ribs. And his breath matched the bone-smashing thump, bursting at the inner walls of his lungs. 

Izuku saw nothing but Katsuki’s bent legs, felt nothing but the pillars on top of Katsuki, and could do nothing but run and power One For All. Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan, he cried all the way, hoping—praying that he’d get a reply back. The brim of his hood stuck to his upper lip, wet with saliva. Izuku had long depleted his source of fresh air. He was taking in the smoke. If Katsuki knew, if he were awake right now, he would have killed him for it. 

Oh, Izuku would have loved that. Loved for Katsuki to direct his beautiful, narrowed eyes at him. Shout at him. Call him Deku. 

He lifted the pillar up with ease, One For All hardly necessary. He could see Katsuki’s green support straps. Another pillar and his firm, powerful arms (naked now that his suit had ripped), and his burly middle came into view. The last pillar revealed his chest, moving rhythmically, and his strong face, and the running trail of blood on his temple. Izuku wished it could have been him in Katsuki’s place. “Kacchan! You are stupid! But you saved everyone, you hear me? Everyone. You are amazing, Kacchan.”

Katsuki’s eyelids fluttered, his lashes winked winningly, “Izuku,” he croaked out. Then he tried again, with indignant effort, “You’re fucking here.”

“Kacchan! Oh my god! You,” Izuku pressed his face to Katsuki’s chest, slowing his breath with each beat, “I was so scared. So scared,” he sobbed. Katsuki’s large hand cupped the underside of his head, fingers teasing through his curls. He hummed. All the strength left in him he directed to the movement of his hand, busy soothing Izuku. “Sorry.” Izuku whispered, sniffling. 

Blue logic suddenly froze him cold. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight, he quickly slid his arm under Katsuki’s armpits, hoisting him up. 

“I am going to get you out of here.” Izuku’s eyes took up a new, less emotional sheen. He bit his bottom lip and let Black Whip out, wrapping it gently around Katsuki’s torso.

“Izuku,” Katsuki said again. It was all he seemed capable of saying. Easy, weightless, roll of the tongue, and a gentle purse of his lips—too rewarding, and too facile a thing to have Izuku turn to him each time in a way that made his name all the more pretty. Eyes wider, and wider still, cheeks all pink and glowy, spasming mouth, and a flickering frailty before bitter resolve took over. By now, he had reached that final stage—Izuku was resolute.

Katsuki let his hand fall, resting it on Izuku’s hips, digging around trying to find flesh, trying to sink past the hot metal of his Iron Suit. He tried voicing some regrets, but lost consciousness behind a film of strawberry-strained gelatin and the dulcet sound of Izuku’s ‘Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan.’

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The smell of ether made Izuku sick. Hospitals always made him sick. He spent most of his time in there knocked out, and that was really the only way to survive a hospital visit. The waiting room was especially bad—the worst. Izuku felt sorry for all the times his mother was made to smell ether. Felt even more sorry, knowing that each time had been because of him. 

“Kirishima-kun?” He clutched his phone harder, till he was sure that its screen would splinter. 

“Yes? Hello? Midoriya! Oh god! How is he?”

“Kacchan is—he’s still unconscious. I spoke to the doctor and she said he’s going to be ok. She told me not to worry at all. He’ll be here till he wakes up. They’ll run some tests after, and that’s it. It’s not bad like last time.”

“That’s good,” Kirishima sighed. “My sidekick, Kairi—he’s got a water quirk. So he responded to the distress call. His quirk’s powerful—he’s good with it. But he’s been overworked. And then to save that building and its residents, he really outdid himself. It wasn’t enough. You know, Bakugou, he still doesn’t have a sidekick—”

“You don’t have to explain it like that, Kirishima-kun!” Izuku cut him off. “I know. Kairi-kun—he apologised to me. He shouldn’t have! He’s so young. We were learning too then, we are still learning. And he did so good! I told him that. I told him he did good. When I got in there, it was just smoke. No fire.”

“If I hadn’t been on this away mission…”

“You are a hero, Kirishima-kun. Kacchan is a hero too. He had to save those people. He had to help Kairi-kun.”

“You are a hero too, Midoriya! You are the best, man. Really!”

Izuku smiled, the stretch of his lips half disappeared behind his phone. He shifted it to his other ear. “You’ll know when he’s awake. And one more thing, Kirishima-kun.”

“Hmm?”

“It wasn’t a villain. I don’t know what the news channels are still reporting…”

“They are still reporting a villain attack.”

Izuku chewed the brittle nail of his thumb, frowning. He remembered the sixteen-year-old boy who was sitting in the interrogation room, shoulders jerking with muffled spasms of silent crying, then forced stillness, and again crying. Never once did he look up. Izuku only knew the colour of his hair, and the strength of his shoulders. His hair was brown, and his shoulders weren’t very strong. 

“It’s a child. A teenage boy. Still in high school. His quirk’s too much for him. Whenever he gets angry or upset, it veers out of control. His mother works at the medical institute. He had gone to give her the bento she had forgotten. They got into an argument. And in his rage, he started a fire. I am working closely with the police right now. I don’t want them to make any mistakes. The kid’s an outcast in school. He got suspended last week. His mother was telling us that it was because of his violent outbursts. Apparently, they are very common. But I saw him. He doesn’t think anything of himself. It’s really important to me that he’s looked after.”

“Oh god,” Kirishima whispered. Izuku imagined him pressing his eyelids. “We have to fix this. The reports I mean.”

“I could, but—I’m telling you this because with the media... I don’t really want to be the one—”

“I’ll tell the boy, Kairi. He’ll handle it. He likes the camera as much as Denki. Do you believe that?” Kirishima laughed, and it wasn’t forced. He could always manage out a laugh. 

“It’s very hard to! And Kirishima-kun.”

“Yes, bro?”

“Thank you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Kacchan?” It was a little hard to believe that Izuku had once been this tiny. Katsuki bent down to his level, boots tucked closely behind. He was in his full hero suit. 

“Kacchan!” Four-year-old Izuku grew more excited every time that he said his favourite word. His pink dew-drop lips were drawn back around his buck teeth, the top of his mouth a wide line, stretching the length of the base of his nose. And his nose was so tiny too! Just a small bump. 

“What is it, squirt?” Katsuki wanted to gather Izuku into his arms and keep him there forever. Squirt! Ha! It’s all that he had been able to manage. Brat didn’t seem right for the boy. 

“Kacchan’s a hero! Wah!” Izuku jumped up and down, barely able to contain his happiness. It flowed off him in waves, floating like the bubbles of a fizzy drink. 

“Damn right!” Izuku’s happiness perched on Katsuki’s shoulder and mutated into pride. His chest swelled. 

“Am I a hero too?” Izuku stopped jumping. He held onto the end of his yellow All Might t-shirt, pulling at its hem, looking down with a pink glow.

“Izuku, listen to me very carefully.” 

The boy’s eyes roundened, chin wobbling in expectation. 

“You have always been a hero. Even now, you are a hero. You stand up for other extras, don’t you?”

Izuku nodded, lifting his head up slightly, trying to meet Katsuki’s eyes. 

“You are already a better hero than me.”

“Don’t say that!” Izuku rushed to him, his soft star hands splayed on Katsuki’s face. “You are the best hero. Most amazing ever!” He was offended, and he was on his tippy toes.

Katsuki chuckled. “And the best needs the best by his side.” 

“I am with Kacchan, always!” Izuku pouted. “If Kacchan thinks I am the best.”

“Of course you are, squirt. The hell you take yourself for?”

Izuku giggled. He gave him his soft, pudgy hand. “C’mon, Kacchan,” he said, smiling so wide that his lashes kissed the top of his crab-apple cheeks.  

“Where are you taking me?” Katsuki gave him his hand right away. Izuku held his finger as gentle as a lamb. 

“I am taking you back,” he said. All this while, the both of them had interacted in white emptiness, stuck in what could only be described as a borderless page. A sort of plainness which allowed an isolation that Katsuki could live with, thrive in. But suddenly, at Izuku's words, a shallow stream slashed through their path. “We have to cross it.” 

The water reached just slightly above Katsuki’s ankles, but it completely soaked Izuku's shorts and half his t-shirt. Still he dragged Katsuki, undeterred by the sticking sogginess. 

Right at the edge, as they climbed out of the other end, Izuku stopped and turned to him, and said with a moony look, “Bye, bye, Kacchan.” Yet, Izuku did not let go of Katsuki’s finger.

“What?” 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Katsuki smelt ether.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Izuku’s door was going to break. 

For God's sake! His place had a doorbell, and it had been installed precisely for use. It was a simple switch with a little bell icon. Very hard not to miss. Instead whoever was trying to get to him was using a battering ram. It was a good thing that the door was covered under his home insurance policy. 

“Who is it?” he shouted. Leaving his dinner (it was a sad plate of leftovers that didn't really go together) and running to the entrance. 

“Fucking Deku! How could you?” 

“Kacchan?” Izuku quickly unlatched the bolt, fingers slipping after the nimble pull and click. He wobbled backwards and spread his arms wide. Katsuki looked like he needed a place to fall. And he did fall into them, all bent and big, forehead digging into Izuku’s shoulder. All his anger tumbled out in the exalted breaths he took, warming Izuku’s ratty nightshirt and his freckled skin. 

“Why did you leave?” Katsuki asked quietly, lips mapping the words out in ghost kisses. Izuku shivered. Heat unfurled all the way to his chest.

“Kacchan, I thought—”

“Yeah that too. Fuckin’,” Katsuki looked at him now, letting Izuku’s hands fall to his sides—leaving them pathetically empty and useless. He was angry again. It was felt most in his low inhales and the twitching bundle of nerves that quivered on his tight set jaw. “I don’t fucking know what’s going on in that head of yours,” he spat out, tapping the centre of Izuku’s forehead softly. Like always his actions failed to meet the violence of his words. Izuku’s hands still didn’t know what to do, but his mouth worked fast. 

“You got discharged?”

“No. I just came here.”

“Kacchan!” Izuku’s hands gained an abrupt awareness, and he hit Katsuki on his chest. The crinkle between his brows trembled, and the corners of his mouth twitched, but he did not give up on his glare. Glare like Kacchan. He narrowed his eyes even more. They were almost closed. 

“Stop that. God, stop that Izuku!” Katsuki snatched his wrists, locking them both with one hand. “I was fucking discharged.”

“Not a good joke! You would still be here even if you weren’t. And you know that!” Izuku wrestled his hands away and threw out an accusing finger.

Katsuki shrugged. “Here you go, running again. When the fuck did you get so good, huh? I was asking about you, Deku.” 

“I promise that you don’t want to know what goes on in my head,” Izuku whispered, presenting his wrists to Katsuki by pressing them against his. He wanted them to be enclosed once more. Maybe the last time. 

“Izuku.” Katsuki held him, imagining the corruption of his touch running through the tracts of Izuku’s body, from his veins into the recesses of every organ. Izuku reacted like it too, like he was being corrupted. Katsuki held him firmer—more sting into his innocent body. “Nothing can ever turn me away. Nothing ever did. So can you please fucking stop trying? It’s not going to work.”

“It’s difficult,” Izuku said quietly, his voice thick with saliva. But when he looked at Katsuki, it seemed for a moment to be the easiest thing to tell him. He was pleading with him. He wanted to know, it mattered to him. Izuku had unsettled his faith, had muddied their path with resistance and silent misunderstandings to make himself let go.

Let go of his dreams, let go of Kacchan. Somehow he’d known that he would fail. So he’d tried even harder. He tried to make Katsuki let go of him. But he failed at that too, and failed spectacularly. Katsuki always came out on top. He was pleading with him. 

Izuku would have to let him know. It would be his first success in a long time. It would be the first proper match-up of mind and movement in what had felt like years. 

“I know it’s fucking difficult. I know because I want you to know what goes on in mine too. But be braver than me, Izuku. I can’t go first.” Katsuki was fervent. Izuku could never say no to him.

“Come here, then.” Izuku guided him to the couch, never once letting go. He feared the loss of Katsuki’s skin on his, and feared it more than the brute intimacy he felt. As soon as they were seated, knees touching and hands locked, Izuku emptied his lungs and began his ramble, pristine of further thought. 

“You’re too good, Kacchan. You are amazing. And for the longest time I tried to be like that. Being a hero—I had been told, and I believed—still believe, means being special. What’s strange is that I only hold this against myself. Because everybody has something, you know. Still I kept telling myself, ‘that’s all you are lacking, you already have the rest.’ 

“When I inherited One For All, I became special. Finally, I could be like Kacchan! I could go to UA! Stand among the best, with you! And then, all I had left was dying embers… You don't know this, but I kept on trying anyway. But I was older than fourteen that time around, and so I knew sooner. Accepted quicker. Really, Kacchan. I accept it. 

“What sucks is that, for all the time that my dream had been reality, I didn’t make the most of it. That’s what I regret. I didn’t do enough. I was never,” Izuku stopped. His cheeks were wet. 

Katsuki followed Izuku’s tears like he wished he could be them—born in his delicate eyes, slipping past his freckles, dying on his lips. He seemed to fucking admire them.

“You are the greatest hero. How can you not see that, idiot? And never enough? You did more than any fucking hero ranked in the top ten could have ever done in his lifetime. I mean, yeah, you didn’t do it all. You couldn’t save them all. But you saved the world. You saved the world at sixteen, you little fucker. You have always been special. That’s what pissed me off. 

“And now it’s pissing me off cause you don’t see it. How can you think that everyone is special and not you? You are more than everyone’s worth. To me, you have always been. I asked you then too. I meant, to me, you are special. Nobody else is.” Katsuki had lied. He was braver than Izuku.

“Kacchan!” Izuku hiccuped and swallowed his name. “I almost lost you. You know I almost lost you! What good is saving the world if I can't save Kacchan? I am not special. Not when I almost lost you.” He pressed the lower breadth of his palm against his eyelids, forcing the droplets back in. 

Katsuki pulled his hands away, cupping his cheeks and letting the gentle swipe of his thumb soak up Izuku's resilient tears. “Shh, it's ok. It's ok. You can cry. It's time you do. I don't know how you kept it in that long. Fucking crybaby that you are.”

“I don't know either.” Izuku snorted. 

“Hey, you didn't lose me. I have never been an easy fucker, have I?” he smirked.

“But I lost Shigaraki. And, yeah, now we have all these things we are working on. I told you about that.” Izuku liked to think that he was good at staving off. 

“In the bar last time? Yeah.” Katsuki couldn’t let go, his thumbs still brushed Izuku’s dry, peach-pink, cheeks. 

“We are also working on quirks that are out of control and are considered dangerous. You know, like the quirk of the kid who set fire to the medical institution. I keep thinking, how would Shigaraki feel? It could have made him happy. Then I think maybe he wouldn't have been happy. It's my fantasy that he would be. Just a way of coping. 

“So, then is it all about me in the end? Me making up because I couldn't save him. I don't know if I am making sense, Kacchan, but I wanted him to live. And more than that, be happy. Not live because I saved him. No, no, that's selfish. I just wanted him to give us another chance, even though we never gave him any. Oh god! He didn't sacrifice himself god dammit! He died! He died.” Izuku had turned his compassion into self-flagellation, the way he so often knowingly did. And now, Katsuki got to see this discipline of his in proper exercise. He moved swiftly to comfort. Izuku had started crying again. 

Crying so much, Katsuki's thumbs couldn't keep up anymore. He pulled him flush to his chest, and settled on drawing comforting circles. “Climb up,” Katsuki instructed, hands diving near his lower back and under his thighs. Izuku did as told, gripped by the natural Pavlovian gravity Katsuki’s voice had on him. He was promptly pulled onto Katsuki’s lap, and he curled into his warm, big body like it was home. He might never get the chance again. And Izuku could be such a greedy little opportunist! 

“You have changed a lot since we were brats, Izuku. But this thing about you, your selflessness, that hasn’t changed. Only I have changed too, and I know that it isn’t selflessness.”

“I am selfish, aren’t I?”

“All good heroes are. All good heroes want to save everybody. They want to win all the fucking time. You deserve to stand with me. It’s me who should be questioning—”

Izuku’s head jerked up, chin resting on Katsuki’s sternum. “Don’t say that!”

“You are not selfish enough for how good you are. Be more fucking selfish. Tell me, do you want to be a hero?”

Truth, for Izuku, moved in two contradicting directions. He was two-ways truthful. “I want to be a hero. But I don’t feel the time’s right yet. I want to make myself deserving.”

“How do you plan on fucking doing that?”

“I am doing it already. Teaching future heroes. Working with Aizawa Sensei on ‘A New Hero.’ You undermine how selfish I am, Kacchan.” Izuku gave a small smile that grew at the sound of Katsuki’s throaty laughter. 

“You always surprise me, nerd.” His voice took up a kind of fondness Izuku felt wholly unfit for. He hid his face again, and blushed more at the warmth of Katsuki’s firm, muscular body. 

“I’ll surprise you too. And I know you are a fucking dumbass. So, this will surprise you. And you know I am very selfish.”

“What are you trying to say, Kacchan?” Izuku couldn’t bring himself to look at him just yet. He was still cooling down. And Katsuki was relentless. 

“I love you.”

The reaction was immediate. Volatile. Izuku bumped his head against Katsuki’s jaw, scrambling and grabbing onto his shoulders, kneeing and elbowing him in the process. He reddened with the sound of every grunt, every pained, growled out ‘Deku!,’ until he found balance, and his movements regained their age-old volition. 

“What?”

“I love you,” Katsuki said again. It’s all that he had been saying forever. “I love you, Izuku.” He should not have said it again. Not like that. Not with his name. 

Izuku had to match him. He had to show Katsuki that he could be brave too. He could surprise him too. He was surprising himself. It was too much. But Izuku had always loved too much, loved enormity, loved a challenge, loved making himself suitable for it all.

 Oh. oh. 

This inexplicable attraction of his had a singular root. Izuku was coming close to landing, he had been falling for so, so long. 

“Fuck! Look, this doesn’t have to change anything between us—”

“Kacchan, shut up. You can’t say that! That’s like taking it back!”

“I am not taking it back, idiot! I am giving you an easy way out!”

“I don’t want a way out!” Izuku panted. 

He was experiencing a disorienting realization, which came to him without embellishment. Crude and maniacal. His mind worked without strain, too sure of its cerebral assembly. Three words dinged like cartoon lightbulbs in front of him. I love him, I love him, I love him!

“I don’t want a way out because—” Izuku stopped, licking his lips. He said the words in his head, he mumbled them out loud, practicing.

“What are you fucking saying? I can't hear you for shit, Deku!”

Izuku whispered the words one last time, familiarising himself with them further. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and garbled out, “I love you, Kacchan.” 

Eager and afraid to see its effect, Izuku quickly glanced up at the man in front of him winkingly, with elbows straightened and his cotton shorts balled into fists. He had never seen that expression on Katsuki before. It built him up.

So, Izuku continued, trying to temper his feeble voice: “I have since I first saw you, I think. No, I am sure! You are so amazing, Kacchan. How could I not love you?

“I love you!” He said again for good measure.

Izuku’s newfound courage knew no boundaries. He looked at Katsuki’s open, shocked mouth. There was no safe spot left for Izuku to look at. Everywhere he looked he wanted to kiss. Looking away was too much of a punishment. And he had never punished himself for being courageous, he wasn’t going to start now. 

But curiosity without consideration was deviance. Izuku wasn’t deviant. Katsuki was. 

He pulled Izuku by his neck, the only warning he gave, before kissing him. 

He kissed him. Izuku felt the force of his lips—demanding, frenzied, then suddenly slowed, deliberate. He dedicated himself to kissing Izuku, lacking confidence in their breath, afraid they’d have to split too soon. Katsuki knew the Sun would rise tomorrow, but he was unsure if Izuku would want him after this. Even though Izuku was kissing him back with the same fanatical desperation. 

It was a kiss that didn’t believe in itself, so they both poured everything into it. Hands roaming freely, squeezing, groping—touching everywhere uninhibited. Katsuki dislodged his mouth from Izuku’s carefully, cursing that he was human and in need of air. 

“I love you. I want to fuck you, and I want to soap your body and wash your hair.” Katsuki prayed that Izuku understood. 

“I love you, Kacchan. I want you too. I am not going anywhere.” Izuku kissed his cheek, sniffling.  

“You better fucking not,” Katsuki playfully bit him, tonguing his freckles. “Before I blacked out, I saw you and your stupid bunny mask—”

“You funded the costume, Kacchan. I think you like the bunny mask.”

“Don’t get cocky! Anyway, I saw you, all angel-like and I thought ‘wow this is a great way to go.’ Then I even dreamt about your ugly ass. But I woke up and you weren't fucking there. It killed me, Izuku.”

“Kacchan! I am sorry!” Izuku hugged him, kissing his neck chastely. He couldn't stop kissing. What had he done with his mouth before? Only talked? What a miserable existence he had then given to his mouth. 

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it, Sensei. It really did kill me.” Katsuki kissed him too. But there was nothing chaste about it. He was reinforcing what Izuku already knew about him. Katsuki was a man of his word. 

He did fuck him. And he soaped his bruised, bitten body after, and washed his sweaty hair. Katsuki was a man better than his word.

Izuku couldn't be happier, knowing that he had more making up to do. Years worth of his denial—he’d make it all up, and he wanted to take eternity doing it.