Chapter Text
Katsuki Bakugou didn’t care about secrets.
Secrets were just an excuse to not be upfront about things. He didn’t have his own secrets, and he didn’t care about anyone else’s secrets. The only secret he’s ever kept was where Izuku’s power came from, and that was mainly out of necessity.
Secrets are stupid.
He’s thought that his whole life, right up to now, April of his last year at U.A. University.
Because this is bad. This is really fucking bad. This is going to have to be a secret, and it's going to have to be kept safe, because if it's not, then, fuck.
The paper in his hands, mailed to him by his doctor, has his results for a mandatory test that every eighteen-year-old has to take. The secondary gender test. Except he’s twenty. He did this damn test already. He shouldn’t have had to do it again.
Yet, here he is.
He was told he was a beta in his third year at U.A. High. He’s been a beta since—never experienced any of the weird biological shit alphas or omegas went through, like heats and ruts, or instincts, or scents and whatnot. He was a beta.
And then, during one of his yearly checkups, which are mandatory and comprehensive due to him being a hero, his doctor told him he needed to get the test done again. There was something wrong with his hormone levels. That something then snowballed into this: him staring down at his hands, his result paper between his fingers, and his new secondary gender written across the white paper in bold, red ink.
His hands shake when he rereads it.
‘Katsuki Bakugou: omega.’
He curses under his breath, the paper creasing against his fingers. He twists it into a tight ball, slams it between his fists, then blows it up.
He stares at the smoky ash in his palms and thinks about the facts.
He used to be a beta.
He was re-diagnosed as an omega.
There’s only one secondary gender that can’t be pro heroes, and it’s omega.
If anyone found this out, his entire life was going to be ruined.
Secrets are stupid.
***
The minute Katsuki wakes up the morning after receiving his omega diagnosis, he calls his mom.
She was the only person he could even think to call, and even at his technical adulthood of twenty, he felt like a child, sitting there on his dorm room bed as his phone rang in his hands. He felt like a child looking for comfort in his mother's tone, in her voice, in her words, even if that comfort was something Katsuki rarely did get from his mother as a child.
He still needed her.
He told himself he wouldn’t be weak about this, but then she picked up with a soft yet cranky, “What the hell, kid, it’s four in the morning—” and his voice cracked.
He whispered, “I need your help.”
And she didn’t hesitate to say, “Anything you need, Katsuki.”
Her voice, calm, not soft, but not indifferent. Like somehow she was able to sense that he was about to fall apart. That tone, those words, and Katsuki’s shoulders instantly dropped in relief.
He needed to hear that voice.
The conversation that followed was long and painful.
Telling her he was an omega was the hardest part, just because that was the weakest Katsuki would make himself seem. His throat clogged up and his voice strained tight when he finally spit it out, finally croaked, “I’m an omega,” after five minutes of silence.
His mom stayed silent for a few seconds, and then sighed. That was all.
And then—the Talk.
Katsuki knew his mom had his best interest at heart, but having to sit through her very uninformed and choppy impromptu health class on his new dynamic was almost too much to handle right in that moment. She was an alpha married to a beta, and she was also an alpha that had never been interested in omegas before. She went to a preppy rich kid private school all her life, and back when she was his age, omegas weren’t allowed to go to schools like that—and forget about teaching accurate information on the dynamic as a whole.
In the end, she took all of what she remembered, which was just a long winded version of, “Omega’s go through heats, you know? You gotta be careful. You can get pills for that,” and regurgitated it over the phone at a silent Katsuki.
And when she said, twenty minutes into the call, completely unbothered like what she was saying wasn’t multiple types of illegal, “I’ll call your uncle and see what he can do to make it seem like you’re not an omega,” Katsuki nearly broke down.
He could have cried and told her he loved her, but he just nodded silently, even though he was on the phone and she couldn’t see it.
His mother was always his biggest supporter in her own, slightly unconventional way. He knows she would break just as much as he would if his dreams were ripped away from him. Her son isn't weak, her son isn’t some omega thrown away by the system, her son isn’t going to achieve nothing—her son is going to become the next number one hero.
The call ended with a, “You’re going to be okay, Katsuki,” and a firmer, half-joking, “About time we put that ‘your doctor is your uncle’ card to good use, huh?”
Later that day she called him again, hours after their early morning phone call. Katsuki was still stuck in his room, hadn't left it all day, was too scared to leave—which is what had been fucking with his head more than the anticipation when he picked up the phone.
She never wastes time. “Your uncle is going to send a form to your school that says you’re a beta. He said there are plenty of full-coverage scent suppressors and heat pills available, and is going to set you up with some as soon as possible.”
Her voice was just a bit more tired than it was in the morning, the edges of it dripping with a sigh she wouldn’t let out. She must have been arguing. Katsuki knows this is illegal. He knows his uncle, his doctor, was probably against this. He also knows his mom can be violently convincing.
Katsuki’s throat sticks when he asks, just because he needs to know, quietly and tensely, “No one will know?”
His mom doesn’t lie. “No one but me, your dad, and your doctor will know.”
Katsuki stutters silently for a second, then falls back onto his bed, arms and legs outstretched to every side, and listens to his mom breathe through the phone. Listens to the truth she’s trying to convey, trying to promise him.
And Katsuki ends that call knowing one thing for certain: he needs to keep this with those three people, no matter what.
His entire reason for living is on the line.
***
The suppressants he got came with a long list of side effects his doctor was obliged to tell him about.
Something about intense heats after going off, increased blood pressure, hormonal fluctuations, addiction, data linked to cancer, death—he tuned out the rest. It wasn’t like he cared what this shit did to his body. If it fucked him up, he’d find a way around it.
Anything to become a hero, right?
It hadn’t even been a week since he got his new secondary gender results before he was on at least three different pills to stop all of it from happening.
One was an overall suppressant. It was supposed to block out most of his omega instincts from acting up and vice versa. Stuff like alpha commands, scenting, all of the weird bullshit Katsuki didn’t even know alphas and omegas could do before now, all of it was gone. It also came with a list of side effects long enough Katsuki could use the package insert as a fucking blanket, but whatever.
Then the heat pill—which Katsuki would argue is the most important here, because he can’t even imagine himself going into something like a heat—was strong enough to completely stop his heats from happening altogether. His doctor wasn’t very happy about prescribing this one, griped about the risks of not having heats, the side effects, and how the drug was strong enough to be addictive. Katsuki didn’t care. He’s taking the damn pill.
Finally, scent suppressors and scent patches. These were common for people to use individually, but he was told to double up and use both for maximum coverage. Pop a pill and his scent glands stop producing his scent as quickly, then slap a few patches onto the glands themselves, and Katsuki ends up smelling as bland as plain rice.
His overall suppressant had to be taken twice daily, a.m. and p.m., at the same time every single day or he’d have cramps until the next dose. His heat pill had to be taken with food at night, and if he didn’t, he’d be kept awake throwing up. Since he sweat so much, his scent patches had to be reapplied every few hours or else they’d fall off from the sticky surface losing grip. The scent pill had to be taken situationally, at least once a day—which tended to be right before he went to the gym in the mornings, when he’d sweat and smell most.
Four pills a day and half a pack of patches a day.
The routine drove him a bit insane.
He’s used to pills and medication and all of that. He died in high school. That was medication-hell.
But this routine—thinking about his pills, taking his pills, applying his patches, reapplying, taking more pills, thinking about being an omega—is where he started to slip.
Because otherwise, when he wasn’t thinking, he felt like a beta.
Except betas don’t take these kind of pills.
Betas don’t plan their days around them.
Betas don’t wake up at three in the morning, go to brush their teeth, then take their first dose of Neurostazin. Betas don’t have a supply of no-name scent patches under their bathroom sink, under their bed, under their couch, in their school bag, in their gym bag, and two loose ones always in their fucking pants pockets. Betas don’t pack Aromatolo in their gym bag to take in the change rooms. Betas don’t have to worry about making sure they make dinner right before going to sleep because Pyridrogel causes drowsiness. Betas don’t fall into bed, then jump up in a panic because they almost forgot their last dose of Neurostazin. And then betas don’t worry about missing a single one of those pills, a single patch, because betas don’t do this.
Then Katsuki is forced to remember that he’s an omega, and that he’s not a beta.
Being an omega comes with fucking baggage.
And if that isn’t a mindfuck, then he’s not sure what is.
***
The principal’s office was somewhere nobody wanted to be called to.
In Katsuki’s opinion, this is absolutely terrifying.
It’s terrifying because it’s only been a month since he's been diagnosed as an omega, and he’s been hiding that from the entire faculty and everyone that knows him except for his parents and doctor. The principal's office could mean really bad news. It could mean him getting kicked out of university and banned from hero work.
However, that's not what this is about, and still, Katsuki especially hates this particular visit to the principal's office.
“I don’t think I completely understand?” Izuku mumbles next to him, face as white as a sheet.
Principal Nezu’s smile is eerily cheerful for the earth shattering news he’s dropping right now. “Well, with the hero department dorms no longer in liveable conditions after the unfortunate accident last night, we’re going to have to find alternative living accommodations for you students.”
Katsuki narrows his eyes. Unfortunate accident? He wouldn’t call that support chick Mei’s weird ‘babies’ tearing apart the dorms in every destructive way possible an unfortunate accident. Shattering windows, ripping the roof off, catching the kitchen on fire—they literally blew out the entire front wall of the building. He’d call that preventable if someone had decided to take the fucking safety glasses and wrench from her hands.
Principal Nezu continues with a smile, undisturbed by Katsuki’s intense staring, “Our solution is to spread the hero department students throughout the other three departments dorms. However, unfortunately, we don’t have nearly enough rooms available to match everyone’s past living accommodations.” He glances between Katsuki and Izuku. “We’ve decided to pair everyone up, and it might be a tight squeeze, but we think you students can handle it!”
There's a slight pause in which Katsuki deepens his glare and Izuku shuffles in his seat. Nezu looks over to his computer monitor and hums, before saying, “Midoriya, I understand you lived in a single room with a common kitchen and living room, correct?”
Izuku nods quickly, smiling awkwardly as he says, “Yeah, it was like the dorms in high school so… that's why I picked it.”
Nezu nods and laughs. “Yes, your high school dorms were designed after that floor!” He pauses again, clicks his mouse, then says, “While Bakugou, you opted for the apartment-style rooms… yes, well, I think that works!”
He types some more and Katsuki sighs to himself, crossing his arms tight over his chest. Eventually Nezu spins away from his computer and smiles, saying excitedly, “There are a few apartment-style rooms available in the support department building! Though they are meant for one person, we will make adjustments to make sure you both can live there comfortably!”
“Fine, whatever,” Katsuki hisses, quietly and slowly. His chair creaks as he shifts into a position that screams offense. He jerks his thumb to the side. “But why the fuck do I have to share a room with him?!”
Izuku, who’s sitting awkwardly in the chair next to Katsuki, smiles sheepishly.
Katsuki would rather eat his own explosions and blow himself up from the inside out than move into an apartment with Izuku.
Izuku’s fine. As a person, or whatever. Katsuki doesn’t hate the guy, even though he tends to get on his nerves more than not. They’re friends. Someone cheesy might even call them best friends. Middle school happened, then high school happened, and now they’re here in university with a shit ton of history that’s already been sorted and picked through. They hang out weekly, train together in class by choice, and sometimes, if Izuku’s lucky, they go out together. Like friends.
So, long story short, they’re close.
But.
Katsuki has too much to keep secret. He’s a fucking omega in hiding, which is a cute piece of information that could quite literally end his entire career if it got out, and also his entire life in the process. Because what does he do after? After he’s kicked out of hero school and his license is cut in half? Go to college for something boring like accounting? Work a normal nine-to-five job until he’s sixty? Marry some alpha, pop out some kids, be the picture perfect little omega?
Letting anyone into his barbed bubble is practically like committing suicide.
Izuku shoots Katsuki a look that reads, Why not? We’re friends!
Katsuki ignores him entirely. Izuku doesn’t understand.
Aizawa grumbles awake from the couch that's pushed to the far side of the room, blinking before he mutters, “I chose the pairs. Specifically those that have a complicated history.”
Aizawa, the same teacher Katsuki had all through high school, decided he was done teaching teenage kids after the end of Katsuki’s third-year and switched to teaching at U.A. University. Of course he ended up teaching in the heroics department. And of course he ended up being one of the advisors for the heroics department students.
Katsuki knows Aizawa has a soft spot for both of them—his problem children, or the Wonder Duo, or whatever else their friends have called them in the past—but he also knows Aizawa loves the complicated history excuse. Whenever they get paired up together, even though their relationship is fine these days, it's because of some bullshit called complicated history.
Well, their ‘complicated history’ is about to get even more complicated if they have to share an apartment with each other. Katsuki’s absolutely sure of it.
Principal Nezu claps his paws together excitedly. “We’re hoping the close quarters will foster a stronger bond within the groups and departments as a whole!”
“This is bullshit,” Katsuki snaps immediately, not even a second after Nezu speaks, and slouches back in his chair.
Katsuki wasn’t going to build any stronger bonds with Izuku because of this. They became friends after the disaster that was middle school, died in a whole war together, and still managed to graduate on time and get into U.A. University. How much stronger do these people think their bond can get? The bonds are literally so intertwined there’s knots tangling them together for, probably, eternity. Not to be dramatic or anything.
Izuku sighs, also slumping in his chair. “I mean, it shouldn’t be for too long, right? The hero dorms are getting rebuilt?”
Principal Nezu scratches his chin, humming. “Unfortunately, the university has too many projects underway at the moment to focus on the dorms.” He says, all chipper, like that isn’t Katsuki’s death knell. “That means, this is a semi-permanent solution! We’ve decided you all will spend the rest of your year with these living arrangements.” Then he adds on, like an after-thought, “This scenario will also reduce the stress caused by moving!”
Fuck me. Katsuki groans, sliding further down in his seat until he's almost fallen completely off of it.
Izuku doesn't look too thrilled about this either, nervously scratching the back of his head, his smile tight and his eyes wide. Katsuki has no idea why he would be upset right now, but he also doesn't care to pry right in this moment.
He has bigger things to worry about. Namely:
They have to share an apartment for an entire year.
Katsuki is an omega in hiding, and Izuku is his closest friend, an alpha, and the nosiest person Katsuki’s ever met.
This is going to suck.
***
Katsuki stands in the doorway of his new apartment, glaring around the space like the walls themselves have personally offended him.
Honestly, they have offended him. By existing.
Izuku hovers behind him, tipping between his sides, his chest practically touching Katsuki’s back to get a peek into their new living situation. Katsuki feels his breath on his neck and rushes inside, because on his neck are his scent patches, and that’s just—a big no-no. Izuku raises an eyebrow at him, then happily grabs his bags and skips inside after Katsuki.
Katsuki sighs, cursing the world. He steps inside towards the living room and drops his bag onto the couch, which pitifully creaks under the weight of it. “How old is this building?” Katsuki growls, staring at the rickety couch with disgust. “Everything makes fucking noise.”
“I mean, it’s bigger than I expected,” Izuku offers cheekily, standing in the living room and holding his own bags of stuff. Bags, plural, because he couldn’t leave any of his All Might merch in his old dorm room. Katsuki had wanted to force him to throw some of that back or away, but horribly, he finds it endearing. He hates being fond. His own emotions disgust him.
Katsuki’s eyes scan the bland, practically empty, white-walled and light-wood-floored apartment as he spits out, “Don’t start with your optimistic bullshit.”
There’s a kitchen, luckily with a full oven and fridge, but nowhere to eat except for the small kitchen island separating the space from the living room. No dining table is fitting in here. Connected to the kitchen, a living room that looks like it could be tucked away inside a walk-in closet—filled with a university-issued couch and TV awkwardly shoved to the side to make room for a door to the right of the space. That door is the bathroom, which is even tinier, a shower, no tub, but thankfully a sink with an actual counter.
Katsuki huffs and walks out of the bathroom, out of the living room and stands in between the living and kitchen spaces, hands on his hips. His eyes catch one more door, which he assumes is the bedroom—
One bedroom door.
Shit. One. Katsuki’s heart skips a beat.
“Fuck me,” Katsuki mumbles under his breath, ignoring Izuku’s snort next to him, and rushes towards the aforementioned bedroom.
One bedroom with two twin beds squeezed inside. There’s barely enough room between the two to fit the tiny nightstand that’s there. On the wall across from the door is two desks with not even a centimeter of space between them, and opposite to the desks, just next to the bed, is one wardrobe. The room is so jam-packed the only free space is next to the balcony door to Katsuki’s left, and the small walkway between the desks and wardrobe, towards the beds pushed against the far right wall.
Well, it definitely looks like this room was built for one person to live in.
Katsuki groans loudly, and Izuku walks up behind him, looking over his shoulder, back-to-chest again. Katsuki steps to the side. If Izuku doesn’t stay out of his personal space bubble, or whatever the fuck, Katsuki’s going to make the next few minutes hell for both of them—
“I know you said no optimism,” Izuku starts, smiling sheepishly. “But—”
Katsuki cuts him off, snapping, “And I fucking meant it!”
“Ohhh-kay,” Izuku says, perky, creeping into the room like a dog sniffing for food. He hums. “Well, at least there’s two beds? They must have put extra furniture in here.”
“This is bullshit,” Katsuki grumbles, hitting Izuku’s shoulder as he walks out and back into their cramped kitchen-living area. He ignores Izuku’s little laugh.
He stands in his kitchen, his and Izuku’s kitchen, and runs his fingers over the cool granite counter top.
Is this really his life? Living with Izuku, hiding a career-ending secret, and trying not to explode?
Fuck.
He can’t do this. He can’t live with Izuku. Izuku’s the one goddamn person on this entire planet that would find out that Katsuki’s an omega. It feels like it’s written in the fucking stars, that’s how inevitable it is. Like Katsuki’s just walking around with OMEGA Sharpie’d in all-capitals on his forehead whenever Izuku gets into his sight.
It just makes sense that he would know. They’re close. They’ve known each other since diapers. Their moms are best friends, for crying out loud.
Katsuki’s fingers curl into a fist.
Izuku, the chipper bastard, has been rummaging around drawers in the bedroom for the past minute. Katsuki hears the sound of a door sliding, some fumbling around, and then Izuku calls out through the bedroom door, “Kacchan! There’s a balcony!”
Katsuki forces his fingers to unclench and evens his breathing.
***
The idea of living in close proximity to Izuku has Katsuki wanting to rip his hair out.
Izuku is a nerd on the surface and obsessive under the cracks. He knows everyone's birthdays, everyone’s quirks, everyone’s favourite foods, hell, Katsuki bets he knows all of their old classmates clothes sizes too. Don’t even mention the notebooks.
He’s also had a special interest in Katsuki since birth. The last time Katsuki counted how many notebooks were dedicated to him was in their second year of high school, and back then Izuku had thirteen. Only fucking God knows how many Izuku has now.
Izuku knows his email password. He knows his favourite tree on campus. He knows his goddamn muscle to fat ratio, somehow.
It’s an obsession. Clinically diagnosable, at this point. And generally, that obsession never bothered Katsuki. It was just a thing—Izuku knows Katsuki.
Now it bothers him. A lot.
Katsuki sighs.
Izuku walks into the kitchen from where he was shut away in the bedroom previously, all happy like this is some sort of summer camp and not a forced living arrangement. He glances at Katsuki, who’s sat at the kitchen island, and smiles. “Do you want me to make dinner?”
Katsuki wishes Izuku would just slap him across the face instead of metaphorically slapping him across the face.
The horrible part about living with Izuku is that, in theory, it shouldn’t be bad.
Izuku is generous. He’d do all the cooking, cleaning, house-management bullshit if Katsuki wanted it. He’d do it all and still smile and ask, “Is there anything else I can do?” because that’s just the kind of nerd he is.
Katsuki can’t let himself get that comfortable.
Katsuki has to make this bad.
Because there’s nothing worse than Katsuki letting Izuku in, and Izuku finding out something about him that Katsuki had been trying to keep secret.
Which will happen, somehow. Like Izuku finding his pills. Or Izuku seeing Katsuki change his scent patches. Or Izuku finding some sort of diary that future Katsuki apparently keeps where he writes about how much he hates being an omega with little explosions drawn in the margins—okay, maybe that won’t happen.
But something will.
“I can make my own dinner,” Katsuki grumbles, shooting a weak glare Izuku’s way, because even if he wants him to back off he can’t force himself to be awful. Not anymore. “Don’t act like we live together.”
Maybe he’ll stick this out for a month then go to Aizawa and say something like, “Izuku snores like a firecracker going off, so I can’t live with him.”
… Yeah, right. Aizawa would make him write a ten page apology letter for wasting his time.
Izuku pauses with one hand on the fridge door. “We are living together, though?”
“No shit, but we aren’t—” Katsuki groans, throwing his hands in the air and gesturing around the kitchen. “Living-living together. We do our own shit under the same roof. Just like the high school dorms.”
Izuku’s dopey smile dips a bit, and Katsuki hates the way his heart lurches with it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Katsuki is going to wrench his heart out of his chest and kick that instead.
Izuku makes a small, half-forced laugh as he glances away. “Right. Then I’ll just make myself dinner.”
“Great,” Katsuki huffs, stalking out of the kitchen and towards the living room because he’d rather not sit there with Izuku being all domestic and disappointed and shit in his eyesight.
He slumps down onto the couch, grabs the remote, and turns his attention towards the small flat screen TV in front of him. He doesn’t want to watch TV, but he also doesn't want to look like he's doing nothing. It would be weird if he just sat around and stared at the wall, or something. Fuck, this is awkward.
Izuku’s banging around behind him drowns out the second he clicks the TV on.
Katsuki’s already annoyed at the fact he has to do this to make himself feel less weird and invasive in his own damn home, so when the news turns on then quickly switches to an advertisement, and one about fucking omega collars at that, his annoyance almost plateaus.
“Are you and your omega mate looking for bonding collars? Look no further, at Collars For Us we have—”
“Fuck this,” Katsuki snaps, switching the channel to some black-and-white movie. The video quality is grainy. The audio is scratchy. His eye is twitching.
Izuku’s voice floats over from the kitchen after a second, almost hesitant, “Those ads are getting kind of obnoxious, huh?”
Katsuki scowls. He’s going to throw himself out the window. He hates everything right now. “Tell me about it.”
The faucet turns on, then turns off. Then Izuku says, absentmindedly, “I feel like the older I get the more I see them. There’s like, this weird pressure to settle down already.” A pot slams loudly. “You’re lucky, though. Betas don’t have all of that to worry about.”
Katsuki’s teeth grind together.
You’re lucky.
Yeah, Katsuki was.
He was lucky because he was a beta, once upon a time. No instincts, no bullshit, no weird societal expectations and limitations. He was free. He was himself.
Too bad he’s not lucky anymore.
Katsuki throws a mean glare towards the TV, because he’d have to turn around to throw one at Izuku, and he really doesn’t want to see him face-to-face right now. “And you’re not lucky? Nobody’s forcing you to settle down, or whatever.”
Izuku laughs a little awkwardly, and then there's some loud clanging from a pot as he backtracks and fumbles out, “I mean, I’m just saying that it’s only been two years since we all got tested. My mom keeps asking me when I’m going to find an omega to build a life with—I don’t know. It feels too soon.”
Katsuki purses his lips. “You’re twenty and still listening to your mom?”
Izuku laughs softly at that. “You say that like you don’t listen to yours.”
Katsuki tries not to swallow too heavily. The last thing he listened to his mom about was getting his suppressants—which, enough said.
He fakes a scoff. “Mine tells me I need to eat more vegetables. Yours tells you to find someone to marry. I think I win.”
That earns him another of Izuku’s annoyingly warm laughs. Katsuki thinks he’s doing a pretty shitty job at that whole ‘making this bad’ thing.
“Still weird to think it’s been two years since we all found out, though. Feels like forever ago,” Izuku says, conversationally, which is just great. “Everyone was freaking out, remember? Kaminari almost passed out when he opened his results.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Idiot thought he was gonna be an alpha.”
“Mhm,” Izuku hums, voice softer, almost fond. “You and I were probably the only ones who weren’t surprised.”
Katsuki doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to. Especially when he remembers how wide Izuku’s eyes looked when he opened his little confidential letter from the school nurse two years ago.
He’s a liar.
Izuku continues, breezing by the lie. “You being a beta makes sense, though. You’ve always been so—” He pauses, thinking, then lands on, “—focused? I can’t imagine you being, uh, distracted by dynamics?”
Katsuki doesn’t respond, again. His teeth grind together until his jaw aches.
Izuku’s voice shakes a bit around the silence, awkwardness creeping into his tone. “… Still, it’s probably good for us that we aren’t two alphas, right? No… um, instincts. Makes this living together thing a lot easier.”
Katsuki white knuckles the remote. He can’t tell if he wants to laugh or throw it at the wall. “Sure,” he mutters quietly, flipping the channel again.
The TV echoes an advertisement around the apartment. Again.
“Does your omega want kids? Fertility treatment is—”
Katsuki slams the remote down on the coffee table with another sharp curse, ignoring the way Izuku flinches loud enough his pot rattles. He shoots up, runs a hand through his hair, and marches towards the bedroom.
He doesn’t want to be here.
Fuck the TV, fuck secondary genders, and fuck all of this. This isn’t fucking fair. He’s an omega. Who the fuck decided that bullshit—
Izuku catches his arm before he shuts himself away inside their shared bedroom. There’s a tense second where they just share eye contact, and then Izuku smiles, small and a bit awkward, and says softly, “I know this is weird right now, but this won’t be so bad eventually. We’ll figure it out.”
Katsuki shakes him off, ignores the burn of Izuku’s handprint against his arm, and doesn’t agree. This won’t get better.
He has to make this bad, remember?
***
Katsuki wakes up the next morning in his new, shared apartment in a blinding rage.
He couldn’t take his medication as he had grown used to taking it with Izuku hovering around. Taking his pills at the perfect time was something he had just perfected the month prior, when he was living alone, and now that’s all bullshit. He ate dinner too early, and not wanting to be tired that soon, took his heat pill too late after eating. That cued cramps and nausea all through the night and into the morning, which is now affecting when he takes his morning pills, because if he takes them too early, that nausea is going to turn into a full on vomit-session.
He feels disgusting.
And weirdly, trapped, which is a feeling Katsuki fucking loathes.
He officially hates living with Izuku.
His body weighs double as he drags himself out of bed and into the hall. Izuku’s already up and in the kitchen in his All Might pajamas, smiling like he won the lottery on his first try. Bastard. Katsuki feels like he’s gone fucking bankrupt from gambling all his money away on scratch tickets.
Izuku turns away from his pan of eggs to look at him, smiling wide, and chirps, “Good morning, Kacchan!”
Katsuki’s head immediately throbs. The smell of eggs makes his stomach spin. His limbs keep trying to twitch and shiver like they have any right to throw a fit in front of Izuku, like they don’t understand the absolutely detrimental consequences that would come from Izuku noticing.
To top it all off, his scent patches are at that half-sticky-mainly-itchy stage where the glue is melting and Katsuki’s skin is desperate to keep them clinging. Irritating. He hates this morning.
“Shut up,” he rasps back, voice cracking from sleep and probably some random side effect he hasn’t read yet because it was printed in size six font at the bottom of a package insert. “It’s four in the fuckin’ morning.”
Izuku laughs, but his voice does drop quieter when he says, “If you want something to eat, there’s food here.”
Katsuki doesn’t respond. Fuck Izuku and fuck his eggs. Katsuki would rather throw up than eat those goddamn eggs. Well, he’ll probably throw up if he eats them anyway. Fuck his life, too.
He just spins the corner and slams the bathroom door shut behind him.
Everything allows hollows in the bathroom. Noises from outside, both from his apartment and campus around him, the air, smells, feelings—and apparently Katsuki’s own cheeks, which look horrifyingly gaunt under white, florescent lighting.
He grimaces and steps closer, fingers curled around the edge of the counter, to get a better look.
And he looks…
Like shit. Which is a nice way to put it.
He’s been promising himself that he would thrive on hiding that he’s an omega. That actually being an omega—living inside that box, that tiny, weak, humiliating box—or trying to fight his way to stay a hero, battling against laws and rules—is harder than the route he decided to take.
He doesn’t look like he’s thriving right now.
He grumbles and flicks the faucet on, cups some water into his palms, and splashes it back against his face. He drags his damp fingers down his cheeks. The indents leave pale, sickly marks against his skin. His lips don’t look any pinker. His eyes don’t open any wider.
Great. Now he just looks miserable and wet.
He ducks and fishes out his pills from the sink cabinet. Stuffed way at the back, in a side Katsuki had threateningly claimed as his own and to not touch, and tucked away into an innocuous pouch, are his pills.
The bag rattles as he plops it onto the counter. Pink, cheetah print, with a sparkly star shaped zipper tag. Mina’s, once upon a time, until she had left it behind in Katsuki’s dorm room back in their second year of high school and Katsuki never gave it back or threw it out, for some reason.
If Mina knew what Katsuki was using this hot pink garbage for she would laugh and say something stupid like, “Thanks for dragging me into your future court case, man.”
Katsuki sighs at the bag.
He takes out the pills he needs, his overall suppressant and scent suppressant, pops them dry, then leans down to gulp a stream of water from the faucet. He reapplies his patches with the sink running, because the packaging rustles like a paper bag in a hurricane and the sound of water running mellows that out, wads the leftovers into toilet paper, then throws that in the trash.
He glares at his reflection one last time.
Still miserable, but less wet now.
Fine.
Bag safely tucked back under the sink, pills taken, patches on, and remnants hidden—he walks out of the bathroom.
Izuku is still in the kitchen, and once again, smiles at him in a way that’s too joyful for the occasion and for Katsuki’s piss-poor mood. “Want to eat now, Kacchan?”
Katsuki’s stomach is still doing gymnastics like maybe if it tries hard enough, it can land it’s next cartwheel out of his throat. He sits at the kitchen island and holds back a gag. “No.”
Izuku just shrugs and picks up his plate—and its scrambled egg mixed with beans and peppers, which looks both appetizing and nauseating at the same time—and sits himself down right next to Katsuki at their two-seater kitchen island.
Katsuki shoots him a side eye.
Izuku beams as he scoops up some egg mixture onto his spoon.
Katsuki flicks a balled up napkin Izuku must have used while cooking and not thrown out as he grumbles, “Why the hell are you so happy?”
Izuku beams wider, chewing while speaking like he never learned proper table manners, “It’s just nice living with you! It’s like a sleepover every day.” He gulps like he just realized how lame he sounds, and before Katsuki can even get his full scowl in place, changes the topic. “Oh! Also, I was wondering, do you wear perfume? Or cologne?”
Katsuki raises an eyebrow at him. “Huh? No. I don’t use that shit.”
“Not anything? Maybe it was shampoo? Detergent?” Izuku asks, more to himself, tilting his head.
“What the hell were you smelling?” Katsuki snaps, glancing over at him. “My shampoo is fuckin’ coconut or something. Detergent is, like, fresh scented. Whatever the hell that means.”
“Coconut?” Izuku snorts, the asshole. Katsuki glares and Izuku fake coughs into his spoon. “Hm, no, it was more like… uh, caramel? Cinnamon? I’m not sure. I was half-asleep.”
Katsuki makes a face at him that has Izuku offended enough to frown. “Why the hell are you smelling things while half asleep? Weirdo.”
“I woke up!” Izuku defends, shoving a bite of his breakfast into his mouth. “It was strong enough to wake me up!”
Katsuki stands, because he has to start his day sometime, and clearly, breakfast isn’t where that’s happening. A glass of water might be the move. “Get your nose checked. That’s not normal.”
Izuku watches him as he walks into the kitchen, leaning a bit over the island as he says, still a twinge defensive, “It was definitely coming from your side of the room! Your bed!”
“My side of the room smells like nothing,” Katsuki snaps back, equally defensive, glaring Izuku’s way as he grabs his cup from where he had left it last night, next to the sink. “You trying to say I stink?”
“No!” Izuku immediately waves his hands around, spoon clattering against the side of his plate. “It was nice! That’s why I’m asking!”
Katsuki stares.
“You are so weird,” he says, turning away. The faucet splutters into his cup.
Izuku makes a strange, half garbled, slightly offended noise. “What’s weird about liking the smell of something?”
“You’re imagining smells,” Katsuki says, rolling his eyes at him. “The only thing, and this is a fuckin’ reach, could be my quirk. I don’t smell like—”
He pauses.
Izuku notices. “Hm?”
Katsuki snaps the faucet off. “I don’t smell like anything.”
“Okay, that’s a lie,” Izuku rambles. Katsuki gulps his water down. A drop trickles across his chapped lip. “You smell like burnt caramel. Or, well, your quirk does, but since you use it so often, you just smell like that now.” Izuku suddenly snorts, and Katsuki slams his glass against granite. “And apparently coconut—”
“I’m going to the gym,” Katsuki interrupts, curt.
Izuku’s words stutter to a stop. Katsuki spins, stalking off towards the bedroom to grab his gym bag, and barely hears Izuku’s quiet, “Oh, okay,” before the bedroom door slams shut.
Katsuki stares at the blank white wall across from him.
Izuku was smelling him.
They share a room. His scent patches don’t last long because of his sweat. He never had to change his patches through the night because he lived alone, and if it leaked out, nobody would even be there to smell it.
His scent doesn’t just stop producing because he’s sleeping.
Katsuki doesn’t know exactly what he smells like, what his scent smells like, because he got on his pills so quickly—he hasn’t even had a heat yet—but, if he were to smell like anything, he’s pretty damn sure caramel and cinnamon would be in character.
His scent was leaking out while he was asleep, and Izuku noticed it.
Katsuki presses his knuckles into his forehead and swallows down a scream.