Archive of Our Own

Izuku has six scars across his back. The two in his lumbar are the smallest but deepest ones, thin with dark brown, slightly elevated edges. The one below his left scapula is similar but not as deep and a bit longer, stretching all the way to the spine. The other three, all scattered around Izuku’s trapezium, are thick. They’re red and blistered as if a tiger sank its claws into the skin and dragged them with no mercy or care. They look painful. Really fucking painful.

Katsuki wants to touch them.

The thought makes him scowl, and his fingers twitch on his tank top as he observes Izuku, who’s sitting a few meters away facing the lockers. His costume is halfway down, fully exposing his back, skin glistering against the room’s lightning and accentuating the sweatdrops slowly dripping down his green curls. He looks relaxed. Happy. Tempting.

Katsuki hates how much willpower it takes not to reach out, grip whatever skin his desperate hands can reach and feel. Feel the sweat, the lumps and moles, the change in Izuku’s breathing if Katsuki pinched that specific, sensitive spot near his armpit; feel his body retreat as Katsuki pressed down one of the scars, and the pulsing veins underneath thin layers of altruism and vast, useless knowledge.

It’s pathetic, honestly. Katsuki has worked so hard all his life to be abiding, a weapon capable of ultimate destruction upon the sinners of society. Still, the moment Izuku’s around, he melts into nothing—a moon whose fate is to rotate around a bigger star and a dog devoted to chasing after cars, looking and wanting but never coming close to touching. Fundamentally, a ridiculous contrast between their childhood dynamic, when Katsuki was too arrogant and naïve and pushed down all his desires towards the person he longed to ruin.

Izuku’s shoulder blades move deliberately, ever so delicately, and Katsuki's head pounds.

He can’t touch. Not after everything. Not when his hands alone carry a lifetime of harm and anguish. Not when he already took so much from Izuku and hasn’t even had the balls to apologize. Not when he’s fully aware of what the urge to touch him means and still won’t do anything about it.

But, fuck, does he want.

“Is everything okay, Kacchan?”

Katsuki looks up to find Izuku facing him, his torso now entirely visible for Katsuki to savor—from the five healed scars across the nerd’s stomach, shoulders and chest, to the ocean of freckles surrounding them, to the single mole right below Izuku’s belly button. And his face, damnit: green curls glued to his forehead and emeralds beaming with adrenaline, plump cheeks tinted pink. The strength to keep himself from treating Izuku’s skin like playdough is so great Katsuki’s muscles ache like he’s training all over again.

Shit, he needs to get a grip; this is getting ridiculous. He always managed the urge, why the hell is it so hard now? Just because Izuku’s there, approachable and open, and essentially way beyond Katsuki’s reach? He faces worse every time they’re sparring together, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t any different.

Except that it feels like it is.

“Kacchan?” Izuku repeats, head tilted. So fucking cute. “Are you alright?

Katsuki glares, putting the tank top on. “Fucking peachy. Why?”

“You’ve been quiet,” Izuku mutters. “You barely said anything since we left training and haven’t complained about Sero-kun singing yet. Did something happen?”

Right. Katsuki was so focused on showering as fast as possible and then so entranced by Izuku’s back that he didn’t even bother demanding Sero to shut up.

“Nothin’ happened, Deku,” He gruffs out, “Just tired from seeing you extras’ ugly faces.”

Izuku giggles lightly nodding. “Yeah, I saw how hard you trained today. And I was going to tell this later, but it’s super cool how fast you’re mastering that new grenade move, Kacchan! You almost knocked Momo-chan first try!”

“‘Course I did, I’m the fucking best,” Katsuki rolls his eyes, ignoring how his heart flutters at the praise.

“You are, Kacchan!” Izuku smiles.

Katsuki just huffs in response, and Izuku doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it since he simply turns to his phone, his body slanting forward and scrunching up enough so that the back of his neck is visible.

Oh, Katsuki wants.

He wants to touch, to play with Izuku’s sweaty curls and caress his tense neck. To fix his posture and massage his shoulders. Would Izuku let him? In another reality where Katsuki’s hands weren’t so deadly and the thread holding their relationship so fragile, would Izuku let him stroke his skin? Would he let Katsuki spend hours feeling the bumps of his scars, memorizing the texture of his moles? Would he let him trace over his freckles without leaving another mark behind?

Katsuki hopes so. He really, really does.

He zips his bag harshly, ignoring how Izuku peaks at him questioningly through his wet bangs. Katsuki needs to get out of here. Yeah, yeah, he usually manages it just fine. He knows that. But this is getting straight-up torturous. His body unconsciously leans towards Izuku, and his hands itch to come closer and simply touch. And technically, logically, Katsuki knows the act isn’t thoroughly futile—he could reach out, could make it seem like a slap or soft punch, and Izuku would accept it like he’s done many times before. But logic isn’t applicable here. Not when Izuku looks so alluring, and Katsuki’s mind is so weak from exhaustion, prompt to behave carelessly in behalf of greed.

Not when he has no idea where his desire ends and how far Izuku, ever selfless and self-destructive, would be willing to go to please him.

So Katsuki puts his backpack over his shoulders and starts stomping away, not bothering to look back. His fingertips are heavy, his head is throbbing, and he has no idea what to do once he gets in the dorms. Mina will probably be there, for she’s (somewhat surprisingly) a thousand times faster when showering than anyone Katsuki has ever met, but he’s in no condition to entertain her shenanigans. Perhaps he’ll have a quick dinner and go to his room, maybe finish reading that—

“Kacchan,”

Izuku’s voice is soft, quiet, and almost engulfed by the extra’s chatter and Sero dropping bagpipes into a woodchipper, but Katsuki hears it nonetheless. He turns around, glaring and seething for no real reason other than a lack of proper reaction to Izuku calling him so tenderly and unexpectedly. And Izuku—

Izuku, who’s now standing with his costume still on his waist, doesn’t react. He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. He simply keeps biting his bottom lip, cheeks slightly flushed and eyes shining with something Katsuki can’t quite place, and Katsuki has never been so livid.

Why can’t Izuku just drop it?

Why does he always make obliviousness so difficult?

“Just…” Izuku starts. “Just come to me if you need anything, okay, Kacchan?”

Again, Katsuki almost doesn’t hear Izuku. And a part of him—a large part of him, one that’s trying so terribly to think things through before dragging Izuku into his mess again—wishes he didn’t. But he does, and the words echo through his ribs and lungs, his phone nearly erupting in his hands.

Come to me if you need anything, okay, Kacchan?

In times like these, Katsuki wonders if he’s losing his hearing faster than Recovery Girl said; if his brain started to gaslight itself by making up words to compensate for the gaps. But down, deep down, Katsuki knows this isn’t the case because Izuku’s looking at him like he just explained the meaning of life in codes and desperately hopes he understands.

But Katsuki doesn’t understand. He can’t bring himself to dwell on Izuku’s words, to comprehend what they might mean. He’s been ignoring his feelings for fourteen years. He probably will for another fourteen, always favoring ignorance because bliss is so bright it rivals his flames, and that’s something Katsuki can’t handle yet.

Izuku’s still staring at him with that unreadable look. Katsuki should say something—demand what makes Izukuh think he’d ever need his help or scream some mean bullshit even his ten-year-old self would grimace at. But he can’t. Not right now, not about this.

So all he does is glare and flounce off the locker room, refusing to look back and disregarding how his hands tremble. They don’t ache to discover if Izuku’s cheeks are as warm as they look, alright? It’s just too fucking cold.

(It’s October.)

—————————

The first time Katsuki felt it, he and Izuku were almost four and watching an All Might movie in his living room.

It’s easy to remember because it was a frightening experience. One moment Katsuki was yelling at the TV as All Might fought a villain, and suddenly he caught himself staring at Izuku, lungs burning as if he was about to die. Katsuki recalls fidgeting on the couch, forcing himself to overanalyze every move happening on the screen to distract himself, but becoming increasingly restless as his body just continued to crave pulling Izuku closer and cuddle him until their eyelids turned too heavy to keep themselves open and arms too tired to hold their bodies together. Or do anything else, really, as long they were touching.

Katsuki kept it all to himself, of course. He was three, sleepy and confused, and they were in the middle of All Might. And when they woke up the next day, Katsuki didn’t dwell on it. Thought it wasn’t worth his energy since it’d never happen again.

Except that it did, and as time passed by and Katsuki became the best at everything he did, the urge to touch Deku followed him everywhere. In the movie nights that quickly died once Deku was diagnosed. In the middle school hallways Katsuki made his own wicked playground. In the afternoons he looked through his window and observed Deku playing alone on the sidewalk. It was exhausting. Fucking infuriating.

Why the hell did Katsuki want to touch Deku? He was the pawn before the king while Katsuki was a tower, ready and deadly; someone who didn’t know when to stop, extending his hand even though all Katsuki wanted was to cut it off. Someone inferior. Someone Katsuki hated with every inch of his being.

Someone who was a better hero than Katsuki would ever be despite his quirkless blood.

The urge followed him through it all, becoming stronger as Katsuki’s energy to push Izuku away weakened. Now, Katsuki’s seventeen, neither sleepy nor confused and on the verge of losing his fucking sanity because, differently from that first night, Izuku isn’t laid beside him, eyes completely captivated by the blue and yellow figure saving Japan. Instead, the nerd’s on the floor, murmuring to himself and sitting right between Katsuki’s legs.

Honestly. What the hell.

This is so senseless Katsuki almost laughs. Izuku must’ve sneaked there while Katsuki threatened to kill Mina for dragging him from his bed to the couch. And while that should be annoying—Izuku can be a bunch of shit, but sneaky isn’t one of them, which means Katsuki is either losing his vigilant skills or hearing when he shouldn’t lose anything because he’s a fucking winner—it’s not. It’s just straight-up tragic. Agonizing. Fucking pitiful.

Because, come on. How’s Katsuki supposed to control himself when Izuku’s so close, lost on whatever stupid film the extras chose? When he’s practically shoving his curls down Katsuki’s throat, tilting his head every so often as though pleading for a caress? When Katsuki’s body is trembling between the armrest and Kirishima, eyes nearly watering with frustration and heart beating so rapidly? How’s Katsuki supposed to control himself?

How’s he supposed to keep pretending?

“You alright, man?”

Katsuki's piercing glare leaves the wall behind the TV to burn a hole in Kirishima’s eyes. The moment their gazes meet, and despite the darkness immersing the room, he can see how Kirishima’s lips fall into a thin line, and his eyes flood with concern.

“I’m three seconds away from exploding this fucking room,” Katsuki hisses, voice low and controlled to stop himself from blasting Kirishima’s face off. “Take a fucking guess, Shitty Hair.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad!” Kirishima protests in a whisper, finger wiggling towards the screen. “The guy has a magnitude quirk!”

Katsuki glances at the main character (a tall, bald, western hero with arms that would make Katsuki jealous if his weren’t three times bigger. Hah.), who stands upon a city with a creature in his hands. Katsuki grimaces. That’s a cool quirk or whatever, yeah, but what about civilian safety? Fucker’s probably doing more damage than the villain.

(Katsuki knows Izuku agrees because he’s inclined forward and playing with the edges of his shirt. Silently, Katsuki wants to pull him back and pin his body in place with his legs. He taps his foot on the floor instead.)

“We watch this shit in damage control class,” He mutters, leaning back the couch as far as he can without morphing into it. “Though Aizawa-sensei’s picks are better. This CGI fucking sucks.”

“Aw, c’mon, you know the graphics are not the point!” Kirishima elbows him. “We’re here to hang out! You know, bond as a class and stuff!”

“The hell makes you think I wanna bond with you?”

“Love is manly, bro! You don’t have to be ashamed!” Kirishima beams. “And you know we never see each other anymore with how much we’re working this semester. This is—”

“You know we fucking live together, right?” Katsuki deadpans.

“Well, yeah, but still! It’s nice to do these things at least once in a while.”

Katsuki opens his mouth to protest when a sound, harsh and direct sound comes from the floor.

“Shhhhh.”

Katsuki’s head immediately snaps down, and there it is, Todoroki-fucking-Shouto, staring at him above his shoulders like an exhausted parent expecting their child to stop making a fuss. Disappointedly. Patronizing. Superior despite his position.

Oh. Katsuki is going to fucking kill him.

“Sorry, man,” Kirishima whispers with an apologetic smile.

“It’s quite alright,” Todoroki murmurs. “Just please refrain from talking loudly. It’s annoying.”

“You got it, bro!”

Todoroki nods and turns back to the screen, and Kirishima lays back on the couch to resume watching the movie. Katsuki should too. He should drop his signature stubbornness, accept he won’t be leaving anytime soon, and at least attempt to make something out of this useless situation. It’d be easier, anyway, for sometimes anger is too exhausting to maintain. Still, he doesn’t. His eyes blaze at the back of Todoroki’s head, fists clenching tightly and teeth grinding together.

Deep down, he knows it’s not much about the interruption. Not really. It’s more about how Todoroki’s shoulders touch Izuku’s, how his legs are practically thrown upon the nerd’s, and how they’re in the exact position Katsuki longed for all those years ago. The normality of their contact and how easily Izuku accepts it, neither questioning nor retreating and how that’s because he’s used to it. Because they’re close and Izuku has no reason to think Todoroki’s approaches could ever be spiteful.

Katsuki sighs.

This is so fucking absurd.

The guy in the movie throws the villain across the city, and Izuku leans back to the point of his entire back resting on the couch. Head now propped against the cushion, so close his cheeks would touch Katsuki’s knees if tilted. Messy curls are shining despite the darkness and luring Katsuki in.

Hell.

His fingers tremble. Would it be okay if he just reached out? He knows he can’t, that he doesn’t deserve it and has no right to be selfish, but would it be so terrible? Just a touch, a slight caress on the nerd’s locks. Just enough that Izuku doesn’t feel it. Just enough to tame Katsuki’s pathetic desperation and feed his toddler self’s desires.

Just to reassure himself Todoroki didn’t steal who was never his.

Would it be so awful?

It would. Probably. Katsuki should just swallow it all down and resist the temptation like he’s done for fourteen years. Bear it for another fourteen and move on.

But, fuck. Izuku’s there, completely unaware and absorbed in the movie. The room is too dark for anyone to see. It’d be quick, for Katsuki and Katsuki only. Couldn’t he just—

He touches.

Izuku’s hair is sleek. Like a cloud, the green strands of hair feel almost unreal, moving delicately beneath Katsuki’s gentle strokes, touch distant from the scalp. It’s incredibly soft. Infinitely better than Katsuki ever imagined. It makes him relax, his body instantly melting on the sofa as his fingers, now the most still and light they’ve ever been, a striking disparity with their usual roughness and aglow, fondle with Izuku’s curls. Faintly, he grasps the permanent frown on his brows dissolving and the tension on his jaw easing, and though that’d be usually alarming, for he’s still in public, now he doesn’t mind. It’s dark. No one’s paying attention.

And, Christ. He feels too good to be mad.

Katsuki allows his eyes to close. This is lasting for longer than it should, yeah, but perhaps… perhaps that’s okay? He’s not being harsh, is he? And Izuku’s smart, so bright, brighter than Katsuki usually gives him credit for. Maybe he wouldn’t let his selflessness stop him from pushing Katsuki away if he was hurting, right? Mhm. Yeah. Maybe it’s okay to continue.

So he plays with the green strands, twirling and kneading as though to gauge their softness, and completely ignoring the small grin that spreads across his face.

Shit, how’s he supposed to live normally after this? To just keep ignoring his body screaming for him to touch now that he knows how Izuku’s hair feels against his fingertips? That’s dangerous. It could destroy all ignorance and tolerance Katsuki worked hard to build for years within seconds.

But also… who cares? He can barely think right now, rationality virtually inaccessible beneath the fuzzy warmth spread throughout his body, beyond shadowed by a peace Katsuki haven’t felt in years.

A sharp yell echoes on the TV and Katsuki vaguely hears his classmates muttering between them. Perhaps he’ll ask Kirishima what the movie is about. Not that it looks good, but whatever. If it’s making Iida, the pickiest bitch Katsuki’s ever seen, audibly gasp, it should be more or less decent. Or least entertaining. Not to mention that—

Izuku’s head jerks away.

Katsuki’s eyes fly open, his hand instantly withdrawing as his breath cuts short. He can’t see much, for the room’s still dark and his sight still hazy, but he can make up Izuku’s body inclined forward, distant. Distant from Katsuki.

Because Katsuki fucking hurt him.

Again.

Katsuki heart shatters. Fuck. He’s a fucking idiot. Of course, this would happen. How would it not? What was he even thinking? For as long as he can remember, his touch isn’t tender. It’s weighty and made to blast anything within reach, especially when letting his guard down so carelessly. Did he seriously expect any different?

It’s been fourteen years, goddamnit. Katsuki knows why he doesn’t touch and he still did it, just because Izuku was there and cuddled with Todoroki. All because Katsuki’s a pathetic thing who can’t deal with the consequences of his actions. And now he’s hurt Izuku after promising he’d never do it again. He ruined their relationship again, most likely permanently, over something as immature as jealousy, and he’s about to fucking sob like a baby because Izuku won’t forgive him.

Izuku’s kind, yes. That’s why he forgave Katsuki the first time, gave him a second chance and continued to trust him although having countless reasons not to. That’s why he continued toying with fire with no extinguisher and a concerning disregard for the aftermath burns, chasing Katsuki and entirely unbothered by the destination or possibility of igniting: because he believed Katsuki would do better.

But now?

Now that Katsuki has proved that he can try his fucking best and it still won’t be enough because nothing will ever erase the fact he’s just a bad person through and through?

Izuku’s kind but not stupid. Selfless but not self-sacrificial. He’ll give up on Katsuki and leave him behind like he should’ve done in the first place. Like Katsuki deserves. Like—

A soft squeeze on his right calf.

Katsuki frowns, biting the inside of his cheeks until his tastebuds drown in blood. His vision is still blurry but searching for the source of the unexpected touch as he leans forward. Instantly, Izuku’s green, bambi eyes look up at him and blow slightly wider once he meets Katsuki’s unshed tears. His hand hovers next to Katsuki’s calf as if ready to squeeze it again. His hair is messier than before. His face is expectant. Urging. Unharmed.

Katsuki has no idea what to do.

“Sorry, Kacchan,” Izuku mutters, quiet and private. “Just a jumpscare from the movie. You can, uh, continue. If you want. I’d like that.”

Katsuki's jaw drops slightly, hands shaking.

Izuku knew. Izuku knew his hair was being played with, that Katsuki was the one doing the playing, and didn’t do anything about it. Didn’t complain. Didn’t shy away. Didn’t hate it.

Katsuki doesn’t know what to think of that.

It should be a good thing, right? It shows that he didn’t cross any limits or hurt Izuku, that maybe it’s not absurd for him to want because Izuku’s okay with indulging him. That Izuku trusts him not to abuse his kindness as long as Katsuki trusts him to know his limits.

Come to me if you need anything, okay, Kacchan?

“I like Kacchan’s hands,” Izuku whispers with a small smile and a knowing gaze. “They’re not gonna hurt me, and I don’t mind them if it helps make you feel better.”

And there it is.

The words are honest, like Izuku genuinely believes there’s no danger in letting Katsuki’s hands, the ones that explode for a living, comb through his hair just because he trusts. Like he’s truly willing to have them near just because it’d make Katsuki feel better, ever so thoughtful and kind.

Katsuki wants to vomit.

He doesn’t get how Izuku is so considerate. He didn’t understand when they were brats in the pond and Izuku reached out despite Katsuki’s yells. He didn’t understand when they were fifteen and Izuku threw him that smile despite Katsuki’s continuous and nasty attempts to punch it off. He still doesn’t understand now that they’re almost graduating and Katsuki prioritizes soothing his urges while remaining ignorant of their meaning rather than sitting and thinking like a goddamn adult.

It’s a dangerous game, kindness, and Izuku knows that. He knows Katsuki knows, too, but he’s equally aware of how Katsuki’s too egoistic to stop him.

Katsuki swallows dry. “Whatever, Deku.”

Izuku just smiles and turns around, resting on the couch and between Katsuki’s legs. He throws his head backward, handing his curls to Katsuki’s care as though on a silver platter. It’s trusting and kind, and, fuck, Katsuki shouldn’t. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, to mean nothing despite feeling like everything, and it will make it endlessly harder to find restraint in the future. He knows that.

But goddamnit, this feels so good. So peaceful and relaxing, and again, maybe it’s not that big of a deal.

Biting the inside of his cheeks again, Katsuki lets his hand find Izuku’s hair and twirl its slender strands. Immediately, he can feel his heart calming down, his muscles relaxing, and his eyelashes fluttering. And perhaps it’s because he’s as calm as he’s been in a long time, or his brain is making up things, but Izuku’s head tilts back slightly, nudging Katsuki’s fingers as if to encourage him to keep going, and sighs like he’s the most content person on the entire fucking planet when Katsuki deepens his caresses until he’s massaging Izuku’s scalp.

Maybe—

Maybe this isn’t so bad.

—————————

Wrong. That was the worst thing Katsuki has ever done.

He thinks about it every day. In the dead of night, when his pillow becomes a whirlpool of daydreams and regrets and his mind won’t calm down despite his exhaustion. In the mornings, as he’s making breakfast and sees Izuku’s All Might mug in the top right drawer. In the afternoons, while trying to focus on his philosophy homework and not on how pretty Izuku looked in class.

How could he be so fucking dumb?

Not because— not because he hated it. He didn’t, and it’d be pointless to pretend otherwise. If anything, he enjoyed it too much, which is why he shouldn’t have reached out. Because now, regardless of where he is or what he’s doing, Katsuki won’t stop replaying the soft I like Kacchan’s hands and staring at fingertips to echo the exact feeling of Izuku’s hair against them.

He has no idea how he genuinely thought touching Izuku once would sate his insatiable mind. It’s such a stupid expectation; there is no way in this life or the next that Katsuki could get a taste of what he never thought he’d have and be content with it. Honestly. It serves him right for the urge to be now more unbearable than anything he faced in the last fourteen years, and his want to simply give in to be just as tempting.

Katsuki glares at the floor, and his fingers twitch.

He deserves this. Maybe next time, he won’t be so dumb and will keep his hands to himself.

The elevator opens and Katsuki strides to the kitchen with a scowl, hands shoved in his pockets. Given the time, it’s usual for half of the class to be splattered around the sofas, either doing schoolwork or simply chatting. Not that it matters. Katsuki’s only here to get his dinner, and he’ll ignore any attempt to reel him into a discussion or stupid class-bonding activity.

(Hopefully. As long as Izuku isn’t participating in any of them.)

He isn’t. In fact, Izuku is nowhere, and all Katsuki sees are some of his self-proclaimed friends lying on the couch. Sero’s on the verge of sleeping. Denki is explaining what’s most likely the dumbest thing Kirishima will ever hear. And Kirishima—

Kirishima’s sat with Mina’s arms hanging loosely around his shoulders. Neither of them looks uncomfortable or shows signs of the act being unnatural, instead just talking excitedly as if nothing’s happening. It’s fucking sickening, and Katsuki has to look away or else he’ll blow up the entire kitchen.

How can they just… be like that as if it doesn’t mean anything?

(Because for them, it doesn’t. They don’t pursue physical contact as something other than a superficial desire to show affection. They don’t pursue it as the most vulnerable act of adoration and devotion, a yell of one’s deepest feelings whose voice won’t do its job properly. Because for them, touching doesn’t reveal more about them than they’re comfortable accepting or unveiling.)

Katsuki opens the fridge harshly and puts his dinner in the microwave with a similar force. He doesn’t know why he’s so angry, to be honest. The feeling is uncomfortable and it’s ridiculous how much Katsuki craves to touch Izuku to feel that heavenly peace again. But does it even matter? As much as the rage is unwelcome, it is nothing but familiar. Katsuki can manage it just fine.

Suddenly, the dorm’s doors fly open, and Izuku walks in, a distressed Uraraka on his tail.

“Deku, c’mon, don’t be like this!” Uraraka says, exasperated and with her cheeks puffed out. “It would take, like, five minutes to check it and get it healed!”

“Uraraka, I’m fine!” Izuku responds, and the insistence on his well-being when it’s clearly harmed is so on-brand that Katsuki can’t help but roll his eyes. Izuku, the idiot, tries to hobble to the stairs, only to be stopped by Uraraka.

She glares, arms crossed. “You’re not okay! Stop being a coward, and let’s go to Recovery Girl.”

“But— she’s so busy! I don’t want to bother her!”

“It’s her job.”

“Still!”

“God, Deku—” Uraraka groans. Katsuki won’t ever tell her that, but the fact that she’s still insisting is impressive. Izuku can be so stubborn sometimes, his lack of self-preservation so utterly prevailing that for some, it’s usually easier to let it be than withstand. “You know what. Fine.”

Izuku blinks. “Fine?”

“Fine. We don’t have to go to Recovery Girl. But—”

“There’s a but?”

“You have to either put a heating pad on your ankle or let me massage it.”

Katsuki chokes on his saliva.

Uraraka stares at Izuku with less fierceness in her gaze, but the intensity of her words makes it clear she’s being thoroughly serious. And Izuku knows that, if the way his shoulders drop in resignation is anything to go by.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He’d let her. Izuku would let Uraraka massage him.

Why wouldn’t he? They’re best friends, aren’t they? Just like with Todoroki, there’s no reason for Izuku to expect anything other than kindness from Uraraka’s touch. Katsuki could practically hear the consent falling from Izuku’s lips, making his stomach curl into something ugly and his heart beat uncomfortably.

It’s not his place to do anything about it. He’s supposed to be a bystander, to hear their banter and laugh at Uraraka’s chipmunk-like expression and Izuku’s ridiculous attempts to disguise his pain; to get his dinner and return to his room without uttering a single word. But he can’t. The sole thought of Uraraka massaging Izuku’s ankle, touching it with a care Katsuki can only dream of achieving, is so disgusting it physically hurts.

It shouldn’t be her, alright? Fuck it if Katsuki’s acting out of jealousy again or if this makes him a hypocrite since he was reprimanding himself just five minutes ago; it doesn’t matter. Uraraka should never be able to touch Izuku so intimately, and as long as Katsuki’s standing he’ll make damn sure of that.

“Oi, Deku.”

“Kacchan?” Izuku turns to the kitchen with a confused frown, though it disappears once his eyes meet Katsuki’s, a grin spreading on his face instead. It’s big, yet private. Genuine and precious. Something Katsuki doesn’t deserve but can’t help but indulge in anyway. “Hey, Kacchan!”

Katsuki grunts. “You fucked your ankle again?”

Izuku’s grin deflates, and Izuku rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh, sprained it at the gym.”

“He means he dropped a hundred kilos weight plate there and won’t get it checked.”

Izuku’s eyes widen. “It doesn’t hurt!”

“It’s swollen and purple, Deku!” Ochako nearly yells, pointing at Izuku’s ankle.

“It’s not—” He looks down, does a double take, and purses his lip. He’s so fucking stupid. Katsuki has no idea why he likes him so much. “I— I mean, yeah, but I’m completely fine!”

“You’re limping!”

“Am not!”

“Is too!”

“Am not—”

“Deku,” Katsuki calls, voice low. “Come here.”

Izuku’s mouth instantly shuts and he snaps his head towards Katsuki again. His curls bounce with the abrupt movement, and Katsuki’s hands twitch as he recalls twirling them, fingers aching with the self-restraint it takes not to reach out. A faint hitch of breath leaves Izuku’s lips, green eyes shining, and last thing he knows Izuku’s walking towards him with such a natural compliance Katsuki would find concerning if it didn’t make him tingle in all the right places.

He doesn’t have time to stress about it, though, as the closer Izuku gets, the more visible the huge bruise on his left ankle is. Katsuki immediately scowls, snare deepening as the nerd limps like an idiot.

Izuku stops a few meters from the counter, just enough to touch Katsuki’s chest if he extends his arms. Emeralds still shining, he stares.

Katsuki raises an eyebrow. “You’re walkin’ like there’s a five meters dildo shoved up your ass.”

Izuku sputters. “Wait— what?”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “You’re limpin’, and— No, shut up. You are.”

“Okay, okay.” Izuku sighs. “Maybe I am. So what? I get these every day; it’s not worth bothering Recovery Girl—”

“Then don’t, I don’t care. But you can’t leave it like that either, you moron. You wanna get a fucking arthritis or something?”

“Kacchan, really, there’s no need—”

“Deku, I told you to shut up.” Katsuki snaps. He turns to Uraraka to demand she makes herself useful and brings him a heating pad, maybe removes his dinner from the microwave in the process. However, the words immediately die on his tongue when he notices she’s looking at them with a small, creepy smile. Katsuki scowls. “Spill it, Round Face.”

She shakes her head. “Nothing! Do you— I mean, forget it. I just remembered I have some homework left to do. Bye guys, see you tomorrow!”

And just like that, she’s out.

Huh.

“Weird-ass fucking woman.”

Izuku clears his throat. “Yeah...”

Katsuki hums and the extras’ laugh loudly in the common room. Even without looking, he can picture Mina’s arm tightening on Kirishima’s shoulder as she cackles, and perhaps is that or the fact that he’s now alone with Izuku in the kitchen and all his senses scream at him to touch, but next thing he knows he’s gripping Izuku’s fist and pulling him to the barstool.

“Sit.”

Izuku stares, eyes confused but sparkling. “Here?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay.”

The minutes pass by slowly and drowned in a calm quietude after that, dinner long forgotten, for it’s not as important as this. Katsuki heats a towel before rubbing it gently into the injured ankle. He doesn’t ask if it’s burning, and Izuku doesn’t flinch. Neither he plays with his hands nor watch their friends. He just observes, his soft gaze burning every inch of Katsuki’s body and forcing him to conceal eventual squirms. Yet, it’s not uncomfortable. Not by any margin. Having Izuku stare so intently, directing his attention to Katsuki and Katsuki only, is soothing and provides the tranquility he’s been longing for so hopelessly since the movie night.

Compared to his back and torso, Izuku has an impressive, and thus incredibly concerning, amount of scars on his legs. They vary in size and depth, color and healing degrees, staining Izuku’s skin like merciless brushstrokes on an unassuming canvas. Between and above, a constellation of freckles. It’s messy, carrying an agonizing history. Gorgeous. So, so gorgeous.

After he’s done with the towel, Katsuki starts massaging Izuku’s ankle. Differently from when stroking Izuku’s hair, he doesn’t try to be tender. His touch is firm, made to ache, to force the muscles into relaxation. Still, it supplies the same inner peace for Katuki’s troubled heart and mind.

“I wouldn’t have let her.”

Katsuki stills his movements for a second, not daring to look up. “What?”

“I wouldn’t have let Uraraka do this. She’s too harsh. I like Kacchan’s hands better.”

And that’s…

That’s the stupidest thing Katsuki has ever heard. Honestly. It’s dumb and overall insane because it should be the exact opposite. It is the exact opposite. Uraraka is soft all around, from her cheeks and eyes to her hips and hands, and carries a comforting atmosphere everywhere she goes. Meanwhile, Katsuki’s rough. He’s acute and blazing, from his hair and teeth to his hands and waist, made to explode and wound. For Izuku to prefer him and his touch and care over Uraraka’s is absurd in every sense.

“You’re fucking crazy.”

The words are hoarse, weak, and Izuku giggles lightly. “No, I’m serious. You’re gentler. I like it.”

“I could literally blow your entire leg off.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Now, Katsuki looks up and glares. Izuku’s staring at him with that same unrecognizable look from the locker room, and Katsuki has to resist the urge not to tighten his hold on the ankle. “Yeah? And why the hell not?”

Izuku gazes quietly for a minute or two.

“I already told you you’re not going to hurt me, Kacchan.” He finally murmurs, his voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “I just need you to believe that, too.”

“You can’t— You can’t know that.”

“I can,” Izuku nods. “And even if you tried, which I know you won’t, I’d stop you. So just…” He trails off, eyes searching and pleading for something Katsuki has no idea if he’s able to give.

Just come to me if you need anything, okay, Kacchan?

Katsuki swallows dry and turns to Izuku’s ankle again without another word. Izuku doesn’t complain.

—————————

It takes two weeks of pondering for Katsuki to accept he believes Izuku.

The thought tastes weird in Katsuki’s mouth and rightfully so. Izuku is the most genuine, noble person he’s ever met, consistently putting others’ needs and wants above his comfort. Trusting him with this—whatever this is—is most likely the dumbest decision Katsuki has ever made, especially since Izuku’s sitting right behind him and his brain is going into overdrive with the prospect of contact. And yet.

Maybe Izuku was telling the truth when saying he could stop Katsuki if needed. It’s plainly obvious how much he’s grown and matured since their first year, so much that anyone can see it, including Katsuki. And combined with how Izuku hasn’t broken a single bone for five months and two days by needlessly putting himself in danger in favor of others, perhaps it’s not so foolish to trust him to stand for his boundaries against Katsuki’s boundless desires.

That doesn’t mean Katsuki will start giving in to all his urges, okay? Just because he isn’t now completely responsible for their, uh, arrangement, it doesn’t mean he’ll act with no dignity or self-respect. But it does mean he won’t be as hard on himself, preventing his body from the relief and cravings it so desperately longs for.

Because that’s the thing with fire, isn’t it? The more you compress, the larger the combustion, and Katsuki’s getting so, so tired from combusting.

Come to me if you need anything, okay, Kacchan?

He was being serious, right? With that and insisting he’d step in lest Katsuki got out of control. Mhm. Hopefully. God knows what Katsuki would do if he fucked it all up for trusting too much.

Briefly, he glances at Aizawa. As expected, the man is buried deep in his sleeping bag (useful to check everyone’s honor code at worst, imprudently drunk on blind trust at best), but the reassurance that he won’t just look up and find Katsuki touching Izuku with no intent of harm is relieving nonetheless. Fuck knows the questions he’d have. Katsuki’s not ready to answer them and probably never will be.

Glancing across the classroom, the extras are in a similar situation, too invested in the test to notice anything around them. Izuku’s no exception—in fact, he’s the worst of all, vomiting word after word and filling each answer box to the fullest, which Katsuki can tell by the sound of his pen hitting the page repeatedly and the nerd’s mumbles under his breath. So fucking annoying. Katsuki hates him.

He still wants to hold his hand, though.

Or maybe, not hold. That’s not… not what he wants, or at least not entirely. He wants to hold and feel. To caress Izuku’s callous fingers and memorize the texture of his scars. To feel his pulse and trace his palm to see if they’re as warm and deluged in freckles as they seem from afar.

Katsuki sighs, squirming in his seat. Again, no one’s watching, and maybe what Kirishima said is true after all. They all live together and spend most of the day side by side, and yet never see each other anymore.

(It should be sad or whatever. And it would, honestly, if it wasn’t so damn convenient.)

Katsuki glances left just as Izuku starts filling another answer box, one hand gripping his sharp pencil as the other lies on the table, unmoving and placed high so that his fingers would touch Katsuki’s chair if stretched.

Come to me if you need anything, okay, Kacchan?

He takes Izuku’s hand in his.

Izuku looks up.

He doesn’t frown or pull his hand away. Instead, he stares at Katsuki, eyes filled with adoration and shining as though he’s a goddamn cartoon character and, fuck, Katsuki is not blushing. Absolutely not.

He should do something, maybe just push Izuku’s hands closer until the nerd bends over his table to show what happens when Izuku looks at him like this, but he doesn’t. Katsuki’s brain has melted into fucking puddle and all he can do is stare back and wait. Wait for Izuku to say something. Wait for him to ask what Katsuki’s doing like a normal person should.

Naturally, Izuku doesn’t, for he’s not normal. No normal individual would choose to look at Katsuki, of all people, like he’s their favorite person on the entire planet. He just smiles and returns to writing, rambling faintly again.

Katsuki blinks.

Okay.

Slowly, his hands start caressing Izuku’s. It’s pathetic how hard he tries to be gentle, not to press too hard, to ensure his nails won’t scratch Izuku’s skin, and a part of him even scoffs in disdain because, c’mon, it’s Katsuki’s hands. They don’t know tenderness. He ignores it, though, because even if they don’t, perhaps they can learn? Learn to be soft, to be used for something other than carnage? Besides, even if his attempts are ridiculous, they’re nothing short of necessary. He can’t afford to be harsh. Not right now. Not with this.

Izuku’s hand is surprisingly soft despite its blistered look and so much warmer than Katsuki anticipated. So, so warm, the type of warmth one looks for in blankets and scarves and in fireplaces, and that reminds him of home. The scars aren’t as deep as the ones on his back, but much longer. They stretch from his pulse to his fingertips, and Katsuki’s touch traces them delicately, pressing lightly where they reach Izuku’s knuckles. Izuku’s hand twitches slightly in response, but before Katsuki can let it go and apologize, Izuku squeezes his palm tightly.

He doesn’t let it go until the class is over. Katsuki’s okay with that.

He really, really is.

—————————

“This is not how you do it.”

“Shut up.”

“You need to let it simmer for five minutes.”

“Fuck off.”

“Bakugou, I said simmer. You’re stirring.”

“I said fuck off, Half’n’Half!” Katsuki barks, aggressively shaking his shoulders so that Todoroki backs off. He doesn’t. “Leave!”

“But you’re not doing it right,” Todorki says. “Do you not know how to make soba?”

“Does it look like I’m making soba, you dumb fuck?”

Todoroki frowns. “Oh. You’re not?”

Katsuki’s eyes widen, and he glances unbelievably from Todoroki to the pan, where caramelized carrots lay brown and tender. Todoroki’s a stupid bourgeois who didn’t know the difference between salt and pepper until six months ago, yeah, but it takes a whole different level of stupidity not to recognize his favorite dish. There’s no way he’s being serious. Right?

Though, if Katsuki really thinks about it, Todoroki’s an asshole who lives as though his sole purpose in life is to make Katsuki’s life a living hell. Maybe he’s not serious and just wants to anger Katsuki so much that the entire kitchen burns down.

Jokes on him, though, because Katsuku won’t lose his cool. He’s not that type of person anymore. Now, all he does is glare, and perhaps silently wish Todoroki’s brain blows up once their eyes meet. “You tell me. This looks like soba to you?”

Todoroki leans forward a bit. He blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Katsuki rolls his eyes and turns back to the oven with a quick glance at his phone. “Now piss off. I won’t go past my bedtime just to cook for you extras.”

“Oh, right. Sometimes I forget you sleep like a child.”

Katsuki scoffs. “Better than looking dead all the damn time.”

Todoroki hums. “So you’re not making soba?”

“Fuck’s sake, no,” Katsuki snaps. “I’m not making soba.”

“But why not?”

“Because if you eat it again this week you’ll die from food poisoning, Half’n’Half. Have you got no sense of how your stomach works?” Todoroki tilts his head slightly, eyes ajar and calculating. Katsuki scowls. “What?”

“Do you care for my well-being, Bakugou?”

“What the fuck?” He yells, turning around with a scowl capable of envying the devil himself and hands aglow.

Todoroki bites down a smirk. “If you were just worried I’d get sick you should’ve told me.”

“I swear, Half’n’Half,” Katsuki growls. He turns the oven off and violently points the spatula at Todoroki. “If you don’t get out of my kitchen in three fucking seconds I’m feeding you Dunce Face’s shit for a month.”

“Hm, I think you care for me too much to do this.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, you stupid fucking—”

“Kacchan! Is dinner ready?”

Katsuki’s body instantly retreats from lunging at Todoroki, his head snapping to the kitchen entrance where Izuku now stands.

Okay, okay. Before anything, Katsuki would like to reiterate that he knows Izuku better than anyone else. He knows the nerd’s favorite color and dish, that he sleeps in nothing but a shirt, and has been using the same toothpaste flavor for eighteen years. That said, it’s a given that Katsuki would know how Izuku looks in the evenings, right? With drowsy eyes and his bird nest of hair falling on his eyes. Nothing special, nothing shocking.

Except that for the first time in forever, Izuku’s lazy ass has showered before dinner, which means his curls are wet and his skin slightly flushed and instead of proper clothes, he’s drowned in an oversized shirt that makes him look so small and adorable that it takes all Katsuki’s inner strength not to devour him whole there and then.

He can’t. Not while Todoroki’s here. When he’s gone and they’re alone in the midst of pans and food, a vivid reenactment of that night from a few days ago, then maybe… maybe Katsuki will do something. Anything. For now, he just stares, his breath catching slightly as Izuku stares back.

“Midoriya, can you ask Bakugou to make soba?”

Katsuki scowls. “What?!”

“Soba?” Still standing a few meters away, Izuku tilts his head like a confused puppy. It makes his wet curls bounce slightly, and Katsuki’s fingertips instantly twitch. “Why?”

“Because he’s making tonkatsu chicken and I want soba.”

Izuku frowns, openly confused. “Okay. But why should I ask?”

“Because he can’t say no to you.”

The spatula in Katsuki’s hold explodes.

“Kacchan!”

“Jesus, Bakugou.”

From the couch, Kirishima yells. “Guys? Everything alright?”

Katsuki throws the remains of the spatula on the ground, glaring menacingly at Todoroki and not daring to switch to Izuku. The amount of rage in him is immeasurable, so great his entire body trembles and his palms pop. It feels heavy. Ugly.

Katsuki swallows dry.

“Get out, Half’n’Half.”

“C’mon, you know I’m—”

“Now!”

He raises his arms, ready to do whatever his instincts tell him regardless of the consequences and what it may tell about him. As soon as his palms are facing forward, though, Izuku is suddenly by his side, hands gripping Katsuki’s fists. “Hm, Todoroki-kun, I really think you should go.”

Todoroki, the bastard, just nods with his weird, barely-there smirk. “I should. Sorry, Midoriya.”

“The hell?! You apologize to me, bitch!”

“Mhm. I’ll see you two later,” Todoroki nods slightly and starts walking out of the kitchen. “And please call me for dinner.”

“Fucking die!”

“Sure thing, Todoroki-kun!”

Then he’s gone.

“I fucking hate him,” Katsuki snarls, hands still up. “Want to explode his peanut-sized brain and feed him its remains.”

“Kacchan, how would you feed him if he’s dead?”

“Tch. Fuck if I know, Deku.”

Izuku doesn’t answer, and the moment of silence is enough for Katsuki to properly digest the way Izuku’s holding him.

It’s not how he holds civilians through shock or how he holds his friends. He’s holding Katsuki the way Katsuki’s mother holds his father after a work trip, with arms now circling his waist and hands meeting on his stomach, softly tapping here and there. It’s firm yet gentle, scolding yet reassuring. It allows Katsuki to feel Izuku’s beating heart as his own, the rhythm slowly luring Katsuki to sink in, for his muscles to give up the tension and let Izuku bear it. Just for a little while. Just so Katsuki can take a break.

And perhaps it’s because he’s exhausted and the prospect of peace is too tempting, or the warmth overflowing Izuku’s hold is too cozy to be true, or just because Katsuki wants and can, but within a second, he melts under Izuku’s arms.

Katsuku turns around and hugs him back, sinking his head on his shoulder. His muscles relax, fingers now playing mindlessly with the hem of Izuku’s shirt, and he closes his eyes. It’s all so warm and comfortable, especially how Izuku doesn’t even say anything. Just like when Katsuki first held his hand, just like when he massaged his ankle, Izuku simply goes along with it, giving Katsuki all freedom and control his heart needs.

Katsuki feels. He feels so much.

“You alright?” Izuku asks in Katsuki’s ear, low and private, and Katsuki’s too comfortable to talk. He simply shrugs, and in return, Izuku sighs. “That’s okay, Kacchan. Todoroki-kun can be a little too much sometimes.”

Katsuki squeezes his eyes and grunts.

“Hey, no. Don’t be like that,” Izuku squeezes his waist. “He was being extremely rude for someone who can’t even fry an egg. I don’t blame you for blowing up, alright? No one does. I promise, Kacchan.”

The reassurance that Izuku isn’t disappointed that Katsuki can’t do better however hard he tries sets warmly in Katsuki’s chest despite the self-repulsiveness weighing just as heavily. He absolutely hates failing and never learned how to properly deal with it despite being a given reality as a hero. But having Izuku here to balance it out, to catch his mind from the what ifs and I could’ves and bear that burden with him is so good that Katsuki wants to cherish it forever, no matter how selfish.

He inhales, Izuku’s cologne staining every inch of his lungs, and Izuku’s arms tighten around him.

They end up ordering take-out. No one seems to notice the forgotten pan in the oven, and Todoroki doesn’t appear surprised by eating cold soba—one Katsuki did not order as a thank-you gift for being usefully insufferable for once.)

—————————

They should talk about it.

It’s not fair for Katsuki to keep reaching out whenever most convenient and shove more affection down Izuku’s throat in two months than in the eighteen years they’ve known each other, without any reasoning or explanation. It doesn’t matter if Izuku’s letting him or not. It doesn’t matter if he understands that in Katsuki’s case, actions speak louder than words, because sometimes that still isn’t enough. Ultimately, Katsuki knows that.

Izuku knows it too. It wouldn’t be surprising if he was just letting Katsuki set the pace of whatever they’re doing until he’s ready to do something about it. It should be annoying, like Izuku’s challenging him, questioning whether he’s too much of a candy-ass to act. But now the tower finally managed to slide across the board and the king is inherently trapped, with no alternatives other than fight or flight. Now, Izuku’s not testing him, playing with his ego, but waiting for Katsuki to meet him on the other side, to figure himself out with no rush.

Because Izuku knows him, fully and like no one else, and perhaps that’s why Katsuki’s not surprised when the nerd opens the door after the first knock.

It’s late, and today was tough. Tougher than usual, more tiring than expected. They have a big test tomorrow and Katsuki’s already dreading the I really should’ve slept and I could barely understand what I was writing and was that a multiple answer or truth or false question, Kacchan? Still, Katsuki doesn’t ask why Izuku isn’t sleeping. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheeks and inhales.

Izuku opens the door further to let him in.

It’s hard to remember the last time he’s been in Izuku’s room, or if that ever even happened in the first place. It probably didn’t. Katsuki would’ve never forgotten the overbearing amount of All-Might posters and figurines staining Izuku’s walls, shelves, and floor, and how his lungs are poisoned with every breath he takes.

Not that it’s a bad thing. Izuku cologne, that is. It smells earthy and deeply, silently, maybe, Katsuki’s been craving it since their embrace in the kitchen and wondering what it’d be like if his pillows smelled like it, too. The abnormal amount of blue eyes and I am here! smiles directed at him, though? Not so much.

“Dunno how you sleep in here,” He rasps out. “It’s fucking creepy.”

“I think you’re just jealous that your collection is still in Aunty’s basement.”

Katsuki doesn’t have to turn around to see Izuku’s smirk, but he does it anyway. Under the light streaks of moonlight that squeeze between the blinds, Izuku’s skin is shiny, freckles jumping out and pleading to be kissed one by one. Katsuki has to sit in Izuku’s bed and fist the sheets to keep from reaching out. He can’t. Not yet.

“Nah. The Hag sold it.”

Izuku hums, lightly and small, and walks closer. His pace is slow, calculating, probably waiting for a cue to stop. Katsuki doesn’t give any. “Really?”

“Mhm. Bought a Kindle with the money.”

Izuku blinks. “And you let her?”

“She didn’t ask,” Katsuki says, low, deadpanned. Izuku doesn’t visibly react, but his pupils dilate slightly, and that’s all Katsuki needs to know. “Told me after the first was already gone. I didn’t complain.”

Izuku takes a step closer. “Because you didn’t care, or because it wouldn’t stop her?”

“Does it matter?” Katsuki’s eyes narrow. “She should’ve fucking told me something. I wouldn’t give a fuck it was sunglasses, but a Kindle? She didn’t deserve it, Deku. You remember when we went out and she yelled when she saw someone using one? It was the same shit, every time. Idiots are letting the internet consume them and if I ever catch you both reading in anything but paper I’ll burn it. And now she buys one?”

“It’s not about deserving, though,” Izuku takes another step, his body nearly towering over Katsuki. An angel and a fiend; Katsuki’s salvation and his downfall. “She spent a long time resenting it, but she eventually gave it a chance. Made an effort to be better. Isn’t this good?”

Katsuki’s hands tighten on the sheets. “Maybe. But that’s not— that’s not the point. She shouldn’t have bought it ‘cause it was a Kindle and she fucking hated Kindles, and she didn’t tell me before. Just after.”

“That could’ve gone differently, yeah,” Izuku says, quietly. “But is she happy now?”

“Fucking addicted.” He breathes out.

“Isn’t it good? Even if she didn’t warn you, even if she didn’t deserve it? Isn’t it worth it if she’s happy?”

Outside the building, trees sway. Izuku’s face is suddenly bathed by the moonlight, and, Katsuki can’t look away. He stares, mouth parted slightly. Doesn’t flinch when Izuku takes another step and their knees touch, or when his entire body shudders with the contact and all he wants is to pull Izuku so every other inch of their bodies is pressed together. Doesn’t flinch when Izuku inclines forward, just a bit, just enough so that Katsuki can feel his breath. If anything, he leans towards him, eyes wide and hazy.

“Deku—”

“Kacchan, it doesn’t matter.” Izuku’s eyes are calm, and his voice is almost a whisper. “I told you that, remember? I told you could come to me. Do you think I would have said it if I thought you didn’t deserve it?”

Yes, Katsuki wants to say. Because you’re the most stupid, selfless person I’ve ever met in my entire life.

“Still,” He murmurs instead, looking down at his hands. This is it, isn’t it? He’s about to do it. There’s no coming back, the only way to go is to Izuku. Izuku, who’s looking at Katsuki like he’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. Izuku, who looks so angelic and pretty Katsuki could cry. “I’m— I’m sorry. I should’ve talked to you first. Should’ve… should’ve told you what I wanted.”

“Kacchan…” The name strikes Katsuki like lightning, and suddenly there are hands cradling Katsuki’s face and a body on his lap. His eyes widen slightly, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart beating so rapidly it’s as if it’ll break through his ribcage. “You don’t have to say anything, Kacchan. It’s okay if you just do it.”

Katsuki shakes his head. “No, I— I can’t. It’s not fair to you, Deku. You know that.”

“Kacchan, how isn’t it fair for me if I’m the one asking?” Izuku whispers, suddenly moving to sit in Katsuki’s lap, and Katsuki’s mouth snaps shut. There’s so much more he wants to say, to call out and make Izuku understand, but how can Katsuki deny him anything when Izuku is like this? “I told you, I’m okay. I’m okay with whatever you want to give me. Just want you to trust me enough to come to me.” His breath hitches. The word is completely choked. “Please.”

And Katsuki—

Katsuki’s only human.

Without looking away, he releases the sheets. His hands slowly go to Izuku’s face, and he’s not sure what he expects Izuku to do—he won’t go away, right? He said too much, did too much, pushed too much for this all to be a prank. Still, Katsuki can’t help but let out a breathless, inaudible gasp once he finally cups Izuku’s cheeks with no protest.

They’re warm. Warmer than Izuku’s hands, definitely warmer than his neck. Even more, as Katsuki squeezes them once, lightly and just to reassure himself that this is actually happening, and a deep red overcomes its freckles.

“Good, Kacchan. That’s good.” Izuku murmurs, his eyes so bright it’s as if they have the entire sky confined in them.

Katsuki swallows dry, and for the first time since he entered Izuku’s All Might shrine, he lets his eyes trail away.

Izuku’s cheeks are possibly the only place in his entire body without a single scar. It’s not a bad thing— Izuku’s scars aren’t ugly. They’re reminders of his growth and path to becoming the next Symbol of Peace, and if anything, they make Izuku’s body even more beautiful regardless of their painful appearances. Still, the lack of scars hurts, because along with the fact that they’re puffed like the nerd is still five, it can’t help but remind Katsuki of their childhood. The one he spent cursing Izuku for something out of his control rather than embracing him. The one in which he mourned their relationship yet didn’t abjure burning it deeper with every encounter, expletive, and punch.

Tracing Izuku’s freckles is drawing constellations in a dead sky. It’s finding patterns in the irregular and meaning in the hollow. Yet, Katsuki traces them one by one, pressing slightly on the darkest ones. If Izuku’s uncomfortable with it, given they’re mostly concentrated in his nose whereas the others gradually fade in his cheeks, he doesn’t show it. He just stares, his gaze burning in Katsuki’s fervently, yet with no rush to meet Katsuki’s. It makes him happy. Cared for. Safe.

“Bangs,” He mutters. His voice sounds hoarse like he hasn’t used it in hours and hours. And maybe he hasn’t. How long has it been since they’ve been here?

Not that it matters. It probably should, because they’ve got training tomorrow, and Katsuki can’t afford to slack off for being sleepy, but right now…

Izuku blinks, slowly. “What was that, Kacchan?”

“Bangs, Deku.”

“Oh, okay.” Izuku leans away, just enough so that he can reach his bedside table. When he comes back, there’s a bandana on his head, and his forehead is now visible. Katsuki frowns at the large, orange X on the front. His brain is mushy and thinking clearly is anything but within reach, yeah, but when did he release a headband? “It’s custom-made,” Izuku clears his throat, blushing deeper. “I got it a few months ago.”

Katsuki stares. Izuku promised him he would stop buying his merch, official or not, after Katsuki caught him wandering around with a Ground Zero scarf (one Katsuki hated for being ugly and tacky and not for making him wonder how Izuku’s adam apple would feel against his palm, let him be very clear). He should be annoyed, probably. Yell at Izuku again and blow the poor fabric. And yet—

Izuku looks so fucking good like this, wearing Katsuki’s merch in Katsuki’s lap and exposing his skin to Katsuki’s touch, and Katsuki can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, filled with so much adoration and passion his body shudders.

“Do you like it, Kacchan?” Izuku asks, tilting his head slightly, and Katsuki can’t help but cup his cheeks again and nod. Izuku grins. “Good, Kacchan, I’m glad. I wear it to the gym, sometimes. It’s like taking you with me. I like it.”

Oh.

Katsuki bites his tongue, and, hell. He can see Izuku changing in the locker rooms, taking the headband from his worn-out, All Might gym bag and putting it on; his curls, sweaty and gleaming, clinging to the polyester knit as Izuku goes between deadlifts, biceps curls, and leg presses; him staring at the mirror and Katsuki’s logo staring right back, the orange standing out amidst the green forest to whoever dares to look.

Oh, fuck.

He swallows dry. “Izuku…”

“I’m here, Kacchan,” Izuku whispers.

Katsuki still has a lot to do. He has to caress Izuku’s forehead, discover if they’re as warm as the rest of his face and tinted with freckles as much as his nose; to connect the few moles under his jaw and massage his temples. But now, all Katsuki can do is keep his hands in place as his head does the rest for him, leaning until he can feel every breath Izuku takes and their noses touch.

Come to me if you need anything, okay, Kacchan?

For once, need is too light of a word.

Izuku seems to understand it, for the moment Katsuki closes the gap, his hands are stroking through Katsuki’s hair and lips searching his with just as much desperation and want. It burns, from Izuku’s tongue to his hands and hips, so much that Katsuki feels as if he’s about to explode. It’s messy yet delicate, frantic yet soothing. It’s everything Katsuki ever left unsaid, everything he craved and bottled up for years, and the prospect that Izuku not only accepts it but returns it with just as much ardor is almost too good to be true.

Izuku’s the one to separate them after what feels like both too long and not enough. The moonlight still shapes his face like its own sculpture, with flushed cheeks and messy hair and eyes shining with too many emotions for Katsuki’s overwhelmed brain to comprehend. But that’s okay, because when Izuku’s hands leave his neck to brush Katsuki’s cheeks, they’re wet, and maybe he looks just as flustered.

“Thank you, Kacchan,” Izuku whispers.

It’s soft, almost muted by their heavy pants, but Katsuki catches it nonetheless. He’s not sure what Izuku is thankful for, and words are beyond him to question, so he closes the gap between them again, pressing his lips tightly against Izuku’s and praying he understands.

(He does. More than anyone, Izuku does.)