Work Text:
Katsuki doesn’t really like winter.
It creeps in too fast, seeps under doorframes, bites at his skin no matter how many layers he throws on. There’s no escape from it. The air hurts to breathe, especially in the mornings when the sun doesn’t rise so much as it shows up late, when the ground freezes hard, and makes every chore a punishment. Even something as simple as hauling water from the stream becomes a battle.
He hates the way his breath fogs in front of him, hates the silence, too. How snow muffles everything, makes the world feel distant and hollow, and most of all, he hates how it slows things down.
And then there’s Bellwinter.
Katsuki thinks he might hate Bellwinter most of all.
It’s not the holiday’s fault. The village loves it. People go soft for what Bellwinter is about. Gratitude and generosity and all that sentimental crap. It’s about giving back, they say. About showing people how thankful they are, warming what the cold can’t reach. There’s feasts and songs and those dumb paper lanterns that flicker out before the night’s halfway done. The kids love it, elders tear up over it, and everyone gets caught up in the talk of calling back what was lost.
And there’s the bells, people hang bells. Little things could be glass, wood, or metal. Strung up in windows or tied to branches, slipped onto fences, doors, cart handles, even sleeves. They ring soft when the wind brushes by. Some are crooked, some barely make sound anymore, but they’re still there, each one a quiet wish: for warmth, for safety, for someone to come home.
Katsuki thinks about that as he stands by his door.
The snow’s piled up past the second step again. It snowed hard last night, meaning he’ll have to salt the path, again, and maybe dig out the chickens if they haven’t already decided to freeze themselves to death. But that’s not what has him pausing.
It’s a bell.
Right above the door, tied to the top beam where the wood’s still dark and unpolished from where he replaced it last spring, a small gold bell swings gently in the wind, hanging by a short loop of green twine.
Katsuki sighs. He doesn’t touch it.
It’s not the first one this year. Probably won’t be the last. The damn things started showing up the moment Bellwinter crept close, like it always does, dragging that cursed romantic nonsense along with it.
He doesn’t remember when the superstition started. Maybe when he was a kid, maybe even before that, but every winter, the same story gets passed around, in low voices over miso pots and rice steam, like it’s a secret worth guarding.
If someone leaves a bell on someone’s land and they find it without seeing who left it, it’s a confession of love.
And if they keep the bell, then the bond takes root. And every single year, Katsuki finds bells.
In his boots, under the rice sacks, tucked behind his firewood. Once, nailed under the eaves of his shed where the wind kept knocking it loose at night, and it drove him half-mad thinking there was something alive out there. He stopped counting after the fifth one. Almost like they wanted him to find it.
He knows well enough. He knows none of them were real. He knows because they’re always a joke. A laugh for the villagers to whisper over their sake cups. Who would really fall in love with him? That’s the punchline.
Katsuki, the loudmouth.
Katsuki, the grump.
Katsuki, who lives out by the woods with no wife, no kids, and only wolves for company.
Katsuki scoffs under his breath and turns away.
Bellwinter’s in a few hours.
He’s got work to finish before the square gets too crowded. Salt to spread, paths to shovel, tables to carry out from the storehouse. He’s told them every damn year not to leave things till the last second, but of course they do. Because everyone’s too busy cooking or sewing ribbons or hanging bells they claim aren’t for anyone in particular. Right.
He rubs at his arms and shrugs into his jacket, grabs his gloves off the peg near the door. He doesn’t look at the bell again.
It’s not like he believes in that old story anyway. That some little bell could mean something as stupid as love. People just like stories, they like pretending there’s a reason behind things that don’t make sense.
Katsuki steps outside, pulls his scarf up his nose and keeps walking.
He’s got work to do. Bellwinter will come whether he’s ready or not. And when the bells start ringing across the square and the food’s passed around and the stars show up late through the clouds, no one will remember whether he smiled that day or not. And that’s fine, he doesn’t need them to.
He just needs to get through it.
That’s all.
･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ
Katsuki doesn’t mind work.
It doesn’t really matter to him if it’s hauling buckets or sharpening someone’s dull knives or patching up a roof that should’ve been repaired two seasons ago.
Hunting’s no good in winter. Tracks vanish in snowdrifts too fast, nothing moves unless it has to. Game stays buried deep or keeps close to the river if it hasn’t frozen over yet. Most of the villagers don’t even bother asking him to hunt this time of year. They’ve got their little glasshouses now, warm with lantern heat that keeps roots green when the rest of the land is dead. They don’t need him for meat when they’ve got turnips and squash.
But they need him for other things. And well, coin is coin, he’s saving for a new bow anyway.
Spring’s far off, but the string on his old one’s starting to wear, and he’d rather not wait until it snaps in the middle of a shot. So when Ochako asks if he can come fix the leak in her roof before Bellwinter, he doesn’t even grumble. Just pulls on his boots, slings his pack over his shoulder, and heads over.
Her place is warm, and he doesn’t need to step inside to know she’s already been cooking since dawn. She’s all smiles when she opens the door.
"Sorry, Bakugou," she says, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. "It’s cold today, but the melt keeps seeping through near the chimney. If I wait any longer, it’s gonna freeze right through."
“It will,” He shrugs. "You got rope?"
She nods, then hands him a mug. "Hot chocolate first. A friend gave it to me."
It’s sweet and thick. He drinks it without a word and hands the mug back once he’s done, then heads around to the side of the house where the ladder waits. He climbs up, hands rough against the wood, boots steady on the rungs. The roof creaks under his weight, but holds. He kneels, starts to pull back the loose tiles, checking for rot.
Below him, voices carry. Familiar in that annoying, cheerful way.
"I swear, I’m not telling you who I made it for."
"Oh come on, just give us the shoe size. We’ll guess."
"You’re not gonna guess anything, Tsu."
"Is it someone tall?"
Katsuki grunts under his breath, shifts his weight, keeps working. They’re probably talking about the gift exchange. Some people swap handmade things for Bellwinter, others just leave something small on doorsteps. Socks, scarves, soup jars. Last year someone made carved birds out of walnut shells. The year before that, someone got caught trying to sneak a whole chicken onto a neighbor’s porch.
He taps a tile back into place. The wind bites through his sleeves, and his fingertips sting even under the gloves. The rope cinched around his waist tugs a little when he leans forward, the knot catching behind the chimney.
Then he hears it.
"Kacchan?"
A small voice, close enough that it makes his head jerk up.
Katsuki looks down, squinting past the edge of the roof. His scarf’s bunched up over his mouth, and his breath comes out in a small cloud when he exhales. Below, standing in a patch of churned-up snow, is Izuku. Cheeks pink, hair a mess, wool wrapped too many times around his neck. He’s holding out a bundle of hot sticks, steam still rising from them, fish grilled on skewers and slightly charred at the edges.
“Brought you something!” Izuku calls up, smile too wide, “They’re fresh!”
Katsuki scowls, about to say no. About to tell him he’s working and doesn’t need anything and to stop bothering him in the middle of someone else’s damn job. But then his stomach growls. He pauses.
Izuku’s still holding them out, like he hasn’t heard it. But Katsuki knows he did.
“…Tch.” He huffs and climbs down halfway, boots thudding against the ladder, until he’s close enough to snatch one of the sticks. He tears into the fish, grumbling. It tastes divine.
“If you expect me to pay for this, I’ve got no money yet,” he mutters, mouth full.
Izuku just grins at him, handing off the second stick. “I don’t.”
They stand like that a while. Katsuki still halfway on the ladder. Izuku bouncing a little on his feet to keep the blood moving. Snow clings to his boots and the edges of his cloak. The village bell rings in the distance, once, maybe twice. Katsuki takes another bite and chews slow.
Izuku and him go way back. That’s just how it’s always been. Just years and years of Izuku showing up where he’s not needed, smiling like an idiot, offering things Katsuki never asked for. They weren’t in the same class or family. Weren’t equals. Izuku’s family had more land, more hands to work it, bigger house near the center of the village, close to the shrine, with a yard that stayed green longer than anyone else’s.
But Izuku never seemed to care about that. He was just always there.
When Katsuki was sent to fetch water, Izuku would trail behind asking questions about frogs. When Katsuki had to bring back meat for the village storehouse, Izuku begged to tag along, clutching a bow he barely knew how to hold. Said he wanted to learn, and that he wanted to understand what it was like.
Katsuki told him no, of course. Over and over.
But Izuku kept showing up. And somewhere along the way, Katsuki stopped trying to shake him off.
He’s still there now, grinning like a fool, cheeks bright and eyes warm, holding out a third stick of fish with one hand.
“You gonna take the last one too?” Izuku asks.
Katsuki snorts. “You brought three for a reason. Eat it yourself.”
Katsuki finishes the second skewer and wipes his mouth on the back of his glove.
“…Thanks,” he mutters.
Katsuki watches a crow pick at the scraps near the base of the fence across the yard. The air smells like woodsmoke and something sweet drifting from Ochako’s chimney. Probably dried plum tea. Izuku shifts, leaning a little closer.
“Kacchan,” he asks, “Are you going to Bellwinter later?”
Katsuki sighs through his nose, “Don’t really get a choice, do I?”
Izuku tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Even if I wanted to stay home, everyone knows Chief Aizawa’ll just show up at my door and drag me out by the collar.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the same without you anyway.”
Katsuki makes a noise in his throat. Not quite a grunt. Not quite a reply. He doesn’t say anything else.
Izuku always says stuff like that, not just to him, to everyone. Makes those easy, gentle comments like they’re facts, like people should just accept them without question. He tells the old woman who sells ink that the village wouldn’t run without her. He tells the kid who stammers through his words that his voice matters. He tells Katsuki that the whole festival wouldn’t feel right if he wasn’t there.
Almost as if he means it. Katsuki doesn’t know how to respond to things like that. So he stays quiet.
Izuku doesn’t push.
Katsuki climbs back up the ladder, scarf tight around his neck. He works faster after that, heart a little lighter, stomach a little warmer. The fish helped.
･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ
The town square is buried.
Snow clings to the stones, hiding the paths, lantern posts stand crooked under the weight of snow, tops dusted white. In the middle, where the fire pit rests, only the very edges of the stone ring peek out. A pile of unburnt wood sits beside it, still dry from being covered, but it’ll take some time to get the flames going. Probably someone else’s job.
Katsuki doesn’t care, he’s here for the paths.
He stomps through the drifts, boots sinking up past his ankles, breath puffing out in steady clouds. He grabs the shovel where it’s leaned against the old cart, and starts digging. One long scrape after another. Behind him, the crunch of lighter footsteps. Katsuki glances over his shoulder, already knowing who it is.
Of course. Izuku’s still there. Hasn’t left his side since he finished Ochako’s roof.
He doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about it, just trails after him like some persistent fox cub who decided this is where he belongs. Katsuki swears he said something about going home earlier, but apparently that moment’s long gone. Izuku doesn’t say anything right away, just picks up a smaller shovel from the pile, braces it with both hands, and gets to work beside him. Their shovels scrape in sync.
Katsuki doesn’t tell him to stop, but he’s already rolling his eyes before the words come out.
“You’re gonna get in trouble again,” he mutters, not looking up. “Your mother’s gonna throw a fit when she sees you doing actual work.”
Izuku huffs a small laugh, not even pausing. “She’ll understand. I already told her where I was going.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t yell.”
“She probably will,” Izuku admits. “But it’s boring just staying inside.”
Katsuki grunts. He pushes a big chunk of snow off the path and watches it tumble into the drift beside the well.
“What, your big house doesn’t have anything in it?”
Izuku laughs again, ducks his head a little as he works, cheeks already flushed from the cold.
“It’s just me and my mom, Kacchan. There’s only so much reading and tea drinking you can do before it gets lonely.”
Katsuki steals a glance. He wouldn’t have thought someone like Izuku would use a word like that. Not with that big house, with servants passing through sometimes, and neighbors who stop by to give gifts they think will impress him and his mother. Not with all that. But maybe that’s the thing, big spaces just make the quiet louder.
The sun’s starting to dip now, and Bellwinter will start in a few hours. People’ll be lighting lanterns soon. He pushes the last bit of snow aside, leans on the shovel, and squints toward the path coming from the east road. Two figures are heading their way, one wrapped in a long cloak, the other with a shamisen case slung across his back.
Jirou and Denki. They’re probably going to set up near the fire pit. The music starts right after the bells.
He sets his shovel down and glances at Izuku, still fussing with a small pile of snow by the benches, then walks toward the pair. Denki spots him first. “Oi, Bakugou!”
Katsuki glares at him, “You two leave that damn bell on my door again this morning?”
Denki squints. “Huh?”
“You know, the one with green twine, thought you at least had better hiding skills-”
Jirou speaks this time. “We haven’t been anywhere near your place, Bakugou.”
Katsuki frowns, slows a little.
“Wait, seriously?” Denki looks at Jirou. “Did we?”
“No. We were at the workshop all morning.”
Katsuki opens his mouth, then shuts it. His brows pull tight without him meaning to. Before he can say anything else, a familiar voice cuts through the square.
“Bakugou.”
He turns toward it. Chief Aizawa stands near the edge of the shrine, cloak drawn over his shoulders, arms crossed.
“That’s enough,” Aizawa says, “You and Midoriya go get dinner. We’ll finish up here.”
Katsuki scowls, but doesn’t argue.
He turns and walks back toward Izuku, who’s already brushing snow from his gloves and straightening his scarf.
“I’m starving! Wanna eat with me, Kacchan?”
Katsuki wonders how Izuku would react should he say no. He never does though, so he’ll always just wonder.
“Sure.”
･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ
The food stall sits near the edge of the main street, tucked between the fabric merchant and an old bathhouse.
Smoke curls from the grill out front, rising in spirals, mixing with the scent of soy, char, and sweet miso that clings to the cold air. The man running it, Sato, nods at them without looking up, already flipping skewers with one hand, his sleeve damp from steam. His wife’s behind him, humming quietly while she kneads dough into little balls and drops them in oil.
Katsuki sits first, mostly because Izuku waits for him to, like always. They slide onto the same bench, close enough for their arms to brush, and the heat from the open coals hits Katsuki’s face. His scarf smells faintly of snowmelt and ash now. His gloves are tucked into his sleeves, and his shoulders ache from all the shoveling.
Izuku presses a few coins into the old man’s hand, like Katsuki won’t notice.
Katsuki notices.
“You didn’t have to pay,” he mutters.
Izuku just smiles. “You’ve done enough work today.”
“Still could’ve paid.”
“You’ll get the next one.”
The food comes out fast. Three skewers each. One’s grilled river fish, another’s sweet miso slathered over root vegetables, and the last is mochi dusted with roasted soybean flour. Katsuki starts with the fish. The heat nearly scorches his tongue, and he pulls back with a hiss. Izuku snorts a laugh beside him, already reaching over.
“Careful, Kacchan.” Before Katsuki can stop him, Izuku takes the skewer from his hand, cradles it in his palm and blows on it. The tips of his fingers brush Katsuki’s.
“There,” he says, offering it back once the steam starts to thin. “You can eat it now without burning your mouth.”
Katsuki grabs it, grumbling, “I’m not a damn child.”
“Never said you were.”
The crowd moves slow this time of day. Most people are home preparing for the evening, hanging last minute decorations, simmering stews, wrapping little boxes in cloth. The occasional neighbor walks past, nodding politely, eyes lingering just a second too long when they see the two of them sharing a bench. Izuku doesn’t seem to care.
They eat in peace for a while, quietly trading bites when one of them finishes something faster. Katsuki gives him the last chunk of roasted radish without thinking. Izuku hands him his half-bitten mochi like it’s not even a question.
Izuku licks a bit of sauce from his thumb and glances over. “Did you prep anything this year?”
Katsuki looks at him, confused. “For what?”
“For Bellwinter. You know, gifts.”
Katsuki huffs, leans back a little, and wipes his fingers on a napkin.
“Haven’t had spare coin for that kind of thing. I’m not some rich house, Izuku.”
Izuku hums, turning the last skewer in his hand. His voice is light when he speaks again.
“Right. That’s why you give everyone discounts all year?”
Katsuki freezes. Then he scowls, arms folding tight across his chest. “That’s not the same.”
Izuku grins like he’s caught something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Sure it’s not.”
“It’s not,” Katsuki snaps. “I just don’t like people being stupid about prices. Doesn’t mean I’m giving out gifts.”
“You fixed Tetsutetsu’s roof last month for half pay.”
“He did half the work.”
“You made soup for Sato’s grandmother when she got sick.”
“It was one pot.”
“You repaired the gate near the south field without anyone asking.”
“It was crooked.”
“Kacchan,” Izuku says, brushing his shoulder against his, “You give all year. You just don’t like wrapping things.”
Katsuki glares at him, then looks away, jaw tight. His ears burn in the cold. “Whatever.”
Izuku nudges his arm again. “That’s kind of sweet, you know.”
“Shut up.”
･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ
The air is colder after dark.
The whole village square glows under lantern light during Bellwinter. Warm yellow pools stretch across the snow in every direction, flickering on rooftops and the edges of coats, bouncing off red cheeks and smoke curling from the bonfire in the square’s center. Someone’s playing the shamisen already, enough to thrum underfoot, something to lean into.
Katsuki arrives with Izuku, boots crunching snow as they step onto the cleared path.
They’re not late, but just barely on time. The last of the opening greetings is being said. Chief Aizawa stands near the fire, arms crossed as he gives a few dry words about peace, and gratitude, and how this year’s snow didn’t collapse any roofs, which is apparently something worth celebrating. A handful of people laugh. The firelight paints deep shadows across his face, and someone tosses a handful of dried herbs into the pit behind him. The flames rise a little higher.
Katsuki doesn’t listen much. He’s not here for speeches.
He lingers near one of the tables as Izuku walks towards his mother, lets the sound wash over him while he picks up a skewer of grilled chestnuts and something wrapped in rice paper. The food’s warm, filling. Not amazing, but no one’s here for gourmet. It’s the kind of food someone eats while talking, while standing with their hands half frozen, watching kids dart between adults and listening to laughter.
The fire crackles behind him, and some people have started dancing already. Loose circles form and shift under the lantern light, arms linking and feet sliding in rhythm to the music drifting from the shamisen and flute. He should probably leave. He always does once the music starts.
Katsuki’s eyes flick toward the other end of the square.
Izuku’s standing next to his mother, near the string of red bells tied to the edge of the stage. She’s speaking to someone, maybe one of the tailors. Izuku listens quietly, nodding along, then slips a small thing from his sleeve and presses it into her hand. She gasps just a little, smiling, fingers brushing something wrapped in green twine.
Katsuki looks away, tosses the last of the chestnuts into his mouth, chews, and starts edging toward the far side of the square. He’s almost out of the lantern light when he hears his name.
“Kacchan!” Katsuki doesn’t stop walking, but the crunch of fast steps behind him makes it obvious Izuku’s not going to let him pretend he didn’t hear. “Kacchan, wait!”
He turns, sighs. “What?”
Izuku’s cheeks are pink from the cold and the light. His scarf’s lopsided, the thing’s never tied right. Katsuki doesn’t think much of it, just moves and reaches for it. “Hold still.”
Izuku blinks. “Huh…?”
Katsuki’s already adjusting the scarf, tugging one end back over Izuku’s shoulder and looping it snug around his neck. Izuku goes quiet, his cheeks are already pink from the cold, but Katsuki notices the way they go a little redder, the way his breath catches and his eyes drop to Katsuki’s hands still fussing with the knot.
Katsuki doesn’t realize how close they are until he glances down. Their noses are inches apart and Izuku’s lashes are dusted with snowflakes. His mouth opens, then closes. Katsuki steps back, clearing his throat.
“There. Stop letting it fall apart.”
“Right,” Izuku says, voice a little soft. “Thank you.”
They stand there for a second. Neither of them moves. The music continues, rising gently, and Katsuki can’t bring himself to look at the fire or the crowd or anywhere else. Then Izuku fidgets. He bites the inside of his cheek, looks at Katsuki, then looks down again. His hands are clenched in his sleeves.
“…Kacchan?” he says, almost too quiet under the music.
Katsuki glances at him. “What?”
Izuku hesitates.
“Do you…” He clears his throat, then tries again. “Would you want to… dance? With me?”
Katsuki knows he should say no. He always does. That’s the pattern.
Izuku asks. Katsuki rolls his eyes and says no. They walk home eventually and don’t talk about it. But his scarf is warm with Katsuki’s fingers still in the threads, and the wind is softer than usual tonight, and Izuku looks like he’ll be okay either way.
“...Just one.”
“Next time then,” Izuku pauses, as if realizing what Katsuki just said. Then his whole face lights up. “Wait, really?”
“Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not!” Izuku says, already reaching for his hand, already pulling them closer to the slow moving circle near the fire. “Just one.”
Katsuki’s never danced before, he assumes Izuku is the same. So when Izuku steps closer, and his hand brushes Katsuki’s, Katsuki expects him to fumble, because Izuku always fumbles. But he doesn’t fumble here. Instead, he smiles.
"Okay," Izuku says softly, eyes flicking up. "Let me?"
“...Okay.”
Izuku places their joined hands off to the side, just like the dance calls for, then lifts his other hand, and settles it on Katsuki’s waist. Katsuki freezes automatically, but Izuku doesn’t say anything, nor does he tease him about it. Katsuki’s taller by a head, broader in the shoulders, but Izuku moves like it doesn’t matter. His thumb presses lightly through the cloth of Katsuki’s coat, and somehow that small warmth sinks in too deep, burns in a place Katsuki doesn’t know how to name.
They move. One step, two. A slow turn.
Katsuki follows without thinking, boots dragging slightly over the packed snow. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. But Izuku’s guiding him, as if there’s nothing Katsuki could mess up bad enough to ruin this. Izuku’s looking up at him, not saying anything, just smiling like an idiot.
“You’re good at this,” Katsuki mutters before he can stop himself.
Izuku laughs quietly. “Dancing?”
Katsuki scowls, even if his grip tightens a little in embarrassment. “Yeah.”
“Well,” Izuku murmurs, thumb brushing lightly against his coat again, “Only with you.”
That makes Katsuki’s ears go red. He was just about to ask Izuku what he meant by that but they kept moving. A slow turn near the edge of the crowd, as snow crunches gently under their boots. Most people are too caught up in their own circles to notice them, and Katsuki’s glad for that. It’s quieter here. A little more distant from the firelight, tucked under the hanging bells and the shadows of pine boughs.
“Do you think the stories are real?”
Katsuki frowns. “What stories?”
“You know,” Izuku says. “The Bellwinter ones. About how bells left in secret are love confessions. That if someone keeps the bell, even by accident, it means the bond’s already growing.”
“I think people just like hanging bells.”
Izuku hums. “Maybe. But maybe people just like to hope, too.”
They fall into silence again, circling once more. The dance slows. Izuku leans in slightly, not enough to make it obvious, but enough that Katsuki feels the warmth of his breath near his neck.
"Did anyone give you anything today?" Izuku asks.
Katsuki huffs. "No. Same as every year."
"Really?"
“What,” Katsuki mutters, “You think someone did?”
“I think,” Izuku whispers, “People gave you things today.”
“No, they didn’t.”
“I gave you food skewers.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
Katsuki scowls. “Because it’s just food. You always bring me stuff like that. You helped me shovel snow, fixed that knot on my coat last week, pulled that stupid thorn outta my hand when we were clearing the fence. You do that all the time.”
Katsuki realizes heart is a traitor tonight, thudding like he’s been running, like he’s being pulled forward and can’t stop.
Izuku shifts a little closer, pressing a hand lightly against Katsuki’s back, guiding him.
And that’s when he says it. Low, right next to Katsuki’s ear.
“Exactly,” Izuku murmurs, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. Like it’s so obvious Katsuki should’ve known it all along. “I didn’t need Bellwinter to give you something.”
Katsuki’s doesn’t get a chance to answer, doesn’t get a moment to look away and collect himself, because Izuku’s moving again, one hand still holding his, the other guiding him down gently, into a dip. Katsuki’s eyes go wide for a second. Not because he doesn’t trust him, but because… what the hell.
Izuku looks down at him, face flushed from the cold and the firelight, and grins, just the tiniest bit smug.
“See?” he says, voice warm, but laced with that quiet, nerdy pride that he only ever shows when he’s fixed something or figured out a trick no one else noticed. “I lead well, don’t I?”
Katsuki wants to curse him. He wants to call him a loser and a weirdo and a dumbass.
But all that comes out is a quiet exhale and the realization that his knees feel a little weak and it’s not from the cold.
･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ
The walk back to his cabin is slow.
Izuku walks just beside him, not saying much, but every so often their shoulders brush. Izuku keeps looking up, maybe at the stars, or the dark sky, or maybe he’s just nervous. Katsuki doesn’t ask. His cabin comes into view soon enough. Snow lines the rooftop, untouched since the early afternoon. The steps are clear, he shoveled them himself, but the doorframe’s dusted in white, and the small bench near the entrance has a thin layer of frost already settling in.
Katsuki leans against his doorframe, one shoulder pressing into the wood, arms crossing over his chest. Izuku comes up beside him, and leans against the other side of the doorway.
“Hm,” Izuku whispers, looking up. “I thought no one gave you anything, Kacchan?”
Katsuki watches him, brows furrowed. Izuku’s fingers point slowly upward, toward the top beam of the doorway.
“…Where did that come from?” he asks, voice soft.
Katsuki looks. Oh right. It’s the same bell from this morning. The small gold one, looped with green twine, swaying gently now in the evening breeze.
“I guess some idiot thinks it’s funny.”
“Funny?”
Katsuki nods toward the bell, irritated. “People’ve been messing with me every year. Slipping bells in my boot or behind the shed. Everyone knows no one’s leaving me a real one.”
Izuku turns to face him slightly. “Kacchan…”
“What?” Katsuki mutters, still watching the bell. “No one likes me like that.”
There’s a pause. Then, gentle, almost unsure, Izuku says, “What if someone does?”
Katsuki snorts. “Yeah, right.”
But even as he says it, something prickles at the back of his neck. That same feeling he had during the dance. The way Izuku’s hand fit so easily in his. The way he looked when he smiled, confident and soft at the same time. That thing he said. About giving without needing Bellwinter.
Katsuki looks at him fully this time.
Izuku’s face is a little pink from the cold, or something else. He doesn’t look away, though. He just watches Katsuki quietly, eyes bright under the low light of the stars. Then it clicks, and Katsuki stiffens.
“…Wait,” he says, staring at him. “That’s from you?”
Izuku laughs nervously, hand lifting to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
“You…? What the hell? Since when?!”
Izuku shrugs a little, sheepish but not regretful. Katsuki stares at him, then at the bell, then back again. Izuku steps forward, reaches up slowly, fingers brushing the twine, and unties it with careful movements. The bell falls into his palm with a soft jingle.
“Here,” he says gently, holding it out. “If someone finds it and keeps it, the bond takes root.”
Katsuki doesn’t move. Izuku smiles, more sure this time. “That’s how the story goes, right?”
Katsuki hesitates. Then, finally, he reaches out and lets Izuku place the bell into his hand. It’s small and cold against his skin. He closes his fingers around it without thinking.
Izuku’s still watching him, waiting, but not pushing.
Katsuki looks at the bell. Then back at him.
“I just wanted you to know,” Izuku goes on, “That I… I like you, Kacchan. Not just today, or because it’s Bellwinter. I’ve liked… loved you for a long time. And now that you know, well… I’m okay with that. That’s enough for me.”
Katsuki’s chest is tight. He wants to say something, but his throat won’t let him. So he just stands there, holding that stupid bell, watching Izuku take a breath and then, quietly, politely, turn to walk back down the snowy path. Just that same gentle step, that same careful way Izuku always moves when he’s leaving space for Katsuki to choose.
“See you tomorrow, Kacchan.”
Always giving him time. Always letting him come to things his own way.
Katsuki looks down at the bell again.
He should’ve known. All day, Izuku’s been giving things. His time, food, hands, warmth, laughter. The kind of things that don’t come wrapped in ribbon, the kind that don’t need a festival. And Katsuki took it all, like he always does, without thinking about what it meant.
Katsuki grips the bell tighter and moves without thinking.
“Wait!”
Katsuki’s boots crunch over the snow as he pushes off the doorframe and jogs after him. Izuku turns fast, surprised, scarf whipping a little as he does. His eyes go wide when Katsuki reaches him. Katsuki stops in front of him, chest rising and falling, breath misting between them in the cold. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, and he says absolutely nothing.
Instead, he leans forward and kisses him, right on the cheek. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he does it anyway.
Izuku freezes for a second, blinking, cheeks flushed so bright. Katsuki pulls back, looking away.
“What? I just… I think I like you too. I guess.”
Izuku laughs, stunned, but then softens into something that makes Katsuki’s heart stutter.
“…Can I kiss you again?”
Katsuki doesn’t answer right away.
He just stands there, eyes flicking away, like the snow’s suddenly more interesting than the boy standing in front of him who just asked if he could kiss him again. His hand tightens slightly around the bell, the cold metal warming against his skin. It takes him a few breaths, before he finally gives a short nod.
Izuku doesn’t move right away either. He waits, patient, always patient, until Katsuki finally lifts his gaze.
And then Izuku steps forward.
His hands come up first, and fingers cradle the sides of Katsuki’s face, palms warm against his chilled skin. His thumbs brush softly along Katsuki’s cheeks, careful and reverent. He doesn’t say anything. Katsuki swallows hard, his breath catching somewhere in his throat. His heart is a hammer, uneven and loud, but he doesn't pull away. Not even a little.
Izuku leans in, slowly, his forehead resting against Katsuki’s, their noses nearly touching. Their breaths mingle in the cold air, soft clouds rising between them. Katsuki closes his eyes. And Izuku kisses him.
Their lips meet, warm and slow, and everything else just… fades.
And when it ends, Katsuki’s still holding that damn bell, fingers curled around the twine like he’s never letting it go.
Maybe he isn’t.