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A month after they graduate from UA, Katsuki turns nineteen.
They’re in their shitty apartment, the first thing that Izuku and Katsuki could find on short notice post-graduation. Izuku doesn’t really know if being roommates was always the plan, or if they’re both coincidentally just dumb enough to not have thought about living arrangements, but that’s how it’s ended up—him and Kacchan, the two of them against the world.
Bundled up on the couch right now is Katsuki and his friends, soaking in the evening. They’re all a little giggly and stupid, half drunk, happy, and Izuku can’t help but smile as he hits the lights in the living room.
Ashido gasps dramatically, and Kaminari worries did the power go out?, and Katsuki tells them all to calm the fuck down, ‘Zuku just turned off the lights, you’re so fucking drunk.
Izuku snorts and retrieves the cake from where it’s been hiding on the top shelf of the fridge. It’s some half-shitty store-bought one, with plastic-y icing and plastic-ier icing roses piped on top, nestled among sugar-glazed fruit slices. It’s pitiful and perfect and still definitely better than anything Izuku could make. When he carries it carefully to the living room, he notes that it’d probably be better to have turned out the lights after he’d gotten all the candles on the cake, but whatever. He crouches to set it carefully on the coffee table, and then all of them help stick candles into it: all nineteen of them. Izuku is adamant on never using those candles shaped like numbers; after everything, they’ve survived, they get to grow older, and Izuku likes being reminded of it—even if it means he has to light a fire hazard’s worth of candles every year.
Their apartment is on a low enough floor that the lights from the city still reach them, and between that and the blazing mess of candles, the whole room is lit up golden and glowing and warm, dim-yellow like a treasured photograph faded with time.
Izuku fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts a video, inhaling loudly enough for the rest of the group to catch on and start singing happy birthday. The five of them sway with the song, arms thrown over shoulders, with Katsuki in the middle grumbling like he’s embarrassed, even though he’s smiling too.
When the song ends, Kaminari tries blowing out the candles before Katsuki can, and Kirishima fully tackles the boy over. They go flying and lopsided and knock the cake over, straight onto the floor. Ashido and Sero, horrified, start yelling at them. Katsuki is laughing so hard he’s crying. Izuku snaps pictures.
The disaster of it all ends up laid out in Izuku’s camera roll, and the six of them end up on all fours wiping cake off the floor. Izuku dips his pinky into a puddle of icing and boops Katsuki’s nose with it, because that’s what they always did as kids. Katsuki grins, all teeth, and slings his arm around Izuku’s shoulder, draws him close and rubs his knuckles into his hair, Izuku laughing and fighting his way out during all of it. Ashido has apparently brought her Polaroid camera and gets it just in time to capture the moment, frozen in time into a little seven-by-nine centimeter square, her fingertips still covered in cake because she hadn’t bothered to wipe them off in her haste. Katsuki startles at the flash of the camera in the dark room when she takes it, and immediately demands to keep the photo. Because he doesn’t want her to have blackmail, he insists.
Cake-less but still happy, the group manages to wrestle a party hat onto Katsuki’s head for just enough time to get final pictures in, all of them grinning brightly. Katsuki drags Izuku into them—don’t think you can get out of them that easy, nerd, he grumbles, when he really means I love you—and they concede to selfies to fit all of them in the frame: Katsuki looking disgruntled (an optimistic description); Kaminari and Ashido with wine staining their teeth; Sero blinking in about half the photos; Kirishima perfect and pretty with his wide, shark-tooth grin; Izuku giggling so hard he has to retake several of the shots because of how the laughter makes his hands shake. Katsuki rips the party hat off his head the second Izuku lowers the phone and explodes it into a crisp in his hand. Izuku reminds himself to do something about the smoke alarm so it doesn’t trigger every other time Katsuki decides to let an inanimate object learn his wrath. It’s a pretty fucking great evening, all in all.
After another while of lounging and hanging around (far too many more drinks are consumed), Katsuki decides that it’s gotten late enough and kicks them all out, calling taxis so they don’t embarrass themselves trying to walk home drunk (Katsuki’s words, not Izuku’s). It’s a sappy, warm farewell: Katsuki’s friends try kissing him on the cheek and only Kirishima succeeds; Katsuki slams the door on Kaminari’s nose in retaliation; Izuku chides him and they both go down to make sure they all get into their taxis safely. Ashido hangs out the window of hers and waves a handkerchief like she’s voyaging away across the sea. Out of the corner of his eye, Izuku catches Katsuki smiling fondly.
He bumps Katsuki with his elbow, his weight tipping into it maybe a little more than it should. Maybe he’s also a little drunk. “D’you have a good time?”
“No,” Katsuki says immediately, but the warmth in his eyes when he glances over at Izuku says otherwise.
He grins. “C’mon, let’s go back up; I’m cold out here.”
“It’s fucking April, idiot,” Katsuki mutters, but he slings an arm around Izuku’s shoulders, tucking him into the warmth of his side, and like that, the two of them stumble their way back up to their apartment.
By the time they make it through the door, they’ve somehow ended up laughing about nothing and stepping over each other’s feet. Drunk Izuku had apparently left their house key in the door and Drunk Katsuki thinks that’s the funniest shit ever.
“You’re so fucking dumb,” he cackles, pushing the door open to their shitty apartment, their grand opening all over again. Izuku blinks at it like he’s seeing it for the first time, empty and echoey, and he thinks he might someday, somehow, call this place home. Any place with Kacchan could be home.
He promptly stumbles into Katsuki’s back and giggles in response. “Water,” he gasps, his stomach aching with laughter, reduced to one-word sentences. “Kitchen.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki says in response, and then trips over the leg of a chair at their dining table. He glares daggers when Izuku snorts. “I hate you.”
“I love you, Kacchan,” Izuku sing-songs, getting two glasses out of the cabinet. All of their kitchen is a kind of lonely space—they don’t own much, yet—but there’s enough for the two of them and maybe that’s all that counts. He starts filling them at the tap, watching the water bubble and fizzle out as it hits the glass.
“We’ve got a filter somewhere,” Katsuki muses.
Izuku shoots him a look. “D’you know where it is?”
Katsuki pauses, looking thoughtful, and then sticks his tongue out. “Fuck off.”
“You don’t,” Izuku concludes, handing the blond his glass and taking a sip from his own triumphantly. “I thought Kacchan knew everything.”
“Fuck off,” Katsuki repeats. He dips his fingers into his water and then flicks them at Izuku, getting droplets over his face. Izuku pouts. Katsuki smirks.
“You’re so mean, Kacchan,” Izuku pouts harder, wiping his face with his sleeve. “You could almost fool someone into thinking you don’t love me.”
Katsuki scoffs. “Who told you that I love you? They were lying,” he says decisively, and then gulps his water down, all in one go. His head tips back and Izuku follows the line of his throat with his eyes.
“I can’t believe you’re nineteen, Kacchan,” he murmurs. “I kinda used to think I’d be dead by now.”
Katsuki’s face draws up, tight and serious. “Well, you’re not dead,” he says, voice low. “And you’re not going to be for a long time.”
Izuku cracks a smile. “Let’s live forever, yeah? You and me.”
“Plus Ultra,” Katsuki deadpans, but he’s smiling too. He flicks Izuku’s forehead on his way past him to drop his glass off in the sink.
“Nineteen,” Izuku says again, adamant. “You’re an old man.”
Katsuki sticks his tongue out. “Your birthday’s in three months, old man,” he sneers.
“Still not old enough to drink, though,” he teases. “Wow, Kacchan, you’re breaking the law.”
“You little shit,” Katsuki grins, catching Izuku in a headlock. He breaks free of it fairly easily but Katsuki doesn’t let up, tousling with him in the middle of the kitchen. Izuku slaps his hands away and ends up knocking his water glass off the table with his elbow, where it goes clattering to the floor. Katsuki manages to get a hand on his waist, right where he’s ticklish, and Izuku makes a disgusting sort of snort sound that only Katsuki would ever be allowed to hear. Izuku backs up right into a wall and hits his head. Katsuki falls over him laughing.
“Eighteen year old baby,” Katsuki teases right back, close enough that his breath fans over Izuku’s face. “You’re a fucking infant.”
“Mhm!” He says brightly, his hands going to Katsuki’s shoulders. “I’m eighteen and I’m drunk, Kacchan, whatcha gonna do about it?”
“I’ll kill you,” Katsuki threatens, empty of anything except fondness.
“I’m going to do something stupid,” Izuku counters.
“Yeah?” The blond smiles challengingly. “Like what?”
They’re older, and happier than they used to be. When Izuku kisses him, Katsuki kisses him back.
“Oh,” he says, pulling away quickly, his breath still right up against Katsuki’s mouth. “I didn’t think you’d let me.” He giggles and pecks his lips again, drunk with giddiness. “Kachaaaaan.”
“Izuku,” Katsuki mumbles, looking serious, his jaw shifting beneath his skin like he’s working himself up to something important. “I love you.”
“I know,” he says cheekily, as though Katsuki doesn’t say that rarely enough to always make it feel monumental. He lets his fingertips brush over the sides of Katsuki’s face, down along the line of his jaw. Katsuki pouts and he laughs. “I love you, too.”
Katsuki kisses him again, then, both hands reaching up to cradle his jaw in return, and Izuku leans up into it until their foreheads touch, moving slow and steady.
“Good birthday?” He mumbles, in the quiet little space between them.
“Yeah,” Katsuki murmurs back, and then there’s his mouth again, there’s his hands on Izuku’s face, there’s his nose scrunched up like he’s concentrating on how to do this right. Izuku is helplessly in love with him. When Katsuki pulls them in the direction of his bedroom, Izuku follows, because he always does.
Izuku wakes up bleary and tired, because while One For All lets him heal from injuries at a superhuman rate, it won’t cure him of hangovers. He groans, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight.
After a while, though, he notices a smell drifting from the kitchen. His stomach gurgles and he groans again, lifting himself up from the bed to find food.
Katsuki is already in the kitchen, with hangover-breakfast in the works: fluffy eggs and rice and a whole pitcher-full of water that’s cold but not too cold.
“God, I love you,” Izuku pads into the room, dropping heavily into his chair. A bottle of aspirin is thrown at his head and he whines when it makes impact. “So mean, Kacchan,” he complains, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead.
Katsuki makes a scoffing noise but doesn’t say anything, walking over and scooping more eggs into Izuku’s bowl, straight from the frying pan and still steaming.
“Looks amazing,” he says appreciatively.
“It’s just eggs,” Katsuki says gruffly. Izuku only hums.
He’s content to just sit in silence for a while, shoveling food into his mouth impatiently and inevitably hasfahasf-ing around the heat. No one has an appetite like Hungover Izuku.
“‘Zuku,” Katsuki says after some time, working his way through his own breakfast. His voice sounds very measured, careful, and it makes Izuku look up at him curiously. “Do you remember last night?”
“Your… birthday?” He frowns, because that’s obvious.
“No, dumbass, as in… what happened when the idiots left?”
“Uh,” Izuku says intelligently. He stares a hole into the table, thinking hard to recall what about last night was particularly significant. “Did you want me to send you the photos?” He eventually tries.
Katsuki stares blankly at him. “Yeah,” he says after a long pause, averting his gaze and putting another spoonful of rice in his mouth. “That.”
Izuku nods, trying to remember where he put his phone. He left it in the living room before they went down to make sure their guests made it home safe. Then he and Katsuki came back upstairs. And.
He glances up at where Katsuki has his bottom lip tucked into his mouth, chewing on it as a nervous tic, and then it all hits him.
His head spins frantically to look back into the living room. Yeah, no, that’s definitely Katsuki’s room that he just walked out of. He looks down at himself. But he still has all his clothes on from last night.
You weren’t that drunk, he thinks. None of them were beyond inhibition, past the point of coherency. Not intoxicated enough to be able to excuse his actions as just a drunk mistake. Just enough to fuck around and kiss Katsuki.
“Do—” he starts, anxious. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
Katsuki stands and picks his bowl up to take to the sink. “No,” he says, clearly lying. He’s staring at Izuku like he doesn’t quite know what to do with him. “Nothing important, anyway.”
(Former) Class 3-A is still in the honeymoon phase of graduation, where they’re still all trying to be as close as they used to be before life inevitably sets them in different directions. Less than a month after Katsuki’s birthday, Izuku drags them both out to hang out with his friends.
“Deku-kun!” Ochako waves him over, where she and Shouto have claimed a circular booth in the far corner of the bar. Izuku grins and waves back, grabbing Katsuki’s hand so he doesn’t lose him as they weave through the crowd towards them.
“Hiii,” he says as he slides into his seat, wrapping an arm around her shoulder for a sort of side-hug. She giggles and grins back, leaning easily into the touch. Izuku thinks back to when he was fifteen and a loser who blushed every time he spoke to girls. His life is so different now that it scares him sometimes. This is the girl who helped him choose his hero name; he thinks her friendship means more than the world to him.
But maybe he’s just sappy and not drunk enough to have an excuse for it yet. “Where’s Iida-kun?” He asks, even though he can already guess the answer. Tsuyu and Shinsou have work today; the former’s off-days inconveniently only ever seem to align with some of Ochako’s since she works out near the coast, and Shinsou simply isn’t a big partier. Izuku reminds himself to call them more often to see how they’re doing.
“Iida said that he doesn’t want to drink on weekdays,” Shouto says dryly.
“Stick in the mud,” Katsuki adds helpfully.
Izuku shoves the blond in the shoulder for that one. “I guess he’s at least being responsible.”
“We’ll drag him to hang out with us eventually,” Ochako says, conviction shining in her eyes.
“Have you gotten drinks yet?” Izuku asks, changing the topic. “Uh, do you know what Kacchan likes?”
“We got you martinis,” Shouto says, because he’s perfect and great like that. “And other assorted cocktails for Bakugou.”
“Fruitiest ones on the menu,” Ochako pipes up cheerfully. Katsuki glares daggers. Izuku laughs and gets an elbow to the ribs for it.
The night starts going by pretty quickly once Izuku has alcohol in his system. (Katsuki downs all those fuckin’ fruity cocktails like a champ.) He gets dragged onto the dance floor by Katsuki and he ends up slow-dancing overdramatically with Shouto, which is terrible because it’s to EDM music and Izuku’s always had two left feet, and then he gets spun around by Katsuki about a million times, coming out of it feeling dizzy and delirious. It’s all stupid and woozy and fun. Maybe it’s all perfect.
Izuku retreats back to their table when he feels like he might puke, where Ochako is still keeping their table reserved and nursing a drink. Her phone is propped up against an empty glass to film a video of Shouto and Katsuki having some ego-fueled dance-off. It’s kind of incredible. The puddle of condensation forming around the base of the glass may end up being a problem for her phone.
“Hey,” she says, giggling at Izuku’s dizzy-drunk stumbling. “Thank God; I’ve been asked to dance three times now.”
Izuku giggles back and slides into his seat, fitting his arm over her shoulders again; going into boyfriend-mode, if you will. Being really pretty and also fucking buff has both its benefits and downsides, when you’re a female Pro Hero: Ochako could handle any unwanted advances from strangers herself, faster than you could say Gunhead Martial Arts, but sometimes it’s just exhausting to deal with constant harassment while she’s out, so she’d simply rather not. Therefore, one of the guys in the friend group usually pretends to be her boyfriend just to avoid any altercations. However, because Iida has no tact, Shinsou’s a terribly awkward actor, and there are a strange number of people who simply switch to hitting on Shouto after getting rejected by Ochako, Izuku’s usually the one on boyfriend duty, even though it’s shitty and rooted in patriarchy and Izuku hates that she has to go to such measures to avoid being harassed.
He spots a guy start to stumble up to their table and he twists his head to kiss Ochako’s temple while making aggressive eye contact with him. It’s a weird male-ego-power-grab that makes Izuku feel stupid, but it usually works, so whatever.
This guy, however, drunk off his ass, doesn’t seem to get the hint. “Heyy, beautiful,” he slurs, slouching an arm over the back of the booth—except he’s not looking at Ochako; his eyes are dead-set on Izuku. “What’s a pretty-boy like you doing, hiding in the back here?”
“Uh,” Izuku says nervously. He did not have a plan in mind for this kind of situation.
Ochako, his saving grace, dutifully steps into the girlfriend role. “We’re just out with our friends,” she says, with an enthusiasm in her voice that doesn’t match the way she’s glaring at the guy. She puts a hand on Izuku’s chest to emphasize the point, right over where his heart is, so Izuku can use the sound of his own heartbeat to help stabilize his breathing—now would be a bad time to have an anxiety attack. Ochako pats him reassuringly. Izuku decides he’s going to be her platonic fake-boyfriend forever.
“We’re celebrating our anniversary,” she continues gushing. “Two years now; isn’t that crazy?”
“What, are you two high school sweethearts or something?” His grin curls when he looks at Izuku. Izuku kind of wants to shrivel and die. “You’re so young, baby, what are you doing in a place like this?”
“It’s not really your business,” he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. He swallows thickly.
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that,” the man chides. “Don’t worry, I like ‘em a little younger: all cute and wide-eyed. Don’t you want someone with a little more experience under their belt?” He reaches out as though to touch Izuku’s face and Ochako swiftly slaps his hand away. “Don’t you wanna know what you should really feel like, baby boy?”
“Is there a fucking problem here?” Katsuki appears from behind the guy, arms crossed over his chest and looking beautiful and murderous. Izuku could kiss him right now. Wait. No. Not that.
“No problem,” the man says, undeterred despite seeing the fucking size of Katsuki’s arms. One point to him for nerve, at the very least. “This your friend here? Just tryna show him a good time.”
Katsuki, unimpressed, glances between Izuku and the guy. “I think he was doing just fine before you showed up. Now,” he uncrosses his arms to lean one on the table, looming over the other man, “you can fuck right off, or I can make you.”
“Oh,” the man says, like this is the most interesting thing he’s seen all night. He looks back at Izuku, his grin leering. “Oh, sweetheart; what are you doing with a girlfriend, doll?”
“Fuck off,” Katsuki snaps, stepping further into the guy’s space.
“No, I get it,” the man shrugs, yieldingly. “You’ve claimed him.” He takes one last look at Izuku. “Word of advice: when you need any new awakenings after your girlfriend, baby, watch out for this guy.” With that, he saunters off.
“Kacchan,” Izuku’s hand darts out to catch Katsuki’s wrist, when the blond looks moments away from following and sticking his boot up that guy’s ass. “Don’t get into fights with civilians.”
“Even if they’re assholes,” Ochako mutters darkly.
“I could kill him,” Katsuki says, almost wistfully.
Izuku drags him into the booth to avoid having him do something stupid like murder. “I know,” he concedes, placating. He’s still holding Katsuki’s wrist, so he swipes his thumb across the back of his hand reassuringly.
“You could’ve killed him,” Katsuki levels him with a look, sliding his hand so that it slips into Izuku’s, their fingers interlacing. “Were you doing okay?”
“He made me kind of nervous,” Izuku admits, squeezing Katsuki’s hand. “That’s never really happened to me before.”
“Well, there was Toga,” Ochako tries.
“It was different; she was literally crazy,” Izuku shakes his head. “And at least she didn’t call me baby boy.”
Katsuki cringes in sympathy. “D’you wanna go home?”
“I’m going to chug, like, four more drinks first, but then yeah,” he confesses. He turns to Ochako. “Will you and Shouto be okay?”
“We’ll be fine, Deku-kun,” Ochako assures. “I’m not that drunk, and Shouto looks like he’s still having a good time.” She nods her head in his direction, where he’s still dancing obliviously.
“Okay,” he agrees. “Shots, then.”
“‘Zuku,” Katsuki says warningly. “Should you really—”
“Shots,” he repeats, eyes glinting.
Katsuki makes a disapproving noise but doesn’t say anything as Ochako stands to go to the bar.
“Fuck you,” Katsuki groans, stumbling under Izuku’s weight as they continue dragging themselves up the stairs to their apartment. “You’re so fucking drunk.”
“You’re drunk,” Izuku giggles, leaning heavily into Katsuki’s side and laughing harder when the movement makes the blond stagger. “If I remember correctly, you had half of those shots.”
“So that you wouldn’t drink four of them and die,” Katsuki bites. It takes him a few tries to get the key in the lock, but he manages, pushing the door open so that it swings wide. “You’re so fucking dumb.”
“Mm,” Izuku agrees. “D’you reckon that guy was trying to hint to me that I need to have a gay awakening?”
Katsuki snorts, even though a reminder of the stranger from the bar makes something scalding and angry flash through his eyes. “Been there, done that. I’m not walking you through being bi another time.”
They had been seventeen and stupid, once, when one day Izuku had simply waltzed into Katsuki’s room and kissed him on the mouth. Katsuki had thought of it as a personal attack or something. Several things kind of clicked for Izuku. After a long conversation about queerness and identity and, namely, liking guys, they never mentioned the kiss again. Izuku had never told him that his sexuality was less about liking guys—or even just people—and more about simply liking Katsuki, but that’s not the only secret he’d ever kept before, so he’s lived with it.
Katsuki notices his silence and gives him a deadpan stare. “Please tell me we’re not going through another sexuality crisis.”
Izuku sticks his tongue out tauntingly.
“You’re so fucking dumb,” Katsuki rolls his eyes, but it sounds more affectionate this time.
“Yeah?” Izuku grins. “How dumb?”
Katsuki eyes him curiously. “You tell me.”
“Dumb enough,” Izuku pushes the door closed and puts one hand on Katsuki’s shoulder to press him up against it. “To do this?” And then he rocks up onto his toes and kisses him.
It’s just a tentative touch of his lips and he pulls back after only a short moment, asking silent permission.
Katsuki’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Definitely dumb enough,” he mutters, staring at Izuku’s mouth.
That’s enough for Izuku to rush back in, the crush of his mouth harder than before, bruising, white-hot. Katsuki’s hands go to his face by instinct, and then he lets out a muffled groan that makes Izuku want to do terrible things to him. It’s decidedly different from their last kiss; Katsuki presses forward, giving back just as good, and when he starts herding them in the vague direction of the bedrooms, Izuku recognizes that it has a different intention to it than it did last time.
“Mm, Kacchan,” he hums. He leans back just enough to look at Katsuki’s face, pupils blown big and dark. “Your room or mine?”
“Fuck,” Katsuki says, staring with wide eyes. “Shit, Izu, I’ve never…”
“Me neither,” Izuku says breathlessly.
Katsuki stares at him for a moment, considering, before kissing him again. “You really wanna do this? Jesus Christ, who the fuck cares which room. Whichever one’s closer.”
Izuku giggles and guides them in the direction of Katsuki’s room, the blond’s hands steady on his face the whole way.
Izuku wakes up in a way that is starting to become rather familiar for him: groggy and muddled, his head throbbing and his mouth uncomfortably dry.
He turns onto his back to let the world become aware of his agony, and then Katsuki’s hand slips across his stomach.
Izuku freezes. Turns his head ever so carefully.
Okay. Yeah. Drunk Izuku is his least favorite person ever.
Katsuki is still asleep next to him, one of his arms under Izuku’s neck and the other draped over his side. The smooth expanse of his skin glows in the sunlight that’s tucked itself into the room. Izuku glances down at himself. No clothes. Fuuuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He glances back up at Katsuki to steal more glances at him, at the way the slope of his nose is relaxed and soft, the way his feathery blond eyelashes catch sunlight. He’s drooling onto Izuku’s shoulder. It’s kind of fucking adorable.
He touches the corner of Katsuki’s mouth with his thumb because maybe that’s the only fucking thing he’s ever wanted to do in his life. And then he promptly curses his entire existence as Katsuki stirs.
Life starts in his eyes, squeezing into crow’s-feet wrinkles before they blink open. They seem to process that Izuku’s there but stay glazed over with something mellow and unbearably soft.
“Hey,” Katsuki says, his voice rough and low with dry sleep. Izuku feels like he’s fucking fifteen again, trying not to stare at the muscles that slope from Katsuki’s neck into his shoulders before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. And then all of a sudden he’s back to eighteen, back to last night: Katsuki with his shirt rucked up to his ribs; Katsuki with his mouth and his voice and his hands; Katsuki kissing his way down Izuku’s stomach and stopping at the waistband of his pants, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his hips and glancing up through his eyelashes to ask is this okay. Izuku is left frozen and helpless in the wake of all of it.
At his lack of response, Katsuki simply reaches a hand up to cup his cheek and kiss him, all warmth, all tenderness. When he pulls back and smiles—a small, soft, secret thing—Izuku feels like he’s woken up into some different fucking reality. There’s no way Kacchan’s in his right mind right now, he thinks, no way. Just. This isn’t the kind of thing he would ever do. Not with Izuku.
“You taste gross,” Katsuki says, sounding fond. “‘M gonna go brush my teeth.” With that, he sits up to stretch, popping a crick in his neck and wincing at the headache he probably has. Izuku wordlessly watches him go as he crawls out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom, his eyes tracing the curves of Katsuki’s back.
Vaguely, he hears footsteps on tile, and then the tap turns on, and then it shuts off abruptly. And then dead silence.
Izuku gets to his feet, pulling on his boxers that have found their place on the floor and trudging after Katsuki. When he walks into the bathroom, everything’s all wrong: Katsuki is hunched over the sink, tense and terrified. He makes eye contact with Izuku through the mirror and he looks frantic.
“Izuku,” he says urgently. “What did we do last night?”
Guess he’s back in his right mind. Every secret hope in Izuku’s chest is kind of shattered, just a little. He holds this close enough to his heart that the pieces don’t scatter too far.
“We were drunk,” he mumbles, his voice sounding like it’s coming from somewhere else, small and stupid. Katsuki stares harder and Izuku’s gaze drops to the floor.
“We—drunk,” Katsuki says.
He nods. “Kacchan,” he tries, “do you—”
“No.” He’s cut off quickly.
He crosses his arms over his chest; some kind of self-protection. “Okay,” he says. “‘M gonna take a shower when you’re done.”
He shuts the bathroom door when he leaves, and he feels like maybe he’s closed the door on a lot of other things, too.
“So,” a reporter walks right into him, shoving a microphone in his face. “The Wonder Duo. You two just defeated a villain with barely any verbal communication; you’re so in sync. Mind sharing some of the secrets of your incredible partnership?”
Izuku appreciates it, he really does; he lived to watch these kinds of interviews for his entire childhood. It’s just that he literally just beat up this guy who could make floating fists out of anything, including the road itself, some poor civilian’s car, and Izuku’s fucking shoe. And then he apprehended a staggering amount of accomplices, who were not very compliant with their arrests. So. He’s kind of ready to sleep for a million and one years right now.
“There’s no secret,” Katsuki comes up from behind to save him, taking the spot of Izuku’s current favorite person ever. (As though he isn’t always.) “We’re the best.”
Okay, he’s still Izuku’s favorite person, but he’s thinking it with less enthusiasm now.
“Dynamight and I know each other very well,” Izuku jumps in to save the interview. “We’re always able to be of like mind because we have the common goal to save—”
“—and to win—”
“—and to do the best we can,” he concludes, smiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Katsuki’s blinding grin, and then a hand slips into his.
“Deku and I win because we’re the best,” Katsuki repeats, like it’s really all that simple. He raises their clasped hands over their heads, a shining symbol of hope and victory. “So really,” he leers, “any villains should just turn themselves in now, because we’re going to fucking get you.”
“Kacchan,” Izuku wriggles his hand out of Katsuki’s grip and elbows the blond in the ribs for swearing, getting a tongue stuck out at him for his efforts. The reporter, however, seems satisfied, turning back to the camera to inform their viewers about how The Wonder Duo’s Deku and Dynamight have been rising through the ranks faster than any debuting heroes ever have before, and are already one of the most highly ranked duos in Japan, and then Katsuki manages to grab Izuku’s hand again so he can drag him out of the crowd.
“All in a day’s work, huh?” Izuku sighs out once they’re back in their apartment, his shoulders drooping as he remembers how exhausted he is. It’s a satisfying kind of ache, though, because he’s done a good job and he knows it.
“Yeah, yeah,” Katsuki sighs back, resigned, steering Izuku by the shoulder towards the couch and fetching the first aid kit. “We’re gonna have to contact the agency to get you another fucking boot, though.”
Izuku sits heavily and strips off his shirt so that Katsuki can examine him. He’s fine, really, but Katsuki goes into mother-hen-mode after every big fight, and at this point Izuku knows it’s best to just let him have his way. “I absolve responsibility.”
Katsuki goes still when he sees the myriad of injuries on Izuku’s torso, staring at them long enough that Izuku starts to feel uncomfortable under his gaze. “Absolve my ass,” Katsuki snips, voice low, and starts rubbing an alcohol swab over a bruise on Izuku’s ribs that’s already dark and split open, oozing blood lazily. Izuku hisses at the sudden sting and decides to make himself useful by peeling Katsuki’s mask off his face and unlatching the pieces of his costume at his neck.
“I’m trying to fucking see, asshat,” Katsuki swats his hands away, his fussing becoming more aggressive. There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows that Izuku kind of wants to smooth away with his thumb.
“Oh,” he realizes. “You’re upset.”
“I’m—” Katsuki glares at some place below Izuku’s eyes, and then he reaches a hand up to the back of Izuku’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss.
It’s the second one they’ve ever really had sober, the first one being almost two years ago. It’s the first one that feels like it actually means something, like it’s not going to be taken back, ignored. It’s better than anything Izuku could have hoped for and simultaneously feels worse than it ever should. He pulls back.
“Kacchan,” he says, feeling tears brimming at the back of his throat. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re never careful with yourself,” Katsuki bites, all of a sudden. “You always make yourself collateral damage. I saw how many times you got punched by that guy while I was evacuating people.”
“My Quirk worked better for apprehending him,” Izuku defends weakly. “We both knew that. I’ve got Blackwhip.”
“And how the fuck do I know that you don’t have a broken rib right now, then?” Katsuki snaps. “You wouldn’t fucking tell me if you did. I’d only find out if you broke another one next week and got x-rayed, or if I fucking punched you right now and it became obvious.”
“But you kissed me instead,” he says quietly.
“I just—” Katsuki’s gaze drops away from his eyes. “I’m in a shitty mood, and I’m still on an adrenaline high, and I really want to hit something but I really don’t want to do that,” he explains.
“We’re not drunk,” Izuku says, because. Because that should explain everything, right.
“Do you want to be?” Katsuki asks helplessly.
“I’m just confused,” he pleads, because the weeks after they slept together have been awkward and stilted and make Izuku feel kind of sick. It’s obvious that Katsuki regrets what happened, so what the fuck is this?
“It’s just,” Katsuki chews on the corner of his bottom lip and Izuku can’t tear his eyes away from it. “Burning some energy.”
“Right,” he swallows. He doesn’t really know what he expected, but maybe his reaction to being kissed by Katsuki shouldn’t be crushed. “Okay.” He puts a hand on Katsuki’s jaw before he can overthink himself out of this and ducks down to kiss him again, light and tentative.
Katsuki leans up into it from where he’s still kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, the column of his throat extending into a long, pale line that Izuku wants to touch very softly. On a whim, he does, letting his fingertips brush over the hollow of it and feeling the hum from the noises Katsuki’s making; sound in physical form.
“We should talk about this,” he murmurs.
“What’s there to talk about?” Katsuki mutters back, like he doesn’t know exactly what.
“Is this, like…” he lets out a groan as Katsuki pulls him to his feet and starts manhandling him to the bedroom, one hand at the small of his back to guide him. “Like friends with benefits?”
“Yeah,” Katsuki says after a pause, eyes swirling with some emotion Izuku doesn’t quite know how to place. “Sure.”
“That’s not it,” Izuku guesses from his response. “You can tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth,” Katsuki sighs, exasperated, pushing him down onto the bed. “What else could it be?” He asks, like he’s daring Izuku to say it.
It’s me, being in love with you, Izuku thinks, and you, knowing me well enough to hurt me. But saying that kind of thing would be cruel and unfair, so he doesn’t. Because Katsuki is capable of hurting him, is certainly close enough for it, but he wouldn’t, not anymore, and Izuku knows that counts for something. He doesn’t have an explanation that makes sense. Being so out of touch with what Katsuki is thinking makes him feel sick.
“I don’t know,” he says, feeling small.
Katsuki softens, shoulders slumped. “You can say no right now,” he says, pulling back, “and I won’t ever mention it again.”
“No, that’s—” Izuku swallows thickly. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then tell me what you want,” Katsuki sighs, “and stop overthinking it. It’s just—it’s just us.” Like us isn’t everything to Izuku.
“Sure,” he says, and then he grabs Katsuki by the jaw and kisses him again, hard enough that their teeth click, no gentleness anywhere. He doesn’t want to think right now, he just. He just wants Katsuki to touch him, and maybe for now that’ll be enough.
From then on, it’s heated and slow and exactly as rough as he asks Katsuki to be. When it’s over, Izuku’s body feels a little bit like jelly, numb and exhausted but in a satisfying sort of way. Katsuki leaves to get him a glass of water and a couple of washcloths. When he finishes wiping Izuku and himself to a somewhat acceptable state of cleanliness, back in mother-hen-mode, he tosses the cloths into his laundry hamper and then he doesn’t touch Izuku at all. Izuku falls asleep in Katsuki’s bed and sleeps through dinner, and in the morning they don’t say anything about it.
“Y’know, sex as a form of stress relief is healthy,” he muses, the next time they’re out in a bar; just him and Katsuki this time.
“Excuse you?” Katsuki splutters, momentarily choking on his drink.
“Last time was convenient because I was just there,” he barrels on stubbornly. “But it would be better to just find people to hook up with.”
“Are you going to try and fucking matchmake me right now?” Katsuki asks, looking about three seconds away from exploding; either from anger or pure embarrassment, Izuku isn’t entirely sure.
He shrugs, like his heart isn’t kind of sinking into his gut. “Sure.” Let it be known that Midoriya Izuku has always been something of an emotional masochist.
“That’s so fucking ridiculous,” Katsuki says, looking almost surprised by it. “I just—wow. Okay. Fuck it, I honestly want to see how you plan on doing that.”
Izuku smiles into his cup and then scooches closer to Katsuki in the booth, so that he can face the rest of the room and also be heard better in the loud space. Katsuki throws an arm over his shoulder easily, so Izuku tucks himself into his side.
“So what’s the plan, shit-for-brains?” Katsuki asks derisively.
“Shush,” Izuku chides. “I’m people-watching.”
“I don’t want to sleep with any of these losers, just so you know in advance.”
“What’s your type?” Izuku asks, ignoring that statement.
“Fuck off.”
“Okay,” he concedes. “I’ll pick people, and if it’s a no, you have to tell me why.”
Katsuki’s lip curls, but he doesn’t protest, so Izuku begins his search.
Over the course of the next half hour, Izuku thinks he’s started to narrow down a list of subjects that meet Katsuki’s standards via process of elimination, all from the very helpful hints of not with that long-ass hair, too tall, looks like fucking Half ‘n Half, terrible fucking outfit, et cetera, et cetera.
Izuku finally narrows his eyes when he spots one guy that’s less than halfway across the room. He’s got dark, fluffy hair, doe eyes and a good smile, and he’s fucking pretty.
“Hey,” he nudges Katsuki. “Dark red shirt, over there.”
Katsuki looks over lazily, before dismissing, “bad hair.”
“You think everyone has bad hair,” Izuku whines. “You’ve got to settle sometimes.”
“I don’t settle,” Katsuki snarls.
He shrugs. “You slept with me,” he counters, and Katsuki stiffens. “And you definitely think I have bad hair, so.” It’s kind of a low blow and he knows it; acknowledging their hookups out loud always feels more awkward and difficult than it should. But it makes Katsuki shut up for a few seconds, at the very least, so Izuku uses that opening to try and catch the guy’s attention.
After a little while of aggressive waving, which makes Katsuki look like he wants to dissociate himself from Izuku forever, he manages to flag the guy down, grinning as he walks over to their table.
“Hi!” He says cheerily, elbowing Katsuki in the ribs to hint for him to play nice. “My friend thinks you’re really cute.”
The guy’s gaze slips over to Katsuki, taking him in. Katsuki is eighty kilos of fucking muscle and has sharp eyes, pretty eyelashes, and a jawline that could cut glass. There’s approval in the guy’s eyes and Izuku knows he’s hit the jackpot.
“He’s kinda reserved,” Izuku says, grinning in victory, “but he’s amazing, I promise.”
“I’m Kuno,” the guy says, smiling shyly. “But you can call me Kenta.”
“I’m Midoriya,” he introduces. “And this is Katsuki.”
“Bakugou,” Katsuki corrects.
Izuku eye-rolls exasperatedly, and then gives the guy his best smile. “Is there a number to go with the name, Kuno-san?”
Kuno giggles. “Kenta’s fine,” he repeats, and then he addresses Katsuki. “You’re attractive and you know it,” he smiles, blunt in a way that Izuku knows Katsuki will approve of. “I might be here next weekend if you’re available.”
“He is,” Izuku says, and then he digs a notepad out of his pocket, because carrying paper around always comes in handy and this proves it. Kuno leaves his number and a smiley face, and winks at Katsuki when he retreats from their table. Izuku is victorious.
“Now, what do you say, Kacchan,” he gloats, beaming, “thank you, Izuku, you’re the best friend ever, I love you—”
“I already told you,” Katsuki says gruffly, shoving Izuku’s hand away when he tries handing the piece of paper to him. “I’m not letting some random fucking extra see my dick.”
“Don’t be crass, Kacchan,” he chides, scrunching his nose up.
“I don’t know him,” Katsuki argues. “Why the fuck would I want to sleep with him?”
“It’s called casual sex.”
“I don’t know him,” Katsuki repeats, adamant. “That’s so fucking weird. I don’t care about him at all.” He looks a little freaked out, even though he probably wouldn’t admit it if Izuku pointed it out.
So he considers this. “Do you… do you have to care about someone in order to be attracted to them?”
“I’m not attracted to anyone,” Katsuki spits, being difficult.
“Okay,” Izuku says, placating. “You’ve never been attracted to anyone?”
“That’s—” Katsuki sighs, slumping in his seat. “Fuck you. That’s… that’s not it.”
“So you have been attracted to people before. Did you like them after you’d already gotten to know them?”
“Is this a fucking interrogation?” Katsuki demands.
“Because I swear there’s a word for that,” Izuku continues, stubborn. He pulls out his phone and makes a quick search. “Yeah, it’s—uh, demisexual. Or demiromantic. Where you can only grow attracted to someone once you already have a close bond with them.”
“I don’t like my friends,” Katsuki sneers, but he’s leaning over Izuku’s shoulder to look at his phone.
“It doesn’t mean that you necessarily do become attracted to them,” Izuku reads aloud, opening an article that looks relatively informative. “It’s just, like, a sort of prerequisite.”
“This is fucking stupid,” Katsuki says, head leaning back against the seat. “People make up words for anything.”
“It’s a real thing, Kacchan, and it’s not weird,” Izuku chides. “I, uh, I was talking with Ashido once, and she says that she’s never liked people romantically, but she really likes the idea of romance and wants to be in a relationship.”
“Well, Mina’s already a fucking weirdo, too, so,” Katsuki says petulantly.
Izuku rolls his eyes. “It just goes to show that it’s different for everybody.”
Katsuki sighs, resigned. “Well, your matchmaking was a fucking waste of time,” he groans. “Dumbass. What’s your plan for stress relief now, loser?”
“Well,” Izuku considers. “Uh.” An idea pops into his mind that’s kind of really, really terrible. He swirls the liquid around in the glass he’s holding, taking another sip. He’s just tipsy enough to work up the guts to do this. “Uh. Kacchan.” He feels his face go red. “You, uh… you know me.”
“Are you brain-dead?” Katsuki asks, bewildered, before Izuku sees it click in his head. “Oh, uh. Oh. Izuku. I don’t—do you—do you wanna go home?”
“Do you?” He asks carefully.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Katsuki growls, pulling his arm back from where it’s been on Izuku’s shoulders before sliding out of the booth. “C’mon.”
“Yeah,” Izuku grins, following quickly and slipping his hand into Katsuki’s. “Let’s go home.”
It’s better in the afterglow than all the times before, Izuku thinks, when he’s tired and sated and blissed-out. Katsuki doesn’t run away at the end of it, doesn’t ignore him, just lets Izuku curl a hand around his waist and snuggle up to him. He scoffs under his breath and calls him clingy, but he pushes a sweaty curl of hair off Izuku’s face and lets his hand linger, and Izuku knows that’s progress. Less soul-crushing. Nicer.
When Katsuki decides that it’s too hot under the covers and kicks them off to stand up, something seizes in Izuku’s chest.
“Relax,” Katsuki says, exasperated but still gentle. “‘M getting water.”
When he comes back with two glasses in hand for the both of them, sweat still shining on his shoulders in the backlight, Izuku sits up and kisses him sweetly. “I love you,” he murmurs as thank you.
Katsuki splutters. “Don’t fucking say that; we just fucked, you weirdo.”
Izuku only laughs, mouth curling into a grin. “I mean, you didn’t seem so opposed to it before,” he muses, mischievous. He takes a sip of his water.
Tonight is another memory Izuku will probably keep close for a long time: Katsuki sucking a bruise into the underside of his jaw, before tucking his face into that spot and muttering, from the depths of all his vulnerability, can you—Izu, can you say—say anything; and Izuku, his fingers tightening in Katsuki’s hair, complying immediately, I love you, Kacchan, Katsuki, so good, love you love you love you; and Katsuki arching into a groan, biting the junction of his shoulder; and Izuku devolving into whines as Katsuki’s hips move sharper.
The tips of Katsuki’s ears go red. “Fuck off,” he says, tensed up, glaring a hole into the floor.
“Hey,” Izuku placates. “I mean, it’s just like what you said earlier about needing to know someone, right?” He shrugs and takes a guess. “You need to actually care about the person you’re with, and so it makes sense that you’d want them to care about you, too.”
Katsuki doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t protest against that assumption, either, so Izuku will take it as correct. “And I care about you, so. It works.”
“You’re a fucking weirdo,” Katsuki bites, and then his shoulders slump. “What was the word, again? Demi?”
“Yeah,” Izuku smiles, nudging his shoulder. “I’ll send you the article later.”
Nearly a month later, Izuku is woken up in his bed to a knife at his neck.
He’s always been a light sleeper, and with Danger Sense he’s especially alert, so he’s awake for a confused few seconds before a sudden weight lands on top of him. He jolts immediately in panic, only to be shoved back down.
“Don’t make a fucking sound,” a growl sounds from above him. As his vision adjusts to the dark, he makes out the shape of a person, but no discernible face. “Or I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
Izuku swallows and feels the sharp blade dig into his skin, a nauseating kind of pressure.
“You’ve been creating some fucking problems, Deku, you know that?” His attacker continues talking above him, as Izuku flounders for what to do. The person has a male, gravelly voice, he notes. Judging by the weight on top of him, he shouldn’t be hard to physically apprehend, except Izuku has no idea what his skill with a knife is. Or what his Quirk is. Or if he has accomplices. Fuck, how did he find their apartment? What if they go after Katsuki, too? Kacchan, who’s sleeping right now and therefore won’t have his hearing aids in. Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck. Okay.
“What do you want?” Izuku whispers, only just loud enough to talk around the knifeblade at his skin. “Are you going to kill me right now?”
The knife presses closer, hard enough now to slowly cut in, drawing a few beads of blood. “I might,” the villain seethes. “So watch your fucking tongue.”
“Then get it over with,” he bites back. As he’s talking, he lets his eyes adjust fully to the dark and figures out the scope of his surroundings. “Killing Pro Hero Deku; you plan on being some kind of celebrity?” He scoffs. “Not the most original of ideas. Y’know, during high school, I—”
And then he twists his body to the side, dislodging the villain from his chest and throwing himself out of harm’s way. In a moment of panic, the villain slashes out wildly, and Izuku gasps as he feels the burn of the knife cut sideways across his chest. Not that deep, but fucking annoying nonetheless.
“You—fucking—” the villain curses, but Izuku has no words for him anymore. The room is too small to safely use One For All, but he ducks into a sweeping kick that forces the villain to jump over his foot, and in that diversion, he releases the small amount of Fa Jin he’s been able to save up in the last few seconds. The villain gets knocked back against with a sickening smack, his head cracking snapping back with enough force to leave him dazed and useless. Izuku lives to see another day.
On cue, his bedroom door slams open, revealing Katsuki standing there, eyes wide and panicked. He scans over the room and sees the villain slumped in the corner.
“Izuku, what the fuck happened?” He yells. Izuku cringes at the volume of the noise.
“Everything’s okay, Kacchan,” he assures. Katsuki’s voice is abnormally loud, so Izuku concludes that he doesn’t have his hearing aids in, and taps his own ears to signal that he should get them. Katsuki’s been wearing them since they were third-years—about a year, now—but neither of them are particularly adept at sign language yet.
Katsuki, however, ignores this entirely, rushing forward to grab at Izuku’s shirt, where blood is steadily seeping into the fabric. “What the fuck,” he says emphatically, voice dropped to a low whisper. “Izuku. Izu. Hospital. Now.”
“Get your aids, Kacchan, I’m—” he’s interrupted by Katsuki tugging at the hem of his shirt to pull it off. The slash across his chest is still gushing blood at a frankly concerning rate, and it doesn’t seem to be slowing down or congealing.
“Fucking poison,” Katsuki shouts, loud and angry again, and immediately reaches behind Izuku’s thighs to haul him up into his arms.
“Kacchan!” Izuku yelps, right by his ear, loud enough that he definitely heard it. “I’m fine, okay—”
“Don’t fucking move, that shit’s right by your heart, you’ll make it worse—”
“—I won’t die if I walk by myself—”
“—fucking asshat, what the shit even happened—”
“Kacchan!” Izuku yells over the noise, grabbing Katsuki’s face to keep hold of his attention. The blond had started herding them towards the front door of the apartment, but faced difficulties when trying to open it due to Izuku’s wriggling.
“Get your aids,” Izuku annunciates carefully, still holding Katsuki’s face in his palms. “I’m not gonna die in the next five minutes. Then we’ll go to the hospital.”
Katsuki simply stares at him for a few moments, his expression closed up and unreadable. By the time Izuku starts internally questioning whether or not he actually understood, Katsuki leans up to press his mouth to Izuku’s for a second, warm and firm, and pulls away again before Izuku can even react to it. While he’s busy processing that, a little shell-shocked (maybe from blood loss, who knows), Katsuki sets him back onto the floor and quickly disappears into his room to get his hearing aids.
“I’ll call a fucking taxi or something; you call someone to pick up the shithead in your room before I fucking kill him,” Katsuki says when he reemerges, grabbing Izuku’s hand and swiftly guiding them out of the apartment. He shoves a dark bundle of fabric into Izuku’s free hand. “And put pressure on it. Fucking dumbass.”
As much as Izuku tends to be a Dumb Bitch when it comes to his own injuries (not Izuku’s words), all in all it isn’t that bad. The knife had been poisoned—as Katsuki vindictively points out, several times—but the cut had been shallow enough to staunch the blood easily enough and stitch him up. Izuku and Katsuki are home by morning.
Izuku has never felt more grateful to step into his own apartment than now, with Katsuki turning the key too aggressively and practically kicking the door open in a fit of sleep-deprived rage. While Izuku would be content to collapse into his bed and sleep for another million years now that he’s home, Katsuki is still unnecessarily upset: hovering protectively over him and having made snippy comments at the doctor the entire night. Izuku is touched by his worry, but doesn’t really know what to do with it.
Katsuki stomps around the apartment as Izuku carefully leans down to peel off his shoes. He glances into Izuku’s room and, satisfied that Izuku’s would-be assassin is no longer there, shouts back, “who’d you call?”
“Ochako,” he answers. He remembers that he still has to get back to her to confirm that his hospital trip went well and thank her for helping.
“She cleaned the bloodstains on the floor, too,” Katsuki remarks, sounding slightly less pissed off. Ochako is a blessing every day of Izuku’s life.
Izuku makes his way over to Katsuki, who’s still standing in Izuku’s bedroom doorway. “‘Scuse me,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna take a nap for forever now.”
Before he can shoulder past him into his room, however, Katsuki snatches Izuku’s wrist. Izuku looks back at him curiously and sees his face full of unadulterated terror for a split second, before he pulls on another mask of his usual irritated sneer. Izuku is left paralyzed for a moment in the wake of that split second.
“Kacchan,” he says urgently, stepping close to curl his free hand into the sleeve of Katsuki’s shirt. “What’s wrong?”
Katsuki’s jaw works beneath his skin, his stare hard and unyielding, before he releases his grip on Izuku’s wrist and leans forward to press his mouth to Izuku’s forehead. Izuku lets out a little sigh and Katsuki puts his hand to Izuku’s neck to turn him where he wants him, kissing the arch of his eyebrow, his temple, the shell of his ear. “My room,” he murmurs, his exhale hot over Izuku’s hairline.
Izuku shivers at the low simmer of his voice. “Ah, Kacchan, not that I don’t want to, but—”
Katsuki quickly pulls back, leaving Izuku tilting towards him, clinging, before he catches himself and blushes in embarrassment.
“Fuck,” Katsuki says, eyes wide. “No, I mean, I wasn’t asking to—obviously, shit, you—” he takes a sharp inhale before Izuku can interrupt him. “The fucker probably got in through your window. So. My room.”
“Oh!” Izuku’s furious blush gets worse; he could fry a fucking egg on his face right now. “Right, of course, obviously. Right.”
Katsuki glances away, shy at the awkwardness, and for a moment Izuku is so in love with him that he’s consumed by it, all of his available space taken up; everything else seeps out from his feet away into the floor.
“Kacchan,” he says, his voice all warmth. “Let’s go to bed.”
Katsuki’s eyes flick back up at him, a small uptick in his mouth that’s all shy and sweet and completely secret to anything who isn’t Izuku. Then he opens his mouth to say, “I can’t believe you thought I meant I wanted to fuck right now.”
Izuku’s face goes hot again, and he shoves at Katsuki’s shoulder, who careens away cackling, the little shit.
“Because trust me; you ain’t doing shit for a week with those fucking stitches, much less—”
“Shutupshutupshutup,” Izuku yells over him, grabbing him by the hem of his shirt to drag him to the other bedroom. “You’re the worst, you suck, you—”
“Oh, I suck—”
He shoves his hand into Katsuki’s face, catching an open mouth of his laughter instead of managing to effectively shut him up. Katsuki snatches his wrist and giggles his way through closing the door behind them.
“I will beat you up, stitches be damned,” Izuku murmurs under his breath.
Katsuki huffs, still amused. “You spend too much time with me.”
“Too much time with Kacchan?” Izuku grins, his favor won again. “Never.”
Katsuki grins and—unthinkingly, as though his body’s moving on its own—tilts forward to gently touch his mouth to Izuku’s. It’s more of a nudge than a kiss, Katsuki’s playful laughter still breathing between them, but Izuku freezes up, because this isn’t what they do. They don’t kiss without it prefacing something; heat rises up Izuku’s neck like his body’s conditioned to it.
“Kacchan?” He asked, confused. “You said…”
Katsuki’s face goes abruptly serious again. “I just,” he breathes, pulling back to give Izuku space. “Wanted you to know.”
“Know what?” Izuku murmurs.
“That,” he grits, working himself through the words. “That you should stop getting stabbed,” he says, and Izuku knows he means that I care. That I love you.
He exhales out through his nose and smiles. “I know, Kacchan.”
“Sure you do, asshat,” Katsuki snips, all normal again. “Tell me that again the next time you get stabbed.”
“Are you accusing me of not being careful, Kacchan?” He teases.
Katsuki presses the heel of his hand to Izuku’s forehead and pushes until he flops back on the bed, wincing only a little because of his stitches.
“Oh, look,” Katsuki drawls. “I’ve finally defeated Pro Hero Deku.”
“You wish,” he says, and sits up enough to grab Katsuki’s shirt and haul him into bed with him.
They take the week off of work (at Katsuki’s demand and Izuku’s reluctance) to go hunting for a new apartment, taking suggestions from the Agency and older heroes about what neighbourhoods have buildings that are specifically designed for Hero subtlety and safety. Izuku expects Katsuki to complain about that—something along the lines of what the fuck is the point of being a Hero if we’re the ones who have to be protected—and is mildly baffled when he doesn’t. Instead, Katsuki is attentive and strangely agreeable about the whole process, albeit still nitpicky about minor details and perfectionistic to a fault.
During their third house tour, however, he finds Katsuki checking the locks on the bedroom windows, and Katsuki’s sudden interest in personal safety finally clicks into place.
“Huh,” he says, leaning against the side of the doorway. Katsuki whirls around to look at him as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. They lock eyes for a few moments, like Katsuki’s daring him to say something about it. Izuku only asks, “do they meet your standards?”
Katsuki puts on a sneer, and Izuku’s in love with him. “No,” the blond decides. “I want a fuckin’ penthouse anyway.”
They don’t find a penthouse, mostly because Katsuki gets annoyed by too-long elevator rides (and definitely not because it wouldn’t fit their budget anyway. Definitely not). Instead, they pick one with a tall, slanted ceiling and a kitchen island and enough space in the living room to actually accommodate the size of their couch. It’s completely perfect and Izuku decides so right at the door, their grand opening all over again.
Katsuki glances over at his giddy excitement and smirks. “Meets your standards?” He teases, eyes sparkling with amusement, and Izuku grabs him by the collar and kisses him in the front doorway.
Katsuki laughs when he pulls away, nudging his nose against the side of Izuku’s. “Yeah?” He asks. “This the one?”
“Check the windows first,” Izuku teases right back, and Katsuki hip checks him on his way in.
(And somewhere along the way, they figure it out.)
Kissing isn’t necessarily new for them, Izuku reasons, but it’s evolved somehow. Or they’ve evolved somehow. If there’s anyone who could keep managing evolution, he supposes, it’s him and Kacchan.
They manage to secure a lease for the new apartment and start packing up boxes by the end of the week, after which Katsuki returns to work and Izuku is kept home for a few more days by a scathing doctor’s note detailing how he’d apparently strained his injury by lifting boxes and moving his shoulders and chest too much in the process. Katsuki laughs his ass off when he reads it. Izuku is not amused.
Ironically, he spends that time continuing to pack up boxes, but it’s almost worth it when Katsuki comes back from work calling I’m home, like Izuku’s some doting house-spouse, and Izuku half-jokingly kisses him hello like he really is one. It’s worth it when he helps with cooking dinner and Katsuki kisses him thank you for it, even though he’d likely been more of a nuisance than any help. Izuku leans up for it every time, and Katsuki touches his cheek bone with his fingertips like Izuku’s something to be handled gently, and the fact that they can do this now—not only as a precursor to sex; just for the sake of it—doesn’t exactly feel like evolution, but Izuku doesn’t have many other words to liken it to.
On the day before they’re supposed to finally move out, Kirishima and Kaminari invite themselves over to help wish the apartment a goodbye, armed with a bottle of champagne despite it not even being past noon. Real classy, Katsuki deems it, but he starts preparing lunch for them anyway.
Halfway through an overly detailed account of Kaminari’s escapades in trying to figure out whether or not his hot coworker is into guys—and more specifically, into Kaminari—Izuku’s phone buzzes with a call from the Agency.
“Hawks?” He greets when he picks it up, causing Katsuki’s attention to snap toward him. “Yeah, I’ll be there, gimme a minute.”
“The fuck does he want?” Katsuki demands the moment he hangs up.
“There’s a villain downtown,” he explains, standing up to leave. “Sorry to be leaving early, but—”
“I thought you weren’t on shift for another two days.”
“Kacchan,” he pleads, “I asked them just to put me on-call in case they needed me.”
Katsuki snorts. “They’ve got plenty of fucking people at the Agency, they—”
“Katsuki,” Izuku interrupts, causing Kirishima to make a little sound under his breath that sounds suspiciously like oooh, lovers’ spat. “I love you, but I am literally dying of boredom at home. Please?” He even pulls out the puppy-dog eyes for the occasion, praying that Katsuki won’t stop him, or worse, rat him out to his doctor.
“Tch,” Katsuki scoffs. “Hope you fucking die.”
“I’ll be fine,” he reassures, touching Katsuki’s chin to tilt him into a quick peck on the mouth before going to grab his shoes at the door. “I’ll come home soon!”
Katsuki is weirdly silent in response to his goodbye, and as Izuku makes his way out the door, he vaguely hears Kaminari screech, “since when the fuck has that been—”
Because karma is a bitch who also hates Izuku, he doesn’t end up returning home until evening, after having been forced to undergo another check up on his stitches following the villain fight. (Izuku cannot believe the lack of faith in him; he didn’t even split any of them open.) When he unlocks the front door and makes his way in, Katsuki is standing in the kitchen, quiet and soft in the dim yellow light.
“Hi, Kacchan,” he calls, letting his syllables roll affectionately from his mouth. “‘M home.”
Katsuki turns to him, revealing his sleeves rolled up as he starts to heat up dinner again for them. “You good?”
“Sleepy,” he admits. Then, just because he can, he says, “love you.”
He sees Katsuki tense up in his peripheral vision as he leans down to take his shoes off, but he returns, “love you too.”
Tired and happy and in love, Izuku makes his way over, pressing himself to Katsuki’s side and leaning his head towards him in silent request for a kiss.
“We’re not dating,” Katsuki says abruptly.
“What?” Izuku asks on reflex, baffled at the suddenness of the statement.
“We’re not,” Katsuki affirms. “The idiots asked. Since they saw…” his gaze drops away, turning his attention back to the food. “But we’re not.”
Izuku’s stomach drops into his gut. “Right,” he says, his voice coming out more flat than he means it to. “Just friends with benefits.”
“Fuck off,” Katsuki snarls, turning towards him suddenly. “You—you know I’m in love with you.”
Izuku blinks. “You are?” He asks, sounding hoarse.
Katsuki sneers in response. “I’m not another one of your bisexual experiments,” he bites, “and—”
“Kacchan!” Izuku grabs his wrist where it’s gesturing around wildly as he talks. “What in the world makes you think—”
“Oh, fuck you,” Katsuki snatches his hand away, voice echoing in their newly empty kitchen, soon to be left behind. “You kissed me when we were seventeen, and now, you’ve been drunk more often than not, and—”
“—and you kissed me back, Kacchan, you—”
“—and I’m not your boyfriend, okay, ‘Zuku?” Katsuki yells, and Izuku’s jaw snaps shut. Katsuki deflates as suddenly as the quiet that descends over them. “I’m not your boyfriend.”
Izuku sucks in a breath. “Obviously,” he says, “I’m in love with you, too.”
“I don’t care,” Katsuki grits, putting his hands over his face, obviously lying.
“Kacchan,” Izuku murmurs, forcing his voice to be softer, shoulders slumping, “it’s only ever been you.”
Katsuki barks out a humorless laugh. “Isn’t that the problem?” He bites. “For things to end up like that, after everything. Isn’t that so fucked up?”
“Still?” Izuku folds his arms protectively over his chest, as though that will mask the fragile quality of his voice. “You still feel like that?”
Katsuki leans back against the counter, looking like he wants nothing more than to crumple inwards, but he holds fast and says, “always.”
The moving-out is a quiet and strangely reverent period. Or just awkward. Quiet, nonetheless.
Early July hits them with the force of a stormcloud rolling over a city, and the weather is humid and oppressive as they enlist their friends to help move their boxes down to the ground floor and into a pair of rented pick-up trucks. Izuku, who doesn’t have a driver’s license, sits in the passenger seat next to Iida, offering no conversation during their slow wind through the city to their new apartment. Somewhere behind them, Kirishima and Katsuki are blasting the former’s gym music out of open windows, blaring through the downtown noise pollution. Izuku feels as heavy as stone.
Once they make it to the new apartment, Ochako, Tsuyu, and Sero are waiting for them in the front lobby. It’s the first time Izuku’s seen his friends in what feels like far too long, and when Tsuyu calls him Mido-chan, he could just about cry.
He greets Ochako with a hug that curls around her shoulders and over the top of her head; as third-years, he’d managed to scrape by with just enough of a growth spurt to tuck his chin over her hairline, which is probably just about the only thing he really needs the height for anyway.
“Hi, ‘Zuku,” she says quietly into the space of his chest, taking Kacchan’s nickname for him like she does when she wants to be comforting. He wonders if it’s really that obvious that he needs it.
He kisses her forehead and pulls back to dig one of the spare keys he has out of his pocket to give it to her. She is his fourth emergency contact, after Kacchan, his mom, and All Might. It’s calling her family in the ways he knows how.
“Welcome home,” she says.
He ends up falling asleep on the couch by evening, after a long day of moving boxes and unpacking and getting everything in order. It’s a new place, but still with all of the same things he calls home. Izuku isn’t yet quite sure how to feel about it.
“Oh,” Katsuki stops as he’s walking past him to the kitchen. “You’re up. Dinner’s ready.”
Izuku makes a sleepy noise of acknowledgement. The lights in the living room are a little too bright for comfort; Iida’s coming by next week to help them set up ones that can dim or brighten at the whims of a remote. “Sorry I slept through it. Did everyone already leave?”
“Yeah,” Katsuki shrugs. “It’s late.”
Izuku sits up and winces as he rolls out a crick in his neck; he’d fallen asleep pillowed on Ochako’s lap, and she’d apparently replaced her thigh with a pillow once she’d left. It was at a little too steep of an angle to be comfortable, but he’s still grateful for the gesture.
He remembers back to a few hours ago: how he’d stretched out across the couch in the golden afternoon light to take a quick break from unpacking; how Ochako had settled into it next to him and said, softly but very matter-of-factly, you’re sad. Who do I beat up?
He’d laughed it off gently, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from straying over to Katsuki, in slouchy sweatpants and with one of Izuku’s ten-foot-long phone chargers slung around his neck for some reason, bossing everybody around about where to put things. Before he could reign himself in, Izuku had felt Ochako’s body tense up beneath his head before pointedly relaxing again, and knew that she’d followed his gaze and figured out the answer to her question.
You’re okay? She’d asked again, and then pursed her lips and amended, or you’re going to be?, and that had been enough.
Now, there’s no comfort of a third-party for Izuku to hide behind; it’s just him and Kacchan in their apartment, in their never-ending orbit of each other and a sun called home.
Katsuki doesn’t seem to mind his sluggishness today, patiently waiting in the kitchen with a bowl of food already set out for him.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, settling into his chair. Their dining table is arranged differently than it was at the old apartment, but he picks out which chair he wants without a second thought, and knows that it’ll be his for as long as he wants it.
“So,” Katsuki says into the silence, breaking awkwardly in a way that has Izuku tensing his shoulders up.
“Hm?” He hums, glancing up at the blond with a spoonful of soup in his mouth. Katsuki seems to shrink away at the eye contact, compacting himself into a smaller, denser space that’s harder to hurt.
“Uh,” he says, and abruptly pushes his hair back from his forehead, despite the fact that it always sits neatly around his face anyway. (Or, as neat as Katsuki’s hair can get.) “Were you… okay, today? I mean. You and Round Face. You two. You’d be…” he suddenly pushes himself up to sit on the kitchen counter, drawing one knee up to rest his elbow on it. “You’d be happy.”
Izuku considers himself rather fluent in Kacchan-Speak, but it still takes him a moment to decipher what he’s saying; and then, he remembers how inescapably well-versed he is in all the ways Katsuki searches for things to break his own heart.
“I’m not dating her,” he says flatly. “If that’s what you’re asking. I’m never going to.” And, just to drive the point home: “and you know why.”
Katsuki’s head tips back until it gently hits a cabinet, and he exhales a slow breath. “Sorry,” he mumbles after a moment.
Izuku stands from his chair and takes his bowl to the sink, then, abruptly deciding that he doesn’t want to have this conversation yet.
“Izuku,” Katsuki calls, sounding pained. Once Izuku’s turned back around to look at him, he continues, “for me.” His face is a mess of shadows and hurt that Izuku wants to breach but isn’t sure he’s allowed to. “For me, it’s only ever been you, too.”
Izuku breathes out a little sigh. “And that,” he murmurs, slowly, “isn’t enough?”
Looking like he’s warring with himself, Katsuki shakes his head.
“What difference does it make?” Izuku asks, being careful to avoid sounding demanding. “We love each other. We kiss. We live together. I’m—” he laughs humorlessly. “I’m only ever going to be yours.”
“‘Zuku,” Katsuki says, voice hoarse. “You can’t—you can’t just be okay with—with me, with being with me—”
“Kacchan,” he cuts him off there, and takes the momentary silence to hop up onto the counter next to him. Seeing him only out of his peripheral vision, he asks, “do you wanna be my boyfriend?”
Katsuki chokes on a noise that sounds like half a sob. “Yeah,” he says, his hand coming up to rub the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Yes.”
And because they always have been, always are, capable of evolution, Izuku says, “good. I want to be yours, too.”
“Oh my God,” Shinsou exclaims when he walks in the door. “Shit, this place is nice. Midoku, are you sure this isn’t just gonna be a housewarming party?”
“It’s his birthday, you jerk,” Ochako elbows him in the side as she shoulders past him in the doorway. “We’re not gonna turn it into a housewarming party.”
“Shame, really,” Shinsou teases, his eyes sparkling when he finally catches sight of Izuku, coming over to greet them. “You guys did great with decorating. Gay interior designers, you walking cliches; s-m-h.”
“Izuku, kick him out,” Katsuki calls from the kitchen. “My birthday present to you is uninviting him.”
“You need to get better at gifts,” Izuku shoots back, ushering all of his friends in and exchanging hugs. “Look, Shouto brought one!”
Sure enough, in the boy’s hands is a neatly wrapped gift box, topped with a bow and everything, because Shouto is God’s gift to mankind. Somewhere in the kitchen, Katsuki makes vague noises that sound like I am a fuckin’ gift.
The whole evening passes like a strange dream of deja-vu; celebrating a birthday in a new apartment, just like they did three months ago in April. Iida tells work stories like he’s at a company function, and only Shouto seems invested in them. Tsuyu shows off her new haircut. Ochako threatens to beat Shinsou up about every five minutes. Izuku thinks it’s all kind of incredible.
When Katsuki abruptly flicks the lights off, leaving them suspended in darkness for a few moments before emerging from the kitchen with a cake in his hands, Izuku feels another flash of strange amusement at the role reversal.
“Nineteen,” Katsuki declares, setting the cake down in front of him. “You’re a real man now.”
The cake is homemade chocolate and heavenly; they manage to not knock it to the floor, this time, but as per tradition, Izuku still gets a faceful of it when Katsuki shoves his head in after they finish singing.
“Shame,” he says, attempting to lick off the frosting around his mouth. “My wish was for that tradition to die.”
“There, you’ve said it out loud,” Katsuki grins, pulling Izuku into his side and kissing his temple, frosting and all. “That’s why it didn’t come true.”
“Boo, I hate gay people,” Shinsou deadpans, eyeing their PDA. Katsuki makes a face at him. Shouto, sarcasm lost on him, looks genuinely offended on their behalf before Tsuyu flicks Shinsou in the head with her tongue and all is peaceful again, justice served.
The rest of the night winds down easily into sleepiness. Sometime past dusk, when the light of the city rises up to greet them in place of the sun, Ochako flops down onto the couch next to Izuku, tipsy and tired, and slings an arm over his shoulders.
“Are you happy?” She asks, looking dead-serious and completely ridiculous, her eyes wide with conviction.
Izuku snorts and nudges her hair with his cheek. “Yeah,” he says, without any hint of untruthfulness. “‘M really happy.”
“Good,” she says, earnest and adamant, and then promptly starts to nod off on his shoulder. Izuku grins fondly into her hair, and lets himself sit in the quiet peace of his birthday for a few moments.
“Hey,” Katsuki walks up from behind, gently wading through the silence, and threads his fingers through Izuku’s hair at the top of his head. “We gonna kick them out or let them stay over?”
“Let ‘em stay,” Izuku decides, leaning sleepily into the touch. “We don’t have work tomorrow anyways.”
Katsuki hums in acknowledgement, continuing to twist Izuku’s hair through his hands. “Hey, Izu?”
“Hm?” Izuku tilts his head up to look at his boyfriend and catches a look so hopelessly adoring that he melts apart in the wake of it.
“You’re—” Katsuki starts, and then the corner of his mouth quirks up. “A nineteen-year-old baby.”
Izuku can’t help but laugh, his mouth full of mirth and feather-down. Somewhere along the way, Izuku has acquired more good things in his life than he knows what to do with, like water rising slowly in a room without him noticing it until he’s knee-deep. He doesn’t feel any fear of drowning.
They’re nineteen, and apartment-owners (or, apartment-renters), and in love within the safe place of their little sun called home. They’re nineteen, half drunk, happy, evolving. Nineteen-year-old babies.
“Same as you,” he argues, and pulls Katsuki down for a kiss.