Archive of Our Own

Almost done. Almost done. Izuku is only a little behind schedule because one of his students rushed into the teachers’ workroom and immediately burst into tears, waving their report around and crying about a lost dog and a pond and their laptop and staying up all night and please, Midoriya-sensei, can they please turn their report in late? So Izuku said yes and Aizawa called him a sucker and now here he is, chewing at the end of his pen and staring at his grading log on the computer and trying not to look at the clock on the wall, tick-tick-ticking away. 

He’s almost done!

It’s a beautiful spring day, and things are… good. An entire school year has gone by, and though there are still days when he mourns his lost dream of being a Pro Hero, those days are fewer and farther between now. His work as a teacher is rewarding in the most surprising of ways. His students are challenging and funny and ridiculous and frustrating and so inspiring that he cries about it, sometimes.

And their quirks! It’s amazing–every year a new class of students comes through with all new quirks for him to geek out about. Sometimes Nezu and Aizawa have to temper his enthusiasm, but he can’t help it–learning about each student and helping them learn about themselves and their relationship with their quirk, honing their skills, watching them grow and evolve–it’s so much fun.

“Um, excuse me, Midoriya-sensei?”

Izuku looks up. Another of his students has poked his head around the corner of the doorway. Botan is a shy kid with a plant pollen quirk who sits near the window and tends to look outside and daydream if Izuku’s lectures aren’t interesting enough. Izuku doesn’t get upset; it’s a good litmus test, honestly, and helps him make his lesson plans more engaging.

“Um, sensei?”

“Yes,” Izuku says, jumping out of his seat. His chair rolls back and hits the metal filing cabinet behind him with a clang! He and Botan both wince. “Sorry, yes, I’m listening. What can I do for you, Botan?”

“Um. Pro Hero Dynamight is here looking for you. I heard him yelling in the admin office about being allowed on campus.” Tick, tick, tick, says the mocking clock on the wall. Oh, god. Botan looks nervous as he continues, “He says you have a lunch date–”

A lunch date. A lunch date? “O-oh. What exactly did he say?”

“Well, um, he said, ‘Can someone go find Deku? We were supposed to be at lunch an hour ago,’ except, um, he used some language that I don’t want to get detention for repeating.”

Date or not, he is super late. And now Kacchan is harassing the poor admin staff, who luckily are familiar with his abrasive personality from his time as a student and probably won’t kick him off campus. Izuku is just going to have to stay later this evening to finish up his grading, no big deal. 

He can’t cancel on Kacchan again or he’ll find Pro Hero Dynamight yelling at him instead. 

“Thanks, Botan,” Izuku says, quickly saving his work on his grading log and signing out of the system. He picks up his backpack and sweeps the messy stack of his papers inside, clips the top closed, and swings it onto his shoulders. “Make sure to eat lunch, okay? I think Lunch Rush is serving katsudon today.”

“I… I like katsudon,” Botan says. His tentative smile feels like a gift.

“Me too,” Izuku says, grinning right back. “See you in class later if Dynamight doesn’t kill me!”

Holding tight to the straps of his backpack, he hurries out of the teachers’ office and down the hallway. It’s midday, so there are students everywhere–hanging out between classes, meeting with friends in the hall, traveling toward the cafeteria together. Some of them see him speed-walking past and step out of the way. Some of them choose mischief.

“Midoriya-senseeiii,” a second year student named Noriko calls, standing by the stairway with Midnight. Izuku slows, but does not stop moving, and Noriko waves at him as he approaches. “Your husband is looking for you, sensei! He’s at admin!”

“Yeah, Midoriya, your husband is looking for you,” Midnight teases.

Izuku stumbles. If he didn’t already know who they were talking about, he might stop and ask, but as it is, he’s already late and he can’t stop moving . As it is, he’s already red to the roots of his hair, blushing so hard he might pass out with the force of it. It’s not–they’re–okay, so he and Kacchan moved in together after graduation from UA and spent a lot of time together repairing their friendship, and he can easily say that Kacchan is the closest person to him in the world, and he can also say that sometimes he thinks about the possibility of them being more, of what that might look like, but they’re–it’s not–they’re not together like that. They’re not husbands!

Noriko giggles as he hustles past. “Aww, Midoriya-sensei, are you blushing? You're allowed to have a crush on your husband! That's so cute!”

“Okaythanksbye!”

Internally screaming, Izuku careens around the corner to the admin hall and there Kacchan is, still in his hero gear, eye mask pushed up into his hair, leaning against the wall like an exceptionally handsome, angry model. His arms are crossed over his chest. His biceps are ridiculous. The screaming in his brain gets louder.

Izuku both loves and hates Kacchan’s warm-weather costume. His arms, his shoulders –

“You’re late, nerd,” Kacchan snaps.

“I know, I know.” Izuku rushes forward and puts his hands up in supplication. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve texted you once I realized I was running behind, but then I got caught up and I was almost ready but I had some trouble with a student and I wanted to help her but Aizawa thought maybe she was lying–”

“It’s fine, Deku. You still good for lunch or do you gotta stay?”

“I’m good! Let’s go!”

Kacchan pushes off the wall. Once he gets close enough, he reaches out and tugs Izuku’s backpack off, slings one strap over his own shoulder, and leads the way towards the exit. He holds the door open for Izuku to step through.

He says you have a lunch date… you’re allowed to have a crush on your husband… 

“Why’s your face red, huh?” 

“M-my students said they could hear you yelling at the admin team, Kacchan! You should apologize to them!” Maybe if he fusses, Kacchan won’t notice how Izuku’s eyes keep lingering, how his heart just about jumps out of his chest when they're walking across the courtyard together and Kacchan just puts his arm over Izuku's shoulders like it's no big deal, like that's just something they do now and okay, it kind of is, but mostly in private and not out in the open like this, and Izuku loves it but he's not sure if he should because for some reason people think they're husbands now and what if Kacchan hears and it makes him pull away?

“You're thinking too hard, nerd,” Kacchan says, pulling him just that much closer. “You wanna go to that café that just opened near Fat Gum's?”

Izuku gasps. “The cat café?” The one he saw when he was helping Fat Gum with a quirk analysis for a new hero he was thinking of taking on? With the cute storefront and the big windows and the pretty decorations? The one Kacchan said looked lame and insisted he didn't want to go–

“Tch. You want to go, so we're going,” Kacchan says, pulling him firmly forward. He must’ve been mumbling. That, or Kacchan could see the gears in his head spinning out of control. Kacchan’s been so good at that lately, anticipating Izuku’s worries and needs, saying just the right thing to pull him out of his head. 

Izuku smiles, warmed through. “Okay, Kacchan.” 

“I'm just saying, how can we know how comfortable they are without testing them out? It sucks we can't just reorder the one we had before but they don't make that brand anymore–I think they went out of business, which is unfortunate, I really liked our couch–but this will be fun, right? Now we can try out all the different options and compare notes and see which one we like the best!”

“You've already sold me, nerd. You don't have to keep trying,” Katsuki grumbles, standing in the genkan, dressed, shoes on, phone and wallet and keys in his crossbody bag, ready to go. He's been leaning against the wall for the past seven minutes, waiting for Izuku to brush his teeth, and to find his sunglasses, and has Kacchan seen his sunglasses anywhere, and where's his hat, and he needs his power bank because he forgot to charge his phone last night because he was up late working on his lesson plans, and does Kacchan want a protein bar for the walk, he thinks Kacchan’s favorite flavor is in here somewhere…

If there's anything Katsuki has learned in the past two years living with Izuku, it's that he’s going to have to wait around, and that’s going to have to be fine. His well of patience, admittedly lacking much depth and often completely dry, means he really has to dig deep. Some days it's a struggle–he's his mother's son and they've got the shortest fuses–but other days…

“I'm ready, I'm ready,” Izuku calls, bounding toward the genkan. He's wearing cargo shorts and a souvenir t-shirt from the day they spent at the aquarium. The mess of his hair is covered by a green, Froppy-branded bucket hat with little felt frog eyes coming out of the top. Once he puts his red high-tops on, he stands up straight and beams. “Ready.”

…well, most days it's worth the wait.

“What are you wearing,” Katsuki asks, disgustingly and hopelessly fond, slipping his sunglasses on as he opens the front door.

Izuku looks at Katsuki's outfit–black joggers, black sneakers, a plain white t-shirt–and then down at himself, kindergarten-chic. His face falls, doubt clouding his eyes. “Should I go change?”

Katsuki doesn't think he has it in him to wait another half hour. He moves into the hallway, relieved when Izuku follows. The door falls shut behind them. “No, you look,” stupid, cute, beautiful enough that I want to punch you, “fine. We gotta go; the furniture store is closing soon.”

“Huh?” Izuku checks his watch. “It closes at six. That's seven hours from now.”

The elevator door opens, and they step inside. Katsuki presses the button for the ground floor. “Yeah, and that's how long I set aside today for you to make a decision.”

Izuku pouts. “Rude, Kacchan.”

Those damned pink lips stay screwed up into a pout the whole ride down to the lobby of their apartment building, wobble into a brief smile when they step outside into the bright summer morning, and then immediately curl back into a pout. “I forgot my sunglasses.”

“For fuck's sake, Deku,” Katsuki sighs, turning to stand in front of Izuku on the sidewalk. He pulls his own sunglasses off and slides them onto Izuku's face, arranging them carefully on his nose and behind his ears. While he’s there, he tucks some of that green hair back and adjusts his hat. The dark lenses of his sunglasses reflect the godforsaken sappy-ass devotion in Katsuki’s own eyes, and he snatches his hands back and stomps off, embarrassed.

“Thanks, Kacchan,” Izuku says once he catches up, knocking his shoulder against Katsuki's arm. He directs a sunshine-smile straight up into Katsuki’s face. “It's super bright today.”

I'd rather risk damage to my retinas than have to watch you pouting anymore, he thinks.

“Tell me about these couches,” he says.

“Oh, yeah!” Izuku pulls out his phone. “Here's their website. So I made a spreadsheet while I was at work the other day, don't tell Aizawa, and one of my students caught me but she ended up helping me with some criteria! These are a few of my favorites that they'll have in-store. Here, look at this one.”

By the time they arrive at the furniture store, Katsuki has looked at twelve couches and learned more than he ever needed to know about the manufacturing process of foam cushions. Izuku is still talking about polyurethane when he stops–stops talking, stops walking, right in the middle of the busy sidewalk. People stream around them like water moving around river rocks.

“Wow, is this the right place?” Izuku asks, looking up at the ultra-modern, silver-sleek storefront. “This looks… way out of our budget.”

Katsuki puts a hand on the small of Izuku's back and pushes him out of the way of the pedestrians trying to get past them. “I told you we didn't have a budget,” he says, opening the large glass door and ushering Izuku inside. “Didn't you see the prices on their website?”

“They weren't listed! It said to ‘inquire in store.’ It was extremely unhelpful for my spreadsheet,” Izuku hisses, taking his sunglasses off, looking around at the pristine showroom–two stories with an open entryway, glossy stone floors, a glimmering glass chandelier–with awe and not a small amount of panic. Distracted, Izuku folds one of the arms of the sunglasses, then turns and accidentally stabs Katsuki’s throat with the other arm before he’s able to slip it behind the collar of Katsuki's t-shirt. “Kacchan–”

Katsuki sighs. He places his hands on the side of Izuku's neck, gentle, just holding, and uses his thumbs against Izuku's jaw to tip his head up. Those dangerous green eyes meet his gaze. “Izuku. I want you to pick something out that we like. Ah! No, just listen. We spend a lot of time on the couch and I want it to be comfortable. I don't give a fuck how much it costs. Okay? Think of it as an investment.”

“Doesn't furniture depreciate in value,” Izuku grumbles, frowning and looking away.

The urge to close his fingers around Izuku's throat grows stronger. He squeezes, just a little, just to appease the intrusive thought, and absolutely does not smile when Izuku giggles and slaps at the back of his hands. “Kacchan! You can't murder me in public.”

“Don't tell me what I can't do.” Katsuki drops his hands and turns to the woman who's been waiting for them to get their shit together for the past two minutes. “Hey.”

“Oh gosh, sorry, hello!” Izuku spins around and waves.

A woman with gray-streaked brown hair and a navy blue dress greets them. “It is no problem. Welcome to Furuya Furniture. My name is Yui. How can we assist you today?”

“We're here to buy a new couch,” Izuku says. “I saw some on your website that I wanted to look at, if that's okay?”

Yui smiles. “Of course, right this way.”

Whipping out his phone, Izuku and his spreadsheet and his thirty-seven questions become Yui's problem. Katsuki's job is to trail behind them, sit on some couches, and divert Izuku's attention whenever he tries to focus on cost.

It's also his job to stop Izuku from embarrassing the shit out of him when he starts to explain exactly why they need a new couch. It's nobody's business but his and Izuku's and Kirishima's, and maybe the moving company that he hired to haul the old thing out of the apartment.

He and Kirishima had been playing a video game, and Kirishima had said something so fucking stupid that Katsuki punched him for it, and then they started wrestling, which eventually escalated. It was a pretty tame brawl, for their standards, but the result was a burnt and shredded couch, which Yui absolutely doesn’t need to know.

Their path winds through the first floor and eventually up to the second. Yui is unflappable in the face of Izuku's enthusiasm. A part of Katsuki is suspicious that she overheard his and Izuku's initial conversation about price being no object and subsequently decided to chase that commission all the way to the bank; but he also thinks, in the calm voice in his head that sounds like Izuku, that Yui might just be a kind person who is good at her job.

Ugh. Maybe he spends too much time around the nerd. What is he becoming, kind?

“Your husband is very… thorough,” Yui says, walking up next to Katsuki. 

They watch Izuku fall back into a huge leather monstrosity that will in no way fit into their apartment. 

“Yeah,” Katsuki says. “Wait, what?”

“He's more knowledgeable about our stock than some of our employees,” she says, allowing herself a quiet laugh, like Katsuki is questioning the thorough part of her statement and not the fact that she just called this nerd his fuckin’ husband. “He must've done his research!”

“Uh,” Katsuki says.

“Ooh, Kacchan,” Izuku calls, leveraging himself up out of the big leather monster and skirting around a few armchairs. His hat is crooked. “What about this one?”

Thankfully, this one is the winner. It also gives Katsuki a chance to reboot his brain and focus on the couch. It’s a warm gray sectional with incredibly soft upholstery, sturdy enough to withstand two tall, built grown men flopping onto it. It's got features, Izuku says, excited, as he wriggles into the corner of the L-shaped piece, like cup holders and a little hidden space under the armrest that can hold remotes and the part at the end over there can even lean back like an armchair, isn't that cool? Katsuki sinks into the back cushions and decides, yeah, he could definitely fall asleep on this thing.

“That's a good napability score,” Izuku says.

“A what,” Katsuki says.

“Remember I told you about my student who helped me with my criteria? Napability was one: can you take a good nap on this couch? I think you're about to!”

“I think I'm about to live out my whole life on this couch if we don't get out of here.” Katsuki's stomach grumbles. He wants lunch. “Is this the one?”

Swinging his legs over the edge and putting his feet back on the floor, Izuku looks around, biting at his lip. “Well, I think so? D-don't you want to look around more, though? Shouldn't we do our due diligence and look at everything? I-I mean, if we're spending so much money we should be sure we pick out the one we like the best, and we can't so that if we don't analyze each option and narrow down our choices–”

“I like this one,” Katsuki tells Yui, who's been standing politely nearby. “What next?”

“That's wonderful,” Yui says, “Please, right this way.”

Leaving Izuku behind to mutter a compare and contrast list to himself, Katsuki follows Yui downstairs to a beautifully decorated office. He pays for the couch and a warranty and expedited delivery, and Yui prints out his receipts and asks him to please come again for any of their furniture needs.

“Deku! Let's go!”

That stupid Froppy frog hat pops up first over the second floor railing, and then Izuku's pink face. “Kacchan, shh! Don't be so rude! You don't need to yell!”

“I just spent two million yen here–I can yell if I want to.”

“You did not ,” Izuku says, hurrying down the stairs. “Kacchan, you didn't. ”

“That's none of your business. Come on, I'm hungry.”

Izuku splutters. “None of my–Kacchan, it's my apartment, too! It's at least half of my business! Tell me!”

Yui waves at them as they leave, Izuku breaking from his arguing to give her a polite bow and thanking her profusely even as Katsuki pushes him bodily from the building. They'll never get out of here otherwise.

“You're so frustrating,” Izuku says once they're on the sidewalk, snatching the sunglasses from the collar of Katsuki's shirt and putting them on. “I'm mad at you.”

He's mad, but he still allows Katsuki's hand to return to the small of his back, so that's okay. No matter his emotion, no matter if Katsuki has driven him to angry tears or found him curled up on the bathroom floor after a nightmare, no matter if he's sick or anxious or focused, Izuku always allows Katsuki to touch him.

Which is a relief, because Katsuki lives and breathes now with the need to touch his… husband? What a mindfuck. Still, though: his.

Three days later, Katsuki receives a text while he's on patrol. The alert chime is the one he assigned specifically for Izuku, so he steps onto an empty side street and pulls out his phone.

Nerd [4:46 PM]
The couch is here!!!! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ
Kacchan it's so nice!! 

Me [4:46 PM]
Did the delivery company bring everything up themselves?

Nerd [4:47 PM]
Yes! They wouldn't let me help. Aoi and Nao from the delivery company are putting it together now!
They said they were told specifically not to tell me how much everything cost (╬`益´)
Kacchan seriously???

Me [4:47 PM]
Deal with it.

Nerd [4:47 PM]
Just for that, I'm gonna sit on it for the first time without you ヽ(`﹏´)ノ

Me [4:48 PM]
👍

Todoroki, his current patrol partner, swings back after realizing that Katsuki wasn't beside him anymore. It took him two minutes to notice. Stupid.

“Everything okay?” Todoroki asks, nodding at Katsuki’s phone, which he slips back into his pocket.

“Just the nerd,” Katsuki says. He punches Todoroki’s shoulder. “You wanna tell me why it took you that long to notice I was gone?”

“I was giving you privacy. Would you prefer I eavesdrop?”

“Tsk. Get back to patrol, Icy Hot.”

Three hours later, Katsuki makes it back to their apartment, dead on his feet, hair still damp from his post-patrol shower, a little nauseous from how quickly he ate a few onigiri for dinner so that he could just come home.  

“I'm back,” he calls, kicking his sneakers off at the genkan and letting them land where they may. His joggers are untied and he thinks his shirt might be on backwards. He lost all of his fucks about two and a half hours ago. Slowly, in his house slippers, he shuffles past the kitchen and enters the living room.

There it is: the new couch, set up against the wall. It does look nice. The color is nice. There isn’t much room in Katsuki’s brain for any further thoughts except to get horizontal as quickly as possible. 

Izuku has already colonized the space: he’s sitting in his corner spot amongst three throw pillows and is wrapped in two different blankets, and his phone and most recent notebook are sitting on the long chaise part of the sectional beside him. He’s wearing his All Might pajama pants and one of Katsuki’s old hoodies that he thought he’d lost.

“Welcome home!” Izuku beams, holding his arms out in a look at it! gesture to the couch. “What do you think? I think it's perfect!”

Me too, Katsuki thinks, falling right into Izuku's open arms. 

“Oof. Hang on, let me move my legs,” Izuku says.

They rearrange: Izuku untangles himself from his pile of pillows and blankets and lies down, then holds still as Katsuki makes himself comfortable between Izuku’s legs, head on his chest, ear against that steady-strong heartbeat. Without jostling Katsuki around too much, Izuku throws a blanket over them, then wraps an arm around Katsuki’s back and rests a hand on the back of his head.

When Katsuki sighs, it feels like it comes from the deepest part of his soul. He’s not sure he’s ever felt so comfortable. 

“Hi, Kacchan,” Izuku says softly, rubbing his back. “Long day?”

“Mm,” Katsuki says. 

“Are you hungry? Did you eat?”

“Mm,” Katsuki says.

Soft laughter brushes against his ear. He starts to say something, hesitates, and then sighs. When Katsuki pinches his side, he says, shy, “You know, cuddlebility was also a criterion on my new couch spreadsheet.”

“Ten outta ten,” Katsuki murmurs, “Best cuddles ever.”

“You mean best couch ever?”

“No.”

Before he slips to sleep, lulled by Izuku’s bashful giggle and the steady in-out of his breathing, the metronome thump of his pulse, Katsuki makes sure to squeeze Izuku close.

Kacchan 💥🧡 [10:33 AM]
[Shared a location]
Here is the address for the tailor. Your appointment is with Enokida.
If my parents are there, run the other way.

Me [10:35 AM]
Thanks Kacchan!! 
Aww but I love Auntie and Uncle
We haven't had dinner with them in a while (╥﹏╥)

Kacchan 💥🧡 [10:35 AM]
For good reason.
Don't be late.

Me [10:35 AM]
(b ᵔ▽ᵔ)b

The Saturday trains are on time, the crowds are moving steadily, and Izuku is happy to report that he is going to be early for his appointment, thank you very much. 

There's even enough time to stop at a crepe stand! He gets a chocolate one with strawberries and eats it slowly, careful not to get any syrup stains on his clothes. The tailor that he's visiting today is a friend and colleague of the Bakugo family, and is someone that Kacchan actually likes, so Izuku has tried his best at being fashionable. Ochako was more than happy to sit on a video call with him while he went through his closet to find an outfit.

They went with a loose, white, short-sleeve button-down, partway tucked into wide-leg gray trousers and a black belt. “You are absolutely forbidden to wear those red sneakers, Deku,” Ochako had said, so he picked a pair of black and white ones instead.

“Where are you even going?” Ochako had asked, sitting on her balcony in her pajamas, sipping at her tea. He sits his phone on his dresser; it's like looking through a tiny window to another side of Tokyo.

“You know the annual gala at the Endeavor Agency?” He slipped the belt through the loops and buckled it. If it took him longer than usual to get his fingers to work, well, maybe he's uncoordinated, or maybe he was just trying to hide a blush. From Ochako. His best friend. “Um. Kacchan invited me.”

There was a gleam in her eye that sent his warning bells ringing. “As a date?”

“I don't know…?”

“How do you not know? Deku. ”

“Well, he didn't say it was a date! He just asked if I had been invited and I said yes because I do contract work for their analyst department, you know, so they still invite me even if I'm not technically an employee which is actually kind of nice of them, and then he asked if I had a plus one and I said no and then he asked if I wanted to go with him and I said yes and that was it!”

“You really miss the forest for the trees sometimes, huh,” Ochako sighed, at once fond and exasperated. She sat back in her chair and gazed up at something past the camera. “So where are you going now that you needed fashion advice?”

“Oh, well, whenever Kacchan needs a tailor, he works with this guy named Enokida who is a friend of his parents. I asked him why he doesn't just ask them for help but he told me he's a ‘grown-ass adult' and he's ‘not about to beg for favors from the hag and the old man,’” Izuku explained, quoting Kacchan in his grumpy Kacchan voice. He picks up his phone and hooks his fingers on the backs of his shoes and carries them out to the genkan. His keys and wallet and phone go in Kacchan's black crossbody bag, which Izuku pulls over his chest. “So Kacchan made me an appointment to get a new suit.”

“Because your old ones are awful,” Ochako finished for him. 

And wow, okay, maybe the suits he had before moving in with Kacchan were… not at the height of fashion, but he thought they were nice! At least his mom always thought he was handsome.

So here he is in the center of Tokyo, looking up at the narrow, five-story building Kacchan sent him to. The entire front of the building is floor-to-ceiling windows. When he walks in, a directory leads him up to the third floor and a frosted glass door. The placard next to it reads 300, Enokida Designs.  

“Hello?” Izuku calls, stepping inside. 

It’s a very bright space–the afternoon sun shines bright through the window to the left, glows on the white walls, the metal accents on the spartan furniture. To the right, there’s a curtained doorway and an unoccupied reception desk with a vase holding a single flower.

He’s suddenly very glad that he dressed the way he did. The space is so modern and simple, and he would’ve felt very out of place in gym shorts and his All Might tee. “Hello?” he calls again. “I’m looking for Enokida? I have an appointment! Um. Kacchan sent me? K-Katsuki. Bakugo Katsuki.”

From behind the curtain, there's a thump, and then a sigh, then steps across the floor. The person that emerges is not at all what Izuku expected. He looks like Best Jeanist if he suddenly dyed his hair blue and got really into punk rock. Tall, skinny, pale skin, wearing torn black jeans with a chain belt and a shimmery tank top the color of an oil slick. His ears are lined with metal hoops and his arms are lined with tattoos.

He's so cool.

“Thanks,” Enokida says, because of course Izuku said that aloud. His voice is a low, dry rasp. With laser-sharp focus, he rakes his gaze up and down Izuku’s body. “Hm. You’re not as hopeless as Bakugo described.”

He doesn’t want to tell this super cool fashion designer that his usual type of outfit is a t-shirt that says T-Shirt, cargo shorts that he’s had for like, seven years, and his bright red sneakers. “W-well. I had help this morning.”

“Wise.” Enokida nods. “Follow me.”

Past the curtained door is a huge, organized mess of a workroom. There’s an old-fashioned record player playing a quiet, jazzy melody. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, filled with cloth of every color and texture. Mannequins display clothes in various states of completion. There’s a long work table in the center of the room, cluttered with huge sample binders and sketchbooks and scraps of fabric, and in the corner, a tailor’s mirror curls around a brightly-lit standing platform. 

“I need to take your measurements,” Enokida says, motioning for Izuku to step on the platform. “I’ll take your bag, please. I’ll need to touch you briefly, but it should only be with the tape measure or to adjust the clothes you’re currently wearing in order to get an accurate measurement. Is that alright?”

“Yep, that’s fine!”

Tape measure in hand, Enokida gets to work. He moves in quick, controlled, practiced movements and writes everything down in a small notebook in a neat hand. It’s no surprise why Kacchan likes him–he’s quiet and efficient and he looks like a rock star.

“So this is your business?” Izuku asks. “You’re a designer? And you work with the Bakugos?”

“Yes. And I am acquainted with Masaru and Matsuki. We have worked on several projects together. I have also designed several suits for your husband. Are you alright?”

Yes, Izuku is good, he’s only just inhaled some of his spit and is now coughing up a lung. His–his what? This isn’t the first time someone has thought Kacchan was his–his husband, but this time it’s coming from someone he’s never met and someone who has therefore never observed him and Kacchan together, so how…? Why? What?

“Um,” Izuku wheezes. His chest hurts. “Yes, thank you, sorry, I’m okay. Why–why do you think Kacchan is my husband?”

Enokida pulls his tape measure from Izuku’s waist and raises a pierced eyebrow. “Is he not?”

“No! He–we’re best friends? And roommates. And we’ve known each other forever, a-and I would–don’t tell him this, okay? Please don’t tell him this, but I would be really lucky if he were my husband, it’s just that I don’t think he would… want… that? With me?”

“Hm,” Enokida says, tapping his pencil against his notebook. That laser stare of his is unnerving. “Yet he made this appointment for you, and is paying for a bespoke suit that I must rush to create for an event that you are attending together in a week?”

Well, when the details are arranged like that…

“His devotion is also evident in the way that he speaks about you. And the fact that Masaru and Mitsuki often refer to you as their son-in-law.”

Steam must be coming from Izuku's ears, because Enokida laughs, a sound like sandpaper, and motions for Izuku to step off the platform. “I'm sorry for my assumption. Don't think too much about it. Please, come look at some designs and fabric swatches and we'll schedule a fitting when you have time next week.”

What is Izuku supposed to do about this? Are people just walking around thinking he and Kacchan are married ? Are his feelings written so clearly on his face, in every action he takes, in every word he says? Are people saying the same things to Kacchan? Oh god, how does he feel about that? Is he going to pull away?

So many questions plague him that week.

Kacchan's on a weird schedule and Izuku is doing some supplemental quirk training with a few of his students after class, so they're like ships in the night, seeing each other for an hour or two before having to sleep or go back to work. For so long now, they've been in a nebulous friends-but-maybe-more relationship: friends who cuddle on the couch, friends who sleep in the same bed when they’re suffering from nightmares, friends who bring each other lunch and tend each other’s wounds and share each other’s clothes and warmth and space.

He loves Kacchan, in so many ways. All the ways. And right now, it doesn’t matter how Kacchan might love him back–Izuku just misses him. 

There’s a loud knock on his bedroom door. “Hey nerd, you almost done?”

Luckily for him, it’s Saturday, their schedules are clear, and they’re spending the evening together in fancy suits and eating fancy finger foods and drinking fancy champagne. He’s excited, and maybe a little bit anxious, but mostly excited.

“Almost!” Izuku calls, brushing his hands down the lapels of his jacket. The suit that Enokida designed and created for him fits better than anything he’s ever worn–it’s a deep teal, so dark it almost looks black, and has a subtle sheen to it when he moves. He’s managed to tame his hair into pretty waves, and he’s swiped some gloss on his lips and spritzed some cologne and he thinks he’s ready.

“Okay,” he says, opening the door and hurrying into the living room. Kacchan’s standing at the glass door to the balcony, watching the sunset; Izuku feels his mouth go dry, watching Kacchan. 

Their suits are similar in cut and even in the material, but where Izuku’s is teal, Kacchan’s is a deep, burnt orange. The slim fit of his trousers make his legs look a mile long, and his suit jacket is buttoned and pulls in close to his small waist, sits perfectly against his broad shoulders and strong arms.

Wow.

Kacchan is so, so handsome.

When he turns, Izuku sees that they have the same pocket squares–a geometric pattern of their teal and orange colors–and Izuku tears up about it. They match. 

“I know I look amazing, but you don't have to cry,” Kacchan says, walking up with his hands in his pockets, that stupid swagger that he's never aged out of. He looks at Izuku, looks and looks and looks , and reaches out to brush a wayward lock of hair from Izuku's forehead. His voice is warm and nitroglycerin-sweet when he says, “You clean up nice, nerd.”

“T-thanks, Kacchan.”

“C'mon, Burnin will get on my ass if we're more than fashionably late.”

They put their dress shoes on at the genkan and make their way down the hall to the elevator. The walls of the elevator are reflective, and Izuku can't help that his gaze is drawn to Kacchan beside him, can't help but be surprised that Kacchan is already looking back.

Is Kacchan blushing?

It has to be the light.

Kacchan smirks. “Wanna make a bet?”

That sounds dangerous. And possibly unwise, due to how many Pro Heroes and support and admin staff they're about to be surrounded by, including all of their career superiors. So of course Izuku says, “Yeah, sure. About what?”

“How many people do you think Icy Hot is gonna turn down for a dance tonight?”

“Don't tease him!” Izuku punches Kacchan's shoulder (carefully, as to not mess up the perfectly pressed line of Kacchan’s suit, and also to not invoke his ire, because it's always a gamble if Kacchan will interpret a playful punch as an invite for a brawl) before escaping through the open elevator doors. “You know he's trying to get better at being social.”

“Doesn't answer my question.”

“Well, how many people are you gonna turn down for a dance tonight?”

“All of them,” Kacchan says, pausing at the lobby door to open it for him. When Izuku steps past, he smells Kacchan's cologne, something subtle and spicy and sweet, and tells himself not to be disappointed. It's not like this is news; he knows that Kacchan doesn't like to dance, that he’d prefer to hang out in the back of the room before making his escape, but the smallest part of Izuku had hoped…

Their heels click on the sidewalk. An indeterminate amount of time passes before Kacchan clears his throat and mumbles, “I might save a dance for you, though.”

It feels like flying again, the swoop that tumbles through his chest. “Deal.”

One of the reasons Katsuki chose to sign on with the Endeavor Agency after graduation is that it's the best. If he wants to be Number One, this is the place to do it. They have the resources and the reputation, and there's no better spot to overtake Endeavor than from right under his nose. 

That, and the facilities are fantastic. Advanced and even prototype tech in the mission room and the gym and the training complex, a break room with massage chairs and cafeteria food that doesn't make him want to flip a table. He's even got his own office. It's not very big, but it's got a window and a door that he can close in people's faces, so he'll take it. 

“Gonna wipe the floor with you today,” Burnin says, casual as anything, like she's not suffering severe delusion. They enter the spacious lobby of the training complex and approach one of the touch-screen panels on the wall. She scans her employee ID and selects a few options on the screen. “Gym 3 today.”

Nice. Gym 3 is about the same size as Gym Gamma at UA. Plenty of room for both aerial and explosion training.

He scans his ID as well and follows her through the expansive training facility. A few sidekicks and support staff pass them by with polite greetings, and Katsuki nods in response. 

“Anybody else coming today,” Katsuki asks, “Or are you gonna have to take yourself to the clinic when I'm done with you?”

“Hah!” Burnin hip-checks him. “You're funny, rookie. Get your ass in there and stretch your arm. Like I can't tell you've been babying it.”

“Fuck you.”

He does as he's told–not because she told him to, but because his arm has been stiff lately and he does need to give it a little extra care while stretching today.

The creak of the door opening echoes in the huge, empty space. Katsuki tosses his gym bag on one of the benches against the wall and gets to work. Stretching effectively isn't the easiest to do in his hero costume, but at least he's in his warm-weather wear: his bare arms and shoulders have free range of motion, making it easier to do his stretches.

Burnin finishes up at the terminal in the corner that allows for different obstructive effects and terrain configurations to be made. 

Lights lining the ceiling blink off and on and off again. Warning, warning, the alarm system blares, please clear the floor. Simulation preset #12 loading now. Please clear the floor.

The floor trembles and shifts. Huge stone columns shoot up into the air, twist into arcs, crumble into boulders. Preset #12 creates a hilly, rocky area with plenty of pitfalls, treacherous for the ankles. The stone columns have remained, providing places to climb or perch or use as explosion material. Kind of generous of Burnin, now that he’s looking at it. 

He narrows his eyes at her.

“What?” She types something on her phone, then puts it on the bench with Katsuki’s stuff and cracks her knuckles. “I’m here for a challenge.”

Well, if she’s asking.

No hesitation–Katsuki launches himself at her, cackling when she exclaims, “Hey, at least get to the actual training zone, jerk!” They throw a few punches and kicks at each other before she rushes off. Katsuki gives chase. 

It’s a fun warm up. Fifteen minutes pass; more than enough time for Katsuki to memorize the layout of the sim, completely destroy a huge boulder, and crack one of the skylights. He’s surprised only once, when Burnin takes a chunk of flaming hair and absolutely whips it at his face. The heat of the flame brushes against his face as he throws himself backwards off the pillar he’s clinging to, allowing gravity to pull his weight down towards the stone spike-pit below.

“Kacchan!”

Something in his back twinges when he twists midair, but he’s able to get his palms beneath him and propel himself back up to the top of the pillar. Guess he was wrong–he’s surprised a second time to see Izuku standing at the very edge of the training sim next to some extra in a Shiketsu uniform. Izuku is dressed in his sensei get-up: dark suit pants, white button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, jacket and tie lost at some point throughout his day. He’s got one dress shoe up on a chunk of rock as if he’s about to launch himself up into the fray.

Katsuki sinks into a hip, crosses his arms. From atop the pillar, he shouts, “You worried about me, Deku?” 

“Don’t do that,” Izuku yells back. “I can’t fly anymore!”

“So?”

“So I can’t catch you! Come down here!”

“Make me!”

Another chunk of green hair-fire roars past his face. Burnin is jumping from rock to rock with grace. “Time to make yourself useful, Bakugo. Come on down.”

Rolling his eyes, Katsuki drops from his perch and lands just a few feet away from Izuku. He drags his gaze down the nerd’s body–the fit of his trousers against his thighs is really working for him, and the messy fold of his shirtsleeves at his elbows reveals his thick forearms, skin scarred and freckled. A few days in a row of outdoor classes has brought new freckles to his cheeks and a cute sunburn across the bridge of his nose. 

He doesn’t bother hiding his stare. “Lookin’ good, sensei.”

“Kacchan,” Izuku says, hiding his face beneath his palms. “Stop.”

Burnin snorts, inserts herself in the standing circle between Bakugo and the Shiketsu extra. “Glad to see you, Deku. Thanks for doing this.”

“No problem! I love helping out,” Izuku says, grinning. He hurries over to his yellow backpack on the bench and pulls out a notebook before bounding back. “So I have some thoughts. Oh–Kacchan, this is Teruya Reo, or Sunspin. He’s a Shiketsu grad who’s going to be starting at the Endeavor Agency, and I was called to come do an analysis. His quirk allows him to turn light into a physical substance. It’s really cool!”

“Thanks, Midoriya. Nice to meetcha, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight,” Teruya says, giving a smug little bow. He’s got chin-length brown hair beneath his stupid Shiketsu hat and wide-set eyes beneath thin brows. “Big fan.”

“Tsk. So, what, I’m here to kick this kid’s ass?”

“You’re here to help me with an evaluation,” Izuku says, hitting Katsuki’s chest with his notebook. “No ass kicking.”

“It’s an ass kicking or nothing,” Katsuki says.

Teruya sidles into Izuku’s space. They’re of a height, so when he cocks his head to the side, his temple is just about touching Izuku’s. “It’s alright, Midoriya,” Teruya says, and why is this little bastard so smug , what’s he got to be fuckin’ smug about, “I’m not afraid of Dynamight kicking my ass.”

“Can we stop talking about ass,” Burnin says, hands on her hips. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Let’s get to work. Deku, let us know if there’s anything you want us to try.”

Izuku takes a pencil from his shirt pocket and nods. “Will do!”

The little bastard winks at Midoriya before joining Burnin on the rocky surface of the training sim. A vicious anger clenches hot around Katsuki’s heart as he watches them walk away. He wants to be happy to see Izuku in the middle of his work day, and part of him is happy, steadied, just at seeing his nerd happy and hearty and whole right here in front of him. 

The other part of him wants to rip that extra’s arms from his body.

“Behave, Kacchan,” Izuku says under his breath, already scribbling away on a brand new page in his notebook. He kicks at Katsuki’s ankle without looking up. “He’s harmless.”

Katsuki scoffs. “He’s flirting with you.”

The pencil in Izuku’s hand pauses for just a second, and then he’s writing even quicker. There might be a blush blooming beneath those sunburned cheeks. “He is not. Go. I need you to start with quick attacks to test his reaction and so we can start looking at overall endurance, and then I’ll call when I want to regroup.”

“Yes, sensei,” Katsuki drawls, sauntering away. He can feel Izuku’s gaze on his back, his shoulders, the lines of his arms as he purposefully stretches and flexes them above his head. Heh. Now who’s smug? He claps his hands and lets a few sparks fly. “Alright, you bastard, let’s play!”

Burnin and Teruya have vanished amongst the stone rubble. It’s simple enough to find them, and then the game is on. Teruya’s hard light quirk is flashy, both literally and figuratively–he moves with flourish, overly showy, hands pulling spears made of sunlight and flinging them towards his opponents. They circle one another, Katsuki focusing on studying Teruya’s technique and measuring how long it takes him to pull the light into something physical. It’s begrudging, but he does admit it: the kid’s got a fuckin’ arm on him.

And then it’s Katsuki’s turn.

Quick attacks: small, constant bursts of energy explode from his hands, over and over and over again. Katsuki doesn’t let up. He stands on a flat stretch of stone and bends his knees and fires. As much as he wants to, he’s not allowed to murder the kid. Izuku would be upset with him. So he takes his AP Shot: Auto-Cannon and dials it back by half, focuses instead on rapid intervals instead of power.

Instead of trying to simultaneously fight back and dodge the assault, Teruya holds out his hands to summon a large, shining greatshield. The force of Katsuki’s blasts pushes him along the ground. Cracks continually zig-zag down the shield. Teruya grits his teeth and reinforces his defense, rests the bottom of the shield on the ground to relieve himself of the added weight.

That won’t do. Katsuki takes to the air. He starts firing from all angles, leaping off pillars like Izuku, like Gran Torino. Burnin joins in, tossing handfuls of firebombs one after another. Such an onslaught gives Teruya nothing to do but try to endure.

“Alright, alright! That’s enough!” Izuku calls, clapping his hands. “Let’s regroup!”

The gym grows quiet. Katsuki’s ears ring. He shakes out his palms and then his arms, stretching up and out, left and right. Teruya is moving a little slower than he was before, looking a little sweatier. Good. Idiot. 

Teruya and Burnin talk to Izuku for a few minutes while Katsuki amuses himself by jumping from pillar to pillar. He tries to see how far he can get without propelling himself. He gets to a lower column near their huddle when he hears Burnin excuse herself to use the restroom. He looks over, sees Teruya take the opportunity to slide closer to Izuku again, leaning into his side in order to look at his notebook.

“So, teach, you seein’ anyone?” Teruya asks.

If either Teruya or Katsuki hadn’t already been watching Izuku so closely, they would’ve missed those big green eyes flashing up towards Katsuki for a fraction of a second.

“Ah,” Teruya says, removing his hat and pushing a hand through his hair, ruffling it away from his forehead. “So he your boyfriend, then? Husband?”

“I, um. Well,” Izuku splutters. He pulls his notebook close to his chest. “I don’t see why that would matter–”

“I mean, huge difference between a boyfriend and a husband if I’m trying to flirt with someone.”

There’s a ringing in Katsuki’s ears. His body is moving before he tells it to, right off the edge of the stone pillar. He divebombs towards Teruya, course-corrects at the last second, and slams right into Izuku. Bodies pressed together head to toe, Katsuki can feel the breath leave Izuku’s chest as they go flying. He wraps an arm around Izuku’s waist and presses a hand to the back of his head, turning to take the brunt of the fall once they hit the ground rolling.

Five seconds later, they finally stop moving.

“Why,” Izuku wheezes.

Katsuki can’t help it–he laughs. Still careful of Izuku’s head, Katsuki flips them over so that he’s kneeling over Izuku’s hips, hands on either side of the green mess of his hair. Quite literally breathtaking. He gazes up at Katsuki with complete trust, not even angry that Katsuki just tackled him at speed and rolled him across the floor.

And because Katsuki’s an asshole, he leans down and starts to rub his sweaty, dusty forehead against Izuku’s, unrelenting even when Izuku starts to wriggle and plead for mercy. He digs in harder, presses his face to those freckled cheeks, the line of his jaw, down his neck. It would be so easy for Izuku to use his muscled thighs to flip them, to easily rid himself of Katsuki’s weight; instead, he seems happy to lie beneath him and suffer his annoying ministrations.

The raging, jealous monster in Katsuki’s chest simmers down.

He sits up, resting on Izuku’s thighs, hands on his own hips with a job well done. 

Teruya is watching him, bemused. “Sorry man, didn’t realize he was taken.”

“Tsk. Knock it off or I’ll blow your head off your shoulders.”

“I’m right here,” Izuku says, punching Katsuki in the gut, and oh, is Katsuki well aware where exactly he is. Izuku wrestles himself free and gets to his feet, then reaches out a hand to haul Katsuki up, too. “Let’s just get back to work, okay? We still have a lot to go over. No more distractions.”

God, Izuku’s serious teacher voice does things to him. “Yes, sensei.”

“Shut up, Kacchan. Go away.”

He barks a laugh and does as told. Teruya stays behind to listen to a few tips from Izuku–maintaining an appropriate distance and his expression significantly less smug–while Burnin joins Katsuki in the training sim. “Husband, huh?”

“Don’t,” Katsuki warns, crouching down and sitting on a rock. He squeezes his hands tight, relaxes them, squeezes them again. 

“You’re totally married,” Burnin says.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Sunday morning finds Izuku rolling out of bed around 10:30. The apartment is quiet, so his extended yawn as he slumps into the kitchen and the shuffle of his slippers on the floor seem so loud. 

Bleary, he grabs for a cup from the drain board, misses, tries again. He fills it with water from the tap and takes a sip. 

It takes his brain a moment to wake up. Isn't Kacchan usually up by now? Making breakfast, going on a run, taking an overlong scalding shower and singing songs that Izuku pretends he doesn't hear for the sake of Kacchan's pride?

He shuffles back down the hall towards Kacchan's room. As expected, the door is closed. Even though they've been roommates for a while now and Kacchan doesn’t seem to mind Izuku in his personal space anymore, Izuku still wants to respect his privacy. A closed door is a closed door.

He's worried, though. Maybe he'll just–

A gentle tap-tap on the door. “Kacchan?”

Silence. He bites his lip and debates with himself, because what if he's just worrying about nothing and Kacchan isn't even home? It's a rule that they make sure the other knows when they're leaving, though, so that can't be it, because even if it's an emergency, even if the city was falling down around them, Kacchan would always let Izuku know where he was going. Always. 

There's an annoyed grumbling from the other side of the door.

Relief sweeps through him before the worry comes surging back. Slowly, just in case Kacchan tells him to stop, Izuku opens the door and peeks his head inside.

It's dark–the curtains are pulled shut and all of the lights are off. The air feels stale. There's a half-empty bottle of water on the end stand next to a torn pill pack. A mess of tissues pile up in the waste bin. The duvet has been kicked to the end of the bed, leaving Kacchan covered up to his waist in a rumpled, sweat-damp sheet. He's lying on his stomach, turned away from the light coming into the room from the open door.

“Aww, Kacchan,” Izuku whispers, willing himself not to cry. 

He sits down carefully at the edge of the bed and wants to touch so badly that he aches, but then he remembers that he can–they've been dancing around something for so long that he's gotten used to the casual brushes of hands, the press of their legs as they sit together on the couch, the way Kacchan indulges the weight of Izuku's head on his shoulder when they're on the train together. Izuku hasn't allowed himself much time to think about what it means, to hope for anything more. He's not sure he'd survive the heartbreak.

Kacchan grunts, shifting his legs beneath the sheet.

Eyes tearing up anyway, because he does so hate to see Kacchan suffering in any kind of way, Izuku reaches out and touches the back of Kacchan's neck, rubs his thumb along the bumps of his spine. His skin is hot. “I'm sorry, Kacchan. Did I wake you up?”

“C'ld hear you thinkin’ f'rm th’ hall,” he mumbles into his pillow. He sounds so congested. 

“You're sick. Is this why you skipped movie night last night?”

“Ngh.”

“It's okay, Kacchan,” Izuku says, brushing his fingers along the buzzed, golden-pale hair at Kacchan's neck. “I'll take care of you.”

“Go ‘way. Don’ wanna get you sick too.”

“Don’t worry about me. I'm gonna go get some stuff from the store. I'll be back soon but call if you need me and I'll come right back, okay? Here's your phone. Do you need anything right now?”

Something about his tone, maybe, makes Kacchan roll over so that he can level the full force of his sick-weak glare up at Izuku. “‘M not a fuckin’ baby.”

You're my baby, Izuku thinks. A nervous giggle escapes him before he can stop it, and the faintest echo of his danger sense kicks in and sends him rushing from the room. 

A pillow thunks into the door and slams it closed.

Sighing, Izuku goes to his own room to change clothes, then to the bathroom to take inventory of what kind of medicine they have.

It's not much. Compared to their industrial-sized first aid kit, it's practically nothing.

Despite their constant contact with people–Kacchan being a pro hero and Izuku being a teacher–they don't get sick too often. In the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, there's a bottle of expired cough syrup with about a swallow left at the bottom, a few pill packs of migraine relief, and a single cooling patch.

Okay, Izuku thinks, wincing as he stands and his knee pops. Back in the kitchen, he approaches the fridge.

Kacchan claims he doesn't like clutter, but their refrigerator door is decorated with colorful magnets holding photo strips and magazine cut-outs of their friends and little slips of dad jokes that he gets from the konbini gachapon, the ones that Kacchan also claims are a waste of money, even though sometimes Izuku catches him with the tiniest smile when he happens to read a new one.

Nothing that gets Kacchan to smile would ever be a waste–not of money, or time, or effort.

They also keep a paper notepad there, where they can write reminders and things they need to buy. It's shaped like All Might in his Golden Age costume, and he's holding his arm out to the side so that you can write things on the long stretch of his yellow cape. It was a gift from Iida and he loves it.

Laundry detergent, gauze, chili powder, garlic, sesame oil, Kacchan's slanted handwriting lists. Izuku tears the page off, finds a pen, and adds, messy in his haste: tissues, flu medicine, cough drops, menthol cream, cooling patches, sports drinks, stuff for rice porridge!

And then he's off to the grocery store.

Izuku hates when Kacchan’s sick. There are many problems he can solve by punching them, but he can’t punch germs, and it makes him feel helpless. Now that the only thing he has left of One for All are the very last of the last embers, he's more than accustomed to the feeling. 

But he does what he can, one step, one day at a time, and if all he can do right now is get supplies at the store, well, that's what he's going to do.

He pushes the cart up and down the aisles, picking out everything he needs. Produce. Seasonings. A new type of pepper sauce that he thinks Kacchan might like; it just about burns his nose hairs off when he sniffs it. Chicken broth, sesame oil, an extra bag of rice, just in case.

He checks out, takes his bags, then walks a few stores down to the pharmacy and apologizes in advance to his bank account.

A few rolls of gauze, and then a few more, because he and Kacchan would both prefer to bleed out at home than be tended to at the hospital. A couple boxes of tissues, a bottle of flu medicine, cough drops, menthol cream. 

He's debating on one brand of cooling patches over the other when someone taps his arm. “Excuse me, young man.”

Izuku looks up. It's an old woman in a floral pink dress and glasses that make her eyes look enormous. Her leg is in a cast and she's leaning heavily on her cane. “Oh, hello,” Izuku says.

“Could you please help me reach that box up there?” She says, pointing at the very top of the shelf about two feet out of her reach. “I'm afraid my days of climbing shelves are over.”

Laughing, Izuku walks over. “Yes, of course. Which one did you need?”

“That blue one there.” 

There's about six different kinds of blue ones there. He tries to follow where her finger is pointing, but that doesn't help much, so he hovers his hand over each one until she coughs a raspy little laugh and whacks him in the shin with her cane. “That one!”

He takes the box for pain relief cream and hands it down to her. 

“Thank you, Hero Deku.”

Oh.

That… kind of presses on the sore spot on his heart that had already been bothering him that morning. “You're welcome, but I'm–I'm not a hero anymore.”

“Nonsense,” the old woman says, “I watch the news; I saw you save all of Japan. You’ll always be a hero. Why, you and your husband are the reason my grandson is still alive.”

The weight on his chest bursts into a thousand tiny butterflies. He feels his face flame. “M-my husband?”

“That handsome fella of yours, the blonde one with the temper,” the old lady says, taking Izuku's arm and leading him towards a bench that rests near the pharmacist's counter. It's a slow journey, made worse by the buzzing static in his head and the story the lady is telling of Kacchan saving her grandson when he'd been thrown from a bridge, and how Deku and Dynamight are his favorite Pro Heroes of all time.

His husband–his handsome fella–oh god, why does this keep happening–

The lady exhales in relief once she sits down. “These old bones,” she sighs, then she pats Izuku's hand. “Go on now, looks like you have someone to look after. Thank him for me, too.”

The apartment is still quiet when he gets back, and there is no answer when he calls out that he's home. He puts the groceries away and hooks the bag from the pharmacy around his elbow before peeking into Kacchan's room.

He's still sleeping, but on his back this time, now with the duvet pulled up to his stomach. When his door creaks open, he blinks awake. “‘Zuku?”

Husbandhusbandhusband, Izuku's stupid heart beats, pounds, thunders along with every step closer he takes to Kacchan. Gingerly he regains his seat on the side of the bed and drops the shopping bag to his feet.

“Yeah, just me, I'm home. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Kacchan admits, rubbing at his scarred chest before hacking a truly painful-sounding cough. He sits up slowly. “Help.”

Izuku takes everything out of the bag and places it on the end table. He opens the flu medicine and pours out the correct amount into the little cup before handing it over, then cracks open a new water bottle and watches until Kacchan takes several long sips. He must be feeling truly awful, Izuku thinks, if he's being so complacent and actually asking for Izuku's help.

Once he's had enough water, Kacchan puts one of the cough drops in his mouth and slumps over, curling up with his head on Izuku's lap. He hums when Izuku rearranges the duvet around him. “Thanks.”

Izuku looks down at Kacchan, the circles under his eyes in deep contrast to his pale skin. Even clammy and snotty and coughing his lungs up, Kacchan is still so handsome. My handsome fella, he thinks, bashful even in his own head, and runs his fingers through Kacchan’s messy golden hair. 

Kacchan’s whole body goes lax. “Mm. Missed you. When you left.”

When he left for the store for an hour? “What?”

“Not fuckin’ sayin’ it again,” he grumbles, pressing his face to Izuku’s leg. “Now pet my hair ‘nd leave me ‘lone.”

“I can’t do both, Kacchan,” Izuku giggles, but he does. He sits there and runs his fingertip gently around the red curve of Kacchan’s ear, pushes his fingers through Kacchan’s hair again and again, scratches his nails across his scalp. His other hand slips beneath the duvet and the sheet in search of bare skin, and rubs Kacchan’s back in soothing circles. 

He stays there until Kacchan falls asleep, and maybe a little longer. 

Rainy season has arrived, bringing with it endless cloudy days and Katsuki’s unflagging ire. He hates fighting in the cold because it’s hard to maintain his sweat and he hates fighting in the rain because it washes his sweat away. He has to wear his long-sleeve uniform when it rains, but the summer humidity is intense and he just feels wet all over. It’s fuckin’ miserable.

Todoroki walks beside him, eyes alert, face betraying no emotion. They’re on patrol in a popular commercial district. Even in the rain, there are people hurrying here and there, ducking into stores, visiting arcades and museums and cafes. Somewhere nearby, Izuku is meeting Ochako for lunch. Katsuki knows this because Izuku’s been buzzing about it for days and reminded him about his plans last night and again this morning. Apparently it’s been a month since Izuku and Ochako have seen one another in person, and they’ve finally been able to carve out a few hours in their busy schedules to hang out.

Katsuki’s phone chimes.

Nerd [12:25 PM]
[Photo attachment: a table full of food. Katsudon and oyakodon, a bowl of ramen, a beautifully arranged plate of sushi, a few types of onigiri.]
[Photo attachment: a selfie of Izuku and Ochako, heads tilted together. Ochako is smiling so hard her eyes are closed. Izuku is laughing, mouth open, face glowing under the soft lights of the restaurant. A rainy street appears through the window behind them.]
Ochako says she misses you!! I do too!! 
Want me to bring you something for lunch? ⸜( *ˊᵕˋ* )⸝

Me [12:26 PM]
I’m good. Thanks, though. I think Icy-Hot and I can take a break in an hour.
How’s Round Cheeks?

Nerd [12:26 PM]
Okay. Make sure you eat!! You’re even more cranky when you’re hungry o(>< )o
She’s good!!! She’s teaching a few classes on the side with Gunhead and she’s so happy

Me [12:27 PM]
Good for her. Tell her to kick everyone’s ass. No mercy.

Nerd [12:27 PM]
[Photo attachment: Ochako making a mean face, fists pulled up and squaring up to the camera. She would look intimidating if it weren’t for the amusement in her eyes.]  
She says maybe a little mercy (≧▽≦)

Me [12:28 PM]
Weak. No m 

A rumble beneath his feet. Katsuki looks up from his phone. “Earthquake?”

“Maybe.” Todoroki frowns. He looks to his right and stares toward the horizon. “Hm. No.”

Things grow still. A bus rumbles past, splashing water onto the sidewalk. Two little girls, holding onto their father’s hands, squeal and jump into a puddle. They quickly start screaming once another tremor shivers through the ground, violent and so close.

“Foreshocks?” Katsuki puts his phone in his pocket and looks to where Todoroki is staring. The guy’s got weird hunches, but sometimes he’s right on the money, and Katsuki doesn’t think this is a regular earthquake, either. He’s grown enough that he doesn’t hope for it to be a villain terrorizing the city, but if it gives him something fun to do…

He feels a thrill of satisfaction when something explodes up through a building a few blocks to their right. 

“Let’s go,” Todoroki says. 

Unnecessary. Katsuki’s already launched himself into the air.

It is bucketing rain. His hair is plastered to his forehead. Water drips into his eyes, his mouth. He soars towards the commotion: a rising plume of smoke, people screaming, a bone-rattling roar. Some kind of monster. An entire building has been destroyed from the inside out, glass and cement still falling to the ground, rebar and concrete pillars rising into the air like a cracked rib cage. In the center of the destruction is an enormous beast. It looks like a serpentine, burrowing mole, at least four stories tall, its exoskeleton glinting wet with the rain, its jaw unhinged and bellowing up to the sky.

An ice bridge pulls up beside Katsuki, keeps pace. Todoroki curses. “I called it in. We’ll be the first on-scene, assistance incoming. What the hell…?”

“Big fuckin’ worm,” Katsuki says, veering to the side and alighting on the roof of a nearby building for a better vantage point. The monster hasn’t moved away from the building; it writhes and roars but stays in place, almost like it’s stuck. They can work with that. Until reinforcements arrive, they’ll need to work on containment first, prevent any further damage; Katsuki can act as a decoy while Todoroki tries to freeze it in place. 

They communicate the plan in one wordless glance. Adrenaline sends Katsuki fearlessly off the roof. 

It is a long, drawn-out fight.

Together, just the two of them, Katsuki and Todoroki subdue the massive beast for mere minutes. When Kamui Woods and Sero swing onto the scene, followed shortly by Mt. Lady running up on foot, Kirishima on her shoulder, the monster emits an ear-piercing shriek. Tremors rumble through the area, and ten, fifteen, twenty smaller snake-moles erupt from the ground. 

Released from his decoy duties, Katsuki is free to take the offensive.

The fuckin’ snake-mole things are frustratingly nimble and tough–their exoskeletons are a bitch to get through, and every time he lands a solid hit, they burrow back under the wet ground. The streets and sidewalks surrounding the building are littered in rubble, with chunks of melting ice and shards of glass crunching beneath his boots, but luckily it’s been cleared of civilians. The police must’ve set up a perimeter and began evacuations.

He fights with exhilarating, narrow-minded focus: keep the monsters focused in this specific area. He gets hit, gets back up. Beneath his costume, he’s sure he’s bruised to hell and back, and he thinks he has a cracked rib from the mama monster whipping its body around and flinging him through a wall. He pisses a baby snake-mole off enough that it bites into his forearm–he screams, pained and angry, and sticks his free hand into its fuckin’ mouth, releases a burst, and explodes it from the inside.

By the time all of the monsters are killed, Katsuki is exhausted, wet to his skin, sweating, bleeding, and covered in dirt and guts. Mt. Lady, her costume ripped, her hair dyed red by the blood and rain, confirms all monsters down.

Katsuki exhales.

He just has to make it to the barricade. It’s on the other side of the building–he saw it from the air, however long ago it was that he still had enough sweat and energy for aerial maneuvers. Two hours, maybe? More?

Not important. Just make it to the barricade.

Swaying on his feet and summoning the last dregs of his strength, seriously scraping the bottom of the barrel, Katsuki starts walking. He hasn’t passed out after a battle in years now, and he isn’t going to fuckin’ do it now.

“Dynamight! Over here!”

Over there: a paramedic is running towards him, speaking into the radio clipped to his shoulder. A baseball cap keeps the rain out of his eyes, but his navy blue pants and shirt are drenched. “Dynamight, glad to see you’re alright. Your husband has been worried, looking for you.”

His husband.

Izuku is here.

That’s right, he’d been nearby, having lunch with Ochako. Of course he’d rush in at the first sign of danger. He was probably here as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Where is he?” Katsuki asks.

The paramedic reaches out to assist him, but Katsuki waves him off. His ribs burn like hell, and he doesn’t want to be touched. As they walk, slow but steady towards the medic tents and ambulances on the other side of the barricade, the paramedic tries to get an itemized list of his injuries. Instead of biting his head off, Katsuki tries to think of the most polite way to tell him to fuck off. It keeps his mind off the state of his body.

“Right over here,” the paramedic says.

A little camp has been set up on the street. Ambulances are parked in a row, doors thrown open. Volunteer doctors and nurses and emergency medical techs are stationed beneath the tents and even in a few nearby stores that have opened their doors to assist. Wounded civilians are sitting beneath tents and umbrellas, trying to keep out of the rain.

Izuku is standing at the edge of the tent closest to the barricade. Like everybody else, he is completely drenched; he’s wearing cargo shorts and a blue short-sleeve button-down that’s plastered to his skin. Both are covered in dirt and dust. Next to him is Todoroki. His shoulders are slumped and he’s more pale than usual, but he’s upright. He’s holding Izuku by the back of his shirt collar like he’s scruffing an agitated cat. 

They both see Katsuki at the same time, which is fortunate, because Izuku would’ve torn himself out of his own shirt if Todoroki hadn’t let him go. “Kacchan, oh my god.”

Izuku rushes him. He stops himself from throwing his arms around Katsuki at the very last second. His hands are bandaged and shaking and he hovers them around Katsuki’s arms and shoulders and chest, as if unsure what he’s allowed to touch or where he should even start. His breathing is coming in rapid, panicked gasps, loud even above the rush of the storm.

It’s raining, but the bloodshot red of his swollen eyes betray his tears. “Kacchan.”

“Hey, eyes on me. I’m right here,” he assures, taking one of Izuku’s hands and placing it against his chest, directly over his heart. It thunders beneath his palm–alive, alive, alive. “See? I’m fine, ‘Zuku.”

Izuku nods, lip wobbling. 

He slips his arms around Izuku’s waist and hauls him in close. Every cell in his body screams at him, but he ignores it; when he holds Izuku this way, when Izuku squeezes him tight, he can feel the heat of Izuku’s body and know for absolute certain that he’s here, that he’s alright, too. He presses his lips to the rain-damp warmth of Izuku’s hair. “We won.”

“Of course you did,” Izuku whispers. He tucks his face into Katsuki’s neck. “I wish I could’ve helped you. I’m sorry. I feel… I feel guilty and useless, having to stay behind.”

Katsuki holds him tight, tighter, ignoring the sting of his cracked rib. This is important. “You were here helping the civilians, right where you were needed the most. You’re never useless. You’ve never been useless. Are you hearing me?”

“Yeah.” The word is nothing but a sniffle. “Yeah, Kacchan. I hear you.”

It continues to rain. His paramedic escort eventually interrupts their hug with an awkward cough. Izuku pulls away, at once reluctant to part but more than aware that he’s been taking more and more of Katsuki’s weight as the minutes have passed. Katsuki wants to kiss the sheepish smile right off his face.

It’s not the first time he’s thought about kissing Izuku, but it’s the first that he’s finally determined to do something about it. Not today, but… soon.

“Please, follow me, Dynamight. We’ll get you patched up.” He pauses, sees the way Katsuki refuses to drop Izuku’s hand. “Your husband can come too, of course. Maybe he can convince you to tell us where exactly you are injured.”

Izuku’s lips draw tight. The iron grip he has on Kacchan’s hand is inescapable. “Kacchan.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding everywhere–”

“Worm guts.”

“You have holes in your arm–”

“Superficial.”

“Kacchan, please. I know we have bad memories with hospitals–” Understatement. “–but you can at least sit in the ambulance while they examine you, right?”

“That’s how they get you,” Katsuki grumbles. In front of them, leading the way, he hears the paramedic snort, and he hopes the guy feels Katsuki’s glare burning into his back. He’s not above revisiting his earlier consideration and just letting loose an old fashioned fuck off.

So he lets Izuku bully him into the back of an ambulance. He needs help getting out of the top of his costume, anyway, and while the medical team examines the, honestly, pretty cool spread of bruises decorating his torso, Izuku sits on the stretcher next to him and massages the overworked muscles in his hands.

His husband, huh? Hmm.

The foggy bathroom mirror shows the fuzzy, amorphous blobs of their reflections: Izuku, in boxers and one of Katsuki's oversized tees, and Katsuki, shirtless, a towel wrapped low around his hips, a fluffy pink headband pushing his hair back. The bruising around his torso is yellowing, and the bite scar on his forearm looks pink and healthy. Despite the new and vividly purple bruise coloring his temple, Katsuki is not gentle at all as he rubs moisturizer onto his face.

“You really should be careful,” Izuku says around his toothbrush, turning sideways and leaning a hip against the counter so that he can watch. “Just because you weren't concussed–”

“‘You really should be careful,’” Katsuki mocks. He rolls his eyes and swipes at the fog on the mirror, leaning in close to examine the bruise. “Don't tell me what to do.”

“‘Don't tell me what to do,’” Izuku mocks under his breath, just loud enough to be heard. He dodges Katsuki's blind kick to his ankle and laughs, spluttering toothpaste everywhere. “Kacchan!”

“Wipe that up, idiot.”

Izuku jokingly reaches for the towel around Katsuki's waist; Katsuki's gaze turns sharp, focused on the scarred hand just inches from making contact. The look on his face is at once intense and goading, and the smirk that grows on his lips makes Izuku shiver. It was a joke, he wants to scream, yanking his hand back and turning around, pulling a hand towel from the hook on the wall. Just the thought of–of pulling the towel free, revealing all of–seeing all of–

Heat fills his face, his ears, the back of his neck. Just a joke! Totally just a joke, oh my god.

“You good?” Katsuki laughs, as if he hasn't just turned Izuku's thoughts to static. “Sure you don't want to use this one?”

“I’m sure,” Izuku squeaks. He wipes up his toothpaste spray and decides he’s super done brushing his teeth, rinses his brush, and scurries out of the bathroom. The sound of Katsuki’s laughter follows him like an annoying ghost.

Back in the living room, Izuku wraps himself up in his plush All Might blanket and flops onto the couch. He may look like a sleepy, green-haired burrito, but he’s a comfortable burrito–this couch was truly one of the best decisions he and Kacchan have ever made. It’s like lounging on the softest of plushy, foamy clouds. He tips to the side and considers falling asleep for like, five minutes.

A new documentary on I-Island is pulled up on the television, just waiting for them to press play. Izuku crickets his feet, back and forth, back and forth, while he waits for Kacchan to get done.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Kacchan says, emerging from his bedroom in sweatpants and a tank top. He stands in front of the coffee table and glares. “Up.”

Izuku sits up. “You act like you don’t want to watch this. I heard you talking to Iida about it on the phone the other day.”

“I don’t talk to Glasses,” Kacchan grumbles. He sits down where Izuku’s head had been, puts a throw pillow on his lap, and then says, “Down.” Izuku lies down. Next, Kacchan finds fault with Izuku’s burrito form; he tugs at the blanket, trying to find the end of it, and almost flips Izuku off the couch when he finally yanks it free. “Fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Is there anything else you need?” Izuku teases.

“I’m trying to make you comfortable, asshole.”

And god, he is. A warm hand sneaks beneath the blanket and rests on Izuku’s chest. Kacchan doesn’t fuss when Izuku wriggles around, trying to find the perfect spot with his cheek on the pillow and the back of his head resting against Kacchan’s abs. Once he’s settled, Kacchan turns the documentary on and drops the remote on the cushion beside him. 

“You’re not gonna take notes?”

“I didn’t think of that,” Izuku whispers. There’s a notebook in the cubby beneath the coffee table–he could easily use that, or open the notes app on his phone. Both would require him to get up, though, and he’s already found the perfect spot without testing Kacchan’s patience. Sacrifices must be made, he supposes. “I’ll just rewatch it later if there’s anything I want to write down.”

“Mm.”

A minute goes by. The documentary shows beautiful, artistic aerial shots of I-Island: a shot of a clear blue sky moves down through the clouds, transitions into an arc around the perfect circle of the man-made island. Kacchan’s hand is still making soothing motions on Izuku’s chest; his other hand comes up and starts brushing through Izuku’s hair. He feels like a sleepy, sun-warmed cat, basking in all this attention, and hums in contentment.

“You have lunch plans tomorrow?” Kacchan whispers. 

Izuku shakes his head.

“Wanna meet me somewhere?”

Izuku nods.

The narrator takes them on a journey of I-Island’s history. It is an interesting beginning, but the narrator has such a calming voice, and Izuku is already half-way to dreamland. He feels his eyes start to droop. The fingers in his hair scratch gently against his scalp, and it lulls him right into sleep.

Kacchan 💥🧡 [9:20 AM]
[Shared a location]
Lunch.

Me [9:37 AM]
This is a municipal building? ( ╹ -╹)?

Kacchan 💥🧡 [9:37 AM]
We need to make a quick stop here first. Lunch after.
Bring your wallet.

Me [9:37 AM]
(￣^￣)ゞ

Their pre-lunch spot is an extremely bland government office building. Having not a single clue as to what he’s doing here or where he should go, Izuku texts Kacchan that he’s arrived and posts up on the wall a few feet from the door. It’s cloudy, but nice enough that he doesn’t mind standing outside. It gives him a chance to people-watch.

The door opens. Kacchan appears in his hero costume, shoulders and arms exposed, mask pulled down around his neck, gloves tucked into a pocket. He motions with his head to the lobby, and Izuku follows him inside.

“Are you okay, Kacchan?” Izuku asks once they’re settled in the elevator. Kacchan looks… normal. Outwardly stoic. There’s nothing obvious that proves that Kacchan’s nervous–maybe he pressed the elevator button differently, or clenched his jaw for a second too long–but Izuku just knows. “Did something happen at work? Is that why we’re here?”

“No.”

“No, you’re not okay?”

Kacchan sighs. “Yes, I’m okay. No, nothing happened at work.”

Izuku hums. No answer to why they’re here, but he’s not going to try and force Kacchan to talk if he doesn’t want to. Presumably he’ll find out in a few minutes. 

The elevator dings. He trails Kacchan through a waiting room and into the first open door on the left. Just like the outside of the building, this office is dull. There’s a long counter bisecting the room. Three desks are shoved into the small space on the other side of the counter, filing cabinets are lined up along the wall, and a few scraggly plants sit on the small windowsill.

A professionally-dressed young woman with a low ponytail and big glasses looks up when they walk in. “Oh, Dynamight, sir, you’re back! Wow, Hero Deku, hello! I’m Yamaki Suzu, it’s very nice to meet you.”

“Hi!” Her enthusiasm is infectious. He smiles and waves. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Are you here to be a witness?” she asks.

“No,” Kacchan answers for him, picking up a pen from the counter and starting to write on a piece of paper. 

The girl gasps. “You’re here to–you and–wow, I saw the rumors on HNN but I didn’t think–”

“Deku, come here,” Kacchan interrupts. “You got your ID?”

What is going on? “Uh, yeah, why?” Izuku takes out his wallet, and then slips his ID from the clear plastic section and hands it to Kacchan, who then puts it on the counter. 

Yamaki must realize something strange is going on; she takes Izuku’s ID and escapes to the copy machine. “I’ll just make a quick copy over here…”

Izuku stands next to Kacchan at the counter and looks down.

What?

Seriously, what?

Words start to form on his tongue but fall silently out of his mouth. Heat rushes to his ears. Pressure builds in his chest, behind his eyes, and he’s about three shaky breaths away from bursting into tears. Is Kacchan making fun of him? Has he heard people calling them husbands and decided to tease him about it? He thought they’d put this part of their relationship in the past–he thought they’d been moving towards something new, something soft and warm and wonderful–this isn’t funny–

“T-this is a marriage registration form,” he murmurs.

He can’t look away. From the corner of his eye, he sees Kacchan nod, sees his fingers tap-tap-tap an anxious beat against the countertop. “Everybody’s been calling us husbands, lately, so I thought I’d take the initiative.”

Izuku swallows against the knot in his throat. “Since when do you care what other people say?”

“Since they made me realize I want to be your husband.”

A hysterical giggle bursts free. He looks around for cameras. Is that it? Is this some variety show prank segment? He makes eye contact with the clerk, Yamaki, who’s been glancing avidly between them like a soap opera has been unfolding in her office. Is she in on this, too?

“This isn’t a fuckin’ joke,” Kacchan says, his voice a gravel-rasp as he leans in closer to Izuku. His hand comes up to rest on Izuku’s back, and the heat of his palm up and down Izuku’s spine, even through his shirt, helps ease his shoulders down from his ears. “Remember what I said in the hospital?”

“You say a lot in the hospital,” Izuku says, putting on his angry Kacchan voice, “‘Where do they find this food, the dumpster?’ and, ‘This nurse keeps missing my vein; I’ve been here so many times I should just stick the damn IV in myself.’ and, ‘Next time I end up here, I better be fuckin’ dead. Fuck, this place sucks.’”

Yamaki giggles. When Kacchan glares at her, she hurries behind her desk and occupies herself on her computer.

“You know what I’m talking about. I said, ‘for the rest of our lives,’ and I meant it.”

Well, here come the tears. “You said that about competing with me, not–not–”

“Because I’m an emotionally constipated asshole. Yeah, I meant competing, but I also meant, just… this,” Kacchan says, his hand still traveling across every inch of Izuku’s back. “Us getting lunch together, and arguing about All Might movies, and napping on the couch, and getting those stupid gachapon jokes from the konbini.”

Izuku gives him a watery chuckle. “You laugh at those.”

“They’re stupid as hell. But I laugh because you laugh, because you love them so much. You deserve the world, and I know I’m–I know I’ve been a shithead, and maybe I don’t deserve you, but I want to try. I want to keep trying for the rest of our lives.”

With a loud sob, Izuku wraps his arms around Kacchan’s waist and buries his face in his chest, right where that long, horrible scar cuts through his sternum. He cries, and thinks about everything they would’ve lost had he really lost Kacchan that day. He cries, and thinks about all the things he could have now, if he just does what he always does and believes Kacchan wholeheartedly.

I would be really lucky if he were my husband, he remembers saying so many months ago. At the time, despite the shifting relationship between them, it had felt like an incredible pipe dream.

And now he’s here, next to Kacchan, standing in front of a marriage registration form in a municipal building while on his lunch break.

“This isn’t very romantic,” Izuku mumbles into Kacchan’s chest. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“Oookay,” Kacchan says, exasperated. His arms have come up around Izuku’s shoulders; he can feel Kacchan’s hands shaking, just the tiniest little tremor. “Sorry for wanting to be married as soon as possible. We’ve only been together for twenty years.”

“Twenty–twenty years? ”

“Yeah? When were you going to start counting from?”

Izuku pulls back so that he can look up at this man’s face. Unbelievable. “I don’t know, Kacchan, probably from today? When we haven’t even–we haven’t even kissed! I didn’t even know you wanted me like–like this. We’re skipping so many steps right now.”

“And?” Kacchan shrugs. “When have we ever done anything by the book? Are you saying no?”

“I’m not even dressed nice.”

Kacchan leans back and reaches for Izuku’s face, squishes Izuku’s cheeks between his palms and gently shakes his head back and forth. “So what? All I need is this face.”

“Don’t we need witnesses?”

Kacchan’s hands slide down his jaw and rest on the side of his neck. His eyes are so red and so, so soft. He’s looking down at Izuku like he’s holding something precious. “I called Todoroki and Ochako. They’re waiting in a cafe across the street. If you want to do this, I’ll text them and they’ll come over.”

“I didn’t–don’t we need–I don’t even have any of my documents.”

Kacchan nods towards the counter, where a stack of documents sit neatly in a plain folder. “I grabbed everything from our filing cabinet this morning.”

The closer this is to becoming reality, the closer Izuku is to a heart attack. He takes his arms back from Kacchan’s waist and rubs at his face. Kacchan has thought ahead and prepared for everything. Every single doubt has an answer. “What about rings?”

Kacchan puts a hand in his pocket and pulls out, oh god, a velvet ring box. Izuku doesn’t want him to open it. Izuku wants him to open it desperately. 

“We can get new ones if you don’t like them,” Kacchan says, using a thumb to flip open the lid. Two matching wedding bands sit together, tucked between the black foam cushion. They’re a beautiful, shiny dark silver. “They’re tungsten. Should survive my hands.”

He reaches out to brush his finger across the smooth metal surface. His hand is shaking, too. He’s going to wear this ring for the rest of his life.“Our moms are going to kill us.”

Kacchan’s smirk is devilish. “We can bet on how long it takes them to notice.”

Okay. 

This is okay.

This is great.

Kacchan wants to marry him. This isn’t a prank, and Izuku isn’t being made fun of. In fact, Kacchan is promising to be with him forever. He’s promising him forever with official documents and rings. He’s filled out the paperwork and collected their documents and asked their friends to be witnesses and did everything in the most Kacchan way possible: without telling Izuku anything, and assuming he’d be right next to him the whole time.

“I love you, ‘Zuku,” Kacchan says, pressing a kiss to Izuku’s temple. “Be my husband. Let me be yours.”

This time, the laughter that escapes him is giddy, ebullient. It feels like his heart is going to Float right up out of his chest. “I–I love you, Kacchan. Okay, let’s do it. Let’s get married.”