Archive of Our Own

His breath hitches in the back of his throat, snatched out of him, sharp and abrupt, as the comb of the villain’s shotgun strikes him for the second time. He falls back, his ass thudding against the tiled floors, his nose bursting red with blood.

Izuku still isn’t sure what it is they’ve done to the inside of the store, whether it’s some kind of signal interruption device or a tech-related quirk—but as soon as he broke open the window and rolled his way in, there came a sound like a fuse blowing, and before he knew it, every function on his suit was down, entirely out, and in the split second he took to glance down at his hands there was thick wood in his face, and an ache. 

That is how he finds himself dazed and mildly concussed, sprawled across the floor, watching as an older woman hovers over him, her hands twitching. In her eyes, Izuku sees a kaleidoscope, a panoply of shapes and shades and movements, and convinces himself he’s dreaming. 

The woman tries to tell him something under her breath, but Izuku finds he can’t really hear much. Everything sounds like it’s tampered off at the edges, or like the source keeps walking in and out of a soundproof room. 

(Off are the TV screens overlooking them, and blown to pieces are the phones piled up by one of the perps’ feet, as they stuff electronic after electronic into their sack.

He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. His limbs feel like cotton, his head like it’s been stuffed with faulty batteries.)

Above him and the two hostages towers a man who sort of reminds Izuku of Nine, from all of those years back on Nabu Island—white hair, grayish eyes, weird sort of mask engulfing half his features—but this guys a little on the more buff side,  his demeanour a little less conceited, less jumpy.

“[...]’s wrong?” the man coos. “Can’t rea[...] friends anymore?” He laughs, leaning back as he does so. “[...]’re almost done, He[...]ku, it’ll be alright .” 

Gently Izuku shoves off the older woman, nodding at her as she looks back with her eyebrows upturned in concern. He crawls forward, rises only halfway, and gets the attention of who in his head he calls Nine-Adjacent.

“Why would you—” he strains, then coughs, spitting out blood that dripped into his mouth. “Why would you destroy these people’s phones if you’re trying to steal phones?” he asks. “Doesn’t make any sense—” 

And again, the comb strikes him, this time pushing him back into the arms of the older woman as she yelps. Something warm washes over Izuku then, needlelike and nauseating, 

After a beat, he turns to one of the men in the back, opens his mouth—

And gets a faceful of glass. 

Izuku finds he has less than five seconds to shield the hostages as several spikes of ice pierce through the other end of the store, breaking through the windows and some of the brick. All the sounds of the world crawl their way back through to then, little by little, and all the henchmen cower as a head of red and white barges in. The light finally reaches them, but it makes his head hurt so bad , he tries and fails to bring his arm to his eyes to block it out. 

Anything Shoto tries to tell him is easily drowned out by the sirens. Izuku watches his mouth move, wishing he knew how to read lips, just until his eyes begin to droop. 

“Migh’ve hit my head too hard,” he slurs when his friend cocks his head. He brings a hand to his ear and shakes it. “Can’ really hear you, Shuh —” 

The world goes black. 

☆☆☆

“Theeere he is.” 

Groggily Izuku opens one eye—it takes so much effort than he wishes it would. The first thing he takes note of is the beeping of the monitor right by his head, then the low mumbling of voices outside the door. He registers next that he’s laid down, though not entirely horizontal, on a hospital bed, clothed not in a hospital gown but in the tank top and shorts he leaves under his suit on patrol days. 

He winces. “Urgh .” 

“Welcome back, Midoriya!” a nurse tells him, his tone jovial and pitched-up. “How do you feel?” 

Izuku swallows down—it’s itchy, painful in the back of his throat, dry . He opens the other eye, and registers that his nurse has skin of a tea green, and hair of a similar shade to his. His eyes , though, are a little… weirdly shaped. 

“I…” He brings his hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Hurts.” 

He chuckles. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it.” He sets his tablet down on the counter and grabs a flashlight from his phone. “Keep your eyes open for me. You’re concussed, so this might make your head hurt a little more.” He shines the light in his eyes, moves it from left to right, furrows his brows, and turns the flashlight off, then picks his tablet back up. “My name is Kusaki, I’m gonna ask you a few questions, make sure your brain’s alright, and then Doctor Sawa’s gonna come in, talk to you for a bit and refer you to a healer for your injuries. Are you ready?” 

Slowly, Izuku nods. 

“Questions,” he mutters under his breath. “Yeah.” 

Kusaki hums, twirls a pen between his fingers. “Perfect. What is today’s date?” 

“Jul—July 11th.” 

“Day of the week?”

“Wednes— No, Friday. It’s a Friday.” 

“What is your full name?” 

“Uh, Midoriya Izuku?”

“How about your hero name?” 

“Deku?” 

“Can you tell me what happened to you?” 

“I, uh—” He rubs the bridge of his nose again. “I was hit in the head with the butt of a rifle… twice, I think.” He snaps his fingers. “No, it was a shotgun.”  

He hums again. “What happened before that?” 

“I got— I got called to a hostage situation downtown,” Izuku says. “Big guy who kind of looked like someone I faced as a teenager. He was stealing from a— an electronics store. I broke in, but my suit shut down, somehow, so he was able to get me. Hit— hit me, that is.” 

Kusaki makes another check on his tablet. “You’re doing great so far, Midoriya,” he tells him. “Just two more. Are you finding it hard to hear anything right now?”

“N–Not really? Just a little.”

“Alright, and how would you scale your pain? One to ten, lets say.” 

He tilts his head. “A six, maybe. But, ah, I’ve got a high pain tolerance because of how many times I injured myself, so I've been told that my scale is slightly different from most people's and should be treated as such. So really, I guess you should put that at about a nine.” He smiles, a little sheepish, but it falters when he gets a sting in his temples. “But, ah, you might already know this and have translated accordingly. In which case you can kind of ignore me.”

The nurse nods, makes a last check, then shoves the tablet under his armpit. He moves to fiddle with Izuku's IV drip. 

“Perfect,” he almost coos, giving the bag a light squeeze, then stepping back. “You did well. Doctor Sawa will be here soon.”

As Kusaki leaves, Izuku watches him go, his eyebrows a little furrowed. He thinks for a moment that what he saw in Kusaki’s eyes might have been the man’s quirk—something small, unique, individualistic—but the more he abided by that as explanation, the less it made sense. It couldn’t have been Kusaki’s quirk, because for one Kusaki had hair that wasn’t just a simple green.

No, his hair was made of microscopic strands of fern. Given his age, maybe two years younger than Izuku, it’s not so likely he’s got some sort of mutation. Therefore, his quirk must be directly related to plants. 

So why were his eyes so grossly warped, shaped like X’s? 

☆☆☆

Fifteen minutes pass before the door opens again. Stepping through is an older woman Izuku recognizes from multiple earlier visits across the last few years—as she walks in Izuku realizes that, on the good side, his eyesight isn't as blurry anymore. 

She smiles at Izuku, adjusting her coat and sliding the door back into place as quietly as possible. 

“Midoriya! How've you been?”

He smiles back. “Good! If not for—” He gestures vaguely at his own head. “Y’know. If I was really good I don't think I'd be here.” 

(As it comes out of his mouth he kind of cringes at that.) 

Doctor Sawa laughs. “No, no, of course not. Thankfully you won't be here too long.” She approaches, holding her hands out. “May I?”

When Izuku gives permission through a curt nod of the head, Sawa’s hand grabs at his chin, gently moves his head around, in a circle, examining him. She begins to mutter under her breath:

“Several lacerations on the face and body, epistaxis, concussion. Mild sensitivity to sound and light. No signs of infection yet, which I don't think you've had to deal with very often?” 

Izuku shakes his head.

“Huh. You know, this isn’t the worst I’ve seen on you,” Sawa tells him, with a little laugh. “Not by a long shot, at least. Still, we’ll hand you over to Suri. Once you’re home,” she adds, “It's nothing but rest for two days.” 

Relieved, Izuku takes a breath, but as he flits over the doctor’s expression, he feels his heart drop.

Because Doctor Sawa's eyes are weirdly shaped, too—and not in the way that Kusaki’s were. No, her eyes, each of them individually, form the shape of a heart. Symmetrical and perfectly cut, slightly unsettling. 

Izuku blinks. And blinks again, swallowing a little thick. Doctor Sawa turns around to pat her pockets. 

“Doctor Sawa,” he starts, a little low, “I think I’ve been hit by something.” 

She whips back around and raises an eyebrow. 

“Yes. I thought that was the whole reason you were here?” 

☆☆☆

In front of him stands six people. Two of them Izuku can name without having to squint at their nametags. 

The three others, he has not seen a day in his life, but each were introduced to him as they stepped into the room: one, stood straight with apprehensive body language, is a young intern from dermatology with a pair of antlers on her head; next to her, a cardiothoracic surgeon with rainbow scales painting his skin in patches and a quirk scientist with orange close-cropped hair and a pair of cat ears. Closer to his bed and closer to Sawa and Kusaki is a man around the latter’s age with mint green eyes, short platinum blonde hair with the tips a navy blue, and perpetually glowing hands; Sawa introduces him to Izuku as the aforementioned Suri.

Izuku stares into each of their eyes. Nothing’s changed in Sawa and Kusaki’s eyes—and in the former’s case hers maintain that slight contour and aura of what could be described as the middle point between a perfectly normal shade of pink and a hot pink. 

Sawa chews on her bottom lip. 

“Tell me what you see, Midoriya,” she orders. “Please, be as detailed as you can.” 

As soon as her sentence patters off, all of the people in the room lean forward expectantly, some of them widening their eyes just so Izuku can get a better look. Izuku rubs at his eyes. 

“You—” He drags his gaze over to the man with the orange hair. “Okuno, was it?” When he nods, Izuku continues. “Your eyes are, uhm, a little bit like Sawa’s, except they don’t have that little glow around them. But Shika—” He turns to the dermatologist. “Yours are normal.” 

Sawa’s features pinch, squeeze together, her mouth forming a pensive, albeit confused, frown. She turns to Okuno, who types into his tablet at full speed—a quirk scientist, no doubt he’s taking notes. 

“Normal,” he hears Okuno mutter under his breath. “And that means—nothing’s changed?” 

He nods, then faces Suri. “Same with you.” 

“How about Kusaki over here?” 

Izuku turns to him. “His—” He swallows thick. “His are kinda X-shaped.” 

“X-shaped?” Okuno asks. He turns to Kusaki. “Come outside with me, please.” 

Kusaki cocks an eyebrow, tilting his head. Suddenly, Izuku feels just a tad cornered , a little nervous. If there’s any sort of idea that’s doing its rounds of the room as to the function of whatever quirk he’s just been hit by, then Izuku’s just inadvertently singled him out. As, apparently, having a different opinion. Still, he complies, shooting Izuku a weird sort of look before he goes, head dipping under the header of the doorframe, his mouth forming a wobbly line, the littlest bit of his lips pressed between his teeth from the inside. 

It is relatively silent until Okuno and Kusaki return, the room only filled with a little low, muttered small talk between Shika and Suri for no more than three minutes before Kusaki reenters the room; Okuno follows suit by peeking his head. 

“I am verifying a theory,” he explains right as Kusaki repositions himself by Izuku’s bed. “Shika, please—your turn.” 

It takes a half hour before Okuno finishes with everyone in the room, choosing as his last candidate Sawa. By the time he reenters, trailing behind her with five sheets of paper clipped together, Izuku is fully sat up on his bed, already feeling much better than he had when he first awoke. 

“I have figured it out,” he declares when the sliding door is closed, then locked. “If you all would gather closer to the bed.” When the room complies, Okuno sets his tablet on the nightstand and pulls out the stack of papers. “It seems as though Midoriya can see what people think about him through their eyes.” He flips to the first page, where there is a drawing of an eye with the iris shaped into a heart. “This is what you must be seeing on mine and Sawa’s eyes. Am I correct?” When he nods Okuno turns the paper over, to a drawing of the same eye, but with the iris shaped into an X. “And this is what Kusaki’s eye looks like to you. The idea is that a heart shape displays a light sense of affection—a liking if you will—and that the ‘X’ corresponds with a dislike.” 

Confused, Izuku tilts his head. 

“What about Shika, then?” he asks. “And Suri?”

“I’m not so sure,” Okuno tells him, pensive, a little apprehensive. “We would need to find the quirk user to get the full details. Of course, this is only a theo—” 

“Does it only work on certain people?” Izuku cuts, bringing a finger to his lips. “Does it signify an indifference? What if it actually depends on my own hidden interpretation of a person? Maybe it’s based on reciprocity, as in we’d have to have the same feeling about one another?” 

Okuno frowns. “Like I said, Midoriya, what I have is a theory. We would need to contact the original user to construct anything definitive.”

He opens his mouth, breathes in, closes it again. 

“Okay.” 

“I must ask you: is there anyone you had direct contact with who you think might be the quirk user?” Sawa pipes up, a corner of her mouth upturned, “Anyone who touched you, who had something notable about their eyes?” 

Izuku thinks back, rewinds the tape, to anything he can remember—which isn’t very much. 

“I don’t know,” he tells them, his voice low. “I don’t think it was the man who hit me with his rifle.” 

“Perhaps one of the hostages?” 

That does it. Izuku closes his eyes and sees her staring down at him, with the eyes made of space and the world tucked deep in her gaze, her features forming what conveyed nothing but fear and concern. He doesn’t remember if she tried to speak to him or not—maybe her mouth moved, and maybe sounds came out of it, but Izuku doesn’t remember processing anything at all. He was knocked out not long after, so if he’d been hit by her quirk…

“I wouldn’t know for sure,” he tells Sawa, “But there was this one lady…”

☆☆☆

They discharge him later that day, after Suri closes his remaining wounds and Sawa promises to find the woman who (might have) hit him with her quirk. He itches to stop by Hatsume’s lab to check on the slight repairs his suit had to undergo, but knows the bright lights would probably make his head hurt—so instead he takes a taxi back home, realizes he’d left his phone in Denki’s locker rooms, takes another taxi to his old classmate’s agency, then manages to get a ride back from Denki himself. 

He collapses back onto his bed with quite a few things on his mind. 

First, half of the staff at the hospital had heart-shaped eyes; so did the taxi driver, and the woman at the front desk of the Chargebolt agency, and, unsurprisingly, Denki himself. He’d only come across a few civilians and nurses and doctors and surgeons with X’s, and for the most part he read absolutely nothing in most of those on the street—whether they recognized him or not. It was almost laughable, honestly, that seemingly that was all there was to it. So much so, so indifferent Izuku was to it, that he didn’t even think to let Denki know he was even hit by anything at all.

In his decently-sized apartment there’s no one to look at, so there’s no reason to worry when he falls asleep, dressed still in his suit: tie loose around his throat, two buttons of his chemise undone, fly of his slacks zipped halfway down, socks thrown to some corner of his room. Sweat makes all layers of his suit stick to his back and stay there, and he doesn’t bother to turn on the fan stood in the other corner of the room. 

In the morning, just barely past six, he wakes with a jolt to a call, and wipes his mouth of foam before reaching for his phone.

On the other end, Aizawa takes a breath before speaking into the mic. 

“I heard you got a concussion,” he deadpans. “I’m relaying this from Nezu—you’ve got the next two days off. Don’t come in.” 

Izuku splutters. “Wait,” he blurts before Aizawa hangs up. “First of all, that’s— that’s the weekend.”

There’s silence on the other end. 

“Am I supposed to suddenly believe you’ve never come in every weekend, Midoriya?” Aizawa asks, hints of amusement in the ends of his words. 

Izuku sputters. “I still have some papers left to grade! The deadline for the first term is coming up, Sensei! I need to—” He coughs, his throat dry. “I need to come in and pick them up!”
“I’ll bring them to you,” his teacher-turned-colleague simply says. “I’ll be there at five.” 

He ends the call. The second the phone drops onto the mattress, bouncing twice before landing right on the edge, Izuku feels his eyes droop again, and so he passes out. 

Later he’ll awake just past nine, still dizzy but lucid enough to get up from his bed as soon as his eyes snap open, and walk over to his kitchen. He makes himself a breakfast that’s simple enough, yawning the whole way through, seeing sunken eyes in the reflection given to him by the surface of his fridge and the mirror at the genkan that he walks by when a neighbor rings the bell to pick up a redirected package from a few days ago, and smiles when he opens the door in a ruffled t-shirt and a pair of plaid pants. His neighbor, a local accountant he thinks is named something like Ryouke, blinks at him with unchanged eyes, and takes the box with a polite bow of the head, then leaves. 

He spends his day lounging on his couch with the set of papers he did have with him, reading through them with a pen between his teeth and his TV on low volume before him; it plays music, soft rock that's been on his playlists for years, which serves as pretty effective background audio. 

At five on the dot, when he’s yet to have an actual lunch or dinner, there’s three knocks at his door, quick and contained. He walks over, takes a peek through the hole, and watches as Aizawa raises a single eyebrow.

"Midoriya," he says as the door opens, “You look terrible.” 

His eyes, still just as jet black and wholly capable of boring holes into his, have two curves at the top, joining into a V at the bottom—and surrounding each iris is the faintest line of pink. 

Okuno's words come back to him, echoing in his head as Aizawa reaches into the bag hanging on his shoulders and pulls out a thick manila folder:

The idea is that a heart shape displays a light sense of affection—a liking if you will.

(He tries to hold back a smile.)

“I don’t feel terrible, though,” he assures. “I’ll be completely fine by tomorrow!”

Izuku takes the file Aizawa carries with both hands and invites him inside to drink a little, using his hands to gesture all big and wide and expectant. 

“ It’s the weekend ,” he exclaims, “ So we can let loose! A few beers never hurt the end of the second term! ”

But his teacher shakes his head, reminds him first that Saturdays are his night patrol days; as he does so, he studies Izuku top to bottom. 

“Your nose is still swollen,” he comments. “Have you been healing well?”

Izuku nods. “I have, Sensei, I promise.” And again for emphasis, good measure. “Haven’t been exerting myself too much.” He adds: “I’ll be fine.” 

Aizawa cocks an eyebrow. 

“Usually,” he points out, “Concussed people aren’t supposed to drink. Not if they’re trying to be careful about themselves, that is.”

(Izuku figures that's fair enough. With his tail practically between his legs, he greets Aizawa goodbye, careful to shut the door quiet enough that it doesn't resonate.)

As he gets ready to go to bed Izuku wonders for a moment if the quirk works through video—video call, especially. He almost opens his phone to contact Kacchan, but when his finger hovers over the app, with its graphic of an old telephone, he hesitates. 

(Kacchan’s been gone, is the thing, out somewhere in the Canadian prairies for the past three weeks, having left just days after the mid-year announcement of hero rankings. They’d parted with the promise of calling at least twice. 

That conversation was a weird one, a long one, a fairly pointless one. It’d been the night before his flight, as they settled on opposite ends of Kacchan’s living room couch, with dirty dishes in the sink, two bottles of beer and a plate full of karaage on the table by their feet, and an animated hero romcom on the television with the volume set low.

“You’re gonna be gone for so long,” Izuku complained, like he hadn’t already done so tens of times before this: at the first announcement, at the second, last week, ereyesterday, three hours ago. “I dunno if you’ve ever been abroad that long.” 

Kacchan nudged him. “Sure I have, moron,” he pointed out. “We were in Otheon for two fuckin’ months because of you and— and… Euro Street Rat.” 

He blinked. “Oh.” Laughed, soft and quiet. “Right. That was our bad.” 

Kacchan cocked an eyebrow as he turned to face him. 

A minute passed. The clock on the wall that came with the apartment kept ticking, and ticking; the AC kept its usual drone, the sound stopping or jerking every so often, and the fridge 

“Kacchan.”

“Yeah?”

“Will you… uh, be using the usual number?”

He frowned. 

“Why? Do you wanna call me? You?” 

“Yeah. A few times, maybe.” 

Kacchan barked a laugh. 

“What, and keep on nagging me from across the world?”

He shrugged. “What’s the problem in wanting to talk to you?” 

“You’ll annoy me, that’s what,” he retorted, a corner of his mouth upturned, a tremble to his voice that Izuku wasn’t really reading. “Knowing you, you’ll call me at the ass crack of dawn to ask me if you should eat cereal or omelette for breakfast.” 

Izuku snorted, giggled quietly for a few, but then shook his head. 

“Mh. You’re my best friend,” he said. “Comes with duties. It’s entirely logical.”

Kacchan froze. Looked to one side. 

“I’m your best friend.” 

“Yeah!” 

“And no one else? Not Todoroki? Class Pres? Uraraka?”

He shrugged, and held out his phone. “I guess not. So gimme.” 

Kacchan seemed to think about it. And think about it. After a beat he grabbed the phone, pulled his own out of his pocket and tapped in the number he was told would be associated with his temporary SIM; passed it back. Right into Izuku’s hands, as he shot at him the widest grin he could muster. 

“Don’t take this if you’re not gonna call at least once, Izuku,” he muttered, as he settled back into the couch, dipping into the cushions, crossing one leg over the other. “Jeanist’s paying for it. He’s no scrooge, but I’m not down to disappoint him.”

Izuku smile faded to something more tender, more soft; wobbled and faint. 

“Don’t worry, Kacchan. I’ll just call you twice.” 

He wrinkled his nose. “Just twice?” 

“Just twice. ‘Cause once is too little.” 

“And three times?” he remarked, taking another sip out of his bottle. He swallowed. “What if you wanted a third time?” 

It was Izuku’s turn to wrinkle his nose. He glanced down at his screen, then, watching as a few notifications from his email popped up; he swiped them away.

“I dunno. Three times feels like too much.” 

Kacchan’s face fell slack. “For a month abroad? A fuckin’ month?” 

He nodded. There was a word. Four letters, capable of rolling off the tongue pretty easy, but neither wanted to utter it aloud lest it jinx… something or other.

I’ll miss you, they wanted to say, perhaps. I’ll feel your absence ripple across my days, and I’ll wish we were glued by the hips the way we promised when we were kids. 

The point is, three times felt like it called for a reprise, like it implored for a deeper look. Maybe if they talked they’d end up somewhere perilous. 

“I’ll call you twice, Kacchan,” he insisted again, pocketing his phone. 

Later Izuku would have to miss his departure—needing sleep before an early start—and it would be a full week until he used his first call.

He was bored , is what he’ll reiterate to explain it. It was just so quiet where he was—that is, sat at the head desk in the 2-A classroom during lunch break, listening as students ran to and fro, conversing in loud voices and giggling, gossip and small talk and deep insights into themselves flowing from their lips, only fractions of it passing by his door where it was audible. 

See, usually, Izuku had some sort of reminder of Kacchan to fill up his days: whether it be a bento left at his station in the teacher’s lounge or the prospect of a visit, a guest lecture or an offshoot of a chance they could spend a day together hiking later that week. This time, for the first time in a long time, there was nothing.  

It took three rings before Kacchan picked up on the other end; he coughed a little, cleared his throat, then spoke in a low murmur, like there was someone nearby he was trying not to alert.  

“Izuku…?” 

He abruptly sat up straight, glancing at the door. 

“Kacchan! Didn’t think you’d be awake,” he laughed, a little awkward. 

Kacchan cleared his throat again on the other end. 

“I wasn’t,” he groused. “It’s nearly eleven here.” 

“Ah. Fuck. Is it?”

“Yeah,” Kacchan exhaled out of his nose, and when he spoke again his voice left him soft; “Fourteen hour-difference.”  

There came the sound of bedsheets ruffling on the other end as Kacchan seemed to settle further into his bed. 

Izuku cursed again. 

“You should go back to sleep then, Kacchan. Sorry to have bothered yo—”

“Nah.” Again came the sound of sheets ruffling, squeaking as they rubbed against one another. “It’s… hard to fall asleep here, anyway.” And then a breath taken in deep. “Why’d you call, Izuku?” 

“No reason,” Izuku said, “I just—” he laughed again. “Felt like I should use this first time.” 

Silence. 

“You m— Yeah?”

“Yeah. Missed ya.” 

On the other end came a silence so vast and expansive Izuku thought the line had gone dead. 

“Kacchan? You still there?”

And then, a sharp inhale. 

“Yeah. Yeah, still here. You on break right now? How much longer?” 

The two are due for their second, but it’s much too early. Wherever his friend is, he's probably dead asleep by now, pressed into some dingy, stained mattress, waiting on a call, on a sign, on an opportunity.) 

So he gives up. Takes a shower, the water as cold as he can possibly make it, takes five minutes afterward to dry off, and collapses onto his bed just under one. 

☆☆☆

A second knock sounds just under noon, as he’s making his way through a stack of essays. 

This one, he expects. Right before bed he texted his mom letting him know what happened to him—a regular habit ever since he’d received the suit and gone back into hero work. 

(“So,” Inko immediately answered, then, “I’d hope you’re not making the trip to come see me, baby.”

And— fuck, he nearly forgot he’d scheduled that.) 

The first thing Inko did after that was tell him she was coming over the next day with some soup—and so that is immediately what he assumes is in the reusable cotton bag that hangs from her fingers, swaying and hitting Izuku’s back in rhythmic thuds as his mother gets onto her tippy toes to hug him. 

(It feels much too heavy, though, much too dense and full.)

When she pulls back to study him, Izuku mirrors her, and feels his breath hitch in the back of his throat. 

Despite everything he was told about the quirk he’d expected heart—looking past the simple definition Okuno gave him of liking , whatever that meant, he anticipated for his mother’s eyes to be like almost everyone else’s, maybe drawn to him entirely in pink instead of just at the edges. At the worst, he thought maybe there would be nothing of note, that he’d find perfectly imperfect circles and their regular dark, fierce, forest green. And, well, maybe there he’d read an analysis: that his mother loved him so much it didn’t have to be pointed out to him. That that sense of love was so overpowering, almost domineering in its nature. The way she’d been with him all his life it would make sense. 

But no, what he finds is something different; a third option, which he hadn’t even considered. 

Both of his mother’s irises are shaped like stars , ten intersecting lines in a yellowed amber gold. Like the kinds children draw in the margins of their notebooks when their fingers are stable enough and the kinds teachers stick next to their A’s and their A pluses. When she smiles at him, her eyes bending concave, creasing into crescent shapes, the stars glimmer and twinkle, catching the dulled light of the genkan. 

“How’ve you been, sweetheart?” Inko asks as her shoes come off. As she kicks the last one she reaches over and presses the back of her hand  to Izuku’s forehead. “You look a little red. Are you feverish?” 

Gently Izuku swats her hand away and smiles. “‘M not sick, mom. Just a little tired. Been home all day.” 

She kisses her teeth, frowns. 

“They’re not making you work, are they?” 

He shakes his head and laughs. “Aizawa-sensei called specifically to tell me I can’t come in over the weekend.” 

His mother purses her lips. “I see.” Grabbing him by the shoulders she directs him towards his living room. “Sit down,” she says, “On your couch there, close your eyes for a bit. I don’t care if you’ve only just woken up, Izuku, you need the most rest when you’ve just had a concussion.” As he complies he hears the rattle of pills, hears two muted thuds settling before him on the table. “I know you don’t have any at home, so I’ve brought you Vitamin D, and cut up some fruit for you.” Then, more footsteps, and the sound of his kitchen tap flowing. “You’re gonna sit here and you’re gonna eat them, okay?” 

He cracks an eye open when a third object is placed before him. Sure enough, next to the pill bottle there’s a ceramic container with orange slices, and next to that is a glass cup halfway filled. 

“Mom, I don’t need all of this,” he says. “I’m fine—” 

“Aht— Close your eyes, Izuku!” 

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry!” 

More footsteps this time: then, the sound of a plastic container popping open, the big button on the microwave, the drone of it being turned on.

“You need to get some of your lights switched for dimmers,” Inko mutters. “With how many times you hurt yourself at work. What if this happens again? It will happen gain” 

Izuku takes a breath. “Of course, ma. I’ll look into getting some in soon.” And then: “Are you going into my room?” 

“Just seeing if you have any dishes to wash, baby!” Inko calls.

Izuku groans. “Mom, I can— I can wash those myself! There’s no need!” 

“I’m coming to see you after so long,” Inko says, as her voice drifts back into the living room, “Let me take this opportunity to take care of you. It’s the least I can do!” 

“But—” 

(He wants to laugh and say he’s twenty-five, for God’s sake. He isn’t sick, definitely isn’t incapable of washing his own dishes or making food for himself—but Inko turns around to shoot him a look, filled with worry and concern and some third thing he can’t name, and again her star-shaped eyes twinkle at the edges, all prismatic in their reflection of the light.

So he caves.) 

Silence. 

“Fine.” 

“Take the pills,” Inko says as the microwave opens. “And come up here to eat this.” 

Izuku complies, reaches for the bottle, opens it, shakes one out, closes it, reaches for the water. He takes a gulp, drops the pill in his mouth, before swallowing it all down. 

Inko sets a bowl of okayu on the table as he sits. 

“I also brought some of your favorite,” she says, gesturing to the fridge. “You can eat that whenever you can, but I want you to finish them, okay?” 

He nods, taking a spoonful of soaked rice in his mouth. 

Later that evening, when he’s drained the bowl and watched the minimal rest of it go into the fridge next to the katsudon, and his mom bids him goodbye with one more hug, refusing all the offers to be first given a space in his bedroom, then to be walked to the train station (“It’s a four hour ride, mom. You’ll get home at midnight!” “It’s a twenty-minute walk, mom. I get tired everytime I make that trip, and I’m a licensed hero!” ), he sits back down with all the essays, lamplight trained on the center of the table. With the correction guide to his left and the assignment of the moment to his right, Izuku works with a bit more clearheadedness. 

He turned his phone off somewhere halfway through his grading, before his mom showed up, so anything from the last six hours he has no idea of. After reaching a personal goal of ten essays, he turns it back on, and finds two missed calls from the hospital, and one voicemail. 

He hears the voice of Doctor Sawa as soon as the robotic voice finishes telling him this is Message Number One : 

“Hi, Midoriya. This is Doctor Sawa calling to let you know that we’ve collaborated with local police as well as a few of your colleagues and have located the quirk user. I, uh—” A few papers rustle in her hands. “It’s nothing serious, so it isn’t. Could you call me back when you get the chance?”

☆☆☆

On Monday Izuku comes into work feeling much better, though he tries not to look people in the eye unless he absolutely has to—at UA’s fortified doors he smiles at students whether they’re his or not, and nods at Recovery Girl when he passes by her office. 

It’s not out of any particular fear of knowing, rather every time he comes across someone, he just simply itches to know: he notes that aside from Aizawa, Present Mic’s, Cementoss’, Snipe’s, and Ectoplasm’s eyes are all heart-shaped. Out of the four, two pairs are outlined in pink, faintly glowing. For the rest of the staff, things remain unchanged. 

When he stands in front of his class that morning to announce the last week of the term and hand out history exams, he notes that, aside from two or three outliers, nearly all of his class have heart-eyes. Suddenly every off-handed compliment he receives holds to it a certain weight, an expectation that it is either genuine or falsified.

When a colleague he hasn’t spoken to much compliments his All Might tie— which was brand new, thank you very much, a self-indulgent birthday gift —he feels this twang of anxiety so subtle before he whips around. But Sakuma’s eyes are heart-shaped, and he smiles at Izuku, holding a thumb in the air and winking. 

And the numbers only keep growing—over lunch he heads towards Nezu’s office for the reports on his earlier fight, finds nothing different. 

“Has your head been alright?” Nezu asks, pouring him a cup of tea. “I could have sworn it was smaller on Thursday.” 

Sheepish, Izuku laughs. 

“I’ve been… recovering,” he answers. “It isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me.”

Nezu hums. “That’s true,” he admits. “I would say you’ve come a long way since we first met, but… I don’t think that’s entirely accurate.”

The stack of neatly printed papers flops onto the table. Izuku follows it with his eyes, then looks back up as Nezu tilts his head. 

His eyes, too, are heart shaped— though not like any of the others Izuku’s seen so far, because his boss doesn’t exactly have irises to be shaped into anything. Instead, the two little circles themselves have formed into the shape, almost warping the fur around it.

Izuku laughs again. 

“No, no, I guess not.” 

Nezu climbs onto the couch on the opposite side. “And how’s the quirk holding up?” 

Izuku freezes. He doesn’t ask how it is Nezu knows—it's been ten years he’s learned not to question where his boss gets his information. No, he’s learned to simply roll with it. 

“Fine enough,” he only answers, “I have to, ah, call the hospital later to get information on the person who hit me with their quirk.” 

Nezu tilts his head. “That so?” He takes a sip, and Izuku mirrors him. “You’d better get to that, then.” He gestures to the papers on the table. “Get to these at the very least before the end of next week. No rush. I have a feeling like it wouldn’t be the easiest of tasks to complete with a concussion.” 

As the day patters off, and he watches the last students head towards the bus stations and the dorm quarters he closes the door to the 2-A classroom and dials the hospital. 

He waits through about fifteen minutes of hold music before he’s able to pass through a nurse to Doctor Sawa, who wastes no time getting into the details. Barely, if any, small talk: 

“Her name is Nijiiro Reika. According to record, her quirk grants her the ability to let herself and others see the world according to their deepest desires,” Sawa tells him. “It… goes a little deeper than that though.” 

Izuku frowns. “Deeper?”

“It’s a lot to explain. By any case, Nijiiro was very apologetic about the accident. She let us know that the quirk lasts a week and comes with no physical repercussions, meaning it should be gone by the coming Friday. I can give you her contact information if you so wish. Most of the details are to her own discretion.” 

Izuku sighs out in relief. “That’d be great, yes. So, there’s no secret to making it go away?” 

Sawa hums to disconfirm. “Thankfully not. Do you have a pen?”

☆☆☆

The phone rings a few times before it picks up, the three numbers at the top starting a slow count upwards.

“Izuku?” 

“Kacchan! You busy?”

Someone shouts in the background, words indiscernible, indecipherable.

“Nope. I'm eating a really shitty sandwich in the airport, though. Wanna see?” 

Izuku's brows shoot up his forehead. 

“It can't be that bad. Show me.” 

After a few seconds his screen lights up with a request for a video call; Izuku turns his lamp on, and lies back down as he accepts. 

Kacchan hovers the phone below him, showing only a sliver of the top of his head, before the camera flips, showing smoked meat encased in half-toasted white bread.

“Look at it,” he says, and through the radio waves his voice fries and glitches. “Doesn't even look real .” 

Izuku snorts. 

“It looks fine , Kacchan.”

“Looks like it could kill me. Look at the cheese in that. So fuckin’ yellow.”

He gapes. “That’s not mustard? Holy shit. Do you have anything else?” 

The camera flips, then turns off.

“I wish. All the stores here have the same shit.” And then, after a bit: “Shouldn't you be sleeping?” 

He shrugs. “It's only eleven. I'll get off when I feel like it.” 

On the other end, silence. Then, Kacchan snorts. 

“Never word anything like that ever again. Jeez.”

It takes a while for Izuku to register that—once he does, he feels his face heat up, sees the little frontal camera of his face go a deep red. 

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

But Kacchan only laughs. 

The conversation turns into what it always turns to: their days, the gossip, the kids (i.e Izuku’s students), the patrols, the latest. At some point the topic comes up of a group of business students at UA getting into trouble for instigating then filming a fight between a pair of hero students, which then steers them in the direction of their own experience with fights, and with turbulence. Ever-so present turbulence.  

At one in the morning Katsuki remembers, with a jolt, the time difference, makes a sound uncharacteristic of him, like a yelp, then curses and insists Izuku hang up so he can get some sleep in. After being chided enough that his eyes inadvertently begin to droop ( “What’ll happen if you start falling asleep in the middle of teaching your brats, huh?” “I drink enough tea for nothing like that to happen! I’ll be fine!” “That’s not good for you, Izuku! You know what is good? Sleep!” ), he gives in, acquiesces, moves to turn his lamplight off—

And accidentally hangs up on Kacchan just a second or two too early, after nothing but a promise to sleep; so ends their second call. 

☆☆☆

Katsuki shoves the phone back in his pocket. 

“Kill him if he stays up any longer than this,” he grumbles under his breath. “Can’t believe this.” 

Out of the corner of his eye one of his temporary colleagues slumps back into her seat at the boarding gate, sighing as they reach into their bag and pull out a Kindle. 

“Who were you calling?” Moire asks. “Girlfriend?”

“None of your business,” he bites back. 

Moire only side eyes him, until he opens his mouth again.

“A friend ,” he corrects. “A really fuckin’ stupid one.” 

Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead.

“Anything else?” 

Katsuki shoots her a look.

“I’m not spilling,” she says, waving her ticket in his face. “I won’t even know you after we board. Different flights.”

After a beat, Katsuki sighs. 

“Fine . He’s—”

The rest of his sentence is drowned out by his phone ringing again, cutting through the general silence of the gate. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and answers: 

“What is it?”

“That was an accident!” Izuku exclaims. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hang up!”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Katsuki deadpans. 

“I know! I just needed to say one thing?”

Silence. 

“Go ahead. And then I’m rejecting all your other calls.”

“Just wanted to say good night, ” Izuku mutters, laughing softly. “Hope you have a good flight, Kacchan.”

Katsuki swallows. It goes down thick and unrestrained. 

“Yeah. Good night.” 

☆☆☆

Tuesdays are partially off days, meant for paperwork in the morning and patrol in the afternoons; Izuku wakes up on the fifteenth with that being the only thing on his mind— productivity. There’s maybe three business days until grades are due, and four until that incident report is due, and he's disgustingly behind. 

Thus, he needs to work. 

So he makes his breakfast with that in mind; makes his way through a few more essays with it in mind; completes two thirds of his report with it in mind. 

At some point, though, maybe three in the afternoon judging by the sun, his phone rings; he picks it up and receives the call without even looking, shoving it between his shoulder and his cheek as he continues to grade. 

“Mmh— Hello?”

“Deku! You free to talk?”

Izuku checks the contact name, and his eyes widen. 

“Uraraka! I’m, uh—” he glances down at the pile of essays marked Done. “Sort of? I’m working my way through grading some stuff for my class,” he says. “What’s up? Need me for anything?” 

“Nope—nothing much, nothing wrong! Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday!” she exclaims. “I was gonna drop by and gift you something, but I got this last minute ask for a counseling situation down in the countryside,” she adds. “I’m packing right now, actually—train leaves in two hours. Took a break to call you.” 

Izuku’s mouth clamps shut.

After a silence no longer than ten seconds he speaks up again. 

“Thanks, Uraraka,” he mutters, sheepish, maybe a little red and heated in the face. “Hope you have a great trip.” 

The sound of a zipper screeching, muffled. Uraraka sighs. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot it was your birthday, Deku.” 

“I didn’t!” he insists, marking a check on one essay, then setting it aside for another. “It just—ah, I was focused on work.” 

His friend tuts on the other end. 

“That’s all you’ve been lately, huh? Wish I could come over there ‘n kick some sense into you. Gotta treat yourself sometimes, y'know?” 

“I know,” he says. “I have been, I swear.” 

“You aren’t doing anything? Anything at all?”

“I mean, I got myself something a few weeks ago,” he mutters. “This really cool tie—”

“Let me guess: it was All Might themed?” 

“It— It was,” he admits. “But it looked really nice, right, and I'd never needed anything like it before I started at UA. Might as well.”

Uraraka laughs. 

”Should’ve figured.” She sighed again. “So when are you leaving?”

Izuku freezes, then frowns as his eyebrows pinch. In his hand, his pen freezes. 

“Leaving? For what?” 

She makes a little sound of confusion, before something thuds onto some flat surface before her. 

“Isn’t Bakugo coming back today? Thought you were picking him up from the airport!”

It flashes on his screen as soon as he frantically clicks the side button to light his screen up:

Pick Kacchan up! 

And in the note that accompanies it: 

Flight lands at 4pm! DO NOT BE LATE!

“Oh, fuck,” Izuku mutters, loud enough that the mic picks it up. “I’m so screwed.” 

☆☆☆

It's thirty to five.

He arrives at the airport hungry, with almost nothing in tow—that is, whatever’s in his pockets, and the clothes on his back. Pulling at his t-shirt as he fans himself, his movements quick and snappy, Izuku squeezes himself between two groups of people with only about a dozen centimeters between them, inching closer to the sliding door of Arrivals.

Seating himself on cold and slippery leather, he waits. 

And waits. Checks his phone, waits. 

It takes a while before Kacchan emerges after a crowd of few more, dragging behind him a carry-on and hunching under the weight of a thick backpack, hauling it further up his shoulders as he side steps to make way for a family of four.

Izuku waves him over as soon as his best friend walks into the room, gripping his phone tight in one hand. The first thing he does when he’s within reach is tug Kacchan into a brief hug, burying his nose in the crook of Kacchan’s neck, squeezing his friend until he’s hearing muffled protests. Still,as they pull back, it's hard to ignore the minute, ever-so-subtle upturn of his lips. 

“Happy birthday. You look like shit,” he says as they step in sync. “Like someone shat in your yogurt.” 

Izuku huffs. “Not as much as you,” he retorts without missing a beat, and fans at himself with his shirt again. “I rushed here.” 

He grimaces. “That why you have nothing? Jeez.” 

“I was busy grading,” Izuku explains, whining. “I didn't have time to bring a little bag or anything, not like how you do it.” 

“So you forgot about me,” he huffs. “

Kacchan nudges him. “That's why you make everything in advance , dumbass. You've got shit time management.” 

He sighs. “Would you teach me?” 

Kacchan’s cheeks are rosy, probably from the heat. Sure enough, he’s got on this thick sort of dead green hoodie with orange aglets and orange stitching on the hem, and his hands are stuffed in the pockets. When asked Kacchan explains that the plane itself was cold . So fucking cold.

(“Wasn’t so hot in Canada, either,” he grumbles right as they pass by the duty-free store, rolling up his sleeves. “Never any warmer than twenty in the midwest.”)

And, he’s his regular self; but in his eyes is something… different.

Not like Izuku wasn’t expecting something different; it’s just that this time, it’s a fourth thing. 

Carmine red, blood-tinted, seeped and steeped with warmth, Kacchan’s irises are made of quick curves and sharp pointed tips, broken fragmented lines. When his eyebrows pinch together the way they always do, and he blinks at Izuku with his head tilted to one side, the edges shine with iridescence, all the possible hues. When he stares a little more Izuku realizes they’re sort of shaped like little explosions . As if Kacchan had taken two little sparks in his fingers and looked into the mirror, stuck them right there in his eyes so he’d always know what defined him—childlike awe of that which stands out, the loudness and arrogance of the kind of force that leaves in its wake only embers. 

Obviously Kacchan’s eyes are nothing like the majority of the people he’s seen so far, and definitely nothing like Inko's; with the sky written into each straight cut of each iris, outlined in amber gold. Nonetheless, they seem to encompass the same idea—something that is unconditional, defined by devotion, sacrosanct nonlinear love whose foundation shakes but nothing slides off. 

Yes, they seem to encompass the same idea: that Izuku is he who is cherished and prioritized, wished for when the candles go out. That after the last star in the sky blinks out, supernova, there’ll always be whatever’s in their gaze, their perspective. That—

“— zuku!” 

He jolts to attention, shoulders tensing as his head shakes. 

“Sorry, Kacchan,” he mumbles. “What were you saying?” 

Kacchan reiterates, one brow upturned: “We need to get moving.” He gestures behind Izuku, who spins. “We’re blocking the way.” 

Indeed, they were: Izuku meets eyes with a crowd of civilians, half of which glare at him, irises round circles, unchanged. 

“Shit!” He slides to one side, grabbing Kacchan’s wrist as he does so, pulling him to where there’s less adrenaline, less life. “Sorry, ‘Was distracted.”

“Clearly,” Kacchan huffs. “You looked like you saw a ghost.” 

I saw you, Izuku thinks—but he keeps his mouth shut. Doesn’t bother correcting. 

As they head out of the airport and into the first taxi that eagerly drives up to them, it’s near-silent. Their respective apartments are close by, but not enough for just a short walk; so when they’re making their way to the car Izuku offers to set a stop in the middle so that neither of them have to scramble for a second ride. But Kacchan is vehement to decline, claiming amongst a few things that Izuku shouldn’t spend his birthday alone, that he deserves at the very least a good home cooked dinner, something nice to occupy himself with for the rest of the night. He doesn’t say it as much as grumbles it angrily under his breath . 

“How was the trip?” Izuku asks once they’ve settled in the back. 

(It’s five times now that he’s tried to sneak a peek at Kacchan’s phone screen, the way he’s been angrily texting someone the entire walk to the airport exit whenever there’s a nook to stop and breathe in. Everytime Kacchan would turn away as subtly as he could, or just stuff his phone in the pocket of the hoodie he swore up and down wasn’t making him hot.)

“Wasn’t a trip,” Kacchan grumbles again, setting his phone this time face down in the space between their thighs. “I didn’t get to do any sightseeing or anything. Nothing but flat lands for kilometers.”

He frowns. “Huh. That's too bad.” 

“It was… Was nice, though,” Kacchan then admits. “Wouldn’t go back if they paid me to.” 

It’ll be a good thirty minutes before they’re pulling up in the parking lot to Izuku’s seven-story apartment building—half-empty, most of the residents being public transport users just like Izuku himself. 

Izuku babbles as they watch the car drive off, bowing to the driver through the window. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to get some rest at home, Kacchan?” he asks apprehensively. “You know, we can quite easily celebrate with Shoto and Tenya tomorrow like we always do. Like we did on yours in the spring.” 

Ardently Kacchan shakes his head. “No way. No way in hell. We’re going in there,” he insists, “And I’m making us something to eat.” 

So they make their way inside, through the intercom passcodes, up the stairs—not the elevators, because it was better for the upkeep of their respective healths—to the fifth floor, where they stood at Izuku’s front door for just a little too long as he tried and failed and tried and failed to get his key through the lock. 

Inside they find the house dark. Quiet; like no one had ever lived there before. Izuku wears his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Shit,” he curses. “Shit, Kacchan, I swear I didn’t leave it like this when I—” 

The lights flicker on, and Izuku freezes in place, his feet gluing themselves to the floor. 

“Happy birthday !” 

☆☆☆

It’s loud. There are maybe twelve people in his apartment apart from himself, all strewn across every corner of the space. As he looks for one in particular, Izuku does a headcount. 

Kaminari and Mina in the kitchen lean against the island with beers in their hands as they marvel half-drunkenly at the lack of decoration on Izuku’s fridge. On the other end, Kirishima giggles to ad-lib, one hand holding his phone and the other guarding each of his friends’ beers. 

Jirou, Sero, and Tsuyu circle around the coffee table on their knees with their hands pressed into the glass, discussing some sort of journal article that dropped just the other day—or maybe it’s that guy on HeroTube who somehow always gets the best footage of this one American Pro Hero who hasn’t quite revealed his identity just yet. He’s not so sure. 

(As he leans against the doorframe of his bedroom his eyebrows pinch; every so often he hears a few things floating in overtop and through the music.

“...keeps getting everything right,” Sero emphasises, gesturing wildly with his hands. “That can’t be a coincidence !”

Tsuyu shrugs. “They could have informants.” She uses her tongue to pick up a chip from the bowl. “You never know.”) 

On the other end of the living room, sinking into the couches, he watches Tenya and Shoto lean against one another, the former gesturing almost as frantically as Sero as he explains his way through some movie he watched the other day; watches as Yaoyorozu sneaks pictures of Jirou growing more and more passionate about her point, her mouth spreading wide into a smile. 

There’s just one person missing, though; one person who, since the initial chaos from the beginning the surprise party two hours ago, had retreated to what felt like the middle of nowhere , seen only in flashes of ash blond and heard only in the occasional emphatic retort. One person who wasn’t pulling at his shirt from any one direction, pulling him into dap-ups and high-fives and hugs and wishing him a happy birthday. One person who stayed in the background of it all, in the ad-libs. 

Izuku takes a sip of his highball, grimacing as he swallows, humming as he does another quick headcount. 

(Kaminari, Mina, Kirishima, Jiro, Sero, Tsuyu, Tenya, Shoto, Yaoyorozu. 

Kaminari, Mina, Kirishima, Jiro, Sero, Tsuyu, Tenya, Shoto, Yaoyorozu. 

All of them hearts, though he wouldn't have expected anything different.

He can’t really find Monoma, nor can he find Shinsou—both of them hearts, both of them invited directly by Kacchan, as far as Izuku can tell—but he figures they’re both out by the balcony smoking; but he would never be there , would he?)

There’s too much whiskey in this drink, Izuku thinks, taking another sip; I need to —

“You okay?” 

“Wah—! ” 

Izuku startles, whipping around to where Kacchan rests a shoulder on the wall, swirling a shirley temple in a wine glass. As soon as he meets his eyes he’s quick to avert his gaze, opting instead to stare at Kacchan’s left shoulder. 

“Jeez. Are you already drunk?” 

“Kacchan. Hey.”

He holds his drink up and cocks an eyebrow. “Cheers?”

Clink! Their glasses knock together. 

Izuku takes a sip, letting the amalgamation of whiskey and tonic sit in his mouth just  for a bit. “Where were you?” he asks. “I was looking for you everywhere.” 

“Yeah, clearly not well enough,” Kacchan huffs. “Was in the bathroom.” 

“Oh.” He looks down at the glass, and makes a noise. After a bit of silence, he takes a sip, laughing sort of gauche. “Well, ‘least I wouldn’t have busted the door down if I knew. Costs too much to repair. You’re not drinking tonight?”

Kacchan shakes his head. 

“I’m giving it a bit. I'll— Fuck, I'll grab a beer when no one’s screaming.” 

He laughs. “Try the fruit one when you get to that,” he tells him. “They’re great.” 

Kacchan hums to affirm he’s heard him. And then, quieter, just enough that Izuku can hear him just in his own ears: 

“Are you good, Izuku? Seriously.” He gestures to their friends with his chin. “‘S it too loud? I can get them to leave if you want.”

It's Izuku's turn to shake his head. 

“It's fine,” he says. “Wouldn’t work anyway. I’m just… I guess I’m still in awe.” He turns to Kacchan, raising an eyebrow. “Did you know, when we were in the taxi?”

He shoots him an unimpressed look. 

“No,” Kacchan deadpans, sarcastic. “I gave you the wrong time for my flight landing because I wanted to annoy you and delay your work.” When Izuku laughs into his fist he holds back a smile, and nudges him. “Of course I knew, dumbass. I planned a good half of this.” 

Incredulous Izuku studies the room once more. 

“Really? Who did the rest?” 

He shrugs. “Everyone else. In little parts. Class Pres—” He jerks his chin to Tenya. “Came up with the schedule and coordinated everyone else for decorating the place.”

Izuku studies the room. There’s the occasional balloon starting a streak across the floor, but for the most part they hang on the ceiling above the living space, arranged with a purpose. There’s also flowers and a nice, woven, embroidered tablecloth on the dinner table, bowls of snacks on the coffee table, and drinks in a cooler by the kitchen island. 

“You all did this for me?”

He shrugs. “We did.” He spares a sideways glance, and Izuku’s quick to deflect it. “We also cleared your schedule—that’s why you didn't have patrol.” 

Izuku smiles. 

“It's all— agh, I don't have the words.”

☆☆☆

By midnight the last of their guests patter off, ducking through the doorframe one by one with stomachs full of snacks and plastic containers full of cake. By now Izuku's well past the point of calling himself tipsy—instead his head spins and his limbs grow heavy, and his breathing adopts a pattern he notices. 

For what is probably the third time that night Izuku downs a cup of water, and with Kacchan they get to cleaning the place up. 

He says it as he leans over the confetti strewn across the floor, wiping a paper towel so he catches them easy, huffing under his breath angrily about all their friends making a mess in Izuku’s apartment. Stops, slides his tongue over his teeth, kisses them quick, and opens his mouth: 

“So what was the quirk?” 

Bang! 

In his surge of fear Izuku hits his head on the underside of the coffee table, and yelps. He slips out, rubbing the back of his head, whips around, stares across the top edge of the couch, freezing in place. 

His mouth falls agape, clams back up, and opens once more. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kacchan deadpans, one eyebrow cocked. “Todoroki told me when you were out on the balcony. Fuck, mentioned it, more like. Grazed over the topic like it was nitroglycerin. I'm surprised you weren't the one to spill.”

A flick down, and Izuku watches as his mouth curves downward into the littlest of frowns—something more like a pout. 

He runs into a wall: how to explain this without devolving into some long and winded discussion about their feelings, which is what Izuku definitely does not want to put himself through right here, right now of all times and places and contexts? How to mask it as something that Kacchan is most likely to drop?

Nervously Izuku laughs. “It—” He blows out his mouth, a sound like a deflating balloon coming forth. “It's—”

“Shit, were you hit by something or not, Izuku?” 

“It was a lust quirk,” Izuku blurts, and as soon as it leaves his mouth he wants to jump out of his balcony and turn into a pile of flesh on the ground 5 stories below. “I’ve been all, like, bleergh, in agonizing pain and you can only get rid of the quirk if you—” He grimaces. “Y’know.”

A silence drapes over his living room. Kacchan blinks at him a few slow times. 

“A lust quirk. Like, sex. ”

He purses his lips. 

“Yeah.” 

“And—” He gets up, paper towel bunched up in his hand, and steps on the lever of his garbage can. “And you were in pain all week?” 

“It's not a big deal, Kacchan,” he tries to explain—his voice kind of trembles with the fib of it. “Agonizing pain was a— like, a hyperbole. I’m fine.”

“Not a big deal,” Kacchan echoes, turning around, grabbing a lint roller from the kitchen island and brandishing it. “Not a big deal ? Pain is still pain, Izuku. Doesn’t matter if you can take it.”

He sighs. “‘Guess so.”

Another silence, though this time it spreads outward. 

“So, who’d you have sex with to get rid of it? Someone from those help websites?”

Izuku makes a weird sound, hesitation. 

“Well —”

“Don’t tell me you fucked someone in the class. I’d never talk to you again.”

“No, you would. Don’t kid yourself. Either way, none of them are my type, Kacchan.” 

Kacchan shoots him a look. 

“And you have a type.”

“I do !”

Kacchan’s gaze flicks over his face, and slow, in increments, realization dawning over each and every one of his features. 

“It’s no one, isn’t it?” 

And again. This time it lasts up until Izuku finishes replacing all the books he keeps on the coffee table for decor, and the vase with the flower on the windowsill that somehow never wilts.

“Not yet.” Izuku sighs again. “I’m busy, Kacchan. With— With work, and my patrol days, and for the first few days I was concussed, so I didn’t really notice any— y’know, other kinds of pain—” 

“Concussed? How hard did the quirk user hit you, Izuku, fuck—”

“It wasn’t the quirk user who hit me, Kacchan,” he whines, “It was a villain. The quirk user was one of the hostages, and—”

“You still got hit,” Kacchan replies. “Enough that you were concussed, for fuck’s sake.”

He starts to fold the throw blankets left askew on the couch, pressing them to his thighs, then bending them in halves, in halves, in halves. He does it aggressive. 

It’s quiet for a while. 

Suddenly Kacchan snorts, then laughs. Soft, a little restrained, half-open fist pressed to his mouth.

“Kacchan—?” 

“God. Can’t believe you’ve been so loser you can’t ask anyone to help you out with this,” he says. “Virgin.” 

Silence.

Playfully Izuku rolls his eyes, and laughs back. Starts to walk towards the kitchen so he can wring water out of the kitchen rags. 

“Kacchan. Fuck you,” he chides. “Like we aren’t in the same boat.” 

And again, silence; a pause almost pregnant.

“Fuck me ? See, I’d rather be taken out to dinner first.” He throws a blanket over his shoulder. “Or take someone out myself. Whatever. Think a date before sex is too classy for you, though.” 

Izuku starts to sputter. 

“That’s not true. I can take someone on a date first just fine. I bet I could take Kacchan on a great date.”

“You think so?” 

“It’d be the best,” he replies, without thinking. “You’d never wanna go on dates with anyone else.” 

“Try me,” Katsuki taunts. 

A third time: the voices outside the door grow more faint. 

“Fine,” Izuku blurts, “Tomorrow. At seven.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll— I’ll find a place and send you the addr—” 

Oh . 

Fuck . 

(Izuku wishes he could turn back time, that that was the quirk All Might had gifted him and not that which broke his body over and over again, made him question reality as he knew it, the perspectives on space and time and love and hate and evil and good. He thinks, perhaps that was the stupidest thing to have ever left his mouth. He could have mourned backtracks and reiteration, or erasures of words. No, instead he mourns lifting a fridge.

Of all things.)

Izuku's mouth clamps shut. He swallows dry, and it feels like a pin’s just dropped in the room. Hell, it feels like he’s just swallowed that pin, felt it prickle his throat as it went down, then again as it went up. Suddenly the drinks he let himself have earlier feel all that much stronger; and the room is tilted on an axis, and the noises of life outside the balcony door coming from stories below feel like they’ve gone mute, mouths shut. 

Kacchan makes a strange sound like he’s choking. Carefully, steps away from the couch to instead stand still and straight right before it. 

“You’re serious?” And then: “You’re serious.”

“I'm—”

“You're actually asking me out. You are.”

“I just—” Izuku pulls a chair out from the island and sits on it. “I just, um— Be there, Kacchan,” he only says. “When I have a spot, that is.”
Katsuki gapes at him. 

“And you’re— fuck, Izuku, you’re gonna leave it at that?”

“I— I guess I will,” he says almost absentmindedly. “And, if— if you’d like, Kacchan, I can take you to the fusion restaurant not far from your agency, so, y'know, you can get there easier, and— mmph— !?” 

In his inane rambles he hadn’t noticed Kacchan making a beeline for him, hips rounding sharp at the corner of the coffee table; he reached for his face when he was close enough, slamming his mouth right onto Izuku's.

And it's all bite and bruise and mess of spit, a car crash with tires screeching on asphalt before the crunch of steel; it's the moment before everything yells freeze ! and muscles go stiff and eyes go wide. Little wounds are sliced into the insides of their mouths; enamel scrapes against enamel; and it hurts, but something in the crooks of Izuku's insides melt and go numb with pleasure. His hands go aimless as they splay out, as Kacchan tries to move his lips and suck, finger pads digging grooves into his cheeks and his shaved-down sideburns and the backs of his ears. 

There comes a sound like something being stomped on, a wheeze. Winded, Izuku opens his mouth as they pull apart: and he breathes, pants, feels heat coming off of Kacchan in waves. As he shifts, trying to look anywhere other than his own crotch, their foreheads bump. 

And harder he begins to pant. Breathe in, breathe out. 

Don’t look down. Look up. 

He can go on. Kacchan’s eyes look like they’ve got the essence of his life in them, his devotion. Fragmented and almost incomplete, unlike anyone else's he’s looked at so far, like there are pieces of Kacchan in other places, other eyes, other states to be found in. There’s love in them, the sharp lines and the way they could cut. This he knows, but to soak in it for once … 

“Ka—”

“Fuck, Izuku, ‘m sorry.” Kacchan babbles suddenly, his words sharp, stepping back. He drags a hand down his face, stopping at the bridge of his nose. “Shouldn’t have— I’ll go ho—” 

Too soon: Izuku lunges forward, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, then the back of his neck, and drinks up the noise that subsides as Kacchan stumbles into him, and they’re kissing again, loud and open-mouthed, sloppy and slick, little low whimpers interspersed through their gasps for air. It’s nowhere near perfect, teeth still grazing against flesh and bumping all the wrong places. 

Kacchan climbs onto his lap with a grunt, aided by hands sliding down to circle around his waist; it’s so small, or perhaps Izuku’s hands are just that big, that his fingertips brush up against one another. He straddles him, legs spreading wider as Izuku works his way down Kacchan’s jawline unto his neck, nipping arbitrarily. As he jolts Kacchan tries to pull away again, the way his shoulders wind and his legs pull back, and—

“Don’— Don’t leave. Stay,” he pleads, gripping tighter onto Kacchan’s waist. “Fuck, I’m—” 

“Izuku— ” 

He tugs Kacchan even closer, just until he feels friction, their hard-ons rubbing together through their cargoes. He rolls his hips; and through the skin on his lips he feels the muscles on Kacchan’s neck tense up as his breath hitches. 

And then he freezes. Takes in a shaky breath. 

“Kacch—?” 

“I can’t,” he manages. “I have to leave, Izuku. I need to… Fuck, I’m not even— I don’t—” 

“Kacchan— ” 

“It can’t be me, Izuku.” 

He takes in a breath, and though he wants to more than anything Izuku can’t crane his neck upwards enough to look at him. Keep his eyes on him, right where it matters most. 

Eyes convey so much of a person’s feel, Izuku’s come to learn.

“What—” He swallows. “What are you—?” 

It takes a while before Kacchan speaks again. Behind them, far out, the sink drips, and the fridge drones. 

“Shit. Why would you choose me to help you with this? I don’t— I don’t have what you want .” 

It rains on him. Everything he’s built up to this point; the lies , the glances away, the mistakes, the guilt . It took only a second, a silence, but here they are, Kacchan under the impression that this is Izuku taking advantage of him , of his gained readiness. Thinking this is usage and tossing. Thinking they’re going to forget about this tomorrow when the alcohol subsides and they aren’t light in the stomach and heady with want. 

He sets two hands on Kacchan’s shoulders and pushes; holds him steady before he can slip off. 

(And he looks. The tears make the edges of the explosions in his eyes glow with more iridescence then they did in the afternoon, catching the light in little sparks instead of all at once.)

He tries to slip off again, and again Izuku roots him in place.

“Fuck, just let me go, Izuku. I don't—”

“I lied,” Izuku forces, mumbles. “It wasn't a lust quirk.”

A panoply of emotions pass over Kacchan's face, most especially his eyes—it’s his brows furrowing together, then a frown that tugs everything down with it. 

“You— What ?” 

“Fuck, I should be sorry. I should be sorry, Kacchan. I wasn't hit by a lust quirk,” he admits, hand to cheek thumbing the tear away, and when Kacchan doesn't cut him off he keeps going. “It— It was something else. I can see everyone's… real feelings about me in their eyes,” Izuku explains, head dropping to hang down low. “People who like me, I see hearts. People who— who don't , I see these X-shapes. Some of them have nothing. And so I, fuck, I thought that was all it was , Kacchan, but then my mom came over on the weekend and she had these stars, and— and then I came to pick you up and yours—” He glances up, feels his breath hitch.

Brows pinched, Kacchan leans down. Closer. 

“What are mine?” he asks, whispers, fervency in his words and tone. “Izuku, what are—?”

“They're like…” He searches for a word, finds none. “You love me.” 

Quiet. It settles like a fog over the space between their bodies, condensed in their breaths. Kacchan's features pull tight, like he's scared, maybe shocked despite him, unsure of where to tread. Again his eyes twinkle with his tears—and there’s love in them, the sharp lines and the way they could cut. 

He should have known. 

“Look, Ka—” 

Too late: Kacchan cups a hand under Izuku’s chin and slots his mouth over his, shifting forward so their chests collide. Izuku kisses back almost instantly, returns his grip to the curves and crooks of his waist, pulling Kacchan down, rolling so their crotches bump again, and so Kacchan veers back, smearing the spit, baring his neck, and once more Izuku moves down to suckle at it, what he hopes is sensitive skin right at his jugular. He’s proven right when Kacchan tenses, rolling his hips again. 

He tries to give back, tries first to thrust up, then to roll, but the act of holding Kacchan steady and the way his feet have screwed themselves to the floor, it’s impossible. But he wants to give back, Izuku thinks. He wants to make Kacchan feel good, make him feel everything he’s held back, everything he didn’t think was even real until seven short hours ago. 

All that’s left is—

Izuku places his hands under his thighs and stands up, swooping Kacchan with him like it’s effortless—it probably is—and starts towards his bedroom, just a few steps away. 

He knocks a shoulder against the wall, lets Kacchan duck his head at the entrance, and pushes the both of them onto his bed. It’s only a little dark with the switches down, open blinds letting just enough light from the streets that they can still see one another clear enough. 

Not for more than a second do they unstick as Izuku practically crawls atop him. They don’t talk in the spaces between; wordlessly Kacchan lifts his legs, wraps them around Izuku’s midriff, moans every time Izuku rolls his hips up. His hands make their way down to the hem of Kacchan’s hoodie, then move upward; when his thumbs ghost over nipples he shudders. Slowly, off comes the hoodie, and the shirt slides up, up, up. 

“Mmh, you’re all cold,” Izuku mutters into his collarbone as he pulls the collar down with his teeth. “God, I wanna—” 

“Hnngh— Wasn’t lying earlier,” Kacchan grumbles. “‘M not… ready or anything. We can’t—” 

“It’s fine—could do other things,” Izuku mutters between kisses. “Just—” 

With pinched fingers he grips at the zipper of Kacchan’s pants, pulls them down right under the curve of his hips (and god are they divine, the skin there perfect smooth), tugs his cock out and holds it, rubs his thumb over the slit. 

Kacchan’s back arches off the bed, a pitched moan escaping his lips. He splays his hands out, unsure, but then claws at Izuku’s chemise, gripping it in both fists, dragging it until the hem slips out of his pants. Coating his hand in the precum already there, Izuku slides his hand down, then up; suckles another mark into Kacchan’s neck. 

“God, fuck — Keep doin’ that,” he almost slurs, voice still a little. “‘M close. Think I’m close.” 

Izuku only hums to answer him, speeding up the fisting pace in increments, and grunts.

It doesn’t take long until Kacchan’s spilling between his fingers and all over the hem of his graphic tee, with a final shudder so sharp it travels through Izuku. He milks him through the orgasm, careful, painting another mark into his skin, biting it, nipping the earlobe, licking the space behind it, drinking up a tear from earlier that fell through. When there’s nothing left, Izuku wipes his hands on the front of his chemise, then slips it up and over his head. As it falls onto the bed he moves back up to kiss him again, taking in hand his hips, kneading them, cupping his ass. 

Kacchan reaches down, toys with the waistline of Izuku’s pants as he breathes, shimmying out of his boxers and his cargoes; it leaves him half naked, bare, in quite literally nothing but the graphic tee. The cold air of Izuku’s bedroom nips at his skin, giving him goosebumps.

“Your turn. Lemme get you off,” he mumbles. “C’mon.” 

But Izuku freezes in his embrace. 

“Um.” 

He pulls back to study Izuku’s face, cupping his face with his hands, thumbing his cheekbones; a little red, expression sheepish, Izuku averts his gaze, one side to the other. Kacchan’s eyebrows pinch. 

“What is it?”

“You’re too late.” He glances down. “That, uh, that happened a bit ago.” 

Kacchan’s face falls slack. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m sorry , okay?” Izuku grumbles. “I haven’t… you know, done this before.” 

Incredulous, he blinks. Kacchan sits up then knocks his back against the headboard and crosses his arms, almost pouts . 

“Do you cum that quick when it’s just you?” 

He sputters. “I try not to— woah! ”

As soon as the words leave his mouth Kacchan reaches for his nape, and tugs until they’re nose-to-nose. 

“‘S that gonna be a problem going forward?”

Izuku babbles for a moment, the gears turning in his head. His eyebrows shoot up his head; he lets himself be pulled in for another bruising kiss, digging his palms in the mattress, as he crawls forward. 

He pulls back. “It won’t, Kacchan,” he pants. “I promise.” 

(It feels like they stay there for hours , gasping only for air when it gets scary, stopping only entirely  when their mouths are so numb and reddened it hurts. Quietly, when the streetlights go out Izuku asks if Kacchan wants to stay the night, like the answer isn’t so obvious. There isn’t much of a way to get back to his own place at two in the morning, anyway. 

So he digs through his drawers and hands Kacchan a few of his clothes—a fresh pair of briefs, loose shorts, the least embarrassing t-shirt he could find. They shuffle over to the bathroom after that, and Izuku sits outside while Kacchan cleans himself up and changes, the two keeping a steady conversation. Once they’re both clean, they collapse onto the bed and kiss a little more.

They don’t fall asleep, connected through only their interlocked hands, until an hour later.) 

☆☆☆

He wakes with a jolt, pressed into a foreign mattress face-down, heaving. There’s an expense before him he doesn’t quite recognize right off the bat: a bit of open space, a wall painted off-white, the corner of a cherry wood nightstand. His arm hangs off the edge, fingers shaving the floor. He frees the other arm from where it’s pinned underneath him, and searches the other end, finding a leather headboard, more vastness—then, the bumps of a curved spine, fluttering with intakes of breath. 

He whips around. 

Izuku’s got his back to him, curled in a fetal position on the other edge of the double-sized bed. He breathes in, breathes out. Slowly, turns over. 

He’s beautiful, the way the morning light catches his dappled skin and his tousled hair. Hot, the way sometime overnight he’d taken off his shirt, and in his tossing around his basketball shorts slipped down to sit dangerously low on his hips. 

He beams at Katsuki, with all his teeth, resting his head on his elbow. 

“G’Morning, Kacchan! Did you sleep well?” 

Thick in the throat he nods. Watches as, carefully, Izuku studies his face, flicking over his eyes down to his lips, his collarbone, then back up again. 

“Is the quirk still there?” Katsuki asks, low. “In my eyes?” 

Minute, Izuku nods. 

“What do they look like? You never—” he grimaces. “You never described them.” 

Izuku takes on a pensive look. 

“Like explosions,” he breathes, shuffling closer, resting a hand on Katsuki’s waist. “But— they’re kind of… broken into pieces. And they’re kind of rainbow-ey at the edges? Ho–Holographic. I can’t explain it.” 

“How long's it gonna last?” 

“Until Friday,” Izuku answers. “And I'm talking to the quirk user tomorrow.” 

Katsuki hums. He’s unconcerned, the way it doesn’t seem to be hurting Izuku any. He’s fine, comfortable, rubbing slow circles into his skin, tangling their feet together. He’s smiling so hard it looks almost idiotic

(He shouldn’t be so comfortable with this right off the bat, so heady for touch and physical love, he thinks. With anyone else, maybe it would have been different. But it’s Izuku.

He figures it’s just like Izuku said, last night. Figures the quirk is right. He loves him.)

“So no patrol?” he asks. “Shit, I should have let you do a few hours yesterday.” 

Izuku giggles again. He sits up, leans against the headboard, stuffs his head between his knees. 

“I'm— I'm still sorry, by the way,” Izuku whispers. “For all of that. Leading you on about the lust quirk, even if it was for a few minutes—”

Katsuki kisses his teeth. Follows suit, moving to sit on his knees in front of Izuku. 

“Stop with that. It's fine. I don't care .” The bed creaks as he shifts his legs. “I've— fuck, I've wanted you for years, Izuku. Didn't matter how it happened.” 

He swallows thick. “Y–Yeah?”

Instead of providing an answer, Katsuki leans forward, captures his mouth. There's a brief back-and-forth, push and pull before Izuku takes the full of it, shoving him back until he collides with the mattress. He laps at Katsuki’s neck and all the marks already there before he moves back up, kisses him again. 

Smack! They break apart. 

Katsuki heaves. “I’ve wanted you since second year,” he confesses. “Every night I thought about something like this. Fuck, dreamt it, sometimes.” 

And Izuku laughs, a little soft, and settles between his legs. 

“You dreamt about me giving you a handjob in my bed?” 

He grimaces, face burning deep red. “Years ago. We were in your dorm room.”

“Yeah? How many times?” he teases “Every night?” 

He slaps Izuku’s sternum with the back of his hand. 

“Fuck off. It’s your turn. When did you know?” 

Izuku’s mouth clamps shut.

“I— I don’t know,” he confesses. “Really. I think it just kind of took time for me. It clicked when I saw your eyes yesterday.” 

“Yeah?”
Izuku hums. 

It’s silent for a bit, as Izuku rests his head on Kacchan’s chest, feeling the way his heart stutters, calms, stutters again. He breaks it with a question.

“Izuku.” 

“Mmh?” 

“Is that… date still on? The— The one you…” 

Izuku raises his head, bites his bottom lip. 

“Would you want it to be? I know I said it without thinking,” he says. “But I really would like to take you out. Y’know, for real.”

Silence. 

“You’d need to get off me, then,” he says, nudging him. 

But Izuku doesn’t budge. “You wanna leave?” 

“I need to clock in for a few hours,” he explains. “Paperwork day. Also, I need to— to shower, and change. I’m not fucking going out like this. I’m wearing one of your stupid t-shirts and the biggest pair of shorts in the world.”

“First of all,” Izuku pouts. “I gave you the least stupid t-shirt I have—” 

“It’s still dumb!”

“And two, can’t you just wear what you came in?” 

His face goes slack. “It’s a hoodie and cargoes. I’d do anything but wear that on a date. My shirt is also covered in cum , along with your pants.” 

Izuku grumbles under his breath. Slowly, rolls over Katsuki’s legs onto the other end of the bed. 

“Fine. I’ll call you an Uber.” 

Pleased, Katsuki rises, moving to take his shirt off, toss it behind him.

“Look, just— just stay for breakfast, at least?” Izuku asks, suddenly. 

Katsuki cocks an eyebrow, spins around with one hand on the doorframe. “And eat your food?”

He rolls his eyes. 

“Screw off. I'm not a terrible cook, Kacchan. Anyway, it's all my mom's stuff. She—” He laughs again, setting his phone down. “She left all these containers with me, so much more than I thought she did, and I haven't finished it all. You need to help me with them,” he says, pleads more like. 

Katsuki considers, and definitely doesn’t judge by the rumble in his stomach and the look in Izuku’s eyes. 

“Fine.” 

Izuku smiles, gets up, walks up to the door and plants a wet kiss right on Katsuki’s jawline.

“You’re incredible,” he mumbles, sultry. “I’ll go heat it up. You can use my shower if you want.”

Katsuki watches him go, definitely doesn’t feel his cheeks heat up and cock twitch in his shorts. 

Ten minutes later he’s washed his hair in Izuku’s bathtub and steps out with a towel draped around his neck. Off the bat he gets a whiff of something vaguely familiar, reminiscent of a time long gone.  Accompanying the smell is the sound of frantic muttering—just as familiar, if not more. He finds Izuku leaned over a counter, his cutlery drawer open as he digs through it, grumbling about spoons. 

Katsuki rounds past him, and sits at the table, where there are two plates filled with—

“Katsudon?” 

Izuku yelps, spinning on your heels. 

“Kacchan! ”

“For breakfast?” he asks. “Katsudon?” 

“It’s almost ten, Kacchan.” He shrugs, kicking the chair out and settling into it. “Also, it’s not spicy. We’ll be fine.” He hands him a pair of chopsticks. “Here.” 

In sync, they dig in, their meal interspersed with conversation, light and banter-ish. When the leftovers for what Izuku tells him is creamy chicken soup come out he eyes the bowl carefully, suspicious, until Izuku practically force-feeds him the first spoonful. When they’re done with, Katsuki slices up a few cucumbers, salts them, and plates them. 

He stuffs the last one in his mouth as he’s scouring the apartment for his bags, finding them in the closet right by the genkan. He slips on his hoodie, packs his underwear and his shirt and his cargoes in a bag, promises Izuku he’ll give him his jeans back when he can. 

And then he’s right by the door, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, gargling water, watching as Izuku emerges from the bathroom shaking his hands dry, and—

“Wait a sec, Kacchan! One thing!” 

“Izuku— ”

But instead of a task, he brings Kacchan in by the crook of his waist, kisses him. As he pulls back, linked to him still by the forehead he hums.

“See you tonight, Kacchan.” 

After a beat Kacchan smiles. “Yeah. See you tonight.”