Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Cut! Cut, cut, cut!"

Director Iida Tenya chops the air with his arm so hard his horn-rimmed glasses fly askew. He’s a bundle of tweed jackets and righteous fury, all twenty-four years of him. “Bakugou-san! This is a moment of tender desperation! You have just confessed to robbing a convenience store to pay for her brother’s heart medicine! You are vulnerable! You are not… you are not attempting to intimidate the cashier!”

Across the soundstage, Izuku Midoriya sighs into his megaphone-shaped coffee mug. It was a gift from his mother. He is the most sought-after Intimacy Coordinator in the business — and he has never, in all his years of choreographing fake gropes and simulated sighs, seen a man less capable of simulated affection than Katsuki Bakugou.

“I AM VULNERABLE!” Bakugou roars back, veins popping in his neck. He’s wearing a fantastic pair of burnt-orange corduroys and a half-unbuttoned silk shirt that shows off a remarkable chest.

Ochako Uraraka stands beside him, looking exasperated, playing the love interest, stood there smoothing down her plaid polyester skirt. She’s supposed to be Shy Sally Mae, a girl whose main character trait is blushing and looking away. It’s a role she was born for. She is, after all, naturally a little shy.

"Midoriya! Please, for the love of cinema, fix this." Iida sighed, adjusting his collar.

Izuku took a deep breath, grabbed his clipboard, and stepped onto the taped floor of the set. The heels of his boots clicked against the faux-hardwood.

"Alright, let's take five, everyone," Izuku called out, keeping his voice a soothing, grounded contrast to the chaos. He walked right up to the apex predator in the fringe jacket. "Hey, Bakugou. Let's talk about the blocking."

Izuku steps closer. He’s barely an inch shorter than Bakugou but it feels much shorter than that, because of the sheer presence of the man. It's enough for the actor to wait patiently for him to begin. “Walk me through it, Bakugou. You’ve just told Sally Mae you committed a felony for her. She’s grateful. Her big, watery eyes are looking up at you. You reach out. What are you feeling?”

Bakugou’s face contorts. He looks like he’s trying to solve a quadratic equation. If actors weren't so disastrously bad at math, Izuku might just think he was. “Pissed.”

“Pissed?”

“Yeah! She made me go and steal shit! That’s a pain in the ass! What if I got caught? I’d go to County. The food sucks.”

Uraraka sighs, dropping character. “I didn’t make you, Bakugou. The script says I said, ‘Oh, woe is me, my brother is dying.’ And you said, ‘Say no more, darlin’, I got a crowbar.’”

“That’s a dumb line,” Bakugou sneers. “I would never say ‘darlin’. He’d say ‘Listen here, round-cheeks.’”

“DON’T CALL ME ROUND-CHEEKS!” Uraraka finally snaps, a blush crawling up her neck. “That’s not scripted!”

Izuku rolled his eyes. "Uraraka-san, please. Go add some re-touches to your face." Izuku intervened, a small, teasing smirk playing on his lips. "Bakugou, you come here. Work with me for a second. You're clearly having a bad day."

Bakugou scoffed, but he didn't walk away. He stood there, jaw clenched, looking really really pissed off. "What?"

"Give me your hand."

Bakugou hesitated, his red eyes narrowing to slits, before thrusting his right hand forward like he was issuing a challenge.

Izuku guided Bakugou’s palm up, placing it gently against his own chest, right over his sternum. He kept his fingers lightly laced over the back of Bakugou’s hand, feeling the sudden, violent spike in the actor's pulse.

"See this?" Izuku murmured, looking up into those angry red eyes. Mistake. Big mistake. 

See, Izuku prided himself on being a consummate professional. He had a master’s degree in theater arts, three certifications in movement psychology, and a reputation for being the most unflappable intimacy coordinator on the Eastern Seaboard. He'd been in the trenches—naked simulated spooning, choreographed biting, the whole nine yards. He'd once had to talk a guy down from a panic attack because his fake mustache fell off during a love scene. He was unflappable.

So why were his palms sweating through his cable-knit sweater?

Right now, with Katsuki’s calloused thumb hovering dangerously close to his nipples, Izuku was acutely aware of two things.

First, they were roughly the same age, which completely threw off the usual dynamic he had gotten extremely comfortable (and detached) with. The industry often had older actors play teenagers (a terrible terrible idea in his opinion), and Izuku — actually being a young adult of this generation helped a great deal in schooling the expressions and the hand movements of the very very grown up men. He had gotten used to the aging theater veterans who treated him like a precocious grand-nephew. Other times, he was dealing with seventeen-year-old starlets who needed a big-brother figure. Point is, this is new.

Second, and perhaps more pressingly: Izuku was profoundly, catastrophically dick-hungry.

It had been a dry spell of biblical proportions. Between the grueling production schedules, flying from Vancouver to New York, and dealing with neurotic directors, Izuku’s love life was a desolate wasteland. And standing in the middle of that wasteland was a six-foot-two action star with a stunning jawline and shoulders that filled out a 1970s fringe jacket way better than they had any right to he realised it all too well.

Collecting himself, Izuku took Bakugou's other hand and guided it up to his own jaw, demonstrating the gentle pressure.

Bakugou went completely, utterly still. The loudmouthed, swearing brute suddenly forgot how to breathe. He stared down at Izuku, his rough thumb accidentally brushing against the coordinator's lower lip.

From the director’s chair, Iida leaned forward so fast his glasses finally fell off. "Holy Toledo... That is the yearning!"

The roar of the studio fans finally died down around nine in the evening, leaving the set in a eerie, hollow quiet. As they wrapped up, Katsuki's awful temper from earlier had calmed down and he was back to following Izuku around, all cheeky smiles and toothy grins.

He had already shed the fringe jacket, wearing just a tight black tank top that showed off a ridiculous amount of collarbone. "You look tired. You should let me buy you a drink, it'll be better than the tea you drink in that ridiculous mug all day."

Izuku had just laughed it off, shaking his head. "In your dreams, Kacchan. Go get changed."

To Izuku, it didn’t mean much. Honestly, almost all actors were mild flirts; it practically came with the job description. When your entire career is based on charm, charisma, and tricking people into falling in love with you through a camera lens, a little casual workplace banter is just second nature. Izuku had learned a long time ago not to take it seriously, no matter how much his own touch-starved, dick-hungry brain wanted to read into it.

What Izuku couldn't wrap his head around, though, was the absolute, total lack of that charm when the cameras were actually rolling. How could a guy be so naturally smooth when leaning against a trailer, but look like an absolute virgin trying to figure out a bra strap the second Iida yelled 'Action'?

Ten minutes later, they were out in the studio parking lot. Because Katsuki was still a relatively new, up-and-coming actor without a massive studio budget or a personal driver, Izuku often gave him a ride back to his apartment after late shoots.

The heavy door of Izuku’s modest sedan slammed shut, cutting off the cool night air.

"It would help if they were a man," Katsuki mumbled, in answer to Izuku voicing his inner thoughts at him, the buckle of his seatbelt clicking into place with a sharp snap.

Izuku paused, his key hovering right outside the ignition. He blinked, turning his head to look at the blonde powerhouse strapped into his passenger seat. He let out a long, exhausted sigh and turned the key, the engine purring to life.

"Just picture her as a man then," Izuku said dryly, pulling out of the studio lot and onto the dark, neon-lit streets. "What is wrong with you today, anyway? You aren't usually this bad on set. You're usually a perfectionist."

Katsuki gives him a dopey smile to which Izuku rolls his eyes. "It's tiring either ways."

Katsuki slumped back into the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. He let out a heavy, deeply frustrated sigh that seemed to vibrate through his entire chest. "My old hag is going to be in town this weekend."

Izuku glanced at him, navigating a turn. "Your parents?"

"Yeah. Dad's alright, he just sits there and takes it, but my mother, dude..." Katsuki groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fuck. I gotta deal with weeks and weeks of nagging about how I should've never dropped out of uni."

Izuku’s head snapped around at once. He shot Katsuki a wide-eyed, completely baffled look. "You went to uni?"

He was genuinely surprised. Granted, they had only met a couple of months ago when production started, and most nights they were both far too exhausted from the grueling twelve-hour shoots to do anything but slump in silence. But still, they’d had a few late-night drinks at the hotel bar across from the studio, and Izuku couldn't believe this had never once come up. He had pegged Katsuki for a raw, straight-out-of-the-gutter talent who had just stumbled onto a casting call.

Katsuki sighed again, a sound of pure, unadulterated annoyance at the universe.

"Physics," Katsuki muttered, his voice dropping into a low, defensive grumble as he stared out at the passing neon signs. "Did two fucking years of theoretical physics before I told her to shove it and walked out."

Izuku’s jaw dropped. He literally had to brake hard at a yellow light just to keep from staring a hole through Katsuki's profile. "Physics? You? Like... quantum mechanics and calculus?"

"Don't sound so fucking shocked, dude, it’s insulting," Katsuki snapped, though there was no real heat to it, just a bruised ego. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, sinking lower into the passenger seat. "I'm good at it. I'm good at everything I do. I can calculate trajectory, fluid dynamics, all that shit. My old hag thought I was gonna go work for a lab or NASA or some cushy tech firm, making her look good at her dinner parties."

Izuku let out a sudden, startled burst of laughter, the sound echoing brightly inside the cramped, quiet space of the sedan. So there had been a chance Katsuki was doing math in his head back then. 

The actor looked at him, smiling curiously. "What is it?"

"Wow," Izuku breathed, stepping on the gas as the light turned green. He was looking at the blond in a completely new light. A foul-mouthed, leather-jacket-wearing action star who could probably solve differential equations. It was... hot. Ugh. "So why did you leave? If you were good at it?"

"Dunno. Been studying all my life, wanted to do something different. Got scouted for modelling a bunch of times," he looked thoughtful for a moment but then he shrugged. "Thought why not?"

Izuku nodded, also seemingly distracted.

Instead of making the usual right turn toward Katsuki’s depressing, half-unpacked apartment complex, Izuku flipped his blinker to the left.

Katsuki’s head snapped up, his sharp eyes tracking the sudden change in direction. He looked around at the unfamiliar streets, then turned to Izuku, his voice dropping into something surprisingly soft and hopeful. "Hey. Where are we going?"

Izuku kept his eyes on the road, but a wide, mischievous grin broke out across his face. He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel.

"Well," Izuku said, glancing over at the blonde powerhouse for a brief second. "Since you apparently have such a shitty weekend ahead of you with your mom, let's have a drink tonight, shall we? My treat. There's a quiet little dive bar near my place that makes a killer old fashioned."

For a split second, Katsuki just stared at him, completely thrown off by the sudden invitation. Then, a massive, brilliant grin shattered his brooding expression.

"WOOOO!" Katsuki shouted, his loud voice practically rattling the dashboard as he violently thumped his fist into the roof of the car. "Hell yeah! That's what I'm talking about! Step on it, Izuku, before the bartender decides to close up early!"

Izuku laughed, his shoulders shaking as he accelerated down the avenue. Looking at Katsuki acting like a hyped-up college kid instead of a brooding action star, Izuku realized this might land him in serious, serious trouble tonight.

As soon as they slid onto the cracked leather barstools, a familiar voice called out from behind the counter. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. The maestro of making people make out."

Rody Soul, the bartender, tossed a stained towel over his shoulder and grinned, his dark eyes instantly locking onto Katsuki. Rody was a long-time friend of Izuku's, a guy who possessed an uncanny ability to read a room in seconds and a total lack of a filter.

"Your usual my dear?"

"Hey, Rody," Izuku smiled, slumping his elbows onto the sticky wood. "Yes, thank you. And get this guy whatever he wants, he’s having a crisis."

"I am not having a crisis, shut the fuck up," Katsuki grumbled, though he was busy looking around the bar, his chest puffed out as he sized up the place. "Give me a bourbon. Neat."

"You got it, blondie," Rody winked, turning to slide two glasses across the counter. He poured Izuku’s usual—a gin and tonic with a heavy splash of lime—and poured a generous finger of top-shelf bourbon for Katsuki.

Katsuki wrapped his massive hand around the glass, took a sharp sip, and leaned his elbows on the bar, tilting his head toward Rody. "You work here since when?"

Rody didn't turn around. "Been a couple months. I knew Izuku here from before though."

Katsuki looks interested at once. "You two go way back?"

"Absolutely," Rody said, finally turning around and leaning against the back counter with a grin. "It's been what, a decade almost?"

Katsuki let out a low whistle, his eyes darting to Izuku for a split second before locking back onto the bartender. "Wow. A decade."

"Wow indeed," Rody chuckled, crossing his arms. "You're Bakugou Katsuki, yeah?"

"Why, he talking 'bout me?" Katsuki turned a smug, coy look toward Izuku, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Izuku groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it practically hurt. "Rody's one of my best friends, Katsuki. No shit he knows about the massive pain in the ass I'm currently forced to work with."

"What crawled up your ass, huh?" Katsuki barked, casually flipping Izuku off without even looking at him. He shoved his shoulder against Izuku’s, completely unbothered, before turning his full attention back to Rody like a hound on a scent. "So what was he like back then?"

Rody shook his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling with fond amusement. "All too similar, unfortunately. Still a stubborn, rambling nerd. Except my man actually has money now, woo!"

Izuku flushed, waving his hands frantically.

In his frantic, talking-with-his-hands flailing, Izuku’s elbow clipped the edge of his gin and tonic.

Clack.

The glass tipped, spilling a sticky puddle of alcohol across the counter before rolling clean off the edge.

"Ah! Outch—shit!" Izuku ducked instantly, his instincts taking over as he lunged downward to catch the tumbling glass before it could shatter on the floorboards.

He managed to snag it by the stem just an inch from the ground, but his triumph was entirely short-lived. Grinning and relieved, Izuku hoisted himself back up way too fast.

His forehead collided squarely and violently with the underside of the heavy oak bar.

"Ow, motherfucker!" Izuku yelled, the curse slipping out before he could stop it. He dropped back down to his knees, clenching his eyes shut as he clutched his forehead, the empty glass still gripped tightly in his other hand. It was a spectacular, uncoordinated disaster.

"Okay damn. Are you a lightweight Izuku?" Katsuki laughed.

Rody groaned. "No he's just really fucking clumsy. Back when he was trying to do set design in college, he accidentally glued his own hand to a prop table and had to wait three hours for the solvent to arrive. Just sat there, crying and reading his textbook."

Katsuki let out a loud, delighted laugh, his red eyes sparkling as he looked at Izuku. "No fucking way. Serious?"

"Dead serious," Rody chuckled. "And don't get me started on his dating life. Or lack thereof. The guy works eighty hours a week. He spends more time choreographing fake passion than actually getting any."

"Is that so?" Katsuki murmured. His gaze drifted down Izuku’s neck, a slow, cheeky smile spreading across his face. He leaned a little closer into Izuku's space, their shoulders brushing. "Fucking tragic, Izuku. All that expertise going to waste."

"Alright, that's enough, Rody, you're cut off from talking," Izuku muttered, covering his face with his hands.

"Fiiine, fine," Rody laughed, picking up a stray glass to wipe down. He stepped back from the counter, giving Izuku a knowing, teasing look. Before turning toward the other end of the bar, Rody caught Izuku's eye, puckered his lips, and made a dramatic, silent kissy face right at him, throwing in a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

Izuku thought he might've imagined it, but Katsuki's shoulders stiffened. He didn't mention it though, laughing as Rody came back and started talking about the ridiculous antics his sisters got up to in playschool. When Izuku asked Katsuki inbetween if he was enjoying himself Katsuki merely shrugged.

"Your friend’s a fucking comedian, isn't he?"

"Huh?"

But Katsuki would say nothing more and Izuku somehow felt like he lost a game.

They got into the car eventually. Izuku slid the key into the ignition, the engine turning over with a low purr, cutting through the quiet. He was just about to shift into drive when Katsuki spoke up, his voice dropping into a softer pitch.

"He your boyfriend or something?"

Izuku paused, his hand freezing on the gear shift. He blinked, a startled, breathless laugh escaping his throat as he turned to look at the passenger seat. "Huh? Katsuki, didn't you just hear him explicitly talk about the absolute, pathetic non-existence of my love life?"

Katsuki laughed at that and the mood seemed to go back to normal. 

By 8:00 AM next day, the soundstage was chaos. Iida was pacing in front of the motel set, waving a rolled-up script like a conductor's baton. "People! PEOPLE! We lose the light at noon! We don't HAVE noon light! We have FAKE noon light, which requires ELECTRICITY, which requires BUDGET, which requires us to FINISH THIS SCENE!"

The artificial New York drizzle was being piped in from the rafters for a dramatic street scene, filling the air with a damp, ozone smell that didn’t quite mask the stench of stale catering coffee.

Uraraka was in hair and makeup, getting her bumblebee curls pinned into place. She caught Izuku's eye in the mirror and gave him a small, knowing smile. "Bakugou's already here," she said. "He was early."

"Bakugou? Early?" Izuku blinked. "Did someone die?"

"That's what I said! He's in his trailer. Practicing." She lowered her voice. "He's been muttering to himself. I think he's doing the proximity thing you showed him. With a pillow."

Izuku needed his tea. He also needed to sit down.

"Alright, people!" Iida clapped his hands. "Positions! Scene twenty-four-A! Sally Mae confronts Duke in the parking lot after she finds out about the robbery! Bakugou! Uraraka! Let's make some MAGIC!"

Katsuki arrived looking remarkably better than he had the night before. The dark, brooding cloud that had hovered over him after the bar had mostly dissipated, replaced by his usual sharp, arrogant focus. He was dressed in a rain-slicked leather trench coat that made his shoulders look three feet wide, his blond hair styled into a damp, messy look that was painfully attractive.

But while his mood had improved, his onscreen romance hadn’t magically transformed overnight. Still, Izuku rarely needed to interrupt.

The director finally said the magic words.

“Ten minute break! Everyone cool off before I lose what’s left of my sanity,” Iida Tenya announced, voice clipped like a drill sergeant. “Bakugou — drink water, not whatever venom you’re currently spitting. Midoriya, good job. You did something, and it's working.”

The lights dimmed slightly.

Bakugou immediately stalked over to where Izuku was standing near the fake wood-paneled bedroom set, still holding his clipboard like a shield. The blond had ditched the leather jacket but kept the half-unbuttoned shirt and that ridiculous feathered mullet. 

Izuku smiled warmly. "Good job. It was miled better than yesterday."

Bakugou nodded, looking pleased with himself. He stuffed his face with lemon flavoured biscuits that were literally on set only for him. Izuku thought they were disgusting. He watched him with an amused expression. 

All too soon, break was over and Katsuki was gulping the last of his water before wiping his hands on the towel draped across the chair.

Katsuki took a deep breath.

"Action!"

"You know what I love about this country? Nothing. I love nothing about this country.

(beat)

That's not true. I love the way Al's diner smells at two in the morning. I love that. Grease and coffee and someone's whole life reduced to an order ticket. That's — that's America. That I love.

i.

I've been reading Marx. Don't make that face, you're not even here.
I've been reading Marx, and I keep thinking about the thing he says about commodity fetishism —
how we take objects, simple objects,
and we load them with meaning they do not possess,
and then we worship them for that meaning as if it were native to the thing itself.
As if the shoe made the man.
As if the ring — the ring —

I think I did that to you.
I think I fetishized you too.
I think I took you — a person, a complicated,
occasionally infuriating, always beautiful person —
and I turned you into a symbol of something I needed.
Some blessed reprieve,
evidence I was not impossible to believe
I made you a commodity. Something to pursue,
And then I was angry when the price came due.

ii.

The city is broke.
Ford told us to drop dead, did you see that?
Drop dead. The president said that to this city.
And I thought: yes. Yes, that's it.
That is the sound of late capitalism
eating its own children whole—
a machine cannot have a soul
it's just...
transaction, transaction, transaction
encountering something — a city, a person, a love —
that cannot be traded
and simply choosing to let it die insead.

I don't want to be a transaction.
I don't want to give you something
and wait for the return.
I don't want love to be labor, be concerned
I don't want desire to be scarcity,
I don't want to wake up at thirty, 
and realize I've been optimizing my tenderness
for maximum yield.

iii.

Here is what I know.
And this is — this is the only thing I know:
The morning you left your scarf on my radiator,
and the apartment smelled like you
for four days after —
that was not a transaction.
That was not exchange.
Not supply and demand.
Not something efficient enough
for a spreadsheet or a businessman.
That was not productive or profitable
or measurable in any unit
that capitalism has yet invented.

That was free.
Terrifyingly, ruinously free.
The way only the real things are.

iv.

I think the system is afraid of love
for the same reason it's afraid of parks
and public libraries and a good conversation
that doesn't end in a sale —
because you cannot monetize
what cannot be contained.
Because the moment something is truly free
it becomes ungovernable.

You were ungovernable.
I was ungovernable, in the specific
four-block radius of your presence.
And I called it chaos.
I should have called it —
(he almost says it)
I should have called it by its name.

The city will survive Ford.
New York always survives the people
who tell it to drop dead.
It's stubborn that way. Magnificently stubborn.
I think I am also magnificently stubborn.
I think I will survive this,
which is the saddest and most hopeful thing
I have said in months.

Come home.

Come home because it's August in New York
and the city is broken
and I have a fan and a scarf-scented radiator
and I am — without any profit motive whatsoever —
still, stubbornly, expensively
in love with you.

Come home and tell me you are in love with me too.

All this is
For you.

"Cut."

For a long, agonizing moment, nobody on the set moved. The rain machines clicked off, leaving the studio in a profound, heavy silence.

Then, Izuku heard a sniffle next to him. He glanced over and saw Iida pulling off his thick glasses to aggressively wipe tears from his eyes. Uraraka was clutching a script to her chest in the shadows, her eyes completely red.

Izuku looked back at the monitor, his own throat tightening. His chest felt incredibly heavy, a lump forming in his throat as he stared at the playback of Katsuki's face. The raw yearning, the absolute, agonizing vulnerability—it was a masterclass. He knew in that moment that this was Bakugou Katsuki's career defining moment.

Standing there in the dim light of the studio, watching Katsuki run a hand through his wet hair as the makeup team rushed in to dab his face, Izuku finally understood it.

Katsuki’s mother was entirely wrong. It didn't matter how smart he was, or how easily he could map the trajectory of particles or solve equations that would make an average person’s brain melt. If Katsuki Bakugou had stayed in that university lecture hall, hiding behind chalkboards and numbers, it would have been an absolute, absolute tragedy.

His talent would have been entirely wasted in quantum mechanics. Because sure Katsuki may have understood just how light waves moved but could he make people burn up from the inside out? Bring the light out from withing somebody?

The production assistant called for a twenty-minute reset to dry the floors and adjust the lighting setups, breaking the heavy spell that had settled over the soundstage. Instantly, the quiet erupted into the usual chaotic hum of crew members scrambling with towels, cables, and fresh coffee.

Izuku didn't move from his spot by the monitor for a long moment. He just stood there, his clipboard clutched loosely against his chest, his eyes fixed on Katsuki.

The blond was currently swarmed by three different people—one drying his hair with a towel, another touching up the waterproof makeup on his jawline, and a third trying to hand him a hot thermos. But Katsuki wasn't paying attention to any of them. He shrugged off the wardrobe assistant trying to hand him a dry robe and marched straight through the crowd, his eyes locked onto Izuku like a missile guidance system.

"Hey," Katsuki grumbled, stopping right in front of Izuku. He was still damp, and sniffling a little.

The raw, bleeding vulnerability from the monologue was gone, tucked safely back behind his usual rough exterior, but his eyes were still incredibly intense.

Izuku cleared his throat, swallowing down the lingering lump in his throat. He forced a soft, professional smile onto his face, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "Hey. That was... Katsuki, that was incredible. Seriously. Iida is practically weeping into his clipboard over there."

Katsuki scoffed, crossing his arms, though a tiny, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I don't give a shit about Four-Eyes. I asked you to stay close to adjust the posture. Did it look right?"

"It looked perfect," Izuku said softly, his green eyes meeting Katsuki's fierce red ones. 

Katsuki stepped closer.

"I told you," he whispered, his eyes dropping to Izuku's mouth for a torturous second before snapping back up. "I'm good at everything I do."