Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Is it really that surprising?”

“No! No, it’s not that-” Kirishima started. “How do I put it? I guess I thought you were just focusing on the future.”

Katsuki raised an eyebrow. Other than that, he had barely moved a muscle since coming out, around 30 seconds ago. 

“Not that you aren’t! Focusing on the future, that is-” Kirishima had never been skittish around Katsuki. In both an emotional and physical sense, he was capable of rolling with the punches. A sudden personal admission, however, knocked Kirishima off his guard in such a way that he managed to fidget with all four of his limbs. Katsuki was unimpressed by the strange performance. 

“If it makes you that uncomfortable,” he said with lead-heavy judgement, “I won’t bring it up again,” and Katsuki readied himself to continue handling his boxes of possessions. 

“That’s not it.” 

Kirishima, suddenly aware of how his demeanour appeared, steadied himself. “I think it’s really manly, you know. And I’m proud to be your friend.” Here, he gave a warm smile. “I don’t think I know the right things to say though. Oh, and - I mean, do you have.. A-”

“No.” Katsuki said decisively, and then looked at the ground, “Just, you know, focusing on the future.” 

A touch of pain swept across Katsuki’s face for no more than a millisecond, and Kirishima understood this instinctively. It was hard not to, having spent three years in the same classroom as him. Katsuki knew this well enough. Over the past couple of years, he hadn’t really been trying to hide how he felt. But what more was there to say on the matter? Both took a deep breath and dropped into a stance, ready to begin carrying things again. 

As if on cue, somebody came stumbling out from behind the hedgerow. Izuku was walking backwards, calling out thanks to Tsuyu and Uraraka as he carried a clumsily-packed box with both his hands. Kirishima watched Katsuki as a carousel of emotions appeared on his face. Before he could register it, of course, Izuku had collided with the stationary boxes surrounding them. 

In one graceful motion, Katsuki leapt to steady Izuku with his left arm, catching the calamity of belongings in his right. They ended up in a sort-of dip, which Katsuki maintained long enough to give him an admonishing look, before taking the box himself and grumpily walking off ahead. Such a meaningless display of bravado. Kirishima failed to suppress a sigh, which thankfully went unnoticed by Izuku, who stood in the place where he’d been caught, watching the shuffling figure carrying his things. 

“S-sorry!” Izuku said, quietly and absentmindedly. The expression on his face was uncharacteristically hard to read. Was it rueful? Longing? Stoic, even? His hair rustled in the March wind, which he was underdressed for in a worn-out all-might t-shirt. Kirishima looked at the unspoken subject of their former conversation, trying to imagine him and Katsuki separate from each other. So polar opposite - yet like magnets; always crashing into one another in some sense. If he felt it was impossible for them to live in different parts of the country, he couldn’t imagine how it must feel for them. He fixed his eyes on the ground, thankful that he and Tetsutetsu were interning in the same city during the coming year. Whatever Katsuki and Izuku were grappling with, he could put off, for now. 

Izuku was the one to snap him out of his thoughts. 

“I can help you with these?” He gestured to the boxes Katsuki had been carrying. 

“Yeah! Thanks!”

The previous day, Izuku and Uraraka sat in Uraraka’s half-packed room. Izuku had made a home for himself in a pile of blankets in the corner, and sat staring dejectedly into space. In an attempt to rouse him, Uraraka threw a weightless scrunched-up ball of paper at his face. It made little impact, however, simply hanging in the air beside his cheek until it was half-heartedly batted away. 

“COME ON!” 

Izuku turned his dejected expression towards her. 

“We’re EXCITED!” 

Izuku’s face expressed disagreement. 

“We’re going to Osaka together! You’ll be at the university, I’ll be at the agency!” At this, Izuku tried for a wan smile. Still, she could tell she’d hit a sore spot. 

It wouldn’t have been hard for Izuku to find a place at an internship. His war heroics had earned him more than enough respect, if what he wanted was a pay check and a title for life. His classmates, too, would happily have leveraged their status to get him a place at the table - and he knew this painfully well. Kacchan, more than anyone. He had suggested (albeit in a heated moment) that he would refuse a job at an agency were they to refuse to take on Izuku as well. This thought in particular devastated him. His hero - bright, capable and shining like the sun - tying himself to the quirkless deadweight Izuku now was. What was he thinking when he said that? Izuku couldn’t hold his own in a fight, not anymore. He hoped that Katsuki simply hadn’t meant it, although a sinking feeling in his gut told him that that wasn’t true. Even worse, Izuku had a hunch that Katsuki would go further than this, given the chance to. For whatever reason, he was determined to self destruct for the sake of Izuku’s old, dead dream. There was really only one thing for it, Izuku had thought. 

“I’m glad we’ll be going together!” Izuku said in consolation. Uraraka came and sat down beside him, laying her head on his shoulder. 

“I know you’re miserable. We have to at least try to think of things we’re looking forward to, okay?”

Izuku nodded, “Okay-” but found tears quickly forming. “I’ll start!” Uraraka offered a lifeline. “There’s a ramen place that my uncle said he used to love - he even knew the owner…” 

Uraraka slid easily into stories about interesting places they could visit, and soon had Izuku interjecting with titbits of information - usually some form of obscure hero trivia. This was a comfort to Uraraka: having to give up on his dream thankfully hadn’t extinguished Izuku’s love for heroes as a whole. From there, the list of excitements grew slowly but steadily, graduating from locations to new skills to learn and hobbies each wanted to try. It wasn’t long before the pair had talked themselves into better spirits. Yet their list, while full, still felt papery and hypothetical, as if it could disintegrate under heavy rain. Striving for a more concrete hope for their new city, Uraraka decided to attempt a riskier conversation topic. 

“I’M going to get a girlfriend!” 

This was not the first time Uraraka had stated this intention for her internship, but it was the first time she had mentioned it since Izuku’s current state of heartbreak began. Izuku was quiet, thinking for a second. Uh oh. Had she made a mistake? But just as Uraraka was about to change the topic-

“Okay,” Izuku said seriously, “What’s she going to be like?”

The pair began, as they had often done, feverishly talking about romance. They had come out to each other in an almost accidental manner almost two years prior, during the haphazard time where post-war emotions ran high. They quickly found it was easy to have these conversations with each other, and their old crushes became old news quickly. Izuku sat now with scrap paper and pen in hand, writing an ‘ideal girlfriend’ list for Uraraka and an ‘ideal partner’ list for himself. List-making was, of course, a staple of Izuku’s conversational skills. The two lists looked fairly similar; both agreed upon assertiveness, smarts and ambition - though Uraraka’s list also included ‘out-and-proud’ where Izuku’s did not. 

The conversation persisted late into the mid-March evening. Before too long, the pair began to feel the exhaustion from the packing work of the days behind them. Their conversation slowed, and Uraraka began to habitually set up a pillow at the foot end of her bed. Even two years after the war, both Izuku and Uraraka had enough nightmares to retain their habit of sleeping top-to-tail after difficult days. Today, though, Izuku stopped her with a small shake of the head.

“I’m going to sleep in my room, since it’s my last night here,” he said with a bittersweet smile. 

The reason was solid enough for Uraraka not to question it. Still, both of them knew it was only half-true. 

Chapter Text

Katsuki sat in the back seat of his mother’s car, staring at his warped reflection in the car window. He looked angry. Scary. Even with his face still - relaxed, even. Even without explosions surrounding it. He tried to imagine what it was like to be shouted at by him, replaying his own voice in his head with all the worst things he could remember saying. Dread and shame, hot and poisonous, filled him from head to toe. This feeling - his insides turning to tar - was not unfamiliar to Katsuki. In fact, the whole exercise was one he had done many times. His mind often went further than this, but only when he was alone and could cry freely. 

He had been quiet all day, and unresponsive to his mother’s usual provocations. He could tell that he was worrying them, but they could afford a little worry, he thought, while he was safe and sound in the back seat. He would gather the energy to perk up a bit once they reached his new apartment, he thought, and they would all be happy to forget about the rest of the day. First, he had another hour to himself and his misery. At least, he thought he did, until he heard the telling inhale before his mother asked a question. 

“So, Katsuki, what new recipes are you going to try in your new kitchen?”

An attempt at cheering him up. A fairly poor one, at that, as Katsuki’s new kitchen promised to be small and poorly equipped in comparison the the UA dorms he was used to. Still, it was a question about an interest of his, and Mitsuki didn’t really make a habit of asking those. Katsuki obliged, rattling off a few recipes he had saved and was yet to try. 

“Ooh, that one sounds nice,” she said, giving an instructive nod to Masaru and then, turning her attention back to her son, “You going to cook those for anyone? Eh? Maybe a girlfriend?” 

Now she was trying too hard. Katsuki stared at the back of her head with a mixture of irritation and weariness - an expression he regretted wearing so boldly when he caught his father’s eye in the rearview mirror. Masaru shot him an apologetic smile. 

“Or anyone, really!” Masaru tried to course-correct, but Mitsuki wasn’t taking the hint.

“Of course he can cook for anyone! I want to know if he’s going to be cooking for someone special. Come to think of it - why have you never brought any girls home to meet us?” 

This was an easy one. “Because you’re a crazy old lady.”

As Mitsuki started to raise her voice, Masaru put a hand on her shoulder in a rare act of courage. 

“You know,” he started, “we really don’t mind who you bring home. As long as you’re happy.” 

How awkward. Katsuki had never been further from happy. So far in his life, being gay had been quite a miserable ordeal. This, among other reasons, was why he hadn’t thought to come out to his parents. He wondered if his mother had caught on to Masaru’s heavy-handed implication yet. From what he could see of her face, she looked like a deer in the headlights, with her eyes darting between the dashboard, road and rearview mirror, which she not-so-subtly adjusted to a view of her son’s face. Katsuki took this opportunity to widen his eyes at her, as if to say ‘ get it now? ’. She did get it, it appeared, as Mitsuki’s face blanched a couple of shades. 

This was mostly for the sake of his own entertainment; he was fairly sure that given days or months, she was capable of talking herself out of the idea that her only son might be gay. Good. He would come out properly if he ever had something to show for it - someone to introduce. Not before. 

Conversation with his parents thoroughly killed, Katsuki thought about his conversation with Kirishima that morning. His friend hadn’t reacted precisely how he had expected. Weren’t him and Tetsutetsu together? Didn’t they decide on their internships as a pair? They were joined at the hip - or rather, at the hand, given the amount of arm wrestling they got up to. One time, they even got distracted by a conversation mid arm-wrestle, and simply continued to hold hands for almost 20 minutes. Katsuki was convinced his coming out would be a moment of solidarity, not the awkward moment of vulnerability it turned out to be. Still, he had wanted to tell somebody what he had known for a while. And besides, Kirishima was his closest friend, and he couldn’t exactly imagine it having gone better with any of his other classmates. Well, perhaps except for one. 

With the better part of an hour left in the car, Katsuki’s thoughts drifted to last night. 

Uraraka gave Izuku a quick hug goodnight before sending him back to his room. Her brow furrowed as soon as he turned the corner. This can’t be good for them, she thought, whatever it is. And yet, trying to keep the two away from each other was an impossible task - this she had learnt a long time ago. She tried to settle her mind before sleeping, brushing her hair and gazing out onto the school grounds. So green, and so perfectly kept. It felt hard to believe that come tomorrow, her home would be somewhere she had never been before. A sudden flood of sadness motivated her to try to memorise the details of her beloved dorm room view: the shape of the topiary; the lines in the mown grass; the figure in the hedgerow-

The figure in the hedgerow? 

Two stories below, Izuku half-heartedly made his way through his night time routine, after which he took a seat on the edge of his bed. The walls were barren of All Might memorabilia, since these had been the first things Izuku (oh-so-carefully) packed. The empty room filled him with a restless energy, and so he began to pass the time by sorting through the remainder of his things that he would need to pack tomorrow. When it came to his less treasured possessions, Izuku was hardly organised. Until, that was, he had something to distract himself from. Once the list of useful tasks began to dwindle, Izuku looked at the time. It was later than he’d thought. Perhaps he had been mistaken to think that Kacchan would show up tonight. That’s it -  he must have already been asleep - undoubtedly. Of course: he would clearly want to spend his last night at UA in his own room!  Plus, come to think of it, hadn’t Izuku hurt him? Didn’t Izuku reject his kindness and run away? It was silly to think, all things considered, that Kacchan would want to come and see him tonight. 

A gentle knock at the door corrected this notion. 

Izuku rose to open it, and there he was - the hallway light, a corona around his head. His eyes faintly bloodshot in the aftermath of tears. He kept his gaze on the floor, allowing Izuku to survey him without the direct light of eye contact. Izuku, once satisfied, stepped aside to usher Katsuki in, who made a beeline to curl up in the twin dormitory bed. Neither were fully conscious of the routine they had created, but it was simple and effective, accommodating for their unspoken understanding without pushing either to talk. Izuku hesitated, as he always did, before joining Katsuki in bed. Once there, however, force of habit guided his arm around Katsuki’s torso, hand resting upon the left side of his chest. Immediately, the turmoil of the coming change quieted in his head, replaced by the rhythmic beating of Katsuki’s heart. He’d never get tired of feeling it, he thought, resting his cheek on the dip above his shoulder blade. They spent a minute or two like this, before the rhythm of his heartbeat became interspersed with small, quiet sobs. 

“Kacchan-” Izuku began to move, but Katsuki caught his hand with his own, pulling it tighter and closer to his chest. Izuku obliged, holding him closely, nestling his face into the crook of his neck. The sobs became stronger, as Izuku held tighter in turn, Katsuki’s fingers becoming interlaced with his own. Through sheer pressure, neither could tell where their limbs began and ended, and they remained like this until Katsuki’s breathing returned to it’s slow, steady pace. They relaxed, yet had no intentions of letting go. Not yet. There was no close enough - not with each other, and while they had held each other numerous times, this was the first time that Katsuki and Izuku had held hands since they were children. 

Katsuki shifted to lie on his back, allowing Izuku to press his dry cheek against Katsuki’s sodden one. Izuku wanted to kiss his tear-stained face - his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth. The closeness was intoxicating - he wanted to say it all, right then and there. The confession, the years of adoration, and worst of all, the reason he was going to Osaka. He wanted to say, “you know I love you, don’t you? I love you so much I can’t bear to ruin you.” In his own head, he pleaded, “can’t you forget I ever wanted to be a hero? I could live a normal life with you.” Yet it would do no good to express these thoughts out loud. The promise of a normal life felt close and simple in the dead of night, but come morning, the edges of the daydream would falter under the unforgiving sunlight, as they always did. What good would it do for Katsuki to forget his dream, if Izuku couldn’t forget it himself? Though even if he could, he knew Katsuki wouldn’t forget, and besides, he would never understand that he was being ruined. Izuku knew that it would do no good to kiss him, either. It would only make it harder to leave. 

Katsuki played through the last night’s events in his mind, images projected onto the moving traffic and billboards outside the car window. He payed special attention to the small details which he feared would fade over time; the tickle of Izuku’s eyelash on his cheek, the texture of the scars on his hands. Katsuki had not thought of kissing Izuku, at least, not then. Those thoughts were reserved for nights spent alone in his own bed, his arms tight around his pillow. That desire was too dangerous, he felt, too explosive to be brought near Izuku in those moments - so gentle, so warm and close. Too dangerous, especially since he was sure Izuku didn’t want to be with him. After all, if he did, why would he move away? He had his pick of universities (another perk of his war heroism), and there was no scholarship, subject or unique opportunity waiting for him at Osaka, as far as he was aware. Katsuki felt selfish for it, but he couldn’t help but take the moments of closeness he could get, even if they were, as he had assumed, borne of pity or nostalgia. 

It didn’t feel like long before the shapes of buildings begun to change, heralding the car’s arrival into Tokyo. As they neared his new apartment, the unfamiliar streets felt blank, almost empty, as if waiting for the memories and associations to come and fill them in. Katsuki regarded them ambivalently. With Endeavor’s retirement, Best Jeanist’s agency had been the obvious place for him to go, and though Izuku had refused to join him, he had hoped that the allure of Tokyo university might keep them in the same city. Then, he could go about things properly, he had thought, get some flowers and brush up, be a man and tell him that he loved him. In retrospect it felt like little more than a schoolgirl fantasy. 

As the car pulled in beside his new apartment block, Katsuki took one last look at his warped reflection. Scary, it confirmed. What on earth had made him think, all those months ago, that Izuku might love him back? 

Chapter Text

Shoto Todoroki put down the flowers, and brushed off his knees. It felt like an odd day to visit, and an odd time, too, but the whirlwind of class goodbyes had overwhelmed him, and he had made the compromise of finishing his packing before he went. The last bunch of flowers he laid there hadn’t wilted yet, and he had felt a little awkward placing the new bouquet right next to another, identical one, but the feeling soon faded. With the two bunches of sky blue petals, sitting side-by-side, nearly iridescent in the fading dusk light, it almost looked like more than one family member had come to visit the grave. Almost. 

Shoto visited his eldest brother more than he did any other member of his family. Natsu was busier than usual with wedding planning, but even before this, Shoto only stopped by once in a while for dinner. His father, mother and sister now lived under the same roof - the home he had grown up in - and despite his love for the latter two, he couldn’t bring himself to go back regularly. Once in a while, when his sister Fuyumi pled, he would steel himself for a family meal, but for the past year, this had been the extent of his visits. His guilt over his lack of contact thawed every time he visited Toya’s grave, finding it devoid of offerings from anybody other than himself. 

On the bus back to the dorms, he tried to rationalise their lack of visits. Perhaps they hadn’t had time. He could understand this on his siblings’ part, perhaps, but neither of his parents worked any longer. He mapped out the graveyard in his head, to ascertain whether his father could access the grave by wheelchair. Where the newer plots were, however, pains had been taken to make sure all were easy to visit, and his wheels shouldn’t have had any problems, save for the occasional weed. Toya’s plot was intentionally vague and nondescript, made so in order to avoid the defacement that often characterised the resting place of famed villains. Perhaps, therefore, they had forgotten where he was buried. Perhaps they had simply been unable to find his grave again in the rows and rows of war casualties. This train of thought consumed him - his mother and father, even his siblings, giving up and going home. Bitter anger rose like bile in Shoto’s throat. It was, as it always was, invasive and unwelcome. He shut his eyes and exhaled shakily, doing his best to focus on the rattle of the bus beneath him. It worked for a second, perhaps, before the rattle began to join the chorus of discomfort that bore against him.

Back at UA, the common room was populated by worn-out, sentimental friends, some laughing over memories, some crying over parting. The day was coming to a close, and those who remained downstairs would likely soon give in to the exhaustion of the day’s labour. Still, the precious transience of the evening didn’t register to Shoto; the conversations barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat, his surroundings registering as little more than a blur. He slipped past the conversations, up to his room on the 5th floor. With as much composure as he could store in his body, he knocked softly upon the wall around his room, hoping to find a solid part where no sound would carry upon impact. Thud. Concrete, not the hollow sound of drywall. A millisecond of relief washed over him before the thick, fearful rage returned to his body. 

Uraraka stared out the window, trying to make out the figure. Still, tall. The blurry darkness made it almost impossible to discern any features. It could have been a man, though there was something girlish to the way they stood. Both her and the figure stood frozen. Uraraka didn’t dare move, afraid that even one blink would make the vision disappear, or worse, disprove her wildest hopes. No, even after two years of double-takes at the smiles of every stranger, she would still rather have stayed in any moment of deluded imagination, where she might believe that her love, her ghost, was coming to her, after all. It was never hard for Uraraka to trick herself; anybody could’ve been her, after all. A disguise, a cautious survey, a shy attempt at returning. Still, each time, she found herself slightly less gullible, and it didn’t take long before Uraraka had convinced herself that she was staring at an oddly-shaped shadow. 

It was the figure who moved first. 

It was a little pivot before it started walking to the far end of the hedgerow. Small as it was, the turn clarified that the figure had indeed been facing her building. Perhaps even her window? All self preservation left Uraraka’s body, as she turned and sprinted down the stairs, miraculously avoiding the attention of the classmates that remained in the common room. She barely managed not to trip over her own feet as she raced to reach the south side of the dormitory building. Once there, her eyes took another second to adjust to the light. She scanned the hedgerow. Then the bushes, the lamps, the corners of nearby buildings. The world was eerily still. Uraraka ran her eyes over every feature of her surroundings once more, and a final time, before admitting that the figure was lost. Had it been her, after all? Had she run? Pain and panic shot through her abdomen. She cried out reflexively, like a wounded animal.

“Himiko!”

It took a couple of seconds before she realised nobody was coming, and a couple more before the stupidity of what she had just done dawned on her. With wide eyes, she turned slowly to check that none of her classmates had been there to witness her outburst.

Nothing. Thank god. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had been doing such a good job of seeming like she was holding it together, and she supposed that she would soon find out if if all of her hard work had been spoiled. She began a rigid walk back to the dorms, prepared any second to come face-to-face with another concerned student. Yet nobody seemed to be outside. Reentering the building and thus now facing the common area, Uraraka feigned a yawn in the direction of Momo and Shoji, who wished her goodnight as she made her way back to her dorm room.

Stupid, too stupid. Far too close a call. Uraraka made a beeline to a box, not yet packed, which she kept under her bed. She pulled out a small bottle, downing it in one swift motion, and moving to close the curtains, giving a reproachful look to the cruel outside world which had just tricked her. As she lay on her bed, the edges of everything began to blur. The drink was a place to Uraraka - a little world where everything could be mistaken for Himiko. This deranged, dangerous place - Uraraka needed it, needed a way to contain her madness. Far, far away from the world she had lived in just hours before, talking cheerfully and lucidly with her best friend. 

Here, in this world, several hours and another couple bottles later, Uraraka lay in bed beside a misshapen pile of blankets, adorned now with a precious beige cardigan. 

“Why did you run away from me again?” she mumbled, only half-conscious.

“It’s okay, 

It’s okay, you’re here now.”

Shoto sat on the floor, still shaking. He held his right hand with his left firmly, trying to stop what was left of the bleeding. When he felt it was safe enough, he removed his hand to survey the damage to his fist. His knuckles were completely raw, surrounded by the beginnings of bruises. Shit. Shoto didn’t like what he had done to himself. Silent tears welled in his eyes as he began to try to control the damage. 

Water and tissues was good enough for taking care of the blood, and he jammed them into a box of old notes once he was clean. But how to conceal it? Shoto rifled through a box of old training equipment - there. A compression bandage. He had sprained his wrist, that was it, moving boxes, or something like that. Tears welled up again, and ran down his face as he carefully wrapped the bandage around his hand, knuckles padded with tissue. He hated the lying. Hated the pain. Hated the isolation. But somewhere, among the misery, there was an undeniable feeling of relief. Everything he felt and that he knew, yet couldn’t quite articulate, had a way of making him feel like an animal, backed into a corner. He knew there must be a better way of going about things, but he had yet to find it. And so, everytime the emotions overwhelmed him, something had to break. 

By the time an hour or so had passed, Shoto felt that his face no longer betrayed the tears which had overcome him earlier. Besides, he felt it was now safely past the point where his classmates would be awake and ready to question his new injury, and thus he made his way down to the dorm restrooms. Halfway down the first flight of steps, he froze. His classmate, Katsuki Bakugo walked out onto the staircase, and began descending in front of him. Though, he seemed… off, somehow. If Shoto didn’t know better, he may have thought Bakugo looked nervous. Stepping softly, he followed after him at a safe distance, peering out into the corridor his classmate eventually turned down. 

He watched as Bakugo raised his hand, hesitated and then knocked at Izuku Midoriya’s door, which then opened, and let him inside without a word. 

“Huh,” thought Shoto, running his fingers over the bandage “Guess we both have secrets.”

Chapter Text

Izuku took a seat near the back of the lecture hall. He was a little early, but there could be no real harm in that. He checked his phone, rereading the carefully crafted message All Might had sent him. His mother had sent him a message, too, though it was unmistakably tinged with needless fretting, which didn’t serve to calm him down. Still, both of them loved him, and however much he feared the faces filtering into the hall, they could make no mark on that. He looked up from his phone and found the world sharp and unfamiliar. The figures entering the room were already tired, it seemed, interacting with one another clumsily and unenthusiastically as they filled the rows in front of the lectern. Izuku avoided eye-contact, instead taking out a pad of lined paper and a pen, which he found a way to look occupied with it until the professor began to speak. 

A couple of minutes into the lecture, Izuku’s page was already a disorganised mess. He decided to give up on recording a perfect rendition of the day’s learning, instead stretching his forearms and taking a quick look around the room. It took him a couple of second to register that he was surrounded by a sea of laptops. He scanned the hall in front of him. Not a single other person was writing on pen and paper. When had they been told to use laptops? He could retrieve no memory of it, but everybody had known to, somehow. His cheeks began to flush hot with the feeling of being an outlier. It’s not that anybody was staring at him - really, nobody had to stare at him to notice; he was a little empty spot on a coloured-in page. It was a feeling Izuku hadn’t felt the full force of since middle school. He was a sitting duck of social humiliation: the only figure not obscured behind a screen, with a beet-red face to boot. In retrospect, he realised how much he had relied on Katsuki the past few years. All of the nudges, whispers, and points to clue Izuku in to what he was missing. Between all the conferences, and unexpected social situations - he hadn’t appreciated how much those hints had done for him. He felt gormless. Useless. He wanted nothing more than to blink and be back in his mother’s apartment, one quick train ride away from his dorm at UA. 

A week before he moved, he had come home, as he did once a week, to have dinner with his Mother and All Might in the apartment where he grew up. Neither of them heard him come in, both occupied with various culinary tasks - Izuku’s footsteps masked by the hiss of vegetables entering the pan. The man chopping vegetables was rarely ever called by his hero name anymore, but within this small household it had become his title, and none amongst them felt like changing it. Izuku had stood in the hall, savouring both the smell and the feeling which he couldn’t quite put a name to. Once the hissing had died down could hear the two talking to each other. 

“-and he’s such a passionate person, I think it’ll be great to see what it looks like to put his passion into learning, too.”

“You think? He did always love studying. I just worry that he’ll keep trying, even if he can’t, and get himself- well, you know.”

“Let him try! If he was going to get hurt, he would have gone to an internship, and we didn’t even have to have that talk with him”

“You’re right, you’re right.”

“It’s hard for him, but it’s not like it was after the war. Or before it, of course. He will find a path.”

Tears had burned in Izuku’s eyes. He heard them talk all the time, but never eavesdropped. What wonderful conversations had he missed over the past years? What on earth did he do for them to have such faith in him? 

“Hey, and no more injuries to his hands, we can hope!”

“Have you seen him chop vegetables? I’m not so sure.” 

Their laughter had given him cover to enter the room. Back in the lecture hall, Izuku rewound and replayed the memory from start to finish several times. It was a comfort blanket - a feeling of safety so strong it displaced the world around him, making it seem almost imaginary. The tape stopped once he realised the students around him were packing up, and his blank stare was still fixed on the lecturers face, who glanced up at him, perhaps uncomfortably. Shoving his embarrassingly sparse notes in his bag, Izuku made his way to the exits. 

As he did, however, he noticed a young man at the back of the lecture hall, leant against the wall as if waiting. Not for him, though, surely? He stared at the ground as he ascended the steps, silently praying that he wasn’t being ridiculed, or worse - recognised. Izuku steeled himself to glance up, hoping to disconfirm the stranger’s interest in him. 

Then, almost as if responding to Izuku’s fears, the stranger caught his eye and shot him a knowing smile. 

Uraraka walked into the lavish foyer - familiar from her work study, and yet different than she remembered. Today it had been haphazardly adorned with paper party decorations, which were charming and yet wildly out-of-place next to the grand gold ornamentation of the room. She regarded them with curiosity, and a second or two passed before she realised that the decorations were there to celebrate her arrival. Giving her no time to react, a familiar face popped up in front of her. 

“Uraraka! You’re here! Hey, hey, how was the journey? What’s your new apartment like? Can I see it?”

A young woman with a blunt blue bob stood, wide-eyed expression centimetres from her own. Ryukyu put a hand on her shoulder. “Give her a second, Hado, she’s only just come in!

Uraraka had instinctively veered back, before she realised there was nothing telling to smell on her breath. Relax, she thought, be friendly. Be carefree. 

Welcome to the agency, Uraraka. We’re thrilled to have you. Please, come - meet everyone.”

Throughout the introductions, Uraraka began to come down from the first-day adrenaline rush, though this was helped quite dramatically by Nerjire’s constant superfluous additions of information. Her friendliness, and everyone’s obvious fondness for her, made the rest of the heroes feel vastly less intimidating. Even more comforting than this was Hado’s commentary about her own life. 

“Uraraka, Uraraka, you have to come over for dinner, okay? I make desert and Yuyu will make dinner, okay? And you can meet our cat Kumo, okay? He’s so fluffy-”
“Ah, Yuyu - That’s Haya, right? Your friend from UA? I’d love to meet her properly-”

“Not friend!” Hado said with a mock pout, “ Girlfriend . And I’ll marry her once I get enough money for a really nice ring, you know!”

Hado rambled on about the role their cat would play in the wedding, as a stunned Uraraka scanned the faces of her new colleagues. She had spoken so clearly, so loudly, for everyone to hear. Nobody was gawking, or mumbling, or whispering. There were no embarrassed looks or raised eyebrows. Instead, some of the nearby heroes listened in, smiling at Hado’s concerns about coaxing a cat to walk down the aisle. Something that was wound tight inside Uraraka’s stomach loosened a little, as she continued to mingle with each of the people she would now be working alongside. 

A routine of introductions emerged as heroes returned from patrol and others left. It turned out that while Uraraka was the newest recruit, a couple of the sidekicks had transferred here within the last year. She was beginning to feel as if this world was worth investing in. As if, maybe, she hadn’t been lying through her teeth when she spoke with Izuku on their last day at UA. It could’ve been real. Perhaps she really could find a girlfriend, and she wouldn’t even need to hide it at work. Seeing how celebrated she was as a hero, how happy she could be, her parents surely couldn’t mind. That night was a blip, she told herself - the drinking, the screaming - she was exhausted and hysterical. Now, she was over it. She was happy. 

Everybody was thrilled, they repeated, to have Uraraka join the agency. Carefully curated moments of admiration were shared - Uraraka’s ingenuity in taking down the seaplane, her support against the Hassaikai, and even her first year sports festival fight. A small bud of pride grew inside her. 

The newer agency members were the last to share their thoughts. Most were a little nonspecific, and Uraraka was relieved that the stark spotlight upon her achievements had softened somewhat. The second newest member, whose name had slipped Uraraka’s mind, was the last to speak up.

“I’m honestly just glad to be working with someone who really understands what the war was like.”

The air in the room froze over. 

The speaker continued. “The kids from my school weren’t drafted, even though we were second years, and I think that experience really makes a difference. But I mean, it was thanks to you that everything was over so quickly, so you’re clearly really strong-”

He continued speaking, but Uraraka was somewhere else. ‘Strong’? ‘Quickly’? ‘Experience’? 

‘Experience’ ?

She tried to move her face to mimic composure, but found herself lost, her eyes instead darting to her former conversational allies. Ryukyu’s eyes, and the eyes of most of her colleagues, were pinned in quiet panic on Uraraka’s face. She understood immediately. The school had sent the memo. So much for happy, so much for composure. Everybody in this room, besides the one speaking, had been informed not to mention the war in front of her. Her eyes darted between acquaintances, until she found Hado’s face. 

Hado’s usual smile had dropped. Instead she stood still, staring daggers into the back of the new hire’s head. Uraraka could tell that her anger wasn’t on her behalf, but her own. Hado had been there, and had been too young to be there, the same as Uraraka had been. The solidarity solidified into courage, and the courage into composure. 

“Thank you,” she interrupted his ramblings with an empty smile, “But we lost more than we gained. The only important thing is making sure something like that never happens again.” 

Her words were intentionally governmental. She wanted to say: you have no idea . She wanted to sound uncanny - as if too old to be 18. This is what it did to me , she thought at him. And it seemed her message got across, as her interlocutor quickly registered the tension in the room and made a clumsy attempt to backtrack. 

“Yes, of course. I mean, I don’t want it to sound like I wished I was there, or- I, yes. Excuse me.” 

Uraraka responded with a curt nod. As she turned towards Ryukyu, ready to receive her instructions on the afternoon’s training, she couldn’t help but notice an impressed look upon the hero’s face. 

Carefree. Happy. Strong. Experienced. As she listened to the instructions, her hand instinctively made its way to the scar on her gut. 

You have no fucking idea.

Chapter Text

Katsuki took a deep breath and shut the door to his apartment. He patted down his pockets a couple times, running through his mental checklist before locking the door and- 

“Good morning.” Shoto Todoroki’s unaffected voice came from a couple metres ahead of him. 

“What are you doing here?” he barked reflexively. 

Shoto pointed to the door two doors south of Katsuki’s own. “I live here.” 

Katsuki paused, and then grunted in response. 

Unceremoniously, he began his new route towards the train station, with an unexpected Shoto in tow. 

Okay, so they were neighbours. Looking back, Katsuki couldn’t find too many reasons for his surprise at this - perhaps it had been blind hope that had led him to believe he wouldn’t wind up two doors down from his old classmate. Shoto’s proximity caused certain problems. Katsuki had plans for his new life, ones that didn’t involve a watchful eye over the comings and goings from his apartment. 

“Were you surprised?” Shoto asked, “The agency helped organise our accommodation.” 

“I thought you couldn’t relax without tatami,” Katsuki posed, accidentally admitting to a level of consideration usually concealed. 

As usual, however, Shoto wasn’t phased. “They didn’t ask if I had a preference,” he said, immediately getting lost in his thoughts, “Should I have told them I have a preference?”

The two found their platform with relative ease, thankful for the late-morning start of their first agency shift, which had left the station blissfully quiet. Their accommodation could have been closer to the Genius Office, but it soon became apparent that it had been recommended with the route in mind. The walk had been short but pleasant, cutting through a small park filled with cherry trees, buds promising to blossom in just a couple short weeks. The train ride was above ground, for the most part. Katsuki wondered which agency member had lived in their neighbourhood before. He watched as the sun shone through the train window, basking out across the city skyline, though he wasn’t able to fully ignore the unexpected companion in the seat across from him. 

It wasn’t that Katsuki cared if Shoto knew about his personal life - not particularly. He was, however, keenly aware of Shoto’s blind spot when it came to subtlety. This was dangerous. Katsuki was planning on keeping his work life distinctly separate from his life at home for a myriad of reasons, and Shoto’s context-irreverent conversational choices threatened to blur these boundaries irreversibly. Katsuki sighed, deciding it was irrational to fret over when neither work nor personal life had even had time to occur yet. 

“By the way, what were you doing in Midoriya’s room on Friday night?”

Or maybe it wasn’t. 

Izuku panicked. Why was somebody waiting for him? The possibilities felt endless - endless and increasingly catastrophic as he considered them. Had they met before? Or were they there to admonish him? He must have offended somebody - although, no - the worst possibility of all of them was by far the most likely. They must’ve recognised him. 

Izuku hated being recognised. Being thrown into unexpected social situations was never pleasant for him, and it had been especially frequent in the summer after the war had ended. Even so, the frequency had allowed him to remain on his guard somewhat, numbing the ever-present social anxiety Izuku felt. It had therefore turned out that the less Izuku got recognised, the more he came to fear it. So, naturally, he had taken pains to avoid this upon coming to university. 

It felt silly, disguising himself, but the possibility of being gawked at, or even given special treatment, felt vastly worse. Covering his arms was the first step, so all of his habitual t-shirts had been swapped for long sleeves and hoodies (the bigger the better. Wearing such oversized clothes meant it was harder to see his hands, which he hid in his pockets for the most part) as well as obscuring his unusually muscular frame. The scar on his face, while prominent, was now a touch more faded, and was also less blatantly indicative of battle than those on his hands and arms. Still, Izuku had diligently learnt ways of toning it down with makeup, which he made sure to apply each day. Keeping his hair on the longer side also helped, and besides, he didn’t hate the way it looked. Beyond this, he had taken to wearing frames, and containing his hair with a beanie - a simple attempt to deviate from the appearance which had been plastered over news channels two years ago. 

On the steps up to the lecture hall doors, heat started to fill Izuku’s face. The disguise hadn’t worked - that had to be it. Caught in the act, in such a blatant attempt at concealment, too. He began to look up to the figure, apologetically.

The man at the door gave a bashful laugh, holding up a pad of lined paper.

A pad of paper? OH!

Izuku joined in, flipping open his satchel and brandishing his own. The person in front of him had turned from a terror into an ally without so much as a word. 

“I saw,” said the stranger, “Guess we were the odd ones out.”

He must have been sitting behind me , Izuku thought. 

“Do you think everybody knew - like there was a meeting or something?” Izuku whispered, almost conspiratorially. 

“Mm, yeah probably,” he responded, “I think probably everyone’s telepathic but us.”

Izuku stared at the ground, considering the possibility.

“I’m joking,” the man was looking at Izuku’s face with a gentle kind of amusement. Izuku relaxed into a laugh as they began walking out of the building together. 

“But man, I mean, this place makes me feel like I have no clue about anything,” he continued, “I know it’s only the first week, but…”

“We’ll figure it out,” Izuku said, determinedly, earning him a smile from the man beside him. 

“I sure hope so. And hey, I feel like we’re kind of on a team now.”

At that point, he looked away, as if embarrassed, giving Izuku a chance to survey his appearance. His hair was light brown, wavy and down to his shoulders. Though his face was fairly stubbled, Izuku wouldn’t have placed his age far from his own - perhaps around 19 or 20?

“Are you a first year too?” Izuku asked.

“I am,” he squinted back at the lecture hall, “I think we all are, in this course. I forgot to ask, by the way: what’s your name?”

Izuku’s formality kicked in suddenly, responding with his full name and a small yet rigid bow. 

“Well, is it all right if I call you Izuku?”

The unprecedented closeness of this made him blush. There were very few people in his life who called him by his first name - in fact, not even his best friend did. Yet for some reason, he felt reluctant to turn down the suggestion. 

“Uh- well, you haven’t even told me your name yet!”

“Oh! Ah, well, it’s Elijah, but that’s harder to say in Japanese, so Eli is good.”

I-ra-i, Izuku repeated quietly. Eli. His first name?

“Eli,” Izuku affirmed, tilting his head to one side “You’re not from Japan?”

Eli shook his head, and then made a vague hand gesture. He had travelled back and forth his whole life, he explained, between Japan and the US. He spoke, Izuku noticed, overly familiarly, as if trying to break out of an odd liminal space between his two cultures. In retrospect, Izuku felt embarrassed for the small part of him that had misinterpreted Eli’s friendliness as flirtation. As they spoke, they walked together through the campus hallways, and then paths, coming to a stop at the point where their journeys diverged. 

“What are you going to bring next lesson?”

“I think I’ll see what all the fuss is about and bring my laptop,” Izuku admitted, “What about you?”

“I’m stuck with pen and paper,” he laughed, “until I can get a part-time job, that is!”

“That’s not fair on you!” 

Izuku spoke reflexively, with an authority that stood in stark contrast to the rest of his speech, “There should be ones that you can loan from the department - I can check - and if they don’t, then we can-”

“Hey, hey-” Eli interrupted, as if overwhelmed by Izuku’s shift in demeanour, “It’s fine! I, uh, prefer it, you know, so”

“Oh! My bad-”,

“No, no! You’re, uh, sweet.” Eli paused for a second, a look resembling confusion on his face, “You’re very different to everyone else here, you know?”

Izuku searched Eli’s face for clues as to how he should respond. His expression gave away very little, but Izuku found it hard to see how what he had said could’ve been taken as a compliment. 

“Yeah,” He said, “I know.”

A pit of dread opened in Katsuki’s stomach. 

“Huh?”

Shoto furrowed his brow, as if questioning if he hadn’t made himself clear. “On Friday? I saw you go into Midoriya’s room. At night.”

It was true, Katsuki hadn’t been as careful as he normally was in checking the corridor before knocking. He was on autopilot that night; he had felt barely in control of his own body. Still, what kind of terrible luck had he had, for Shoto Todoroki of all people, to see him go inside? Katsuki’s breathing quickened, eyes darting around the carriage for anybody near enough to hear their conversation. There was nobody, but the checking was something to do instead of answering the question that had been posed to him. He checked the entire carriage once, twice, three times, four times- 

“You aren’t doing anything bad, are you?”

The question cut through Katsuki’s deflection like a knife. The present tense, the judgement call, it all stung - rubbing alcohol on fresh wounds; keen and sharp and impossible to escape from. The question Shoto had asked was not the same one that reached Katsuki’s ears - he knew this - and yet there was nothing he could do to stop the tears from welling in his eyes. ‘Who knows?’ he thought, ‘Who knows if it was wrong?’ He certainly felt selfish for it - pathetic and hapless, too. And yet it wasn’t anything , not anymore. Whatever it had been, and however damned he was for it, it no longer was, and would never be again. 

Todoroki’s expression hardened, “Bakugo.”

Katsuki’s reaction had worried him. The possibility that he had resumed some form of the bullying he’d been in the habit of when they joined UA was now ripe in Shoto’s mind.  Katsuki knew this, and knew that it would only take a few simple words to correct that notion. It was not, of course, in any sense, like it had been - no harm and no hurt had ever played a part in his late-night visits. Yet Katsuki had checked, checked and checked again, replaying his every move to test if it had been gentle enough. In the spotlight of uncertainty, he wondered again: had it been? Could he even remember well enough anymore? Guilt and loss that towering over him, he was unable to form the words to profess his innocence. He prepared himself to distract from the question, yet still, each lie he tried to form disintegrated on his tongue before he could speak it. His only option was confession.

His shoulders slumped forward, eyes meeting the empty ground between their feet. 

“I- 

I let him hold me.” 

Chapter Text

Shoto watched a quiet tear drop from Katsuki’s open eye onto the carriage floor. What had he done? It wasn’t what he had intended - to turn the conversation into an interrogation. And yet, once again, the worst possible scenario had gripped him by the throat, and wouldn’t let him go until he’d disconfirmed it. The idea of his friend Izuku, helpless and hurt, had turned on the furnace in his stomach - the same furnace that had ignited just days ago, and that his hand was still recovering from. Except, he hadn’t broken himself this time. No, instead, he had broken Katsuki. 

Katsuki, who was weeping, now, and half-trying to conceal his face with his hands, but seemed to be caught in a helpless head-shake. 

“I- I’m sorry-” Shoto’s attempt to backtrack was far too late, but Katsuki seemed to receive it as an attempt at comfort. He shook his head.

“There’s nothing- it’s nothing,” he croaked, barely comprehensible “It’s nothing, so- It’s nothing.”

Shoto felt a lot of things in this moment; regret, sympathy, and panic, but confusion pervaded all of them. Katsuki had said he had “let” himself be held - what did that mean? And was he so distraught about? When Katsuki’s breathing had slowed somewhat, Shoto felt it was safe to ask for clarification. 

“Did you not want to…? - So you… regret it?”

“No, no,” the confrontation had abandoned Katsuki’s voice, “I wanted to.”

Oh, okay. He had wanted to be held, and if Katsuki had ‘let’ him, then Midoriya had wanted to, too. What, then, was wrong? Was Katsuki simply embarrassed? No - he was miserable - but why? What about being held could make you so miserable? Shoto wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been held, he supposed, not really, since he was a child. He scanned Katsuki’s expression once again. It was mournful, but more distant now, as if he was lost in thought, some far-away imaginary place. 

Ah. Far away. Yes. That would hurt.

“You wanted to do it again?” Shoto posed, “And now he’s gone.”

Katsuki coughed, moving to clear some of the tears off of his face. “Something like that.”

Shoto tried to imagine what that might be like. There was a part of it that must have been similar to how he use to feel thinking about his mama, and these days, his eldest brother. Hungry, cold, alone. In the elements, rattling the door of a warm, safe house you can’t get into. There was another part too, he thought - one that made people’s faces go red, their pupils large and their eyebrows tilted. He wasn’t sure what that one felt like, but from the way Bakugo had been talking, he felt fairly certain that he did. 

“Love.” Shoto suggested, solemnly. 

There - a little blush. A pained expression. Just like the movies, Shoto thought - he knew it. 

Katsuki shrugged off the cloying sweetness of the word. “Old news. I’m surprised you didn’t know already.”

“I’m bad with things like that.”

“Well, whatever. It’s over now.”

“Why?”

“Why’d you think?!”

It was reassuring to hear him regain his bark, even if it meant getting snapped at. Shoto paused. “Because he left you?”

“HE DIDN’T LEAVE ME IF WE WEREN’T TOGETHER, DUMBASS!”

“You weren’t together?”

“NO! No, uh-

I don’t think he, uh, has the same,” Katsuki could barely cough it out, “feelings.”

This struck Shoto as strange. From what he could tell about love, it was the only way Midoriya had ever felt about Bakugo. Even when it had been so terribly ill-advised. So they weren’t together, and this had been by - who - Midoriya ’s preference? He tried to picture the man in front of him, love sick and forlorn, being held at arm’s length by his sentimental friend. It seemed completely absurd. 

“Really?”

Katsuki looked seriously at Shoto. The redness around his eyes betrayed his earlier emotional outpour, but apart from that, he had managed to regain his composed, gruff demeanour. 

“You tell me why we’re in different cities, then,” he said.

“Because it sure as hell wasn’t my decision.”

Uraraka made her way home from her second day of internship, heartily exhausted of her physical and social energy. A small spot of greenery gave her an excuse to pause and sit herself down on a bench. She didn’t want to go home yet. Her place was nice, albeit a little adolescent (decorated almost identically to how her UA dorm had been), and yet it was deeply solitary in comparison to how she’d lived before. She thought about the dorms, likely still lively and chaotic without her and her classmates. Now she was gone, the younger students were progressing, and Eri was getting older every day, too. Even after the war, the chaos of school life had prevented her from feeling just how precious each one of those moments alongside her friends was. She pictured taking her former self’s face in her hands, and forcing her to look at the world around her. 

Uraraka remembered lying face-down on the sofa in the UA common room, with Mina sitting on the floor beside her, and Jiro half entangled with Kaminari on the sofa adjacent to her. Mina would occasionally turn her phone around with pictures of celebrity men to receive various degrees of approval from the group. Uraraka would usually give an impassioned “BOOO,” while Kaminari and Jiro took their time appraising the subjects. Mina turned her phone towards Uraraka with particular emphasis on a photo of a bashful-looking man, freckled and bespectacled but pretty nonetheless. Uraraka was confused as to why she was being targeted. “Booooo?” she questioned.

“Huuuuh?” Said Mina, “But I thought you liked Midoriya in first year??”

Uraraka rolled her eyes, gently checking there was nobody nearby to insult, “Yeah, but every lesbian has an embarrassing boy-crush before she comes out! That’s, like, rite of passage.”

Jiro didn’t miss a beat before straightening up, detaching herself from Kaminari and inspecting his face with mock diligence. 

“I don’t like this.” Kaminari’s deadpan voice could barely be heard over the sounds of Mina and Uraraka falling about in laughter. 

The breeze blew a bud into Uraraka’s face, snapping her out of the memory. She looked down at her phone. A group chat for the year’s graduates still regularly popped up with messages and updates from classmates, friends and the odd honorary member. A video stood out, taken by her old homeroom teacher, whose low voice could be heard from behind the camera, instructing the girl onscreen to send good wishes to the graduates. Uraraka had watched it already, but did so again, comforted in the knowledge that after all this time, Eri remained safe, well and more smiley than ever. As she did so, a new message popped onto the screen. Kirishima had sent a selfie of himself with Tetsutetsu, both grinning in what appeared to be a local pizza shop. She wondered where they were, aware that she hadn’t yet pinned down either one’s location in the city, and sent a quick message. 

They were, as it turned out, a 20 minute journey away. Uraraka sat opposite the two of them in a diner booth, finding herself abruptly reacquainted with the feeling of third-wheeling which typically accompanied socialising with the pair. They asked questions with vigour, nodding almost rhythmically as she answered about how her first couple of days had been, and how it was to be living in her new place. This, however, gave her a much-needed opportunity to turn the conversation around. After all, it had been near impossible to glean what the nature of Kirishima and Tetsutetsu’s relationship was, or really ever had been. Uraraka had come out to them as a pair in second year, and found this to be received with enthusiasm and support, but certainly no reciprocal information. They certainly acted like a couple, and barely started any sentences without the word ‘we’, and yet there was something which didn’t add up. All Uraraka could put her finger on was a nagging feeling that Kirishima would want to wear his pride upon his sleeve, were he in fact in a gay relationship. 

Still, through the conversation, Uraraka managed to glean that the two did indeed live together, and that they seemed to take turns cooking and choosing shows to watch. A little pang of loneliness bore through her, but she managed not to let it show upon her face. Halfway through the details of their saccharine domesticity, Kirishima seemed to turn to typing vigorously on his phone. 

“Yesss,” Kirishima said, to the curiosity of the others at the table. He texted for a couple more seconds, and then, “Amajiki’s going to come!” 

In that moment, it occurred to Uraraka that despite his proximity, she had failed to ask her best friend to come participate in the evening’s conversation. He would want to see his schoolmates - she hoped, at least, since she missed his daily presence very dearly. 

“Oh! That’s great! Then, should I ask if Midoriya can come meet us, too?” 

Chapter Text

Izuku Midoriya was lying on his back on the floor of his dorm room. He couldn’t remember why he’d gotten down there. To exercise, probably. Whatever he’d initially decided, it had gotten lost fairly quickly in the span of the half an hour he’d spent on the carpet. His laptop played a lecture recording at two times speed, and he had been listening to it about as much as he’d listened to the original lecture. With one hand bent into a fist, he pushed the laptop lid shut. The voice rattled on for a few more seconds before stopping. 

He looked around at his surroundings in a new light - as the objects now furnishing his floor-dwelling life. A sock, a rug, an envelope. It didn’t smell good down here. Nor did it feel good, but it felt something. It felt different. Izuku looked back up at the ceiling, blurring his eyes until the featureless white began to shift and swirl before him. This wasn’t good, whatever it was. But neither was he, he thought, so why should he expect any more? He couldn’t win, or fight, or try, or do anything without making somebody worry. He couldn’t love right, that was certain, and he couldn’t will himself to try it again after… well, whatever Katsuki had been. He wondered if Katsuki ever really stopped thinking those things - the ones he stopped saying. That Izuku was useless, worthless, that he should’ve just-

A draft hit his cheek from below the dorm room door. He should've just...

It felt right - the idea that Katsuki had hated him all along. It was out of kindness, redemption, guilt that he had been so kind to Izuku these past two years. He’s probably thrilled to be rid of me, Izuku thought. He’d probably be thrilled to be even more rid of me. That thought, soft and icy around his throat, was enough cause for Izuku to panic. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t normal homesickness. This wasn’t normal anything. He got up off the floor and began pacing. 

Go see a doctor . He tried to will himself in his own head. Izuku had been fully briefed on what to do in times of crisis - what to do if his PTSD symptoms intensified or deviated from usual. Go see a doctor. Izuku had spent much of his adolescence in various hospitals - he wasn’t scared of the pills or the needles or the stethoscopes. A simple appointment, however, had felt impossible ever since he learnt that Dr Garaki had been his childhood practitioner. He had managed to avoid the necessity until now. 

Dr Garaki, who had experimented on children. Who had made them villains, and sentenced them to pain and death. He had tried to separate the figure from the word ‘doctor’ - to coax a conscious, positive picture of the exam room into his mind - and yet every time, it would morph into the same scene. The kind, imaginary doctor would excuse themself from the room where a half-dead, half-conscious Shigaraki Tomura now lay mutilated on the exam table, Dr Garaki calmly asking Izuku questions while he brandished his scalpel. He didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to think about it. Not right now, not ever. I need to go see a doctor. But it was no help, Izuku was already paralyzed within the vision. ‘Feeling low, are we?’ says Dr Garaki, dropping a bloody handful of pills onto the table and moving to make another crude cut into Tomura’s abdomen. This is sick. You’re sick. Shigaraki screams and in his head, Izuku screams too, but his mouth would only emit bile, drool and a choked, breathless noise. 

Buzz buzz. Izuku realised he was back on the floor. He was sat at the end of his bed, face slick with sweat and tears, hands grasping the front of his hoodie. He released his hands from the damp fabric, feeling out the grooves in the carpet before opening his eyes. Buzz buzz. Breathe. He wiped his mouth on his hoodie, taking care to take another few deep breaths before he got up. Buzz buzz. Right, the phone. He adjusted his vision to the room and made a careful, shaky movement towards the black rectangle. 

“Need you to come here,” the first text said. 

The second, 

“Right now.”

“Three Point was nice, I think she could be my friend.”

“She was flirting with you,” Katsuki pointed out in a deadpan. Shoto’s dejection was palpable. 

“Chains was nice too, I think he wanted t-”

He stopped himself, and looked to Katsuki nervously, who gave an awkward grimace. 

“No - him too? Really?”

Katsuki almost laughed at the intensity of Shoto’s expression. For a man who didn’t emote much, he certainly saved it for some choice moments. 

Katsuki had won his trust a while back when it came to pointing out flirtation. They had bet on it a few times in second year - whether or not a new friend was really looking for Shoto’s friendship or, well, not. Katsuki had an eye for these things, and hadn’t lost once. With Shoto’s attitude towards social situations, however, it hadn’t felt like much of a fair fight. 

On the train home, Shoto was sulking under the extinguished hope of new friendships. Katsuki quietly hoped that he was too absorbed in his own misery to notice that he cared. He took some liberties and posed a thought. 

“You know it’s not just because of your looks, it’s a compliment - they, they think you’re cool,” he stumbled over the affirming words. 

Shoto gave a ‘hmf’ that sent a breeze into the hairs of his fringe. It was plainly obvious why people found him enchanting. People should consider looking under the hood of a car, Katsuki thought, before they try to ride it. 

“Why do you care so much?” Katsuki said with an air of ambivalence.

“It’s - they don’t really want to be my friend, do they?” 

Katsuki thought. “I guess they do, they just want to be a different kind of friend.”

“Well, too bad!”

Shoto was clearly upset. Katsuki felt that “well, too bad” did a fairly good job of describing Shoto’s identity, or whatever he had learnt of it from their years of proximity to one another. 

“It’s just-” he continued, “then they never actually want to be friends, because they feel bad or sad or- whatever! And if they never felt that way about me in the first place, then they would’ve just been my friend!”

Katsuki got it. It was a set of priorities markedly different from his own, but he understood it. 

“You need a t-shirt that says ‘not an option’ on it.”

Shoto gave a half-sigh, half-chuckle. 

“Yeah, ‘no flirting’ on the back”

“Or, ‘romantically unavailable’ maybe. Neon text.”

“Oh yeah. On my hero suit, too.”

“If it helps,” he said, “I think Three Point thinks you’re gay now, because of the whole Chains…” Katsuki trailed off, concerned he would reveal quite how much it had seemed like Shoto was reciprocating Chains’ advances. 

Shoto, however, had looked on the sunnier side of the sentence. “You think?” he said hopefully, before disappearing deep into thought. 

“I need to look more gay.”

Nothing on Shoto’s face indicated anything but solemn sincerity. Katsuki took several deep breaths, afraid of bursting into laughter by accident. Once his facial muscles were sufficiently tamed, he replied, “I’m not sure that’s the ideal solution to this situation.”

“But girls won’t hit on me.”

“And more guys will, plus it can be- I don’t know if that’s a life you want.”

“Because people might be rude to me for no reason? I don’t mind that. I like knowing when someone is a piece of shit anyway.” 

He made it sound surprisingly simple. Katsuki made a note to himself to consider this perspective. 

“And maybe guys will hit on me, unless I can find a way to make it clear I’m not gay.”

Right, so he wasn’t gay. Katsuki had been 99% certain, but he hadn’t heard him say it. Still, whatever he was, it certainly wasn’t straight, with the way that he was talking. Thankfully, it seemed that Shoto likely knew this, too. His train of thought halted as he noticed Shoto looking at him with an uncharacteristic intensity. 

“You never thought I was gay, right?”

Katsuki gave him a theatrical look of perplexity.

“And you’re gay, right?” Presumptuous. But not wrong. 

“Wait, you’ve never hit on me, right?” 

Answering his questions with expressions could only get him so far, and this was the sticking point. 

“Ugh. GOD, no. 

And yes, I’m gay, and no, I guess I never thought you were gay? And once again, GOD, NO. I have standards.”

After a brief exhibition of relief that he hadn’t been viewed as a romantic prospect, Shoto’s face settled on a cool expression of judgement. Katsuki got the message, loud and clear. Is boy-who-doesn’t-love-you-back what we’re calling ‘standards’ these days? 

He accepted the judgement with a weary look, and the two continued discussing the various ways Shoto could avoid romantic attention. Shoto certainly had the gift of the implicatory look, however rarely he got to use it. He may not be gay, but he’s as queer as they come, thought Katsuki, and felt a little safer. 

Uraraka could admit that her messages to Izuku came off a tad more frantic than she had intended. Still, they had evoked a response, and once she had thoroughly reassured him that there was no imminent emergency or danger, he was headed over to the pizza place where they had gathered. 

Amajiki was quicker to arrive, although it seemed to take him a minute or so to convince himself to go through the door. Uraraka tried not to gawk at the strange, socially anxious dance he was doing through the door’s glass and instead managed to focus on Kirishima’s calm acceptance of the situation. Uraraka had always found it a little hard to interact with Amajiki, and so she was grateful to have summoned Izuku’s impending arrival, which couldn’t come soon enough. 

Once he had sat down, Kirishima managed to coax him into some small talk about his last shift at the agency. 

“And you know,” he added, “Uraraka is working with Hado now!”

Amajiki immediately turned to Uraraka with a bright, calm smile. 

“Of course! That’s wonderful!” It was as if her name had shot a tranquilliser dart straight into him. Thank god. “How is she?”

Uraraka got by sharing various details of Hado’s exploits over the past couple of days, finding Amajiki much easier to interact with now his spirits had been bolstered by discussion of his close friend. Thanks to her recounting of a particularly lively point of a story, Uraraka was the last to notice Izuku Midoriya coming through the door. 

Chapter Text

Despite his meek arrival, his graduating classmates got up eagerly to greet Izuku with enthusiastic hugs. He was glad he had swapped out his clothes and given himself a fresh spray of deodorant before he’d left, otherwise the smell of lethargy and misery on him would have been tangible at such a short distance. Still, he let himself be embraced, trying to focus on the pressure of limbs against his skin. People. This is good. He could do this. People, pressure, sensation, conversation. No need to see a doctor. 

“How is university going? Have classes started yet?”

“No, just a couple of lectures and, you know, just social events.”

Kirishima knew Izuku well enough not to ask about these, and Uraraka, who had been receiving daily updates via text and the occasional call, hung back. 

“I see! Are there any clubs or societies you’re thinking of joining? Man, I think about that and I feel so jealous to be missing out on student life!”

So few words, so perfectly crafted to help Izuku feel positive about his new life. It almost felt like a path he’d chosen, the way Kirishima was talking. Everybody at the table heartily agreed with him, and Izuku began to talk about the sparse information he’d picked up on in his first few days of campus life. He felt a flicker of passion, so small that it could’ve been a trick of the light in the room, a glimpse of a smile on his friends’ faces. 

“I forgot,” Tetsutetsu said, “You’re focusing on quirk studies - right?”

Amajiki, who had been listening quietly, looked up in curiosity at this.

“I took part in a couple of quirk studies,” he said quietly, “since they weren’t sure what my quirk was for a little while.” 

There was something about the studies - the hours of talking about quirks from a birds-eye view - which had softened the blow of talking about other people’s quirks. Izuku had been convinced that he’d been completely incompetent at focusing in his classes, but as he spoke, he realised that he sounded more informed than he’d expected to. Perhaps, he thought, the other students hadn’t fully completed the preparatory reading he’d dedicated himself to. Still, he hadn’t even gotten to thinking about societies. 

“I have no idea what societies to even look for, though.”

“Maybe something exercise or sports related?”

Izuku had considered it, but the idea of sleeveless shirts and the potential for spectators made his skin crawl with the possibility of being recognised. He made a conflicted expression. 

“I don’t think so. I’m still used to training alone. Going to a hero fanclub might be a bit weird now that…” There were too many reasons to count. 

“There might be a queer society,” Uraraka added. 

Izuku perked up at this. They had established that while Izuku didn’t tend to bring up his own identity, he didn’t mind when Uraraka did it - trusting her to pick and choose the moment. Ultimately, it saved him trouble, and she had a perfect track record of reading which rooms were amenable to the revelation. Besides, reading the room was a duty Izuku tended to shirk when he could. He was now deep in thought, considering how and where he might find a university queer society, and what it might involve. Uraraka scanned the room gently, finding Tetsutetsu’s face calmly supportive, and Kirishima’s quietly focused. Katsuki’s friend , she thought. Interesting. 

She looked over to Amajiki, who had straightened his posture a touch, and was looking around as if about to speak. Uraraka gave Izuku a nudge, who in turn looked up in attention. 

“You know, when Mirio comes to visit in a couple of weeks,” Amajiki started, “we’re going to go to a gay club one night, if you want to come?” he looked at Izuku pointedly, leaving intentional room for the others at the gathering to invite themselves, too. 

Izuku was stunned, taking a moment to consider. He hadn’t really thought about going to a club before. 

“Could I come, too? I’m a lesbian!” Uraraka announced, buying time for Izuku to process the proposal. She must have reminded Amajiki of his friend Hado, as his face relaxed into the same warm smile she had elicited before by mentioning her name. 

“Of course!”

Clubs were loud, noisy, messy - but isn’t that just what he needed? More things to bring him to his senses? God, perhaps even closeness. And they were dim too - it would be harder to recognise him. For a second, the image of Katsuki appeared in his head - the smell of his shirt and the warmth of his skin. Izuku cast it aside, taking a deep breath of the cheap diner air around him. Move on. For both of you. 

“I would love to come, Amajiki,” he said sincerely. Amajiki smiled at this, mentioning that Mirio would be thrilled that he was coming along. A couple more seconds passed before the room felt certain that no more volunteers were going to come forward. 

The next hour of catching up passed quickly, and both Izuku and Uraraka were reminded that Tetsutetsu was interning with Amajiki and Kirishima at Fat Gum’s agency. With vague promises of future plans, the group departed, and Izuku and Uraraka began to make their way to the nearby station together. 

Izuku watched the pavement as he stepped over it, feeling the absence of the constant friendly chatter which had been tuning out his internal monologue for the evening. Am I okay? Am I sure? He didn’t want to go home to his empty room and his snotty laundry, still haphazardly strewn about on his bed. But he would have to. That was that. He clenched his fists, not realising he was walking faster than usual. 

Uraraka was almost skipping to keep up. “Are you,” Huff, “Okay?”

“Oh- sorry,” Izuku slowed down, “I, uh. I-”

He found it near impossible to lie, as always. Uraraka caught her breath deftly.

“I think so. I think, it’s good to see people.” 

His eyes darted around erratically, and he fidgeted with the edges of his jacket. Uraraka hadn’t seen him like this in a while. They had a routine at UA, one that usually prevented things from getting too bad for him. It worked, but it involved sleeping top-to-toe like children, and there was the issue of the inescapable fact that they weren’t children anymore. 

Uraraka watched Izuku get reabsorbed into the world of his thoughts. She wanted to tell him to come home, and that she would go too, like there was some fictional house where they both came from. As if their strange amalgamate family somehow understood how to treat them, now that they had come home with blood on their hands. It was nobody’s fault, Uraraka had decided, that the world didn’t get it. They were children, then victims, then soldiers, then murderers, and then adults - in that order. The avenues of blame were too winding, confusing and exhausting of a labyrinth to explore, and the plain facts of the moment were that Izuku was lost, and therefore, Uraraka was alone in looking after him. 

“I can at least walk you home,” she said, and then added with a little more enthusiasm, “I still haven’t seen your room, you know!”

Izuku inhaled sharply at the thought of Uraraka seeing his place of dwelling in its depressing state, but the anxiety over reentering the dorm room alone proved stronger. 

“Okay,” he said softly. 

When they finally reached the 4th floor, Izuku took a while halfheartedly fumbling with the lock. He hadn’t been sleeping well, she could tell. The door opened to a narrow kitchen, countertops stacked with still-packed boxes. Walking through, the room housed a single bed, next to a desk, set up against a decent-sized window at the end of the room. The room was a mess, and a depressing one, at that. More boxes sat in the room’s unfurnished corners. A couple were half-rifled through to access cutlery and clothing. Laundry was strewn about the bed, and crumpled tissues covered surfaces indiscriminately. Yet, none of this was what phased Uraraka. 

“Where,” she asked quietly, “are your All Might posters?”

The room was lived in, but it showed none of the signs of Izuku that Uraraka had come to expect. The bedsheets were plain, the shelves, empty of memorabilia. Izuku was more than his fanaticism, Uraraka thought, but it served well as a symbol of him. Passionate and sincere. Determined. Barely a week ago he had packed each small, plastic memory into a box with the utmost care. And there they lay still, it seemed, but why?

Izuku had turned pink in shame at Uraraka’s question, standing out starkly against the blank white walls. He couldn’t form the words; they felt too blasphemous. To say he was embarrassed… of his mentor? Of the only father figure he’d ever had? And yet, it wasn’t quite that. It was himself, his awkward, naive, fanatic self that he was ashamed of. He had thought maybe, with his new wardrobe and blank slate, he could pack away those parts of himself that were so painfully open and vulnerable to criticism. God, a stupid thought. When had that ever worked? He hung his head in shame and admission.

Uraraka was looking at him with a heavy, pained disappointment. She didn’t try to hide it; it was an open plea. Please don’t try to shut my friend away, it said, you promised you would look after him for me.

As Izuku bowed his head further, Uraraka gently deconstructed the tallest tower of boxes, gently placing the two most neatly packed, undented boxes onto Izuku’s mess of a bed. She looked to him for guidance, but he gave none, simply staring at the containers with a mix of trepidation and longing. Uraraka carefully removed the packing tape. Had it been anybody else, he would’ve flinched, compelled into protecting the memorabilia. And yet it wasn’t - it was Uraraka - who today was more careful with the box than even he might’ve been. She began to remove items from the box, and giving him a pointed look before placing them on the futon. At first he thought he was being further admonished, but he quickly noticed that Uraraka was waiting for his approval before bringing each item into his new home. 

It was 5 items in when Izuku shook his head, instead. All Might themed dishware didn’t feel sentimental or exciting, and in actuality it looked more like it was themed to the American flag. He prepared himself for resistance from Uraraka, but she instead gave a small nod of assent, placing them carefully back into the cardboard box. They went on like this for another half an hour, after which one box had been sorted through, leaving a neat arrangement of items both in the box and on the bedsheets. Uraraka began to undo the tape from the second box absentmindedly, failing to notice Izuku’s speechless shake of the head. 

“Don’t-” he said, barely audibly. The box yawned open. Uraraka’s reactions weren’t quick enough to prevent her from looking - not after the exhaustion of training and socialising. 

Stacks of notebooks stared up at her. “Hero Analysis for the Future No.21” - oh.

“Sorry- I-”

“It’s fine,” said Izuku, suddenly mobile. He wiped an escaped tear from his eye with a wan smile and retaped the box back down. As Uraraka stood stock still, he deftly rearranged the box to sit at the bottom of the pile in the corner of his room. “You’ve helped me a lot. I’ll put these things out and I’m sure it will feel a lot more like home.” 

“I’m really sorry I opened the box without asking,” Uraraka felt childish now, and entirely unhelpful. 

Izuku pulled her into a comforting hug. For some reason, being alone didn’t sound so bad anymore. 

“I think you’re tired,” he said seriously, “I mean, you must be! Go home and get some rest.”

“You don’t need help putting anything up?”

“I think it’ll be nice to get it done on my own. Like meditation.” 

When had Izuku ever gone for meditation? She couldn’t picture her distractible friend voluntarily trying to empty his mind of thoughts, and yet, what kind of friend would she be if she questioned his attempt to feel better? 

“Sure,” she smiled, collecting her belongings, “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Uraraka?”

He stopped her as she placed an unsteady hand on the doorhandle. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” her smile brightened synthetically, before softening into her best imitation of sincerity,

“I’m good.”

Chapter Text

Katsuki had the low lights on in his apartment. The place had changed a lot within the past week - it was more stylish, now. Perhaps even inviting. He appraised his work. A choice light-blue throw on the brown sofa, lit candles on the surface-tops, an assortment of cookbooks on the shelves nearest to the kitchen. It wasn’t the biggest place, but it had come to look intentionally chosen. It did not look as if his job was putting him up, and it certainly did not look as if he had graduated high school less than a month ago. Perfect.

His next shift would start later in the day, and go on into the evening. Still, even the most rigorous of shifts at the agency paled in comparison to what many of his days at UA had taken out of him. Even those UA days, in turn, hadn’t really stacked up to the most intensive parts of his post-war physiotherapy. He extended each of his right fingers individually in an attempt to shake off the memories, as well as the nerves which had been steadily accumulating in his body. Washing up? Done. Laundry? Put away. Floor? Swept. No more tasks could serve to help him procrastinate any longer. 

Katsuki looked at himself in the mirror. A black t-shirt and jeans. It wasn’t doing him any favours, but he didn’t look horrible, he guessed. He contorted his face into different expressions, unaware of his failure to mimic the way his face moved in natural conversation. He looked strange, he thought. Scary, scary, scary. He brought the black t-shirt back over his head and let it drop onto the floor. A tank top. Just a white tank top. On its own? Simple enough - he put it on and surveyed himself. 

God, no - his right arm was covered in scars. It was understood at UA, understood at the agency, but what story did they tell to people who didn’t know him? These were from battle - an idiot could tell as much. Scary, he thought, dangerous. Proud of it. A chill ran through him as he pictured himself, partying, talking, flirting, all the while his own body was perceived as a threat. No good, he thought, as he rifled through his coat hangers. There - a peach overshirt. Nonthreatening. It didn’t look terrible on him either, he thought, surveying the pastel ensemble that now clothed him. Really, though, who was he trying to kid?

Katsuki had never really told anybody about the thoughts he had, the fears about his own capacity to hurt. It was hard for him to pinpoint when they began, but sometime after Izuku left UA before the war, his mind had begun to force him down these interminable loops and pathways. Sometimes it felt so honest, as if he only wanted to understand and atone for his mistakes - and yet every time he would find himself poring hours of dread into minutia, leaving him both paralysed and no better of a man. On better days, Katsuki knew that his thoughts only wanted to try to catch him out, to prove he was a monster, for no reason other than it scared him. Today was a better day.

Giving himself no time to think, he hastily shoved the black t-shirt into a drawer and opened the route he had pre-prepared on his phone. Lights off. Wallet, phone, keys. He blew out the candles, still pausing to check if any were at risk of tunnelling, before double locking the door and heading out to the bar. 

Uraraka stood outside the campus bounds, pausing for just a second to let the breeze chill her, just enough to feel the the tips of her fingers numb ever-so-slightly. To her left was a small side street with a brightly-coloured off-licence, and to her right was her route home. She had managed to avoid going home since her shift ended, around four hours ago, but this meant that she was poorly-dressed for the night’s cold. A drink would make it easier, warm her up, she thought. 

Despite her age, Uraraka had never gotten carded, which she attributed partially to her affinity for wine and partially to the bags under her eyes. Before the war - before hero school, people had frequently told her that she’d looked younger than she was. She had decided she preferred it this way around. 

Before she had made a decision, she found that her body was already walking towards the off-licence, with a gait slightly wider and more confident than her habitual one. It was the beginnings of the drink-acquiring routine she was so used to performing, and before she knew it, she was pushing open the door. There was no room for regrets now, not if she wanted to maintain her dignity throughout this stunt. She placed her usual items in front of the cashier: a bottle, a snack or two, and a ready meal-kit - a list that spoke to a hard day’s work. She gave them an exhausted smile - really more of a grimace - as she handed over her purchases, and received them clean and trouble-free in a white plastic bag. 

As simple as that, she thought. And yet, not quite so simple. She wanted it now. Wasn’t that the whole point? It would make the journey back warmer, and furthermore, could make her home so much less daunting to return to. She walked down the street a little further, hunting for an alleyway to duck into. 

There were plenty. Uraraka chose one where her silhouette would be obscured by heaps of waste left by local businesses. She turned her attention to the noises around her. No footsteps, no voices. Carefully, she undid the screw cap from the cheap bottle and took a swig, all without removing the bottle from the bag. Focus, now. She waited a good ten seconds without moving. No footsteps, no voices, no rustling. Impulse took her, and she tilted the bottle once again - chugging this time. Blood and wine rushed her senses, as she gambled with the privacy of the alleyway she stood in. The bottle came down again, significantly lighter, and still inside the plastic bag. No… voices, no footsteps. A small rustle from her own hand, and her feet among the binbags as she straightened herself up. 

A ripple of nausea ran through her. Focusing on the possibility of being caught had distracted her from the more important judgement of how much she was drinking. She had downed what looked like 2/3rds of the bottle - and it had been the strongest brand she could find. Too much, and to quickly, especially as she hadn’t had a drink since- This wasn’t good. Even in her worst times, the restrictions of dorm living put a limit on how much she drank. A limit she stretched, but a limit nonetheless. This was new territory. She considered throwing up, but felt this was likely to draw immediate attention, instead taking diverting her attention towards managing the nausea coursing through her. The chances of her being recognised were never high, but they were enough to make public intoxication a big mistake. Never mind now, what was important was getting home. 

Uraraka began a swift walk, occasionally slowing when her stomach threatened to weaken. She took deep breaths, practising what she had learnt from the late nights of keeping her habits quiet at UA. It was, at worst, a fifteen minute walk home, and yet, everything seemed to be taking longer than expected. What’s more, she was sure she had passed the same stranger on the street at least four or five times. ‘One more street,’ she resolved to herself as she turned each corner, unable to think what she might do once she was no longer able to push on. The city began to paint itself at awkward angles, blurs around her merging into concerned faces. She could barely place herself on the route she was travelling, but her best guess would have put her just a little over halfway home. Not near enough, by far, to make it in her state. It seemed that further perseverance was no use. When the next opportunity presented itself, Uraraka ducked into an alleyway littered with food stall bin bags. 

The sounds of the street were muffled by the walls, making way for the stench of disposed street food. Uraraka thrust her chin as far away from her body as she could before retching into a pile of trash. Lightheaded, the floor proved unreliable. She moved to cling to a drainpipe behind her, and found her hand hit something fabric. 

Fabric, solid, warm. She veered backwards at a speed ineffective against any possible danger, though thankfully it seemed none was coming. The stranger, whose face she had seen five, six times - since beginning her drunken walk? He wore the suit of a company man - nondescript and clean. Warm, solid and warm. She reached out a hand to him, losing her balance as she did so. The man quickly put his arms around her forearms to steady her, and then drew back, as if surprised by his own frame. Why wasn’t she afraid of him? She knew the answer to this question, but she didn’t know how delusional it was. Why couldn’t she get her instincts to kick in? She was alone, and drunk, with a stranger in an alleyway - and yet all her body told her was to lean into the man in front of her.

The thought of leaning, it seemed, was enough to send her veering once again. The stranger, this time, caught her in the crook of his arm. He almost knelt to talk to her. 

“May I take you somewhere safe?” He spoke, his voice a quiet falsetto that barely carried over the background sounds of the city streets around them. His eyes still fixed on her, he shook his head in a kind of nervous reassurance, “I won’t stay.” 

Uraraka was steady enough now to get a blurry picture of the man’s face for the first time. His features were strong, and his eyes were amber, or hazel maybe, and looking at the dazed Uraraka with a haunted kind of concern. What must it be like, Uraraka thought, to see the world through different eyes? 

“You can take me.” She stared at the stranger with the most scrutiny her wasted brain could muster. Her next words came out without her permission,

“Because we know each other. 

Don’t we, Himiko?”

Chapter Text

Katsuki stood in the narrow road which housed the bar’s entrance. He looked, by all accounts, like he belonged where he stood - leant against the back of a small streetlamp, mostly out the way of its glare. If a passer-by had taken the time to interrogate his presence, they would’ve probably decided he was waiting for someone. Ironic, given the reason he was there. 

There was no sense in waiting for Izuku, and yet there was a part of Katsuki that was desperate to continue, like some long-abandoned mutt. It was only cognitively, rationally, that he pulled away from doing so; every other part of his being resisted. Whether it was love or insanity, Katsuki couldn’t tell, but he was sure that he would get no answers until he broke away from his obsession. The bar was a start. He could talk, perhaps even get somebody’s number. He couldn’t think further than this, no matter how hard he tried. Figures entered and exited the bar, varying in their soberness, flamboyance, and dress, occasionally locking eyes with Katsuki if they happened to catch him staring. 

One such figure had arrived with two femmes, who seemed to have adorned his face with a playful assortment of stickers. He had a lanky, clumsy look to him, Katsuki thought, and his dark hair fell in waves just below his chin. As his friend placed another sticker on the apple of his cheek, Katsuki struggled not to smile along with him. In turn, the man caught his eye, inviting him into the grin. He stopped, and both kept smiling for a couple of giddy seconds. And then, as if it was perfectly natural, the stranger beckoned Katsuki to follow him into the bar, and disappeared behind the poster-covered door. 

Shoto sat on the floor in the centre of his small apartment. Besides a couple of boxes of possessions, the place was largely unchanged since he arrived last week. The coffee table had been moved beside the wall, however, to allow him room to sit on the bare ground. He didn’t know how to go about making a shrine to his brother. The room itself didn’t feel sufficiently his own such that the task was one he even felt comfortable undertaking. Yet there he sat, with his hands pressed together, willing himself to pray. 

He hadn’t visited the grave since the move, which had been perhaps the biggest change for Shoto since leaving UA. One week wasn’t an abnormal stretch of time for him to go without seeing his brother, however, his visits were dictated by time far less than they were events. So much had happened to tell him about, and yet here, on the laminate floor, he simply felt too far from him. I miss you, he thought. It was all he could get out. A tear welled in his eye and fell without being caught. Despite all his misery, Shoto couldn’t muster any pity for himself.

After all, he wasn’t there. It wouldn’t take him that long - an hour maybe, and one that he could spare. What he hadn’t considered before the move was how close the route would take him to his childhood home. UA had allowed him to reach the graveyard from the opposite side of the neighbourhood, but unless he wanted to add a thirty minute detour onto his journey, Shoto would have to pass by the place both he and his brother had grown up. Coward , he thought. Idiot, hypocrite. Still, there was no way of tipping the scales that could convince him to take the journey. 

The worst case scenarios assaulted his mind. The anger that Toya’s grave so often left him with - consuming him - sending him back to that flimsy excuse of a house. He watched it burn up in his mind, consuming his father, his mother, his sister - and his childhood self. Burning again. Water. Vomit. Pain. Stop, stop, stop. Lying down on the floor, he pressed his own skull down, attempting to grind it into the flooring - yet this did nothing to stay the flood of images. One, in particular, terrified him. He saw himself - weary, exhausted and feeble from crying, staggering his way back from his brother’s grave in the low evening light, and coming across the old Todoroki home while desperate for rest and numb to reason. He imagined himself walking into the building. The door closed shut, the lights in the building beginning to extinguish, rhythmically and inevitably, as if a countdown. Sure enough, once the after-image of the final light had faded, Shoto was plagued with the inescapable feeling that he would never see himself walk back out. It was not the first time he had imagined this. In fact, every time he’d had to face his childhood home, the lingering fear that he would never leave had carved out a deeper place for itself within him. It was there now, just a little bit, all of the time. 

The cold reality of what his fears implied began to sink in. He had been separated from his mother before, and his brother twice, and now he was separated from him again. He righted himself and leant back against the sofa, letting the tears well up and fall from his eyes. It wasn’t fair. It made no sense. He didn’t want the home to stop him seeing Toya, so why was he letting it stop him? He shut his eyes, and felt his body hot with shame - his eyes streaming and left hand tugging at the strands of his hair. With his right, he pressed his fist against his leg, desperate for some dose of the release he had felt from pummelling the dorm room wall, and yet his hand was no longer tender, and his arm weaker for lack of use. Stop it, he thought, STOP IT. As he focused on the burning pain in the centre of his chest, eyes still firmly closed and yet continuing to stream tears down his face. His body roared in his own ears, and an attempt to breathe only led him to choke, although he couldn’t tell whether on tears or air or spit. He was on his knees, coughing as a stinging pain made its way up his cheek, when he prised his eyes open.

Black - his surroundings were black, although he shut his eyes half a second later thanks to the stinging which assaulted them. Smoke. He was burning. As he choked, he felt for his body. His chest was numb, now, but his hands could feel the flames upon the frayed, singed edges of his shirt. Was this what it felt like? Toya- All he could do was retch into the blackness, the last desperate inhalation sending him onto the floor with a thud. 

Shit, shit, shit, Katsuki thought as he rushed down the street, Why not? Why this? Why am I running? His face was still flushed from the interaction just seconds ago. Nothing more than a look, than a beckon - yet he felt like he might vomit. He hadn’t been repulsed by the stranger - no, it had been quite the opposite. He was so attractive, so available, flirtatious and so incredibly right-in-front-of-him. It had felt like an entirely new world - one of reciprocation, vulnerability and perhaps even satisfaction. A new world that required him to check his baggage at the door. The baggage squeezed tight upon his heart as he made his way back to the train station. 

It was impossible to pretend to himself any longer. Katsuki had no real intentions of letting go. It wasn’t about pursuing him, not since Izuku had rejected him so profoundly. No, it was much more desperate than that. The nagging feeling in Katsuki’s heart asked, what if he wants me again? I have to be ready - I have to be waiting. 

He had never puzzled out the reason why Izuku turned away from their future together- in whatever manner it might’ve taken. He simply felt that he had done enough, across the years, to deserve it - and much worse, from him. All he could do now was atone. All he could do was become a man he could be proud of, a man that Izuku deserved, so that if he ever changed his mind about Katsuki, he wouldn’t be making such a mistake. He blinked at his own willingness to admit it. A lot had certainly changed.

It occurred to him, as he shuffled through the train carriage, that he was quite far from the kind of man Izuku deserved. He started to make a mental checklist:

• Make a new friend
• Text Kirishima

Yes, a social life. People to talk to. Things that made him less of a stray dog. 

Something probably wasn’t quite right either, with the way he obsessed over his capacity to hurt. It felt right, in a way, to think about his actions, and yet the anxiety never seemed to really improve him, or the way he related to the people around him. Before his mind had time to form a counterargument, he typed ‘worried about hurting people’ into a search engine. The spotty train-signal gave him too much time to ruminate - he was just about to delete the window when the search results arrived. 

Huh. 

The mental checklist gained an item:

• Make a doctor’s appointment

Weary from the evening’s emotional rollercoaster, Katsuki arrived back to the apartment block, though hours earlier than he had originally planned. Out of habit, he made a quick assessment of Shoto’s apartment as he passed; lights on, no worrying sounds, smell of smoke- 

Hm? 

He checked the doorhandle - cold. This wasn’t a surprise. Katsuki imagined that thanks to their quirks, both of them had been outfitted with fireproof apartments. Shoto’s cooking skills left a little to be desired, which could explain the smoke smell, although Katsuki wasn’t fully reassured just yet. He looked through the window slats and scanned the room, wincing at the thought of seeing his friend in some sort of compromising situation. None such situations were to be found, however, and yet, no friends either. Katsuki rapped on the door;

“TODOROKI”

No response. Perhaps his hero name? He might respond to a cry for help? He cupped his hands around his mouth, trying to funnel the noise into the door and away from the neighbours. 

“SHOTO! HELP ME!” 

Nothing. 

Goddamnit. He could be in the shower, but… Oh well, it was his fault for burning his dinner. No longer interested in subtlety, Katsuki aimed a precise explosion into the door’s keyhole, busting the lock. With a push, the door swung open. He surveyed the room from top to bottom, wary of possible attackers. Finally he arrived at a single figure to his left, collapsed upon the floor. 

Just a metre away lay an unconscious Todoroki Shoto, with a blaze of soot splaying out from the centre of his chest.

Chapter Text

The stranger looked at Uraraka with an expression which was becoming evermore difficult to discern to her addled mind. There was shock, she thought, if she devoted her attention to registering both of their eyes at once. Every thought felt laborious. It’s not good, she dragged the thought out of the wine-swamp of her head, that it’s still setting in. Uraraka relaxed into the strangers’ grip and watched the world rotate 90 degrees. There was an arm supporting her back and another supporting her legs. Carrying me, she thought, I wonder if I’m about to die. Or worse. It didn’t feel particularly concerning. It was more worrying to think of the possible trouble she was causing. 

“Your back,” she slurred, “hurts?”

The figure looked down with, as far as Uraraka could tell, a number of facial features. 

“I can help-” she prepared to make herself weightless. 

“Don’t,” Said the stranger, with an urgent yet gentle authority, “You’ll make yourself sick.”

As she heard those words, said to her so many times by her parents, teachers and classmates when pushing herself beyond her limits, Uraraka relented and let the hazy world around her fade to nothingness. 

The next hour of Katsuki’s life felt false, as if he was participating in a re-enactment. He remembered each line as it escaped his mouth, puppeteering his body through the scenes - the phone call, the agonising wait, the ambulance and emergency room. He answered questions quickly, plainly, half expecting a grievous injury to arrive on his own body. He ran his fingers over the scars on his arms and his face, trying to feel his chest scars and rivet wounds through his tank top. It was a useful game, allowing him to check that he wasn’t dead or dying as went through the facts a third, fourth and fifth time. 

It felt like hours since they had arrived at the hospital, but his maths reconfirmed it had been just 15 minutes with each new way he found to calculate it. Fifteen minutes was how long it took for them to establish Shoto as stable and responsive. It was a lot longer before the ash was removed from his face and limbs. Katsuki was the first to receive news about what had happened. It felt invasive, as if he was examining a side of Shoto he sooner would’ve kept hidden. Still, somebody needed to know about him; about what had happened. Katsuki wasn’t sure he had many people besides himself. 

…Katsuki wasn’t sure he had many people besides Shoto. 

“The smoke was largely from his clothing, but the fire originated with him. The source of the unconsciousness was smoke inhalation. We presume this is usually not an issue due to his fire resistant costume? Would you have any idea why he might have used his quirk when wearing non-resistant clothing?”

Katsuki thought of the two lines of skin, clean of soot, vertical beneath Shoto’s eyes. They betrayed him. 

“His brother di- er, he- his brother got very injured once when he couldn’t put out his own flames.” He couldn’t quite explain the precise connection. 

“Your friend - he has an ice quirk, too, no?” The air was heavy. “Has he ever been unable to activate it before?”

It was hard to articulate. Katsuki hadn’t seen him in that kind of state for a long, long time. After the war, many students struggled with training. For Shoto, he had spent a few months tactically placed near their teacher’s handy erasure quirk. It wasn’t that he lost control of his power, as such - more that he lost sight of where he was, forsaking his surroundings for whatever hell was playing in his own mind. 

“Do you think,” the nurse was speaking gently now, watching Katsuki’s face, “that he might have done this on purpose?”

Shoto’s hand lay unwrapped on the table. The fading flowers of bruises were visible on his marked knuckles. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a hard thing to consider,” he continued in his gentle tone. “You’ve been a really good friend today.”

Katsuki felt like a child. He couldn’t stop his eyes from welling up. 

“Excuse me,” he said, making for the door, taking a quick glance at the still-unconscious boy on the bed, “Please get me if he wakes up.” 

He stepped out from the ward into a nearby courtyard. 

Ring… 

Ring… 

Pickuppickuppickup, please, God, please pick up.

Ring- click

“Bakugo? What on earth are you calling me for - it’s late-”

“I’m in the hospital with Todoroki. Something - happened. He’s okay- he-”

“Which hospital?”

Katsuki rattled off the name and address with robotic clarity.

“I found him in his apartment he- he breathed a lot of smoke but he should wake up soon.”

He could barely stop his voice from breaking. Trying to explain everything - he sounded so much like a child - so helpless and so scared. He was so helpless, so scared. 

“Okay, we’re coming-”

He could hear whispered background conversation, but the details passed him by. 

“Yep - we’ll be there. One hour.”

A voice added something about tolls. Loudly, assuredly. 

“40 minutes, actually.” 

The noises of a family. They were calming. Katsuki no longer had the wherewithal to care what they were saying to each other. He just had to hold on for 40 minutes. 

The clear, gruff voice returned over the speaker,

“Do you want to stay on the phone, or do you want to let your classmates know what’s happening?”

A choice. Its very existence pulled him back into his body. 

“Can I call you back if I need to?”

He didn’t sound like an adult, and he no longer cared to. 

“Bakugo,” The voice responded, stern yet caring. “Call me back as soon as you need to.”

Katsuki hadn’t noticed he was crying, but the tears were streaming shamelessly from his eyes and nose. 

“I’ll tell the others,” he croaked, “and thank you.”

“I’m glad you called,” his teacher responded. “I’ll see you soon.”

The next thing Uraraka felt was cold. Blue-white fluorescent light burned through the back of her eyelids. She raised them, only to shut them again immediately. Too bright. The smooth, speckled hospital ceiling was burned into her retinas. The ache of consciousness, the regret - and the consequences - began to set in. It was objectively not the worst place to be, having passed out in the arms of a stranger, and yet-

The stranger. She reared up - where was that stranger? All she could scan for in the room was a couple of nurses, and a familiar, tired looking man keeping track of all her movements. 

He was talking to them - drawing their attention to her, and coming to her bedside. 

“Midoriya,” she was frantic, “Who brought me here?” 

A whisper of a frown glanced across his face. 

“A very kind man found you passing out and brought you into hospital-”

“Where did he go?” She spat as she spoke, she realised, but the sentence was too important for her to care.

Izuku looked at her with an expression bearing quiet, guarded pain. 

“He went home,” his words were calm, and controlled, “to his wife.” 

There was a heavy, cautious pause. He knew why she cared. He knew what she thought. All her hard work - undone in an instant. 

The monitor beside her emitted a steady beeping. Her stained clothes lay on a chair in a neat pile in the corner. Izuku hid his white-knuckled fist inside his pocket. 

The almost-silence was more than Uraraka knew how to bear.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” tears pooled in her already-stinging eyes. 

Izuku couldn’t crumple into the moment. The nurses pulled the curtain shut to give them some privacy.

“Uraraka,” his voice was low and soft, “how long has this been happening?”

As she spoke, he pulled up a chair. Emotions pulled at her, but she managed to talk despite them, pushing through the sentences as drops of tears collected at her jawline. It had started when everything started: after the war. 

“I couldn’t stop seeing her,” she kept her tone as level as she could for fear of breaking, “and everyone kept telling me it wasn’t true. But they never found her body.”

“Uraraka, they-”

“I know, they found traces.” She unclenched her jaw, lowered her voice, “I know. I’ve heard it a thousand times.” The light of the room bore a hole into her skull.

He let her continue. 

“I needed a place to be crazy.” The frustration in her voice was barely audible, even in her compromised state. “Everyone was so worried . Worried about me - worried about what I would do. They forced me to lie, to rewrite the fight so that I won and she lost.”

“I know that’s not what happened-”

“Well, good. Because nobody else does. Where does it begin and end, Deku?” It hurt to hear his hero name now, to hear it when he felt so powerless, and to hear it fueled by pain and something almost verging on animosity. Uraraka knew this. “I believed them when they told me she was dead. Up until the point they told me to lie in front of the entire nation. And then, I had the good sense to question whether they might have been lying to me. Or did that thought never occur to you?” 

She was quite certain it hadn’t occurred to him. Her own voice had made her ears ring, her head both numb and searing. The room spun as her gesticulation shook the IV line. 

“She put a needle just like this in my arm. She gave me blood from her own body, and just… died? After I spent the whole time trying to save her?”

Izuku looked at her with a desperate kind of understanding. “It’s not fair, but-”

“She saved my life. Her own blood in my veins. Everyone who knows that is a little bit scared of me now. But I’m supposed to be normal. I’m supposed to be the same normal that cast her out, that made her think she wasn’t beautiful. I’m supposed to cast her out,” she held out her own hands in front of her, “I’m supposed to cast her out, too. Tell me that’s not what they’re saying when they tell me to forget about her.”

Izuku put his forehead to his hand, leaning gently against the bedframe as a gesture of peace. 

“I just- I wish you’d have told me.” He let the tears escape him now, while still trying to choke his sobs with his malformed hand. 

“Midoriya,” she said, softer now, new tears springing to her eyes. She took his hand, “you know I couldn’t.”

He knew. They both knew. They cried together, now, hand-in-hand tight as the weight of everything they had kept inside began to come to life between them. She couldn’t have told him, not in the fragile months when everyone was half-expecting him to disappear again with nothing but a letter. Not in the rollercoaster which followed, wherein he may as well have picked up her bad habit too in place of discouraging it. No, they both knew that he would’ve been destroyed, both by her doubt and her self-destruction, and yet would have been powerless to stop her from continuing. And was it really any different now? Still…

“I could’ve told someone,” Izuku said, once the worst of the tears had receded.

Uraraka shrugged tearfully, “It crossed my mind. But I didn’t feel ready for help. Or I didn’t want to let go, yet.”

“Do you feel,” Izuku couldn’t find a better way to phrase it, “ready for help, now?”

Uraraka considered it. She had accepted that the jig was up- yet perhaps too quickly? Only one person knew about her mess. One too many, but one who trusted her. The appeal of faking a swift, private recovery and continuing as she had been was powerful. Too powerful. She wanted to celebrate just at the thought of it. And yet on the other hand, she had just flung herself into the arms of a stranger, ending up in a hospital bed out of nothing but luck . There was nothing further down that road but death, which she was relieved to find didn’t appeal to her much. Time, then, to try a different tack. 

“They didn’t contact anyone besides me,” Izuku continued, ”but I really think you should tell somebody.”

Uraraka felt the shame, with its barb-like roots deep within her organs. 

“Okay,” she felt her hand curl into a gentle fist, “I can tell somebody.”

Chapter Text

Katsuki fiddled with the sides of his phone as he crafted the text to the group chat. It ended up being something short and efficient. A good number of classmates responded within minutes, worried. Katsuki assured them, parroting the pragmatic words he’d heard the doctors call from Shoto’s bedside. He tried not to imply what the nurses had, about why this might have happened. As he tried to funnel his attention into communicating with his classmates, the sights and sounds of the world around him began to fall apart. The fluorescence of the emergency room flickered, flitting between times, worlds, injuries. His body ached for his old wounds back but more, more than that it wanted to walk the endless corridors in search of Izuku’s room. Time pulled at him relentlessly, tugging him back into the days after the Paranormal Liberation War. Several times, he had to sit himself back down after his body commanded him to go and find his childhood companion, to make sure his heart was still beating, lungs still breathing. His failure to focus on the matter at hand left him guilty, and weary of his own fearfulness, though this did nothing to change the state he was in. It also didn’t help that Izuku wasn’t replying to the messages. 

By the time his old homeroom teacher arrived, Shoto had been stirring for a little while. The nurses had suggested that he would be groggy for a few hours, and Katsuki wasn’t sure if the nightmares were an expected part of this. He looked like a child as he slept, if you could ignore the soot; his hair messy and brow furrowed as he tossed and turned and mumbled. Katsuki’s approach was largely to pretend he didn’t notice this, for the sake of preserving his dignity, but to speak clearly when he had the chance to, in hopes of bringing Shoto back to the room. It wasn’t the nicest of rooms, but it was undoubtedly better, he thought, than whatever scene was playing out in Shoto’s dreams. Katsuki felt the bass of Aizawa’s voice before he could pick out his words. 

Just then, as the teacher and his partner came in, he realised how much he had been shaking. He was quickly taken into a stabilising hug, and relieved of the burden of explanation, as the two heroes got the story from the surrounding nurses. 

Yamada, better known to former students as Mic, listened intently to the details, occasionally looking to his partner’s reaction. As the nurses finished their briefing, they made sure to praise Katsuki on his care and quick thinking. In a gesture of pride, Mic moved to ruffle Katsuki’s hair, but Aizawa batted his hand away. 

“You don’t just mess up a young man’s hair,” he half-joked. A small gesture of protection towards Katsuki’s personal space. And yet realised he was still in the outfit he carefully curated for his visit the gay bar. He was glad now, that he’d been too much of a coward to step foot inside. 

“I’ll have to mess up an old man’s hair then-” Mic said, although Aizawa was largely able to defend his curls from the friendly fire. 

Katsuki quietly wondered how they’d done it.

“Where’s Eri?” he asked. 

“She’s in the car with Mirio,” Aizawa replied, “We didn’t know how long we’d be, so even though she’s growing up, we didn’t want her to stay at home. Still, we thought it would be a bit much to take her in here with us, not knowing how everything was, and...” He trailed off in parental nervousness, lost in thought until Mic put a hand on his back. 

“How about I stay here and watch out for our Todoroki, and you two get some air and have a quick walk?” Mic was unusually capable of controlling his volume. 

The two stepped out into the nearby courtyard. Spring had made the nights milder, but the air was still a little cool for indoor clothing. Katsuki bounced on the balls of his feet out of habit. 

“I was coming back from a bar when I checked on Todoroki.”

“Oh?” the teacher replied with a small knowing smile, “How’d you find it?”

“I didn’t… end up actually going in,” Katsuki admitted. A small silence followed. 

“Have you spoken to Midoriya?” Aizwa asked, softly. Katsuki shook his head. 

More silence, like snow. 

Katsuki wished there was more to say about it. There wasn’t. Only wishing, wanting, thinking - no speaking, doing or being. There was nothing new to report - and yet it was so omnipresent, as if Katsuki was frozen in time, stuck in a mental world of dioramas portraying the moments they’d shared together. So many moments from hospital wards like this one. The light from behind them cast their shadows long across the paving stones.

“I’m glad that you and Todoroki are looking out for each other.” Katsuki nodded. “Remember you’re both heroes. He’ll criticise himself for this until he can look after you, too.”

He was drowning, but he finally felt close to his brother. The water was warm, and stung his eyes, though he felt no urge to come up for air. Down, deeper, where the light couldn’t cut so cleanly through the murky water, he could see the silhouette. The water felt cooler as Shoto pushed himself further down, towards the shape. 

He was about two metres away from him when he found himself unable to get any closer. The water moved around him, but the shape remained out of reach, and the borders of the body still hard to make out. He wanted to examine him. To find out how real he was, how tangible. He held out his left hand instinctually, aiming to use the heat to propel him further, yet his flames extinguished before they could generate any power. It occurred to him with a moment more thought that he had had also never tried to use his ice underwater, for fear of freezing himself within it. This seemed to be a sensible judgement call still, even though fear couldn’t quite make its way to him, now. 

Shoto settled for hovering before the figure-shape. He watched as it began to move, raising a shadowy arm to point at Shoto’s chest, and then to his right hand, accompanied by an inquisitive tilt of the head. Shoto looked down at his chest. Or rather, what used to be his chest. It was dappled and faded in the centre, now, taking on the same shadow-like hue of the body in front of him. The same also seemed to have happened to the knuckles on his right fist. He began speaking without quite knowing how he was doing it. 

“I keep getting emotional,” his voice resonated, not quite through the water and yet not quite in his mind, “and hurting myself, or breaking things.” 

A noise that was a half-laugh half-cough came next. 

“Liability.”

It was the same croak that Shoto had heard within the hospital-cell days before his brother’s passing. He could almost hear a hint of intercom in the tone of it. Shoto laughed too - a pained laugh that should’ve been a cry, had they been anywhere else but underwater, and turned into something more resembling a scream. The shadow bowed its head. 

As the wail receded, “I don’t know how to let it out,” Shoto posed, almost surprised by the ease of the words. 

“Don’t ask me,” replied Toya, voice echoing a smile. The shadow of his face could’ve fit the outline of a skull. His big brother, him; the murderer, the hero. It was all too much to put into words. 

“Everything makes me angry,” Shoto started. His brother looked at him, featureless. “I go to work and I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like a monster. When I do what I do, and I do what he wanted. Even if he says he’s different now. Even if he doesn’t do anything, and they’re still- they’re still scared of him. I can’t go home. And nobody ever comes to visit you, and what if it were me?”

He knew that he was barely making sense. It didn’t matter. Here, it couldn’t hurt - or rather, couldn’t burn. His brother approached him now, walking through the water as if it were sand. He lifted a shadowy arm, moving to place a hand upon the part of Shoto’s chest where he, too, was made of dark, flowing water. Shoto let him. It felt warm. Like a hug. Like a house fire. 

A crack of pain came through his head. He felt dizzy. Distant. He needed to talk, needed to keep himself there, with his brother, for a little longer. He started to say whatever came to his mind. 

“I’ve been learning more about my friends recently,” the shadow tilted its head, “and some of them are gay, and I think, well, I don’t think I am, but I think I’m something that’s not normal. And it makes me think of how much there must have been to learn about you, and I wondered if there was anything like that, that I never got to hear about.” As he spoke, the water around him morphed. It felt like waves, then sheets, then air. Shoto stared through it, ignoring it, focused on his brother’s words. 

“Who knows?” said the shadow, “I don’t think I ever really had the chance to think about it.”

All at once, the water was no longer air, and Shoto was at odds with it. He gasped, choking as the brine entered his nose and lungs, coughing, spluttering and splashing to try to swim upwards. In what could have been an hour or a moment, he surfaced, dry and half-dead in a stark white hospital room. Dry, bone dry-

But his eyes stung, and his lungs hurt. 

Chapter Text

Uraraka sat in a well-decorated lobby, up some thirty stories of a skyscraper. The city skyline sat beneath a grey sky to her right, separated from her by a pristine floor-to-ceiling window. She wore a suit blazer which was just a touch too small, having been the same one that she wore for the last few post-war trials wherein she was called as an expert witness. It didn’t exactly carry happy memories. Not to mention, everything here was pristine. Even the potted plants were trimmed and watered such that no withered leaves were on display. If the Hero Public Safety Commission thought places like this were supposed to make her want to drink less , then they were dearly mistaken. 

It had been a week since Uraraka left the hospital. It hadn’t been the best week of her life, but she’d had a fair few worse. Though, she thought, she had never quite felt this directionless. Telling the HPSC about her hospital visit had been a compromise herself and Izuku had agreed on, after she had refused to tell her workplace or family directly. The Heroes Public Safety commission were the ones who had told her to lie about Himiko, after all, and so she didn’t feel quite so bad about dropping her problems at their doorstep. What’s more, Uraraka was keenly aware of the sizeable burden which remained on Izuku's shoulders, and wanted more than anything to take it off of him again. So, she smiled, went on walks and sent him updates. The line between her genuine hope and the brave face she presented to her friend was sometimes blurry, but it remained ever-present, and therefore was a constant source of guilt. Still, she hadn’t been drinking, and for now, that would have to be enough. 

She looked out at the skyline. The glass was too clear - as if it wasn’t there at all. It made her almost dizzy - not with vertigo, but with the feeling of being in the air. It had been a while. 

She jumped a little when the receptionist called her name. 

A spotless hallway, with spotless doors to various spotless offices. Uraraka was led to a door which read “President”. 

“Thank you, Dotty,” came a cheerful voice from a connected side-room. Uraraka entered and sat in the single red chair positioned before the desk. Dotty left, closing the door behind them. 

“Uraraka!” Hawks barely glanced at her as he walked over, taking a cross-legged seat on the office chair behind his desk. “Weird place for an intervention, hmm?” 

Izuku sat on his bed beside Eli. It was a much cleaner room than it had been a couple of weeks ago. More comforting, too, since he had kept his promise to Uraraka of restoring some of his All Might decorations. It was almost strange, alien, to think how much he had been sinking just a week ago, but the stress of Uraraka’s crisis had kicked him into survival mode. He was, if nothing else, a good man in a storm. This, accompanied by the familiar feeling of academic stress, had left Izuku functioning at a near-unprecedented level. In all but one area, that is. 

Things had been a little weird with Eli for the past week. Just moments before Izuku got the call from the hospital, he’d ended up taking a risk. That risk had been a text: one that asked Eli if he knew about any queer societies in the university. He wasn’t sure what he expected, and yet, Eli’s awkward string of replies - in which he failed to answer the question but succeeded in reciprocally coming out - were all eclipsed by the news that Izuku was helping a friend at the hospital.

And here they were, one week later, as if nothing in particular had happened. Except, they were sitting quite close together. Except, he smelled nice. 

In front of them, a documentary, one that had been recommended in a lecture, played out, recounting the events and comparisons made when quirks were first discovered. One of the guest experts was a queer historian speaking about how various worldwide LGBT+ communities were some of the first to advocate for quirk acceptance. Eli gently paused the program, hesitating as he took his hand off the spacebar. 

“When did you know you were- you know,” he asked, only turning to face Izuku once he’d finished speaking. 

Izuku blushed. “Well, I liked someone for a long time,” he started, turning to Eli and finding him just centimetres away. His heart skipped a beat. He didn’t turn away, or pull back. 

“And I realised what it was when I was about 15, I guess. But I didn’t think about labels until I was 16.”

Eli nodded, clearly only half taking-in what was being said. “I was also young. Fourteen. But I was in the states, so I tried to forget when I went back to Japan.”

Now they were both speaking, both facing each other. Neither of them would be able to laugh off this closeness, not at this point. Not when Izuku could feel his breath on his face when he spoke. 

“Did it work?” Izuku leant his head to the wall, giving Eli an out. He could turn away, he thought, face burning, he could just hug me instead. “Forgetting?”

Eli tilted his head towards him, rejecting the offer of distance. “For a little while. But it never works for long.”

It was the end of the verbal exchange, but neither of them moved back. Izuku raised a hand to thumb the collar of Eli’s shirt, his face still hot with blush. 

Eli traced a finger over Izuku’s jaw. And then quietly, impulsively, “I want to kiss you.” Like lightning.

Izuku took a shaky inhale, and raised his chin in approval. 

“I,” he said, “want you to-” and didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. 

“First things first, sorry it took me a while to set this up,” An obvious brag. It took a week, and besides, he’s the president of the- “I have an office here, so I thought it would save time for us to talk on a day when I was working here already.”

“Thank you very much for your time,” said Uraraka, neutrally. He hasn’t answered the main question. Why are we having this meeting? “I was surprised to be invited to a meeting with the president of the HPSC.”

Hawks laughed. “You flatter me.” 

It’s not flattery, it’s a question, and you’re avoiding it. 

He shuffled some paperwork on his desk, turning it to present it to Uraraka. “Here’s what we can offer you.” 

Offer? 

She looked at the paper. You’re kidding me- r etirement paperwork. Retirement paperwork? Uraraka’s face betrayed her shock. I’m being fired. But something here doesn’t quite- 

“It holds up,” Hawks said glibly, “but we understand if you want a lawyer to check it,” and he began to prattle on about the benefits and support she would receive throughout her life. His tone was almost humorous, as if this was all some practical joke he was playing. Once he came to a standstill, Uraraka’s face had solidified into an unimpressed stare. 

“A meeting with the President,” she posed, “just to be told to retire?”

Hawks didn’t break her eye contact. 

“We take care of our veterans.”

Uraraka didn’t break it either.

“Well,” she tossed the papers back onto the desk, “I’d like to keep being a hero.” 

It’s all I know how to do. 

After a beat, Hawks kicked his wheelie-chair into a spin. 

“Man,” he said, placing his hands behind his head, “I thought you’d say that.”

What kind of games are you-

“But can you?”

His eyes were suddenly wide, and still. 

Oh. I have to make my case. 

Seeds of anger rooted in Uraraka’s gut. Defend herself? To the Hero Commission? Fine. 

“My work,” She fought not to grit her teeth, “has been unaffected.”

“When you’re there.” 

She sucked her breath in through her teeth. 

“I am a good hero-”

“A GREAT hero!”

“Who has followed all of the instructions of the HSPC-”

“To the letter!”

What’s the point of these interruptions? Anger grew and bristled in her now. 

…

“At great cost to my personal wellbeing.” 

Hawks only slightly dropped the wide-eyed grin he had been wearing. 

“At great cost to your personal wellbeing.”

She could’ve heard a pin drop, had her ears not been ringing. 

Hawks continued, unrelenting in his cheery tone. 

“Which hurt you more, would you say? The lying or the pretending?”

“What?”

“Which hurt more? The lying - the not being able to tell the truth about what happened? Or the pretending - the having to live as if it didn’t happen?” 

The answer was so obvious that it almost felt like a trick. 

“The pretending.”

“Yes. But you did a good job,” He continued, a little more seriously now, “So good that we thought you might’ve believed us. Until now, of course.” 

The words he spoke spelled trouble, and yet Uraraka felt calm. It was true, the pretending was the problem, and if she couldn’t handle it, perhaps she couldn’t be a hero. And yet, she’d been so good at it - so convincing. Even so, Hawks’ words stung. They really thought I’d given up on her. The next words rose from her throat without warning.

“I am not stupid.” 

“No,” Hawks replied, not missing a beat, “No, you’re not.”

He cleared the papers off his desk and retrieved a different file from his draw, which he held towards him, crucial side invisible to Uraraka. Information? She tried to conceal her interest. Still, he had acknowledged the lying, the pretending… She could leverage this, though it would be risky. 

“So, the whereabouts of Toga Himiko?”

She tried to sound as if her question was natural, as if it was obvious. She counted her breaths to keep herself from panicking in the silence that followed. 

“Man,” Hawks put his palm to his face in melodramatic agony, “I thought you might know that.”

What- how could I- what is he saying? He doesn’t know?

“So you admit it - the Hero Commission hasn’t confirmed that she’s dead!” 

There was a tiny bit of madness which shone through her in this sentence. Hawks looked straight into her eyes, dropping his bravado completely. 

“I admit,” he said calmly, clearly, deliberately, “that the Hero Commission hasn’t confirmed that she’s dead.” 

She swallowed. 

“You know,” Uraraka mirrored his tone, “If I knew where she was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Good,” replied Hawks, “Keep being honest like that, and we’ll work well together.”

He thumbed through the papers in his hands. 

“Uraraka,” he spoke calmly now, “what if you had to lie, but you didn’t have to pretend - not to everyone, at least.”

She stared at his face, trying to predict his next proposition, his motives - anything. He looked still, if perhaps a little sad. “Do you think you could go without drinking? We’ll still make sure you get support, of course.” 

“I think the pretending is the problem. If there’s a way to work without living my life like…” She trailed off. 

“It would be quite a lot of lying is all,” he said, almost absentmindedly, “but I can’t tell you much more unless you accept the job.” 

“I assume I would have to leave my internship.” The question sounded childish as she posed it. 

“Actually,” Hawks looked up, “We’d like you to stay exactly where you are.”

Chapter Text

Katsuki rapped on Shoto’s door. As he waited, he tensed his arm, replicating his old physio exercises. Shoto came to the door within the minute. 

“Ready?” Katsuki probed, trying not to look impatient while he waited. 

“Hm?” Shoto looked up, confused. 

…

“GODDAMNIT, YOU ALMOST DIED!”

“So?” Shoto was unphased by the explosion. 

“I’M ASKING IF YOU’RE READY TO GO BACK TO WORK!”

“Oh,” Shoto replied.

“Yeah.”

With an exasperated sigh, Katsuki began the walk towards the station. 

In the past week, Katsuki and Shoto had barely talked, though they had hung out almost daily. Katsuki would cook, Shoto would come over, and the two would watch some sort of variety show. Shoto studied these with fascination; Katsuki imagined he hadn’t watched a lot of TV growing up. The specials Shoto picked tended towards queerness of some sort - couples interviews and drag queens for instance. Though Katsuki initially bristled at this, thinking it a two-dimensional assessment of his interests, he quickly realised that these choices were in fact self-serving for Shoto. Whatever letter of the alphabet, whatever place on the spectrum, his eyes would light up at the screen. Huh. Katsuki wondered what it felt like. 

The first of the cherry blossoms were opening. The morning was cloudy. 

“How has the counselling been going?”

“Fine. I’ve been learning new things to do when I have flashbacks. Oh, flashbacks are-”

“I know what flashbacks are.” 

“Right.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Katsuki could see Shoto counting something on his fingers. For some reason, he remembered his teacher’s words.

He’ll criticise himself for this until he can look after you, too.

“You know, last week,” Katsuki saw Shoto tense up a little,”I was actually trying to go to a gay bar.” He tried for a slight embarrassed smile, which came out more like a grimace.

“Ah,” Shoto looked dejected, “But you had to come-”

“No, no I’d- I’d already left,” Katsuki corrected him, “I couldn’t actually go in.”

“They didn’t let you in?” Shoto had bounced back quickly, “I guess you can’t drink yet-”

“No- I,” God, I’m going to have to lay it out for him. “I chickened out.”

Shoto tilted his head, processing. 

And processing. 

“Why…” and processing, “were you scared?”

Sigh. “I wasn’t really scared, just a bit intimidated?” he found his own answer inadequate and continued, “talking to people and not knowing anyone and…” 

“You went to a bar, and not a club?” Has he been doing research? Katsuki thought. 

“Uh- yeah, a bar.” He paused. “I thought a club would be more- uh, overwhelming. But I don’t know, now.” 

Shoto looked so deep in thought that Katsuki worried he’d get a headache. “Don’t worry about it-” he started. 

“You should go to a club.” 

“O…kay?” 

“It’s because you’re heartbroken right?” Jesus, man, pull your punches sometimes. “Clubs are loud and it’s harder to see someone’s face.” 

“Right, well, I was wondering,” Katsuki continued. Shoto’s face snapped to attention in an almost military fashion, “If you would come along? It would be a, uh, big favour to… me…”

He trailed off, expecting an instant response, but instead looked up to find Shoto even deeper in conflicted thought. 

Huh. Weird. Katsuki had been pretty certain this would be an easy sell. He’s curious, Katsuki thought, so why-

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to be recognised,” said Shoto, plainly. 

A dart of shame struck Katsuki in the chest.

“HUH?” he stomped for emphasis.

“YOU said you PREFERRED to know who the ASSHOLES WERE! WHAT HAPPENED to “I want to look more gay”?! Now you’re scared to be seen at a gay club?!”

“HUH?” parroted Shoto, unusually shaken by the misunderstanding, “It’s not because of that, idiot! If I have to stand up for anyone, I don’t want the HPSC breathing down my neck!” 

I guess that… makes sense? Katsuki hadn’t gotten as far as thinking of defending himself in a queer space, let alone defending others. He’d been too preoccupied with whether or not he might be the hurtful one. And yet, Shoto was right, there was danger in any club, and in gay clubs probably even more so. 

“And,” Shoto continued reluctantly, “I don’t think everyone loves our job. And I think that’s not always wrong. So…”

He huffed a rogue cherry blossom off of his collar. I guess he really was thinking about it, Katsuki thought, letting his face soften a little. It wasn’t a surprise to hear Shoto consider a hero-critical mentality. Among his class, he’d been one of the biggest cynics about the profession. He remembered a time when he overheard a conversation between Shoto and Iida after the latter had been held up by an anti-hero protest. “They were saying hero work is just legalised police brutality,” Iida said, affronted. “Isn’t it, though?” Shoto had replied.

Katsuki had never asked why he kept striving for his goals; why he continued to work. In a childish way, he was scared it would cause Shoto change his mind. 

“Do you get it, then?” Shoto was still a little heated. Right. The club. 

“Well,” his volume was back to normal, “There are lots of ways to stop you being recognised, but if it’s a trouble, then-”

Shoto paused for a second, neither responding nor walking.
“No. No, I’ve figured it out. I’ll go,” he said.

“Oh? What’s the plan, then?”

Shoto turned back to him with the hints of a manic smile, “It’s a surprise.”

Toga Himiko sat down at the kitchen table. 

She did not, in fact, look like Toga Himiko. With her hair in a brown bob, the mimic of patrol clothes stretched over her skin, she looked exactly like the person who lived there. Though, perhaps a shade pinker. The kitchen table was small. Two person. Was this, thought Himiko, where she ate her meals? Hmm. Depends on what she eats. She got up with vigour, though making sure to carefully place the chair back where it had been sitting prior to her interruption. 

“Aaaaaaand,” she swept her hand over to the handle, 

“Tadaaaa,” and opened the fridge door with a flourish. 

 Wow. Gore she had no problem with, but this was a lot of mouldy food. Once her stomach had sufficiently settled, she surveyed the array of biohazards. Mostly leftovers, it seemed? And yet - no evidence of home cooking. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but… Oh, Ochako… baby. It wasn’t judgement - no, in fact a little, chirping part of her heart was thrilled to see the messy, worn out side of the woman she loved. But oh, still, so much more of her ached to take her in her arms, to spoon feed her. To learn to cook. Although that , she supposed, she could do. She made the quiet resolution, and shook her head to rid herself of her distracting thoughts. After all, she was here for a reason. 

She began with the quicker of the tasks - the half-done chores which had been long-since forgotten about. Rewashing laundry which had never made its way out of the machine, for one, as well as putting away the dishes on the drying rack. Himiko hopped her way about the apartment, opening windows for air and sorting old takeaways into binbags. She had seen much worse, lived much worse, but it just wouldn’t do for Ochako. In the midst of all her possessions, it was so easy to get swept up into fantasy. Himiko the housewife, taking care of their love nest, their perfect children away for the day at school. She swept a handful of crumbs off of the more-dishevelled side of the bed. She could always wake up late every once in a while, Himiko thought, when she was off from work, and I did the school run. And she pictured her - her faces that Himiko could never quite replicate in the mirror. The way she had looked at her, as if she had been looking at a sunset, and she would still look at me like that, even when we were old and wrinkled. 

The beep of the laundry machine snapped her out of the imaginary scene. She hopped to attention and began to sort the dirty laundry which had accumulated in the bedroom. It was too much to expect her to simply sort it - the fabric which had been so close to Ochako for so much longer than Himiko could. Still, there was too much to do and too little time to do it; she allowed herself a quick embrace of each item before she threw it into the laundry basket. Oh, this would never be enough. She had insisted to herself, just this - then she would leave for good - just one last act of kindness, of love. But it was just an excuse, really, wasn’t it? She had stayed away, waited and watched for two whole years. Saying she would leave, wasn’t she just trying to make herself feel better for this act of meddling? Fine, then, she wouldn’t leave the city. But this kind of thing - no, never again. 

The fading daylight cast an orange glow through the window. It was her cue to head out. From the kitchen countertop, an unused pad of paper was staring her down. It was the kind of kitschy thing you bought for your first real place. It was the kind of thing you never used if you never bought groceries. Her heart strings puppeteered her hand into motion. 

Dear Ochako,

I am well. 

She stopped, taking a strange, bittersweet second to notice that it was true. Truer than it ever had been, at least. She continued.

I took care of some of your mess here because I love you. I will always try to come and help you if there’s something wrong, but please don’t drink too much again. I was scared. You passed out when I was carrying you and it made me think of before when you lost too much blood. 

And then a pause, and an ache, heavy, from the bottom of her heart. 

I am sorry I never told you I was alive. I wanted you to be okay without me because it’s dangerous for you if I’m in your life, and I know you wouldn’t want to stay away from me. She scribbled out the last part. It was too presumptuous. 

If you can’t be okay without me, 

And she stopped. What was she saying? What kind of instructions did she intend to give? What good could she possibly do by telling Ochako she was alive? She would present her with an immediately impossible choice: to protect a fugitive or to turn her in. In what world could Himiko do that to her? 

No, plan A. She ripped off the page and stuffed it into her bag. 

As she left the apartment, she made sure to take on the gait she had seen Uraraka use, slightly wider, slightly calmer than her own. In the past two hours, her transformation hadn’t faltered. 

No, no. It never did.

Chapter Text

Izuku lay half-slumped on the twin-sized bed, still incapable of calming his heartbeat even minutes after Eli had left. He stared into the middle distance. It wasn’t what he’d imagined his fist kiss to be like. Well, obviously, he thought, since he had only ever really spent time imagining his first kiss with one person. Those images felt a little uncanny now, after the realness of his new experience with someone else. Someone else. This was someone , then. He rationed out the memories of how it had felt, doing his best not to overwhelm himself. Stubble, warmth, sweetness. Picked it apart - the sounds, feelings, occasional moments of sight. Hands on his neck, biceps. Strong, Eli had whispered. It was a mixture of dizzying and anxiety-inducing. He got up off the bed to pace around the room. 

It hadn’t been Kacchan. Izuku had told himself he’d given up, and yet, he found his grip tight around the daydreams where Katsuki was the only one he’d ever been with, not wanting to release them. There was pain, sharp and stinging, but there was a small sense of relief, too. He’d previously had a small yet piercing fear that he would never really want anybody besides Katsuki, and this had now proved to be decisively untrue. He had wanted Eli. He did want him - hungrily. Before the kiss, he’d even mentioned Katsuki offhandedly, and yet he had stayed singularly focused on the present company. Good. It was good. He tried to insist away his sadness, but after all, it was impossible to ignore how deeply his love for his childhood friend remained entrenched in his heart. The aching thoughts continued as he paced. 

What would Kacchan think, if he knew about the kiss? For all of his denial, Izuku was sure he wouldn’t be happy. Perhaps even loudly, too. “ HUH? ”  he imagined, “YOU LIKE GUYS? ” - some mixture of jealousy and disgust warping his pretty face. Perhaps, in his hot-headed shamelessness, he would even dare to ask Izuku why he hadn’t kissed him? Oh, he hoped he would. It didn’t seem impossible; Izuku was sure of Katsuki’s capacity to fool himself despite even this kind of barefaced question. You idiot, I wanted to kiss you every day, every moment. He needed an excuse to say it. And yet in all likelihood, Kacchan wouldn’t be loud if he heard about the kiss - he would be quiet, in his solemn, lonely way that tore Izuku’s chest clean open - but Izuku couldn’t let himself think about that. If Kacchan was brash, angry, interrogating, then Izuku could throw his sensibilities out the window. He could take him by the collar and pull his lips to his own- good god, that thought was so loud. It was louder than anything else. 

Maybe it was okay to think about someone else right after a first kiss. It was just a kiss, after all… but Eli had been so close, so sweet, so passionate. Something about it felt deceptive, as if he’d hidden away a part of his heart. Yes, in a theoretical sense, Izuku knew that a kiss could be separate from matters of softness and feeling, but it felt so much more difficult to untangle in practice. What’s more, it hadn’t been just one kiss, but many. So many, impossible to count- hard to know when each began and ended- 

God, it was difficult to stay on a train of thought. Plus, he was starting to feel stir-crazy with the solitude of knowing what had just happened. This would be easy to fix. He picked up the phone and opened up the text thread to Uraraka. Though - was it too soon after her hospital visit, for him to parade around his drama? He shook his head. ‘She’ll kill me if I don’t tell her’ was the thought he settled on. 

‘ELI KISSED ME’, short and simple. He was unsure of what emotions to embellish the message with. It seemed he’d caught Uraraka while she was free; the three dots bounced upon the screen, anticipating her reply. Izuku felt sure that he was about to be interrogated. 

Sure enough, ‘ CALLING YOU RIGHT NOW’ popped up on his screen. He waited for the buzz of his ringtone. 

Shoto was sitting on one of the long leather sofas in the agency. A week certainly makes a difference, he supposed, when it comes to physical activity. Not to mention, there was the small issue of him coughing when he ran, now. And the not-so-small issue that he was once again afraid to use his flames. 

Even so, he had outperformed all expectations for his first patrol back - aside from his own, that was. His ice was more controlled than ever, and simpler for capture anyway. His slower pace appeared to others to be a casual, if slightly nonchalant attitude, which proved to pair nicely with his flatly affected voice. Shoto took deep breaths, meditating on the past few hours - perceived mistakes in his work, as small as footwork. Adjusting them, correcting them in his mind’s eye. A voice interrupted him. 

“Great posture.” 

Three Point came striding in to the adjacent kitchen, “Don’t let me disturb you!”

“It’s alright, I was finished.” 

Three Point grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge with her left arm. Her right was almost entirely covered in scales, purple-green iridescent, which began on her left calf and crossed her body diagonally. As she leant against a concrete beam, she downed the better part of the bottle, tilting her head back so the scales on her right jawline caught the light. Maybe, thought Shoto, it seems like flirting because I stare. This was annoying. Shoto loved looking at shiny things. He relinquished the view and went back to looking at the boring, un-glistening floor. 

“Training?” he asked.

“Mhm.”

“Thank you for your hard work,” he said, politely. 

“Haha! Thank you!” Three Point smiled like he’d said something funny, “It’s almost like we’re in an office.”

“We are.” Shoto said, deadpan, pointing to one of the signs with ‘Genius Office’ printed at the top. 

Three Point laughed more, “Haha, well I guess I should start acting like it.”

Oh , he thought, it’s because our job is different to most other people’s . He gave a small chuckle. Three Point seemed pleased at this. As he caught her expression, a small fear planted itself inside Shoto’s mind, quickly growing. It’s happening again, isn’t it? She’s going to want something, and I don’t want to- but we’re talking and I want to be her friend, so maybe I should just-

“Hey,” said Three Point, with a tilt of the head, “Your face got really serious all of a sudden - are you okay?” 

Shoto looked as if he was about to cry. Why not just say it? He just wanted to get it over with.

“I can’t tell when someone wants to be my friend.” 

Three Point looked a little baffled, “I - I want to be your friend?” 

“Are you sure? Because sometimes people say that, and they actually want something else, and I can’t-”

“Hey, listen,” Three Point was a little quieter now, conscious of the size of the room, “I don’t really know how to say this without sounding rude, but well…”

She shifted, and then came to sit down on the sofa with him. A small distance away. A safe distance away. “I kind of realised after I spoke to you a couple times,” she continued, “that you uh, don’t really, um, get that kind of stuff?” She looked at the floor, embarrassed, concerned about insulting him. 

“No.” Shoto said, with an intense expression, “I don’t. And I don’t really feel like I want to.” 

“Yeah,” she replied, as if she’d figured out the latter too. “Plus, you got hurt recently, and I- well it seemed like a friend would be good. I would like to be your friend.” 

“I want to be your friend too!” He said it so seriously, and with such a frown, as if he had a megaphone and a protest sign. His sincerity brought an amused smile to her face. In the clarity of the moment, Shoto took the opportunity. “Then, is it okay if I look at your scales? They’re really… shiny.” 

Three Point laughed again. Loud, calming. “I know right, it’s kind of hard not to look. Hey, check it out..” 

A number of scales flew off of Three Point’s body, clicking together in a detailed pattern to form a flexible cube, which hovered in front of Shoto until he held his hands out to catch it. Iridescent. Captivating. He was entranced, moving it one way and the other, so the light shifted across each part. 

“It might break after an hour or two. When it does, make sure to let go. The sharp parts are on the inside.” Sure enough, there was no sharp edge to be found on the surface. 

“I was working in Kyushu before this,” Three Point continued, “but Jeanist scouted me once he noticed I could fuse my scales together.” 

Shoto looked up attentively, in awe of both the toy and the quirk. 

“So he taught you how to make materials from them?” She nodded. 

“Making these cubes was part of my training. I’m glad somebody likes them!”

Shoto nodded decisively. 

“By the way, I’m, uh, sorry for coming onto you when you arrived.” She laughed sheepishly, “Pretty much all the guys are gay here so, well, I can be a bit forward sometimes when I’m trying to figure it out.” 

Pretty much all of them? Shoto’s face betrayed surprise. 

“You- didn’t know?” Three Point stage-whispered. “Why did you come here, then?”

“My friend was coming here,” he answered honestly. 

“Oh, I see. Bakugo, then?” 

Shoto nodded. She wore some sort of expression on her face, but he couldn’t quite tell what it was. 

“You two are too strong, you know,” she gave a small laugh. “It’s good that you’re good friends, but you might not be able to work together forever.” 

“I know,” Shoto admitted. “So I’m glad to make new friends, too.”

“Good.” She seemed serious, “You’re a good fit here.”

Three Point patted the space between them in a gesture of affection before getting up in the direction of the lockers. Shoto began to fidget with the scale-cube. Three point stopped as if remembering something, and turned back-

“We’ll be working together a bit more next week. Jeanist has been requested on a team-up, and I think he’s taking Dynamight, so us sidekicks will be running things.”

Shoto took a second to process this. The change was a little nerve wracking. 

“It’s just for a few days,” she comforted him, “...And,” she paused, considering her words. 

“Hmm?”

“I think you should consider staying with the agency, at the end of the year.” 

“Yeah,” he replied. 

Wasn’t that supposed to be obvious?

Chapter Text

Uraraka fumbled with the phone buttons, adrenaline still coursing through her from the meeting with the president of the HPSC - with Hawks. As she shook his hand, he’d looked right into her eyes. 

“Make me float sometime, okay?” 

A spring breeze carried strong through the early evening air. The pavements were beginning to be speckled with blossoms. What had she just agreed to? What in the hell was her job now? For the past fifteen minutes thoughts and memories had flashed at her, relentless and quick as lightning, as her mind tried to process the change. 

Izuku’s texts had been heaven-sent, really, when it came to giving her something to focus on. Of course, she wouldn’t tell him about the meeting with Hawks. It even felt innocent - as if the conversation which had just changed the course of her life could’ve simply slipped her mind in light of his news. It just so happened that his own emotions would distract him from any obvious signs of her own shakiness. It just so happened that her location at that moment made it seem like she was coming back from work. Coincidences. 

Uraraka took a second to cast the meeting from her mind, instead trying to take in the new information. God, Eli- who was that again… Names had been given to her so excitedly, with so little context, or- oh, was Eli the kind one? From the class- no, the lecture? It must have been - yes, OH she KNEW he’d been hitting on him. Hungry for more information, she pressed the call button. It picked up on the first ring. 

“WHAT!?” 

Her opening statement. 

“We were watching a documentary, and then we were talking and we were very close and then HE KISSED ME-”

“Like OUT OF THE BLUE?”

“Well- we- no, his face was close and then he said he wanted-

“OH MY GOD!”

“To kiss me and then I, well, I didn’t finish my sentence but I was saying yes-”

“OH MY GOD?! Didn’t I tell you he was hitting on you?”
“RIGHT? And I thought ofcoursenot, because whywouldhebehittingonmebutheCLEARLYWAS-”

“Alright, first of all, breathe.”

Izuku took an obedient breath. 

“Okay - so, how do you feel?”

Izuku made a noise that sounded more like a squawk than a word. He took a couple more gasps of air. 

“Right,” said Uraraka, “It’s a lot!”

“A lot of good!” Izuku said, with an implied ‘however’ hanging heavily in the air. But Uraraka wasn’t going to bring him up if Izuku wasn’t. 

“It was my first real kiss.”

Right, spin the bottle doesn’t count.  

“Oh my god, yeah. I didn’t even think about that-”

“And also my second, third, fourth, fifth and then I stopped keeping count.”

Uraraka couldn’t help giving a small squeal at this. Izuku laughed. 

“We kind of lost track of time a bit - he was here for like an hour, he had to go to a meeting but uh…” He trailed off, getting lost once again in the memory. 

“Just kissing?” Uraraka hinted. 

“Yes, no, yes- I think? I um, I think I have a hickey.”

“OH my GOD” She put her hand over her mouth, funneling her voice into the phone receiver. “Fun?”

“Mhm!” She could picture the accompanying short nod and wide-eyed expression - a response reserved for when Izuku wanted to agree particularly emphatically. 

“And you think he’s cute?”

“Very,” he said seriously, “I don’t know how I’m going to pay attention in lectures. 

“So… great!” Izuku was quiet for a second. She continued: “He seems lovely - what’s not to like?” 

A trepidatious silence played out over the line. 

“I just keep thinking of him.” There it is. The explosive, blonde elephant-in-the-room. 

“It’s only been a couple weeks,” she reminded him. 

“Yeah,” Izuku said, suddenly lethargic, “I didn’t- I only thought of him afterwards. I just- I’m not over him. And I’m still going to think of him. And I shouldn’t pretend like I’m all ready for someone new, that- that doesn’t seem kind. To Eli.”

Uraraka quietly wondered if Izuku would ever be ‘over him’ - it certainly seemed like a lofty ambition. The thought felt mean, and yet, the two had grown up together. The part of Izuku that loved Katsuki was surely woven into him, wasn’t it? That shouldn’t mean he could never love another - it couldn’t. It would be too sad. 

She took a deep breath. 

“Why don’t you tell him?”

“Tell Kacchan?!”

Oh, your one-track mind. 

“Tell Eli . That there’s someone you’re not over. That… Well, what do you think? Would you still like to see him, if he was okay with it?”

“What like… ‘I love someone else, but do your best’ ? That feels even more mean.”

Well he had a point. But still- “No, I - ugh. I mean, you know, people can kiss without dating.” 

“I know that- I mean…” Izuku considered it for a second. 

And another second. 

“...It just feels like a cheat code.”

Uraraka laughed. “Doesn’t that just mean you want to do it?” 

Izuku was silent, thinking. Uraraka crossed the street which led up to her apartment block. 

“Is it really okay? I mean - I kissed him back, and then I ask him for things to be casual?”

“I think so,” she fiddled with her keys, “I mean, did he confess to you or something?”

“No, no he-”

“Look,” she’d been trying not to say it, “It could already be casual.”

She heard a sharp intake of breath. A near miss. In another circumstance, another time, that idea would’ve hurt, badly. 

“I think,” she tried to soften the blow as she took the stairs up to her floor, “you should talk to him.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“You can get some clarity on what he wants, what you want. If it’s the same, then… great! If it’s different, then it’s better that you know now, right?”

“Okay.” Izuku said, momentarily calm. Uraraka slid the key into the lock of her front door. 

“I’m going to text him after my- Oh shit! I’m so late-”

“Go! Go!” She urged. They knew each other too well to worry about rushed goodbyes. 

Uraraka took another deep breath, put her phone back in her pocket, and turned the key to let herself into her home. 

The apartment was not how she left it. 

Katsuki stood to attention in front of a desk that was altogether too grand and too flamboyant. Well, who was he to talk.

“You can relax, Dynamight,” Best Jeanist spoke from within his collar. Katsuki leant on his hip. Why not match the room?

“We’ve had a team-up request,” Jeanist continued, sorting delicately through the papers on his desk, “From Shishido. There’s whispers of an old fighting ring resurfacing in Osaka.” Katsuki kept his reaction to the city entirely internal. 

“Why us?”

Jeanist extended two fingers without looking up. Two reasons. 

He held up the first, “We can expect them to know the heroes of the local area, and have various plans to deal with them.”

And the second, “If they’re using a literal boxing ring, I expect my quirk will be required for capture.”

His mind formed a picture of some half-beaten villains being tied up in a bow by their ring-rope, as if captured by shoelaces. The plan made sense. 

“Of course, I get to bring a sidekick. So you’ll be coming with me.”

Katsuki tried to swallow his gasp, instead managing to choke on his own spit. The coughing fit that ensued was not the reaction he had intended to give. It shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise. After all, Dynamight was the new talk of Tokyo’s hero scene. Besides, it made sense to leave the agency to those who knew it best, and Shoto had just spent a week recovering from his injury. Still, Katsuki had been trying not to show how keenly he wanted the hero’s approval, and, well, right now he wasn’t exactly the picture of composure. Jeanist looked away, charitably, while Katsuki caught his breath. 

“Thank you for the opportunity,” He said hoarsely. 

“They want us there on Thursday morning for a briefing at Fat Gum’s agency. They won’t be directly involved with the mission, but supporting with information and civilian direction.” He lifted his eyes from the table briefly, to check if Katsuki was following. He was, of course. “And that evening is likely when we’ll take action, although we may have to wait until the following night.” He held out one of the carefully-handled pieces of paper. Katsuki took it. 

It was a form, asking for the sort of information which would be necessary for the team-up. He looked through it, answering each question mentally. Jeanist wasn’t finished with his briefing. 

“I’ve arranged for us to stay at a nearby hotel on Wednesday night. You can have the day off - go see your friends, explore the city.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the west. “They’ve given us rooms on opposite sides of the building for some god-forsaken reason, so ask for me at the front desk if there are any problems once you arrive.”

Except Katsuki was almost certain he had booked them rooms on separate halls intentionally. He wasn’t sure, however, whether this was done for his own benefit, or Jeanist’s. 

Hmm. Katsuki hoped that the two now had enough of a quiet understanding of each other that no arduous coming out conversation was necessary. Nowadays, coming out was rarely ever necessary for Katsuki. While he had always had a flare for the dramatic, he’d now accepted himself enough to drop the masculinity act somewhat, and a few of his mannerisms had noticeably changed. Barely anybody who had met him within the past year had assumed that he was straight. It was only the people who had known him for longest that were blind to his affectations, for better or for worse.

Altogether, the chances that Jeanist didn’t know that Katsuki was gay were low. God knows, he probably knew it before Katsuki himself had put two and two together, and yet, his direct recognition of this fact was so strangely, singularly important to him. He supposed he looked up to him more so as a mentor than as a hero - Jeanist had won more respect from Katsuki from the one decades-old voguing video he’d seen than he ever had by capturing a villain. Besides, he was one of the first few adults to pick apart the facade Katsuki had grown up behind - its fear and its self-hatred - and refused to be afraid of him. Starting to embrace his identity, in the same way that the hero always had, felt like a gesture of respect, which he also hoped might yet result in some sort of acknowledgement. And so, in one of these attempts-

“Is there any,” Gulp. “Nightlife… I should check out?”

Jeanist appraised him wearily. 

“Good god, you’re only 18. Go to a sleepover party!” He waved Katsuki away as if shooing a bug. Ah, the hotel mishap was for Jeanist’s privacy, then. Katsuki couldn’t help but turn beet red, giving a short, rigid bow before moving to leave the room.

“But!” Jeanist’s voice stopped him in his tracks, “IF you are unable to find something better to do…” He sighed, seemingly reminded of some-or-other distant stop on his own queer journey. “Fracas is where young people go in Osaka, I suppose.” He reabsorbed himself in his desk papers, besides one elongated finger, which he pointed daintily towards Katsuki. 

“And if I see your face in Splash,” he met his eyes, “I’ll strangle you with your own silk scarf. Understood?” 

Katsuki blinked in recognition. 

“Dismissed.”

Chapter Text

Why - why was it so neat? She was sure she hadn’t left it like this.

Uraraka couldn’t take another step into her apartment. The door swung closed gently behind her. No, no- she was too on her guard for something like this. Without thinking, she shifted her weight, keeping it low as she scanned the room. There was movement- 

Just the glare of car headlights passing across the room. Staying close to the wall, she flipped the lightswitch. Every shadow danced at her. The room was clean. What kind of joke was this? She went to call Izuku back, and then remembered his hurried exit. This was probably nothing. Probably fine. A term of the lease she had skimmed over. In fact, she was becoming surer by the second. That must’ve been it - yes - she had probably missed an important notice while skimming through documents wasted. These must be serviced apartments. She wouldn’t bother Izuku. She didn’t need to. 

A little more convinced of her own safety, Uraraka surveyed the kitchen cabinets. Everything had been put back, just how she liked it. Just how she liked it. The order of the bowls, her favourite cutlery in the right spot, the mugs arranged just how she had always preferred them. Tupperware sat in a pile on the dish rack. The fridge was empty of mould. The floor was empty of clothing. She felt loneliness, deep, like a chasm, like a crack in barren earth. Whoever had been here, she wanted them back. 

She ran a hand over the clean countertop, now empty aside from a notepad she had bought on a whim. It felt dented. The first page was missing, she noticed. Unless she-? No, she definitely hadn’t used it. The chasm of loneliness was hungry, hungry to know more about who had organised her dishes and handled her mess. Perhaps they had made a grocery list, or commented about the state of her apartment. She held the paper up to the light, trying to read the indentation at various angles. She made could make out two words across the entire page: ‘carrying’ and ‘dangerous’. Her heart beat loudly, violently. After a few more seconds of desperately adjusting the paper, she placed it down, careful not to disrupt the evidence. Then it came to her - a pencil - she needed a pencil. 

A biro pen would’ve been easy enough to find, but a pencil required her to dig through her school supplies which sat in a box beneath her bed. She did so readily, messily, apologising all the while for messing up the tidywork of whoever had been there. Pencil, pencil, pencil, pencil, THERE. She used her best footwork to dash back to the kitchen. 

It took her no more than a couple of seconds to shade in the page, even though she did so as meticulously as she could. She blurred her vision, unwilling to read until the whole page was revealed. She adjusted her vision. Her careful handiwork had paid off; every word was legible. 

Dear Ochako,

I am well. I took care of some of your mess here because I love you. I will always try to come and help you if there’s something wrong, but please don’t drink too much again. I was scared. You passed out when I was carrying you and it made me think of before when you lost too much blood. 

I am sorry I never told you I was alive. I wanted you to be okay without me because it’s dangerous for you if I’m in your life, 

If you can’t be okay without me, 

She read it. And read it again. 

The world felt very cold, and then very hot, and then very cold again. Stillness, static, entropy. Grief, and some brutal bloody feeling which gripped grief by the throat and gutted it. The coldness of the abandonment. The warmth of blood. The death of Himiko’s death inside of Ochako’s body. 'I am sorry I never told you I was alive.' Oh, she was - she was different, now. 

It was too much for her to swallow without choking. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself, small and sweet. She just wanted… She had only wanted- 

Her eyes stung as the tears came. She didn’t know how long it had been since she last cried sober. It could have been years. But she could make up for each and every month of grief now, as her tears flecked onto the table, propelled by the spasms of undignified sobs. She slipped off the chair onto the floor, hunched over the tiling. It was so cold, so cold in her clean, empty home. So cold in her body, no longer held by her lover in the shape of a stranger. No longer lit by the fire of the alcohol.

Still, she wouldn’t drink. She knew it, and yet it should’ve been so much harder than it used to be to stop herself; there was nobody to go downstairs to, not anymore. The despair had its claws in her, and it was begging to be felt, now. Oh, there was nobody to go downstairs to, and it had all gone too quickly. Everything, time and love and comfort, slipping through her fingers. She could barely breathe for her crying, oh, she wanted the UA common room sofa back - she wanted her friends. The top-and-tail sleepovers. She wanted all of it, together - everybody at once, with no losses and no secrets. Himiko side by side with her next to all her classmates. Parents who she didn’t have to worry about disappointing. A promotion she could tell them about. God, she could tell Himiko all of it - she would, if only she were there. Oh, if only Himiko had finished her godforsaken sentence. 

Her sobs echoed off the ceramic. Nobody held her. 

Nobody held her, but the floor held her, and the floor was clean. She repeated this thought as she sat, and the tide of sobs receded into breaths, shaky and spasmodic, still. She would have to savour each detail, each place her hand must have rested. 

“I love you too,” she whispered out loud, placing the paper gently, so gently, to her forehead, before pulling herself to her feet. She blinkered herself as she walked to the bedroom, ignoring the mess she’d produced in her hunt for a pencil. "I love you, too." Everything else was just as it was. 

She slipped under the covers of the beautifully made bed. On the opposite side, the collar of a beige cardigan poked out from under the blanket. Uraraka grabbed it, wrapped her arms around it. 

“I hope you’ll still love me,” she spoke, muffled by the fabric, “even though I’m working for the man who killed Jin, now. And I hope you know I’ll never sell you out. No matter what you do. He knows that too: you come first to me. So I hope you’ll find a way to trust me,”

She lifted her chin away from the cardigan, wanting to hear herself say the next words she spoke,

“Even though I’m a traitor, Himiko. Even though I'm a spy.”

Izuku caught up to Eli outside the lecture hall.

“Hi!” 

Eli whipped around. “Woah! Hi!”

“Sorry! I-”

“No, it’s-”

“Just wanted-”

“Fine- good, don’t worry!”

“Just wanted to see if you wanted to… talk?”

Izuku scanned Eli’s face. He looked nervous, in an uncomfortable sort of way. He wasn’t exactly expecting flowers, but Izuku was a little surprised by how cold the reception was. Eli didn’t answer the question, instead looked at the ground and fidgeted. 

“Are you okay?”

“Just thinking, yeah - yes. I’m good.” He gave an unconvincing smile. Okay. It stung to be shut out. Izuku couldn’t find it in him to bother with the bells, whistles and subtlety. 

“Can I just say something, then?”
“Yeah, sure, of course.” 

Izuku took a deep breath. 

“I had a lot of fun earlier but I want to be clear. There’s someone I’m not over, and I don’t want to get into a relationship. I’m not saying you wanted to, or anything, I just…” He sighed. It felt a bit pathetic. He looked up to see, however, that Eli was no longer avoiding looking at him. 

The small recognition pushed his words onwards. “I wanted to be clear about what I wanted, I guess. So if it’s a one time thing, that’s fine! But if it’s a multiple times thing, then, well, you should… know that.” 

Eli opened his mouth, though it took him a second longer to speak. 

“Thank you. I was kind of, uh, freaking out because I- well I don’t think I’m in the right place to be with someone. And I didn’t want to let you down. But I… had fun.”

“I had fun too,” Izuku said, sincerely. 

Eli exhaled. “Yeah, so I, uh. I thought it would be best if you didn’t think of me like a boyfriend or anything.”

It was a mix of emotions. Relief, embarrassment, rejection, and another shot of relief. 

“But I did really want to do it again,” Eli continued, hand on the back of his neck. Again. For just a second, their thoughts were in sync. 

“Tomorrow-” Izuku blurted before he had found a way to finish the thought, “I should be done with my assignments before my class, and that one ends at 5:30pm.” He managed to finish coherently, and felt relief before realising the shamelessness of what he had just said. 

Eli looked at him, his cheeks a little pinker than the weather could excuse. 

“I’ll be at yours at 6, then.”

Chapter Text

Nothing looked right. The peach shirt was too reminiscent of last week’s disaster, and everything else just seemed awkward - too casual or too smart. He looked like himself in all of them. Scary, scary, scary - he recited as he caught glimpses of himself while changing. The rest of the apartment was spotless besides the 2 metre radius of where Katsuki had been ransacking his wardrobe. The 6th outfit change was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“COME IN,” he yelled. The door was on the latch, anticipating Shoto’s entrance. Katsuki continued with his frantic trial-and-error. He had decided on jeans, at least. 

“Wear that peach shirt,” came Shoto’s voice from across the room. Katsuki gulped. Well I guess he wouldn’t exactly remember, he thought. What’s more, at this point, it felt like the only choice left. He pulled on a tank top and grabbed the shirt from the back of a nearby chair. He had one arm in the sleeve when he looked up. 

Shoto stood near the doorway. He was certainly disguised. No, not disguised - he was transformed. Beautiful.

His short hair was replaced by long, flowing, monochrome white which extended down past his shoulder blades. His features were uniform - his left eye now the same grey shade as his right, his left and right eyebrows and eyelashes having also been painted a matching hue. Katsuki wasn’t sure what, but he was sure that he’d used some kind of makeup to tone down his scar, making it appear more as a birthmark. Where on earth had he picked up these skills? He had affected the contours of his face, rounding his cheeks and highlighting his eyes. Not to mention, his clothes - a loose white cut-out blouse and a short skirt to match. Shoto tilted his head to one side. A fake hoop earring came to rest upon his jaw. It… God, it suited him. 

“Too much?”

Whoops. Katsuki was gawking. He shook his head, trying to make his amazement look like exasperation, and fixed his shirt. “It’s definitely a disguise.” It wasn’t that he didn’t want to compliment Shoto, but that he desperately needed to buy time to ascertain his own reaction. It was a positive one - there was no doubt about that - and, if he was being honest, it was one he’d never felt before in response to a feminine-looking person. He stared at the floor, trying to will away the somewhat dizzy feeling. 

“This is not,” Katsuki chose his words carefully, “going to make people hit on you less.”

Shoto tilted his head, “Even if I talk?” The low, deadpan voice would certainly be surprising to most, coming from his now-feminine appearance, but unfortunately for Shoto, it only broadened his appeal. 

“Even if you talk,” Katsuki admitted. 

Shoto thought for a second. 

“Should I not talk?” 

“I DON’T KNOW!”

“Why are you angry?”
“I DON’T KNOW!”

Shoto raised an eyebrow. 

“Sorry-” Katsuki calmed, making an attempt to patch up his mishap, “You look great, I uh- I’m sorry. You look great.” 

Shoto’s eyebrow remained raised. He was leaning on the doorframe in a manner that was just a touch more affected than his usual stance. 

“Clearly I do.” 

He’d hoped Shoto’s obliviousness would save him from the scrutiny, but apparently he had no such luck. Caught red-handed. Or, rather, red-faced. 

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Katsuki admitted with quiet urgency, “Please can we focus on something else.” 

Shoto made a hiccoughing sound. It took a second before Katsuki realised he was laughing. 

Really laughing, interspersed with the odd raspy cough. 

“Stop it.”

Shoto laughed more. As humiliated as Katsuki was, the part of him that usually worried for his friend felt calm, sated for a moment. He couldn’t help but smile, even though the joke was at his expense. 

“Let’s just go,” he hid the sheepish grin by rubbing the bridge of his nose. Shoto exited the apartment still chuckling. 

As they walked, both found it considerably easier to talk. Katsuki focused on the path ahead, occasionally looking down at his phone. Shoto looked stunning, but with his clothes mostly covered by a unisex coat, he didn’t draw a particularly problematic amount of attention. His muscles had always been lean, rather than bulky, Katsuki supposed, lending themselves well to the transformation. 

“By the way, I think I’m going to be away next week.” 

“For the team-up, right? Three Point told me. Was that why he called you for a meeting yesterday then?”

So there was talk around the office. Katsuki didn’t know what to make of that. 

“Yeah,” he said, involuntarily remembering his awkward questions, and Jeanist’s reluctant validation, “It’s in Osaka.” 

At this, Shoto stopped abruptly in the middle of the pavement, the long white hair fanning out as he turned. Is he wearing perfume? 

“What are you going to do?” he asked gravely. 

“Hm?” 

He hadn’t thought about it as a dilemma. He was going to hang out with Kirishima. He was not going to bother anybody who didn’t want to be bothered. 

“I’m-” he guessed Shoto could only be asking one thing, “I’m not going to see him.”

His friend looked sad. Katsuki wondered if the costume made it easier for him to emote. 

“But I’ll text Kirishima,” he pulled out his phone, as if it was a compromise. 

“Hey, don’t know if you heard but I’ll b at your agency nxt week. Coming a day earlier so if you wnna hang out on weds lmk”

The message sent. Received. Read. Typing… Online. Typing… Online. Last seen - 

Weird. 

Well. There wasn’t much point in stewing on it. He’d reply, or he wouldn’t. 

Katsuki yielded a little to his own curiosity. Nonchalantly, of course. 

“Where’d you learn to do all this?” he gestured with his eyes to Shoto’s getup. 

Shoto was obviously pleased that he’d asked. 

“I did a lot of research,” he said, seriously. “There are a lot of people on the internet who show you how to do things like this, even if you’re a man, or something like that…” He trailed off just the smallest bit. ‘Something like that’ - something like a man? Katsuki tried to picture beyond the edges of gender, like picturing beyond the edges of a map. Confusing. He let the thought go. Shoto continued. 

“I also called Jiro and asked her, but she didn’t seem to know that much,” Katsuki could believe this. She had lines on her eyes some days, and some days not. It was a different ordeal to how Shoto had transformed. He glanced back to his face, and found it hardened. “I also asked my sister.” 

“Oh,” Katsuki could read the look on his face well enough, “how did that go?”

Shoto smiled without un-creasing his forehead, “Oh, you know. She’s worried I’ll bring shame on the family. So she wasn’t very helpful.”

If it wasn’t so twisted, Katsuki would’ve cackled. His breath hissed through his teeth. 

“Oh, THAT’S sure to do it.” He forced out a couple, winded laughs - almost shouts. “Yes, THAT’S the real shame of the Todoroki family. The son in drag! HA! The fine hero son who wouldn’t hurt a fly unless he was saving someone. Drag! HA! And that’s the shame.”

But it was the shame, of course, and it was Katsuki’s shame too, for being gay, for being the reason for their outing. Still, every breath which hailed their hypocrisy made the weight of it a little lighter. 

“Heh. Who’s going to tell her that half the world would like Endeavor more if he had the guts to put on some lipstick?” And then, a little quieter, “God, sorry. It makes me sick.”

Shoto hadn’t spoken, and was walking a little slower now. 

“Thank you,” he said, in a small voice. When Katsuki turned to look at him, he saw his grey eyes red, brimming with tears. 

“SHIT- don’t cry - your makeup!”

Shoto realised with panic. He looked to Katsuki for direction. 

“TILT YOUR HEAD UP. BLINK.”

Shoto did so, adam’s apple to the air, his carefully decorated eyes closing repeatedly. Katsuki stood in a focused stance, handkerchief in hand, ready to tend to any stray tears. They stood like this in the middle of the pavement, drawing strange looks from passers by. And if, in that moment, shame befell their families, Katsuki thought, then, well, so be it. 

Izuku put his socks back on. It felt weird to do them first, but then, it felt weird to do anything first. People thought a lot about undressing before or during sex, he supposed, but quite little about afterwards. It wasn’t the habitual, simple task that it was before he left his dorm room in the mornings. It had become complex, unfamiliar, with the new, fuzzy, buzzing way his head felt. Eli was in the shower, thank god. He sat down on the bed with one leg in his joggers. 

It was funny, how much weight he had given those actions in his head. The endless questions of what he wanted. What he was capable of. What he was brave enough to do. Those questions were so… abstract - had so little bearing on the actual acts. He had wanted, seen what he wanted, and done what he wanted. It was almost as simple as that. Almost. 

There was the matter of self-consciousness. As the fog lifted, he felt the questions rising. Had he done too much? Not enough? God knows - perhaps he had been helplessly bad at it. Though Eli had certainly seemed to enjoy himself - and so had he - perhaps too much? If it was possible to enjoy it too much, Izuku was desperately worried that he had. He had, perhaps, been a touch too reckless with his own body. A bad habit , he thought, though he hadn’t expected it to translate into moments of intimacy. There was definite soreness, tenderness in places, which he found desperately difficult to regret, even in retrospect. He was going to have to be careful with this. 

A little more of the haze lifting, he assessed what he could see of his body, which altogether didn’t total many areas of importance. Wherever he could blush from blushed still, and a bite mark was tender on his hip - given upon instruction. That was strange of me, wasn’t it? And yet, the memory made his head feel hot and empty again. Greedy hypotheticals pervaded through his mind. 

He lay back on the bed. The shower room was just a door away. All he needed to do was get up. Was knock.

Chapter Text

Uraraka was her family name. Urara, like peaceful. Ka, like day. It was her mother and father’s, too, but, well, she was their only child. Her name felt like something she carried. 

It was raining in Osaka. The twilight of the evening had taken her by surprise; Uraraka had slept on-and-off throughout the day. She sat beside her bed, now, paper scattered around her in a semicircle. The crying of the previous evening had exhausted her, and yet she couldn’t sleep consistently, waking fitfully from twisted dreams. It was in these hazy moments that she formed a grounding resolution. She was going to find Himiko. 

It had been around 5am when Uraraka had retrieved a full pad of lined paper and began to write. Various details had been swimming at her and preventing her mind from settling, so it seemed a good idea to take some notes. By the evening, notes had morphed into numerous pages, sweeping across the floor and onto nearby surfaces, each flecked with the marks where her pen had rested as she drifted back to sleep. As the day progressed, and her lethargy had receded, the notes she made had grown in coherence, tying together what few details she had. They were vague, but sewed a careful outline around the broader details of Himiko’s life. I’m making a web, she realised. I’m spinning a web to catch her in. 

It wasn’t gentle, what she was doing. Planning to trap her - to close in on her in this way. It felt deliberate. Violent, even. Uraraka didn’t flinch at the thought. It was as violent as her grief - as violent as her longing. If she hadn’t wanted to be caught, Uraraka thought wildly, she should have been more careful. Another connection found. Another string tied together. It occurred to her, a few hours in, that she might, in fact, be quite well-suited to her new position. 

The conclusions Uraraka drew around Himiko left gaps. She knew that Himiko was stalking her - and had likely been doing so since the war - but now was doing so closely. So closely that she knew the preferred order of her cupboards. Himiko had been in Osaka for at least as long as Uraraka had, Uraraka could guess with relative certainty, since she had known the streets well enough to carry her to the hospital. It also didn’t seem as if she was planning on leaving; in her unfinished letter she hadn’t hesitated to claim that she would ‘always be there,’ were she in danger. She was here. She was so close. Frustration simmered in her. Himiko, just out of her reach - but she wouldn’t be unreachable for long. 

What Uraraka hadn’t yet pinpointed was how Himiko was living undetected. While her memory was fragmented from her disastrous drunk walk home, she knew that Himiko had appeared in a man’s form. What’s more, she had been so sure in her disguise that she had risked appearing - risked being witnessed - in a brightly lit hospital , of all places. She’d therefore managed to obtain enough blood for the journey, and to give polite goodbyes with excuses attached. There were no news reports, nor hero briefings, of nearby blood-loss deaths who fit the man's description. There were no matching missing persons, and no kidnappings for that matter. Could it have been given willingly?

She bit her lip and drew her laptop to her. She typed in the name of the hospital she’d recovered at, and hesitated, hand hovering over the keys. She drew a sure breath in, typed ‘blood bank’, and hit enter. 

Katsuki rocked back and forth, onto his toes, the balls of his feet, then his heels. Backwards, forwards, teetering, as he and Shoto stood in line to enter the club. 

Everyone else in the line seemed fairly calm. Shoto included. The rest of the line was bubbly, giggling, full of friends teasing their friends. Maybe they’re already drunk, Katsuki thought, maybe I should be drunk already. The second thought died out quickly. What if the drink made him angrier, louder? More likely to lay his hands on someone? He would rather have drank gasoline. 

“You should call me Mio, by the way,” Shoto said, “while I’m dressed like this.”

Katsuki nodded, and glanced at the sparse petals drifting their way onto the side-street. Cherry blossom. It was the obvious interpretation of the name. Though it could also mean ocean, he thought. It could also mean nothing. 

“Why did you decide to do…” he hesitated. Then settled on a word, “drag?”

Shoto tilted his head, as if agreeing with Katsuki’s hesitation. 

“I don’t know if it’s drag. Maybe crossdressing? But I don't feel like I’m crossing anything.”

Huh. This was a viewpoint beyond what Katsuki had considered before. He put all his effort into understanding. Not crossing anything?

“Maybe…” he hesitated. Blushed a little, “Okama? But I don’t know if I get to call myself that…” He trailed off, moving to track Katsuki’s expression. 

Katsuki had trouble hiding the shock on his face. It wasn’t a word he’d heard many people using for themselves. No, besides a couple of the variety shows they had watched together, the bulk of the times Katsuki had heard the word ‘okama’ were jokes which verged ruthlessly into insults. He bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t even sure he knew what it meant, when it came down to it, more than simply femininity where it wasn’t supposed to be. Though, maybe that definition was enough. Aberrant, blooming femininity. Like flowers growing in the cracks of a paving stone. 

He looked at the flower in front of him. 

“Of course you get to call yourself that,” he gave a small, reassuring smile, then looked away, embarrassed, with a huff. “You’re the one wearing the damn heels.” 

The line was moving onwards, slowly but surely.

“So, it’s Mio,” he confirmed. 

“Yes. And you?”

Katsuki looked confused. 

“My hero name isn’t my own name, remember, so it’s fine.”

“Bakugo, then?”

“I told you, it’s fine!”

Shoto looked at him expectantly, head tilted. 

Katsuki returned a baffled look. 

“I’m not letting you call me Kacchan?”

This earned him a glare. 

“I don’t want to call you Kacchan.”

At this point, Katsuki would’ve simply been glad to be done with the puzzle. 

“Katsuki is- fine?” he shook his head in confusion, “Is that-? You happy?”

“I’ll call you Katsuki then.” Shoto did indeed look happy. 

When they reached the front of the line, Shoto stepped forward for the both of them, grabbing Katsuki’s hand and yanking him along. He shot a small smile to the bouncer. 

“You’ll let him in, won’t you darling?”

His voice was lilting, but not an inch higher than it usually was. 

The bouncer was softened, glancing at Katsuki pityingly, as if he were a stray. He nodded his head to signal them into the building. 

Mio was a beacon of curiosity in the room. It wasn’t long before both parties had a number of people to talk to. Katsuki watched as Shoto performed in conversation. His movements had always been graceful, and yet they were usually cut off at the edges, shorn to fit into the frame of masculine physicality. Here, now, everything was extended. He had made a home for himself inside Mio, or Mio had made a home for herself inside him. 

Had he even wanted a disguise in the first place? If he really had - if he hadn’t planned this - then Katsuki was glad it had turned out this way. He was barely focusing on his own prospects and yet-

Someone was watching him watch Mio. A man in a plain shirt, just slightly unbuttoned, and dress pants, as if he’d come straight from work. His black hair was cut short, neat, but his eyes were kind and smiling. He wasn’t holding a drink, but his face was flushed, his expression, open. He looked down at the small circular table he was standing at once Katsuki looked over, tapping his fingertips on the tabletop either nervously or absentmindedly. Katsuki walked over. He looked at the table, too. 

“You with her?” Katsuki caught his hand gesturing in the direction of Mio. 

“She’s a friend,” Katsuki smiled a little. Why not? Who was going to tease him for smiling, here? “Just a friend, though.”

He tapped the table near where the man was fidgeting. Oh, just a little of that familiar feeling. Close but not quite close enough. 

“Takaya,” the man said, hand on his chest. Fewer words were better in introductions, given the noise.

“Katsuki,” he said, and left his hand on the table. Takaya took it, drawing himself close to Katsuki, lips by his ear. 

“Katsuki,” said Takaya, “would you come dance?” He shivered - he couldn’t help it. It was new, so new. So new and so close. He nodded, and their arms went taut as Takaya led the way to the dancefloor. It took just a second to look back, catch Mio’s eye, and receive a wink and a nod of approval. 

Then, there they were, in a jungle of bodies and glitter and lights. It wasn’t awkward to dance, no - they were already moving; it would only have been awkward not to. Once they reached the floor, neither one of them let go of the others hand, using the momentum to push and pull each other into continual motion. Katsuki didn’t know how long it was before Takaya brought his hand onto his shoulder. It didn’t matter. They were dancing closer now, in synchronised rhythm. It could have been seconds, minutes or hours before Katsuki came to thread his left arm under Takaya’s shoulder, came to turn his right hand inward to trace the the nape of his neck. Time was altogether unimportant. All he knew was that at some point, they became too tangled to dance well - moving simply for the sake of movement, and the ritual of getting closer. The pounding of the music was indistinguishable from his own heartbeat. Takaya scanned Katsuki’s face through the flashing lights, mouth parted, as if through sheer force of will he could draw Katsuki closer to him. 

And he could, it seemed. He did.

Chapter Text

Izuku walked home in an daze. He hadn’t knocked. Instead, he had taken a number of breaths, put on the rest of his clothing and left without a note. Once he was halfway down the staircase, he texted Eli a clumsy excuse for leaving, adorned with an excess of superfluous details and exclamation marks. Somehow, he managed not reflect too heavily on his social incompetence. He was, in fact, too busy reflecting on his choice to go home - on the evening he had deprived himself of. His mind lingered over images of what he might have been missing out on; it was so easy to picture, God , he admonished himself for leaving in that moment. 

There was definitely something to proving he was desirable. Even moreso, there was something to proving he was useful, serviceable. It would have been nice to break his body, just a little bit, for something. For someone. Lord knows, he couldn’t use it to save anybody anymore. 

It occurred to him that these were troubling thoughts. In fact, many things occurred to him on the walk back to his dorm room. That he’d had sex for the first time, for one. That he’d wanted to, and that he wanted to again. The enormity and variety of the wanting also appeared alarming to Izuku, and it wasn’t long before he’d branded himself as both mentally unwell and some sort of helpless pervert. Still, his self-flagellation didn’t do the job of discouraging his imagination. After all, it had been a while, now, since Izuku had wanted something so well within his reach. 

The walk back to the dorm room was too short to do the proper work of clearing his mind of the restless energy that still buzzed about within it. Yet, still, he couldn’t will himself to take a detour and walk more when his bed promised such warmth, rest and comfort. His body, after all, was still worn and somewhat aching from the evening that had passed - a gentle, nagging reminder that he had made the right decision in coming home. Ugh. Izuku was tired of right decisions. He let himself in, and curled up in his unmade bed, hands doing the absent-minded work of checking through his phone to see what he’d missed over the course of the evening. There were a series of unread texts from Kirishima. 

It didn’t register at first - and then it did. He skimmed the texts once, then twice over. Katsuki was coming to Osaka at the same time that Mirio was - the day they had planned to meet as a group and then go to a club together. Kirishima had held off on his reply, wanting to know if there was any awkwardness between them before he invited Katsuki to the gathering earlier in the evening. Izuku’s conflict-avoidant instincts took the reigns immediately. He would love to see Kacchan, he said. It had been too long. He patiently waited for his stomach to drop. His chest to ache. 

It didn’t come. Instead, his cheeks were hot, his head fuzzy. Perhaps, perhaps he was supposed to relive his heartbreak at the prospect of reunion. Yet, in this moment, his heart wouldn’t break. It could only want, and dear god, it wanted. 

Katsuki opened his eyes to an empty bed. This wasn’t out of the ordinary, and it took him a couple of seconds to piece together the reason for the awkward absence he felt from the pillow across from him. 

He hadn’t come home alone. 

He felt his stomach drop. The first thing to do was to take a mental inventory of last night’s events. Thank god he didn’t drink. 

• Shoto comes over, dressed as Mio

Already there was a lot to unpack, here. His flustered reaction, Shoto’s apparent indifference to gender - he skimmed through these thoughts to recall further in the evening. 

• Arrive at the club, hang out with Mio
• Talk to Takaya 
• Dance with Takaya

It hadn’t felt embarrassing at the time, but Katsuki couldn’t picture it in retrospect without cringing. Regardless, he persisted through his memories: 

• Kiss Takaya
• Get a taxi home 

Yeesh, expensive. He had paid, if he could recall correctly. Though he couldn’t entirely regret it, picturing the atmosphere of a crowded train-ride to his apartment. 

• Make Takaya wait while frantically tidying clothes

Yeah, great move, Kacchan. Really smooth. 

• Begin hooking up with Takaya

Oh dear. He could feel what was coming next.

• Start crying 

There it is. 

No wonder he’d left by the time Katsuki had woken up. The details came back in involuntary flashes, meanwhile Katsuki was growing less and less sure he wanted to remember the night at all. 

… Though, it had been nice, he guessed, up until the emotional tipping point. It had been nice to know that there wasn’t some law of nature or physics which prevented him from being wanted, or seen, or reciprocated. It had been nice, in a way, to put his sexuality into practical application - no longer confined to the existential misery and longing of his own mind. 

If he was being honest about it, he hadn’t been that bad, at first. He’d patched up the mood quite well after his sudden burst of tidying. He’d somehow managed to take the lead; it had felt natural, like a wordless conversation between his actions and Takaya’s reactions. And, he supposed, if those reactions were anything to go by, then he hadn’t done so badly for a couple of his firsts. Still, even if his head had remained attentive to his partner, there was very little he could’ve done about his heart. It sat, the whole way through, lead-heavy in his chest. Not an ounce less longing. Not an ounce less faithful. 

Too faithful. It was as the last of the clothes were being removed that the tears had come, silently and mercilessly. Katsuki put his head in his hands at the memory. Mortifying. Even worse; Takaya had been so nice about it, so kind and sympathetic, coaxing him into conversation and comfort. He had stayed, at least, until Katsuki fell asleep; Katsuki he couldn’t remember him leaving. Perhaps he’d slept there. Perhaps he hadn’t. Something ached in his chest, beyond the numb throbbing of his heartache. It took a minute for it to register as loneliness. As he stared blankly at the pillow, something tugged at his attention from the bedside table. 

A piece of paper? A note - Katsuki sprung up and grabbed it before he had time to overthink.

Katsuki~

Thank you for letting me sleep here! Sorry for leaving before you woke up. I had to get to work and you looked so peaceful asleep! 

I hope you feel better soon. Your ex is clearly missing out on a handsome, thoughtful guy. Here’s hoping we run into each other again,

Takaya x 

He turned it over in his hands. No number, no contact. Obviously, he thought, I knew that. I knew that. He wasn’t even sure if he would’ve had the guts to reach out to him again. Yet his face burned with humiliation. He wasn’t even worthy, he supposed, of having his messages ignored. He was too much of a liability. A liability and a liar, it seemed, if Takaya had gotten the impression that Izuku was his ex. Not an ex, Katsuki thought, no, nobody would put up with me for that long.  

Barely aware of his own body, Katsuki threw on a T-shirt and sweatpants, and soon found himself in front of Shoto’s door. He knocked. 

“Come in!” He did so. 

Shoto turned to him, an apron hanging over his button-up shirt. The kitchen sat just across from his living space, just the same as in Katsuki’s apartment. Katsuki loitered over, leaning against the back of the sofa. Shoto was attending to a neatly organised array of ingredients and utensils. They didn’t seem to indicate any particular dish, but then Shoto’s cooking methods had always been a little unorthodox. As he scrutinised them, he realised that he, too, was being scrutinised. 

“I saw your friend leave this morning,” Shoto noted, eyebrows raised. 

“Ah. Yeah.” Katsuki rubbed his forehead. He wasn’t exactly the picture of contented bliss, nor was he making any efforts to be. He gave a small wince for further effect.

“Not good?” Shoto tilted his head to one side. It was strange - he looked like himself again. How easily he had slipped into Mio’s face and figure, Katsuki thought, and yet all that remained of her now were the dark rings around Shoto’s eyes. 

“Not…” Katsuki started, “It wasn’t-” he stopped again and started again, “It was good. Then I started crying.” 

“Oh,” replied Shoto, “was he nice about it?”

“Very- he was very nice about it.” 

If Shoto was reassured by this, he seemed to know better than to show it. His eyes were remained on Katsuki, whose eyes were trained on the floor. 

Shoto picked up a clean spatula from the countertop and gently patted Katsuki on the head with it. 

Katsuki looked up in confusion, only to find the same solemn inscrutable expression which usually graced his friend’s face. 

“Are you trying to make me laugh?”

“Huh? No.”

“Why are you patting me with a spatula?”

Shoto frowned. “Ah, it doesn’t work after all, does it? I don’t like touching people all that much, so…” He put the spatula down on the counter, and raised a tentative hand towards Katsuki’s shoulder, face filled with obvious discomfort. Katsuki leaned away from the gesture. Instead, he got up, returned the spatula to Shoto’s hand, and leant slightly forward.

Pat pat. 

“Thanks.” Weirdly, it helped. Yet, simultaneously, Shoto’s offering of strange, distal comfort opened the door, just a crack, to the hailstorm of heartbreak and loneliness within him. His eyes watered and stung.  

“I don’t know,” he started talking before his thoughts were fully-formed, “if I’m ever going to feel better. Or be over it - over him. I- I’m pathetic, I-” He stopped in the middle of his sentence, unable to muster enough self-pity to continue. Shoto stood, leant against the countertop, deep in thought. 

“Ah- um, sorry,” Katsuki stumbled after too much silence had passed, “I’m being…”

“You aren’t bad for loving him like that, you know,” Shoto said. 

Katsuki gawked at him. 

“You love him… in a lot of different ways, since you were young, right? Of course you can’t just feel better about it. He’s been there your whole life.” 

The resistance dropped from Katsuki’s face. Tears pooled and fell from his open eyes. 

“But you can’t be okay with the fact you want to kiss him or sleep with him, right? Maybe you feel like you’re doing something bad for feeling that way. So you tell yourself you should just be over it. But I don’t think it’s going to work.”

Deep down in his soul, Katsuki knew this. A choked noise escaped him. 

“I mean, why would it make sense to you?” Shoto continued, “It doesn’t make sense to me. ”

Katsuki wiped his face, and looked up in confusion.

“I mean why would he move away from you? He didn’t seem happy about it when he told me. You think he didn’t feel that way about you but… I think that he cared about you more than anything. It was so sudden, and you never found out why. I don’t think anyone really expected it. It was probably a really big shock to you.” 

Shoto started cracking eggs into a bowl as he spoke. He wasn’t great at it. Most of the time was being spent fishing shell-pieces out. 

“So, telling yourself you shouldn’t have felt that way about him, and you should just get over him already… I think you should stop that.”

Katsuki was quiet for a little while. He joined Shoto at the kitchen counter. 

“What are you making?”

“Omurice. Am I doing it wrong?”

“You don’t need to be wearing an apron for starters,” Katsuki mumbled, “Isn’t omurice a bit heavy for breakfast?”

“It’s lunchtime.”

Katsuki looked at his phone. So it was. 

“Ah. Kirishima replied.”

Chapter Text

Nearly a week had passed, and the better part of Uraraka’s notes were now neatly sorted in a binder. The last piece of the puzzle was so desperately close to clicking into place. Uraraka was patient. She was wary of her own mind - its ability to run away with false evidence. Everything demanded precision and care. 

That was what she told herself, at least, as she waited for the final package to arrive. She unpacked it eagerly now, pulling on the latex gloves and unwrapping the small jar of fine powder. Brush, powder, tape. She practiced, dusting the powder onto her file-folder and lifting it off with the tape. It took her a couple of tries before she managed to capture anything that resembled a fingerprint. She took a breath, and another, before making her way into the kitchen. As she entered, she looked into the darkness of the street outside. Are you out there, Himiko? Are you watching me? 

Each light, each glance of movement from the outside world was a woman, waiting in the shadows. She shivered, pulling herself away from the view. 

The mugs hadn’t been touched since the phantom cleaning of her apartment - she had made sure of it. Cups and bowls had been enough to make do. At first, she hadn’t known what she was going to do with them, but even so, she’d had an uncanny feeling that there was evidence there, and avoided disturbing the scene. Now, she knew. She took a quick snapshot of the shelf, before beginning to carefully remove the mugs from the cabinet. Perhaps time had been warped by her focus, but it barely felt like a minute had passed before she held an entire sheet of prints lifted from the ceramic. Released from her task, she checked the time. Twenty minutes before she had to leave. 

It was enough time to do what she needed to do. She pored over the sheet, holding in her other hand a slip of smudges. To the untrained eye, she looked frantic and obsessive, no more than a madwoman. Perhaps, this is what she looked like to a trained eye, too. No matter. Only one pair of eyes held any weight to her in that moment.

She reached the bottom of the page, hastily reexamining the smudges to confirm her findings, breathless, wide-eyed and invigorated. As she had expected, the white sheet was filled entirely with her own fingerprints. Uraraka pulled away from it. 

Oh yes, her heart pounded in her chest, yes, I can find you with this.

Izuku was the first to arrive at the diner. April had come, both gracefully and unceremoniously. The air was mild, and the cherry blossoms were dancing in tandem with the breeze. It had only been three years since he began his life at UA. 

He fiddled with his sleeves. Maybe he looked too pretentious. He looked different to how he'd dressed around the dorms, that was certain. Sure, he was still in a t-shirt, but the black cardigan was undeniably a new genre of addition to his wardrobe. Besides, the shirt was adorned with a print, rather than an All-Might graphic, and that was change enough. He hadn’t had a haircut, either, and even though it had only been three weeks, the pieces which grazed his neck were clearly longer than they had ever been. Good god, he was nervous. He tried to check his phone as some distraction and found himself in a fixated loop of opening and closing the messages app. Yet this was somehow engrossing enough to stop Izuku from noticing the figure who had come to stand across from him. 

“Hey.” 

Izuku blinked up.

There he was. As simple as that. 

“K- Kacchan!” 

The Kacchan in question smiled almost imperceptibly - but Izuku caught it. Izuku was looking right at him. And for once, Katsuki wasn’t looking away. 

“So, how’ve you-”

Katsuki was interrupted by a cheer from down the road. Mirio approached with Amajiki in tow. They greeted each other, and were soon joined by Uraraka, and then Kirishima and Tetsutetsu. It was hard to catch glances of him between the meetings and greetings, but he could look at him when conversation gave him an excuse to. Oh, he was beautiful. Even moreso, somehow, than when he last saw him. 

The tides of the gathering pulled them in separate directions from then on, with Mirio intent on catching up with Izuku, and Katsuki sticking politely to Kirishima. Izuku and Katsuki were thus confined to sitting diagonally from each other, though this allowed Izuku to train his eyes on Kacchan when the conversation allowed it, and to steal glances at him whenever it didn’t. Often, he looked to find that Katsuki was already looking in his direction, meeting his eyes with an unknowable expression. 

God, he had left, hadn’t he? Didn’t Katsuki know that was the last pathetic defense Izuku’s heart could put up? Yet it seemed like the world was doing the work for him, as another exchange passed without them saying a single word to one another. By the end of it, his chest ached, and his face was having trouble concealing his emotions. He could only try to pass it off as tiredness, feigning a yawn. Katsuki yawned too. The group soon decided that it was time to wrap up the gathering. Izuku gathered his things daze, until he felt a hand land gently on his forearm. 

“Are you free tonight?” Kacchan stood behind him, speaking closely into his shoulder. “To talk.”

All Izuku wanted was to say yes. Yet cruelly, painfully, he stood in the company of those he had plans with. Tonight was the night Amajiki and Mirio had promised to take him and Uraraka to a gay club. He paused for a second, inexplicably waiting for the plans to rematerialise into a different shape, somehow. They wouldn’t.

“I- I have to… I can’t,” he stumbled, “Tomorrow? Are you free?” 

He felt Katsuki draw back a little behind him.

“Maybe,” he replied, voice still soft, “I’ll know after my morning briefing.”

“Let me know,” Izuku repeated, and turned to look at him, “ please. ”

For just a second, they stood a touch too close, speaking only to one another. Then, the outside world was loud again, and Izuku’s eyes darted between the shapes of his friends’ faces, all of whom were looking away with various expressions. He looked back at Katsuki, for just a second, expecting to find a sullen display of defensive embarrassment. There was no such display to be found. Instead, Kacchan was calm. 

Kacchan was not calm. He texted Kirishima thanks for walking him to the station, and paced in neat circles around in his hotel room. What on earth gave him the idea of asking Izuku to meet with him that night, in front of friends - in front of seniors? How desperate could he be? Besides, what gave him the idea that he would want to meet him, much less then and there? Some delusional glances? It was pathetic, really, what he was capable of convincing himself of from behind his rose tinted glasses. 

A small glimmer of hope flitted about the room. Katsuki did his best to stamp it out with his foot. Yes, sure, Izuku had asked if he was free tomorrow, but perhaps he was just hoping he’d be busy, given that Katsuki came here for work. There were many, sane, straight, explanations, he told himself, and yet, undeniably, Izuku had pleaded with him in front of friends. It made his head spin. Just what was his deal? Was he toying with him? All thoughts felt equally strange to him in the alien hotel room. He wanted to be back at home already. He hadn’t realised how much comfort he’d been taking from having Shoto as his neighbour, but the knowledge that a friend was just two doors down from him was sorely missed now. He stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the bed. 

Shoto would be leaving for patrol right about now. He didn’t need to call. What, was he a kid? He was fine. This was fine.

No, in fact, it was good, really, that his evening was free. After all, Best Jeanist had supplied his recommendation for the nightlife - what kind of respect would he be showing if he didn’t try it out? He didn’t have to get with anyone - he didn’t even have to talk to anyone. But then, would it be so bad? If nothing else, didn’t he need a reminder that reciprocation was possible? If he could only just snap out of this - stop waiting, damnit. 

He lay back on the bed, trying to picture a new face, a new flirtation. The only feeling that arose was bleak sadness. Aching sadness. Shoto’s words rang in his head. You tell yourself you should just be over it. But I don’t think that’s going to work. 

What would work, then? Stewing in his room, obsessing over every look? Though tempting, that surely wasn’t the answer either, and yet it felt like the inevitable alternative to going out for the night. His evening plans morphed into a puzzle on the lesser of two evils, the resulting debate taking up space in Katsuki’s head for the better part of an hour before he made a decision.  

It was a new shirt, denim, that he wore out that night. It fit him well, and looked nice, at least, even if it was him that wore it. He tried to choke down some optimism. This could be a good time. He was going on his own. It was good - a bonus; he was responsible for nobody. He did not, he told himself vehemently, need to be babysat by Mio. It was with these thoughts that he stepped into Fracas, and headed to outskirts of the overbearing room.

Chapter Text

Izuku was quiet after Katsuki left. Quiet as the group of four walked partway across the city, as the cherry blossoms wept onto the streets. They split into twos to get ready - Mirio and Amajiki heading to the latter’s apartment, and Izuku and Uraraka heading to her’s. Izuku was quiet as they said their see-you-soons. 

Once he and Uraraka were alone, she didn’t press him. The apartment was cleaner than he’d ever seen it, despite the strange fact of the collection of mugs on Uraraka’s kitchen table. He wasn’t in the mood to question her about it, instead focusing his attention on his cardigan, removing and reequipping it repeatedly as he critiqued his appearance. 

“It covers up the, uh…” Uraraka chimed in, pointing to the the side of her neck, “If that matters.” 

Izuku tilted his neck to the side. Sure enough, there was a mark that the cardigan’s collar had been charitably covering. He mumbled a swear and put it back on again. 

“Are you going to tell him?” She asked, “About Eli, and-”

She was interrupted not by words, but by the intensity of Izuku’s facial expression. He stared at her, defensive, skittish at the implication that he had something to get off his chest. 

“I don’t- we aren’t-”

She shook her head, “I’m not saying there’s a right answer.” Her tone was gentle, if a little tired, “I was just asking.” 

“We probably won’t even talk. He thinks I rejected him, now, so he’ll be all proud and- we probably won’t even talk.” 

Uraraka shrugged, applying mascara halfheartedly. 

“And what would I say to him? By the way, I have a friend-with-benefits. As if there’s any normal way to bring that up. Also, I like guys, so you should probably feel weird about the times you spent the night in my bed because you came to me for comfort.”

Uraraka turned to him with a frown. “Is that really how you feel?”

“Huh?”

“That he should feel weird about those times just because you like guys - is that really what you think?”

“I mean, yeah?”

Uraraka was almost combative now.
“And why do you think he came then? He wanted to, I don’t know, fall asleep in your arms, as a bro ? ”

“I don’t know? Maybe?! ”

“MIDORIYA, really? In the dead of night?” 

“Okay, I get it, I get it, he’s super repressed.” 

“You don’t know that.” Uraraka sighed, turning back to the mirror. “You don’t know what he wanted to talk about.”

That certainly shut him up. Izuku stewed on the thought all the way to the train station, and the rest of the way into the neighbourhood of the club. As they neared the location, Mirio and Amajiki linked hands, weaving a way through the busy streets easily. Amajiki’s face had brightened noticeably with Mirio’s hand to hold onto. A small, quiet dart of loneliness hit Izuku in the heart. 

The crowds and the lights sent him into a daze before he had even entered the building. He was, in all honesty, grateful for the cover that the overwhelm provided over his worn-down emotional state. The appeal of romance and flirting with a stranger had completely deadened upon seeing Katsuki earlier that day, and without this, the club appeared taxing at best. Still, he resolved to try and make the most of it. If nothing else, he wanted to show Mirio and Amajiki his gratitude for bringing him along. The group found an area to the far side of the room with a couple of sofa seats and stools. Izuku shuddered with adrenaline and forced himself to appraise the scene. 

There were people of all kinds here - in all kinds of dress too. Miniskirts, leather jackets - things that looked like dog collars. There were people dressed casually too, much to his relief, comingling with topless and glitter-covered partygoers. Towards the bar, more people sat alone. Most were young, it seemed. Izuku’s eyes landed on a familiar sight stationed by a small table. 

“Eli,” he said aloud. 

Uraraka caught his arm in a vice grip. “ That’s Eli?” 

Izuku nodded. Mirio craned his neck to hear the exchange, clearly curious. Uraraka turned to him. “Eli is-” 

And then stopped herself, clearly realising it wasn’t her information to share. Graciously, Izuku continued her explanation. 

“We’re kind of hooking up.” 

This elicited obvious looks of surprise from both Mirio and Amajiki. Clearly, they hadn’t thought Izuku the type. Fair enough. Until last week, he hadn’t considered himself the type, either. Mirio elbowed him with a grin, and he found himself smiling too. Uraraka elbowed him too, though it took him a second to notice that she was trying to grab his attention. He looked up to find Eli’s eyes fixed on him. He waved, awkwardly, until he was ejected from his seat by an assortment of limbs urging him to go talk to Eli properly. 

He approached Eli clumsily, registering his expression up-close as a small smile. 

“I didn’t know you went to places like this.”

“I didn’t know you did! And I don’t, really. I’m trying something new. I’m with friends.” 

“Ah, yeah,” he looked back to the group. Izuku only hoped they were doing a decent job of pretending they weren’t staring. Eli continued, “I’ve only come a couple times.”

Izuku wondered if he’d gone alone, and if he had, whether he had come home alone afterwards. He couldn’t bring himself to care too much, either way. Not today. Eli sidled up to him a little. 

“I was thinking of texting you… but I felt a bit desperate,” he admitted, an embarrassed laugh escaping him. He placed a hand on Izuku’s shoulder, massaging it gently as he spoke, “I uh, think I’m going to take off. You wanna come?”

There was a part of Izuku that wanted to say yes, but it was nothing more than a drop in the ocean. He looked up at Eli, grateful for the excuse that his friends provided, just this once. 

“I should stay with my friends,” he said, squeezing the hand that lay on his shoulder, “we only just got here.” 

Eli nodded, kissed his cheek, and left. He smelt of new cologne. Izuku watched him cross the room and disappear into the bustling crowd around the entrance. Someone in that crowd was looking at him. 

He could feel it. His stomach dropped before his eyes even had a chance to glance over Katsuki’s silhouette, to register the grief in its form. He met his eyes, full of panic and confusion and desperation. Why is he- what is he doing here? His feet moved before he could think, closing the distance between them as fast as he could as Katsuki moved to turn away and out the room. He must have been a strange sight, half-vaulting over barstools and ducking through conversations to reach him, but he managed it. Nothing else mattered. 

The centre of the club was emptier than the outskirts. The two were visible to most parts of the room. Izuku caught Katsuki’s wrist in his hand as he was half-turned to leave. Katsuki stopped. 

“Kacchan,” Izuku spoke. He kept hold of Katsuki’s wrist - only barely. So gently that a strong breeze could have broken it. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I be here?” he replied, tears already brimming as he turned to face him. They stared at each other. 

Oh. 

“Who was that?” 

Katsuki’s voice was so soft, so quiet when he asked that last question. Izuku shouldn’t have been able to hear it over the thrumming bass of the music. But he saw the shape of his lips, and heard the outline of his voice. 

“He’s - it doesn’t matter - Kacchan-”

“No, I saw it - you- him- you-” Katsuki got stuck trying to articulate the interaction he just witnessed. The wheels turned in Izuku’s head. Uraraka was right: he had assumed Katsuki was repressed about his feelings, but it was only an assumption. Perhaps, if he had come here, it wasn’t true, after all. And if it wasn’t…

“Kacchan, he-” Izuku started, “it’s not serious.”

“Not serious,” Katsuki’s voice broke, “Is that it? Was that it with me, then, too?”

“You’ve got it wrong, Kacchan-”

“I don’t - I don’t, I saw you, you - it’s not that you don’t like guys after all, is it?” 

Izuku’s hairs stood on end. His skin felt electric. It was serious. It’s always serious, with you. But he couldn’t bring himself to correct the mistake just yet - he was too caught up in the fact that Kacchan was saying it. Acknowledging what had gone unsaid between them for so long. Katsuki continued: 

“After all, you - you do like guys, you just didn’t want me .” No, no- he shook his head gently. He wants me to want him. His heart pounded in his ears, he wants me to want him- 

“No, Kacchan,” he began to close the distance between them. Katsuki didn’t lean back. He didn’t step away. 

“You can’t tell me I’ve got it wrong," His voice was pleading, desperate, "I saw you and that guy-” 

“I know,” Izuku was calm. He pulled Katsuki into an embrace, “But you’re wrong.”

Katsuki hugged back, first hesitantly, then fervently. All that mattered now was correcting that notion - whatever part of Katsuki's brain that thought that Izuku feel the way he felt - didn't want him more than anything. Izuku could correct it. He would. He cradled Katsuki’s body in his arms for just a few more precious seconds.

He pulled to look him in his face as he said it. 

“I did want you. I did. I do.”

Katsuki’s cheeks were wet with tears. He stared at him from dark and desperate eyes, irises invisible under the chaos of the club lighting. It wasn’t really as if either of them leaned in - instead, it was like they finally stopped resisting the pull that drew them towards one another. Like water, like gravity, their lips met all at once. 

One desperate, heart-rending kiss - just one - before Katsuki pulled back. He panted as if he’d held his breath for minutes, signalling a look of concern to the door that Eli had left from. Izuku didn’t follow his gaze. He spoke closely into his ear. 

“I told you: I'm not with him,” He saw Kacchan swallow, nervous. “I mean it. It's serious with you. Kacchan, it’s always been-” 

The second kiss was better. It was deliberate, careful, tender - Katsuki’s arms enclosed around his torso. It was gold-spun, precious closeness; Izuku sure he would’ve rather had the sky itself fall to earth than pull back a second sooner than he had to. When it ended, only another could replace it. Then another, and another, each more reckless than the last, until Izuku’s better sense suggested that they might be better off somewhere private. Perhaps Katsuki heard this, or had a similar thought of his own, as he held Izuku’s face and imparted one last gentle kiss upon his lips. 

Izuku opened his eyes to see the furrowed focus linger on Katsuki's face for just a fraction of a second after the kiss. His heart, oh it was weak. 

“We should… go somewhere else.”

Chapter Text

Dazed, Katsuki nodded, and began to turn towards the door- 

“Uh- hang on!” 

Before he could process what was happening, Izuku was rushing back through the obstacle course and over to the far side of the club where he saw- 

Ah. Well that would explain his mysterious evening plans. 

Mirio, Amajiki and Uraraka sat, attentively watching Izuku approach. They had, no doubt, witnessed the whole scene, and were now shooting the occasional eager glance at Katsuki as Izuku spoke. Embarrassment flushed his face, though he couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride, too, glowing and immutable. A part of his heart wanted to let the whole world know - plaster it on billboards - and how could he help the small smile that flickered onto his face? Hadn’t he wanted this since he’d first learnt how to want? It didn’t matter, after all, the time or place of it. It didn’t matter if it was witnessed by strangers and friends. Let them know the deepest reaches of his heart. In this moment, it was only one person who had any hold on them, anyway. 

Besides, Katsuki hadn’t forgotten where they were. He took in the information, processing the faces that sat in the huddle in front of Izuku. Mirio and Amajiki were sitting particularly close to one another. It was fairly obvious, even putting aside the setting of a gay nightclub, that the two upperclassmen were a couple. He couldn’t place the reason for his certainty; it was hidden away in some small aspect of their body language. Still, he was sure they were together. Even though they lived in different cities, Katsuki thought, almost as far as he and Izuku lived. A couple - as simple as that - even though they had expectations to live up to. Ah, hope. He sighed quietly, letting the dizzying feeling recede. 

Uraraka was with the group, too. The fact that she was there, however, didn’t present any new information to Katsuki. He had overheard her, numerous times, talking here and there about being a lesbian, and he remembered these vividly. At first, though he felt pathetic to admit it, hearing that she wasn’t interested in men had filled him head-to-toe with relief. Once that first feeling had passed, he’d found in himself a steady, silent admiration for her ability to talk about who she was. It had stood in such stark contrast to the open secret of Katsuki’s own queerness. Catching Uraraka’s eye, he raised his hand in a sheepish half-wave. In return to his brief gesture, Uraraka lowered a hand under the table to give him a discreet thumbs-up. 

This was a surprise. Why - doesn’t she hate me?

Yet, on further thought, he couldn’t quite pinpoint why he had assumed this. Maybe because he deserved it for all the grief he had given Izuku, he supposed, and for whatever he had done to make him leave. It wasn’t as if he had agonised over it, but he had quietly accepted it, letting the shame hang over him freely. But he had been wrong, it seemed. One little knot in Katsuki’s stomach unwound itself, the fog of shame dissipating, now, above his head. Approval. 

Today was full of surprises, at the very least. Yes - it was good to kiss him - right to kiss him. Good. Good. He would do it more. Perhaps he and Uraraka could even be friends. 

Friends. An uninvited thought popped into his mind. The unfinished list he had drafted a couple of weeks back, stipulating things he needed to do to be a good man - a man good enough for Izuku. The list remained woefully incomplete. Am I really ready to-

His thoughts were interrupted as Izuku turned back to face him. He pushed the ideas back into a corner of his mind, he held out his hand. Izuku reached him, and took it. Together, hand-in-hand, they walked, clumsily and dizzily, out of the front entrance of the club. 

“That was not what I expected from this evening!” Mirio laughed. 

Uraraka chuckled, too. “No? I should’ve warned you, then.”

Amajiki raised his eyebrows, still continuing to avoid eye contact. 

“Do they …-at .. lot … -en?” Amajiki’s raised voice was still too quiet to be heard under the club music. Uraraka looked to Mirio in confusion.

“Do they do that a lot then?” Mirio clarified. 

“OH,” She nodded to indicate she understood, and then quickly shook her head, “NO - I think that was their first kiss!” 

Mirio and Amajiki looked to each other with raised eyebrows. Clearly, this meant something in their cryptic couple-language. 

“They - THEY had a thing,” Uraraka started, still trying to get the hang of balancing her volume with the noise. Both men nodded emphatically, as if to say, ‘we remember’. “YEAH - CHILDHOOD FRIENDS - it was complicated,” she continued, “and I THINK they both thought the other was straight. Anyway, they wouldn’t stop staring at each other earlier so I was pretty sure something would happen...” She let a hint of weariness show on her face. 

Mirio nodded, bemused and sympathetic. Amajiki began to get up.

“I’ll g- -s drinks,” Uraraka could work out the meaning of Amajiki’s muffled words here, “You -ant a-y thing?” 

“No thanks!” She beamed, forcing back the shame which rose at the back of her throat, “I’m an alcoholic.” 

Amajiki nodded with a small smile, asked Mirio the same and sidled up to the bar. He seemed completely unphased. Uraraka wondered if he had even heard her properly. No matter; he had heard the ‘no thanks’ if nothing else, and that was the important part. Still, it felt strange and reckless to be out in a place like this with nobody knowing that she had a problem. Of course, it had been fine until Izuku wandered off. After that, however, she had began to feel the pressure of impulse rising in her own body. Her most sensible thought was to cut off the possibility of drinking altogether. 

Uraraka could feel the thumping music in her bones. A welcome replacement to her own unsteady heartbeat. Perhaps Amajiki felt that way too - Uraraka watched him walk up to the bar with his hands in his pockets. Awkward, still, yet much more at ease than he seemed to be in his day-to-day life. Curious, Uraraka turned to Mirio for his appraisal, only to find him staring at the table, apparently deep in thought. He was somewhere else entirely. Ah. He had heard her, then. 

Mirio startled once he realised she was looking. Uraraka shot him an awkward smile. 

Mirio immediately regained his cheerful demeanour. He’s definitely gifted, Uraraka thought, when it comes to putting people at ease. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been sober?” 

Oh she wished he hadn’t asked that question. The cogs of overthinking turned in her brain; it was vulnerable enough to tell him she was sober, more than vulnerable enough to have him deep in thought about it. In a technical sense, she could refuse to answer, yes, but to do so would be cold and concerning - hurtful, even. What’s more, lies were out of the question, she had decided, considering the subject matter. She forced the words out. 

“Two weeks.” 

She grimaced at the table, bracing for the wince, the concern, the panic that would surely soon emanate from the person across from her. Mirio’s hand moved into her field of vision, drawing her attention. Instinctively, she looked up. 

The man in front of her was beaming, honestly beaming - he looked proud of her. 

For that second, she saw it through his eyes. She saw that she had done - had been doing - something horrible and gruesome and hard; she had been clawing her way through pain and desperation and disappointment with nowhere to escape to. For a second, she was proud, too. She caught a sob of relief just in time to force it into a small spasm in her chest. Mirio put a comforting hand on her forearm. 

“Congratulations! That’s huge!” A tear welled in Mirio’s eye ask he smiled. Oh. Who did I just remind you of? 

At that moment, Amajiki approached the table carrying three identical drinks - all multicoloured, sparkling and dramatically embellished. Uraraka reared back, and Mirio looked at his partner with a quizzical expression. 

“You said you didn’t want to drink, right?” he asked Mirio, voice noticeably more adapted to the surroundings. The bartender must have had trouble understanding him, Uraraka thought, glad his words were now audible. “There’s a mocktail they do that I have been wanting to try - I thought you might like it.” Uraraka stared at the drink in wonder. Her pause incited nervousness. “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean-” He cut himself off, looking almost cartoonishly harrowed at his own possible social error. 

“There’s no alcohol?” Uraraka said, looking with cautious curiosity at the beautiful drink in front of her. Once she received double assurances, she took a sip. 

“It’s so good! Thank you!” The relief on his face was monumental. 

If she was being honest, she was indifferent to the taste of the drink. Not only was it aggressively sparkling, but the bright lights and loud surroundings had worn down her senses. Still, it was sweet and fruity - pleasant enough. What mattered, really, was that all three of them were drinking the same thing. Mirio and Amajiki exchanged notes on the drink across the table from her. 

Uraraka watched them. She’d never really seen a queer couple before - at least, not in their element. Of course her teacher and his partner worked together, but at work they were colleagues and professionals. Just once, at their classes graduation, she’d caught them holding hands in a brief moment of shared pride. Here, the two men in front of her seemed so calm together, as if they anchored each other - one to the sky and one to the ground. Was that what it always felt like, being together with someone? So far, her experience of love had been the opposite of calm. It felt desperate, bloody and fated. But what would it be once she found her? What was she planning to do? 

Mirio caught her attention once again by placing a hand on the table in front of her. He leant over and spoke in a stage-whisper over the noise, “Do you mind if I tell him?” 

Uraraka wasn’t precisely sure what he meant, but she figured there wasn’t much information to choose from. Information about her new sobriety was already on the table, as far as she was concerned - she half expected Amajiki to know what Mirio knew through some kind of supernatural  osmosis. She confirmed she didn’t mind. 

“Uraraka is two weeks sober!” Mirio grinned, and put a hand on Amajiki’s shoulder, whose expression was now painted with a sincere sort of pride that looked almost alien on his face. Taking Mirio’s lead, Uraraka grinned too. There was no point in being ashamed of it, not in a place like this. She put down her drink after finishing the last of it. 

“Okay, let’s go!” Mirio was suddenly ushering the two out of their seats. 

“Huh? I don’t want to leave yet…” 

“We’re not leaving! We’re going to dance.” 

Uraraka barely needed to use what moves she’d haphazardly learnt off Mina over the years. Really, anything gesture she made looked normal next to Mirio’s movements, which seemed to be more aimed at making his companions laugh than anything else. Amajiki bobbed beside them. An hour melted into nothing. It could be fun to move, she thought. Fun to live in a body, to live in a world with other people. There was something to this, she realised. Something worth fighting for.

Chapter Text

Katsuki and Izuku walked together through the center of the city. It was more of a meander, really, with the haphazard way their shoulders met, straying their course along the neon-lit  streets. They had stopped holding hands some minutes ago, though this hadn’t really made a dent on how intimate they looked. It was plain to see love-drunkenness when it presented itself - the two men let their bodies collide freely with one another, talking softly and with giddy smiles. If they were lucky, passers by would be too drunk to notice quite how sober their affection was. Though, even if they did notice, Izuku couldn’t quite find it in himself to care. 

“I think we take a left here-” he concentrated, stopping briefly at the junction, “Yes! Then the station will be at the end of this road.” Having figured out the directions without the help of a navigation app, he looked to Katsuki, triumphant. Katsuki looked back, an expression of fondness laid plain and bare upon his face. He was standing still, backlit by a streetlamp. He didn’t say anything, but Izuku saw his brow shift minutely as he looked at him. 

“What?” The question was kind. Soft-spoken. 

Katsuki looked for a couple seconds longer, then shook his head and smiled. He made a graceful turn to stand once again at Izuku’s side. “Lead the way.” 

Not quite yet; Katsuki’s dodging of his question had earned him a pout, at least. He looked up to Katsuki’s face. It was so close, now. It had only ever been this close in the darkness of his room - in the chaotic lights of the club. Here, now, the streets weren’t bright, but they were enough for Izuku to trace Katsuki’s features closely with his vision. Everything was visible: the tilt of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the cracks in his lips. In his peripheral vision, he could see his chest rise and fall, he could see his neck tense as he swallowed  - oh, kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. But the street sang with the conversation of ordinary people. 

He took a dizzy breath in, readying himself to begin the walk to the station. Katsuki followed suit. Once his head had cleared, he took the opportunity to ask a question - one that had been on his mind since he first spotted Katsuki across the room from him. 

“How long have you known? You know, that you…”

“What, that I’m gay?” 

Izuku nodded, but couldn’t quite suppress the gasp that left him. 

“Eh? Is it a surprise?” 

Izuku paused. 

“It’s a surprise to hear you say it,” he admitted. Katsuki nodded. 

“Two years ago,” he said, plainly, “I guess I kinda knew before, but that’s when, uh, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.” 

Oh. Ouch. Two years ago, when Katsuki had gotten stabbed for him. When he’d spent days unconscious in the hospital. When he’d up and left UA with only a letter as a goodbye. Izuku wondered just how many of the tragedies had passed before his feelings had tumbled out onto the floor, no longer possible to ignore or sweep under the rug. God, he really had known. All this time. 

“I’m sorry,” Izuku wasn’t sure what precisely he was apologising for. There were too many things to count. I’m really sorry, Kacchan.

Between the fabric of their jackets, Katsuki found his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go. Outwardly, he shrugged. 

“You came back.” 

And then I left again. 

The moon that night was a soft-framed crescent in the blackness of the sky, stumbling in and out of view between the shadowed high-rise buildings. They didn’t want for conversation; there were countless simple questions that they’d never before been quite bold enough to simply ask outright. Favourite foods, colours, bands and so on, which quickly morphed into a guessing game as they entered the station. It wasn’t long before it turned competitive, as they so easily were with each other, one-upping each other on how diligently one had observed the other’s interests. How upset could Izuku really be to lose the contest, when Kacchan was lording over him in his typical way, yet about such sweetness? 

“HA! I knew you liked that song. You hummed it all day one time and it drove me crazy trying to figure out what it was. You were having a rock phase right? I told you, I could tell!”   

Izuku smiled at him. Katsuki remembered himself and turned pink. He cleared his throat and slid a hand into his pocket as the two continued walking. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice.” 

“It’s fine - I was private about my music tastes, so…”

“No,” Izuku shook his head gently, “not that.” 

Realisation played on Katsuki’s face, followed by a brief moment of hardening - a defense that seemed to fall like a burning building, until all that was left in his expression was pure, bare, desolated love. 

“I thought…” Katsuki’s pace slowed, and then stopped. The moon was visible between skyscrapers above him. “I thought- You really didn’t know, then?”

“I could see,” Izuku spoke uncharacteristically slowly, trying to piece together the best possible reflection of his mind, “parts of it. I figured that at least some of how I felt, you felt too.” 

‘How I felt’. Katsuki’s back straightened, as if a chill ran through him. 

“And I couldn’t ignore everything, but I - I was so sure that you didn’t want to see it. I was so sure that you didn’t want me to see it, I…  I tried not to look. I mean-

Didn’t you hate the way you felt about me?” 

Shoto untied and redid his laces. He wore specially designed shoes, of course, but even these wore down and wanted replacing. Every new pair was a little too stuff; a touch too claustrophobic, making shoelace pressure of the utmost importance for the days until the shoes were broken in. 

Satisfied with his knot, Shoto took his foot off of knee of the villain who was sat, frozen still, in front of him. 

“Thanks for waiting.” 

The captured man stared at him with wild eyes. 

“C- cold-” it was a halfhearted attempt at protest. “I know,” Shoto replied, continuing to scan the environment for any strange movements, “it’s just until the cops come. Actually, who knows? Your quirk lets you jump long distances, no? I wonder how they’ll deal with that.” A small knot of nervousness formed in his stomach. No bigger than his shoelaces. 

“Hey,” the man spoke through shuddering breaths, “I’m stuck here. Y- you have other things to do. Someone could be getting hurt right now.” He was laying it on a bit thick. Besides, Shoto could plainly see him eyeing the duffel bag that lay a metre to his left. He looked at him flatly. 

“Why are you running this kind of stuff through a school zone?” Shoto ignored his question, deciding instead to pretend he knew what was in the bag. He didn’t like to lie, but he’d learnt through his work that there are things you can imply without outright falsehoods. 

“What, like it’s gonna hurt the kids?” 

Shoto shrugged. “You were doing 60. You should keep it away from them,” he replied.

This wasn’t a bluff. Anything that makes you run like hell from a hero should be kept a good distance from children, Shoto figured. The frozen man kissed his chattering teeth. 

“But you don’t make the plans, do you?” he asked. It was a hunch. 

“I’m not,” shallow, fast breaths. His skin was growing paler with the cold. “I’m not going to sell anybody out. Motherfucker-” 

Shoto sighed, and placed both hands on the ice-sculpted criminal. “You should consider it.” With some effort, he was able to restabilise the man’s body temperature while maintaining the freezing bonds around his clothing. 

“Shit! Why didn’t you do this in the first place?” the man asked, a strange, warped expression on his face. 

“It takes concentration,” Shoto removed his hands from the man’s arms, and stood, “And I need to focus-” 

He felt the change in air pressure before he heard a sound. Before his mind had even registered the sequence, his body had thrown up a wall of flame behind him. He heard a yelp, and the sound of metal clanging on the ground. Stop. He formed a semicircle of ice with his right foot. It leapt past the bodies, frosting the fronts of nearby buildings. 

There were two ice sculptures on the ground, now. Drops of blood fell from his back onto the floor. It bloomed like flowers on the crystalline ice beneath it. 

“Ayane-” cried the first, full of panic and horror, “Ayane!”

“Danny,” croaked a voice from a couple of metres south. So that’s his name. Ayane lay frozen where she had fallen, just a couple feet from a blood-nicked knife. Ice had grown around it, too, rosy and beautiful. Shoto prised it out with his foot, kicking it a safe distance away. 

“She didn’t mean to. She’s not involved in this.” Danny had been admirably calm under the torture of freezing half to death, but he’d certainly lost his composure, now. He was frantic and desperate, but safely unable to move. Shoto took another careful survey of the surroundings before approaching Ayane. She was singed fairly badly, but experience had told him that her skin would recover within days. Her hair had survived. Her eyebrows, her shoulder length shag haircut and the stubble that sat firmly planted on her chin. 

“Oh, I meant to,” she said clearly, lilting like a songbird. Her voice was low like his. 

“Don’t listen to her- Seriously, man, she didn’t mean to, she was just…”

But Danny’s protests had faded into background noise. Ayane watched Shoto’s face through stinging eyes. They waited for the other to flinch. To drop their curiosity and let revulsion take the wheel. The moment didn’t come. A smile grew, crooked and bright, on Ayane’s face. 

Sirens heralded the long-awaited arrival of the police force. Shoto looked to the street, and back at Ayane. 

“Faggot,” she spat the word at him with a grin. 

Another heavy drop of blood fell onto the ice beneath him. The ice crystals, crude and exalted from forming after heat, reflected siren-lights onto the street as the cop-cars turned the corner. Flowers bloomed everywhere. Everywhere.

Chapter Text

Didn’t you hate the way you felt about me? 

There was nothing Katsuki could say to this. It was just as well that they boarded the train so soon afterwards. The two sat in silence, Katsuki’s eyes trained on the carriage floor, and Izuku’s trained on Katsuki. 

Didn’t you?

The question itself felt cruel, but crueller still was the truth it grasped at. He couldn’t deny that he had; he had hated himself and hated the feelings inside of him for the majority of his life. He had done everything to despise those feelings into nothingness, and in the end, he had found them unchanged. Oh, that powerlessness he had been so afraid of - he knew it so well, now. What a stupid, pointless, useless, hurtful battle. 

As much as he searched his mind for gentler paths of explanation, the truth laid there, gruesome, plain and impossible to ignore. What good would it do to deny it? What explanation would Izuku have then, for all the abuse he suffered at Katsuki’s hands? If nothing else, he wanted Izuku to know that he had never done anything to deserve what he got. God, Katsuki wanted him to feel as if he hadn’t been wrong for trying to see the good in him. For trying to save him. He wanted to believe it too. 

When had it really started? Katsuki had barely learnt the difference between one person and two when he had felt the first whispers of a feeling. A hand held out to him. Eyes that looked kindly at him. That was all it had taken. 

It was not a safe thing to want. 

It wasn’t bad at home. He wasn’t old enough yet to bring on the eventual storm of screaming matches with his mother. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t like the shows he saw on TV where everybody ate a happy meal and spoke sweetly to each other. Big deal, he figured, the people on the TV were professionals at pretending. In real life, dads have busy jobs, and mums have friends and better things to do. Still, home wasn’t really like his friends’ houses, either - furnished with parents who always seemed so happy to see them. Those same friends whined and fretted at every problem, waiting for someone to come and save the day. They needed doting parents, Katsuki recollected thinking, I don’t. I can do it all myself. 

Katsuki learned to cook at eight years old. It was the age he was tall enough to reach the things he needed in the kitchen. He cut himself once while chopping peppers. He never did so again. 

Izuku was always there, looking at him, just as he was now. His heart on his sleeve, as if running through corridors with an unsheathed knife. So sweetly brandishing his fearsome ability to hold Katsuki’s own heart in his hands. Katsuki flinched from it once, and then again, and then every day for decade of his life. 

And what did it say about him? He was thirteen when he first questioned himself about it. Certainly, nobody else seemed to respond in that way to Izuku. One spring day, his middle school friends had mirrored his mocking; ‘He’s weirdly obsessed with you,’ they had said once, ‘do you think he plays for the other team?’ Katsuki hadn’t laughed. Obsessed. A sharp thing poked at his chest. What would that make me? 

Though if he’d cared about what people thought of him, he would have spent more effort on his reputation. He had never feared receiving judgement or hostility, but he had feared - despised - the opening being gay had created in his armor. His queerness was the closest, softest part of his heart; there was no sense in entrusting it to the world. People would talk, would mock, in words which were able to hurt him, and what would Katsuki have done then? He had spent his whole life scared of being hurt in a way that made him want to go back - back to a mythical, caring home he'd never really had. The breath he took was deep and heavy as the rumble of the train tracks brought him slowly back to his surroundings. 

Katsuki looked up at the man in front of him. He was beautiful. As their eyes met, surprise landed gently on his freckled face, but he didn’t look away. He just kept watching with his ever-expectant eyes, heart on his sleeve and knife in his hand, glowing somehow soft under the unforgiving light of the train carriage. 

Katsuki thought of his apartment, and the apartment two doors down from it. It is okay to hurt, he told himself. He thought of his teacher and his partner at the hospital, always a phone call away. It is okay to hurt, if I have to. 

He reached across the aisle and took Izuku’s hand. Their fingers joined between them, in clear view of the surrounding strangers. Neither of them looked away from each other, though their peripheral vision swam with strange glances. Katsuki squeezed the hand, gently. It took me far too long to take it. He set his brow, hoping desperately that his thoughts might somehow make it through the galaxy of space between them, and into the starry-eyed face he stared into. 

Izuku, I am not ashamed of who I am. He squeezed his hand. 

I am not ashamed of you. 

Himiko stepped softly into the room. Risky, risky. She didn’t know how much time she had today. The flat was messy in a new way - a concentrated path of mild destruction, centred around areas of use. Protein bar wrappers and empty energy drink cans - notebooks piled high. She had seen it from afar; the new relentless energy Uraraka had found, but the fruits of her labour were quite something to behold up close. Her stomach pulled at her, twisting her face into a pout. 

Today had been the first chance Himiko had to investigate. Almost one week prior, Himiko had watched as Uraraka entered her main room with a notebook. I want to see it. I want to read it. It was natural to watch her. It was natural to check on her, to see if she was happy with the gift Himiko had left. She did not look happy. No, while the expression on her was difficult to place, it was quite clear it wasn’t happiness. What did I do wrong? Uraraka continued writing. Let me read it. 

That day her resolution not to meddle anymore had broken at her feet. She was determined to get inside the apartment. What did I do? What does she think? Himiko had meant it all so innocently - she had only meant to play the part of a sweet and distant fairy - granting new life to her surroundings. How could she have messed up something so simple as a gift? Through the window, Uraraka paused and straightened up. She exited the room, notebook in hand. Come back. 

It was another fifteen minutes before she did. She’s going to leave for her shift. And then I can come and sneak sneak sneak- except Uraraka was not just simply leaving. She held a small machine in her hand as she reentered the room, sitting it on the table at a precise angle, and pressing a button upon it. A camera. It was pointed at the door.

It was the same the next day, and the next, and the next. 

Himiko had spent the week stewing, surer by the day that she had somehow been cornered, though she couldn’t be satisfied until she knew precisely how. She had considered entering through the window, but the danger of being spotted without a chance to escape, even disguised as Ochako, was too high to be considered. The appeal of erasing, stealing or destroying the camera evidence was tantalising, and yet all three would signal that someone had entered. It wouldn’t do. Ochako was planning something. But no matter, now. Today, the cameras hadn't been set up, and Himiko was here. 

A smattering of mugs sat, strangely placed and dusty, on the table. Next to them, a sheet of fingerprint smudges. What does she think she’s found, Himiko thought, in a sheet of her own fingerprints? But she remembered the smile on her Ochako’s face when she’d checked them. Exhilarated and venomous. Ochako, baby, are you trying to trick me? Trap me? Kill me? She drew the pile of papers towards her. Do you even know who I am? 

Oh. 

The papers stared up at her, icy and inexorable. 

Oh, she knew. 

Notes. Notes upon notes. Maps of routes and reports and areas of interest. Criminal records and abnormal sightings - recorded, marked and notated. The words on the page detailed, with pristine diligence, a volume of information which would have ordinarily left Himiko dizzy with admiration. Yet now, any impression it might have served to create was dwarfed by fear. She had always escaped. She had never been caught. Not even in the midst of an ambush-turned-war. Her blood ran cold, and the words in front of her did nothing to heat it again. 

Those words, that touched the every outskirt of Himiko’s new life with clean and unwavering precision - they chilled her. It was haplessly mechanical, determined and rigid. It was unmarked by tears or blood or sweat. Unromantic. No blood loss deaths, so said the page. As simply put as that. But, it was for you, Himiko’s heart pleaded. The page didn’t respond. The fact remained written, that simple fact of how Himiko’s world had swiveled on its axes, cooly scribed by the one who she had devoted that change to. Her heart was a dying bird in her hands. 

She held the bundle of pages, no longer taking care not to crease them. She won’t leave, the papers said. Well the papers alone would watch her do just that. She took a final glance down the page before moving to return the stack. 

One sentence caught her, towards the bottom of the page: ‘More info needed here. Ask Hawks?’ 

Oh. Hawks. She’s working with…

Hawks.

Oh, I see, Ochako. 

The bird stopped twitching.

Himiko was being hunted. 

Chapter Text

Shoto could barely sit still for the stitches. He felt each one, focused on it, imagining the threads pulling him together. Todoroki Shoto. He played his own name on a loop inside his mind, for some strange and desperate reason. Get ahold of yourself. Neither his name nor his admonishments worked well to dull his heartbeat, nor the tight, tender feeling in his chest. He looked down to check he wasn’t burning. 

His chest wasn’t on fire. It was strong, muscular. Wide, flat, masculine. This is just a body. The final stitch pulled the skin on his back taut once again. It’s just a body. 

The nurse gave a small gasp when he stood. Shoto looked to him, concerned, before realising he’d startled him with his own restlessness. 

“I’m sorry-”

“No, no, it’s fine! You can stand, just try not to move too vigorously, okay?”

Shoto threw on his shirt and gave a small bow, a level of activity which was enough to make the nurse wince again. He exited down the corridor to find Three Point stood in the urgent care waiting room. 

“Hi.”

She looked up calmly - experienced enough in her line of work not to fret over a small wound. 

“How long till you get them out?” 

“Just four days,” he said, “but I can move, just not vigorously, they said.” 

Three Point surveyed him thoughtfully. Shoto fidgeted with the belt of his suit. Why are we standing still?

“I can finish my patrol, right?”

Three Point balked. 

“My quirk does all the work,” he appealed, slightly more roughly than he had intended to, “It’s mental-”

“No, Shoto, you go home. Obviously.” 

Anxiety welled up within him. He didn’t want time, this evening, to let his mind wander. He wasn’t sure what showed on his face, but it was enough to make Three Point soften a little. 

“My patrol route will take me past the station. You can come-”

Shoto looked up, obviously relieved- “so long as you go home and rest properly afterwards.” 

“Thank you,” he said. 

Three Point’s face was a strange amalgamation of a smile and a frown as she nodded towards the exit. They walked out of the clinic. 

“Are you going to tell me why I’m supposedly doing you such a favour by having you patrol with me?”

“Huh?” Shoto shook himself out of his head again, “Oh, because I really don’t want to be still right now.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I can tell.” Three point side-eyed him, “I’m asking if you’re going to tell me why. Ah - was it your first time getting hurt on patrol?”

“No- well, actually, maybe. I guess so, but no, it wasn’t that.” He let out a laboured sigh, “Someone said something to me, the girl that uh, stabbed me.” 

“The girl?” She searched in her mind for someone who looked like a girl, to her, ”Did we bring in the wrong-”

Shoto looked sharply at her. It took a couple seconds of processing before she nodded, “Ah, yes, I see… The girl… said something?”

Shoto paused. Well there was no other way to put it. 

“She called me a faggot.” He stared at the ground as echoes of the same feeling bore through him again. Fascination, vibrance and fear. He looked to Three Point, finding a soft look on her face. 

“I see,” Three Point was scanning him as they walked, seemingly not quite able to grasp the full meaning of the interaction, “Well sometimes, from some people, that kind of word isn’t really an insult-”

“I know,” he stopped walking, “I know - she - it was, I just-” 

Three Point stopped too, turning to face him, curious and earnest. It was unlike him to stutter. He knew this.

“It just made me think of something, and now I’m thinking of a lot of things.”

Three Point sighed. 

“I forget how young you are. You know, nobody has everything figured out when they’re 18.”

She spoke kindly, with a chuckle. But she didn’t get it. What’s more, she couldn’t get it, because Shoto couldn’t explain it himself. Tears of frustration pooled in his eyes. It stung like the prick of a needle. 

“I know that. It’s more like, there are things I need to think about but I can’t. Sometimes I want to understand it, and sometimes it’s too much and I can’t - I’m too scared to understand it.”

Three Point’s face twitched with concern as she processed his words. Though, for some reason, her face felt very far away. Everything did. Shoto thought of his brother.  Who knows? The memory of his shadow spoke in the back of his mind. I don’t think I ever really had the chance to think about it.

“I think- it’s like,” he spoke the words as he realised them, “There’s someone I need to talk to about it, before I can move forward.”

What a hopeless thing to admit. But of course, it was true. He was waiting for someone - waiting for a conversation that would never come to pass. At the mercy of a ghost. Of ashes. Of wind. 

“I see,” Three Point seemed satisfied, turning to begin walking once again, 

“I hope you get to speak to them soon.”

---

Izuku shut the dorm room door. He hadn’t yet released the handle when he felt two hands on his waist. Soft, warm breath enclosed on his cheek, ending in a tender kiss - planted at the center of his scar. And another, and another. Slow, fervent, like water after drought. Fingers interlaced on Izuku’s hip; for a moment, they looked like old Hollywood dancers. Oh, but they were everything, Izuku thought. Everything. 

He turned his face to meet Katsuki’s, taking his cheek in one cupped hand before meeting his lips. Time fell away as he did. It was different, here, in privacy - indulgent and longing and heartfelt. He pressed the thought into his lips, again and again and again: I love you, I love you, I love you. Soon enough, they were tangled in embrace, half-leant against the front door. No longer graceful, yet no disaster of man or nature could’ve convinced him to tear himself away. Kacchan. My Kacchan. It was hard to believe that the world really did continue spinning in that moment, but if it did, then anything it wanted of him was going to have to wait. His fingers felt through the hair at the nape of Katsuki’s neck.  He felt him - felt him sigh, swallow and tense before pulling away from Izuku’s face. Katsuki nodded towards the better part of Izuku’s dorm room. 

Embarrassment took hold of Izuku as he walked ahead, through the minute kitchen and into his living space. Katsuki’s hands were still on his hips, his lips still kissing his cheek as he walked. Between pecks, he spoke. 

“We’re going,” another, “to need to talk.”

Izuku let out a small, nervous noise of affirmation. He stood still, now, in the middle of the room. 

“I think,” Katsuki continued, “I can wait until later,” he guided Izuku to the bed, “to talk. Can you?”

The question was earnest. Izuku answered in kind. 

“What if you regret it?”

“There’s no chance.”

“Kacchan…”

He gave a hesitant smile. “That’s me.” 

His heart swooned, but the worry didn’t unravel completely. He took off his cardigan, and craned his neck to show Katsuki the love bites. 

“I meant it that it isn’t serious with him. I- I couldn’t be, even if I had tried. He knows I’m hung up on someone - and he doesn’t want to be with me, anyway, and it doesn’t matter to me at all. But if this freaks you out…” he forced himself to look up at Kacchan. He found a new expression on his face - unfamiliar, focused. Not pained at all. 

Katsuki came to sit beside him on the bed. Facing him. Surveying the bruises. 

“First of all, he’s lying,” Katsuki mumbled calmly, “who wouldn’t want to be with you?” 

His eyes were piercing, glancing over his skin. 

“Kacchan- it- well, it doesn’t matter, anyway,” he stammered, “whoever wants to be with me.” 

“No?”

“No,”
“Why not?”

“You know why not-”

Katsuki brushed a hand across Izuku’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb over the collar of his shirt. He paused. 

“You can look.” 

Katsuki looked up for confirmation, and Izuku’s expression affirmed him. He tugged the shirt collar, revealing a small galaxy of marks. 

“If it - I just, I get it. I’m - I’m weird, I think.”

Katsuki ran a gentle finger over them. His face, closer now, was warm with blush. Izuku could feel the edges of his breath on his ear. 

“You… liked that?” 

Izuku gulped. Nodded. 

“Good,” Katsuki’s voice was low and murmuring, “That’s good.”

He continued tracing the marks with his finger. An involuntary gasp escaped Izuku’s lungs; Katsuki moved to retract his hand. Before he could think twice, Izuku had cupped his hand over Katsuki’s own, pulling it back where it had been tracing. Suddenly conscious of the boldness of his actions, he dropped his grip.  

Katsuki looked at him unwaveringly through dark, fixed eyes. He wasn’t shaken, not exactly, though the pace of his breathing didn’t seem to match the calm expression on his face. He took the hand that had grabbed him in his own and kissed it. 

“It isn’t weird. It doesn’t freak me out,” Katsuki affirmed. “Maybe it should. Maybe I’m weird.” Although he didn’t sound all that concerned about it. After a second, he continued in a mumble, “How do I put it? It’s like- I feel glad you had fun.” Is that all you feel when you think about it? 

Katsuki took his hand and kissed it once again. And then his wrist, and his forearm- “We still have a lot,” the crook of his elbow, his bicep, “we need to talk about,” his shoulder, his collar bone, “and you still haven’t given me an answer,” his jaw, and finally his cheek, after which he pulled away to survey him. Izuku felt drunken and dazed with wanting, he tugged at Kacchan’s shirt, but he sat firmly in place, refusing to meet his lips. Come here. 

“Tell me we’ll talk tonight,” Katsuki fought himself to say it, “And I’ll kiss you. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Izuku agreed, “I promise, so please…”

“Hmm?” Katsuki brought himself an inch from Izuku’s face, “Please… what?”

“Kiss me, Kacchan.”

And so he did.

Chapter Text

She had exhausted herself completely. The walk from the station back to her apartment ended up slow and clumsy, though almost enjoyably so. It was nice to see the streetlights streak across her vision, even if it was only for a second before she blinked away the tired, unfocused blur. It was comforting to feel a little lost to her own mind. The feeling was rare these days - without the alcohol. She would have to go again, she resolved - more dancing, more lights and social stimulation. Maybe Hado would want to come, too. 

Come to think of it, why hadn’t she come tonight? The buzzing neons of the streets dimmed as Uraraka neared her apartment, leaving cold, uncanny absence in their wake. There was so little to see and hear on these streets; just a convenience store and the apartment blocks. Those silent concrete structures which contained the homes of hundreds upon hundreds of different people. All those people… on this unremarkable street. Living. So much dimmer than the neon street signs? So much quieter than the pulsing club music. You’re alive, she thought, hollow, at the buildings. 

There was nothing she really needed in the convenience store, but she went in anyway. It was well lit, and a small TV sang noise behind the counter. I don’t want to go home, she thought, and yet the clock ticked down the minutes she could waste away investigating ramen packets. She kept her eyes from the liquor. Even if a drink was tempting, the store beside her apartment was not the place to try her old routine. The store two blocks down, however- Shut up, brain. She tried to scrub the reasoning from her mind as she placed the ramen packet on the counter. 

Fatigue had hit her fully now, no longer accompanied by the buzz of prior camaraderie. Bed, she resolved, as her feet hit the staircase. Ramen, and then bed, as her key turned in the lock. A promise poked at her consciousness. She crafted a text to Amajiki with one hand, opening and closing the door behind her with her other. 

“Home sa-”

Sharp, cold metal pressed against her throat. She could feel her own pulse at the point where the blade met skin. A voice cut through her thoughts. 

“Finish the text.” 

She took a sharp inhale. The smell of blood and lilies. It’s her- 

“If you move, I’ll kill you. Finish the text.” 

She brought her phone into her field of vision without tilting her neck. She’s threatening my life. A hurricane swept through Uraraka’s mind. 

“Home safe” 

The text sent. 

“Himiko,” her voice was full of pain and wonder. 

“Ochako.” 

“You’re going to kill me?” 

HImiko said nothing. 

“Can I look at you?” 

“Tell me who you’re working for." Uraraka could hear breath catch in the throat behind her. 

“If I’m going to die, will you at least let me look at you?”

There was something in Uraraka’s voice, some sea that had stormed and writhed for years, which was calm, now. Deathly calm. 

“I don’t care what you look like,” Uraraka continued, “Just let me look at you, please.”

“I…” she hesitated, “I don’t trust you.”

“No. I know. But please.”

A hand arrived on Uraraka’s shoulder, turning it as the knife turned in tandem. Uraraka closed her eyes. She knew that if she didn’t, she would turn faster than the weapon at her throat permitted. This way, she was careful. She was patient. She opened her eyes to the woman in front of her. 

She had come as herself.  Beautiful. And different. Her hair was tied in a ponytail at the back of her head - her face longer and ever-so-slightly sharper than before. Older. Her eyes were the same, though - as catlike as ever, irises glinting gold from hints of streetlamps out the window. The skin around them flushed, as if sore from crying. There was a familiar expression on her face. Resolute. Heartbroken. Rejected. Oh, what have I done to you?

Uraraka’s right hand dropped her phone to the floor. 

“I made you cry?” she moved her hand to caress Himiko’s cheek. One long second passed before, Himiko smacked it away.

“Stop it. You’ve been trying to catch me.” 

“No, no - not catch-” 

“You’re a liar. You’re working for Hawks.”

Cogs turned in Uraraka’s mind. Oh. God. I must’ve mentioned - in the notes… She couldn’t deny who she was working for. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to lie to her. 

“He didn’t ask me to look for you.”
“So you admit, you’re working for him?” 

“I am. I won’t tell him where you are.”

“You’re lying.” 

“I won’t. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I can’t let myself be caught.”

Was I that close to finding you?
Uraraka’s heart pounded in her chest. Himiko’s hand tensed around the knife handle.

“I should kill you.”

“So kill me.” 

She waited. Her voice shook as she spoke. 

“Do it. Were you expecting me to fight you? I’m not going to. So do it.”

There was a split second of silence. Then, Uraraka braced herself and pushed her own neck into the edge. There was a scream, and a clatter, and a sharp hiss of breath. Himiko stood with her hands over her mouth. The knife lay on the floor by Uraraka’s feet. 

Blood ran in a thin line down the left side of Uraraka’s neck. She knelt, picked up the knife, and held it out to Himiko. 

“So kill me.” 

Tears pooled in her eyes. Her breath heaved.

“I can’t make you believe me, so do it.”

Himiko’s hand hovered over the knife. 

“You’ve killed me before,” she spoke through sobs, now, tears streaming down her face. “So do it, properly this time.” 

“Stop it-”

Uraraka looked up. Himiko’s face was faltering, warped with anguish and desolation. 

She wouldn’t stop it. “You’re alive. I’ve thought about this so many times that I’m not even sure if it’s a dream. I don’t know if I feel like anything’s real anymore. But now, here, you’re alive. 

How could I fight you? I’ve spent two years seeing you in every single face. In every loved one and in every stranger. You could’ve been anybody, Himiko, and you’re you. You’re here, right in front of me. 

I wouldn’t trust me either. I am a good for nothing, lying piece of shit. I’m pretty sure I’ve used up all my luck, anyway, by getting to see you again. So do whatever you want. Just don’t get caught.” 

Himiko took the knife from Uraraka’s hand. She looked at it sadly, and threw it to the other side of the room. She knelt, now, in front of her. Face to face.

“Did they make you try to find me?”

Uraraka let the low sobs escape from her chest. 

“Did they threaten your family?” 

“I told you, nobody made me do this. Nobody knows I’m doing this. You watch me, don’t you? Do I ever take the notebooks out of the apartment?” 

Himiko was scanning her face. Uraraka leant back on the floor with something like a laugh, tears spilling onto her cheeks. 

“Haha, fuck. They’re such creepy notes, aren’t they? No wonder you thought I was going to sell you out.

I’m sorry I scared you. I really am - I never thought about you reading them. I just- God, I really wanted to find you.”

Himiko sat in front of her, rearranging her fear as she stared at her. 

“How do I trust you?”

Uraraka sighed, but she couldn’t train her eyes away from the woman before her. “You don’t have to. You can go if you want. I just wanted to see you again. I won’t come after you again if you don’t want me to. I-” 

HImiko was shaking her head incredulously.

“You- you just wanted to find me,” Himiko whispered, head hanging over her knees.

“You got so close to me, you carried me to hospital and watched me and came into my home,” she was crawling over to where Himiko was kneeling, “and I was angry. Angry that you didn’t ask permission, and that it was only you who got to find me.”

“Ochako…” Himiko’s expression was dazed yet furrowed, her eyes darting between her face and the blood streak down her neck. Uraraka was crawling still, closer, until her breath made the tresses of Himiko’s fringe flutter. 

“Even now, you’re right in front of me, and I still want to find you. But you’re here, aren’t you? You’re alive? You’re warm?”

Himiko placed a hand on Uraraka’s cheek. Her palms were warm; she pressed her face into the heat. More. God, she hadn’t let herself think much this far. She needed proof that every part of her was living. Why do I still want to find her? She’s here, she’s… 

“Am I dreaming?” It was only a whisper. It only needed to be a whisper, with how close Himiko’s face was, her cheeks flushed and tear-stained. Himiko returned an almost imperceptible shake of the head, “I don’t think… I know anymore. Ochako, come - come here, to me.” In a daze she brought her face in even closer, so Himiko’s features were all a blur against the backlight of the kitchen. 

Uraraka’s first kiss happened almost involuntarily. It was inevitable, like a breath, like a tidal wave. The world pressed into her senses, nails and teeth grazing her skin. She was awake. Alive. She was at the mercy of forces - of collision and of gravity and of gruesome fate. On Uraraka’s living room floor, between strewn-about papers, the fugitive Toga Himiko was finally found.

Chapter Text

The train ride home was a nagging sort of painful. It didn’t show on Shoto’s face. He sat, like he always did, as if held up by a string. Except today, he could feel where that string entered his skin, tugging at his back where the stitches looped in and out of him. He took deep breaths when he remembered to, just like the crisis management counsellor had said. Today, the coming storm of Shoto’s heart didn’t feel quite like fire. Still, it felt dangerous enough. One breath after another, all the way up to his doorstep. 

He turned the key in the lock. There was nothing special about his apartment. It was his. It was plain. It was lonely. Katsuki wouldn’t be back until the next morning. 

He had ended up in front of the bathroom mirror. 

He wasn’t sure why he was there, staring at his own face. It certainly wasn’t a habit, in fact, he couldn’t recall when he’d last taken a look at himself just for the sake of it. Ah - except, he must have done so when he left the house as Mio. For some reason, that simple fact made his stomach turn. There it was - the pulling feeling - gnawing, hungry, cold. He stared into his own split features. 

If I were born one way, and not the other, would I still feel this way about my body? 

He tilted his head a little to and fro. With his chin tilted down and to the left, he almost looked quite pretty. Pretty. The word was flint-sharp and spark-spitting. What am I even doing? His sister’s distaste echoed in his head. Why does this even matter? His hero suit clung to his musculature. Smothering. Suffocating. Snap out of it. But the self-resistance only served to worsen the feeling. 

He made for the bedroom wardrobe, throwing off his shirt with a sharp intake of breath, the stitches pulling at his skin. It was a stupid idea, he knew full well, to change into flammable clothes while he was this upset. 

He knew exactly where they were: the blouse and skirt he had worn as Mio - carefully placed on a hanger, the wig in a small bag behind his folded clothes. As he changed, he averted his gaze from the mirror, only staring closely to the reflection of his hairline to adjust it. 

It was a stupid idea, and yet, the suffocating feeling had subsided. He forced himself to look, all at once. 

He looked… strange. Strange and confusing. Something fluttered in his chest. He was an amalgamation of shapes which didn’t often go together. The sharp of his jawline and the flow of the hair. The flex of his calf and the drape of the skirt. The tights, makeup and accessories had made a substantial difference when he wore them. Now, without them, there was no trace of Mio in the mirror. Instead, he saw himself, strange and beautiful. Riotous and blossoming. 

There would be people who would despise this. 

Toya, would you have been one of them? 

The day’s exhaustion began to take hold of him. He slid down to sit at the foot of his bed, scavenging his memory for scraps of his brother. Would you have looked at me strangely? Would you have told me not to go outside? Shoto ran his hands over the pleats of his skirt. 

In his memories, Toya’s eyes were fixed on their father. Would it only matter what Dad thought of it? Would you accept me if he rejected me? Would you accept me if he didn’t? He tried to let the thoughts run over him, covering his skin like ice-cold water. It’s okay, he told himself. I don’t mind. You never had time to think about it. You never had time. 

Am I using my time well, Toya? 

What would you have done with a life like this? Would you have burned it down, like I’m doing now? 

Shoto hugged his knees to his chest. This body- Though it wasn’t that it felt wrong. Simply that it felt like something - like a costume, like a thing that ought to be put on and taken off. Wouldn’t anybody want to change it, after so long stuck inside the same one? And yet Shoto knew that other people didn’t feel this way. Nobody walked, fought, moved like he did - like his body was no more than a tool or an instrument. They lived inside themselves; even the people on the queer TV specials - everybody seemed so happy to be who they were. 

So, who was he? Even if he could take his broad-shouldered body off, what would be beneath it? A girl? A child? Or just somebody else’s son? He rifled through alternatives to no avail. I am nothing, he told himself, or I am something strange. It was this last thought, and only this, that offered him a small glimmer of comfort. 

Toya, something’s wrong with me.

Shoto shut his eyes in a wince. Dizzying lethargy gripped him, pulling his attention to the inside of his mind. 

In it, there was a snowstorm, opaque and unanimous. The scene inside his head began to bleed into his senses - he could feel, now, the soft pellets hit his skin, his hair, the sleeves of his blouse. One figure stood ahead of him in the distance. Blurred. 

“Shoto!” the voice called from somewhere in his mind, ethereally muffled by the blizzard, “Ha- I love the snow, in the end. How backwards is that?” 

His brother’s voice sounded as it once had, without the deathbound rasp, without the intercom hiss. Exalted and combative. Shoto couldn’t help it, though somewhere he knew it was useless - he took a step forward through the snowstorm. 

“Toya-” 

The figure in the distance was grabbing handfuls of snow with both hands, and pelting them beyond where Shoto could see. The wind roared in his ears. 

“TOYA-” 

“Aha! Haha!” The voice cackled across the whiteness, “What are you doing here?”

“I was- WAS LOOKING FOR YOU-” He took another laboured step through the snow. “I WANTED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT SOMETHING-” The wind beat upon his cheeks. 

“Well aren’t I important!” Toya’s silhouette leant back in laughter. If only he knew.

“What is it, chosen one?”

“I want your blessing.” 

The figure stood up, still and silent, somehow, as the wind whipped in every direction. Yet, there was no response. Shoto musn’t have been loud enough. 

“I- I WANTED TO GET YOUR BLESSING,” but his voice rang out too loudly, now. It made the world feel uncomfortably hollow. 

“If you’re going to get married,” Toya’s voice was almost adolescent, “Then it’ll be tough to introduce me.” 

“No, no I wanted your blessing to- I, I… I’m not normal.” His hair billowed behind him. 

The figure stopped, straightened up.
“You’re wearing a skirt,” Toya’s voice said, betraying no emotion. 

“I wanted to.” He cleared his throat, “I want to.” 

Toya, or something like him, paused, and then laughed again. “Well, what am I going to do about it?” 

Shoto said nothing.

“How old are you?”
“Eighteen”

“Ha! I’m still older than you.” 

Still. His stomach twisted.

“Look. I don’t know when I’m going to speak to you again, so I’m just going to say it. I’m not a… guy. But I think I’m something like one. I’m also not a girl. But I think I’m something like one, too.” 

The shadow paused, and then snorted. “Half-and-half. What is that, an unexpected quirk side-effect?” 

The irony hadn’t occurred to Shoto. Could it be a quirk side-effect? It couldn’t… right? 

“So, what - you’re figuring out how to tell mum and dad? Is that it?”

Shoto frowned.
“No, no I’m not going to tell them, I don’t think.”

“Fair enough.”

“I mean I’m not going to tell- I’m not planning on telling anyone.” 

The figure’s head tilted a little to the left. 

“I can’t do anything- I can’t tell anyone, or - be that.”

“No? Why not?” 

The cold sunk deep into his skin. It was a while before Shoto found the words to answer him. 

“I know you didn’t like me. And you didn’t really know me- and it’s not like there aren’t other reasons. But I’m changing and you, you’re staying the same. It’s not fair to leave you behind. It’s not fair to get to think about things you never had time to think about. I don’t want to be like them, pretending you were never here. I want- I want to take you with me.”

Snowflakes decorated his eyelashes.

“So I just don’t want to go down a new road you can’t follow. And, I don’t know - I guess just felt I had to talk to you. I always feel like I have to talk to you. I think… maybe I’m going to feel that way for the rest of my life.” 

There was a noise like a sigh from the space ahead of him. “What was the blessing you wanted?”

Shoto stared into the snow-static. “To be someone you didn’t get to meet.”

“And you know I can’t give it to you, right?” 

The wind howled like a grief-wail. 

“You know that I’m not real.”

Chapter Text

The morning that he left UA, Katsuki woke with the dawn. Pale orange light broke through a crack in the room’s curtains, spilling out onto the floor. An arm clung to his torso. Izuku was sleeping like a log. 

He looked at his face, as long as he could bear it without breaking his resolve. Then, in a series of careful motions, he slid out of Izuku’s grip and shuffled off the end of the bed. Izuku’s arm rewound its way around the bundle of blankets he had left. He looked just as peaceful. 

It’s just because I was there - that’s all. 

Reflections of golden light glinted over the last couple pieces of All Might memorabilia Izuku was left to pack. Katsuki left the room without a word. 

It was a month later, almost, when Katsuki surveyed Izuku’s dorm room. No light from outside graced the sparse figures and posters. A digital clock displayed the early hours of the morning. Dawn would come, whether he wanted it to or not, he reminded himself. Dawn would come sooner than he expected it to. 

“Kacchan?” There were eyes, awake, alive, watching him contemplate the room. Izuku sat, dishevelled and only halfway dressed, on the bed. Katsuki sat down beside him. He planted a reassuring kiss on his cheek. God, if only he had more time to savour this moment. 

“We have to…”
“Talk, I know,” said Izuku, “What did you want to talk about?”

The sun wasn’t rising, but Katsuki was sure he saw the same golden light tint Izuku’s face, then. His heart ached. Izuku smiled a probing smile, so sweetly, like a memory. Katsuki took his face gently in his hands and kissed him softly, burning each detail into his mind. 

Then he swallowed, steeled himself. Forced himself to ask.

“Why did you come to Osaka? Why didn’t… you come with me?” 

Izuku’s sweet, sad smile didn’t waver as he answered him. 

Toga Himiko woke up in a bed. The soft light of morning filtered through the curtains onto half familiar objects - it took a second for her to place herself in her surroundings. A dream? No, she had just come from one, and besides, the details from the evening beforehand had begun to trickle in to her recollection. She scanned the room for signs of life. There - next to her, there was an indent in the bedding. She reached out to feel the spot for traces of warmth, and found none. Ochako had been up for a little while, then.

It wasn’t that Himiko felt slighted, though it was decidedly unromantic to wake up alone after their long-fated and awaited reunion - no, instead, anxious possibilities swarmed her mind. She smoothed down her hair as she thought. Was Ochako put off by her? Had she been too desperate, when it came to it? Or too knife-y, upon greeting? Or perhaps this was all an elaborate betrayal. Would she be greeted by an ambush team, ready to capture her? Her footsteps made no sound down the corridor to the kitchen. 

The door was open. 

Still disheveled from sleep, Ochako stood, her full attention on a bowl which she stood over, bearing a fork. Picking eggshells out, Himiko realised. For some strange reason, her feet were rooted to the ground. Perhaps it was how peaceful she looked in her concentration. Or, perhaps it was dawning on her just how dangerous she was. It was Himiko who brought the knife and been ready to use it - who brought the fear and the threat of criminal charges - who had suspected her as she stood trying to make breakfast- What was she doing, standing in plain view? She needed to hide; needed to leave without a-

“Hi there,” her voice was warm, smiling. The fork clinked against ceramic. Ochako approached Himiko’s frozen body, planted a soft, warm kiss on her cheek. 

She would have breakfast, at least. 

HImiko answered the questions Ochako asked her in a daze. It had been a sympathising hero who had saved her and given her medical attention after the battle, though she had left their care soon after recovering. Since then she had subsisted off of the kindness of strangers, for the most part, keeping well away from the remainders of Paranormal Liberation Front supporters; these groups were a death trap at worst and a restriction on her freedom at best. For the last six months, she had been living in a small studio apartment here in Osaka, and using disguises to take odd jobs to pay bills and get by. 

“So how did you find people to disguise yourself as? Meeting people and asking them?”

There was only the smallest hint of self-denying jealousy in Uraraka’s voice. Cute. 

“At first, I did. But, I found a friend at a blood bank.”

Uraraka nodded. She had figured this much out. 

“Turns out there’s blood that can’t be used for transfusions anymore that they have to dispose of.”

“Oh! So, you…”

“Yep! It felt weird at first, because it wasn’t anybody I knew or liked, but I kinda ended up feeling like being someone new is a way of meeting them.” 

Uraraka said her next words without a particular change in cadence. “You weren’t… thinking of leaving this morning, were you?”

Himiko went rigid once again. She looked at the breakfast which was now laid out in front of her. 

Uraraka continued, “Because, if you think that I’d be better off without you around, or something, then you’re wrong, you know.” She spoke as if it was simple information. As if I could believe her just like that. “You have to trust me.” 

Trust her? Himiko looked up. Her Ochako returned her worried frown with a reassuring smile. 

“Trust me.” 

Wasn’t was the least Himiko could do, after abandoning her for years, after stalking her - after putting a knife to her throat? What ground did she have to stand on? Her time for making the decisions was over. 

“Okay,” Himiko said, with a trepidatious smile. “I do.” 

And so, obediently, she did. 

Thud thud thud.  

The first thing Shoto felt was an ache along his shoulder. He reached a hand up to rub it, hoping to quiet it enough to let him back to sleep for a while, and found himself touching cold skin. Ice-cold. Half conscious, he felt around him for a blanket, unsuccessfully. Come to think of it, why was he sitting, rather than lying down on his bed? As awareness began to bleed through the veil of sleep, the aching feeling spread throughout his body. 

Fucking ow. 

He had slept through the night while sitting, somehow, on the hard floor at the edge of his bed. He touched the ground beneath him to confirm - it was his bedroom’s familiar fireproof flooring. It was cold, though, as his skin had been - cold in a way that even Shoto was capable of flinching at. It was harder to open his eyes than expected; he felt ice crystals crumble as he wiped away the sleep. Shit. 

There was no mountain, ice wall or avalanche to greet him when he first surveyed his room. Yet it took a few blinks before Shoto realised that the bleached haze around him wasn’t clearing. Instead, it seemed that every corner of the room had been covered in gauze-like frost. It was concentrated with him, of course, his right foot received by a pedestal of ice crystals - wide, bold and angular - which diminished into a blanket of whiteness that enveloped the room. It looked so gentle, so beautiful, that it almost wasn’t terrifying. Almost, but not quite. 

Thud thud thud. 

Shoto’s shaky breath condensed into a cloud in front of him. Just how far had this frost spread? The cold had made him slow, achy and lethargic, but who knows what he had done to residents of the neighboring apartments. Katsuki was away, at least. There was that, at least. He hates the cold. Shoto heated himself enough to melt the frost which touching his skin, and took careful steps to his front door. 

A young heteromorphic woman stood in front of him. She was covered in feathers, beginning at her eyebrows, which seemed to flow down over her neck and onto her torso. As for the rest of her, it was a little hard to tell, since she seemed to be wearing as many layers as she could possibly fit under her duffel coat. She took a look at Shoto, up and down, a couple of times before she started speaking. 

“Um, I’m not sure what you could be doing in there, but I think the cold is coming from your apartment? Whatever it is - can you stop it? There could be older people?” 

Shoto was still sleep-stupid. 

“Y- yes of course. I didn’t do it on purpose. I can defrost everything, but it’ll take a second, and there might be puddles. I- I’m really sorry-”

“Yeah, sure,” the woman took another pointed up-and-down survey of Shoto’s body, “whatever it is - I don’t need to know. Just fix it please?” 

Shoto nodded. 

“Bye then,” the woman was clearly eager to leave. 

He shut the door and took one more breath of the cool air. Memories of his dream - the blizzard with his brother - came rushing into his head. The aching, the never-reaching, the source of all the frost.

“You’re wearing a skirt,” Toya’s voice echoed in his mind. Shoto looked down at the pleats over his legs.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Outside Shibuya station, there is a statue of a dog. 

The dog wasn’t a war hero nor a service animal. He was an ordinary dog, in the sense of accomplishments, at least. His owner was a professor and a Shibuya local. Each day, Hachiko would wait outside the station to walk home with his owner. On the day that the professor died of a brain aneurysm at work, Hachiko waited outside Shibuya station. He returned the next day, and the next, and every following day for remaining nine years of his life. 

It was still light out when Katsuki returned to Tokyo from his mission. A gaggle of teens hung out behind the statue, clearly having used it as a landmark for their meeting. To them, it was like any other day, Katsuki supposed. No, better: it was spring - the world was buzzing into warmth from its winter hibernation. His suitcase felt heavy in his hand.

He let it drop, softly, onto the pavement. Normally, he didn’t look at the statue. It had always given him a strange queasy feeling, and besides, he was always in a rush. Today, though, he stood before the inscription which bore Hachiko’s name, and stared up at the spot of polished bronze on his nose, worn from years of petting. 

Everyone knew the story - Hachiko’s memory had been exhumed over and over again, in history classes and tragic novels. Katsuki had never really managed to get his head around why the dog was so beloved. The story was sad, but not heroic, nor impressive. It didn’t take guts or resolution to wait for someone beyond reason. It took a failure of sensibility. An aberration of hope. But he was tired of hating the dog. 

Katsuki was well aware that he must have been a sight. Dishevelled, tired and choked-up as he reached up to pet the dog’s nose. Hachiko continued staring stoically at the station exit. “It’s okay,” he spoke under his breath. “You’re a good boy.” 

He took a couple of shaky breaths. He could focus on this, only this, until he got home. 

When he got back, Shoto was waiting on the balcony. 

Katsuki approached, and dropped his suitcase with a sigh and a wan smile. Shoto had gotten a couple of the details over text. 

• We talked 

• Izuku thinks I shld try n like myself more

• B4 anything

Was the extent of Katsuki’s explanations prior to coming home. Still, he felt it got the message across well enough. 

Shoto stood aside to let Katsuki into his apartment, “how did the mission go?”

“Oh yeah,” Katsuki said, as if only just remembering the purpose of his trip, “yeah, it was good. I didn’t get to do much. Jeanist said I did well.” 

He came to lean against the back of the sofa, as was his habit, “apparently the worst newbie habit is jumping in when you’re not needed, and I avoided that, so yeah…” He trailed off, bored of his own shop talk. 

Shoto remembered his own points of interest. “I froze and defrosted half the apartment block. Also, a woman stabbed me and called me a faggot.” 

Katsuki’s eyes were wide as he tried to parse the sentence. “You what? Wait, a woman- Was it a hate crime?” 

“No, she was trying to save her villain friend. The ‘faggot’ thing was unrelated.” 

“Right… So why did she…”

“Oh, because I was staring at her stubble.”

It took Katsuki another second or two before he pieced it all together. “Right.” He concealed a small smile. 

“Wait - you were STABBED?”

“Yeah. I’m off work right now.”

“WHAT?!”

“Just until the stitches heal.”

“THE FUCK? WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!’

In response, Shoto took a drawn out look at Katsuki’s maniacal demeanor. “Because of that.” 

Fair point. Katsuki took a breath and straightened up. 

“Sorry. 

Sorry, I know - but please tell me if you get hurt.” He was staring at the floor, pain spilling into his voice, “Just. You just have to tell me.”

Shoto nodded. “Okay.” 

“Can I see?” 

Shoto tilted his head, “Don’t touch it.”

Katsuki nodded. 

Shoto pulled up his shirt at the back to reveal the stitches. Katsuki examined them, and took a deep breath out once he felt satisfied with the state of healing. “Okay. I’m okay.” 

Shoto turned back to him. Safe. He was safe. Both of them were safe, and at home. The journey’s heartbreak took its cue to well up in him now. He searched for places in the room to direct his attention. 

It wasn’t as if Shoto had worried about him. What possibly could’ve happened in Osaka that was so much more dangerous than their lived in Tokyo? Still, there was an uneasiness that Shoto had found himself with, knowing that the apartment two doors down was unoccupied. It was an unsettled feeling which had eased now, seeing his friend back in front of him, even if he was on the verge of tears. And he was: Katsuki’s half-smile wavered as he stared into the middle-distance, trying to blink the water from his eyes. 

Something in Shoto wanted to wrap Katsuki up, in a way. Tightly, in some scarf or blanket, like he was shipping a fragile object. It was an unfamiliar feeling in his mind - this wanting to keep Katsuki secure, with all of his pieces in place. It wasn’t so much for fear of him falling apart - but moreso to take the responsibility off of Katsuki himself for a second, so that he might not be the only one holding himself together. He pondered on different variations of the thought for a minute before he realised that he wanted to give his friend a hug. 

Unfortunately, it dawned on him quickly that he didn’t really know how. He had seen people hugging, sure, but couldn’t conjure an precise image of where their arms went, nor any idea of how long they did it for, or how they knew it was okay. The last time Shoto had hugged somebody, he was a child of five, and the logistics of the matter had been more about how far he could stretch his wingspan. Yes, ideally, one of them would grow or shrink - then it would be doable. 

Katsuki looked up, finding a frown on Shoto’s usually even face. 

“Oh, uh. My bad. I’m good. Do you want food? I can cook or…” He trailed off, finding Shoto’s brow still furrowed. “...You okay?”

“I want to give you a hug but I think I don’t know how.” 

“Oh… Right.”

Katsuki almost laughed, and then caught himself. Shoto wasn’t joking. He almost began to speak and then halted once again, as if finding that he, too, had forgotten how to do it. He paused, seeming to think for a few seconds, before miming his own arms out in front of his body. “Put them like this.” 

Shoto did so. 

After a look of assurance, Katsuki stepped forward, arms pinned to his sides, and leant his chin gently on Shoto’s shoulder. “Now you close them.”

Shoto closed his arms around Katsuki and held tight. Katsuki was in his grip, now, all of him held firmly together. Good, Shoto thought, it’s my job for just a second. He felt rhythm of spasmodic breaths against his shoulder and breathed deeply, both for Katsuki, and for himself. A hug wasn’t so difficult now that he was doing it. He took a hand and patted his friend’s head before letting go of him. 

When he drew back, Katsuki's face was flush wish tears and embarrassment. “Why does everyone,” he muttered to himself, “always try to mess up my damn hair?”

Cause you’re like a dog, Shoto pondered, but thought better than to say it. 

Izuku batted the paper ball back to Uraraka. It stopped half a foot in front of her, resigning in that lazy way that weightless objects tended to do. No urgency, no gravity to tell them where to be. He watched the crumpled edges turn. Katsuki had been here, in this room. Just two days ago. Uraraka snatched the ball out of the air. 

“So he wasn’t mad?”

“No,” Izuku’s voice sounded distant, even to him, “no, he was weird- well, not weird.”

“Weird how?” In his periphery, he could see Uraraka’s legs swinging under the desk on which she sat. 

“Well I showed him, you know, my neck-” the marks were still vibrant, now, but changed, “and he was just kind of into it, I guess?” 

Uraraka tilted her head, “very progressive.” 

The tone in her voice, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, made Izuku nervous, yet there was nothing to do but continue. 

“And, well, we got a little caught up in the moment but he made be promise that we’d talk… afterwards… so we, well, you know,”

“WAIT, really? Just like that?”

“Huh? Yes? I mean, there was foreplay-”

“Oh my god!” Uraraka mock gasped, “You two really wasted no time.”

“Is that a joke?” Izuku’s response was almost genuine, “We wasted three years.” 

Uraraka paused for a second. “Good point.”

“So,” he took a sharp breath in to brace himself, “I asked him what he wanted to talk about. He asked me why I came to Osaka, rather than going with him to Tokyo.”

“Oof.”

Izuku nodded. He wiped away beads of tears as quickly as they formed. 

“I didn’t know what I was saying until I was saying it. I guess I just told him. I told him it felt like he’d throw everything away in a heartbeat, and I wanted him to try to build something for himself - to try to win again - and it… it ended up coming out all present-tense.”

Uraraka gave a heavy, sympathetic sigh. 

“Before I knew it, I was telling him why we couldn’t be together - but it didn’t help that he just kept doubling down. He didn’t tell me I was wrong, or that he could do what he wanted. He just said that he wanted to find a way to do it all beside me.”

“You heard that, from him, and turned him down?”

Izuku frowned. “Hearing that? Of course I turned him down. I’m not going to let him throw away his dreams like they’re nothing.”

“Maybe being the Number One Hero isn’t his dream anymore…”

“Then, fine - his chances! His career! His future! I’m not letting him throw any of them away for me, either.” 

“You would really rather watch him from afar than be with him? And have him be-”

“I can do ‘from afar’. The tears were welling up too quickly now for Izuku to wipe them, “I’ve watched him ‘from afar’ my whole life.”

He found a napkin to sniffle into. 

“I just wouldn’t forgive myself. Maybe that’s my own problem, I don’t know.” 

Uraraka came to sit beside him on the bed. A comforting head came to rest on his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry. I know it isn't easy. I don't think you're wrong. I just wish it could work for you."

More tears fell wordlessly from Izuku's eyes. 

“So what was the conclusion?”

“We’d see where we are in a year. Maybe we’ve found other partners by then. We try to be happy for each other about it. But first, just try to be people on our own. See who we are without each other, and what we really want in the first place.”

She gave his arm a squeeze, took a deep breath and waited for him to follow suit. After a few sobbing tries, he was successful. 

“Good. Okay. So then it’s your turn, isn’t it?" Izuku looked up to her. His best friend was smiling at him, but there were tears in her eyes, too.

"This year, we're going to get your shit together.”