Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

—

It still aches. The memory.

Katsuki sees it in his head, playing out like a record of snapshots. He’s on a simple mission with a couple of sidekicks and one main objective: search and rescue. A song that’s same old, same old—for them. It’s something they can do mechanically, methodically, and without the precalculation they’d need for an actual threat.

Find the civilians and bring them to safety. Or, wait for safety to come to them. It’s fucking pie.

Only, it hadn’t been. It hadn’t been fucking pie at all. Not a single slice.

Katsuki’s sector had been invaded at the last possible moment. There weren’t any civilians on the scene when Dulcet, some villain with a sound Quirk, had planted herself right in the center of Katsuki’s path—or so he’d thought. She’d opened her big mouth, sang a note so inhumanly loud that it rivaled Present Fucking Mic, and everything around him had shaken.

There weren’t any civilians on the scene. At least, he thought there weren’t.

The world had trembled at the sound of Dulcet’s song. Katsuki’s vision blurred with the vibrations of the earth, and his blood rushed in his veins—broke through the vessels and swam the tracts until it dribbled from his ears in an attempt to escape his body.

And then, Katsuki saw her.

A little girl with blond hair and bright, bright blue eyes. She’d been trapped between two collapsed arches, frozen in fear and staring straight at him as if he were her only hope. That look had been enough to spur Katsuki into action. He’d raced for her, for the chance to slide beneath the concrete and shield her with his body. The whole goddamn world could fall on him so long as she was okay.

But Dulcet had sung again, her melodic laughter shaking the ground beneath him until he’d lost his balance. By the time Katsuki regained his footing and propelled off the crumbling earth, it’d been too late.

If he closes his eyes, he can remember every little detail of her ruffly, white dress. Her hand reaching out for him from beneath the rubble.

Katsuki still hasn’t been able to look at himself in the mirror.

That little girl’s plagued him ever since. She’s everywhere. Every street he walks by is her graveyard. Every building he passes on the way home—every rooftop he scours—is another tombstone. Reminders that he’d failed in saving the life of someone who hadn’t even had the chance to live yet.

It’s a failure beyond failure.

People under Katsuki’s care don’t just die.

So what the hell’s he supposed to say when they do? Can he still go around calling himself a hero when he wasn’t even able to save this one little girl?

It hits him hard, this irreversible mistake. This unfixable gaffe. After all these years, guilt eats him up until there’s nothing left on the inside and he’s forced to rebuild again. Rebuild himself into a newer, better, more perfect Bakugou Katsuki. One who can save every single person in danger that he comes across.

It’s a fucked up thought; that he can’t forgive himself still. That he can’t push past things like this more kindly. It frustrates him. Like after everything he’s been through—the walls he’s climbed, the obstacles he’s smashed to pieces—he’s still got more to learn.

Katsuki’s sitting on his couch in the dark, staring out at the skyline visible beyond his wallspan window.

He’s tired. His body aches. He’s been cleaning all day like a fucking maniac. His house. His office. Himself. Like he’s been trying to scrub out every inch of imperfection and uncleanliness he can find. In the end, it feels like he’s barely scratched the surface, and ain’t that just some shit?

Truthfully, he wants to be out on the streets doing something. Maybe patrolling with Izuku or Eijirou or, hell, even fucking Denki’s annoying ass would be a blessing. Would drown out the noise. Would make him feel like he isn’t wasting his life moping around like any other basketcase.

It’s times like these when Katsuki wishes he could call his mom up and vent. Get it all out in the clear because the weight’s so goddamn heavy. But he hasn’t done that since the war ended years ago, and he’s not about to go crawling to her now. He’s a grown fucking man. And she... she doesn’t need that after all the stress and worry he’s dropped on her shoulders.

But he still misses that singular moment: when she got down on her knees where he was sitting like a lump in front of his bed and held him for the first time since he was in the single digits.

And it’s no big deal. Katsuki doesn’t need his mom. He loves her, but he doesn’t need her to be around to bail him out of his self-imposed punishments every time something bad happens. Her words are always echoing in his head when he’s down and out already; he can’t take anymore.

Everything is harder to deal with when you’re by yourself, she’d tell him. It’s lonely at the top. Lonely in that way. In the way where comfort’s not so easy to find even when there are arms around you. Where you sometimes want more than roughhousing with friends and shoulder-pushing and jokes. You want someone to show you the goddamn light at the end of the tunnel.

You’re lonely, Katsuki. It’s okay.

Yeah. There’s no way in fucking hell he’ll ever admit to that. To wanting something a little more gentle, a little more kind. Katsuki’s always done fine, blowing his tunnel to pieces.

He needs something else. A workaround—a loophole. Something that makes sense to him.

The solution is less than ideal, but bursts into his frontal lobe from the back of his brain like it’s been biding its time in waiting for the chance.

Standing up from the couch, he stalks over to his office where he does late-night paperwork and opens his top drawer so hard everything shifts forward an inch. Katsuki picks up the business card Izuku gave him a while back—round-cornered, baby blue, with the phone number and email of some stupid professional cuddling service he’s been telling people about.

“It caters especially to heroes,” Izuku had said; very discreet. To be frank, where the hell Izuku even heard about the company is a mystery to Katsuki, but he’d gone on and on about it like he was their biggest advocate. As if the save-all to the world’s biggest problems was cuddling with a stranger.

Katsuki had scoffed at the card when Izuku tried handing it to him because—because he doesn’t need shit like this. He doesn't need to be coddled by some random to feel real or whole or whatever. He doesn’t.

But Izuku had shoved it into his coat pocket and Katsuki had found it later at home and stored it away without really thinking about it. It’s a surprise he even kept the damned thing.

It’s funny now, in hindsight, because Katsuki actually pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and types out the email address without much of a second thought. On a whim, he makes a whole-ass inquiry, one short paragraph long and complete with his own agency stamp boxed in at the bottom.

He doesn’t even think about the consequences because there shouldn’t be any. He’ll try it once and when it doesn’t pan out, he’ll forget he even made the appointment in the first place.

And then he can at least say he asked for help.

Tossing the card back into his desk drawer, Katsuki turns off all the lights and heads to bed.

—

It’s a whole week before Katsuki has to think about his cuddling appointment.

Work comes around and he nearly forgets all his woes, picking up right where he left off. Or, well; he’s so ridiculously busy that he has no goddamn choice in the matter.

The day before his appointment, he’s stacked to the neck in agency paperwork, sidekick reports, and so much other bullshit that he barely has time to think about anything else. The only thing that really finds a way past his defenses is the face of that little girl—her wide-eyed shock when the building collapsed, her dead gaze into the nether when he’d lifted her from the rubble.

Katsuki sees her in every little kid he passes on the street. In the faces of civilians on the crosswalk—ones he’s saved before, ones he might save in the future, and ones he might never have to save at all.

He even sees her on the news; blatant and in his face. It doesn’t matter if he looks away or closes his eyes, if he has a moment to himself, she’s there. A constant reminder.

It’s not until he’s relaxing on a rooftop with Izuku after patrol that Katsuki even thinks about tomorrow being his day off. The first Saturday he’s had to himself in a while and it’ll be spent in an initial appointment with his ‘personal cuddler.’

Jesus, he hates that fucking term with a goddamn passion.

Out of the corner of his eye, Katsuki notices Izuku shifting in the silence. Green eyes peek over at him. Once, then twice. Because there’s something on that curious little mind of his and he wants to ask about it. And Katsuki knows whatever it is, it’s about him and his business—because Izuku’s fucking nosy.

“Hey, I meant to ask sooner, but,”—Izuku rubs at the back of his neck, Katsuki thinks to himself a very exasperated ‘here we go, again’—“are you doing okay, Kacchan?”

“I’m doin’ just fuckin’ peachy, Deku,” he answers sardonically.

“I’m being serious. You hardly talked about it in your report, but there was a civilian casualty on your mission the other day. Wasn’t there?”

Katsuki leans back until he’s lying on the roof pavement, knees bent and legs dangling over the ledge. He entwines his fingers, cupping the back of his head in his hands.

“A little girl. I didn’t save her,” he says, lips twisting as he stares at the sky. Katsuki’s eyes shift over to Izuku after a beat. “It was pathetic.”

Izuku’s eyes scream sympathy, but his smile is all pride. He looks like he’s seconds from weeping and Katsuki promises to himself that if he says anything about being happier that his best friend’s opening up, he’s gonna shove him right off the edge of this building.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Izuku says, after a moment. Katsuki’s annoyed by how sure he sounds. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. We, as heroes, aren’t perfect. We can’t save everyone—”

“You’re the last person I wanna hear that bullshit from, Deku,” Katsuki scoffs, laughing mirthlessly. “You don’t even believe it yourself. You’re so full of crap.”

Izuku frowns. “Quit being such a jerk—I’m just trying to help!”

“Yeah? Well, you’re not!”

Izuku stands up from his perch, crossing his arms over his chest as he walks along the protruding edge to the corner before coming back again. His hands move to rest on his hips, and whatever sulky expression he has on his face disappears. Melts into shameful melancholy.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, earnestly. “I know I’m not helping, but I really want to. I want to help you.”

Pushing up off the concrete, Katsuki rises to his feet, shoving his mask back on and walking towards the opposite edge of the roof.

“Just can it, Deku,” he grouses. “Not in the goddamn mood.”

Izuku’s hand shoots out to grab his elbow, and Katsuki spares him a look. Part of him wants to laugh even though he doesn’t have it in him; Izuku’s much taller and wider—much more muscular than he used to be—but he still wears that same sixteen-year-old face. “Will you at least come back to the agency with me instead of blowing me off?”

Sometimes, Katsuki wishes he were impervious to the sincerity Izuku shows him. It’s frustrating, never being able to stick to his guns at times like these—when he’s vulnerable. Cornered animals should fight back, but Katsuki just finds himself drained of fight when he looks into Izuku’s eyes. Like he’s picked up his burden and all that’s left is the onerous weight of his body.

“Yeah,” Katsuki says, showing none of the struggle as he shrugs off Izuku’s hand, bumping a fist into his shoulder as he passes. “Better keep up or I’m leavin’ you behind.”

Izuku grins, bending to brace himself against the ledge.

“I’d like to see you try.”

—

“What the hell am I doing?”

Katsuki feels more nervous than he has in years.

He’s in his living room, ten minutes before his professional cuddler is supposed to show up, pacing. Pacing. Like fucking Izuku when he’s going on and on about stealth strats, or the newest rank-rising hero, or why fish are the hardest pets to keep alive (if someone wants to get a fucking fish, let them get a fucking fish—why are we listing a hundred different ways you can accidentally kill a fucking fish?).

There’s a knock at the door and Katsuki stops in his tracks. For the first time since morning, he notices the smell of charred skin and looks down at his hands, tinged black from the sparks his sweaty palms have been generating with their constant rubbing together.

“Shit.”

Rushing over to the kitchenette sink, he gives them a quick wash and dry, hoping they don’t look too ugly from the anxious firing. At least he hasn’t burned through the skin. Probably would have if he let it go for another five minutes.

“I’m comin’!” Katsuki shouts, walking back into the living room.

He doesn’t know why he says it; it’s not like there was a second knock.

He’s got to stop stalling, anyway—this shouldn’t be that big of a deal. It’s just some cuddling. Katsuki’s done that before. No sweat.

Except when Katsuki opens the door, he promptly slams it shut and takes it all back.

Eyes wide, he stares blankly at the peephole. Until he actually has the guts to fucking look through it. Two-toned eyes and peppermint twist hair are distorted by the viewer, but there’s no mistaking who’s on the other side.

It’s Shouto. Todoroki Shouto.

Izuku’s other best friend—his other civilian best friend—Todoroki Fucking Shouto.

What the hell is he doing here?

They’ve spoken on multiple occasions, hung out together even. Katsuki knows Shouto, technically, but they’ve never spent a single moment alone. And now, by some gnarly twist of fate, he works at some professional cuddling agency that Katsuki emailed to get an appointment with?

That has to be what Shouto’s here for; he wouldn’t be otherwise. They never hang out outside of the general agency locale, and Katsuki sure as hell’s never invited him over.

But he’s here now. And he knows Katsuki made this appointment.

Like he’s some lonely creep scrounging for scraps of affection.

Katsuki’s gaze falls, lips pressing together. To make matters worse, Shouto is inextricably tied to Katsuki’s work and social life. So, if he’s here...

Does Izuku know about this?

“Are you going to let me in, Bakugou?” Shouto asks, voice slightly muffled by the alder.

Katsuki decides that he doesn’t have the time to think about that. Gritting his teeth, he opens the door again, this time more prepared.

“What the hell, half n’ half?!” Katsuki tugs him inside by the front of his sweater, slamming his door shut as Shouto brushes out whatever wrinkles he left behind. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I’m not joking about anything,” Shouto tells him calmly, pulling his phone out of his pocket and pulling up some app. He turns it around and, lo and be-fucking-hold, Katsuki’s full name is right there in black and white across the screen. “You emailed my agency, didn’t you? An hour of cuddles—”

“Don’t fucking call them that.” Katsuki scowls.

“What should I call them then—snuggles?”

“...Get out. Now.”

“Wait,” Shouto backtracks with a sigh, staring down at Katsuki. “You made an appointment because you needed this, didn’t you?” he asks, lips lined thin. “You made an appointment and I was assigned to you. That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Katsuki echoes unsurely, sweeping his eyes over Shouto’s apologetic expression (though it’s tight, like he’s not sure how to get across the fact that he’s actually sorry with just a look).

“I promise I’m not trying to make light of this.”

He’s almost placated by the seriousness in his voice.

“It’s not like I can get my deposit back anyway,” Katsuki huffs, and Shouto’s shoulders ease. He removes his shoes and takes a long look around the apartment, one he’s only been inside maybe once with Izuku to pick something up. Nothing much has changed since then, probably. Except the fact that Katsuki bought an easy chair and it’s the best yen he’s ever spent. That thing’s fucking amazing.

“Where can I set my things down?”

“Dining room table’s fine.”

“Alright.”

It’s hard to say that he knows a lot about Shouto—his range of knowledge doesn’t go beyond a few small facts here and there.

He’s a civilian with a decent friend group of heroes like Izuku, Eijirou, and Uraraka. He’s got a shitload of siblings. He drinks his tea iced, like a freak, and he’s always talking about cats. Not to mention everything he owns has one printed on it.

He’s pretty as hell, and Katsuki’s always appreciated that.

Perfectly split down the middle, Shouto’s the definition of half and half. The symmetry is a little off-putting at first, but only adds to the appeal of his design once you’re used to it. Besides, he’s got this scar that adds a bloom of color to his porcelain-pale face that ends up distracting from all that anyway.

Shouto always initiates small talk when he sees Katsuki at the agency (which Katsuki hates, but Shouto’s good at keeping his interest) and he’ll come out of it with a bit of trivia or a laugh or whatever. They have a good time when they’re hanging out because Izuku’s tagged him along or Eijirou’s invited everyone in the room to lunch.

And Katsuki doesn’t know, maybe they would’ve gone beyond hanging out only when a mutual friend is there, but it just never fucking happened.

Katsuki cares too much about his work to make time with people he doesn’t work with.

So the years have gone by and they’ve remained friendly acquaintances at most.

But it’s different now.

Katsuki feels like Shouto’s gone and swept his shoe through the line in the sand between them. Or jumped right over it and made home in Katsuki’s personal life somehow—and it’s not even his fault.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he steps further into the living room, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.

“How do we do this?” Katsuki asks, tense as hell.

“We could sit on the couch or on your futon,” Shouto says, and Katsuki has to stop himself from rolling his eyes because why the fuck would he own a futon when CocoMats exist? “Wherever you’re comfortable.”

“The couch is fine.”

“Where would you like me to be? You can tell me what position you want us sitting or lying in, and where to place my hands.”

Katsuki reaches up to scrub at his face. “This is so fucking weird.”

“It’s always a little awkward the first time,” Shouto agrees with a shrug. “I’ll do whatever you feel most okay with.”

Slowly, Katsuki walks the few steps to his couch, sitting down beside Shouto and keeping his eyes on the stupid striped socks he’s wearing. They’re definitely from one of those Hero novelty packs they sell at the mall—he’d recognize that combination of All Might Yellow, Deku Green, and gunmetal anywhere.

What a goddamn nerd.

“What do you usually do?” he asks after a moment, wishing those socks actually did him the favor of calming his nerves.

“Most people like spooning, I think,” Shouto answers.

That makes Katsuki laugh. This is ridiculous. It’s—ridiculous.

“Okay, fine. Sure.”

It’s one of the most humiliating minutes of Katsuki’s life, but only he would know it. Shouto lifts his socked feet off the floor and lies flush along the back of the couch like it’s no problem. His knees knocking against Katsuki’s spine is the only thing that spurs him into action—has him following Shouto’s example and lying down, too.

He drops onto the cushions like a ton of lead, tensing when his cheek lands on the inside of Shouto’s arm. It’s curled at the elbow like a makeshift pillow, and Katsuki has to resist the urge to pull off of it. Shouto speaks softly behind him, in that calm, respectful tone of his—asking if he can place his arm around Katsuki. If he can come closer.

Katsuki says ‘yes’ to it all, but he still can’t help the way his body reacts.

“You’re wiggling a lot,” Shouto comments.

“I’m getting fucking comfortable.”

Shouto falls silent, and the entire room follows suit. Katsuki’s fidgeting comes to a slow stop, but he still feels stiff in Shouto’s hold. He can feel him everywhere, from the soft breaths that tousle his hair to the arm around his middle to the knees curving into the backs of his.

To the socked toes pressing beneath the pads of his own.

“Do you not like being held, Bakugou?” Shouto asks, and Katsuki bristles like he’s been hit with freezing rain.

Of course he’d pick up on it, Katsuki realizes. Shouto isn’t a stranger, and he’s always been perceptive, but on top of that, he’d know if someone felt uncomfortable with him like this—it’s his job to know.

It still doesn’t help to have to admit it.

“I’m just... not used to it,” he says, not liking how it sounds.

“It’s okay,” Shouto murmurs, relaxing against Katsuki’s back. “Are you cold?”

A bloom of warmth that’s strangely magnetic spreads from the center of Katsuki’s back and throughout his body. It’s something of an uneven fractal, racing through his left side from his temple to his toes, and meandering ever so slowly along his right. However different it is between the halves, it’s comforting somehow. Katsuki finds himself backing into that feeling.

“Sorry, my right side doesn’t get as warm.”

“This your Quirk?” Katsuki asks, willing away the remaining tension in his shoulders. “What is it, like a body temperature thing? Pretty useful, I guess, for your line of work.”

“This is just a side job. I don’t do this for a living,” Shouto corrects. And Katsuki guesses that “professional cuddler” isn’t exactly the kind of occupation that pays the bills. It doesn’t even seem like the kind of thing he imagined Shouto doing. Not that he would know any better. Shouto doesn’t usually talk about work when he’s in their company. “My Quirk is Half-Cold Half-Hot, by the way.”

Powerful, Katsuki thinks. Unbridled forces. Agencies always have their eyes on the elements for that very reason, and part of Katsuki is surprised that Shouto hadn’t been in the Hero Program on some kind of special recommendation. He mentions as much.

“My father’s a hero,” Shouto replies simply. There’s a hardened edge to his voice, but for the most part, it remains smooth. “That’s enough reason for me not to be.”

“Right. Endeavor,” Katsuki says, like an idiot. Half-Hot—of course. Shouto’s dad was the number one hero for a while after All Might retired. “Forgot.”

In his defense, it's not something they ever talk about. Katsuki knows very little about the fresh hell Endeavor put Shouto and his siblings through when they were growing up. Just a scuff off the surface and never beyond because, after his initial bout of oversharing, Shouto only talks about his old man when someone else mentions him.

“It’s not like I care to be reminded.”

The conversation wanes after that. Katsuki finds his breathing evening out, the atmosphere growing cozy and comfortable. Shouto’s arm remains frozen over his side and across his stomach. Every once in a while he shifts, finds a more comfortable place for his other arm or stretches out slightly from behind Katsuki. But for the most part, he’s a rock.

Idly, Katsuki’s mind wanders to his own empty hands, always grasping at something. And his mind takes that as its cue to imagine Shouto in them. It’s not entirely misplaced. Frankly, Katsuki thinks that it’d be nice to reciprocate.

It’s been a long time since he reciprocated anything.

The only friend of his he gets even remotely close to in this way is Eijirou. Touching him is just second nature. Something he feels like he’s been doing all his life. Whenever he’s in Eijirou’s presence, he knows he’s in good, caring hands. Eijirou’s comfortable. He’s good. Safe.

In a way, Shouto feels safe, too. Though, there’s still this underlying fear Katsuki feels in regard to this whole cuddling thing. But Shouto’s done a good job of making him feel comfortable—like this is no big deal. For real.

Katsuki wants to hold him, too.

“Hey,” he begins, because he thinks to ask. Shouto might not be his friend, but he’s not just anybody, either. He'd understand, probably. Besides, creepier fucks than Katsuki have probably asked him for just as much.

“Yes?” Shouto says, after a moment, when he notices Katsuki’s taking his sweet fucking time.

Like a goddamn coward, he gets cold feet.

“Nevermind. Forget about it.”

His two-hour time slot comes to a close just after sunset, and Katsuki has to ask himself why pulling apart from Shouto is somehow more awkward than negotiating cuddle positions and where to put hands. It feels like he’s walk-of-shaming right out of his own living room, but that’s probably because the thought of how ridiculous this entire situation is has got him by the fucking throat.

Katsuki doesn’t want people to find out. Not even Izuku.

He’d be happy as fuck, if he knew. Maybe even smug.

Maybe he already knows, and that’s...

Just the thought has Katsuki bogged down with stress, but he’s trying not to overthink it—trying not to undo the last two hours in the span of a half-second. So he turns to Shouto, who’s sliding his shoes on at the genkan, and takes a deep breath through the nose.

“Does he know about this?” Katsuki asks, swallowing thick. “Deku.”

“Izuku knows I do this. I gave him the business cards,” Shouto answers carefully, looking up once he’s slid on his second shoe. “But he doesn’t know I’m here—that would be against regulation.”

The breath Katsuki exhales comes from the pit of his stomach; stock-piled stress that feels so good to relieve. It’s soon replaced by the anxiousness of Shouto possibly knowing it bothers him.

If he’s picked up on it, Katsuki wouldn’t be able to tell.

But he must sense something because, at the last possible moment—just before he turns away and twists the knob of Katsuki’s door—he smiles. Close-lipped and gentle.

“Don’t worry, Bakugou,” Shouto soothes, in that soft, deep voice of his. “I won’t tell.”

—

Katsuki goes into work the following week a little less on edge.

His thoughts are still going a mile a minute, and his usual focus on work treads the line of hyperfixation, but his rigid posturing feels much more relaxed. And his mind feels less like a muddled mess and more like a dull knife. It has to be, in no small part, due to having Shouto over last night for their... cuddle session.

Part of Katsuki thought it’d be weird as fuck, having Halfie hold him all evening because he had to—but it wasn’t. It was good.

A stranger, Katsuki thinks, that probably would’ve been worse.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt human like that. Normal. Connected. Like he could make mistakes and it would be alright because, at the end of the day, someone was still willing to touch him.

Katsuki sighs. What a dumb ass thought. But it’s the truth; he feels a little better.

Not one hundred percent, no. Far from it. Katsuki’s failures still hang over his head, and no matter what he does, he can’t seem to shake his last mission. But if he knows anything it's that healing is a slow process. Shit doesn’t just go away overnight.

Patrol is about to start, and that pushes his thoughts as far back as they go. Vestiges in the addled underpass of his brain. All of his effort goes into mentally tracing the esplanade of his path for the day, and he straps himself into his suit with little thought of anything else.

Stepping out into the hall, Katsuki sees the backs of two familiar heroes chatting up Izuku as he adjusts his gauntlets with resounding clicks. One turns toward him that very instant, sharp-toothed grin splitting a sun-tanned face.

“Katsuki!” Eijirou rushes him, pulling Katsuki into a hug because that’s just what he does—heavy shoulder pats and all. “It’s been forever, bro. You’re lookin’ manly as hell.”

Katsuki smiles lopsidedly at that. Eijirou never changes, thank fuck.

“What the hell are you losers doing here?” he asks.

“Always the charmer,” Sero sighs, hands on his hips and head cocking to the side. “We’re here to help wrangle the stragglers of Dulcet’s group. Midoriya asked Amajiki for backup—that’s why we’re in town.”

Eijirou nods in agreement, clarifying, “Ever since you guys locked her down for good, his followers have been an issue. Not a big one, but enough for the authorities to want heroes in on the wrap-up.”

“Oh, yeah?” Katsuki lets his gaze roam the room, head bobbing up and down slightly as his lips purse and he mulls things over. Dulcet’s gang being on the loose is like a second chance—not full on redemption, but an apology, at least. It’s something. His gaze shifts back to Eijirou. “I’m in.”

Eijirou grins over at Katsuki, big and infectious as always.

It’s a fucking rush, taking out these assholes.

The second they hone in on Dulcet’s goons, it’s an all-you-can-fucking-eat buffet. Sero sticks to the runners, speedily racing after them and using his tape to adhere them to any surface possible, including each other—while Katsuki and Eijirou handle the conjoining handful leftover.

The vast majority do their best to slow Eijirou down; he’s big and bulky and a seemingly easy target—Katsuki gets their logic. It’s just stupid as hell of them to try. Eijirou’s faster now. The body of a bull and the strength of one, too. They can barely keep on him.

Two stragglers break away from the group to come after Katsuki from where he’s scoping atop the rubble of an evacuated corner building. Katsuki leaps down behind the nearest loose brick wall and shoots off an explosion, laughing to himself as it careens right into their bodies soaring at mid-jump.

Barreling right back into the fray, a wild grin splits his face.

“Hah!” Katsuki high-fives Eijirou’s waiting hand. “Two pricks, one brick!”

“Killin’ it, bro!” Eijirou whoops.

A long, lanky body drops to Katsuki’s side like a fucking spider, and he whips around with a crackling hand only to see Sero rise from his crouched landing.

“They’re all sound Quirk users,” he informs, shooting out two reels of tape and pulling just as many knuckleheads together easy before letting them topple to the ground. Neat trick. “All of them.”

“Like Mic-sensei,” Eijirou supplies.

“Which means the only thing they’ve got goin’ for ‘em is bein’ annoying as fuck,” Katsuki snipes, eyes cutting to a figure rushing away from the fray instead of toward it.

The villain is big and wide, but fast—pushing through the crowds and running like a goddamn coward. Katsuki grits his teeth, turning towards the hand that lands suddenly on his shoulder.

Eijirou cocks his head in the runner’s direction, mouth set. “That’s him, Dynamight. That’s the ringleader of this group: Forte.”

“There are two more guys like him called ‘Mezzo’ and ‘Crescendo,’” Sero adds, at Katsuki’s back, “but from what I gathered, they’re not here.”

Pushing off Sero, Katsuki zeroes in on Forte’s retreating back and begins clearing a path through the assaulting group with his fists.

“You two keep knockin’ these dumbfucks out,” he calls back, eyes ahead and lips twisting. “He’s mine.”

Katsuki sets off the second he’s free from the crowd, propelling himself over the asphalt. Forte hasn’t made it very far, running at a snail’s pace in comparison to Katsuki range advantage. With one last blast, Katsuki soars over the closed-off streets, landing a kick to Forte’s ass that sends him tumbling across the center of the intersection. He lands on his back, eyes blinking and disoriented as he tries to push himself up by the elbows. Katsuki stops him with a heavy-handed slap, sitting forcefully on the center of his meaty chest.

Pulling him up by the collar of his stupid-ass costume with a sneer, Katsuki watches as he coughs up his own teeth. “Caught ya,” he spits.

The only response he gets is the whistletone of haggard breaths filtering through bloody lips. Forte looks up at him with beady little eyes and smiles.

“Where’re the rest of you, huh?” Katsuki grills, shaking Forte’s body with his hands. “All you sound Quirk users travel in one big band together—where are you hiding them?!”

“Here and there,” Forte answers, almost merrily. “A musical number is best heard when surrounding its audience. A true symphony never gathers centerstage.”

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” Katsuki says, leaning down to meet Forte’s eyes with an imposing glare. His next words exit low and slow. “Not that it matters. I’m gonna find every last one of you bitches and save this city the trouble of having to see your ugly fucking faces loitering the streets.”

Forte goes quiet for a long moment, eyes watching Katsuki in fascination.

“You’re going to... save this city?” he echoes, perplexed. “Does saying so, rather than doing so, make you a hero?”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow, and the tips of his canines grind together as he clicks his jaw.

“I don’t think it does, see—saying and doing are two very different things. A hero is no hero if they can’t save everyone. Especially little girls,” Forte concludes, grinning wide and bloody when Katsuki’s eyes grow wild. “That’s right, Dynamight. I know about your... slip-up.”

“Shut up.”

“You let those arches fall. Brick after brick after brick—crunching her poor little skull.”

“You shut your goddamn mouth,” Katsuki grits out, teeth gnashing together as his grip on Forte tightens. If he happens to snag the skin of that fat neck between his fingers, too, well, he’s sure nobody would fucking mind. “You shut that stupid goddamn hole of yours or I’m going to kill you.”

“Once you taste it, there’s no stopping. There is no coda,” Forte breathes, the heave of his chest practically swallowing Katsuki’s hand between it and his chin. “Once you kill, you’re a killer.”

“Shut up!” Katsuki snaps. “Don’t go comparin’ me to pieces of shit like you! Don’t you ever—”

There’s a sharp pain in his side and Katsuki gasps, looking down to find a three-inch gash bleeding under his ribs. He doesn’t remember it being there; or maybe he hadn’t noticed, preoccupied as he was. And it’s nothing—it’s really fucking nothing—but a low, deep vibrating note rings in Katsuki’s head the next second. The sudden hit of vertigo that tilts his world is making him nauseous, and his breathing comes in heavy puffs. Heavier and heavier, still, until—

Katsuki snaps out of it with a quick twitch of his head at the sound of Forte barking out an incredulous laugh. It gargles from him, watery and gross, and Katsuki’s eyes train on his wide, open mouth.

“Look at that! You aren’t so tough after all—”

The first punch shuts him up.

The first punch shuts him up, but it’s not enough. Katsuki can’t stop once he starts. He can’t stop, even after the gauntlets unbuckle and hit the ground with a clang and it’s all fucking fists. He can’t stop. Even when he sees the blood bubbling between two fat, ugly lips and he’s surrounded by noise. He can’t stop. He ignores it all—the begging, the pleas, the shouts over his head—he can’t stop.

“Kats, get off him!” Eijirou shouts over the sound of Katsuki’s fists hitting home. “Shit—stop. He’s down, man!”

Reaching out, he wraps his thick fingers around the entirety of Katsuki’s elbow and almost gets smacked with the outside of a fist. Sero comes quickly to Eijirou’s aid, tape circling Katsuki’s body in an instant, clamping down hard on his arms and securing them tightly to his sides. Katsuki struggles against the binds, going as far as to unleash a few minor explosions, but he can’t get loose. A growl rips from his throat.

“Been working on it,” Sero brags from behind him. “It’s pretty indestructible now.”

“Let go of me, asshole!” is the last thing Katsuki says before his mouth is taped shut. He kicks his feet as he’s pulled up and away from Dulcet’s unconscious lackey, angry screams echoing from behind his teeth.

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Dynamight,” Sero answers, the playfulness ever-present in his voice despite the seriousness of his grip on Katsuki. He turns to the crowd that’s gathered with a friendly smile. “Nothing to see here, guys! Dynamight’s just a little scuffed up, so I’m gonna escort him to our team of handy-dandy paramedics.”

Eijirou is quick to follow his lead, ushering curious civilians back to the safety of the sidewalks. “Stay off the roads ‘til the clean-up crew gets here, alright? Officers are gonna monitor the area, so do us all a favor and keep safe!”

“Red Riot! Can I get your autograph?” someone shouts beyond the crowd.

Eijirou chuckles, and Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure thing!” Turning his head, Eijirou shoots him a sympathetic look before motioning to Sero. Fucking traitor. “Let’s wait until they’ve cleared out to let him go, okay?”

“You got it, Riot.” Sero salutes with his free hand.

“Cellophane!”

A camera flashes as Sero grins and waves, Katsuki dragging behind him like a dog on a tape-y leash. And he silently swears that if whatever photo they took of him like this ends up in an article, there’s no way Sero’s gonna be able to hide his ass from the boot Katsuki will have ready to shove up it.

“Man, I will never not love the spotlight,” Sero sighs, swinging Katsuki from side to side with a jerk of his arm. “You could’ve enjoyed it, too, but you had to take things personal.”

Katsuki’s growls rumble in the back of his throat, and he struggles to kick his feet. They’re suspended high over the ground from where he’s strapped to Sero’s back.

Stupid, tall bastard.

Eijirou’s far off now, talking to a few officers as Dulcet’s group is apprehended, and Sero heads straight for the sidestreet where their transport’s parked. He waits at the curb, refusing to let Katsuki go until all of the villains are inside police vans and most of the civilians have cleared out. The ones that remain gather around the reporters and cameramen stationed at every corner, giving onlookers’ commentary and being nosy fucks.

Sero drops him to his feet, quickly pulling the tape from his skin. Katsuki hisses when it tugs over the wound in his side.

“Sorry, man. Haven’t developed an easy way to remove this stuff yet,” Sero apologizes, working faster now. He glances down at the cut. “We actually should get that checked out by the medics. You might need stitches—”

“Fuck off,” Katsuki snaps, pushing Sero out of his way the moment he’s free and heading for the van.

Eijirou falls into step beside Katsuki from wherever the hell he showed up, swinging an around around his shoulders and holding him there like it’s expected that he’ll jet the second someone loosens the leash. It’s infuriating, but he keeps his mouth shut as they load into the transport, throwing his body onto the bench beside Sero as Eijirou takes the empty one across from him.

Other than the muffled sound of the PR Team’s freakout frenzy coming from the front seat, the first ten minutes of their ride back to the agency is dead silent. Eijirou and Sero are tossing looks back and forth that have Katsuki searing a hole in his seat—because he’s right fucking here and they’re having some sort of eyeball-to-brain conversation all about him and his ‘bad behavior.’ It’s infuriating.

They’re halfway to the agency when Eijirou finally looks him straight in the eye.

“Kats... what was that?”

“Why are you asking? You were there,” Katsuki rebuttles.

“C’mon, man. You know what I mean.”

“We just haven’t seen you get so angry in a long time, dude,” Sero interjects, waving a hand before it finds home curled under his chin. “You gotta cool it out there—you know how the public gets.”

“Like I give a fuck about the articles,” Katsuki spits.

“But you do,” Eijirou counters, expression flat and serious. It creases into a smile near instantly. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be Number Two.”

For now, Katsuki thinks. Izuku’s catching up fast, the annoying asshole. If he’s not careful, he’ll come up and swipe Number Two out from under him again. Even more important than that, Eijirou and Sero are right; it’s not fucking okay for him to put his ass on the line just because some second-rate villain said one too many words.

He’s got to watch himself.

—

Katsuki’s sour mood follows him for the next week.

“You seem pleasant,” Shouto comments as he steps into the apartment, pointing a big, proverbial finger at Katsuki’s attitude. Which is real fucking funny, since he’s the one with the power to kick Shouto’s candycane ass out whenever he so damn pleases.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get this over with.”

“You do realize you hired me, don’t you?”

“Well then you better start doing your job,” Katsuki snaps, eyes slanting into a glare.

Fuck. He’s on edge and showing his ass; and maybe he shouldn’t have bothered inviting Shouto into his apartment after all.

Shouto only confirms this when his face goes stoney and blank. Whatever warmth and amusement he’d let shine through has frozen into shards of ice and collapsed into dust behind his eyes.

His lip juts out slightly after a moment, though. And Katsuki takes it as a sign that he might not have put Shouto off as much as he thought.

Shouto steps further into Katsuki’s apartment, leaving an annoying trail in his wake on purpose just to spite him. Takes his shoes off and leaves them on the wrong side. Puts his shopping bag of books down on Katsuki’s easy chair instead of the counter. He’s so goddamn petty, and Katsuki wonders if he’s actually like this around other people or if he’s doing it because they know each other.

He has to assume the latter; it wouldn’t do for Shouto’s perfect five-star review record to be tainted by him pulling off his jacket and tossing it over the coffee table in anyone else’s house.

Fucker.

“Where do you want me?” Shouto asks, standing center in the living room, perfectly polite now that he knows he’s taken his revenge.

“On the couch,” Katsuki sighs, mentioning nothing of it. He’s fucking tired. “Like last time.”

“Do you want to do something?” Lying back on the couch, Shouto waits until Katsuki follows him into position to continue, and Katsuki thinks idly that the act of spooning is way less awkward once your back is pressed to someone’s chest. “Watch TV or play on your phone—I don’t care if you want to keep occupied. I know you tend to get antsy. You didn’t do the best job hiding it last time.”

“Tch, you don’t know nothin’.”

“Suit yourself,” Shouto mumbles into his shoulder. “But if you change your mind, I just bought some manga.”

Katsuki refrains from doing any of those things. Of course Shouto would buy manga, though, he thinks. Or anything, really, around here. Katsuki lives by one of the largest shopping districts in Musutafu, and Shouto has money and a bunch of niche interests. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if he came over with a new bag of shit every week.

There’s soft breaths puffing against Katsuki’s neck and though he lies rigid at first, the tension in his body evens out right away. He sinks into the couch like a big ol’ pile of goo between Shouto’s arms, comfortable as he keeps his eyes straight ahead. Katsuki zeroes in on the photo albums in the nook beneath his television that props up a couple of books that don’t belong to him but have somehow made home in his apartment.

It infuriates him, in that moment, that he thinks of that little, nameless girl he couldn’t save. Again, she plagues him—only this time he’s thinking about a lost future; photo albums that could’ve been filled with her memories. Books she could’ve read and friends she could’ve annoyed halfway to hell.

Katsuki’s jaw sets.

Why’s he thinking about that right now?

He forces his thoughts to meander towards more positive things. Dumb positive things. Like his next patrol with Izuku. Shooting the shit with Shinsou. Midnight television with Eijirou. Taking on his very first intern after summer and his dumb little text message conversations with his friends in the group chat.

Weekly appointments with Shouto.

That thought pops into his head again, too—the one that makes him wonder what it would be like to hold Shouto. It’d be nice, after everything that’s happened this week, to touch something without hurting it for once.

Reaching out, Katsuki wraps a hand around the forearm draped over his middle. “Hey.”

“Hm?” comes the sleepy reply.

“Can I...?” Katsuki shuts his mouth and grinds his teeth, drops his hand and decides to work through another bout of cold feet silently. Somehow, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t finish what he’s started. Shouto seems to understand what he means anyway.

“It’s okay.” Shouto’s voice is quiet. “If you want to. I’m fine with it.”

“...Alright.”

They’re slow, his movements. Katsuki turns around in Shouto’s hold, trying to avoid elbows in awkward places and falling off the couch, until he’s facing pretty, two-toned eyes and a calm expression. He ponders, for a second, if he should turn around again—because Shouto must be feeling a little awkward about this, too—but that’s quickly pushed to the far ends of his mind.

Katsuki’s got to stop assuming everything like some paranoid freak. If Shouto says he’s fine with it, then he’s fine with it.

Arms circle him again, in that way that makes all this seem so easy, and Katsuki’s engulfed in Shouto’s comforting warmth. He tests the waters, letting his cheek sink down into Shouto’s shoulder, and a tidal wave of relief washes over him.

Katsuki falls even further, moving to wrap his arms almost carefully around Shouto’s waist. The second his right arm slots between the couch and Shouto’s side, he knows his entire side’s about to fall asleep on him—but he doesn’t care.

Lying here wrapped around a warm body, breathing in as someone breathes out, makes everything go pleasantly blank. Work and patrol and the little girl he’s snuffed the light out of dissipate to near nothing.

Like this, Katsuki feels normal. He can almost forget.

“I’ll pay you extra for this,” he murmurs.

“Don’t worry about it,” Shouto says, hand curling around his shoulder. “Are you feeling better now? You feel a lot less tense.”

“Mhm,” Katsuki hums; he’s been focused on the feeling of Shouto’s breaths tousling his hair. “It’s got nothin’ to do with you, I just had a shitty-ass day.”

“And here I thought you were angry at me for just existing.”

“Shut up.” Muttering under his breath, he shifts closer, until nothing but the distorted folds of a sweater overcomes his vision. “So goddamn annoying.”

Katsuki dozes off like that, for the first time in a long while, only becoming semi-lucid when a gentle vibration buzzes against his chest. It takes him a couple of blinks to realize that it’s coming from Shouto.

“Are you humming?”

Shouto stops abruptly, and Katsuki regrets saying anything.

“Is it okay? I can stop.”

“S’fine,” he answers, put-off by how relieved he feels at being given a chance to fix his mistake.

It takes a couple of minutes, but Shouto starts up again, humming softly. Katsuki can feel the buzzing reverberation of the song against his cheek and in his ear; it’s one he doesn’t recognize, one he can’t put a name to. Not that his mom sang him lullabies, but he figured he’d at least know what it is. Katsuki blames it on Shouto not being very good at making one note sound any different from another. Despite that and the flatness of his voice, Katsuki still likes it.

He almost doesn’t want it to end. But it does.

“My mother used to hum me to sleep, I think. I just barely remember how she sounded, but I know I liked it,” Shouto tells him quietly. Katsuki can feel his fingers curl the arm of his t-shirt. “Most people prefer silence if they don’t want to do any leisure activities. Or they'd rather me just listen while they vent.” After a pause, he adds, “I’m not really good at words of comfort, but I’m a decent listener.”

Katsuki snorts. “Only decent?”

“Sometimes the complaints are worth drowning out, depending on the person,” Shouto replies sardonically.

Fair enough, Katsuki thinks. Nobody’s perfect, that’s for damn sure.

Eyes flicking over to the cable box beneath his TV setup, Katsuki looks at the clock.

“Shit. I kept you past time,” he notes with a sigh. He makes no move to get up, though, comfortable where he is. It’s fucking pathetic.

“It’s alright,” Shouto tells him, putting all trivial thoughts to rest. “I don’t mind at all.”

—

Katsuki doesn’t understand the appeal of coffee.

There’s something about sweating over some shit-brown water that rubs him the wrong way. The bitterness of it has never bothered him, but it’s the last thing he wants to top his system off with right when he wakes up. Maybe it’s the caffeine dependency he hates. Or the crash. Or the addictions that leave certain people (read: Uraraka) in the hospital for a week just for Thinking about quitting.

Frankly, Katsuki just doesn’t need that shit.

Especially since he feels semi-okay today.

He and Shouto went a little past their allotted time last night and then some, mostly because they ended up yapping away like idiots (it had started with Katsuki making fun of Deku, which turned into Shouto making fun of him, which turned into a lot of annoyance-laced bickering). Katsuki had paid him a little extra for it, as a tip—just to stave off any guilt-piling—and called it a night an hour later.

And then he went to sleep at a reasonable time. A normal time. For him.

There was no standing listlessly in his kitchen for hours counting tiles—no sitting in his easy chair until sunrise with a dozen different mistakes on his mind. Not that he was empty-headed upon waking up; it’s not that fucking easy. But he’d rested.

Inhaling sharp, Katsuki goes back to preparing his tea in the office kitchen. He scoops his favorite leaves into the press he’d brought from home ages ago and adds hot water from his kettle (also brought from home—as if he’s going to heat his water through the coffee machine), humming all the while.

Humming.

It’s all because of Shouto’s soft voice in his ear last night that he’s picked up the habit. Not that it’s a terrible thing. Katsuki finds some sort of comfort in it. The way it calmed him then is very much the same way it calms him now. It brings him back to the relaxation he’d felt in that moment.

Just a small, insignificant-seeming thing, but the effect it has on him is priceless. He can admit that much.

Katsuki needed this. Something to hold onto. A plug in the drain to stop the spiral.

At least, that’s what he’s hoping for.

Walking back to his office, tea in hand, he sits down at his desk—muttering quietly to himself on the whereabouts of his new marble coasters. He finds them shoved carelessly into his top left drawer by whoever tidied up his office last, slightly scratched (he doesn’t know which scrubby little sidekick damaged the obsidian, but they better hope he doesn’t find out). Clicking his tongue as he sets his tea down, Katsuki automatically goes for the manila folder at the top of the pile on his desk, ready to get right back into the grind of agency paperwork.

Pen scratches paper, and this feels normal, too, he realizes. Easy as usual.

For a second there, it had become a chore. Pouring over document after document, making notes and doling out signatures—this is shit he likes to do, and it felt like something he hated.

And now he’s enjoying it again, for the most part, content in the silence.

Katsuki’s quiet time doesn’t last long. Heavy footfalls sound louder with every step as they thump across his office carpet, and the crumpling whine of Katsuki’s nice, leather chairs distract him into looking up and into the eyes of whoever decided now would be a good time to disturb him.

It’s Eijirou, he realizes, and suddenly Katsuki doesn’t really care about being interrupted as much. Though he probably should’ve suspected who it was from all of the noise. Eijirou’s all rough and tumble and not nearly as mindful as Katsuki wants him to be. And he’s gone and plopped down in Katsuki’s chairs like he’s sitting on their old common room couch. He’s gonna scuff shit up for sure, the big oaf.

“Hey, Kats!” Eijirou greets as he adjusts himself in his seat; his ass scoots from one side of the cushion to the other, the fabric of his pants squeaking across it. “How are ya?”

“Watch how you sit, dumbass,” Katsuki scolds instead of answering. “That’s expensive fuckin’ shit, and your fat ass is going to ruin the leather with whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Aww, c’mon, bro. I’m just getting comfy.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Katsuki grunts, letting it slide this time. “What’re you doin’ here, Red?”

“Oh! Thought you might wanna know that we’ve managed to get all of your guys,” Eijirou answers, a proud, sharp-toothed grin splitting his face.

The lines on Katsuki's forehead crease. “What?”

“We got tipped off that Mezzo and Crescendo were in the area yesterday evening, so Hanta and I answered the call with a few guys from your agency. We were able to sweep them all off the streets,” Eijirou clarifies, cocking his head with a crooked, close-lipped smile. “It’s over.”

A pinprick of dread spreads through Katsuki’s chest like a sugar drop.

It takes him a second to swallow it back. It doesn’t feel any better when he does.

“You and Sero went and took them out,” Katsuki reiterates slow. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own despite the fact that he feels it reverberating in his throat. “All of ‘em.”

“That’s right! Now you don’t have to worry about it, man,” Eijirou tells him. “I know it’s been bothering you, but take a load off. It’s done.”

Katsuki’s mouth goes dry.

Great.

Great.

They went out without him, Eijirou and fucking Sero—knowing he’s been following Dulcet’s group since mission one—and ticked his final box.

Case closed. And he wasn’t even there to see it happen.

Case closed and Katsuki was too busy being at home, safe and warm and relaxed, cuddling on the goddamn couch.

Mind racing, Katsuki’s hands curl to fists on his desk. He can't bring himself to keep eye contact with Eijirou, whose smile drops the second he sees the look on Katsuki’s face.

“You’re not actually angry about this, are you?” Eijirou asks, spreads his arms before letting them fall to the tops of his thighs. “You can move on now, Kats. Isn’t that what you want?”

Katsuki shoots him an incredulous look. “Move on?”

It was his fucking case that they took right out from under him and now they want him to move on?

Before he can even give Eijirou his two cents on that, there’s a knock on the open door and Izuku steps in, calling out Katsuki’s name.

“Hey, Kacch—” Izuku pauses in the doorway, eyes blinking down at Eijirou. “Oh! I’ll wait ‘til you guys are done.”

Is he quick to say it because he sees it? Does he see the devastation on Katsuki’s face?

“Midoriya! You’re always welcome, dude,” Eijirou says, smile back on his face. He waves Izuku inside like it’s his goddamn office—like he has a say about who’s allowed in and out. Katsuki tries not to sulk about it. Tries to clear his mind of other things instead. “I was just telling Katsuki about that clean-up mission I came back from.”

“Out by Gappori Street, right? I heard from Hitoshi that it went pretty swiftly.” Izuku grins. “You and Sero work really well together.”

“Thanks! Hanta’s really making waves lately—I gotta do my best to keep up,” Eijirou says, knocking his two fists together before shifting his gaze between Izuku and Katsuki. “Hey, am I in the way of something? I can always come back later.”

“No, you’re good. I’m just here to tell Kacchan that I’ll be waiting in the Training Hall, is all!”

“Training Hall, huh?” Kirishima half asks, tilting his head.

Izuku smiles brightly, flexing an arm and smacking one of his biceps. “We spar once a week to keep sharp.”

“I dig it. Sparring is manly as hell!”

Watching them is like watching two excitable dogs trotting around each other at the park. Katsuki feels that sharpness in him dull at the sight, but he’s still angry about Eijirou picking up his slack. He hates that everyone’s deciding what to do about his problems for him.

“Why not join us? I’m pretty sure Kacchan and I know each other’s moves like the back of our hands by now,” Izuku says, eyes glinting in anticipation. “We could throw you in as a wrench.”

Like now. He doesn’t even get to have a say in whether or not he wants to spar with extra company.

“Sure, why not!” Eijirou agrees. He pauses almost immediately after the words come out of his mouth, turning his head to look at Katsuki with a wavering smile. “That cool with you, Kats?”

“Kacchan?”

Katsuki lifts his head to see Izuku looking curiously his way. If he suspects something, which he probably does, Katsuki doesn’t want him to think it serious enough to ask about it—not right now. He cuts his gaze to Eijirou’s face and lets his soft smile, one that would usually melt away his discomfort, fuel his determination to kick both of their asses in a three-way.

Maybe beating the shit out of each other will make him feel better.

Right now, he needs to hit something. Might as well be the Unbreakable.

“Yeah,” Katsuki agrees, lips quirking up on one side. “Let’s fight.”

The Training Hall encompasses the entire agency underground.

It’s a twelve-pillared long hall replicating most of Downtown Musutafu that leads into several, wide-scale areas furnished with equipment. Each one caters to a specific specialty, something Katsuki had spent an entire year planning and perfecting after the agency opening; it’ll forever be a work-in-progress because of the ever-changing number of evolving factors that revolve around Quirks, but he’s proud of what it’s become.

The three of them decide to stick to the main hall, picking various starting points along the replicated street. Katsuki sticks to the open road while Izuku perches on the roof of the convenient store and Eijirou buckles down under the arches of the bridge. There’s no signal or consistent eye-contact between them to determine the start of battle, so it’s really anyone’s move.

Katsuki decides to keep his eyes locked under the bridge. It’s been a while since he’d last fought Eijirou, and it would be wise not to underestimate him, especially since he’s been patrolling with Sero. They’ve probably taught each other all sorts of annoying tricks.

It’s Izuku who makes the first move, however.

Using Blackwhip, he swings from building to building in the direction of the bridge. Katsuki had half-expected Izuku to come after him first, but he’s probably trying to get Eijirou into the fight right away to minimize the chances of any surprises. Despite the simplicity of Eijirou’s Quirk, its durability still poses plenty of problems.

For one, Katsuki knows Eijirou’s stealth is constantly improving. His Hardening is a bitch if they can’t land any hard blows and the amount of time Eijirou can use Unbreakable—as far as Katsuki knows—is anywhere between three and four minutes now.

It’s been a while since Eijirou first achieved that limit. It could last even longer than that, Katsuki doesn’t know, so it’s better for him and Izuku to hit him hard and fast now so that they’re still topped off by the time he resorts to it. Three minutes is already more than long enough to turn the tide of battle.

Annoying that Izuku’s planned this without him—not that they’re on any teams.

Katsuki is quick to follow. He propels himself through the air and over the streets, determined to get to Izuku before he gets to Eijirou. Toning down his shots, he bounces from balcony to balcony in an attempt to stay off the ground. It works out well enough.

Katsuki sweeps behind Izuku once he’s closed the distance, the momentum from his last jump keeping him airborne.

“You forgettin’ someone?!” he shouts, swinging his leg downward over Izuku’s back.

Izuku turns his head, revealing a knowing smile before he spins his body in a snap, fist wrapping around Katsuki’s ankle.

He almost looks amused when he says, “Who could forget about you, Kacchan?”

Katsuki’s tossed through the air and into a spin. He catches himself just before he hits the ground with a pop of an explosion, and careens back onto Izuku’s path.

Shitty bastard. What was that look for?

Izuku’s already reached Eijirou by the time Katsuki’s got him back in his sights, and for a second, Katsuki’s breath is caught by the seamless block and parry of Eijirou’s fists. They’re fighting with simple hand-to-hand, Izuku using his Quirks as accessories as Eijirou gives as good as he gets. In the distance, Katsuki can hear them laughing.

He doesn’t let it drag on, closing in on them from the highest point he can soar to with the throw of an explosive punch.

It lands between them with a thunderous crash and, from then on, it’s nothing but a rush.

Katsuki finds himself focusing on Eijirou, eyes drawn to where his attacks meet a concrete body. Unthinkingly, he’s able to keep Izuku off his back, rerouting long enough to throw him off before refocusing on the way his punches and kicks aim to land.

The sight of his splitting knuckles register, crunching against hardened skin, but Katsuki thinks nothing of it. That’s just what it boils down to.

His experience with battle has always been equal parts innovation and instinct. When he was a teenager studying at Yuuei, his skills had been revered as unmatched—quick-thinking, smart-moving—but Katsuki always knew better. It’s not until your innovation and instinct move as one, not until thinking evolves into knowing, so ingrained in your bones that it becomes completely unnecessary, that you’re really fighting.

Throwing fists with Izuku and Eijirou like this, he realizes that he hasn’t let himself feel this way in a while.

Since Dulcet. Since that day.

Maybe it’s because he has a target. One that can satisfyingly fight back, unlike Forte and the other small fry.

That target opens up the second Eijirou lands an uppercut right under Izuku’s jaw.

Izuku activates Float, the back of his hand swiping over his mouth as he grins. Blackwhip shoots out from his left to wrap around the bridges superstructure, and pulls him somewhere over it and out of sight. Katsuki’s eyes flit quickly, roving over the slab and girders before refocusing on Eijirou, who’s staring skyward with a beaming smile on his face.

“Oh, man—that was a lucky shot for sure!” he laughs, shouting up at the bridge. “How is anyone supposed to beat you, Midoriya?!”

Eijirou’s only half right. It was a lucky shot. Between his and Izuku’s onslaught of attacks, Katsuki can already see the cracks in Eijirou’s Hardening. He hasn’t used Unbreakable yet, so that’s still on the table. Katsuki can force him into it, and then he can go all out.

If Eijirou should be worried about beating anyone, it’s him.

Izuku calls out from over the bridge, something stupid and flattering that completes his and Eijirou’s dumb little circle of compliments. Katsuki’s hands curl to fists.

“This ain’t over yet, Red!” he barks, making sure he’s caught Eijirou’s attention before winding his arm back and barreling forward.

Katsuki lets the heat of battle drive him. Izuku tends to hang back when he gets thrown for a loop, so Katsuki doesn’t expect him to interfere while formulating a plan. It leaves him free to take all of his frustrations out on the source.

Eijirou dodges his punch, sidestepping to Katsuki’s right and grabbing his arm in an attempt to swing him up and out of the way. Katsuki holds tight to Eijirou instead, bracing his feet on Eijirou’s back the second he’s swung around and letting off an explosion.

They separate in a cloud of dust, still in wait of the smoke clearing. Katsuki burns in the slow reveal of Eijirou’s excitement, that pointy smile the first to show through the gray. The burn grows into a roaring fire when Eijirou’s duked up fists shake through what remains of the smog—hardened and ridged in the streamline grain of shale and basalt, but tough as concrete.

Unbreakable.

“Jeez, Kats, you never slow down, do you?” Eijirou remarks.

“I don’t plan on sittin’ back and losin’ to you idiots today, that’s for goddamn sure,” Katsuki says.

They clash in a haze of white-hot flares and crumbling rock. Katsuki doesn’t pull any punches, explosions singeing his hands as he lets them off wherever they land—Eijirou’s hard gut, his parrying forearm, his ridged back. Maybe Katsuki gets a little too rough, doesn’t think well enough about his surroundings, but Eijirou seems to have learned plenty of new moves, all of which he isn’t afraid to throw back in Katsuki’s face.

Unbreakable isn’t as much of a hindrance as it used to be. Eijirou moves easier—faster now. It’s what makes fighting him so exciting; what allows Katsuki to feel so fucking fearless.

A gust of air blows threw them suddenly like a forceful whirlwind, the body of it breaking them apart in one shot. Along with it comes blinding plumes of purple smoke that gather around them in an encompassing cloud that trails up into the sky.

“Fuck,” Katsuki mutters, caught off-guard.

It takes barely a moment for him to read the situation, but it’s a moment too long. There’s a solid blast underneath him from where Eijirou’s aimed a punch into the asphalt, the sheer force of it sending Katsuki into the air.

That’s when he sees Izuku, standing tall and proud on the deck of the bridge. There and then gone in the fraction of a second.

“Fuck.”

Katsuki should’ve known this would backfire on him the minute he stopped thinking about Izuku. He’s left himself wide open, and now he’s slow to dodge the lightning strike of black-lined green zooming in on him from the top of the bridge.

Izuku’s leg meets his side, and Katsuki barely registers the surprised look on his face before he’s flying across the training hall.

His back hits the twenty-meter high arch suspended over the center street, and he tumbles to the ground below, winded.

For a handful of seconds, Katsuki lies there blinking, rolling over onto his knees once a throbbing ache begins to settle over his back. There are shouts in the distance for him to stay where he is, but he ignores them, deadset on getting back up and doling out some well-deserved payback.

It’s the subtle crack of soft asphalt that freezes his body in place. Katsuki turns his head to see the arches of their replicated cityscape split right down the middle where his body met the apex. They crumble around him all at once, rocks hitting the ground with a thundrous echo. Katsuki’s eyes widen at the sight of them gathering into a piled heap.

“Holy shit! You okay, bro?” Eijirou rushes to where he’s landed, kneeling down and brushing the dust from Katsuki’s shirt, one of his hands wrapping around his shoulder. “Say you’re still with us, man.”

“Get off me, asshole!” Katsuki shoves him, pushing himself up from the ground with gritted teeth. His heart’s pounding in his ears, and his body feels like it’s tremoring, and everything feels so goddamn bright. He glares over to where Eijirou stands, mouth twisting at the hurt look on his face.

“Katsuki?”

Katsuki raises his hands to put space between them.

“Leave me alone.”

Eijirou just snatches them up and pulls him forward.

“Come on, Kats. It’s me—”

“I said leave me alone!”

An explosion goes off between them, and Katsuki immediately regrets setting off his Quirk when Eijirou pulls away his hardened hands. They fizzle and crack, wisps of smoke rising from his soot-covered fingers. That’s not the worst of it, though. Eijirou’s face is contorted as he stares down at his black fingertips, morphing from that kicked puppy dog look Katsuki’s used to into anger.

“What the hell was that for?!” he growls, curling his hands into fists. “Try that again and see what happens.”

“The fuck are you gonna do about it—cry? Whine about how mean I am? Because we both know you don’t have what it takes to back up a shitty threat like that!”

Eijirou freezes in place; takes a deep breath and then deflates all in the same five seconds. He shakes his head, turning his gaze Katsuki’s way. “I’m not gonna fight with you, man.”

“Called your goddamn bluff.”

Katsuki’s saying all the wrong things, he knows he is. They’re provocative and make no sense, and it’s frustrating that stupid shit like this is even coming out of his mouth, but he just can’t stop. All he can think about is Eijirou getting in the middle of things—he swept the goddamn streets without him.

“Katsuki—”

“I hate your fucking guts.”

Three things happen all at once: a sharp inhale sounds between them, Eijirou’s face crumbles, and Katsuki’s insides twist with regret. But somehow, it’s not enough to overwhelm his anger; it all gets backburned when he thinks about Eijirou picking up his slack. Picking up his villains. His thugs.

His pieces.

“Katsuki, I’m sorry,” he even has the gall to say; reaching out his hand like that. “I can tell you’re mad about—”

“Don’t touch me,” Katsuki snaps.

Eijirou doesn’t stop, though. He just steps forward and keeps reaching, like he knows Katsuki doesn’t mean it. Like he trusts him and he’s so sure everything will be just fine.

“C’mon, it’s me—”

When Katsuki reaches back, it’s to grab him by the collar of his shirt and spit in his face, “Listen, asshole, I said—”

“Hey!” Izuku’s voice booms as he stalks over, face hard, and plants himself between them. “You’re out of line, Kacchan.”

“Yeah, Kats. Are you hearing yourself right now? I’m not your enemy here,” Eijirou pleads, reaching out for him again only to withdraw the second Katsuki turns away. “You know we’re in this together, right? All I wanna do is help you out.”

There it is again. I want to help you. All I wanna do is help you out. Help you because you can’t help yourself. Because you’re so fucking pathetic.

“I’m outta here.”

Because if nobody helps you, you’re just going to realize that it’s easier to leave, and we don’t want that.

Yeah, well.

Katsuki does.

He continues his work day pissed as hell. Pissed as hell and guilty as fuck.

Katsuki feels terrible about the things he said to Eijirou, and he feels like an ass for ruining something that was supposed to be a good fucking time, but there’s no apologizing for that now.

Why can’t people just leave him alone when he wants to be left alone? It should be goddamn simple.

That doesn’t mean he was right. For any of it.

Eijirou’s his best friend. Attached to his hip for fucking years. Picks him up when he’s down. Would sacrifice an arm and leg for him without hesitation. He doesn’t deserve Katsuki’s shit.

Shoving his knuckles into his temple, Katsuki spends the next hour and a half angrily answering his emails. And a half hour after that, when he gives his mailbox one last look-over following twenty-odd minutes of angry paper-filing, his mouse ends up hovering over Shinsou’s name.

It’s barely five minutes old, the email Eye Bag’s opens with ‘I hope this message finds you well.’

It’s probably supposed to make Katsuki laugh, and it would on any other day, but right now it does nothing but annoy him, especially when he reads past the greeting and skims the contents of Shinsou’s email.

He and Izuku are calling for an impromptu meeting, and Katsuki has a feeling he knows exactly what for.

There’s no point in dwelling on it. Katsuki knows they’re a couple of doors down waiting already. He stands from his chair, smacks his laptop lid down, and shoves out of the room with the slam of his door.

Stalking down the hall, Katsuki doesn’t bother making small talk with any of the sidekicks that pass him by. Moonlit—a new girl Shinsou is mentoring—waves him down with a manila folder in hand, but Katsuki gives her his sharpest glare and an ugly sneer to ward her away before reaching the other end of the hall where Izuku’s office lies.

Katsuki doesn’t bother knocking before he swings open the door; though he usually would, because it’s them and Katsuki’s caught them in compromising positions more times than he can fucking count. He steps into the room and comes face to face with Shinsou and Izuku’s solemn expressions, the bodies wearing them sitting and standing, respectfully, feet apart.

Just waiting.

It’s silent in Izuku’s office—pindrop fucking silent—which spells nothing but bad news for Katsuki. Shinsou’s eyes are trained on him, calm and unwavering, while Izuku stands at one end of his desk, looking anywhere but at him. Time ticks by and no one says a word.

What did they even call him here for? To stare at him? Or not, in Izuku’s case.

“Spit it out already,” Katsuki says hotly, teeth gnashing together.

Shinsou says what Izuku doesn’t. “We’ve decided to suspend you. For a month.”

“What?!” Katsuki’s skin crawls when Shinsou says nothing. He hates the way he looks at him. Like there’s nothing Katsuki can do or say that’ll affect him. “This is my fucking agency—you think I’m just gonna sit on my ass for the next month because you dips say so?”

“It’s our agency, technically, and your behavior lately has gotten... well, out of hand.”

“So you’re gonna take me out just like that? Forte wasn’t even a spectacle!”

“Tell that to the media.”

Katsuki simmers beneath the skin, and his breathing picks up with every second that ticks by.

What the hell is this? How...?

How did he let it get this far? An obvious slip in the self control he’s spent so long perfecting.

Izuku looks over at him pityingly—always fucking pityingly. Katsuki can’t stand his stupid sympathies. “I’m sorry, Kacchan, but you need to rein it in. You’ve been spiraling. And today, during training...”

Katsuki winces, a sharp pain twinging in his chest. It’s the sting of betrayal—or at least, it feels like it. Somehow, Katsuki knows Izuku isn’t saying it to deceive him because it’s the truth. It’s because of Dulcet, her gang—that little girl, buried six feet beneath the earth where the sun will never shine on her face again—his out of control emotions on top of the whole mixed bag.

It’s because Katsuki can’t get it the fuck together. Because he’s causing problems.

It’s his first year at Yuuei all over again, but worse, because it just proves that he hasn’t learned a thing since then.

“I’ve been spiraling,” he echoes, tongue between his teeth as he scoffs.

What the fuck can he even say to that—that they’re wrong? That he’s fine, actually? Fat chance any of that will work because.

Because he’s not. He’s not fucking fine.

But fuck Izuku and Shinsou for thinking suspending him is gonna help at all.

It happens before he can stop it, the way he turns and shoves open the door on the way out, putting a hole in the drywall with the sheer force in which he slams it. Izuku’s voice doesn’t touch him, and Shinsou’s bland ‘let him go’ makes him sick to his fucking stomach.

They want to suspend him? Fine.

Fine.

But not before he wrecks hundreds of thousands of yen worth of training equipment first.

—

Katsuki steps back, looking over his reorganized cabinets with an embittered frown.

He feels like a fucking wreck. This is the second time he’s cleaned the kitchen—after tidying up his closet and rearranging the living room for the sake of kanso. It’s been a hassle, mostly because he’s still hurt from sparring with Izuku and Eijirou days before, but Katsuki doesn’t stop. He’s restless as hell (and when he’s stressed, he cleans).

It's only been a week since his suspension began and he’s managed to get Izuku to keep him in the loop with sidekick reports (which he probably only did out of guilt for kicking Katsuki out), but it’s still driving him crazy. Not being able to really do anything.

Except maybe tackle the living room windows. They could use a scrub.

A knock at the door almost pushes the brakes on that train of thought, but he’s really had it up to here with everything going on, so he elects to ignore it. Whoever’s on the other side is real insistent that Katsuki answer, though. No matter how much he tries to block it out, they just keep on knocking.

With an exasperated sigh, Katsuki stalks over to his sink to wash his sweaty hands and wipe down his tacky face because, even if it’s a shitty salesman, he might as well be presentable.

“I’m fucking coming!” he shouts, slamming his foot down on the pedal of the trashcan and tossing his paper towel away with a growl. Lips twisted into a scowl, he marches over to the door, swinging it open with enough force to make the hinges squeak.

All of Katsuki’s anger fizzles out the second he sees Shouto in the hallway.

“Hey,” he says, all soft-looking, wrapped in a comfy sweater.

“The hell’re you doing here?” Katsuki asks; it feels like something’s caught in his throat. He swallows it down.

“I’m here for...” Shouto’s brows draw together as he observes Katsuki’s face, those eyes of his flickering to the phone he pulls from his pocket. Scrolling through his mail, he frowns. “Oh, you rescheduled your appointment. I didn’t see the notification for it.”

It had been a last minute decision, to reschedule, so it makes sense. And Katsuki only did it because he was so angry with himself that he just didn’t want to see anyone. Not even Shouto.

Not even Shouto. Like Shouto’s an exception to the rule or something. And Katsuki guesses he kind of is, now that he’s let him in. Now that they have secrets. Or maybe now that just seeing him kind of makes Katsuki feel better.

It’s the touch. The connection he feels. Though he’ll never say this kind of bullshit out loud, he sees why people hire services like these. They’re actually fucking helpful.

“S’fine,” he says more calmly, stepping back as he opens the door. Shouto doesn’t make a move, at first, and Katsuki shoots him an expectant look. “You comin’ in or what?”

It’s enough to get him to put one foot in front of the other, side-stepping Katsuki as he walks inside. Shouto pauses abruptly the second Katsuki closes the door and turns to him, lashes fluttering as mismatched eyes blink down at his chest. He follows Shouto’s gaze to the greenish-purple bruise peeking through the sides of his drop-sleeve tank top, sucking his lips flat against his teeth.

“What happened?” Shouto asks softly.

“Deku kicked the fucking shit out of me,” Katsuki answers. “Stupid, leggy bastard.”

Shouto keeps his sights set on Katsuki’s bruises, calm and quiet. “Now that you mention it, he did mention a sparring mishap.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Katsuki gruffs, lifting a hand to rest on his hip only to flinch when a shot of pain runs up the length of his arm. Inhaling deep, he grunts. “He got a leg up when I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Why weren’t you?”

Katsuki cocks his head and gives him a suffering look.

“I’ve seen you guys spar. You’re usually the one who pays attention the most,” Shouto clarifies.

“Fucked up, I guess,” Katsuki sighs, nose scrunching as he grits his teeth. “Been fucking up a lot lately.”

Two-toned eyes rove over him inquisitively. “Can I get a better look at it?”

“At what?”

“Your bruise.”

“It’s nothin’, okay?” Katsuki gripes.

But Shouto’s one foot inside his personal bubble before the words are even uttered—getting his look anyway. And Katsuki lets him, despite wanting to huff and puff about it. That crumpled expression of his, it’s just showing so much concern, with the corners of his lips dragging downward where they’d usually remain stoically in place. An unwavering line.

Katsuki swallows thick at the scrutiny, but it’s nice in a way.

“Sit down for a second,” Shouto orders, the hand on Katsuki’s waist gently nudging him in the direction of the couch.

Katsuki doesn’t know why he listens, but he does. He sits smack-dab in the center cushion of his couch and watches warily as Shouto steps over and silently asks to tug off his tank (not that it was much of a shirt anyway) before kneeling between his legs without a single ounce of perturbation.

Despite how awkward the situation should be, Katsuki’s perfectly placated by Shouto’s expression. He’s so goddamn serious, it’s hilarious, right down to the rigid frown on his lips.

Seriously pretty, too, though, Katsuki thinks. It’s fucking disarming.

Without too much speculation, Shouto places a gentle hand in the center of the bruise spanning across his side and Katsuki hisses. It aches, the skin burning hot in comparison to Shouto’s cool right palm. Katsuki almost tells him to back off as his skin prickles, but it isn’t long until he realizes that the ache is slowly dissipating. The coolness of Shouto’s palm soothes the throbbing warmth of his injury. Shouto moves his hand carefully along the outer edges where it’s red and inflamed, from bottom to top, climbing onto the couch beside Katsuki as he does so—knee digging into his hip as he sits close as possible.

“Ice to reduce the blood flow, heat to promote healing,” he murmurs quietly, working over the throbbing areas of Katsuki’s side until the coolness numbs the pain. It doesn’t feel like much of anything anymore. It’s a relief. “It goes so far up...”

Yeah, because a kick from Izuku is akin to a fucking death sentence. Fucker rattled Katsuki’s goddamn cage—it’s a wonder his ribs are still intact.

Dropping his chin to his chest, Katsuki lets it all slip from his mind. Chooses to quietly enjoy Shouto’s careful, tender touches as much as he can. Sometimes they put an ache in him—sometimes those fingertips trigger a throbbing bloom wherever they land—but then, Shouto soothes them away. Those triggering touches, and more.

And it’s fine, really. It’s all nice, Katsuki thinks, until Shouto suddenly takes his wrist in his left hand and cools along the swollen junction where his arm meets his shoulder. Their palms slip together loosely, but Shouto doesn’t bother letting go. Instead, he readjusts his grip, the pad of his thumb kissing Katsuki’s pulse in the well of his wrist.

It’s gentle, delicate—maybe too much of those things—and the touch brings pinpricks to Katsuki’s eyes for reasons he can’t explain.

Before he knows it, they become overwhelming, too.

Shouto’s cooling dissipates to nothing all of a sudden. There’s a shift, hands off and then on again, and when Katsuki looks over, his arm is being held by Shouto in a much different way. Against his chest, almost protectively.

Katsuki realizes that it’s because of him. Because his cheeks are wet and his lips are trembling. Because his breaths are hitching and his lashes are clumping and his skin is warming without the help of anyone’s Quirk.

Shouto hugs his arm close, one of his hands wrapping tentatively around his.

“Bakugou?”

“I dunno,” Katsuki says, voice cracking as he reaches up to cover his eyes. “I just can’t make it stop.”

“You don’t have to make it stop,” Shouto tells him, so plainly and simply that Katsuki could laugh if it were any other moment in time. “It’s okay.”

The tears flow freely now. Katsuki sits there, weeping hard into one hand as Shouto holds the other. His grip is tight and grounding now, and sometime between Katsuki’s eyes welling and the soft hiccups pushing past the knot in his throat, Shouto threads their fingers together.

It goes on for what feels like forever—this endless waterfall of regret that pours from Katsuki in a steady stream—but he can feel Shouto’s heartbeat against the back of his hand. And the cool dryness of his right palm against his. The touch is so soft and simple and good that Katsuki only cries harder. Until Shouto’s taking his shoulders and gently maneuvering them until their bodies are flush and his head is tucked against a warm chest.

Fingers slide up from where they’re settled atop the muscles of Katsuki’s shoulder blades and curl gently around the back of his neck. There’s a soft hum reverberating throughout his entire body, off-key and lulling as Shouto cools the hot spot at the crest of his spine.

He just... continues where they left off, using his Quirk to soothe Katsuki’s body—maybe in the hopes that it could soothe everything else, too.

Katsuki’s crying calms to a trickle, his eyes blinking away stray tears as he lies on top of Shouto. Sometimes sniffing, sometimes rubbing his wet cheeks into Shouto’s soft shirt. He feels stupid, but better. It annoys the hell out of him.

How long is he going to keep thinking that receiving help is stupid?

Why is it that after all this time, he still has to work on asking?

Shouto shifts beneath him, probably trying to get more comfortable since things have calmed down, and says softly, “Are you hurting anywhere else?”

Katsuki wants to tell him that he’s hurting, yeah. Hurting in places Shouto wouldn’t be able to reach with his hands. Places that no one can reach, really, not even Katsuki. But he keeps his mouth shut. This isn’t the time for that kind of bullshit.

“I’m okay,” he eventually grumbles, like a petulant child.

“You don’t have to be,” Shouto returns.

But. He wants to be. Katsuki can’t stand this idling. This plateau in his climb to greatness.

“And when you’re ready,” he continues, “I’m here to listen. If there’s anything you want to talk about.”

Shouto’s perceptive. Katsuki’s always known that. However oblivious he seems in some respects, he always ends up knowing just a little more than he lets on. It’s just, Katsuki’s not sure if he’ll ever be ready. Talking about his feelings is difficult, not because he’s ashamed of them, but because it’s a blatant admittance of his failures.

He’s always been the type to push things aside until he’s ready to face them on his own, but...

“Feels good,” Katsuki says lightly, focusing on the weightlessness he feels as Shouto alternates his touch between cold and hot. “What made you think to do stuff like this anyway?”

“My eldest brother is a hero,” Shouto explains, and Katsuki thinks: That’s right. Ashen. Number Four in the ranks. “There were a lot of injuries to take care of when he was living with us—the aftermath of all his patch-ups. I liked helping him recover, so when I graduated, physical therapy seemed like a good route to take.”

“Physical therapy,” Katsuki repeats slowly, like he’s just realized something.

“I would rather see people get better than get hurt.”

Katsuki takes that in, but his mind is too muddled to mull over the words, so he puts them away for later. The only thing he can really admit to himself is how much he thinks Shouto’s job fits.

Maybe he’s being biased because he’s getting this kind of treatment, but Shouto being someone who helps others heal just makes sense.

“There was a casualty on my last mission,” Katsuki says as the room goes quiet—or maybe it simply becomes quiet because he says it, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know if it’s the right time. He just felt like saying it. It’s a relief, though, somehow. An instantaneous exhale of all his pent-up frustration, along with Shouto’s even heartbeats in his ear, that makes it all easier to admit. “I messed up.”

“Casualties are just another part of hero work, aren’t they?” Shouto’s palms rest on either side of Katsuki’s neck, and the simplicity of the touch makes him feel something. Like he’s fragile and broken, and Shouto’s delicate fingers are all that’s holding him together—but it’s not entirely a bad thing. “It’s sad, but it isn’t always avoidable.”

Katsuki can’t see him but he thinks that, however logical the words coming out of his mouth are, Shouto still sounds sad. Like he doesn’t want them to be true. Like Katsuki should’ve—could’ve—done more, but didn’t.

Or maybe that’s just his own imagination, painting him out to be the lowlife villain everyone always expected he’d become.

“You don’t get it,” his voice wavers, “she was just a little girl.”

Shouto’s quiet for a long moment, but the gentle strokes along the back of his neck never cease. Even when Katsuki pushes himself up, arms bracketing Shouto’s sides just so he could crane his head to look at him—to see if there’s pity in his eyes—they just keep going. A reassuring pressure.

And no pity at all.

Just quiet contemplation. A particular kind of melancholy.

“What happened?” Shouto asks.

“Took a second too long and she was crushed beneath a building,” Katsuki answers. “I dug my way through it, but it was too late.”

It wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough.

Shouto looks like he wants to say something. Something Katsuki could only guess is along the lines of ‘it wasn’t your fault’ or ‘you did everything you could.’ Lies that Katsuki would protest until the day he dies because some things are his fault. Some things you have to take accountability for, even if you did your best.

So it’s a relief, really, when Shouto doesn’t say anything of the sort at all.

“I’m sorry, Bakugou,” he murmurs softly, feather-light and soothingly deep.

“Yeah,” Katsuki says, reaching up to cover one of Shouto’s hands with his. “Me, too.”

—

[01MAR24] 2:20 PM

From: Red

katsuki i’m sorry

Katsuki looks down at his phone, the same twisting feeling that’s been knotting his gut every time he gets a new text message from Eijirou returning full force.

The words stare him in the face, familiar and sincere, but something doesn’t feel right. For the last week, similar messages like these have been popping up, and Katsuki’s first thought upon receipt is how weird it is that Eijirou’s texting his apology when he calls and whines about how sorry he is for watching an episode of their favorite TV show without him. When he can’t go a day after an argument without dialing Katsuki’s number in the middle of the night to make sure they’re okay.

But this time, he’s not even trying to reach out in a way he knows will guarantee Katsuki won’t ignore him. It’s like he thinks it’s all his fault—like he deserves it.

katsuki i’m sorry

It’s just, how could he be? How could Eijirou even say that when Katsuki’s the piece of shit who acted like a complete ass in front of him and Izuku?

Why is Katsuki’s inbox filling with questions and tentative words—with apologies?

It’s so fucking clear that Eijirou thinks this is all on him; probably more than ever before, he’s being so goddamn persistent. Out of everyone Katsuki knows, Eijirou’s the least likely to badger him for forgiveness—not that that’s what he’s doing now. More than anything, Katsuki thinks that Eijirou just wants to know that he’s heard.

He is. He always is, but...

Eijirou texts him every day. Every single day. And Katsuki’s too much of a coward to say anything important back. Anything that matters.

“I hate your fucking guts.”

What the fuck is wrong with him? What the actual fuck.

The words stare him in the fucking face, and Katsuki snatches his phone up, fingers hovering over the screen. What’ll it take to give Eijirou peace of mind? What’ll it take to make him understand.

His resolve wavers, and he turns his phone off, dropping it back on his desk.

Opening his laptop, Katsuki clicks over to his email tab and books another appointment with Shouto instead.

—

“What made you want to do this? The whole professional cuddler thing.”

It’s two weeks later, three weeks into his suspension, and Katsuki’s reclined back against Shouto’s chest. Shouto’s doing this thing where he loops his arms under Katsuki’s and cradles his phone atop his stomach, social media reels of cats fucking around and being general inconveniences to their owners playing as they watch mindlessly. It’s Shouto’s way of trying to get him to relax and do something that doesn’t use too much brain power, but all it really does is solidify Katsuki’s decision to never get a goddamn cat.

They’re used to each other now; spending one evening a week cuddling for Katsuki’s sake. Shouto comes over, wraps his arms around Katsuki in whatever way he’s asked to—they watch a movie or read or watch reels, just like this—and at the end of the hour or two Katsuki’s requested, he pays Shouto and they part, and it’s the most painless thing he’s ever done in his life.

He likes it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

Katsuki feels comfortable. Feels comforted. He's not hurting anything, Shouto’s not hurting anything, they both benefit in some way or another—it’s good.

Sometimes Shouto even does this thing where he cups his left hand over one of Katsuki’s shoulders and applies heat. It eases all the tension out of him in a second. And that’s good, too.

“I came across it on my own,” Shouto admits once the video ends. He mutes the noise when it begins replaying, and lets the phone fall against Katsuki’s chest.

“You came across it and...? What’s the story?”

“Story?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki continues, watching the way Shouto’s fingertips start drawing circles across the back of his phone. “There’s a reason you started doin’ it, right? Sure, you came across it—but anybody can come across anything. That doesn’t mean they’ll just get right into it.”

The circle-drawing stops. Katsuki watches pale fingers curl around the edges of the phone instead, their owner taking a moment to formulate his thoughts.

“I’m... not close with my family,” Shouto tells him calmly. “You know my father, and I can’t really remember many moments I had with my mother before she was admitted to the hospital. My siblings and I were never close, with the exception of Touya.” There’s a dense pause, and Katsuki feels Shouto’s exhale against his back. “But he was kept separate from me most of the time. I never got to know what this felt like.”

Arms squeeze around him, and the realization lightbulbs in Katsuki’s head.

“You’ve never been held before?” It’s something that’s hard to believe because, even when Katsuki acted like the shittiest little fucker known to man, his mom’s affectionate ways always won out. Even if she did try squeezing the life out of him once or twice. “Never got picked up and suffocated into someone’s chest when you cried or anything?”

“No.”

“That’s just...” wrong.

“I never really got hugged until becoming friends with Izuku. It made me realize how nice it is to be held like that, to hold someone else, and how much I needed it,” Shouto says. A quick, muted hum follows, and then a sigh. “I’m selfish. It’s nice to help people, but I mostly do this to fulfill my own needs.”

“That’s why anyone does anything,” Katsuki refutes. “It doesn’t matter if it’s selfish. You help yourself by helping others—so what? It doesn’t sound like you’ve ever done anything purely for you, and that’s worse.”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothin’. The only way you’ll ever be able to help anyone is by making sure you’re okay first.”

It lands like a gut punch the moment he says it, and Katsuki only knows this because he’s the one who got hit. It’s advice he’s barely begun to accept for himself, so it feels like he’s completely unqualified to be saying something like this to Shouto, but fuck all if he isn’t going to follow through.

“And it’s okay?” Shouto asks.

“Whatever you wanna do—it doesn’t matter, Shouto.”

Shouto’s head drops to his shoulder, cell phone falling into the couch cushion dips as his arms wind tightly around Katsuki’s middle.

“I just want to hold you like this.”

Katsuki somehow doesn’t feel surprised by the admission, but he chalks it up to thinking that he’d want the exact same thing if their roles were reversed. Things like shared moments with his parents—a hand on his shoulder or a hug when he’s upset, or even just because—it feels like he’s taken them for granted.

And Shouto’s been here all along, with his needy little heart on his sleeve, giving Katsuki something he could have if he only had the guts to ask.

I just want to hold you like this.

Katsuki doesn’t think twice about wiggling around in the circle of Shouto’s arms and spending the rest of his time slot returning the favor.

Chapter Text

—

It’s become a thing.

Ever since he’d been put on suspension, Katsuki’s kept mostly to himself. He hears from his friends, like usual, and answers back, like usual. Has stalked the group chat once or twice for any sign of Eijirou—finds plenty of them because he’s always engaged where their friends are involved—and does nothing to actually patch up whatever’s broken between them.

(Katsuki’s a coward, they both know it.)

Now that he’s got all this time, he doesn’t call Shouto over once a week anymore. It’s somehow more often than that. Katsuki makes note of Shouto’s schedule and as long as he’s okay with it, they agree to the appointments. Two days and maybe a slot on the weekend, as long as he’s available.

They cuddle and talk on those nights, and it’s the most mind-numbing distraction Katsuki’s experienced in a long while. He fast-forwards through each day until he can meet with Shouto again. And, somewhere between their first appointment and now, that line drawn between acquaintances and friends got swept away. He isn’t just Izuku’s civilian pal anymore.

Shouto is Shouto. And Katsuki likes spending time with him.

They get along better than okay—though sometimes they end up simmering in long silences due to a difference of opinion that turns into an argument. But even when they leave with annoyed looks on their faces, they come back a couple of days later, ready to do it all over again. Shouto never holds a grudge despite being a petty little shit first and foremost.

That means something to Katsuki.

It makes him feel like Shouto actually enjoys his company and not just the fact that he’s getting paid to spend a few hours in Katsuki’s apartment. Like Shouto doesn’t care that he technically has a day job and money coming out of his ass. He could quit Katsuki and his garbage personality at any time. But he doesn’t.

So it means something.

Eventually, Katsuki’s cleared to come back to the agency. It feels strange in the best way, sitting at his desk again after so long. And instead of being pissed that he’s missed so much, he just ready.

Ready to be fully present after that stupid hiatus. Ready to ruffle the hair on his sidekicks’ heads before pushing them through the most rigorous training routine of their lives. Ready to go on patrol and rattle some skulls. Ready to be Dymamight.

Nothing’s going to stop him.

There’s a knock at his office door as he’s dusting around the front end of his desk—because his sidekicks sure aren’t doing any housekeeping—and he grumbles for whoever it is to come in.

Katsuki goes stiff the second Eijirou steps inside.

They haven’t actually spoken since that day in the Training Hall. Or, well, Katsuki hasn’t really spoken, if he thinks about it. Eijirou’s texts had poured in for a couple of days after he’d been suspended—asking if he was okay, if his injuries had gotten any better, if they could talk. And Katsuki had gone and ignored every single one until they stopped because he’s been too much of a coward to say anything to his best friend about what’s been on his mind.

He sure as hell could moon over him from the other side of the group chat screen, though. Pathetic.

Now that Eijirou’s here, Katsuki feels like absolute shit about mistreating him this way. He should’ve said something before. Should’ve apologized to him right then and there because who the actual fuck does he think he is?

“Welcome back, Kats,” Eijirou says in lieu of a greeting, a half-smile lifting one side of his face.

Katsuki leans back against the front of his desk, crossing his arms and trying not to let the awkward silence that follows linger. “Thanks.”

“It’s good to see you. I was worried I wouldn’t get the chance before it was time for me to leave.”

That’s right. Eijirou’s just here on a job. Now that he lives in Esuha, it’s not so easy to see him anymore—and Katsuki just wasted an entire month he could’ve been spending with his best friend being too chicken-shit to apologize.

Now he’s going to be leaving soon and Katsuki hasn’t had enough of him.

“How long’re you still in town for?” he asks, letting his eyes shift to rest on Eijirou’s shoes. If they weren’t at odds like they are now, Katsuki might’ve laughed at the ugliest pair of crocs he’s ever seen wrapped around two huge feet and covered in Crimson Riot jibbitz.

“I’ll be in and out for a couple more weeks. Tamaki has me running missions for Midoriya while Shinsou’s doing a little recon in the Underground.” Eijirou’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks over at Katsuki and shrugs his shoulders. “Figured I’d visit everyone while I was here and... and hang out with my best bud.”

Katsuki’s heart sinks to his stomach. He feels so goddamn guilty—like nothing he says will ever make it up to Eijirou even though that’s probably far from the truth. He drops his chin and his gaze, lips mushing together into a wavy line.

“I’m sorry, Red.”

Eijirou’s expression is soft when he looks back up, gentle and sympathetic and maybe a touch more genuine in his happiness now that Katsuki’s finally said what he should’ve told him weeks ago.

“Wanna hug it out? If you’re so sorry,” and it’s like plucking weeds from an overrun garden. Whatever suffocating shadow is cast over him dies under the sharp-toothed smile of the sun.

It’s a relief.

Katsuki spreads his arms with a subdued, off-center smile. “You better squeeze me like ya mean it, big guy.”

Eijirou laughs, all cackly and goofy and warm. He wraps around Katsuki tight, practically sinks their bodies together, and then quietly says:

“We’re okay, Katsuki. We’re always gonna be okay.”

And if that doesn’t make Katsuki’s eyes well up, well.

He’s such a loser.

—

Missing people is something Katsuki rarely realizes he does. It’s not that he doesn’t care about them, that he doesn’t notice they’re not around as much. It’s just that he’s so used to change and progress, to the flow of time bringing and taking things away in its natural course, that it doesn’t occur to him how much he wishes they would stay the same until it’s too late.

When he and Eijirou spend an hour having lunch, it becomes so apparent how much he’s missed having his best friend around—even in fucking spirit. Katsuki’s been so busy feeling guilty that he forgot to ache a little bit in Eijirou’s absence. Forgot to remember how much he likes talking to Eijirou about work and life and their favorite TV show that they started together and now have to keep up with weekly and discuss via phone call.

Katsuki could stand to forget the way he eats and talks at the same time—having cool, pointy shark teeth doesn’t make chomping through a burger with his mouth wide open any less gross—but he’ll let it slide without a complain.

This time.

They part at the station once Katsuki’s break comes to an end. Eijirou’s ‘goodbye’ is a little sappier than Katsuki wants it to be, but he finds himself falling right into it—final apologies and promises muttered into the air between a manly handshake. It feels good, better than he expected it to, and the weight he’s been carrying these past few weeks comes right off his shoulders.

When Katsuki arrives back at the agency, he’s glad to have resolved at least one of his problems.

The first thing he plans to do is head back to his office, hopefully without running into one of Izuku’s sidekicks along the way, but that’s easier said than done when the halls are usually swarming with them. Unlike his smarty-alecky crew of dumbasses, Izuku’s sidekicks have this annoying habit of trying to strike up a conversation with everyone they come across. It’s exhausting as hell.

It’s pleasantly quiet, he finds, by whatever strange, albeit lucky turn of events (they must be in training, or wracking their tiny little brains filing paperwork). But somehow, Katsuki still runs into someone—only literally this time, knocking a small pile of manga books out of their hands.

“Shit, you okay?” he asks, hands cupping around Shouto’s shoulders to steady him.

Shouto goes still for just a second before relaxing. “I’m fine.”

Nodding, Katsuki bends to snatch the manga books off the floor, eyes scanning over the title of the one at the top of the stack as he hands them over. It’s freaking gag-worthy. “You here to hang out with the nerd today?”

“Izuku is not a nerd,” Shouto defends, pulling Bittersweet Boyfriend to his chest.

Katsuki snorts. “Yeah, and I’m—”

Clamping his mouth shut, Katsuki zeroes in on a dark spot on Shouto’s face—just the edges of it, unevenly mapping over usually even, porcelain skin. In an instant, it’s obscured by a curtain of red hair, Shouto having noticed him staring and tipping his head forward in an attempt to hide it.

“What’s that?” Katsuki asks accusingly, reaching up to cup Shouto’s chin so he can take a better look at it. It’s a dark bloom of purple and green, the edges creeping forward around the curve of his jaw a half-healed yellow—like it’s been there for a few days already. “What the hell?”

“It’s just a bruise,” Shouto answers, expression wavering for just a second before it smooths into his normal indifference. Katsuki searches his face, unsatisfied.

“Uh-huh. Doesn’t look like just anything to me.”

“Accidents happen—it’s no big deal.”

“This doesn’t look like an accident. Who was it, Shouto?”

“Sometimes my father and I don’t agree on things.” Shouto brushes Katsuki’s hand away stubbornly. “It’s okay, Bakugou.”

Katsuki growls. “How is this okay?”

What the hell happened? More like it. Does it happen often?

Katsuki sifts through memories, wondering if he’s ever seen Shouto with this kind of damage on him before—save for his scar. But he comes up with nothing because, when he thinks about it, he just hasn’t paid enough attention to know.

“He messed up and he knows it. Endeavor’s an asshole. I can’t expect anything different,” Shouto says, without really telling Katsuki anything. “I ran my mouth, too, so maybe I deserved it.”

“Hey,” Katsuki snaps, shoving a finger between their chests. “I don’t want to hear you say that shit ever again. No one deserves to get hit for mouthin’ off, you got that?”

Two-toned eyes veer downward, and the air turns in an instant. Shouto’s expression hardens, focused on the pointed finger with a twisted, furious look on his face. It cuts the strings holding up Katsuki’s insides, makes his heart drop straight down into his boots, because he gets it. He knows better than this.

He pulls his hand back and doesn’t reach out again.

“Sorry,” Katsuki says quickly, lips pressing together as he finds the words. “I’m not trying to upset you.”

But Katsuki’s already fucked up. Shouto’s closed off; he can tell. When he averts his gaze, tucks a lock of hair behind his ear like that, and keeps silent, it’s over.

“I should go find Izuku,” Shouto mutters, eyes glued to one of the hallway consoles. “I texted him that I was here. He might be wondering where I am.”

Katsuki can’t even argue with that. It’s not like he can make Shouto stay or follow after him. This is the first time they’ve seen each other outside of their appointments; it’s weird-looking enough that Katsuki had his hands all over his face just now. He can’t risk anyone wondering why he cares all of a sudden.

“I... Yeah.”

The only thing he can do is watch Shouto walk away, all the while kicking himself in the ass for opening his big, fat mouth.

—

“Hey, you alright, Kats?” Denki asks all of a sudden, pulling Katsuki from whatever space gaze he was shooting at the door.

They’re crowded together at a booth in the corner of a dark, mellow bar. The air smells heavily of musky cologne and a nose-pinch of liquor, and the music alternates between smooth jazz and soft western rock—depending on who’s at the jukebox. It’s a compromise that marries their differing interests. Somewhere between Denki and Ashido's club-hopping habits and Eijirou and Sero’s constant need to stuff their faces.

Katsuki’s always been the type to enjoy either or.

This should be easy, in that case. Frankly, he’d been set on declining Ashido's ridiculously abbreviated and difficult-to-read invitation, but Katsuki decided to come solely to please Eijirou—because he owes him this much. Still, he’s missed his friends despite his adamance to stay away, and he expected it wouldn’t take long to warm up to the idea the second he was surrounded by their stupid faces, but.

His mind’s too occupied.

“Yeah, you seem off again,” Sero comments, brows frowning in concern.

“Again?” Ashido asks.

“Baku’s been going through a rough patch,” he adds.

“Shut the hell up, Teeth. I can speak for my goddamn self,” Katsuki spats, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms. After a moment of thought, he shrugs. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong.”

“Wow, truly well-spoken,” Sero deadpans.

Katsuki gives him the finger.

“Come on, guys. This’ll be the last time we get to hang together for a while. Let’s not crack down on each other and just enjoy the moment, okay?” Eijirou insists, whining out a long ‘hey!’ when he catches Denki hand-puppeting him while he talks.

“You’re right,” Ashido agrees, quick to cut apart the tension and sweep it aside. “Besides, the drinks are here!”

A peppy waitress drops by and hands everyone their drinks, seemingly amused at the show of hands and me, me, me’s she gets every time she calls out an order. Everyone settles with their fists around a glass, the mood almost lifting as Ashido takes a long sip and sighs out the first ‘ahh.’

Almost.

“But... you would tell us if you’re not feeling okay,” Denki’s eyes flicker from his fruity little drink to Katsuki’s own, lips quirking half-heartedly to the side. “Right?”

Katsuki takes a long look at him before trailing his eyes along every other curious pair across the table. They gaze at him pensively, or piercingly, even—like they’re trying to see straight into his fucking soul. The friendly faces attached to them smile, but their expressions are all laced with concern. Katsuki feels it, watching them watch him like this; the heartache.

He swallows back the lump in his throat.

“Yeah. ‘Course,” Katsuki says nonchalantly, shifting in his seat with a grunt. “Now quit actin’ like a buncha losers and drink!”

He grabs his glass and raises it, grin splitting off to one side when everyone’s quiet looks shift into bright smiles and red cheeks squishing eyes to half-moon crescents. The ‘almost’ becomes definitive, and Katsuki’s relieved that the attention has moved on to something else—like Denki’s new sidekick whose skin can turn to rubber or Sero’s newest toothpaste commercial.

There’s too much shit on his mind to be completely present, but he does his best and it seems to be enough. Katsuki’s always a little quieter when he drinks, so maybe they’re chalking it up to the alcohol when he starts keeping to himself again.

Good. He doesn’t want them worrying about his problems.

But Katsuki’s not thinking about himself right now, is the thing. He’s thinking about Shouto, that bruise on his chin, and the fact that Endeavor had something to do with it.

What’s going on with them, anyway? The Todoroki family has never been short on drama, but Katsuki never thought that, even after all this time, they’d get into it like this. There was talk for a while some years back—Ashen blew up in Endeavor’s face on live television during an interview and let the whole country in on the abuse he’d faced as a child and well into his teenage years.

Sometimes, Katsuki wonders just how far it runs. It was always implied that Ashen’s siblings had suffered, but... some things will never leave their family home.

Has Shouto been dealing with this kind of thing the entire time?

The returning mental image of that purple-green splotch burns Katsuki. Even knowing that it’s there now, painful and throbbing whenever Shouto curls a hand underneath his chin, burns him.

But he still fucked up with Shouto and he still has to make up for it, and the best way to do that is to keep his mouth shut about it. Katsuki will see him during his next appointment and mind his own business because he doesn’t want this affecting their arrangement and he doesn’t want this harming whatever growing friendship they seem to be developing.

What they’ve got is good. Katsuki doesn’t want to lose it.

Eijirou nudges his shoulder and keeps it there, pressed against him comfortingly as everyone lifts their second round of glasses and Denki toasts to Ashido’s new job offer at Yuuei. Katsuki huffs softly, clinks his drink around the table while making snide comments about the way Ashido will probably reply to her school emails like they’re text messages, and pulls a grin out of his fucking ass just to keep everybody pleased.

Katsuki sits back the second the offended hey’s and snorty laughter settles down and the sporadic conversation starts back up. His mind’s swimming again, and it’s frustrating how little he can compartmentalize shit these days.

It’s on a whim that he pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and opening his messaging app. Shouto’s name floats between the dumb title his friends gave their group chat and Izuku’s bolded, unread thread. His thumb hovers for a long moment before he decides to tap into it, typing out a quick message before he can convince himself otherwise and clicking SEND.

[04APR24] 8:37 PM

To: Shouto

hey. how’s your face?

It’s a simple text, but Katsuki still feels like an idiot. Staring down at his phone like this, waiting for a bubble of ellipses to show up so he can feel normal again.

When it does, he’s partially relieved and partially frustrated. Unlike everybody else Katsuki knows, Shouto’s texts are an indifferent expression sometimes. Not a sign, signal, or ugly-ass yellow emoji in sight.

[04APR24] 8:40 PM

From: Shouto

It’s okay. The bruise isn’t very noticeable now.

[04APR24] 8:42 PM

To: Shouto

alright.

[04APR24] 8:43 PM

To: Shouto

just askin. that’s all.

[04APR24] 8:47 PM

From: Shouto

Thank you, Bakugou. :)

Fuck. This shouldn’t be so hard to leave alone. Katsuki should wait until they’re face to face to even ask, but he feels like Izuku is shoulder-angeling him right now, telling him to ‘go ahead, be a nosy piece of shit, just like me!’

It’s probably because of that stupid smiley face. He doesn’t believe it for a second.

[04APR24] 8:49 PM

To: Shouto

just don’t do anything stupid and take care of yourself, got it? you better be putting ice on it.

Katsuki leaves it at that, doesn’t even text back when Shouto says something about ice being in endless supply these days—the nerd. He seems fine enough to be making wisecracks, though, so maybe Katsuki’s just overthinking it.

“You payin’ attention, Baku?” Sero asks, throwing his arm over the back of the booth and leaning into Katsuki’s space with a lecherous grin. “You seem real invested in your phone. Pretty random on the other side?”

And on top of that, he’s got friends to please so they don’t start their shit, too.

Katsuki rolls his eyes and pinches Sero’s side, mouth curving smugly at the high-pitched yelp he lets out. “Quit bein’ such a fuckin’ sleaze and say somethin’ worth listenin’ to already.”

“So mean—you’re so mean!”

“Speaking of sleazes,” Ashido starts, twirling a flute between her fingers, “you’ll never believe who I saw the other day... and with whom.”

—

It’s not long into Katsuki’s next appointment that he notices something’s off with Shouto.

It begins regularly enough—their session. They end up on the couch, like always: Shouto sitting in the far corner between the arm and the cushions and Katsuki nestled between his legs, back against his chest. There’s not much bickering, or talking even, at all. But that’s alright. After a busy day at the agency, Katsuki’s just pleased to have a quiet evening.

Neither of them have brought up their argument—if anything, Katsuki’s already apologized and Shouto seems to have calmed down since they’d texted a few nights before. He came over, after all, and seemed pleasant enough at the door. The tension that had built between them at the agency’s faded, so Katsuki lets himself think that things are finally back to, well...

Being good.

He makes it to the last paragraph of the fourth chapter of the book he’s reading—some European tale about a powerless soldier from America and the youngest daughter of a rich, English estate owner whose family line possesses a rare and powerful Quirk—and turns the page after pausing on the last word for a few long seconds.

It’s one of those runaway romances, Katsuki predicts, the kind that always ends in the reveal of an abusive household and the soldier either sacrificing himself for or spiriting away the girl he loves in order to save her from a repetitive fate. It’s had a fair amount of external drama and political intrigue so far, so he’s interested enough.

Shouto’s reading over his shoulder; it’s why Katsuki takes his time. He’s a little bit of a slower reader, always pausing and thinking as soon as he reads something worth thinking over instead of waiting until the end of the chapter. Whenever he’s done, he gives Katsuki’s stomach a quick tap. Just once, maybe five or six seconds later.

Katsuki always comments between the sections, just so he knows Shouto’s following. And maybe he shouldn’t care, but it gives them both something to do after long stretches of silence.

Shouto’s breaths are inaudible behind him. Katsuki can feel the way his chest slowly expands and contracts, moving his body with it.

It’s relaxing. Katsuki likes it. But it just doesn’t last long enough, and that’s probably his fault.

“You’re quieter than usual today,” he comments randomly. For some reason, he feels like he has to.

Shouto is naturally quiet, but even he isn’t the type of quiet that makes the room all stuffy like this. And not only is it stuffy, but a wave of tension thrums right through Katsuki’s back the second those words came out of his mouth. Like it was a fully-loaded gun and he’d gone and pulled the trigger.

The more time drags on, the more he starts feeling like there’s something wrong. Shouto’s mannerisms aren’t quite right. And he hasn’t done anything yet, he hasn’t made a move, but Katsuki just knows. It’s the way his breaths become shallower, so Katsuki can no longer feel the rise and fall of his chest. And the way he stops tapping Katsuki’s stomach, even when more than enough time has passed for him to have read the page.

“You read a lot of historical fiction,” Shouto says suddenly, and Katsuki almost sighs in relief. “I never took you for the fantasy type.”

“Never took you for the shoujo manga type, either, but you’re always swoonin’ over those shitty romances, ain’tcha?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Shouto tells him. Katsuki can feel the shift of his chin across the top of his shoulder—like he’s completely averted his gaze. “I like the things you read.”

That reaction is touchier than Katsuki initially expects. Almost... subdued. As if Shouto’s heart isn't in it and he’s trying to diffuse one of their petty squabbles—which is stupid because they’re never serious. It’s weird.

What the hell is going on?

“I didn’t mean anything by that—what I said,” Katsuki tries to amend, his grip on the book in his hands tightening. And maybe his shoulders had wound up, too, because the tension in them eases with the sound of Shouto’s amused hum.

“I know, don’t worry. You’re a lot kinder than you pretend to be,” Shouto tells him, relaxing against his back. “Almost sweet.”

“Do me a favor and shut up.”

“Like a tsundere character from a shoujo manga.”

Katsuki groans, dropping his head back and scowling up at the laughter in Shouto’s two-toned eyes. “Now you’re bein’ annoyin’ on purpose.”

But Katsuki’s kind of glad that he is. It feels like the most natural thing Shouto’s done all evening. He lets it build a little optimism in him and slides right into the warmth of the atmosphere now that it’s more comfortable. Shouto seems to do the same, and they get through a third of the book, the gentle tap of a finger—against his chest this time—letting Katsuki know when to turn the page.

Maybe he was just overthinking it. The stuffiness.

They spend a little longer like that; curled up and comfortable. Eventually Katsuki sinks in, melts back into Shouto’s chest, and enjoys the fucking moment. Everything swimming in his head disperses like a ripple on the surface of a pond, evening out into something like tranquility when Shouto’s cheek lands suddenly atop his head.

It’s the warm side.

Katsuki doesn’t know what it is; what it is about Shouto’s arms tucked under his and wrapped around his middle. What it is about Shouto’s legs hugging his hips or the unbelievable warmth on his back. But he feels relaxed. Fully.

Not thinking anything at all.

They wake up just as the sky turns.

It’s still light outside, but the bright afternoon blue is flirting with an orange almost-sunset. Katsuki’s blinking the warm light away, so wrapped up in the thought of starting his evening routine that he doesn’t even question the fact that he and Shouto settled down for a catnap for God knows how long.

Shouto yawns into his hair, perfuming the air with his candy breath. About halfway through their book time, he’d gotten into the sucker jar on Katsuki’s coffee table—bought for visitors, when he has them. Eaten by everyone except Katsuki. And now Shouto’s lobbed himself in with them.

But, whatever. Katsuki doesn’t use that as a measure of his insufferability at all.

He uses other things—like the direction the discarded shoes in the genkan are facing or the type of socks Shouto’s wearing. All valid yellow-green-reds on the makeshift gauge.

Those things don’t really matter right now, though. As they crawl out of each other’s hold and stretch out their limbs, Katsuki’s just glad Shouto seems to be back to normal.

“I’ll see you in a couple of days?” Shouto asks, picking up his newest manga purchase from the table and looking around for his bag. “Hm. I’m not sure where I put it.”

“You in that much of a hurry to leave?” Katsuki ribs. No bite.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” comes an easy reply and an easier smile.

“Let’s see if you feel that way when I forget to pay you.”

It’s not even for a half-second following that same smile falters, just barely.

It’s only a joke, but it still falls. And Katsuki’s starting to think that maybe he was wrong for assuming that everything is okay.

“On one of the dining room chairs,” he offers, clearing his throat. “You pushed it in, so the bag’s hiding.”

Shouto looks like he’s about to say something important—something more than the expected ‘thanks’ or the average ‘goodbye’, Katsuki can feel it. But he doesn’t.

No real words, no real smile. That wavering curve is just a curve now; one that doesn’t give anything away. Maybe it’s because Katsuki’s in a really good mood and Shouto can tell and he just doesn’t want to ruin it. Maybe it’s because of that that he’s trying to hold back. Maybe it’s because of that that he goes right for his bag without looking up at Katsuki at all.

Maybe Katsuki is overthinking it. Is that it?

“I’ll see you next time, Bakugou.” And then Shouto’s gone, out the door and down the hall, in a wisp.

I’ll see you next time. It’s should sound normal, but coupled with everything else, it doesn’t feel right at all. Everything about Shouto in that moment was tinged with something that colors him different. The change in him is so blatantly different and simultaneously difficult to grasp.

Katsuki can’t really place it; doesn’t really understand the depth of what Shouto might be feeling. Only that he seems sad.

It’s not normal for Shouto to withhold whatever he’s thinking. He blurts shit out unprovoked all the time. It’s weird that he’d even hesitated. But the hallway Katsuki’s standing in isn’t going to get him any closer to why that is, so he slips on the first pair of shoes he can get into and follows in Shouto’s footsteps—out of the apartment and down into the lobby.

Shouto’s just stepped out the front door, and Katsuki watches him linger beyond the glass. Stopping to gaze up at what must be the window of his apartment for a long, bittersweet moment.

Katsuki thinks Shouto must be thinking about turning around. About coming back and telling Katsuki everything that’s wrong and everything that’s bothering him. About heading straight over to Katsuki’s couch again and asking for a fucking snuggle because he needs it more than anything else.

He doesn’t.

And why would he?

But more importantly—why is Katsuki just standing around? He should follow Shouto and demand some answers, or else he’ll keep going until he’s gone.

What if he misses it?

What if he...

Without finishing the thought, Katsuki rushes out the lobby door.

The clap of his house slippers against the concrete is almost comical, but he can hardly give a shit about anything else. Even the cold-ass wind that dulls his Quirk and makes his teeth chatter.

All that matters is figuring out what the hell is wrong with Shouto.

Katsuki reaches for his hand; he ends up catching his wrist instead.

“Sho, wait.”

Shouto turns around in a rush.

The wind pulls peppermint strands over his pink-hued face. Tugs at his light-weight sweater, the open lapels fluttering to reveal the embroidered cat ears peaking out of his breast pocket. Makes him blink his eyes like he’s batting them just for Katsuki.

It should be a pretty sight, and it is—but Katsuki can’t focus on the appeal of it.

Because Shouto turned around. And his eyes are wet.

They look brighter somehow; welled like that. Just a crown of unshed tears. Wobbling—but unfalling, like dew drops on a leaf. If Shouto’s shaken the slightest bit, Katsuki’s sure they’d fall.

He hates it.

Who did this? It’s all Katsuki can think about. Who made him feel this way—broken to the point of tears? Has he felt this despondence, this... sadness all day? Had he held it in the entire time he was with Katsuki, thinking he had a job to do and there was no room for his feelings in their stupid, goddamn cuddle sessions?

It unerves him. It stings, even. Like the first flinch of your hand after you set it on a hot stove. The pain remains despite turning off the source. Despite running your fingers under cool water. The blisters stay with you; the heat makes home under your skin.

Seeing Shouto like this burns him in that very same way.

It fucking burns him.

Without a second though, Katsuki tugs on Shouto’s wrist and pulls him into his arms. He holds Shouto tight, one arm wrapping around Shouto’s waist and his hand firm on the back of that two-toned head. Shouto reciprocates in an instant, wrapping around Katsuki like a vice.

“I’m okay,” Shouto whispers shakily into his ear; he sounds a thousand miles away.

“Yeah, right. I’m not a goddamn idiot,” Katsuki grumbles, turning his cheek against Shouto’s and grimacing at the cool sting of frost brushing his skin. “Shit—you’re fuckin’ freezin’.”

“I forget to self-regulate sometimes.”

The admission only makes Katsuki squeeze him harder. “You’ll catch something like this. Fix it.”

Shouto does, if just by Katsuki’s demand. It’s gradual, but once he feels warm enough in his arms, Katsuki backs away, hands curling around Shouto’s elbows as his eyes roam that pretty face searchingly.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Katsukis asks, soft.

Shouto’s expression becomes odd—foreign. Katsuki can’t really place it, can’t really figure out where it’s all coming from, only knows he’s disappointed when Shouto shakes his head. “I really do have to go, so I can’t right now. It’s bad enough already that I brought this to our session.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the session and you know it,” Katsuki says. “Crap like that doesn’t matter if you’re not alright.”

Hands reach up to curl around Katsuki’s forearms, and that forlorn expression returns, though much more subdued. “I’ll explain things next time, okay? Just, not right now.”

“I know I never say shit like this,” Katsuki begins carefully, teeth pulling at his bottom lip—he just wants Shouto to look at him, “but you can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

When he finally does, all wet eyes and wobbly lips, a weight Katsuki didn’t even know he was carrying is lifted.

“I know.”

—

“Kacchan, can I ask you about something?”

They’re on the roof again after patrol. Katsuki’s working his way through a smoothie and Izuku’s reading the inspirational quote printed on the inside of his stupid iced tea bottlecap. And, go figure, he chooses now, of all times, to interrogate Katsuki—always when he’s mentally tapped out. Always when his mind and body should be taking a breather.

“Sure, Freckles,” he sighs. “Freakin’ shoot.”

“Are you and Shocchan... dating?”

Katsuki almost breaks his fucking neck turning to look at him. Does he know? Does Izuku know about his cuddling appointments? Is that why Shouto was acting that way—did it have nothing to do with his family at all and everything to do with him actually having a big goddamn mouth? “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Izuku frowns, tilting his phone in his hand so that Katsuki can see the article he’s reading.

“This,” he says.

Katsuki levels Izuku with a glare before dropping his gaze to the screen.

Flirting with an all-caps Helvetica headline is a front page photo of him and Shouto holding each other at the entryway of his apartment complex.

Eyes blown wide, he reaches forward and snatches the phone, slamming his smoothie cup down onto the ledge between them so hard that the top goes flying off into the street below. Neither of them pay it any mind—Izuku’s too busy watching Katsuki, and Katsuki’s too busy watching his entire life flash before his fucking eyes with this moment at the final cut-off.

“Fuck.” DYNAMIGHT’S UNTOLD SECRET REVEALED! “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—fuck.”

Scanning the article page, Katsuki’s eyes float the rumors.

‘Number Two Hero Dynamight seen canoodling his secret paramour just outside of the High Rise on Gappori Street...’

Canoodling. Who the fuck wrote this shit?

‘Limited public appearances suggests this relationship may be new, but its status remains ambiguous.’

‘...looks to be former Pro Hero Endeavor’s youngest son.’

“Fuck,” Katsuki whispers as he scrolls. “Shit.”

Standing, he tosses the phone back, turning away as Izuku scrambles to get a hold on it. Katsuki stalks clear across the roof to the other side and pulls his own phone from his pocket, thankful that Izuku can read a room and doesn’t bother following after him this time.

Nosy ass.

Searching through his contacts, Katsuki dials Shouto’s number, foot tapping nervously against the concrete. It’s picked up after the second ring.

“Bakugou?”

“Come see me tonight,” Katsuki says before he can think. For a second, there’s nothing but dead silence on the other end of the line. And then, a soft sigh.

“It’s my night off.” Shouto sounds a little pouty. Stupid, pretty idiot. “Are you unable to wait until your next appointment?”

“It’s not about that, okay?” Katsuki stresses. Turning his head, he meets Izuku’s questioning stare and averts his gaze in an instant. This is not the time for a fucking freakout. “Just—come over whenever you have time. I’ll be home around seven.”

There’s shuffling in the background just as Shouto says, “Alright. I’ll be there.”

Katsuki lets out a sigh of relief, already feeling like himself again.

“And read the fucking paper while you’re at it.”

—

The second he arrives home, Katsuki’s bogged down by the fact that he’s early and has to wait.

He strips off his clothes, takes a quick shower, and paces through a couple of chores before sitting in front of the television—elbow on the arm and knuckles digging into his temple. For a few long minutes, he scrolls through a handful of new articles he found after searching up his name on his phone, one question running through his mind at Chargebolt-fucking-speed.

What the hell is he going to do?

The media’s going to spread lies and people are going to talk and then their friends are going to talk and Izuku’s going to wonder why Shouto’s showing up at Katsuki’s place all of a sudden and then he’ll put two and two together and Katsuki will have to kill the nerd because this is all his fault in the first place.

Katsuki takes a deep breath. It isn’t, though. It really isn’t Izuku's fault at all.

Damn.

This is his mess to clean up, and now Shouto’s being dragged into it and Katsuki’s pretty sure he’s messed up his cuddling arrangement by none of his own doing.

Fuck it. It’s not like he can do anything until Shouto gets here, anyway.

Katsuki hears a knock at the door and is off his couch in an instant.

Shouto’s on the other side, wearing nothing but earthy tones from top to bottom. There’s a copy of today’s newspaper in his hand.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” is the first thing out of Katsuki’s mouth. And it makes him wince, because, jesus, Shouto hears him apologize a lot. “This is my fault.”

“People think we’re together,” Shouto murmurs, eyes flickering back and forth over the article.

“Worse than people—the fucking media thinks we’re together.”

Dealing with publicity like this is almost as bad as dealing with fucking villains. Maybe worse, since you can’t send anyone to jail for being a goddamn nuisance. It makes Katsuki even more prickly somehow, even more defensive and protective of the things that are his; his private life, his relationships—they’re all on display whenever the media’s onto something. The more they poke and prod, the more he’s got to invent new ways to get them to fuck off.

It’s the same old rhyme.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world,” comes reason. “We’re both used to the public eye on us.” Shouto’s lips press together. “You more than me, but still—”

“It’s gonna be all they talk about as long as you’re coming over here,” Katsuki stresses. Frowning, he focuses on the dumb embroidered cat paw made to look like it’s poking out of the pocket of Shouto’s cardigan (it must be the same brand as the one from last time) and slides his tongue over his teeth with a sigh.

“Okay, then. Let’s give them something to talk about,” Shouto suggests, like it’s the simplest solution in the goddamn world.

Katsuki shoots him an incredulous look.

“What the hell are you saying?” he asks.

“You still need me, right? My services, I mean.”

Raking a hand over his spikes, Katsuki hisses through his teeth; he doesn’t really want to think about never making an appointment with Shouto again. “I guess.”

“So, why don’t we just... pretend?” Shouto suggests, his two-toned eyes leveling with Katsuki’s. “That way, people won’t find out what I’m really here for and we can keep doing this.”

Katsuki is quiet for a long moment. He can’t even begin to wonder why it’s Shouto who thinks of that kind of solution to the problem—out of the two of them, Katsuki stands to have more to lose. It would be smarter for Shouto to back out right now and avoid all the prying and drama the media will drop into his life.

But maybe he should’ve expected this. Shouto’s Izuku’s pal; like Izuku, he’s probably just as much of a Yes Man when it comes to helping out his friends.

And Shouto’s right, Katsuki does need these appointments—they’re doing something for him—and he can trust Shouto to help him keep it secret. He knows that he can.

“You sure you’re okay with somethin’ like that?” Katsuki asks. “You won’t get to hide from the spotlight if we confirm the media’s suspicions.”

“It’s fine. There are times when that’s inevitable for me anyway. Endeavor’s my father. Ashen’s my brother.”

Katsuki still, to some degree, doesn’t like the idea—even though he gets it. He’ll be putting someone in danger for just existing around him. Besides, he’s seen how people get when it comes to heroes. Envious. Angry. There are plenty of horror stories floating around about it. “Fans are fucking insane sometimes, you know. What if they hurt you?”

“I’ve been friends with heroes my entire life. If someone wanted to hurt me, they would have already,” Shouto reasons. Which, fair, but. “Either way, if you’re with me, I’ll have plenty of protection.”

Katsuki shoots him an inquisitive look; really thinks it over while pretending Shouto’s words weren’t intended to give him an ego-boost.

“Okay,” he says at last, because why the hell not? “Let’s do it.”

—

Conspiracy theories are so fuckin’ dumb.

That’s Katsuki’s only thought as he sits there, reclined against the couch with Shouto’s back to his chest because he insisted—and if he’s paying for something then he at least wants to get a fucking say in who holds who. To break up the monotony. Constantly being the little spoon just isn’t it for Katsuki.

Shouto’s eyes are glued to the screen as he complains out loud. Theo Rhee, the host of the series they’re watching, is standing in the middle of a dark, open space—furnished with nothing but a small, round table and plush chair. It’s supposed to invoke some sort of “air of mystique” bullshit. Katsuki’s not buying it.

Rhee introduces the story of Gemini, an infamous American villain who is believed to have faked his death in the rage of a bank fire during the fall of his career. According to ‘sources,’ he was on the brink of capture and planned to use the stolen money from one final robbery to flee the country. When his scheme had ‘seemingly’ gone south, he’d set the building on fire and replaced his body with a curated double—some crispy, indiscernable corpse procured with a bunch of pre-installed identifiers—that padded his escape.

“Some believe Gemini has undergone multiple reconstructive surgeries over the years and now walks free as a wealthy, unknown business tycoon in Osaka Bay.”

It’s completely unbelievable.

“It’s supposed to be unbelievable. They’re trying to deter us from the truth,” Shouto explains, poking Katsuki’s forearm with an icepick finger when he tries reaching for the remote. “Bakugou—you said it was my turn to pick.”

Katsuki’s hand stills, barely flinching when Shouto’s ice stabs at the web between his thumb and forefinger.

For as long as he can remember, he’s only ever called Shouto by his given name. Not out of familiarity, really, but because Shouto had asked. On the flipside, Katsuki had never corrected Shouto, and has remained Bakugou even when ‘Midoriya’ became Izuku.

How long is Shouto going to keep that up—after everything that’s happened to them?

“You should call me by my first name,” Katsuki says, not giving it much of a second thought.

Shouto turns his head quickly, and Katsuki almost gets a mouthful of his stupid hair. He tips his head back to avoid the flyaways.

“You want me to?” Shouto asks, somehow even more quietly than usual.

“Do you want to?” Katsuki counters.

“Yes.”

The answer is painfully straightforward. Katsuki swallows thick.

“Then just do it. I’ve been calling you Shouto since I fuckin’ met you. We’re even now,” he reasons, exhaling a long breath as their bodies meld back together again. “Besides. If people are gonna believe we’re dating, you can’t keep calling me Bakugou.”

“Technically, you’ve been calling me half n’ half since we met,” Shouto corrects. “Or halfie.”

“You wanna go back to that?” Katsuki quips, lips jutting.

“Not really,” Shouto admits. “I don’t want to go back to thinking that you call me those things because you don’t remember my name.”

Well, shit. If that doesn’t just make Katsuki want to eat his own goddamn hand.

Had Shouto really believed he was that much of an asshole?

“You know I’ve never forgotten your name, right?” Katsuki points out, annoyed that he feels so worked up about it. “I only call you half n’ half ‘cause... well, ‘cause you’re freaking half n’ half!”

His explanation comes with a wave of hands that gesture to Shouto’s appearance. Katsuki sweeps two fingers down under a pair of fallen locks of Shouto’s long, long hair—one white and one red—and holds them up like that’s all the proof he needs.

Shouto hums, that light, amused huff puffing against the palm of Katsuki’s hand.

It goes quiet for a while, but Katsuki’s brain remains disconcertingly loud. Shouto always looks so fucking indifferent that it’s hard to tell what he’s feeling—not that Katsuki had cared at the time—but he still wonders if he’d hated it. Being treated like he’s so unimportant.

Katsuki mulls the way he’d always kept his distance from Shouto. How their relationship, if he could’ve called it that, had always been one-sided. How now, looking back, it feels like denying Shouto a chance was the shittiest thing of him to do.

Not that he was ever mean to Shouto, he just treated him like everyone else. Everyone who wasn’t a friend, that is. Maybe he shouldn’t have.

Katsuki thinks back to that day—Shouto crying as he left his apartment, holding something inside that he would’ve just silently carried back home with him—and wonders if he’d ever planned to tell Katsuki anything in the first place. If he even thought Katsuki had actually cared enough to want to know.

If he’d just gone and told Izuku instead.

Or anyone at all.

“Hey,” Katsuki starts; he presses his lips together.

“Hm?”

“You ever gonna tell me why?”

Shouto hums. “Why...?”

“Why you were so upset the other day.”

It’s minute but apparent to Katsuki, who can feel the second Shouto’s breath catches; that it does so at all. So it’s still a sore subject.

“It’s... a long story,” Shouto says, chin dropping towards his chest; as though he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“I can buy another hour,” Katsuki counters easily.

Shouto sighs through his nose, amused. It’s short lived.

“My mother’s been in the hospital for years,” Shouto tells him, and Katsuki is suddenly caught between opening his mouth and saying something or just keeping his trap shut because he doesn’t know how to be useful in this situation anyway. “For what she did to my face. For her general instability. For her own safety, maybe.”

That triggers a memory—years ago in the corner booth of a noodle shop. Katsuki asking about a scar and Shouto answering automatically, the entire table going silent except for the sound of his own slurping. It was one of the first things Shouto had told him because he’s a chronic fucking oversharer.

His mother burned his face.

Katsuki doesn't actually think he could forget hearing that.

“And?” he nudges.

“And I went to see her for the first time in years. Izuku inspired me to try and understand things from her perspective. After fearing her hatred for me for so long, I decided to try.”

Katsuki mutes the television and listens as Shouto recalls a foggy Saturday morning. Listens as he talks about walking into the hospital. Listens as Shouto explains the way he felt—that he was worried, that he was scared, that he was angry.

That the first thing he saw was her back. Her long, long hair. That, when she turned around, the thing that pained him the most was her wrinkled face. It showed her age, and that hurt him because he thought about just how much time together she had taken away.

“I hated what she did to me. I thought that she must hate me, too, to have done it in the first place. I thought she must still hate me and would show it,” Shouto admits, eyes downcast. “She was very welcoming, instead.”

Katsuki doesn’t really know what to say, even though he wishes he did. He doesn’t know what words to use because he doesn’t know Shouto like other people do. Like Izuku does. He’d never tried to. So, he just... takes it all in. Lets his hands do the talking, flexing and gripping at Shouto’s side as long as he’s allowed.

Like every move he makes says something different. A physical call and response.

“We talked about Endeavor—about the things he used to do. To me. To Touya and the others,” Shouto continues, head shaking slightly. “I was so angry, hearing about it from her, but the worst part was that she wasn’t angry.” He sighs, and Katsuki can feel his exasperation in the pit of his stomach. “She looked sad.”

Shouto moves in his arms. Turning and twisting slowly until he’s lying on his side against Katsuki’s chest, one of his arms wedged between them and the couch. Katsuki doesn’t complain; he can see his face better this way.

“I was stupid enough to mention the visits to Fuyumi one day while he was home. Things got heated and I brought up a lot of old memories.”

“You riled him up,” Katsuki iterates.

A strange look appears on Shouto’s face, like he’s replaying the memory and every moment he relives puts a deeper scrunch in his nose, a sadder twist in his lips. Katsuki holds back the urge to smooth it all away with his thumb.

“I did. For a second, I was acting just like Natsuo—or maybe worse. I said something I knew wasn’t true and...” Shouto breathes through his nose. In, then out. “That’s how it happened.”

Katsuki simmers as Shouto’s story comes to a close. It all sounds so wrong to him, every last thing he’s ever learned about Shouto’s family and what’s been done to him, but it’s not like he has the power to fix it. It’s frustrating as hell, that even if he wanted to, it just isn’t his place.

All he can do is be angry about it.

“He shouldn’t have fucking touched you,” Katsuki grits out.

“I know—and he knows that, too,” Shouto assures, his hand moving to wrap around Katsuki’s wrist, thumb sliding along his pulse. “I’m not defending him, but it’s the truth,” he promises. “He’s not anywhere near as bad as he used to be.”

Katsuki doesn’t realize he’s squeezing the life out of Shouto until he shifts a little, like he’s too polite to say it’s too much; his grip lightens up immediately, but Katsuki doesn’t move his arms from where they’re wrapped around Shouto’s frame.

“You were real messed up over all that, huh?”

“When I was here with you, I just kept thinking about her,” Shouto says. “It’s not that I didn’t want to say anything, I just didn’t want to cry about it.”

“You can cry if you goddamn please,” Katsuki refutes, meaning it.

A calming warmth spreads over his chest.

“Thank you, Katsuki.”

Shouto’s words are an amused huff, soft and light. And it’s hard to tell what kind of place it’s coming from—pain or disbelief or just plain humor—but it doesn’t matter.

He can laugh all he wants. Katsuki means that, too.

Shouto’s face lays into his chest, and the once-muted noise of the television starts right back up again.

For the most part, he seems fine in the aftermath of their conversation. Maybe even relieved that he’s gotten everything off his chest. Katsuki wishes he could say the same, but even as every part of Shouto relaxes against him, he roils in the aftermath of their conversation.

There was so much he never knew about. So much shit that Shouto just keeps locked up inside. And here he is, always dealing with Katsuki’s problems like they’re his own.

Fuck.

Jaw clenched, Katsuki keeps his hold on Shouto firm, letting the rolling credits count them down to another stupid Conspiracy episode despite it technically being his turn.

—

Katsuki swings his fist.

Number Two.

Strike.

It drags behind him like a ball and chain.

Strike.

It should feel good. Like Katsuki's namesake.

Strike.

Like victory.

Strike.

But right now, it’s a burden. An unrelenting pressure.

A pretty title for a feckless hero.

Katsuki drops his fists. Lets them swing to a stop as his eyes take in a decimated training dummy.

Number Two.

Maybe he hasn’t won over Toogata. Maybe he won’t get to be Number One until Lemillion fucking retires—but. That doesn’t matter. Lemillion was never the goal. The only finish line he was ever hoping to pass was the one All Might had been waiting behind. A bright and shining grail at an unattainable reach.

All Might had retired before Katsuki ever got a chance to join the race, but he’ll live for his hero’s close second.

He’s got the head up on Izuku, after all. His rival. His friend. His finish line.

It should feel good.

But it doesn’t.

Whenever Katsuki thinks of his rank and all the valor he’s boasted over the years, the image of blond hair and blue ruffles fills his mind until it’s all he can see. He’s equated heroism with failure, and no matter how aware of that he is, it’s impossible to sweep it under the rug and start over brand new.

What had her name been? What had she sounded like? Had she been happy with her life? Was she a happy little girl before Katsuki went and got her killed?

And what about Shouto? Was he a ‘happy’ little boy before his own family ruined what that word once meant—what it could’ve meant now?

Katsuki sighs. He’s thinking way too much about that again. How Shouto ends up on the same train of thought as that little girl is a mystery in its-fucking-self.

Maybe it’s just as hard a pill for him to swallow—especially now that he knows this new side of Shouto. It’s hard for Katsuki to imagine Shouto suffering so much only for him to be okay with the injustice of it all. At the same time, he knows that Shouto probably doesn’t want to linger on that fact.

It’s fucked up, but Katsuki gets it; everything he’s been through is all in the past now. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.

“Things are hard sometimes, but I’ve made my peace with it,” Shouto had said, calm and direct. “You’re worried about it more than I am, and you shouldn’t be.”

“I’m not,” Katsuki had replied, indignant. “I’m not worried about it.”

Shouto was right, of course. In the end, Katsuki had been the one upset over someone else’s problem—which isn’t something he’s used to. Being torn up and angry at memories that aren’t his to be torn up and angry about. Sympathizing, empathizing. All bleeding heart bullshit. It’s like he’s turning into fucking Izuku.

He doesn’t have to worry about it. Shouto can fix his own problems; everything just takes time.

The more Katsuki tries to tell himself that, the more he thinks that maybe he should take his own advice.

Digging into the mats with his boots, Katsuki drops down and sits against the wall where he’s thrown his duffel. The first thing he does is dig out his phone and opens up his social media apps—just to check and see if he’s trending. He and Shouto, that is.

Lo and behold, they are.

Everything’s working out as planned. Since they decided to become a fake thing, Katsuki’s had three miserably busy, consecutive days of work, one blissful night of peace and quiet with Shouto glued to his back, and two hilarious mornings spent reading articles about their ‘Blossoming Relationship.’

Hitting the share button, his thumb hovers over Shouto’s name for a half-second before he gets interrupted by the most annoying phone call he’s gotten all month. And he can’t even avoid it because he’s accidentally hit the answer button.

“What the hell, Katsuki?!” a voice screeches into the air. He hasn’t even put it to his ear yet. “Were you ever gonna tell me you were seeing someone?”

Fuck. He’d forgotten about his mom.

Katsuki rolls his eyes, shoving the phone between his head and shoulder as he unfastens the tape around his wrists.

“Why do I gotta tell you anything? I’m a grown-ass man!”

“Yeah? Well, what am I then, chopped-freaking-liver?!” Her voice is treading the locus between angry, annoyed, and upset—keeping balance in that middle place they both know so well. “You can wipe your own ass and pick up your own messes, but you can’t tell your mom about ‘Pro Hero Dynamight’s Secret Romance? It’s One For The Ages!’”

Is that a new headline? Katsuki wonders idly. He doesn’t recall seeing one like that yet.

The headlines aren’t the real problem here, though—they’re just a cover doing all the work for him—what is is the fact that his parents have caught wind of this little charade now. Something he should’ve expected, but didn’t because he’s a fucking idiot. It’s not like they don’t watch the news. Especially his dad, who probably calls his mom over to the television every time Katsuki’s on it.

There had to have been some mention of rumors circulating on the news, if not the paper. It’s stupid for Katsuki to have hoped for some peace and quiet homewise, but for now all he can do is listen to the sound of his mom nagging immediately on pickup.

Who knows what bullshit she’s going to try and drag Shouto into. She’s just like Katsuki. She goes all in with everything, just like he does; he can already see her getting fucking attached.

“I’m just trying to keep him safe, Ma,” Katsuki grouses.

“From your mother, you brat?” Mitsuki huffs, the sound of her shifting the house phone from one ear to the other apparent as she grumbles, “Can’t believe this. What’d I ever do to make you so secretive?”

“I’m not—” Katsuki lets out an annoyed grunt, twisting his lip. Where the hell does she get off, pushing his buttons like this? “I’m not being secretive, and I just gave you a perfectly good fucking reason to keep it on the down-low.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“I just don’t want him getting into trouble with fans. You know how they get,” he tries.

“I guess that’s true,” his mom sighs. “Well, when do I get to meet him?”

“Uh, never.”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘never’?!”

“Never means never, obviously. Read a goddamn book!”

Their squabbling goes on and on, and even if it grates on his nerves, Katsuki realizes he almost misses it. Misses how his mom would entertain his rough-housing and still somehow make time to be tender because she knows he needs both.

But then he’s suddenly stricken by another, much softer voice over the phone and he’s reminded just how big of a sneaky bitch the woman he tore his way out of really is.

“Katsuki?”

Fuck. Using his dad as a secret weapon is a shitty-ass move on his mom’s part; screw whatever asshole deity gave her the astral knowledge of Katsuki’s soft spot.

“Hey, pops,” he greets with a quiet grumble.

“Congrats on making Number Two—again!” Masaru chuckles, and Katsuki’s lips twitch. “You and Izuku are neck and neck.”

“Tch. No freakin’ way,” Katsuki retorts. “I’m kicking his ass. He’ll have to train in his sleep to get on my level.”

“Of course, son. I expect nothing less,” comes another laugh. Gentle, with an audible smile, and proud. “Katsuki, about this boy...”

Groaning, Katsuki leans back until his head hits the wall behind him with a muted thump. “I knew she freakin’ got to you—tell her to learn better tricks!”

“You know your mother worries, Katsuki,” Masaru tells him in that fair (but not at all firm) voice of his. “It hurts her feelings when you don’t include her in your life, especially where a significant other is concerned. We should know about these things.”

Katsuki sighs, loud and long, guttural and huffy-puffy—so his dad knows just how goddamn exasperated he is.

“I’m glad you understand, son.” There’s a pause, and Katsuki’s eyes narrow, mouth opening slightly as he concentrates on listening to the muffled whispering in the background. He knows it’s his mother, there’s no denying it. “Oh, yes, okay,” Masaru whispers back, and Katsuki can practically hear him nod before he speaks up again. “I think you should bring this boy over for a visit sometime to make it up to her.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes with a scoff. “You think I didn’t hear her whispering to you? Backbone, old man!”

Masaru hums. “Regardless of whose idea it is, I think it would be nice, too. What do you say? For your old man.”

Katsuki twists his lips back and forth, wishing for a second that he wasn’t so goddamn easy.

“I’ll ask him, but that’s all you’re gettin’,” he relents.

“That’s all we can hope for.”

“Yeah, well, no guarantee.” Katsuki pauses before adding, loudly: “Ya heard that, hag?! NO GUARANTEE!”

The high-pitched nagging of his mother’s voice tries to screech its way into his ear, but he’s already turned the phone away. Genius.

—

“My fucking mother wants us to go visit her. She’s pissed because I haven’t told her we’re dating.”

Shouto leans back against the apartment door with a furrowed brow, having not been given the chance to do more than slip off his shoes before he was told the news. Katsuki gives him a moment to think, unable to focus on saying anything else once he notices Shouto’s feet sliding across the genkan.

The socks he’s wearing are fucking hideous: red, white, and royal blue patterned in the stripes of All Might’s Golden Age suit, complete with the former hero’s infamous bunny-eared bangs sewn into the sides. Katsuki gives them a scornful look.

“My family has been asking about you as well,” Shouto admits casually, drawing Katsuki’s eyes back to his own. “Mostly Fuyumi, since she’s always trying to keep up with all of us. Natsuo thinks it’s great and my father doesn’t care. At least, I don’t think he does.” His gaze veers off to the side. “I’m a little worried about Touya. He called asking about the article and seemed very... normal about it.”

Katsuki glides his teeth back and forth across his bottom lip, thinking. “If he’s so normal about it, what’s the problem?”

“Touya is overly protective of me. It’s kind of annoying. Him not saying anything just means that it’s coming.” Shouto pushes off the door, arms folded neatly, hands picking at the elbows of his sweater. “I’m really glad he’s in Osaka right now.”

Whatever that’s supposed to mean. Is Shouto worried about himself or Katsuki? Does he really think Ashen, all the way down the ranks at Number Four, is someone Dynamight should be the least bit intimidated by?

Tch. Like he’d ever be afraid of that pinholed punk.

“Fuckin’ great. Dinner plans with my parents, shovel talk from your goddamn brother,” Katsuki growls, but it’s dismissive. He’s more irritated than angry. “What’s next—Deku wanting to officiate our goddamn wedding?”

“It would only be fair, since we couldn’t both have him as our best man.”

Katsuki snorts. “You can have that shitty nerd. Eijirou’s my best man—has been since Yuuei.” Pausing suddenly, he snaps his gaze over at an amused Shouto, cheeks warming as he scoffs. “Shut the hell up. We’re not getting freakin’ married!”

“I didn’t say anything,” Shouto defends.

“You were this close to laughing, though, I could feel it.”

Katsuki pinches his thumb and index together.

“Maybe.”

“You asshole!”

Shouto does laugh then. Not loud and bright, but soft and low and so very him. It’s quick, just a few seconds long, but he sound of it splits Katsuki’s face into a half-cocked grin.

Their conversation is stupid, arguing over a future that’s imaginary at best, but just joking about something is enough to put him at ease over getting his parents involved in their scam.

“Don’t let my brother hear you call me names,” Shouto warns. Katsuki’s eyes zero in on his pink cheeks and the way he presses the knuckles of his fist against his lips to hide his amusement. “He’ll start complaining about how you treat me.”

Katsuki clicks his tongue.

“As if Ashen’ll be able to say two words to me about how I treat you,” he grates, nose wrinkling and bottom lip jutting. Shoving his hands onto his hips, Katsuki looks off to the side with a sniff. “I’ll be the best fucking boyfriend you’ve ever had. Let’s see if he’ll have anything to say then.”

Katsuki can barely see Shouto from the periphery, but he thinks he catches the beginnings of a smile.

“So, when are we going to see your parents?” he asks.

“What?”

“If we get that out of the way, it’ll be one less thing you have to stress about,” Shouto clarifies. “I’m free this weekend.”

Katsuki levels him with a stare, sighing when Shouto tilts his stupid, pretty head. “You actually wanna do this.”

“We can’t have you looking like a bad son.”

“They’re going to be fucking infuriating. They’re going to be annoying as fuck—do you really wanna deal with that?”

Shouto pretends to contemplate this, finger pressed into his stupid chin and everything. “From my experience, I tend to find that most parents treat strangers with more consideration than their own children, so I’m not exactly worried that I’ll be the one annoyed.”

Exhaling through his nose, Katsuki meets Shouto’s gaze before ultimately relenting. “She’s gonna wanna make your favorite things to impress you.”

“I like cold soba,” Shouto says almost immediately.

Katsuki puffs out a mirthful huff.

“Of course ya d—”

A quick one-two knock at the door shuts him up.

It’s quiet for a long moment. Katsuki stares down the peephole over one of Shouto’s shoulders, and by the way Shouto stiffens up and casts him a cautious look, he knows they’re thinking along the same line: who the hell could that be at this time?

Except, rationally, Katsuki thinks he knows exactly who it is.

Motioning for Shouto to scram with a cock of his head, Katsuki waits for him to hang back in the hallway before he moves to open the door. He doesn’t bother looking through the peephole and he doesn’t bother with a ‘who’s there’ because nobody can enter this building to sell shit and everyone he knows texts to make sure he’s home before dropping by.

Everyone except—

“Kacchan, I’m glad you’re home!” Fuckin’ Izuku. “I was in the area, down by the arcade, and thought I’d stop by—”

“I’m busy right now, nerd,” he interjects, swinging the door shut only for Izuku to stop it from closing with one of his hands and the help of his annoying ass super strength. “Back off!”

“But the new hero cards are out and I got us both a pack to open!”

“You guys still buy hero cards?”

The two of them pause, gazes snapping up to meet at the same time. Wide, green eyes drag to the spot just over Katsuki’s shoulder, and Katsuki knows exactly what they’re looking at the second a warm chest presses into his back.

Izuku lights up like the fucking sun.

“You guys are dating,” he exclaims, looking over the moon about the fact. Izuku barrels past Katsuki and into the living room, grabbing both of Shouto’s hands in his like they’re two middle school girls gushing in the hall. “I’m so happy for you!” And then his face twists into something like betrayal. Izuku turns to Katsuki with a frown. “Hey, wait—why didn’t either of you tell me?”

Katsuki clicks his tongue, kicking his door closed. “Because it isn’t anybody’s goddamn business!”

“I’m your best friend,” Izuku reminds him; then he lays eyes on Shouto, equally betrayed. “I’m your best friend!”

“I’m sorry, Izuku,” Shouto is quick to say, seemingly pained. “I would’ve told you sooner, but Katsuki wanted to keep it secret for a while.”

“Huh,” Izuku starts, bringing it all back to Katsuki. “Why? You love bragging about things.”

“I was tryin’ to keep him out the spotlight, dummy.” Katsuki glares through his explanation, not bothering to deny anything. He doesn’t feel like getting teased by Izuku and he guesses if there’s anyone worth bragging about, it would be someone as pretty as Shouto. Izuku still throws him an odd look despite the fact. “What? He’s a civilian and the fans are fucking ridiculous. They’re all over me as it is.”

That odd look morphs into a knowing smile—something small and barely sane, it’s not fooling anybody. Katsuki roll his eyes at the sight of it.

Shitty fucking Deku.

“You’re a good guy, Kacchan,” Izuku says jokingly, patting his shoulder. “I approve.”

Growling, Katsuki shrugs him off. “The fuck?! I don’t need your goddamn approval! Approve my freaking ass.”

“I approve of it,” Shouto says, and Izuku grins at him, laughing behind his teeth at Katsuki’s surprised squawk.

“Whatever,” Katsuki grumbles, wrinkling his nose. “We gonna open the card packs or what?”

“Oh, yeah.” Izuku lifts two card packs between them and Katsuki snatches one—carefully—from his hand. “I had to get them as soon as they came out. This edition sold out in minutes!”

Katsuki lifts a brow, eyes flickering down at the card pack. Gold foil, sharp words. They haven’t changed the packaging since his childhood. “Minutes, huh. What’s so special about this round?”

“We’re featured in them this time,” Izuku answers, freckled face flushing red. “I-uh—I heard, anyway. It would be cool if we got ones of ourselves.”

Katsuki keeps his expression level, but there’s a bloom of excitement spreading in his chest. It fills him up until he can barely breathe, but he quickly swallows it down. There’s no way he’s going to stand here Oh-My-Godding like Izuku over hero cards with their own fucking faces on them.

“Shocchan, you should open one with us!” Izuku says suddenly, turning his attention to Shouto. He unzips the Uravity fanny pack pulled tight around his waist, revealing dozens of brand new card packs, and Katsuki’s eyes blaze at the sheer audacity of him. Izuku bought the whole goddamn store for himself—he’s practically hoarding them.

“You ass! You were only gonna give me one?!” Katsuki shoves into Izuku’s space, pointing a crackling finger at him. “I should throw you out right now.”

“Hey, if you want more, buy your own!” Izuku grumps, swerving around Katsuki and offering a card pack to Shouto. He beams the second it’s taken from his hand. “That one’s lucky. I can feel it.”

Katsuki huffs out a sigh, rolling his eyes and shoving his empty fist into his pocket. “Whatever, let’s just get this over wi—hey. Get back here and take off your goddamn shoes, Deku! Just where do you think you are?!”

The three of them settle on the living room floor. Katsuki and Izuku are sitting cross-legged across from each other, and Shouto is content to bridge them together at Katsuki’s right. Their card packs glint between their hands in the soft lamplight.

“On three,” Katsuki orders, the perforated corner of shiny foil crinkling between his index finger and thumb. “One.”

“Two,” Izuku follows, practically vibrating.

Katsuki grins like a maniac, and it only grows bigger when he looks over at Shouto and sees him hyper-focused on his card pack—thumb and forefinger attached to one corner. His hand twitches slightly every half-second or so, dying to get on with it. It’s cute as hell, and Katsuki watches him squirm until Izuku nudges him impatiently with his foot beneath the table.

“Yeah, yeah—three!”

The sound of tearing foil is music to Katsuki’s ears.

“Hey, I got Lemillion!”

Katsuki snorts at Izuku’s delight. “More like Lame-illion.”

“That sucked, even for you. And Mirio’s Number One! He’s not lame at all,” Izuku rebukes, turning his half-hearted glare to the card in his hands. A smile splits his face and his eyes shine so bright they might as well be sparkling. “Oh, man. They got a really cool shot of him.”

“Whatever. I bet mine’s sweet as hell. Probably me, heh—hah?” Katsuki lips part, and he lets out an incredulous huff. Squinting his eyes, he glares down at his card to see Ashen’s annoying ass face staring up at him. “Fucking Todoroki?!”

Goddamn it. He was hoping to get one of their friends.

“Neat! Let me see his stats,” Izuku chimes in, pulling a pocket notebook and a pen from his fanny pack. “Ashen’s amazing. He always looks so cool—and his Quirk, Blueflame, is off the charts—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Katsuki sasses.

“He’s not that cool,” Shouto tacks on.

The bickering could go on—mostly because Katsuki refuses to acknowledge that there’s anything even a little cool about Shouto’s goddamn brother, and Izuku’s such a fucking fanboy that he’ll defend every other hero besides himself like his life depends on it. It only comes to an end before it starts because Izuku goes quiet all of a sudden. His eyes veer off for just a second before he looks back over at Katsuki, nodding in Shouto’s direction.

Following the motion, Katsuki notices Shouto sitting in silence at his end of the table. He’s got the card he unwrapped between his thumbs and a giddy smile on his face that he keeps mushing together and biting down on in an attempt to keep it from getting any bigger.

He looks so fucking happy. Swooning over some random hero’s card.

It’s contagious, Katsuki realizes; his own grin is halfway caught between his teeth, too.

“Who’d ya get, Sho?” Katsuki asks, ignoring Izuku’s pointed look.

Shouto’s mismatched eyes rise to meet his, pale pink lips curling slightly as he turns the card in his hand.

“Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight.”

Izuku throws his head back as he laughs, and Katsuki’s somewhere between bristling like a cat and puffing out his chest. Partly because he hasn’t been Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight in years and he still can’t get that fucking name to die, and partly because Shouto looks so proud of himself for getting to announce that he got Katsuki’s card in the first place that Katsuki can’t help but be a little proud, too.

Still.

“It’s just fucking Dynamight! Jesus, does everyone have to remind me?” Katsuki glares at Shouto from across the coffee table, mouth twisted in response to his shitty little smile. Putting out a hand, he sniffs once. “Give it up. We’ll trade.”

“No way.” Shouto pulls the card to his chest, frowning. “It’s mine.”

“What, so you’re telling me you’d rather have my card when your brother’s is right here?” Katsuki waves it between them.

“Yes. This is the one I wanted.”

Katsuki’s brain goes blank for a second.

“Seriously?” he asks; it sounds more surprised than anything.

“Seriously.”

Shouto’s gaze is something piercing, but Katsuki holds it until his face warms and he’s forced to look away.

“Fine, keep the stupid card,” he mutters. “Not like I wanted it anyway.”

“You did, but I’m sure there will be more packs for you to buy and open.”

Katsuki’s eyes flash. “You—”

Shouto laughs hard when Katsuki throws an arm around him and ruffles up his hair.

“I should get going. I’ve intruded enough as it is,” Izuku cuts in, smiling wide as he gets up from his spot on the floor. He looks like he’s floating on Cloud Nine, eyes shifting between Katsuki and Shouto and their hands all over each other as he carefully slides his Lemillion card into a sleeve he must’ve had hiding in his fanny pack. What a creep. “I’ll see you guys later. You’re coming over for lunch on Tuesday, right, Shocchan?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” Shouto says.

“Great!” Izuku beams, waving Shouto down when he moves to stand. “No! Don’t get up on my account. I can see myself out.”

“Izuku, it’s okay.”

Katsuki watches them bump shoulders all the way to the entrance hall with an eye roll, gaze landing on the hero card in his hand. Pushing himself off the floor, he walks over to his office, kicking open the cracked door and idling in front of his desk.

Opening the top left drawer, he’s momentarily stricken by the sight of Shouto’s cuddle service business card. Katsuki looks over it once before his gaze pans down to Ashen staring up at him from his hand—it’s almost funny how everything’s connected somehow. Ashen seems to agree, cocky grin shining behind the holographic topper across the surface of his card.

Scoffing, Katsuki adds it to his growing pile of useless pieces of cardstock, shutting it with a loud click.

He’ll deal with it later. Maybe he can sell it online or something—if anyone even likes stupid Todoroki to begin with.

They do, he reminds himself. Number Fucking Four, after all.

Number Fucking Four and dying to wring Katsuki’s neck by next week, he bets.

Idly, Katsuki wonders how the rest of their friends will react to him and Shouto ‘dating.’ Unlike Todoroki, they’d probably be beside themselves after nagging him about being single for so long—the nosy bitches. Ashido most of all; Katsuki just knows she’d be up his ass about Shouto every chance she got.

Izuku, well, Katsuki doesn’t even have to ask what he thinks. He’s fanboying over their relationship so hard, it’s sick.

He really is happy they’re ‘together,’ huh?

“Katsuki?” Shouto’s voice calls out.

“Hm?”

Shuffling feet come into view first, Shouto’s dumb All Might socks an eyesore against his plush, cream-colored carpet. Katsuki thinks to cut his gaze up to Shouto’s pretty face instead, but his eyes end up drawn to the Dynamight card being offered by his hand.

He stares down at its holographic shine, brows pinching.

“Will you sign it for me?” Shouto clarifies, answering the unasked question.

Katsuki’s head snaps up at that, his chest tightening uncomfortably. “You makin’ fun of me?”

“No,” comes the automatic, albeit wavering, response. Katsuki eases instantly, more concerned with Shouto’s sudden nervousness. “I would just really like it if you did.”

That simple answer curves Katsuki’s lips, closed and off to one side. He lets his eyes linger on Shouto for a moment more, waiting for him to smile back before taking the hero card and turning to grab a sharpie from one of the cups on his desk.

Katsuki pops off the cap with his thumb, admiring the card briefly before lifting his gaze. Shouto’s watching his hands carefully, looking a little less nervous and a little more excited by the second. It’s stupid and cute, and enough to get Katsuki excited about it, too.

“You want my autograph on this card,” he says, not quite convinced.

“It’s not so strange, is it?”

Maybe it isn’t.

Katsuki grins. “Got any requests?”

“Now you’re making fun of me,” Shouto mumbles, averting his gaze, cheeks dusted pink.

“Comes with the territory.”

Katsuki sweeps his signature across the card, signing it as prettily as he can without overthinking anything.

It looks perfect from the second he lifts his sharpie. Not a line out of place, just his name in glossy ink. Katsuki’s fucking taken with it—with the way just looking at his signature swooping over his badass costume makes him feel. It creeps up in his chest, a sensation he can only describe as light—in all forms of the word. He’s signed things before, he’s signed plenty of t-shirts and random polaroids, but this is different.

Katsuki’s never been to someone what All Might was to him way back then. Now that he is, he feels...

He just feels.

First one of these I’ll ever sign, Katsuki muses, bittersweet and proud. It’s kind of cool to be on a card that some little kid (and Shouto) is going to keep in their room and look at and admire because he’s their hero. The mental image of it slipped into a case and displayed on a mantle puts a pep in his step.

“It’s all yours,” he says, handing it back over before capping his pen. Katsuki’s blindsided by the way Shouto takes it in his hands ever so carefully, eyes gleaming and a small smile curving his mouth.

Even more so when that same expression is turned to him.

“Thank you, Katsuki.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon taking up space in Katsuki’s living room.

After signing Shouto’s Dynamight card, Katsuki hadn’t bothered with kicking him out and Shouto hadn’t made a move to leave either way. He’d stuck around for lunch—a quick noodle dish Katsuki could make in his sleep, at this point—and helped with the dishes before following Katsuki over to the couch where they’re sitting now.

The first thing Katsuki does once they’re settled is grab the book he’d started the night before off the sidetable.

It’s some queer-casted wartime romance (sue him for being fucking curious); pretty good, for the handful of chapters he’s gotten through so far. He idly mentions sometime halfway through the paragraph he’s reading now that Shouto’s free to grab a book, if he wants, but he seems content to play on his phone.

They don’t sit close and they don’t touch. They definitely don’t cuddle, Katsuki doesn’t have an appointment. But the silence shared is pleasant; it’s comfortable, like a warm blanket.

Shouto is still sitting curled up in the opposite corner twenty minutes later—phone off in his lap, eyes lidded, and looking sleepy. But he still lifts his head when Katsuki begins reading the next chapter aloud. Katsuki doesn’t mention it; doesn’t say a word about it when a drowsy, questioning look is turned his way. It’s purely for him, if there has to be a reason. If Shouto gets bored enough, he might want to watch TV, and Katsuki doesn’t like noise in the background while he’s reading—even if Shouto would agree to leave it off if he asked.

But what’s Shouto going to do then, stare at him? It doesn’t look like he brought his manga along today. He probably hadn’t expected to stay longer than a few minutes.

They sit through five or six chapters more. Shouto listening quietly at first, showing more intent when Katsuki starts doing different voices for each character. He doesn’t know what comes over him—why the fuck he even bothers doing something so goddamn stupid. But Shouto laughs at the nasally tone he chose for one of the squad leaders, so Katsuki thinks it’s got to be worth it.

He shuts the book at the close of chapter thirteen. It’s a decent place to stop.

Shouto looks contemplative where he sits, thumb curled under his chin and knuckles over his lips. Reaching out with his foot, Katsuki pokes at his thigh, leaving it flattened against Shouto’s leg even after he’s gotten his attention.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“Are they going to retake the Wall?” Shouto asks, frowning. “They haven’t been the most successful on their missions so far.”

“Hell if I know—I’ve never read this crap,” Katsuki answers with a shrug, setting the book down on the coffee table. “Maybe.”

“It’s not crap. I really like it,” comes a soft reply. Shouto’s hand drops to his lap, and he looks over at Katsuki with a soft hum. “I like the commander. He gives really good speeches.”

“Yeah, right. He’s got nothin’ on that cool ass captain that threatened to break his legs.”

“But he didn’t,” Shouto counters. “He’s kind of soft despite the way he talks. It reminds me of you.”

“Don’t even start with that kinda bullshit,” Katsuki says, but he still laughs as Shouto lists the reasons why that’s true.

Sometime later, after a long-winded debate over the predicted fate of the protagonist (who is a total loser, Katsuki doesn’t care what anyone says—the guy’s obsessed with a fucking basement), he throws on his leather jacket, grabs his keys, and walks Shouto out.

He tries not to feel disappointed that they’re splitting so soon, but Shouto can’t spend all day and night with him, and Katsuki has a few errands to run that should’ve been done sooner. It should fucking baffle him, now that he has a second to think about it, how much he wants Shouto to stay there on his couch. Watching TV or cuddling or reading with him. Even talking about nothing is nice.

Maybe he is going soft.

“Got your card?” Katsuki asks, locking the door.

“Yes.” Shouto smiles, close-lipped, but big, as he flashes his autographed Dynamight card.

They walk in comfortable silence all the way down the hall, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as they take the elevator to the lobby and head towards the entrance. Katsuki doesn’t know what makes him want to slow everything down, what makes him want to take drawn out, lazy steps that Shouto easily matches out of consideration—but he does it anyway.

Katsuki exhales softly through his nose, letting their arms brush with every movement as they step through the rotating doors and out under the awning. For once, he wishes he could just ignore the cameras. But they’re there, waiting for them in the bushes, hiding out in their cars. A bunch of extras with no fucking life trying to make money off his pictures.

Off their pictures.

Taking Shouto by the elbow, he stops him at the incline, deciding he might as well make a show of it.

“Katsuki?”

“It’s cold outside, take this.”

Shrugging off his leather jacket, Katsuki shakes it out once before reaching around Shouto and pulling it over his shoulders. It falls across his him smoothly, buries him in shades of black that contrast the pastel softness of his sweater.

Katsuki holds both sides of the zipper’s teeth as Shouto slides his arms into the sleeves, the corners of his lips twitching when a soft pink dusts across Shouto’s nose.

“You know I can regulate my body temperature,” he reasons, arguably late. “I don’t need—”

Shouto gives pause at the loud sound of a shutter click, looking off to the side with a calm blink.

“Oh.”

“Looks like the cat’s out of the fucking bag, huh?” Katsuki cringes at the sound of his own voice, loud enough for the paparazzi to hear, but a little overdone and heavy on the cheese. He pulls Shouto in by the collar of his jacket, tugs him in close with an arm around the waist (if just to hide the touch of embarrassment he feels), and shoves his face into the crook of his neck. It burns on contact, warms Katsuki’s cheeks to the very edge of what’s comfortable. “Screw cold, you feel hot as hell.”

Shouto swallows audibly, and the pinprick of something sharp and icy against Katsuki’s face makes him pull back with a chattering of his teeth.

It’s only by circumstance that they happen to be standing on an incline. Shouto’s a few centimeters taller, but right now they’re on equal ground. And the way he curls into Katsuki’s chest—the way he grabs on to the front of Katsuki’s shirt and clings...

Makes him look like he needs Katsuki, for once, and not the other way around.

Without much thought, Katsuki slides a hand beneath a white curtain of hair, guiding Shouto’s head foreward as he presses a soft kiss to his temple.

Shouto’s voice in his ear is soft and wondrous. “Katsuki?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he says, in the gentlest tone he’s used yet. “Just doin’ what feels natural.”

Shouto takes it for what it is, head finding home on his shoulder.

“Okay.”

Another click inevitably sullies the moment and, fucking naturally, Katsuki shoots them a graceful finger.

Chapter Text

—

They’re doing this.

Albeit two weeks later than they’d originally planned, but they’re fucking doing this.

Katsuki shoves his knuckles against his temple as he turns down the street where his parents live, his hands long past steering at ten and two. It’s more like right hand on five and the other attempting to slowly dig into his brain.

There’s music playing, and it’s not his usual playlist, but it’s tolerable enough. That is—despite being a total clusterfuck of every genre a person can think of. But Shouto likes it; it’s his playlist, connected via phone after he’d asked and Katsuki gave in to the anxious, childlike look in his eyes.

He must not be used to asking for what he wants and getting it. Or maybe he’s used to being given everything he wants and knows how to get it.

Either way, there’s no fucking way Katsuki could say ‘no’ to him, for whatever that’s worth.

Ever since Shouto’s become a fixed part of his life, Katsuki finds his resolve running more and more thin. And it’s not even that Shouto asks for much, it’s just that Katsuki wants to give to him. He knows he’s been through plenty himself, hell—Izuku and Eijirou and all of their friends from old Class 1-A have been through plenty of terrible and terrifying things.

But there’s something even more sad about Shouto’s life. Something that makes Katsuki feel for someone like Ashen despite things. Something that makes him want Shouto to live a lot more happily.

Heroes have villains, Katsuki knew that going in. But Shouto’s villain is someone who’s supposed to be family. And that must hurt like nothing else can.

It’s shitty.

Katsuki doesn’t want to be got wrong, though; he doesn’t pity Shouto in the slightest. Shouto’s proven that he’s damn strong all on his own. Katsuki just doesn’t know why he’s been going it alone all this time. Not to say that Izuku hasn’t helped him in some way; with all of Shouto’s over-sharing, Katsuki’s sure he’s come swarming to the rescue multiple times. But Katsuki also knows Izuku’s come to his rescue plenty, and he still feels plenty fucking alone.

So, he’s doing whatever the hell he wants to do where Shouto’s concerned.

A chipper tune bounces out of his speakers like colorful poprocks, and Katsuki rolls his eyes over to the passenger’s seat if just to keep whatever comment’s on the tip of his tongue to himself.

Shouto’s wearing his leather jacket. It’s hanging over a soft, white fit he’s got on—heavy and black and overshadowing the bright innocence of the entire look.

It does its job of leaving Katsuki in a stupor of silent wonder. And, thankfully, draws the eye away from Shouto’s Dynamight quarter-socks. They look so goddamn stupid, but Shouto refused to change out of them at Katsuki’s apartment. They’re his favorite pair, he’d said. They’re on brand. Whatever that means.

At least his mom’s going to get a kick out of it.

“We’re gonna be there soon. Remember what I told you?” Katsuki asks, tapping his steering wheel out of habit.

“We’ve been secretly dating for four months,” Shouto recounts.

“And?”

“Don’t let your mother egg me into teasing you because we’ll never stop.”

“Right, yeah. And what’s the most important part of all this?” Katsuki urges, looking over at a sourly unsure face. “C’mon, spit it out.”

Shouto pouts like a grumpy cat as he says: “Don’t mention Izuku.”

Katsuki nods, pleased as he slows to meet the residential speed limit.

“Tell me more about your parents,” Shouto requests after a long, quiet moment.

Katsuki shrugs. “Do you really need to know more? You can just ask them yourself.”

“I want you to talk about them. I want to know what parts of them you think are important.”

...Huh.

That’s kind of... well, it’s kind of nice, if Katsuki thinks about it. It’s been a while since he really thought about his parents as people with hobbies and a long list of things they love, shitty as it sounds. Shouto’s interest makes him ache a little; reminds him of when he was a little boy and his mom and dad were towering pillars he wanted to one day protect from crumbling.

Katsuki’s mind wanders to his dad. That oh-so-obvious love of fashion he has consumes his entire life. It’s all he thinks about—colors, fabric, sequins and beads.

His mom, though. The things she loves have always surprised Katsuki. They’re mom-like in nature because of course they are, but they’re all so calm in aura despite her relatively loud and brash demeanor. For some reason, he’d always thought screaming in front of a television suited her better than ceramics and farm animal manageries.

In a way, Katsuki can understand her. He’s just the same.

“My mom’s obsessed with fucking chickens and roosters—they’re all over the house. She says she likes the way they roost up with their eggs and make little purr-like sounds when they’re happy.” Katsuki shrugs. “My dad, well, he really likes clothes. So don’t be surprised if he talks about designing things for you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if he drew me an outfit. I wonder if he’d show me some of his designs—he’s got little sketchbooks in every drawer in your house, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve lost count of how many I’ve found just...” Wait a goddamn second— “How’d you know about those?”

“You spoke about it in an interview when they asked about your hero outfit. He’s got a bunch of little sketchbooks—color-coded, depending on who he’s drawing for—in every drawer in the house...”

Katsuki’s brows pinch as he listens to Shouto go on.

Perception and observation seem to come so intrinsically to Shouto. His eyes feel inescapable, like a circumambient deluge; like a black hole that gathers information in its vacuum. They pull everything in, and Shouto remembers it all, even if he doesn't always have the ability to fully grasp their implications and meanings. It’s amazing. And frustrating as hell, where Katsuki’s involved.

Way to make him feel like he’s the one who never pays attention.

He almost wishes he had more time to mull over the fact, but they pull into the driveway of his parents’ house just in time.

“Yeah.”

“I think I get your mom, too,” Shouto adds, as an afterthought. “I like cats.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes, a smile creasing his lips. “Oh, jeez. That’s not obvious at all.”

He brings the car to a stop, waving a hand at Shouto to let him take care of everything before he goes jumping out of the car. Not that it was necessary. Shouto doesn’t move from his seat until Katsuki rounds the hood and opens the door for him. Two-toned eyes blink up at him once and he steps out looking more nervous than he had the whole way over.

Shouto’s hands are fisted into his sweater, and as soon as Katsuki slams the car door shut, he turns around and uncurls them from the knit fabric.

“What’re you wringin’ your hands so much for? They’re just parents.”

“I haven’t always had good experiences with parents,” Shouto explains.

Katsuki feels a little stupid, speaking before thinking like that, but he takes one of Shouto’s hands and locks their fingers in his and hopes that makes up for it.

“Yeah, well, you just ain’t met ones like mine. They’re gonna love you too much. It’ll make you sick.”

Shouto’s head moves side to side in a soft, bouncing way. “How do you know?”

“Because they love freaking Deku and Eijirou way too fucking much—and if that’s the bar, you definitely don’t have anything to worry about.”

Shouto smiles a little, squeezing Katsuki’s hand. “Okay.”

Katsuki hisses through his teeth with an amused, crooked smile. “Yeah, now c’mon before Ma starts looking through the windows to see if we’re here yet.”

Nodding, Katsuki pulls Shouto up to the door, ringing the bell to cut back on whatever anxiety he might be having (pulling off the bandaid, scab and all, has always worked for Katsuki). His mom’s the one who opens it.

“Damn,” Mitsuki comments with a low whistle. “You’re a looker, ain’tcha?”

“Ma,” Katsuki grouses, already irritated.

“What? It’s a compliment,” she says.

Katsuki takes Shouto by the arm.

“C’mon, Sho, we’re leavin’,” he mutters, tugging Shouto back along the driveway. “Fuckin’ terrible idea.”

“Hey, get your butt back here!” Mitsuki calls. Only the murmur of the next few words she mutters can be heard over the sound of Katsuki’s stomping footsteps. “The actual nerve of this goddamn kid.”

It’s Shouto who nearly gets him to stop, reluctantly tugging on Katsuki’s hand.

“Katsuki, I don’t want to leave,” he says in a whisper. “We just got here.”

“Weren’t you just freaking out about this? Relax, we’re not going anywhere,” Katsuki replies, though he still proceeds to shove Shouto into the passenger’s seat and buckle his seatbelt, slamming the door before stomping over to drop into his own side. “Let her squirm for a little bit. It serves her right.”

When Shouto doesn’t respond, Katsuki looks over to find him thinking quietly. Noticing him staring, Shouto averts his gaze. Odd, since his entire schtick is unnecessary, buggy eye contact. Katsuki’s inquisitiveness must show on his face, because one of those delicate hands reaches up to tuck a few long, wayward strands behind a pale ear.

“You called me ‘Sho’ again,” Shouto mentions idly.

Katsuki’s shoulders lock up, and he turns to watch his mother bitching from the doorway, making sure not to look back at Shouto no matter what he does. “Whatever, I’ll just call you by your stupid name if you don’t like it.”

“I do like it. I never said I didn’t.”

Mitsuki knocks at the window before Katsuki can answer; he rolls it down.

“I’m gonna kill you, brat!”

Katsuki rolls it back up just to hear her squawk.

“Come on, I haven’t seen you in a while,” she follows with defeated sigh.

Katsuki doesn’t hold back his smug grin, content to let her cave in like a salted snail until she underhandedly adds:

“Don’t be an ass and come have dinner before I tell your dad you decided to flake.”

He grinds his teeth at that. She always likes to use his dad against him. And it always works because Katsuki’s so goddamn soft on him.

Who wouldn’t be? Old man looks fragile as hell these days.

“Fine, but only because we already drove all the way over here,” Katsuki relents.

Mitsuki beams.

It’s comical, how quickly she gets them out of the car and ushered into the house. They’re in the foyer before Katsuki can even blink. Mitsuki closes and locks the door behind them—like they’re actually going to leave now that they’ve burned through all that gas—and turns to Shouto to finally introduce herself like a normal person while they remove their shoes.

“Bakugou Mitsuki,” she says, thumb pointing to her chest. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

“Todoroki Shouto,” Shouto greets in turn, bowing deep. “Nice to meet you, Bakugou-san.”

“We’ve got another polite one on our hands, huh? That seems to be the usual with the company this one keeps, thankfully,” Mitsuki says, smile still a million-watt. “Do us both a favor and call me Mitsuki, okay?”

“Oh. Call me Shouto, then,” comes the quiet compromise, and Katsuki squeezes Shouto’s hand in his once and then, twice. Shouto squeezes right back, and Katsuki allows himself a sideways smile. “Katsuki’s told me a lot about you.”

Oh, fuck.

“Has he? Hopefully semi-decent things.”

“He says all the nicest things when no one’s looking.”

“Jesus, fuck.” Katsuki snatches his hand away, keeping it out of Shouto’s grabbing reach as he turns into the hall. “Where’s dad? Hey, old man!”

“Right here, Katsuki!” Comfort comes in the form of his father, stepping into view wearing one of those stupid, obscene character aprons his mother buys and never wears. This is the only guy I can trust around here, Katsuki thinks, being given the warmest hug he’s received in months. “You feel taller. Have you grown?”

“I stopped growin’ ages ago, ya know,” Katsuki reminds him, sinking into the hug anyway. “You need to get your, uh, feelings checked.”

“Maybe I’m just getting shorter. Have you thought about that?” Masaru says in a teasing tone that’s supposed to be funny. It’s not, but Katsuki still laughs.

“Shut up.”

Masaru pats his shoulder as he steps back, and turns his attention to Katsuki’s right where Shouto’s suddenly standing.

“Ah—and this must be Shouto,” he greets, opening his arms and heading straight for him. “Come on, now. Don’t be shy.”

Shouto looks surprised, but still allows the hug. It lasts for a much shorter amount of time than the one Masaru gave Katsuki, for Shouto’s comfort of course.

When they break apart, Shouto bows, a little red-eared. “Hello, Bakugou-san.”

He looks slightly unsettled. Katsuki figures that maybe he’s overwhelmed. Masaru seems to pick up on that, and quickly segues into something other than his overly-warm greeting.

“Hope you like soba—Mitsuki went all out with the sides,” he goes with a smile.

“Sides?” Shouto perks up. “I love soba.”

“Do you now? That’s a pretty wonderful coincidence.”

Katsuki scoffs. “Quit actin’ like I didn’t give you a list of shit to make.”

“You gave them a list?” Shouto asks, turning to him with a twitching, upturned mouth. It purses, making him look like he just happily bit into a lemon.

“Yeah? What—was I supposed to let them make a bunch of crap you don’t like?”

“I think you earned yourself big points with that one,” Masaru comments, all too pleasantly.

Katsuki looks between Masaru and Shouto, both mirroring each other’s expressions now, and shoves the heel of his hand into his eye with a sigh. “Ugh.”

Thankfully, Masaru goes off and begins getting the odds and ends of their dinner together. He’s always in charge of this part—Mitsuki starts cooking and he finishes. It’s been that way as long as he can remember.

Katsuki thinks his mom’s just being lazy, but she claims there’s something romantic about a guy who’s willing to clean up her messes.

...Maybe there’s something to that, but Katsuki’s not ready to admit it.

Shouto hangs around Masaru, watching him garnish with quiet wonder. Masaru fills the silence by asking about Shouto’s day, and Shouto eyes the dishes in front of him like they’re going to disappear if he looks away while answering.

Curiously, he asks about the odd way Masaru sets up the sharing plates.

“I like to plate everything in a way that makes it easier for everyone to avoid or enjoy food they don’t and do like. Some dishes might appear twice—which is unnecessary now, but when Katsuki was younger, he hated certain things to touch or be near something he didn’t like even if they weren’t on the same plate. Now, it’s just a habit. That’s why there are so many dishes,” Masaru rattles off.

“So complicated. You’re making more work for yourself than you need to,” Katsuki comments.

“It’s not complicated, it’s considerate. And I don’t mind,” Masaru chides. And then, to Shouto: “How do you like to eat?”

Shouto answers automatically. “In the order from least to most favorite. I think it’s nicer to save the best for last.”

“I agree. The best of things should be savored.”

Shouto awkwardly phases out of the conversation after that. Masaru’s questions are still answered, but in a more subdued tone—less words. He starts playing with his hands more. Eyes moving from one side of the room to the next periodically. Katsuki zeroes in on his behavior and attempts to smoothly pull him aside.

“What is it?” Katsuki asks in a whisper. “The old man tirin’ you out? He never shuts up when he meets new people.”

Shouto shakes his head. “Not tiring. He’s just... different.”

“Yeah, he talks about normal shit in a weird way all the time. Kinda reminds me of you—”

“No, it’s just...” Shouto pauses, thinking something over. “I thought all fathers were supposed to be tough as nails.”

Katsuki snorts. “Yeah, well mine’s soft as a fucking marshmallow, so have at him.”

Shouto makes a small noise at the back of his throat that sounds like it could’ve been a laugh if he let it out. It makes Katsuki crack a smile, but he better not be repressing anything with those kinds of actions. Katsuki knows what his laugh really sounds like; he should let it out all the time, as much as possible. Not that Katsuki would be angry with him either way.

Honestly, he’s not sure how he’d expected Shouto to act.

Without even thinking about it, he’s in Shouto’s space. Shoves his chest against the side of Shouto’s arm like it’s supposed to do anything to comfort him.

“Aww, look at you—pretending to be sweet and comforting,” Mitsuki picks, pinching Katsuki’s cheek as she passes by to get to the dinnerware cabinets.

Before Katsuki can gripe back, Shouto’s at his rescue. Though it hardly sounds that way. “He is. Katsuki is always nice to me. He even lets me listen to my music in the car.”

Mitsuki tuts. “The bare minimum. Don’t let that be all that makes you happy. Get him to work for it.”

“What should I make him do?” Shouto asks. And then, answering his own question: “Cold soba for breakfast?”

Katsuki smacks a hand down on the kitchen island. “Ain’t no way in hell you’re eating that shit first thing in the morning.”

“It’s good for you,” Shouto protests.

“Not twenty-four seven!”

“It could be. It’s buckwheat. Buckwheat is healthy.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of ‘too much of a good thing’?”

“Are you saying I should put you away?”

Katsuki huffs, but doesn’t entertain that. Figures Shouto’s most comfortable teasing him—just like Katsuki told him not to do.

He should’ve expected it, but more than that, he should’ve known he’d let it slide. It seems to be a defense mechanism, anyway. One he’ll have to tear away with his bare hands when he gets the chance. Shouto shouldn’t have to defend himself against anything, especially where Katsuki is concerned.

Mitsuki laughs lightly at the joke, and Katsuki narrows his eyes.

Whatever that was sounded fake as hell. She cackles like a fucking witch and she knows it.

“Give it to me straight, kid, he good in the sack or something? I know he didn’t win you over with that personality,” Mitsuki jokes.

“Ma,” Katsuki warns, already exhausted with this visit.

She leans forward over the counter the very next second, a threatening glare directed at Shouto—every bit Katsuki as Katsuki’s every bit her. “You’re not with him just because he’s a big-shot hero, are ya? Because that would be a real problem.”

“Ma! Leave him the hell alone, jesus.”

“He’s a guest, Mitsuki,” Masaru says calmly, setting a gentle hand on her shoulder. She purses her lips in return, but otherwise remains compliant—and Katsuki swears his dad’s Quirk has nothing to do with crackling hand tricks and everything to do with shutting his mother up. “We shouldn’t overwhelm him with our excitement.”

Mitsuki sighs, somewhat impatiently, but relents easy. “Fine,” she says, reaching over to tug on the front of Katsuki’s shirt. “Come on brat. Help your mother set the table.”

“I know plenty of heroes.”

Mitsuki stops in her tracks, and Katsuki’s whiplashed—collar to neck. He coughs twice, prying her fingers from his shirt. She holds strong, the old hag. And across the room, Shouto’s looking right at him. And it’s more than a little fucked up that he doesn’t look the least bit concerned.

Instead, he looks over to Mitsuki. Bastard.

“I know plenty of heroes, and my father and brother are heroes themselves. Katsuki’s occupation doesn’t really matter to me,” Shouto says calmly. “And his personality is”—he shrugs, a smile curving his lips, it’s so fucking insufferable—“alright. All things considered.”

Mitsuki smiles and proceeds to pull Katsuki away, satisfied—though he swears he heard Shouto say something after that makes his dad sputter. He has to remember to ask him what it was later.

Mitsuki leads him into the dining room, releasing him one minute just to shove a stack of plates into his hands the next. Katsuki begins setting the table like a pro, adjusting his mom’s silverware and chopstick placement behind her here and there. Just to grate her nerves.

She takes it like a champ, and he quits when he realizes he’s not getting the reaction he wants. They end up working companionably instead.

Mitsuki takes the opportunity to start with smalltalk.

“He seems like a nice boy,” Mitsuki comments.

“Man. We’re almost thirty, you old crone.” Katsuki slams down a pair of fancy chopsticks. “And weren’t you just tryin’ to shovel talk him?”

“There’s no reason to get so mad about it. He said all the right things, didn’t he?”

He did, no coaching required. Katsuki probably should’ve had more faith. Shouto’s just as dedicated to keeping up the charade as he is. And by the looks of it, it’s enough to make his mom perfectly happy. She even brought out the fancy stuff for Shouto; they’re setting the table with this dinner set she and Inko got from their very first out-of-country trip together. She almost never uses them without the promise of fucking grandma or God coming over.

“Yeah. Just,” Katsuki begins, in a moment of honest compassion, “don’t make him too uncomfortable.”

Mitsuki looks like she’s going to protest, but he makes it just in time.

“I’m not talkin’ about jokes or anything. Be your old, haggy self, okay? Just—don’t talk about his family.”

His mom keeps quiet, like she’s contemplating it, but Katsuki can tell she understands. She was there, too—when everything about Endeavor was aired out on the news. It’s not like she doesn’t know Shouto’s a Todoroki.

Still, he feels better when she nods.

“You got it,” Mitsuki promises. And then, as an afterthought: “So, what’s with those socks?”

“I fucking know, right?”

Come dinner, things become... pleasantly hectic, if that’s even a proper way to describe it.

The table’s overflowing with food and Masaru and Shouto take their seats on opposite sides as Mitsuki and Katsuki fight over who’s sitting next to whom. Mitsuki’s a little quicker on the draw and takes the seat next to Shouto with a smug look.

“Get outta my chair,” Katsuki demands.

“My house, my chair,” Mitsuki argues, sticking her tongue out at him.

With an annoyed growl, Katsuki grabs the chair at his father’s side, dragging it to the head of the table between him and Shouto. Mitsuki looks particularly miffed, but doesn’t say a word to stop him.

Shouto himself appears awfully frosty, sitting in the middle of it all. He’s red-cheeked and giving off a slight chill—like he’s embarrassed. Like he’s never had people fight over him before. Which is crazy to fucking think about. With those looks, people should be breaking down the door. There’s got to be something more to that. Or maybe Katsuki’s just overthinking things and Shouto’s always been shy to attention.

Yeah, must be.

Either way, Katsuki gets his seat next to the guest of honor. And without further ado, they tuck in. No grace.

The conversation starts naturally and everything falls into place. Shouto politely answers any question he’s asked, even ones that are oddly prying, with ease and honestly. Or, well, as honest as he can be, where Katsuki’s involved. Shouto asks his own questions about Mitsuki’s job and takes a special interest in Masaru being a fashion designer, of course. He promises Shouto that he’ll show him a book or two, and just like Katsuki had said before, he’s automatically keen on designing something Shouto will like.

Which means that it’s something he’ll want Shouto to wear.

As he should, Katsuki thinks. His dad’s designs are awesome. After all, he’s the one who makes the sketches for all of Katsuki’s new hero suits.

‘Nuff said.

The conversation lulls on like that, calm and cheerful and revealing in the attempt to get to know each other. It’s only after a rare silence that anyone speaks up with the intention of derailing the topic over to something less desirable.

“So,” Mitsuki begins, completely obvious, “I saw on the news that your old schoolmates are getting married soon. What are their names—Sun Drop and Lemon-Something?”

“Hah?” Katsuki’s mouth drops open. He twists it in confusion.

“Oh, you mean Lemillion and Suneater,” Shouto pipes in, shrugging at Katsuki when their eyes suddenly meet. “Hanta told me over the phone a couple of weeks ago.”

Wha—Hanta?

“That’s right,” Mitsuki confirms before Katsuki can even unpack the fact that Shouto and Soy Sauce Face are friends like that. She sniffs lightly. Purses her lips. Narrows her eyes. Looks over at Katsuki, and then at Shouto, while shifting them back and forth.

Katsuki sighs heavy, setting down his chopsticks.

“Goddammit, are we really doing this now? We haven’t been dating that long, ya know!”

Mitsuki scoffs. “Well, it’s not like you’re getting any younger—”

“Says the wrinkly hag!”

“Katsuki.” He looks over to see Shouto frowning at him. “Don’t be rude.”

Katsuki squawks in betrayal as his mother cackles in the background.

He’s gonna get it when they’re back in the car.

Anyway, who cares about Toogata and Amajiki? What do they have to do with anything? They’re getting married? They’re dating? What’s Katsuki supposed to know about it? He doesn’t keep up with them.

Still...

“I’m just sayin’,” Mitsuki continues. “There’s no rush, but. It’d be nice if that’s what you’re going for. Dating for marriage.”

“For happiness,” Masaru adds.

Katsuki is thoughtful about it for a moment, provoked by his mom and dad. But what surprises him most isn’t that he’s thinking about it. It’s when Shouto, blushing and grazing his chopsticks along the edge of his plate, goes:

“Maybe.”

The four of them spend the rest of the evening in the living room of Katsuki’s childhood home. Masaru had rushed through cleanup and herded them over to the sofa and chairs like cattle—not content until they were all seated.

“Just for more comfortable conversation,” he explains. But Katsuki has a feeling it’s for a different reason entirely.

They do talk, though. And he guesses that’s what matters. They talk about work (both mundane and heroic) and plans for the next few weeks (which, for Katsuki, only involves heroics)—and pastimes and new interests and damn near everything in between.

His mom is meeting with her friends for a book club once a month now. His dad is guest-appearing at Yuuei to talk to the support kids about the fashion side of hero costume designing. Good for them, Katsuki thinks, that their life has finally returned to normal after ten painstaking years of being known as the parents of the hero that died during the war.

With that on his mind and despite everything, Katsuki makes it seem like nothing’s changed with him. Even though everything has.

Taking a step back after his short turn, he listens quietly as Shouto becomes the center of his parents’ attention.

Shouto discusses his job, his brother, and cats—in that order, much to Katsuki’s chagrin. Masaru and Mitsuki are all over him like they’re the proud mom and dad and he’s the son. They’re impressed with Shouto, Katsuki can tell. And they should be. He’d never choose to date anyone who couldn’t keep up with him.

Or fake-date. Since that’s what they’re doing.

He doesn’t have much time to play the proud boyfriend, though, because Shouto moves on from the topic of himself to the topic of heroes. Katsuki delights at that, at first, but it quickly dissolves into Shouto talking about his plans to hang with Izuku. The entire conversation shifts from there, and Mitsuki starts telling annoying stories from Katsuki’s childhood.

“Isn’t that sweet?”

“What did you say?” Katsuki huffs, only hearing the backend of the conversation.

Then, as if Shouto’s the one who’d asked, Mitsuki looks at him pointedly as she repeats:

“He’d always ask for two of everything just so he could give one to Izuku. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Do we have to talk about freakin’ Deku right now? You know I only wanted two because there was no way I was sharing half of my shit with that idiot,” Katsuki gripes, arms crossed.

“C’mon, you guys are best friends,” Mitsuki chides.

“Eijirou’s my best friend.”

“You can have two best friends,” she counters.

“Shouto’s the other one,” Katsuki adds. He wants to say you can’t have two fucking best friends—that’s something only uncertain losers like Izuku would say to make everyone feel better—but he actually can’t. He’s not a liar.

And he guesses it’s fine that he said it at all because Shouto looks at him with the brightest smile anyone would ever see, coming from a Todoroki.

Suddenly, Katsuki lets himself think that maybe Shouto deserves the title.

“Okay, I’ll let it slide,” Mitsuki says with a smile. She looks over at Masaru digging into the end table drawer and plucking up the remote. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, it’s almost time for my program,” Masaru frets. Mitsuki smacks his shoulder lightly.

“We’ve got company over, papa.”

“Oh, but I’m sure they won’t mind a little background noise. Right, kids?”

“I don’t mind,” Shouto says quickly. Katsuki should’ve figured with how much television they watch at his apartment. “What are we watching?”

“I’ve been into the newest season of Conspiracy Theory, actually,” Masaru admits.

Oh, fucking hell.

Katsuki’s displeasure must be showing on his face because Mitsuki pats his knee sympathetically.

“I know. I’m so tired of hearing about what the government is hiding from us. It’s outrageous.”

“Of course conspiracy theories seem outrageous—they’re meant to be,” Masaru points out.

“They’re trying to deter us from the truth!” Shouto’s wide-eyed outburst is accompanied by his near-tangible excitement. He looks from Masaru to Mitsuki to Katsuki where silence follows, hands curled into fists in his lap. “I love Conspiracy Theory,” he mentions, even more determined.

“Exactly! Now here’s someone who knows how to live,” Masaru tells Mitsuki, thumb thrown back at Shouto.

Katsuki groans when he notices Shouto’s mouth falling open and his face lighting up. It’s like he found his freaking soulmate or something. Only further proving his point when the two of them start rambling off excitedly about the latest episode of their dumb show and fangirling over Theo Rhee.

But, as it begins—Masaru going off on tangents for every episode Shouto mentions and Shouto listening attentively and asking questions—Katsuki sees his mom watching on with a gentle look.

Content.

Katsuki had never imagined it before, just how well Shouto meeting his family would go. Not that he ever thought it would end badly. Shouto’s polite as hell. So straightforward, it’s charming. Insightful to the point of intrigue. Of course Katsuki’s parents would love him.

He watches his mom grow softer by the minute. She sinks into her seat, rests her chin in her palm, and enjoys as Masaru and Shouto talk animatedly.

Katsuki wonders if that’s the same look he’s wearing on his face. If his smile is mirrored in hers. If his chin meeting his palm means the same thing hers does.

His eyes wander to Shouto and his small, twitching smile and bright eyes.

Katsuki gets it. It’s nice.

How well Shouto fits within his family.

“You fucking traitor! You’re supposed to be on my side.” Katsuki turns on the car with a growl. “‘Don’t be rude’—what the hell?! I’m never gonna hear the end of that. She’s gonna bring it up until the day she fucking dies.”

“But she made all my favorite foods,” Shouto argues, brows pinching as he looks out the window, arms crossed over his chest. Has he always been such a goddamn brat? “The cold soba was really good.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Katsuki huffs, keeping his eyes on the rear-view mirror as he backs out of his parents’ driveway. “Not as good as what I can make, that’s for goddamn sure.”

“I’m not so certain of that... I don’t think I’ve had soba as good as your mom’s in a while.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, we’ll see about that,” Katsuki mutters, taking that challenge to heart. If Shouto wants the greatest fucking cold soba he’s ever had in his stupid little life, then Katsuki’s going to give it to him. “My mom doesn’t even like to cook.”

“Ah, that’s even more impressive then,” Shouto goads.

Katsuki tightens his grip on the wheel, driving furiously. But safely—because he doesn’t do that reckless shit. He’s... furiously safe.

Shouto doesn’t seem to care how he drives. He’s too busy looking smug at Katsuki’s expense.

By the time they’re halfway to Shouto’s apartment, Katsuki’s mostly calmed down. He’s resumed his normal cruising position and is no longer impatiently tapping his fingers against the steering wheel at stoplights.

“Hey,” he says, after a while. “Thanks for doing all this, ya know. My parents—well, my ma can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

“It’s only because she cares, right?” Shouto’s voice is light, and when Katsuki takes a quick peek at the passenger’s side, he’s quietly focused on the street ahead of them. “And you’re a pain in the ass, sometimes. It’s nothing new to me.”

“Shut the hell up, asshole.”

“Did you mean it?” Shouto asks, all of a sudden. “When you said I’m your best friend.”

“Why the hell would I lie?” Katsuki tsks.

Before he knows it, Katsuki’s shivering. He checks the dials on the dash and sees that he’s got the heat cranked up, but it’s still cold as hell. Nervous and remembering Shouto freezing up outside of his apartment complex, he looks over to find him smiling to himself as he watches the trees go by.

All the while frost is fogging up his windshield.

Relaxing, Katsuki loosens the reflexive grip he has on his steering wheel. Shouto’s okay, then—smiling of all things. This is... content ice. Or something.

“Oi,” he begins, humored and just on the edge of soft, “heat’s on but it’s fuckin’ freezin’ in here.”

Shouto sits up in the passenger’s seat, the temperature of the car growing a touch colder before a rush of warmth radiates from him in billowing waves.

“Oops,” he says, almost sheepish.

Katsuki, who’s got an eye on him from the periphery, only laughs.

They arrive at Shouto’s apartment complex in good time. The building is a soft cream color with a much more homely exterior suited for residential areas. Katsuki pulls into the semi-circular driveway that serves as a drop-off beneath a vine-wrapped archway and notes the popcorn texture of the building’s paint.

He doesn’t have much time to think about what the inside looks like; Shouto’s door clicks open and he’s getting ready to leave, leather jacket and all.

“I can’t wait to try the soba you make me,” he states, all too politely. The bastard.

It isn’t like Katsuki’s not going to make it for him eventually.

“Hey,” he starts, on an entirely new note. He grabs Shouto’s wrist just before he gets out of the car, thumb smoothing across black leather, “you ever gonna give this back?”

“Maybe,” Shouto answers with some nerve, pulling his hand back to tug the jacket more tightly around himself. And then, as if he’s got the upperhand in all this, “Maybe we can trade for something new.”

Whatever, Katsuki thinks. He can keep the fucking jacket. Dynamight could buy one for every week of the year if he wanted to.

Besides, it looks better on Shouto anyway.

—

“Oi, put it back.”

“One second, I’m looking at something.”

“You’re supposed to be doing the job I’m paying you for,” Katsuki gripes, grabbing Shouto’s extended arm by the elbow and pulling it back to drape over his side. Shouto quickly slides his phone from that hand to the one attached to the arm pillowing Katsuki’s head, and Katsuki follows it with a crackling finger, the sparks threatening to [bust] it into a thousand little pieces.

Shouto huffs, amused. It’s annoying as hell.

“If only people knew just how needy Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight actually is,” he says.

“Shut your trap—I’ll kill you. And give me that.” Katsuki snatches Shouto’s phone, squinting down at the paused video. Upon tapping the screen, he’s immediately assaulted by bubbly pop music and photos of his own face dancing across the screen to the beat. He pauses it almost immediately, scowling. “You’re doing a shitty job cuddling because you’re watching fancams?”

“We’re always watching things on my phone while I’m here,” Shouto points out. “And I like fancams.”

“They’re stupid.”

“They’re creative.”

“Whatever.” Katsuki keeps Shouto’s phone, scrolling through the fancams and reels on the For You page until something catches his eye. It’s a reel highlighting recent tabloid articles—and they’ve got Katsuki and Shouto’s names written all over them. He clicks on one of the links in the caption. The title has him frowning. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Shouto asks.

“It’s us.” Katsuki sighs through his teeth, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He pulls a hand down his jaw, leaning back against Shouto’s hip. “They’re talkin’ about our fake dating stunt.”

“It’s working,” Shouto says, none the wiser. “Nobody even considers that I’m here for anything other than because we’re dating.”

“If it’s working so well, what the hell is this?”

Katsuki leans over Shouto’s side, turning the phone so they can both easily see the screen as he clicks back onto the most recent reel he’d been viewing. Unmuting it, the mousy face of a teenage girl pops up front and center. She dives right into the ‘requested topic of the day,’ introducing a slew of recent news articles questioning the legitimacy of Pro Hero Dynamight’s new relationship, and gives what he’s sure is a practiced explanation on why they must be true in the form of a bullet-pointed list that appears on screen.

It has hundreds of thousands of likes and even more views.

Reaching up, Shouto’s hand wraps around Katsuki’s holding his phone. He clicks on the speech bubble off to the side, scrolling through dozens of raging fan comments with a pinch in his brow.

“If it’s not one thing it’s a-fucking-nother,” Katsuki complains, zeroing in on a ‘Dynamight’s hiding behind a publicity stunt’ headline; his lips curl into an irritated frown.

“So, it’s not working as well as we thought,” Shouto hums, looking over at Katsuki once he’s no longer able to load anymore pages. “We could make a public statement. That would probably mellow things out for the while.”

Katsuki considers it for a moment.

“People need to be convinced we’re together, right?” He clicks the phone’s side button and sets it on the coffee table. “Then we should go out. It looks a little weird if all we do is hang out at my apartment.”

“Are we going on a date?” Shouto asks, voice wavering with something indiscernable.

“If that’s what you want,” Katsuki answers nonchalantly, watching Shouto’s lips pull into his mouth as he smiles and his fingers tighten over the curve of his knee. His right side is cold against Katsuki’s left. “What’re you getting all worked up for? It’s just a date.”

“I’ve only been on a couple,” Shouto admits. “And they were all firsts, so they were never the most comfortable. It’s not easy, getting to know someone.”

“It’s not like this one isn’t a first, ya know.”

“Yeah, but we’re already together so I know you. I know the time I spend with you will be fun no matter what we’re doing.”

Katsuki refrains from looking into that. Sure, he knows of four particular people who usually describe the time they spend with him as ‘fun,’—even if Katsuki knows that isn’t always true—but these are Shouto’s words and Shouto’s expectations. He doesn’t want to start thinking that Shouto’s saying it just to be nice, and he doesn’t want to worry about letting him down.

Still, Shouto ‘knowing’ that he’ll have a good time with Katsuki no matter what is an occupying thought.

“You’re damn right,” Katsuki huffs, reaching up to rub at the back of his ear where it’s gone red.

If he’s being fucking frank with himself, Katsuki hasn’t really ever been on a date before. He’s had his fair share of encounters—nobody gives a shit about a one-night stand—but he’s never put himself out there with the intention of actually taking someone out and dating them. The whole idea of bringing Shouto to a public place and showing him a good time puts him on edge. He doesn’t know much of what he likes and if he has to sit and overthink it, it’s not going to turn out as well as he wants without those kinds of details.

Katsuki doesn’t want to settle for a date that’s anything less than perfect, even if it’s fake.

What’s the point of going all-in on this charade if he can’t blow all of Shouto’s previous dates out of the fucking water?

Leaning back, Katsuki sits wide and lets his masterfully confident body language take over. It’s easier talking about shit like this when he knows he looks the part.

Cutting his gaze to Shouto, he pulls a one-sided grin.

“If you could go on a date anywhere, where would it be?”

“I can’t believe, of all the places we could go, you wanted to have lunch at some cheap cat cafe.”

“At a cat cafe, there are cats,” Shouto informs, like it isn’t fucking obvious. “That makes the experience invaluable, actually.”

Katsuki snorts, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, alright, grandma.”

Once they arrive, Katsuki swerves around Shouto to open the door for him—because he’s a fucking gentleman—and quickly comes to the conclusion that he’s never seen as many cats in his life than he has in this one tiny little cat cafe.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

The place is neatly decorated, polished wooden furniture and forest-like colors making for a pleasant atmosphere. Katsuki half-believed there would be nothing but pastels as far as the eye could see, but he’s glad to know he was wrong.

He turns to tell Shouto just that—he’s not above admitting it, damn it—but the sight he’s met with doesn’t give his mouth much of a fighting chance.

Shouto’s smiling. But it’s different from all the ones Katsuki’s seen. Shouto’s smiles are always small and even the brightest he’s witnessed, days ago at his parents’ house, was beaming but close-lipped. This one is wide and displaying perfect rows of pearly teeth, it’s bordered by soft, pink cheeks. It’s shining, but not blindingly, so Katsuki has a front row seat to the single dimple on the right side of his grin.

He looks really, truly happy.

Katsuki’s never seen anything quite so beautiful before.

And it appeared over fucking cats, of all things.

There’s a tug on his hand and all of a sudden Shouto’s pulling him forward.

“Hurry. We should order and then find a good seat,” Shouto urges him, right hand dropping a few noticeable degrees as he tugs Katsuki to the back of the line at the counter. “I want to sit by the munchkins.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” Katsuki mocks, adding a muttered “Freakin’ munchkins” to the end because he simply can’t help himself.

Shouto looks up at him blankly for a long moment after that, and Katsuki’s not so sure how to read him. He shrugs it off easily enough, dragging Shouto towards the counter to order once the people clear out. He gets a few looks as he ditches his sunglasses and facemask—doing away with the disguse.

Katsuki orders a couple things from the menu and display case that look good and a plain cappuccino while Shouto asks for every sweet thing known to fucking man. A spongy-looking cake slice, a strawberry dessert that Katsuki can’t put a name to, and a doubly sweet drink that churns his insides as Shouto lists the extra ingredients he wants added to it.

Their orders are rung up, and the second Shouto pulls out his wallet—it’s has cats all over it, of course it has cats all over it—Katsuki reaches up to cover it with his hand, pushing it back towards Shouto’s chest.

“Drop it. I’m payin’,” he grumbles, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket. He grabs a few bills, setting them in the barista’s hand and mutters a quick: “Keep the change.”

Shouto doesn’t complain, but he feels something because Katsuki can see his cheek frosting up. He teases him about it lightly, picking at the layer of sleet with his thumb and smirking when Shouto glares at him—quickly regulating himself. The cold follows him all the way to the seating area in a different way, however.

To make it up to him, they do end up sitting by the munchkins—all of whom are lounging at the booth by the window.

They’re friendly. Almost too friendly. And though they let Shouto pet and coo at them, they seem annoyingly attracted to Katsuki. One settles across his lap after making a dozen fucking biscuits into a pair of expensive-ass jeans—which is fine, he guesses. Katsuki gives it an ear scritch and the reacting purr tugs at his lips a little. It’s sweet, he’ll admit. Though far too soon because, in a very short amount of time, quicker than he can count to ten, he finds himself surrounded.

They’re everywhere.

On his lap, between his back and the window, pawing into his hands.

“What the hell—?”

“They like you!” Shouto laughs.

The exclamation makes Katsuki turn his head like something inexplicably rare has just happened. And maybe it has. Shouto’s got this sappy, happy look on his face. It’s ridiculously cheerful in a way Katsuki has yet to experience. Almost as cheerful as the sound of Shouto’s voice just now.

A flash snaps him out of it, though. Katsuki looks around and sees a few people with their cameras and phones out, trying to take pictures not-so-discreetly.

Of course. There won’t be enough of these stupid photos on the internet for people to fawn over. He can see the timeline captions now—Pro Hero Dynamight or human cat tree?

Shouto lifts his phone to take a picture of him, too. Only Katsuki’s fine with it. More than fine because it’s Shouto. Katsuki lets him have it with a crooked, close-lipped grin. He pointedly pretends he doesn’t see his signed hero card suspended in the back of Shouto’s clear phone case.

He better not lose that thing. It’s probably worth a pretty fucking penny.

Still. It’s flattering that Shouto holds it so close to him, even if it’s just for show. Watching him take short looks at it every so often. Watching him rub a thumb over it like it’s precious. Makes Katsuki feel funny.

Good funny.

“You don’t have to pay for everything, you know.”

“Shut up,” Katsuki says. “I’m gonna.”

He’s also decided to walk Shouto back home. It’s much closer than Katsuki’s highrise, and now that it’s dark there’s no point in going all the way over there and back. So they kill two birds with one stone.

“I could pay sometime,” Shouto offers. “I have plenty of money.”

Katsuki shakes his head. “Nah, it’s fine. I got this shit.”

“Just once?”

“No way. Spend your money on yourself.”

“What if it’s not my money?” Shouto asks, looking away as if in thought before dragging his eyes right back to Katsuki. “What if it’s Endeavor’s?”

There’s a silence, and Katsuki thinks Shouto’s being downright dia-fucking-bolical—the way he’s talking. He can’t say he doesn’t appreciate it.

“One date,” Katsuki agrees, lifting an index finger. “You can pay for one date and it better be the most extravagant night of my goddamn life.”

Shouto looks like he’s contemplating it, and then his face lights up, undeniably pleased with his thought. There’s a tingling between their hands. “Okay.”

Katsuki looks down between them, catches the sight of a subtle frost covering their threaded fingers, and grins.

It takes one bus ride and a ten minute walk to reach Shouto’s apartment building, the grand but vintage-looking rise he’d dropped him off at before. It’s got a homier feel, like he remembers, despite how expensive it must be to live there.

The entire neighborhood he’s in is expensive, really. Not that Katsuki’s comparing values for petty reasons, but it probably costs a good chunk more than his highrise.

The second they’re inside the building, Katsuki notes that it somehow gets cosier. He realizes it’s because Shouto’s living with quite a few old-timers—if the way the moms and grandmas suddenly flock him the second they step into the elevator is any indication. They thank him one by one for the favors he’s done over the last few days and ask pointed questions about Katsuki, all of which end in them telling Katsuki they’ll get a swift cane or purse in the ass if they don’t take care of their boy.

It’s... sweet, but Katsuki doesn’t hold back telling the resident hags just where to stick it.

They all just laugh at him. The goddamn nerve.

A soft, low chuckle catches his attention, and Katsuki turns to see Shouto looking traitorously amused. He spends the entire ride up answering his neighbors’ prodding questions and getting updates on every last cat any one of these ladies own.

It’s just like Shouto to feel comfortable surrounded by a gaggle of crones that’ll fight to the death for him. He has no idea how much people fawn over his ass.

Katsuki can’t help but feel a swell of pride, though. He’s proud of Shouto and how much the people surrounding him seem to love him. He doesn’t even notice the elevator’s empty and they’ve reached their floor until he’s pulled out of his thoughts and into a long hallway.

Shouto stops in front of his door: a cool, baby blue that accents the eccentricity of the rest of the floor. The others go back and forth between yellow, purple, and green, and if Katsuki had ever wondered where a bunch of old rich women who could still walk by themselves would live, this would have to be it.

Pulling out his keys, Shouto looks over at Katsuki with a contemplative stare, as if he’s thinking over what he should say or do next. An ‘I had a nice time’ would’ve sufficed, but Katsuki knows it’s not so simple with Shouto.

So he takes things into his own hands.

“Hey,” Katsuki says, soft. “You know what happens at the end of first dates, right?”

Shouto watches him carefully, eyes lighting up in understanding and—as he looks around—confusion.

“There’s no one here.”

Katsuki doesn’t hear a ‘no,’ so he steps right into Shouto’s personal bubble. “You never know, right?”

He doesn’t give Shouto the chance to answer—just takes that pretty face in his hands and lays a kiss on his lips. It’s quick and easy, but no less pull and tug than something more passionate. Katsuki leans back before the Quirk-induced shivers set in, brushing his thumb over Shouto’s reddened cheeks and ignoring the sleet that’s appeared in his hair.

Trying not to feel cocky about it, in case he’s wrong, Katsuki figures Shouto’s never really done stuff like this. He’s nervous and flustered and getting frosty about it like most of his other firsts, and Katsuki finds that more and more, by the minute, he doesn’t want to be told otherwise.

“You’re way too stiff,” he whispers. “Relax.”

Shouto nods. “Okay.”

Katsuki kisses him again, and it’s perfect. It’s gentle. Comfortable. A touch of lips and an exchange of soft breaths through noses.

He only pulls away with a flinch when something cold lands on his neck.

When he gazes up, a cold sting on the tip of his nose makes him crinkle it, and he realizes that snowflakes are falling from the cream-colored ceiling above. When he rakes a hand over his chilled spikes, frosty snow shakes off of them and onto the piling floor below.

Shouto apologizes, low under his breath, and attempts to brush away the cold, white powder doming atop Katsuki’s shoulders. It doesn’t help. There’s more snowflakes, more snow, falling quickly from the sky to replace it. The more flustered Shouto gets, the more of it that falls, and the more of it that falls, the more flustered Shouto gets.

Katsuki thinks he loves it—the way his lashes get frosty, surrounded by cold. The way his pale skin turns pink in places, like the tips of his nose and the apples of his cheeks.

Watching him like this makes Katsuki warm in the chest.

“I can’t get it to stop,” Shouto says, a sneeze erupting from him so suddenly it sends a flurry of snowflakes into the air.

Katsuki throws his head back and laughs.

—

It’s early in the morning when he steps into the Training Hall, a yawn splitting his face in two.

Katsuki leans against the open doorway, a half-step from one of the emptier vestibules where most of the hand-to-hand training with Izuku takes place, drawn to the sound of familiar laughter. It manifests into the solid form of his bestfriend—big and loud—and Katsuki watches him out of curiosity.

He knew Eijirou would be here, visiting again (something he’s been doing a lot lately, after he and Katsuki made up). He’s demonstrating some tactics with Shinsou in front of a bunch of this school years’ new interns; the first for their agency. There are ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ filling the air whenever Eijirou shows off a move—just like Katsuki would expect.

Shinsou’s there, too, calm in his directive, but Eijirou’s loud mouth is the only one he hears. Pointers and tips abound while everybody and Izuku stands in the background with them—the latter’s notebook appearing out of who-knows-where and taking notes.

Some things never fucking change.

Katsuki listens for the while as Eijirou fires through a couple of long-winded explanations involving the performance of take-downs, perking up when he instructs Shinsou to get into position. That’s when things really take off.

Red Riot gets into character and steals the show. It’s just like Eijirou to take over; his personality is fucking infectious, and he makes it his business to make sure no one feels left out. The kids getting a kick out of his lesson is a huge bonus for him, Katsuki bets. Spurs him on, if nothing else.

Eijirou’s constructed an entire demonstration where “Blood Riot”—of course the idiot has to create a whole character for himself—is the villain. Shinsou is there to perform a takedown and save the day, something Katsuki knows is completely out of his capabilities, but he won’t spoil it for the interns. They seem to enjoy this whole fucking schtick, and Eijirou’s showing off extra because Katsuki’s watching. No need to kill the entertainment.

Besides, there’s something satisfying about Eijirou wanting to look cooler than usual around him; he’s proud of it, in some strange way.

Shinsou, not so much. He must see Katsuki in the background, too, because to piss him off he mimics Izuku’s voice, immediately taking on his character.

“Kacchan sure is lame for not being here!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Shinsou continues, having reverted back to his own voice.

Katsuki shoots him the finger, but doesn’t interrupt, even as Izuku’s soft chuckle grates in the background. Eijirou looks too fucking excited to be in character; he’s not going to ruin it. He’ll watch—maybe scrutinize a little.

“Takedowns aren’t just cool moves. It’s not always about how flashy you look.”

Shinsou’s wrong, as fucking usual. Spoken like a guy whose never been capable of being flashy in his life.

“The most important thing is ensuring the safety of the citizens, making sure that your takedowns aren’t reckless enough to get yourself hurt, and avoiding any grievous injuries that can result in the death of the villain being apprehended,” he adds.

Fine. Katsuki guesses he isn’t that wrong after all.

After they disperse and start practicing the takedowns themselves, some of the interns pass him by, muttering a ‘hello’ or being generally more excitable—if it’s certain people. Like any teenager that’s ever worked under Izuku even fucking once.

“Hey there, Dynamight, sir!” one of those happy-go-lucky numbskulls calls.

Katsuki raises a hand in greeting.

“Dynamight!” exclaims another, clad from head to toe in bright yellow. She turns to her friend, whispering. “He looks even cooler up close.”

Okay, so maybe Izuku’s kids aren’t so bad.

Ugh.

Katsuki’s blissfully distracted from giving further praise when he sees Eijirou bounding over like an overgrown dog.

“Hey, bro!” Eijirou’s big hand clamps onto Katsuki’s shoulder and gives him a little shake. “You could’a joined if you wanted to. There are plenty of roles to play. Like my partner-in-crime, Ground Zero—the crowd would’a loved it, man!”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “They’re interns, not kindergarteners, ya know. We don’t need to put on a show for ‘em—just show ‘em the moves and move on.”

“Yeah, we could’ve done that,” Eijirou complies. “But that’s boring! And your interns—they’re still learning, Kats. Let ‘em be kids.” Like we weren’t.

The puppy-dog eyes begging Katsuki to agree should have him rolling his eyes again. But, against his better judgement, he puffs out an amused huff instead.

Okay, I fucking get it.

“May as well be your interns, with how much you’re here to teach ‘em lately,” Katsuki tells him. “These bi-weekly lessons gonna be a thing?”

“I dunno—maybe? It could be the start of a collab between our agencies! But, ah, it was Shinsou’s idea in the first place, actually.” Eijirou rubs the back of his head. “Guess he heard how I handle my interns and wanted me to try it out here.”

“Guess it worked out pretty well, then,” Katsuki comments. “Never seen that group of dummies sit so attentively.”

“It’s a foolproof method!” A huge, shark-like grin appeas on Eijirou’s face. “Plus, I like teaching the interns here. I can tell which ones you guys roll with.” He nudges Katsuki’s side. “Eclipse—what a neat chick. And she has moon powers?! Oh, Quicksand, by the way? He’s totally got your spirit, bro. Your kids are real cool.”

Puffing his chest with every word, Katsuki deflates into a glade of calm—all wrapped up in a gentle smile when he gets ready to actually speak.

“Yeah. They are.”

The balcony that spans one fourth of one of the upper floors is a place of freedom for Katsuki. It’s breezy, still has the shade of the upper floors, and feels private simply because it’s so high up.

He and Eijirou relax there for a while, partaking in all the accompanying vending machines have to offer.

They sit on one of the benches, each with a can of something fizzy in hand, and talk about whatever comes to mind. Katsuki doesn’t even think about it at first, the possibility of Shouto coming up, but after a few laughs that wane into comfortable silence, Eijirou takes a loud sip of his drink and pops the lid off the subject.

“I saw the articles,” he says, almost nonchalantly. “Took me so long because I live in Esuha. Only the biggest news from other cities reaches the paper, but you and Shouto are printed everywhere here.”

“Yeah.” Katsuki shrugs, trying to play it all off. “We’re dating now.”

“I’m happy for ya, bro! Shouto’s a nice guy.” Eijirou looks over at him with a smile.

Katsuki feels bad immediately. It’s been like this a lot lately, where Eijirou is concerned. “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you.”

“I get it, Kats.”

Nobody says a word after that, especially not Katsuki. Somehow it’s easier to stew in his guilt.

“Look, I know I’m not the best at making you feel better,” Eijirou begins again, openly sad like the wide-open book he is. “Lately, it just seems like all I’ve been doing is making you mad. But I’m always here for you, Kats. I’d do anything for you, ya know.”

“Shut up,” Katsuki says—because it’s all bullshit. “Ya do fine by me, dumbass.” He does. He always has. Eijirou... is the best. “And, I know all that already.”

“Alright. Then don’t worry so much. No one’s asking you to be perfect right now, and no matter how much I want you to be able to tell me anything, I’m not gonna force it. You work on that, and I’ll work on not taking your silence so personally.”

Katsuki appreciates that, he really does. But it still sours his stomach because he feels like Eijirou shouldn’t be working on being anything more than he is. No one should. It’s always been Katsuki. Katsuki’s the one that needs to get it together. He’s the one who needs to work on his shit.

Why’s he surrounded by so many people that want to take his blame?

“I should get going. I promised to patrol with Midoriya this afternoon before heading back to Esuha.” A knee bumps his, and Katsuki looks over to see Eijirou standing up and crushing his drink can before tossing it into a nearby trash can. “Tell Shouto I said ‘hi,’ okay? And that I think he’s totally manly for dating my best bro!”

Katsuki fails to mention that Shouto would take that compliment and induct Eijirou into his circle of new bestfriends like he did ‘Hanta’ (he still wants to know how that came about). And part of Katsuki doesn’t really think that would be a bad thing.

But most of him just wants to keep Eijirou all to himself.

—

I’m not fucking ready.

At least, not for this.

It gets dumped on him like everything else lately. When he least expects it.

See, paperwork is easy. Patrol is easy. Everything is easy as pie when it happens inside the box Katsuki’s drawn for himself over the past four months. But a mission...

Shouldn’t feel like a hard pill to swallow. But it is.

The file had fallen on his desk bright and early Monday morning, stamped CONFIDENTIAL across the surface, just as he was riding the high of a rare three-day weekend. Katsuki had glared up at Shinsou wordlessly, and Shinsou had stared back, hands in his pockets and an apathetic look on his dumb, flat face. He’d walked away without saying a thing, closing the door and leaving Katsuki to flip through the documents alone.

It’s a search and rescue. Go-fucking-figure. He’s had plenty of time to prepare for this, and he did—in every way possible. Now it’s Saturday morning, almost a full week later, and Katsuki can already feel himself on edge.

But... search-and-fucking-rescue. He can’t stand to think about it separately from the mission he was on before all this. Before suspension. Before that fight with Eijirou. Before it all. There’s that same, irritating little voice in the back of his head that brings it all back and tells him that it’s only going to end the same way as it had that day.

Or—maybe it isn’t always the same voice. It isn’t always him in his head. It’s Dulcet. Or Forte. Or that little girl whose voice he never actually got to hear—

It’s shaking him up.

Dynamight doesn’t get shaken up. Fuck’s sake.

Katsuki tries to turn his thoughts to other things. Like Shouto. At least he knows Shouto will be there waiting for him when he gets back. Of course, Katsuki let him know he’d be out for a couple of weeks. Shouto took it well, not that Katsuki thought he wouldn’t, but he did have to cancel their sessions for the entirety of the time he’s away.

If there’s one thing Katsuki really doesn’t like about this mission—among everything-fucking-else—it’s that he won’t have Shouto to fall back on when he needs him.

It’s going to be weird, he just knows it. Katsuki doesn’t remember what it was like not having Shouto come over whenever he wanted to feel like a real person. He doesn’t even know if he can be one without him. Katsuki hates that shitty kind of mindset, but... he hasn’t healed yet. He doesn’t even know what that’s supposed to feel like, but he’s pretty sure it’s not this. He still needs time.

He still needs Shouto.

Katsuki’s pen wriggles back and forth between his fingers. He’d worked until late last night and stayed at his desk until twilight. He hasn’t actually done anything for the last few hours, though, besides take up space. He does so for the next two hours, too.

Until the clock strikes four and it’s almost time to meet Shinsou on the roof.

Katsuki realizes when he stands to leave that he’s dead-fucking-tired. He wishes he’d slept, but it’s too late for that now. It’s a good thing he thought to, at least, drop his duffel off a few days early.

Grabbing it, he heads to the nearest locker room and dresses in his stealths without so much as a single thought. His body moves mechanically, knowing their way around the dark despite the fact that he could’ve just turned on the lights. He knows where everything is and this suit is like a second skin, he barely has to think to know it fits right where it’s supposed to.

More than confident that he hasn’t put a single thing on backwards, Katsuki slips into the elevator and rides all the way to the top. The circle on the roof is a staircase and a door away. Katsuki makes it right on time.

Everyone’s buzzing around like fluorescent bees in a hive. Bright orange vest reflecting strategically-placed spotlights flicker from here to there while the team being dispatched gets their shit together.

Katsuki sits on the bench just outside the brick-covered stairwell and watches them work.

“You ready to go?” Shinsou asks, buckling up his utility belts and adjusting his sleeves as he walks over. He looks like a cat, the way he slinks with each step.

“Born ready.”

Shinsou snorts and Katsuki ignores him, though not willingly. He’s zoned out, listening to the oncoming sound of propellers.

Blue ruffles invade Katsuki’s thoughts, dance around in his brain and threaten to shut him down before he even has a chance to cast them away.

Couldn’t save you. She was just some second-rate villain and I couldn’t do anything.

Dulcet, she was anything but. Strong? Hardly. Faster than Katsuki?

Well, he guesses that’s all you need to be.

“What are you so worried about?”

Not being able to do anything but stand there, hesitating. Again. Losing to a one-trick-fucking-pony. Again.

Losing someone important. Again.

“Shut the hell up. I ain’t worried,” Katsuki clips back.

Shinsou casts him a look before sighing. He shrugs his shoulders, hands deep in his pockets. “Suit yourself.”

It’s nearing time to load the chopper, and Katsuki feels annoyingly nervous. He’s not used to this, his body reacting separately from his brain. Tight control and confidence in his abilities is something Katsuki always boasted when it comes to a mission. The fact that he’s in his prime and starting to wade in the well of all his recent fuck ups is killing him. That’s old man shit.

It’s surprises him, even moreso, that he actually wants to talk about it. With Shouto, above all.

Katsuki hasn’t spoken to him since last night. Shouto had texted him and wished him good luck—a long line of emojis following. He kicks himself now for not replying to Shouto’s ‘snowflake explosion plane hug cat soba blue heart’ with something more meaningful.

He really wishes he could speak with him now.

“It’s almost time to go. I’m gonna call Izuku—you should probably call Shouto. We’ll be out of range for a while,” Shinsou tells him, appearing at his side. It’s as if he’s read Katsuki’s mind, and Katsuki suspiciously thinks that he’d better not have added it to his list of freakshow Quirks.

Despite that, Katsuki does realize he’s right. He can talk to Shouto now. He can call him whenever he wants. They’re—

Well, they’re something.

He waits until Shinsou’s walked away to pull out his phone and dial Shouto’s number. It rings a couple of times and Katsuki begins anticipating the ‘hello.’ It just keeps ringing, though—several times too many—and he almost gives up.

It’s not that early, but Katsuki doesn’t actually know how late Shouto sleeps in; he should’ve done this last night. The whole ‘goodbye, see you later.’

The dialtone undulates into a low mechanical click, and he throws that entire thought off the edge of the agency skyscraper. Relieved.

“Katsuki?”

Shouto’s voice is tinny, but it’s nice to hear. Always calm. Always low and soft.

“It’s me,” Katsuki breathes.

“Is everything okay?” comes the question, accompanied by the hollow sounds of two somethings knocking together.

“Everything’s just fine, sweetheart.” But it’s not, really. He wants to vent. And complain. And just talk in that easy way they’re used to talking. Katsuki doesn’t feel like he can do that here with Shinsou and the rest of their team milling back and forth across the roof. “What’s all that noise?” he asks.

There’s a little more noise, and then, “I’m figuring out that I’m not a very good plant parent.”

Katsuki snorts.

“Izuku suggested I buy a plant when I moved into my apartment last year and it’s been... hard, keeping it alive,” Shouto says with a sigh, and Katsuki almost rolls his eyes. Of course Izuku is the one giving out unsolicited plant advice—he already gives out unsolicited pet advice. It makes perfect fucking sense. “I’ve read that repotting a plant can save it—something about turning the soil... but I’m pretty sure I’ve killed this one for good.”

A soft, concerned hum leaks through the line, and Katsuki can’t help but smile. He could listen to the sounds of what must be pots knocking together and Shouto’s delicate sighs for hours. Somewhere between the start of their phone call and now, Shouto’s also begun rattling off a list of plant facts he’s learned perusing the internet. They clean the air. They help with stress. They enjoy music! But I’m not sure what genre their favorite is yet.

It’s cute.

It’s cute as hell.

Before he knows it, they’ve talked for too long now.

Shinsou nudges him once before standing up. “We gotta go.”

“Hey,” Katsuki starts, nodding once at Shinsou before ignoring him completely, “we’re heading out now, Sho.”

“Oh, I almost forgot you were leaving,” Shouto breathes, and Katsuki dares to think he sounds disappointed.

“It’s only two weeks.”

“That seems like a long time, considering.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Katsuki says fondly, trying not to feel too pleased at that. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“I think you might miss me more. Who’s going to give you snuggles while you’re away?”

Endless.

The desert out here is fucking endless.

A pool of sand somewhere in the middle China wasn’t exactly at the top of Katsuki’s list of places he wanted to bust ass. The heat is usually welcome, but the abundance of sweat that comes with it can make his Quirk go somewhat volatile. Not as much as it used to, but enough to keep him on his toes. Not to mention everything sticks a little too much and it takes twice as much effort to do any real work.

Still, it’s an otherworldly place. It’s just like the city but instead of skyscrapers and streetlights for days, it’s a sea of sand and stars.

If Uraraka were here, she’d be going on and on about how beautiful it is, how it reminds her of a night out on the beach with her little crew of tools.

Except for Iida. Suffice to say, Ingenium’s somehow grown on Katsuki over the years—like loud, jobsworth mold or something.

And Shouto—of-fucking-course. Katsuki would never lob him in with those freaks. Though he is a freak in his own right.

Jeez, he’d almost laugh at loud at his musings if he wasn’t so on edge.

Shinsou’s surprisingly decent at keeping Katsuki grounded, however, despite that. They’re not sat too closely together, mission prep is solo work, but he’s been taking the time to check in whenever he has the chance. And, somehow, he always knows the right words to say—a calm and reasonable voice in the chaos of it all.

Shit, he better not be using his shitty-ass mind control to do it. He probably is. Shinsou’s probably making Katsuki believe that the things he’s been saying are actually worth listening to.

And to think, Izuku wants them to ‘play nice’ with each other.

They reach their vantage point easily, an hour or so before the sun comes up, scoping out the damage. What was once a city is a leveled mess of rubble with two or three half-skyscrapers poking out here and there, and Katsuki knows it’s going to be a bitch to navigate through. At least there are no villains to fight—just a number of hopefully-living people to find.

Little does he know, this is one small spot of many. The damage spans for miles—per the teams who’ve been here for several hours have already stated. Katsuki takes it in. Thinks about timing and the possibility of not finding everyone they hope to alive.

It’s not something he’s ever dwelled on before. Katsuki knows the risks involved in the job.

He and Shinsou start digging, following the instructions of several rescue teams in the area. Their first recovered citizens are pulled from the nearby buildings, and the success of that spurs Katsuki on. Shinsou is quick to ask panicking survivors quiestions, using his Quirk to calm them down so they can receive proper care.

The parameters in which Shinsou’s Quirk is its most useful isn’t as wide-range as Katsuki’s is. While he uses his Artificial Vocal Cords to call out to buried relatives, Katsuki’s being carted around behind him to carefully detonate obstructions blocking the way. Despite the unpredictabillity of Katsuki’s Quirk at the moment, his job still feels important. It’s easy to see that Shinsou was brought here mostly to mitigate panic. And though he knows that’s just as important as the heavy-lifting, Katsuki can tell he doesn’t feel utilized to his full potential.

When Shinsou’s put in tough positions like this, his tell is obvious. It isn’t the way he frowns (though, he is fucking frowning, that much is clear—even if it’s hidden behind his mask like this) as much as it’s the way his forehead draws crease after crease. The deep cut of his brows obscurs his eyes from view, and at these times, his body becomes rigidly still despite his usual lax disposition.

“You bugged up about somethin’?” Katsuki asks, pretending to be none-the-wiser. Usually, he wouldn’t give too much of a shit—but he’s not in the mood to be an ass to another hero on the job.

“Nothing worth talking about now,” Shinsou answers, giving Katsuki a pensive look. “Are you being nice to me?”

“As if.” The words leave him in a scoff. “Just don’t want you holdin’ me ba—”

The rest of that sentence dies on his lips at the sound of cracking concrete. His head snaps toward the building it’s coming from—to the sight of a small body hanging on to what’s left of a caving roof.

It’s a little girl, alive and crying as the world rocks around her.

Eyes panning downward, Katsuki can see there aren’t any other heroes in the area, and the civilian rescue team is too far from the top to get to her in time. There are two figures panicking from the ground floor where they’ve been saved, an unintelligible string of words pouring from their lips. Those must be her parents; they’re afraid.

So why isn’t anyone doing something?

“Come on. She’s yours, Bakugou,” Shinsou says from beside him. “What are you waiting for? Go.”

Wide-eyed, Katsuki looks over at him, trying to calm his racing heart. And then, mind unable to keep up with his body, he nods, rushing into action. He’ll listen, just this once, because Shinsou’s in charge this time around and Katsuki’s fucking good at his job. Because there’s someone who needs his help.

Because his body just moves.

Katsuki touches the rooftop in one propelled jump, racing across the concrete and scooping the girl up as the floor crumbles beneath them. There’s no time to even think about what he’s done until they’re flying, the driving nature of his Quirk keeping them in the air until he’s able to safely land.

The building falls, luckily without much devastation in its wake.

And it only hits him once they’re safely on the ground and she’s in the arms of her hysteric parents that Katsuki realizes he’s saved her.

She’s alive. She made it. There’s no limbs, splayed and bloody beneath the rubble. No gaggle of frantic paramedics rushing over to shove her in a body bag.

There’s just a little girl. Tiny pink overalls and black pigtails. Breathing.

Katsuki watches them, tearful but smiling together, and he suddenly feels like he’s been touched by Uraraka’s Zero Gravity.

Light. Floating. At top of the world, looking down from the stratosphere.

It's good. Great, it’s—

It’s the best.

Everything goes smoothly for the rest of the mission.

They find all remaining citizens in need. An insane effort that required heroes from all over Eastern Asia due to the sheer volume of people lost in the aftermath of a three-part earthquake. No one’s been covered head to toe with a sheet and even the most dire of the injured are being hauled away in the hopes of recovery. Katsuki knows not all of them will make it, but it feels good to brush his hands togethr and be proud of a job well done because they all have a chance.

Shinsou steps up beside him, looking out at the empty, decimated buildings surrounding them. Katsuki follows with a crooked smile.

“You know, I think you’re finally getting over it,” Shinsou tells him, dropping his mask from around his mouth.

“Over what?”

“That search and rescue.”

Katsuki tenses; it’s completely out of his control, like everything else these days.

“Okay, maybe not completely,” Shinsou says awkwardly, trying again, “but you’re in a better place than you were, aren’t you?”

Katsuki nods to himself and Shinsou doesn’t press for more than that. Looking at the facts, one thing stands out from everything else in regards to his experiences today:

He made it through the mission.

So, in a better place? Maybe. He can admit that much. And today. Today marks something for him. That, Katsuki knows. He doesn’t know if it means that everything will suddenly get easier. That he’ll stop beating himself up over his failed ‘search and rescue.’ That his stomach will stop twisting when he sees blue ruffles in store windows.

But he can get up off his ass and be a hero.

It’s a solid win.

“What the hell?”

Katsuki drops his folded shirt into the suitcase, eyes focused on a close-up of pretty gray and blue eyes.

The hotel television’s been on for hours, the news keeping Katsuki occupied as he packs up half of his suitcase for when he and Shinsou leave in the morning. The other half remains in the top nightstand drawer, just in case they’re needed again. No reason to put the suit away so soon, either way. No reason to be alarmed if there’s an issue needing his full attention.

Until now.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he turns up the volume, watching with disbelief as the interviewer interrogates his would-be boyfriend. Being a civilian, Katsuki had never imagined he’d get cornered by a reporter unless he was a witness to a crime or a victim of a villain’s schemes.

But there Shouto is, in Katsuki’s leather jackets that looks completely out of place over the rest of his soft, patterned outfit like usual. He must’ve gotten cornered by the media while he was out—there are bookstore bags in his hands.

At the very least, Shouto looks okay, Katsuki thinks. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable being in front of the camera.

“So, you have to know you’re the buzz around town lately. I mean, you and Dynamight dating. The rest of us have got to know: how did you two meet?”

The reporter wastes no fucking time. Katsuki can’t help but feel nervous about this. They haven’t discussed the possibility of Shouto having to interview with anyone about their relationship. But he supposes saying they met through Izuku is fine.

“He saved me once.”

Katsuki doesn’t expect him to say that, though.

He saved me once. What?

“Is that what sparked your romance?” the reporter asks, eyes shining with delight. “We’re all curious to know.”

“Not exactly,” Shouto answers carefully. “We’ve known each other for a long time now. It started very gradually.”

Shouto lifts a hand, tips of his fingers tapping against front of his lips. A tick he has; Katsuki’s seen him do it once or twice, and wonders if Shouto knows how ridiculous he looks showing that kind of thing on camera. Or how good he looks—just being. Being and blinking and bowing his head down to meet the reporter’s mic halfway; hair like a waterfall.

What a pretty fuckin’ thing, Katsuki thinks.

“I’ve always admired him from afar,” Shouto admits, his two-toned eyes cutting away from the camera suddenly. “Dynamight is my favorite hero.”

Katsuki zones out. Looks at the screen mindlessly, eyes glued to Shouto’s face as he replays the words in his head over and over. And then, because he’s a fucking loser who has to hear it again (and because he tuned out everything Shouto had said thereafter), Katsuki reaches for the remote on the bedside table and rewinds the interview.

Thank God they have the option for live television these days.

“Dynamight is my favorite hero, but he’s also become my favorite person. I’m lucky he chose me.”

Katsuki face burns at that; he’s kind of floored.

He doesn’t know how Shouto ended up getting caught for a live interview, but he’s glad he just happened to land on the right channel. Even if it does taper off from their relationship and heads straight into the stupid shit. Fanboy randoms ask Shouto to pose with a peace sign at the camera and he agrees to it; the ridiculousness of it all has Katsuki cackling from his spot in bed.

“What an idiot,” he snorts affectionately.

Heavy footfalls indicate and intruder, and Katsuki lets the mood fall—clicking the television off as Shinsou steps into the room.

“Too late. I saw it in the lobby.”

He smiles knowingly, the bastard.

“Here,” Shinsou continues, tossing him an envelope before walking over to his bed and flopping down with a sigh.

Katsuki opens the envelope to see the corners of a couple plane tickets.

“Tickets?” He scrunches his nose up. These better be first class. “What happened to our ride?”

“It was deemed unnecessary for them to return since there’s no rush for us to come home,” Shinsou tells him with shrug. “We’re taking a regular flight back in.”

Morning finds Katsuki packing the other half of his clothes for the plane ride back home. Everything’s already neat and folded, so it doesn’t take long—but he wants to make sure he doesn’t forget anything. He’s had close calls before. Shinsou heads out of the room seconds before he zips up his duffel, muttering something about taking advantage of free breakfast.

The second he leaves, Katsuki pulls out his phone and checks the time; he wants to make sure he’s calling Shouto at a reasonable hour, after all.

It hasn’t been long since they last spoke, a couple of weeks isn’t a big deal between friends, but it feels like it’s been a short-fucking-eternity. Dialing up his number, Katsuki presses the phone to his ear and awaits the sound of a low, soft voice.

“Katsuki.”

Shouto exhales his name as though he’s been holding his breath, and Katsuki tries not to get bent out of shape thinking that he’s actually excited to hear from him.

“Hey.”

Hey? He gets all weird about calling Shouto, anticipates hearing his voice like some kind of freak, and the only thing that comes out of his mouth is fucking hey?

What was Katsuki even planning on saying, anyway? Nothing, if he’s being honest.

If he’s being honest, he just wanted to hear Shouto’s voice.

“Mission’s over. I’m coming home soon,” he adds, because he can’t just admit that.

“How did it go?”

“Fine. It went as smoothly as it could’a gone,” Katsuki answers, dropping down onto the bed. “I’m a little rusty.”

“But you’re alright,” Shouto continues. “Right?”

“Yeah. Had a little hiccup a few days ago, but I got fixed right up.”

“You’re injured?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Katsuki says. It’s like his body hears him, though. The left side of his face that met a brick slab halfway through one of his shifts chooses that very moment to throb. “It’s nothin’.”

“I’ll probably still worry about it,” Shouto retorts, and then promises, “I’ll ice it as soon as you get back.”

Katsuki’s lips quirk. “You don’t even know what kind of injury it is.”

“Ice always helps.”

Katsuki doesn’t mention that it’s nothing again. And he doesn’t let it be known that he kind of likes being worried over small shit, either. Besides, he knows Shouto loves winning the conversation just as much as he hates losing.

“I saw your interview,” Katsuki starts, just getting right into what’s really on his mind.

“You did?” Shouto sounds a little nervous. Like he even needs to be.

“Don’t sound like that. It was fine,” Katsuki promises with a tch. “Nice touch, though, tellin’ ‘em I saved you.”

The shuffling noises that’ve been playing on the other end of the line since the start of their call all come to a stop.

“Katsuki... you did save me.”

“Yeah, right,” Katsuki snorts, pausing when Shouto doesn’t make a sound. “You’re serious.”

Katsuki doesn’t like the guilty quiet that follows. It eats at him slowly, lets him marinate in his fuck up, but come on. Come on... there’s no way he’d forget someone like Shouto.

The only thing that eases the tension is when Shouto starts talking again.

“You saving me is the entire reason Izuku and I met. You’re the reason we became friends,” he says quietly. “Don’t you remember?”

Katsuki suddenly feels like shit because, the truth is, he doesn’t remember. He'd always thought Shouto was just some friend Izuku invited to the agency one day, probably hours after they met. They grew so close over time that it was just normal to see him there. Katsuki never bothered wondering—never even asked—how or when they’d even come to be. Only that they did, and that they were annoyingly inseparable.

As close as Izuku and Katsuki used to be. Maybe even more.

“I’m...” sorry. But it doesn’t come out all the way despite the fact that he actually fucking is.

“It was five years ago, right in the middle of Hatsumeri Street. You and Izuku were fighting a villain—I can’t remember their name.” Shouto’s quiet for a second, silently recalling the memory. “All I remember were giant spinning blades cutting through the air.”

“Turbine,” Katsuki fills in the blank. He remembers that fight perfectly.

Turbine was the head of a large, organized group of villains—something he and Izuku weren’t new to. They’d been annoying, though, like a grist of bees racing all over the goddamn streets—a pain in the ass to have to deal with all at once. But they’d done it, him and Izuku. It had been one of the biggest successes of their careers.

Katsuki didn’t know Shouto had been there.

“That was it,” Shouto confirms. “The fight had caught a lot of civilians in the crossfire, you know. I was one of them.”

“Where?” Katsuki asks, trying to sift through every second of that battle for a glimpse of red and white. “Where were you that whole time?”

“I was huddled in a crowd with my brother Natsuo, a couple of kids, and their parents. Deflecting dust and debris with my Quirk while he helped them escape. I didn’t notice that I’d cut myself off until the north end of a building across the street imploded and I couldn’t melt the ice around me fast enough.”

Katsuki... doesn’t remember that. But he feels the anticipation of the story coming to a pinnacle. Idly, he wonder if he would’ve been able to keep a cool head if he knew Shouto was there. If he’d be able to save anyone other than Shouto because that’s where his mind would be.

“It was coming towards me, an entire slab of concrete, and before I could even put up a wall of ice... you appeared.” Shouto says it so reverently: You appeared. Like Katsuki was some sort of sight to behold. “You blew it to pieces while midair.” And then, quieter, “It was so cool.”

Katsuki feels a buzzing under his skin. An electrical current that stuns him from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers. When his palm begins sparking with the beginnings of an explosion, he closes his fist to snuff it, rubbing the sweat off on his thigh.

That big of a fight with that many people—it makes sense that Katsuki wouldn’t remember every face. But that brief moment, exploding concrete, is clear in his mind. And Shouto had been right behind him that whole time.

It’s different, knowing now that he’d been watching Katsuki. That he’s actually admired him since being saved so many years ago. It ignites the slow-burning wick in Katsuki’s chest that he thought had gone out. One that reaches through and rumbles like the detonation of a single stick of dynamite in his chest.

“Cool, huh?” he finds himself asking, voice separate from his body.

“Very cool,” Shouto murmurs. “I’ll never forget how the sky looked at that moment. You blocked out the entire sun. You became it.”

Katsuki’s eyes soften, and he puts his cheek in his hand, a mirthful huff puffing out from inside him. Hearing the story behind it all makes him wonder what it would’ve been like if he’d actually turned around. A whirlwind moment, zeroing in on a beautiful civilian. Something like fate.

Sounds like the books they’ve been reading lately, Katsuki muses.

“I know that little girl dying put a hole in your confidence, but you’re a hero,” Shouto tells him, so certain—so sure. “You save people.”

It hurts to hear; a sharp pull right in the center of his gut, but it isn’t a bad pain. A growing one, maybe, that tells him it’s okay to believe what Shouto says.

And for what it’s worth, what Shinsou says, too. He’s been trying to help—and he isn’t wrong.

Katsuki’s a goddamn hero. Number Two in the ranks. Any villain’s worst nightmare.

Motherfuckin’ Dynamight.

—

Shouto insists he be the one to pick Katsuki up at the airport, and takes the liberty of texting Izuku that he doesn’t have to wait for them to make the trip together.

Katsuki doesn’t complain. He’s sore, he’s tired—help with all of his stupid bags is nice no matter who it comes from.

Besides... he’s kind of relieved that it’s him. That it’s Shouto. He hasn’t seen him in weeks. Phone calls don’t wrap around him the same way arms do, and funny little interviews can only put so much of a pep in his step.

Katsuki missed the fuck out of him. It’s why he must look stupid now, head turning every which way to find who he’s looking for.

When Katsuki does spot Shouto, he waves Shinsou off his shoulder and jogs over. He doesn’t much feel like seeing Izuku right now anyway. All he’ll do is talk his ear off and he wants something a little more... calm. Relaxed.

Shouto comes rushing forward the second he sees Katsuki, just like any real worried boyfriend would. But in their case, he’s just a friend. A real worried friend. Shouto takes in Katsuki’s face once they’re breaths apart, reaching up to cup it in his hands. His right palm lines up perfectly with Katsuki’s bruised jaw, and a cooling sensation drifts over the skin.

And then he steps forward and kisses Katsuki soft.

Katsuki falls into it automatically. Shouto’s lips press against his, sweet and featherlight. Noses squish into cheeks and hair tickles foreheads and temples and chins. His arms wrap around Shouto greedily, drawing him in close, to prolong these touches for as long as he can.

Kissing Shouto like this—it’s easy. It feels good. Right in all sorts of ways he doesn’t want to think about right now. He’d rather take it all in like a breath of fresh air and feel drenched in Shouto’s presence, instead of wonder about the nuance of it all. Why complain when there’s nothing to complain about?

The second they draw a single centimeter apart, he complains anyway.

“What the hell was that for?” he murmurs against a soft, plush mouth.

“This is what boyfriends do when they’ve missed each other,” Shouto answers, pulling back to look him in the eye.

Katsuki’s lips curl into a genuine grin.

“Well, then,” he says, reaching up to swipe his thumb along Shouto’s cheek. “Nice to see you, too, sweetheart.”

They arrive at Katsuki’s apartment and he stumbles in, dead on his feet. He sits heavy on the couch as Shouto drags his duffel through the hallway and discards it on the living room floor. For a second, Shouto just stands there, and Katsuki watches. Waiting for him to say anything. But he’s a statue, like always, when he’s thinking about what he wants to do next.

Katsuki turns his gaze to him. “You just gonna stand there all day?”

“Oh,” Shouto says, like he’s coming back into himself. “I guess I should head out then.”

“No—I’m—” Katsuki swipes a hand over his maw. Tries again, gesturing out over the empty side of the couch. “You gonna come over here or what?”

Mismatched brows furrow. “You don’t have an appointment today.”

“I’m asking you to hang out, not to fucking cuddle, dumbass.”

Shouto seems as though he’s contemplating that, and then looks over at Katsuki with soft eyes. “Can we cuddle anyway?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki says automatically, the corner of his lips curling. “We can even snuggle if you want.”

It’s all it takes to put Shouto in motion. He looks around (for show) because knows there’re plenty of seats open, but he still plops down onto Katsuki’s lap like he belongs there. Shouto noses into Katsuki’s neck the moment arms wind around him, one hand cradling his back while the other cups the outside of his thigh. And it’s easy; something they’ve been doing all along.

Except it isn’t. Not exactly. This is different.

Katsuki has the brief thought that maybe this shouldn’t feel so right, but it does. Feel right, that is. They sit quietly, and his hand is preoccupied with Shouto’s hair, and Shouto’s cold hand finds its way to his face again.

It cools over the cuts and bruises, and Katsuki sinks to the touch. It’s all comfortable silence and warm bodies and face pats and he thinks he’ll have to turn something to watch on soon before he gets too antsy.

“So, anything happen while I was gone?” he asks instead—segues right into that smalltalk he hates so much. “Spooned some weepy loser hero, lately?”

“Hm, you are also my client. Does that make you a ‘weepy loser hero’?” Shouto throws right back. His fingers curl into the hem of his sweater when Katsuki doesn’t take the bait. “I haven’t taken any appointments in a while. Other than yours.”

“Since when?” Katsuki asked, surprised.

“Since we decided to date.”

Katsuki doesn’t correct him. Doesn’t say: since we started to ‘fake’ date. It was that stupid interview that’s got his wires all crossed. That keeps him from questioning any of their weird behavior today. He keeps thinking about it. Like what Shouto said was actually true.

And now Shouto’s here, telling Katsuki he hasn’t been spooning other heroes.

“Good.”

“Yeah,” Shouto agrees. “It’d be weird if they started asking questions about you.”

Katsuki’s tongue goes heavy in his mouth; put off by the sudden bitter taste of it. Of course.

Obviously it would be weird for someone like Katsuki to be okay with Shouto’s side job. It wouldn’t make sense if Shouto kept doing it—everyone knows Pro Hero Dynamight’s things are his things. And he can’t feel that bad about there being a stop to it. Shouto’s got a day job. His father’s fucking Endeavor and his brother’s goddamn Ashen. He’s got plenty of money.

What he does feel bad about is thinking Shouto had stopped because he didn’t want to touch anyone other than Katsuki. That... That was stupid of him.

“Yeah. It would’ve,” he agrees, carefully maneuvering himself out from under Shouto so that he slides right off his lap and onto the couch. Katsuki just needs to be as far away from him as possible right now. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

“Katsuki?” Shouto calls; there’s a hint of panic in his voice.

Katsuki stands; smooths a hand over the top of his spikes and heads toward his room. He doesn’t want to look back and see a hurt face accompanying that small voice. Shouto knows where the door is.

“I’m tired. Gotta sleep it off,” he says. “I’ll see you later, Sho.”

“You’re not going to walk me out?”

Katsuki stops in his tracks, gut twisting. He doesn’t turn around. Because he’s confused now. Because he doesn’t understand what’s going through his own mind or what he feels—because he’s not a liar. He really can’t deal with this right now and it’ll show all over his face.

That he’s made a mistake. Wondering. Hoping. Dreaming. Wishing. He didn’t even know it; he still doesn’t. How could he?

Does he like Shouto, is that it? That’s almost too simple.

He doesn’t even feel like himself anymore. Conflicted and unsure. That’s not him. It’s not.

Shouto probably looks all nervous and Katsuki wouldn’t be able to take it. To decide if he likes it enough to call it cute despite shit or if he wants to brush that worry away with his thumb in the hopes that a smile takes its place.

Katsuki hates that it’s like this. He’d rip the butterflies right from his stomach if he could.

Get a fucking grip.

Still, he’s a weak motherfucker—at least, that’s what he’s starting to reaize—when it comes to Shouto, so he turns around. It’s less than a second after that that Shouto’s in his arms, a vice-grip clamped around his shoulders and a cold-hot face in his neck. It’s fucking frustrating, the way he fits just right in Katsuki’s hands.

“Are you angry with me?” Shouto asks.

Katsuki breathes in sharp. “Don’t be stupid.”

Not the most reassuring thing, when he says it.

“Okay,” comes an odd-sounding reply. “Okay. I’ll go.” Shouto pulls back, a wobbly smile on his face. “But you’ll tell me later, right?”

Katsuki looks at him for a long while, lips pulling tight against his teeth.

“Yeah.”

Shouto nods, pushing forward into Katsuki’s embrace once more.

“I’m really glad you’re back, Katsuki.”

—

Katsuki doesn’t talk to Shouto for a week; doesn’t make an appointment or go out of his way to see him.

Shouto doesn’t reach out. He’d texted once and Katsuki never answered; he hasn’t tried again since.

Katsuki guesses they’re just going to leave it at that.