Chapter Text
The morning smells like floor polish, chalk dust, and cheap vending machine coffee. Katsuki hates all three.
He drops his bag at the door of the main office, tugs his hood down, and steps inside. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that gross early-morning grayscale on everything, like the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. The air feels stale, and the front desk fan clicks every few seconds like a metronome set to “annoying.”
Mr. Yagi looks up from his desk with the kind of smile that’s supposed to be reassuring but always manages to be the opposite. Too kind. Too soft. Like he thinks Katsuki is one breath away from swinging a chair through a window.
“Bakugou,” he greets, voice bright like sunshine Katsuki didn’t ask for. “You’re early.”
“Didn’t feel like dealing with people yet,” Katsuki mutters, slouching into the nearest chair.
Yagi chuckles, like that’s somehow charming. “Understandable. Well, I won’t keep you long. I wanted to speak with you before the day gets going. About the tournament.”
Katsuki narrows his eyes, jaw already tight. “What about it?”
Yagi steeples his fingers.
That’s never a good sign.
“The staff had a meeting yesterday. We’ve decided to adjust the pairings for this year’s Academic Tournament. Instead of random selection, we’re matching students based on complementary skill sets.”
Katsuki's stomach sinks like a stone.
“You’re partnering me with someone who can’t keep up,” he says flatly.
“Not quite. We’re pairing you with Midoriya.”
The silence that follows rings in his ears—thick, jarring, impossible to ignore.
Katsuki blinks once. Then again.
“You’re joking.”
Yagi looks almost apologetic. “It was a unanimous decision. You two are the top students in your year.”
“Exactly,” Katsuki snaps. “We work better on our own.”
Yagi tilts his head, calm as ever. “Or maybe you work best when challenged. Think of it as an opportunity.”
Katsuki scoffs. “To what? Not kill each other?”
“To learn from each other,” Yagi says smoothly.
Bullshit.
He can already feel the headache forming behind his eyes. Right behind the spot that throbs when Midoriya asks too many questions in class.
“Does Deku know about this yet?”
Yagi hesitates. That hesitation is all Katsuki needs.
“We’ll be informing him later today. Possibly tomorrow. I wanted to speak to you first.”
Of course. Always the courtesy warning when it comes to him.
Katsuki stands. Grabs his bag from the floor like it’s an anchor. His fingers clench the strap tight.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Whatever. Not like I have a choice.”
Yagi smiles again. Too bright. Too trusting. Like Katsuki isn’t already planning to punch the nearest locker.
“I think you might be surprised,” he says. “There’s potential here.”
Katsuki doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks out of the office, his jaw set like stone.
The hallway is still empty. Just stale air, cold tile, and a few precious seconds of quiet.
He stalks toward the stairs, boots echoing against the tile like warning shots. The kind that says keep away.
His mind races.
Deku.
The kid who always looks like he’s one breath away from exploding from nerves. The one who always scores just below him in every subject. The one who always has his hand raised like a damn reflex.
The one who used to follow him around like a shadow.
The one who knows every detail about him and then pretends not to.
And now he has to work with him.
He shoves open the stairwell door with a little more force than necessary. The metal handle clangs against the wall.
Great.
Just great.
Perfect goddamn start to the day.
He takes the stairs two at a time, trying to shake the thought of green eyes and mumbling and Midoriya’s stupid determined face out of his head.
But it sticks there, like something stuck and lingering.
He already knows how this will go.
They’ll argue. Deku will over-prepare. Katsuki will do the work himself out of sheer spite.
And maybe—maybe, somewhere in the middle of all that—he’ll remember why things got so complicated in the first place.
═══════
The track feels better than the hallway. Better than classrooms. Better than the tight-shouldered tension of Yagi’s office.
Katsuki sprints his fifth lap around the school’s outer field, the cold air biting at his lungs, his legs pumping with the kind of focus he only finds when he’s moving. When everything else—the noise, the pressure, the name Midoriya—burns off with every slap of his soles against the gravel.
He rounds the curve and slows only when the ache in his chest is just right. Not painful. Not pleasant. Just enough to distract him.
Kirishima’s waiting near the water fountain, bundled in his track jacket and holding out a bottle like he’s been expecting this exact kind of morning.
Katsuki grabs it with a grunt. “Don’t say anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kiri says, grin lazy. “Except maybe to say you’re running like someone told you gym doesn’t count toward your GPA.”
Katsuki drains half the bottle. “Yagi’s pairing me with Deku for the tournament.”
Kiri blinks. Then whistles. “Wow. Okay. That explains the rage run.”
“I don’t rage run.”
“You rage run. Like, impressively.”
Katsuki scowls and wipes his face on the sleeve of his hoodie. “He said we’d be good together. Complementary skill sets or some shit.”
Kiri makes a noise like he’s holding back a laugh. “I mean, he’s not wrong. You’re both terrifying in different academic ways.”
“He talks too much.”
“You yell too much.”
“He overplans.”
“You wing everything.”
Katsuki glares at him.
Kiri just shrugs. “Look, man. You don’t have to like him. But you’ve gotta admit—he makes you try harder.”
Katsuki doesn’t answer. He hates when Kiri’s right.
The bell rings in the distance, distant and shrill.
Katsuki tosses the bottle back to him. “We’re gonna crash and burn.”
“Or win the whole damn thing,” Kiri says, jogging to catch up as Katsuki heads toward the locker rooms. “Either way, I’m bringing popcorn.”
═══════
Izuku bolts out the door, bag slung over one shoulder, toast clenched between his teeth in true cliché fashion. He nearly trips over his own shoes in the hallway, hopping on one foot to jam the heel down properly.
“Have a good day!” Inko calls from the kitchen, apron tied around her waist.
“Love you!” he manages around a mouthful of bread, voice muffled and crumb-filled.
He darts past the line of shoes near the genkan, yanks the front door closed behind him, and stumbles into the hallway with the grace of a panicked cat.
Mrs. Tanaka, their next-door neighbor, gives him a polite smile as she struggles with her key. She’s lived on their floor for years, always dressed to the nines even before 8 a.m.
“Running late again, Midoriya-kun?”
“Y-Yeah,” he says, cheeks flushing. “Gotta go!”
He bows slightly before hurrying off, his footsteps quick against the linoleum. The elevator’s doors are just beginning to close when he throws his hand out to catch them. They slide open with a reluctant sigh, and he steps in, chest heaving, heart already thudding from the mini sprint.
He’s halfway to jabbing the button when he hears the footsteps behind him.
Heavy. Familiar.
Katsuki.
Of course.
Izuku freezes as Katsuki walks past the elevator without looking at him. No acknowledgment. No glance. Not even a flicker of recognition.
Just a blur of blond and sharp edges disappearing around the corner, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder like it doesn’t weigh a thing. Like he doesn’t feel anything.
Izuku presses the button for the lobby with a sigh, letting his head thump gently against the cool metal wall. His heart is still doing that thing it does—tight and stupid, like it hasn’t gotten the message yet.
The elevator door slides shut. He turns to face the mirror mounted above the control panel.
His tie is crooked.
He groans and starts fumbling with it. Too long. Too tight. The knot looks like it’s been strangled by a toddler. He undoes it with trembling fingers, tries again. Fails. Groans louder.
The mirror offers no sympathy, just his tired, sleep-starved reflection blinking back at him.
“Breathe,” he tells himself. “Just breathe.”
His fingers are cold, probably from the rush of leaving without his coat. He smooths down his collar, straightens his tie for a third time, and stares at his reflection.
His eyes look too wide. His cheeks are still red. His hair is more chaos than curls.
He combs through it quickly with his fingers. Useless. The mess is here to stay.
“Okay,” he mutters, offering himself a weak smile. “It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re a functional person. A functional, totally normal person who is definitely not still hung up on someone who hasn’t spoken to you in months.”
The elevator dings, signaling the end of his dramatic self-monologue. He grabs his bag tighter and forces his legs to move.
Another day. Another dozen ways to embarrass himself in front of Katsuki Bakugou.
But he’s used to that by now.
Sort of.
Still, as he steps out into the quiet lobby and makes his way to the front doors, Izuku finds himself glancing over his shoulder, just once, like Katsuki might have changed his mind.
He hasn’t.
He never does.
Izuku sighs and walks faster, already rehearsing excuses in his head for why his homework’s half done, why his uniform is wrinkled, and why his chest feels like it’s being squeezed by something invisible.
The elevator might’ve been empty, but somehow, it still left him breathless.
═══════
First period is a quiet war.
Aizawa stands at the whiteboard, dry-erase marker dragging across the surface in slow, looping print. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his tone borderline deadpan, but every few sentences, he pauses for questions—like clockwork, like bait.
Izuku’s hand shoots up before the marker even lifts.
“Sensei, I think—”
“So,” Katsuki says from across the aisle, hand also in the air but not waiting for permission, “if we’re working with conditional statements, you can’t just simplify the last expression like that.”
Izuku’s jaw tightens.
“That’s what I was about to say,” he mutters.
“You hesitated.”
“I was breathing.”
“Next time, do it faster.”
Aizawa sighs, uncapping a red marker. “If either of you actually let me finish explaining the theorem, you’d both realize you’re arguing the same point.”
Izuku shrinks slightly in his seat. Katsuki slouches like he couldn’t care less. The contrast between them is practically a visual gag—one wound up too tight, the other sprawled like school is just a formality.
Their classmates shift uncomfortably. A few stifled laughs ripple through the room. Kaminari leans over to whisper something to Mina, and she tries—fails—not to giggle.
Aizawa underlines the final step of the problem with extra pressure and moves on.
Izuku tries to focus, really, he does—but his gaze keeps drifting to the notebook sitting beside him. Katsuki’s handwriting is infuriatingly perfect. Straight lines. Balanced spacing. He even bullets his steps in clean, sharp triangles. It's precise, clinical. Weaponized order.
Who the hell makes trigonometry look that organized?
Izuku hates that he notices. Hates that he notices more than once. Hates that part of him wonders if Katsuki does it on purpose—if that perfect penmanship is another way to remind everyone he’s untouchable.
His own notes, by comparison, are a chaos of arrows, highlights, and margin-scribbled thoughts. Efficient. Detailed. But messy.
Like him.
Katsuki taps his pen once, like punctuation. Like a period on a sentence he didn’t need to say out loud.
Izuku looks away, stomach in knots. He rubs at the edge of his notebook, eyes scanning the board but not really seeing it. He can feel Katsuki there. Not watching, but present. Always present.
He raises his hand again, determined to beat him this time.
So does Katsuki.
There’s a pause. A moment too long.
Aizawa doesn’t even bother to look up. “Midoriya. Bakugou. Either let me teach or go teach somewhere else.”
Both hands lower.
Someone coughs to cover a snicker. Izuku burns with secondhand embarrassment—or maybe it's firsthand, by now.
He exhales quietly through his nose, eyes fixed on the board.
It’s going to be a long period.
And it’s only just started.
═══════
The student council room is too clean—surfaces too shiny, air too sharp with leftover polish., the chairs all too stiff and the table too shiny. Izuku slumps into his usual seat, his notebook already open but mostly blank. His pen hovers above the page like it’s waiting for instructions.
Tenya stands at the head of the table, posture military-straight, his eyes scanning a clipboard with surgical precision. "Before we begin," he says, "I want to address the matter of the permit forms. They were due yesterday."
Izuku’s heart drops into his stomach.
Tenya looks up. "Midoriya, those forms were your responsibility. Were they submitted?"
Izuku opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I—no. I didn’t—They’re still—I forgot."
Tenya’s brow twitches. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even sigh. He just presses his lips into a flat line and makes a note on his clipboard.
“I’m sorry,” Izuku says, voice too quiet.
He feels it—everyone’s eyes flicking toward him and away again. Some stay longer than others. Momo’s gaze is sharp but not cruel. Tsuyu tilts her head slightly, almost sympathetically. Mina’s lips part like she might say something before deciding not to.
Katsuki, across the room, doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But he’s looking.
His stare is heavy.
Izuku doesn’t glance up, but he can feel it burning into the side of his head.
Burnt out. That’s what he is. His brain is static. His chest is too tight. He’s behind on everything and running on caffeine and hope. And hope doesn’t turn in permit forms on time.
Tenya moves on. "We’ll need to get them in before tomorrow, or the booth placements will be delayed. I expect it done by the end of today, Midoriya."
Izuku nods quickly. “Yes. I’ll take care of it.”
Katsuki’s stare doesn’t leave.
But he doesn’t say anything.
Not yet.
═══════
The council room is quieter after the meeting disperses. Most of the others file out in pairs, chatting about class schedules or festival prep. Chairs scrape back. Pages rustle. Eventually, only two remain.
Izuku stares at his half-finished to-do list. He hasn’t moved in five minutes. His pen rests motionless beside it, poised but purposeless. He can hear the tick of the clock on the far wall, the low hum of the lights above. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful—just tense.
Katsuki leans back in his chair on the other side of the table, arms crossed, ankle resting on his opposite knee. His expression hasn’t changed since the meeting ended—sharp and unreadable. He hasn’t said a word. Just watched.
Izuku tries not to fidget, but his fingers betray him, drumming lightly against the edge of the table.
Katsuki’s foot taps once against the leg of the desk. Then again.
Then, his voice cuts through the quiet—sharp, quiet, and aimed with purpose.
“You gonna screw up the rest of the festival plans too?”
The words land like a slap.
Izuku’s pen slips from his hand and clatters against the tabletop.
He looks up slowly. “Excuse me?”
Katsuki shrugs with practiced indifference, like he didn’t just hurl an accusation across the room. “I mean, if you’re gonna forget paperwork, might as well get it over with now instead of dragging the rest of us down later.”
Izuku feels heat flood his cheeks. “It was one thing. I was tired.”
“Everyone’s tired.”
“Yeah, well, not everyone works after school and runs around trying to juggle seven things at once.”
Katsuki scoffs. “That supposed to be impressive?”
“It’s supposed to be human!”
The silence that follows is brittle.
Izuku pushes back slightly in his chair, tension coiling in his shoulders. He doesn’t stand, but the shift in his posture is clear—ready, defensive.
“Look,” he says, voice quieter now but no less sharp. “I know you think I’m some kind of idiot, but I’m trying, okay? I’m doing my best.”
Katsuki’s gaze sharpens. “Your best shouldn’t get the rest of us in trouble.”
Izuku leans forward, eyes flashing. “My best has carried more weight than you think. Just because I don’t walk around like I own the place doesn’t mean I’m not working twice as hard to be taken seriously.”
Katsuki’s jaw flexes. He opens his mouth to fire back—but the door creaks open.
Momo steps in, a folder tucked under one arm. She stops short when she sees them, eyes flicking between their faces like she’s walked into something volatile.
“Did I interrupt something?”
They snap apart instantly—Izuku diving into his notes with frantic energy, flipping pages like they contain the secrets of the universe. Katsuki sinks deeper into his chair, arms crossed tighter, expression frozen in practiced apathy.
“Nope,” Izuku says, voice a little too high-pitched.
“All good,” Katsuki mutters, not looking up.
Momo raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but she doesn’t press. She takes her seat across from them and opens her folder, flipping through its contents with the grace of someone used to pretending things are normal.
The room settles into an uneasy silence. Pens scribble. Pages turn. Chairs creak softly against the tile.
Izuku keeps his eyes down, but his mind is spinning. The words from earlier linger—accusations, deflections, things neither of them wanted to say.
He doesn’t know what’s worse—the argument or the way it ended.
Katsuki doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t shift. Just stares at his phone screen like it holds all the answers he doesn’t want to say out loud.
But the tension between them doesn’t vanish. It simmers. Sits heavy in the air like fog refusing to lift.
Izuku swallows hard and goes back to pretending his handwriting makes sense. He can still feel the weight of that stare, even when it’s gone.
He wonders what would’ve happened if Momo hadn’t walked in.
He wonders why the part of him that wanted to keep fighting is the part that hurts most now.
═══════
The scent of roasted beans and cinnamon syrup hits Izuku the moment he pushes open the door to the café. It’s warm in here—too warm for the way his cheeks are still flushed from earlier—but it’s a comfort all the same. The bell above the door jingles gently as he steps in, rubbing the back of his neck.
Hanta’s already behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine with the laziness of someone who’s halfway through his shift and running on autopilot.
“You’re late,” Hanta says without looking up.
“Barely,” Izuku mutters, ducking behind the counter.
He grabs his apron from the hook, shaking it out before tying it around his waist. The fabric is soft from too many washes, the front pocket weighed down by pens and a folded cheat sheet of drink combinations.
Hanta gives him a sideways glance. “Rough day?”
Izuku huffs as he tightens the apron strings. “You have no idea.”
“Lemme guess—student council stress? Academic decathlon nonsense? Or was it that one blonde guy glaring at you like you insulted his whole bloodline?”
Izuku’s face goes red instantly. “I…It’s nothing. Just school.”
Hanta snorts. “Uh-huh. Totally convincing.”
Izuku ducks his head, pretending to reorganize the syrup bottles. “It’s just been a long week.”
“You mean a long semester.”
“Exactly.”
Hanta leans an elbow on the counter and gives him a knowing grin. “You know, you get this particular look when a certain someone’s name comes up.”
“I don’t,” Izuku says, too quickly.
“You so do.”
Izuku mutters something under his breath and retreats toward the back, pretending to take inventory. The supply shelf is half-empty, and he counts espresso pods to avoid eye contact. He hears Hanta chuckle.
And then, the bell jingles again.
Izuku peeks around the corner.
Katsuki.
Of course.
He walks in like he owns the place, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the counter. He doesn’t look toward the back.
Izuku ducks immediately.
Hanta turns toward the register with a practiced smile, already pulling a cup from the stack. “The usual?”
Katsuki grunts something affirming.
From his crouch behind the shelf, Izuku listens to the sound of the espresso machine hissing, the tap of coins in the tip jar, the thump of a bag hitting the floor. He bites his lip, heart racing like he’s in trouble for nothing.
“Thanks,” Katsuki mutters.
Hanta says nothing until the door jingles again.
Izuku peeks up.
Gone.
“You are so obvious,” Hanta says, casually returning to the counter.
“I wasn’t hiding,” Izuku lies.
“You literally ducked behind the oat milk.”
Izuku groans and flops against the shelf. “I’m doomed.”
Hanta just laughs. “Yup.”
═══════
Katsuki doesn’t remember why he started coming here in the first place. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe the matcha. Maybe the fact that no one bothered him.
He sits in the far corner, by the window, where the light spills just enough to read by but not enough to draw attention. His matcha latte steams gently beside his notebook, untouched.
He flips a page, scribbles something half-heartedly, then stops.
The café hums around him—low conversation, the hiss of milk steaming, a spoon clinking against a ceramic mug. It’s familiar. Calming.
But his eyes keep drifting to the counter.
No one’s there at the moment, just a stack of cups and a row of syrups gleaming under the light. But he swears he saw movement behind the bar a second ago. A shadow ducking down. A flash of green.
He looks back at his notebook.
Stares.
The words blur.
He taps his pen twice against the edge of the page and forces himself to focus. The problem is straightforward. Solve for x. Substitute. Eliminate.
But his mind isn’t cooperating.
Somewhere behind the bar, someone laughs.
It’s muffled. Quiet.
But familiar.
Too familiar.
Katsuki stiffens.
No way.
He shakes his head, scowling at his notebook like it personally offended him.
He didn’t hear that. He imagined it. Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep. That’s all it is.
Still...
His gaze drifts back to the counter. Just for a second.
But no one’s there.
He exhales and takes a slow sip of his latte.
Smooth. Sweet. A little bitter.
He hates that he can’t tell if it’s the drink or the way his chest twists when he hears that laugh again, even softer this time.
It’s nothing.
He’s imagining things.
Has to be.
═══════
Izuku lies curled under the covers, phone glowing in the dark like a secret. His room is quiet—too quiet—and he keeps flipping his pillow over like it’ll magically cool down the thoughts overheating his brain.
He opens his chat with Ochako, thumb hovering for a second.
Then he types:
Izuku: “He looked so good today, and I hate myself for it.”
He stares at it for a second. Then another. Hits send before he can talk himself out of it.
The response comes almost immediately.
Ochako: “You’re so obvious. Just confess.”
Izuku groans and buries his face in the pillow. “I can’t,” he mutters, though no one is there to hear it. He flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling, then reaches over to pull open the drawer beside his bed.
Inside is a small photo album, one he hasn’t looked at in a while.
He opens it.
There they are—two little boys grinning at a summer festival. Another shot of them on the playground. Katsuki in the lead, Izuku following two steps behind. Always behind.
He flips to the last photo, one where they’re maybe ten, sitting on the curb with melting popsicles and grass stains on their knees.
Izuku traces the edge of it with his thumb.
It’s stupid how much he remembers. The exact sound of Katsuki’s laugh back then. The way he used to talk with his hands, loud and passionate, before everything got complicated.
His phone buzzes again.
Ochako: “Just don’t overthink it. He might surprise you.”
Izuku snorts quietly.
He doubts it.
But the tiny spark of hope refuses to go out.
He tucks the album back into the drawer and rolls onto his side, clutching the phone like it’s a lifeline.
Just until morning.
He closes his eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily. His mind replays every moment from earlier—every shared glance, every word Katsuki said, every word he didn’t. There’s this ache that won’t settle, a kind of longing that has nowhere to go. He doesn’t even know what he wants, not really. An apology? A conversation? A reason to believe there’s still something left between them besides competition and cold shoulders?
He remembers how Katsuki used to look at him when they were younger. Like he was something worth protecting. That look is gone now—or maybe buried under everything else they never said.
Izuku sighs again and flips onto his other side, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He lingers on an old photo from middle school: a class trip, everyone crowding into the frame. Katsuki’s standing on the edge, arms crossed, scowling slightly. Izuku’s somewhere in the middle, half-smiling.
They weren’t close then. Not anymore. But even back then, Izuku had still looked for him.
Still does.
Maybe that’s the problem.
He locks his phone and sets it face-down on the nightstand.
The room is still quiet.
He wonders if Katsuki ever thinks about him at all.
═══════
The next morning, the first thing Katsuki notices when he walks into homeroom is that Yagi’s standing at the front of the class.
Never a good sign.
The principal rarely shows up in person unless something big is happening—fire drill, major announcement, academic updates. And the way he smiles today, too big and too bright, makes Katsuki’s stomach twist.
He slings his bag onto his desk and drops into his seat without acknowledging anyone. Doesn’t have to. People know to stay out of his way.
Yagi clears his throat.
“Good morning, everyone. I’ll only take a minute of your time. As you may know, the Academic Tournament is fast approaching. This year, we’ve made some exciting changes to the format—specifically, in how we’ve paired our participants.”
Beside him, Izuku stiffens.
Katsuki doesn’t have to look to know it.
He can feel it.
Yagi continues, “Instead of randomized selection, the staff has carefully reviewed your records and skill sets to determine the most optimal pairings.”
A few students murmur. Someone in the back whispers, “Please not me with Bakugou.”
Katsuki doesn’t flinch.
“Now,” Yagi says, “some of you already know your pairings. But for those of you who don’t…”
He picks up a clipboard.
Katsuki zones out. He knows what’s coming. It’s just a matter of time.
“Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki.”
There it is.
Someone in the back coughs. A few heads turn.
Katsuki hears the tiniest inhale from the seat next to him. Tight. Shaky.
He doesn’t look over. Just mutters under his breath, low enough for only one person to hear:
“Don’t screw this up, nerd.”
Izuku says nothing.
But he doesn’t have to.
Katsuki can feel the way his shoulders go rigid, the tension bleeding off him like heat from a frayed wire.
Good.
They’ve got work to do.
═══════
Izuku realizes it just as the homeroom bell rings—he’s forgotten his tie.
He freezes in the middle of unpacking his bag, his fingers twitching around his notebook as the realization sinks in. No tie. No tie. No tie. He glances down at the empty collar of his shirt like it might magically be hiding beneath the layers of his jacket. It’s not. Of course it’s not.
He closes his eyes for a second and counts to three, like it might slow the rising panic building under his ribs.
Tenya, seated beside him, gasps softly. It’s the sound of a man witnessing a cardinal sin.
“Midoriya! Your uniform—”
“I know,” Izuku hisses under his breath, tugging at his collar as if that’ll fix anything. “I forgot.”
Tenya’s face is already drawn into a storm cloud of procedural panic. “The handbook clearly states that all students must adhere to dress code regulations! The tie is an essential component of the male uniform—”
“I know what it states,” Izuku mutters, cutting him off, “I just…I forgot, okay? I was in a rush this morning. I didn’t sleep well.”
Tenya looks horrified. “You’ll be cited for dress code violation if Aizawa-sensei sees—”
“I’ll figure something out,” Izuku mumbles, fumbling with the collar like that might somehow make up for the missing piece. He considers running to the lost and found, but there’s no time. His thoughts spiral through every possible excuse he could give, each worse than the last.
Before Tenya can launch into a full speech about uniform violations, the importance of punctuality, and institutional pride, something soft lands on Izuku’s desk with a quiet thud.
A tie.
He blinks.
It’s navy blue. Slightly wrinkled. Familiar.
Katsuki’s tie.
Izuku lifts his head slowly, eyes darting to the seat beside him. Katsuki doesn’t even glance over. He’s already slouched back in his chair, arms crossed, chin tilted down just enough that his eyes are hidden beneath messy blond bangs.
He looks completely uninterested.
But Izuku knows better.
His fingers close around the fabric cautiously, like he’s not sure it’s real. It feels warm in his hands, like it’s been held recently. Like it means something.
He starts looping it around his collar, his fingers shaking slightly. He’s tied a hundred ties before—he’s had to—but his hands feel clumsy now, unsure. The knot doesn’t sit right the first time. He undoes it and tries again.
Next to him, Tenya has gone uncharacteristically quiet.
Izuku glances at his reflection in the screen of his tablet, adjusts the knot, and swallows hard.
He doesn’t say thank you.
Katsuki doesn’t ask for one.
But Izuku can feel him there, the awareness of his presence louder than anything else in the room. Every inch of space between them feels charged.
Aizawa walks in not long after, coat billowing slightly behind him. He drops his notebook onto the front desk and begins lecturing immediately, no roll call, no formal greeting.
Class starts like normal.
Like nothing has happened.
But Izuku’s neck is warm beneath the collar, and his fingers keep brushing the knot like it might come undone.
It’s not until break that the consequences come.
“Bakugou,” Aizawa says flatly as he walks past the back row. “Where’s your tie?”
Katsuki shrugs. “Don’t have it.”
Aizawa doesn’t miss a beat. “Out of uniform. Ten laps.”
Katsuki groans low under his breath but doesn’t argue. He rises from his chair, movements stiff with irritation, and stomps toward the door without another word.
The class watches in near silence as the door swings shut behind him.
From the window, Izuku watches him jog across the field, posture tense, expression unreadable. Each step is precise, furious.
Izuku doesn’t know what to do with the storm in his chest.
He touches the knot of the borrowed tie again.
It’s neat now. Secure.
And it’s still warm.
═══════
The bell rings to end the period, but Izuku stays frozen in his seat, pretending to organize his notes while the rest of the class files out. Tenya leaves after giving him a half-concerned, half-approving nod. Slowly, the room empties until it’s just him and one other person.
Katsuki walks back in through the side door, hair wind-tousled and cheeks slightly pink from running. He doesn’t look winded—just annoyed.
He heads toward his desk, grabbing his bag without sparing Izuku a glance.
Izuku swallows.
He stands.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Katsuki doesn’t look at him. “What.”
Izuku steps closer, holding the tie in both hands. The knot is looser now, the fabric creased from wear. “Here. I figured you’d want it back.”
Katsuki shrugs. “Keep it.”
Izuku stares at him. “What?”
“I’ve got spares,” he mutters, zipping his bag with more force than necessary.
“I—thank you,” Izuku says. The words come out awkward, like they’ve been stuck in his throat all day. “For earlier.”
Katsuki still doesn’t look up. “Didn’t do it for you.”
“Right,” Izuku murmurs, fingers tightening around the tie. “Of course.”
He holds it for a moment too long. Like if he gives it back, the moment will vanish with it.
Finally, he extends it anyway.
Katsuki hesitates. Then takes it with a grunt, shoving it into his pocket without ceremony.
They stand there for a beat. Neither of them speaking.
Izuku looks at the floor. “You didn’t have to get in trouble.”
“Didn’t,” Katsuki says. “Didn’t care.”
Izuku nods, still not meeting his eyes. “Still. Thanks.”
Katsuki swings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door.
Just before he walks out, he says—without turning around—
“You’re welcome, nerd.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
Izuku exhales, fingers still curled like he’s holding something that isn’t there anymore.
═══════
Izuku’s phone buzzes before he even makes it to lunch.
Ochako: “Did you see the council chat?”
He opens it and immediately regrets it.
The group chat is chaos incarnate.
Mina: “we need volunteers for setup!! pls don’t make me haul all these lanterns myself 😭”
Ochako: “someone help me sort flyers they’re literally taking over my locker”
Mina: “i’m dying. DEKU I KNOW YOU’RE READING THIS”
Izuku sighs and types without thinking:
Izuku: “I can help after school.”
He barely finishes sending the message before another one pops up.
Mina: “YOU’RE MY HERO”
Ochako: “legend”
Momo: “Thank you, Midoriya. I’ll add your name to the sign-up.”
Izuku pockets his phone just as Katsuki drops into the seat beside him with his lunch tray. He glances at his own phone, which vibrates once with the same group chat notification.
He groans. “Tell me you didn’t just volunteer me for something.”
“I didn’t!” Izuku says, a little too fast. “Not on purpose.”
Katsuki glares at him, muttering, “Shitty timing.”
Izuku pulls his phone back out and types quickly.
Izuku: “We have to be civil now. Just don’t kill me.”
Katsuki reads it over his shoulder, snorts once, and says nothing.
But he doesn’t leave the table.
═══════
The elevator hums as it ascends, the numbers above the door ticking up with a soft, steady glow. Katsuki leans back against the wall, arms crossed, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder. His muscles ache faintly from the earlier laps, but he doesn’t mind the burn. Better than sitting still. Better than thinking.
The building’s quiet at this hour. Most people are still at school or work. No chatter in the hallway. No dogs barking. Just the rhythmic thrum of the elevator and his own thoughts.
His head tilts back, eyes on the fluorescent paneling above.
Why did he give up his tie? Why did he care?
It wasn’t about pity. He wouldn’t do something like that just because someone forgot a piece of clothing. And it wasn’t exactly kindness either. It was something in between. Reflexive. Like he’d seen Izuku’s panicked face and acted without thinking.
The elevator dings.
He steps out onto their floor, the motion automatic now. The lights are dimmer here, just enough to cast long shadows along the carpet. He starts walking toward his apartment but stops halfway.
Izuku’s door is cracked open.
He pauses.
Faint music drifts out—something soft, instrumental, familiar but hard to place. Piano, maybe. It spills into the hall like a secret.
Katsuki stares at the door.
Just a few more steps and he’d be standing in the doorway. Just a knock and he could say something. Anything.
But what would he say?
Nice tie?
Sorry you suck at remembering the basics of life?
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. There’s a pull in his chest, irritating and warm, the same one that’s been there for years, buried under years of silence and sideways glances.
He takes one step toward the door.
Stops.
Shifts his weight back.
He hears Izuku’s laugh. Muffled, brief. Probably on the phone. Or maybe singing along. He can almost see it—Izuku cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by papers and plans, still dressed in uniform, still moving at a hundred miles an hour.
Still trying.
Katsuki’s jaw clenches.
He turns away.
And walks past.
The door to his own apartment clicks shut behind him.
Music still playing down the hall.
And the stupid pull in his chest doesn’t go away.
═══════
Izuku lies on his bed, legs tangled in the blanket, school blazer tossed over the desk chair, shoes kicked off by the door. The overhead light is off, only his desk lamp casting a dim yellow pool over the clutter of notebooks and uncapped pens.
He holds his phone above his face, thumb hovering over the voice memo app.
He hesitates. Then taps record.
“This is dumb,” he mutters at first, but he doesn’t stop.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Today was—” He sighs. “I don’t know. Weird. Kacchan gave me his tie. Just…tossed it on my desk like it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It does. At least, to me. I think.”
He swallows.
“I keep trying to make sense of how I feel about him. And how he feels about me, if he feels anything at all. Maybe I’m just reading into things again. Maybe I’m still that same dumb kid who followed him around the neighborhood thinking we’d always be friends.”
Izuku pauses. The silence stretches.
“It feels like something’s about to shift. I don’t know what, exactly. But something.”
He stops the recording.
Lowers the phone to his chest and stares at the ceiling, eyes wide and unfocused.
The music from earlier has stopped. The apartment is quiet.
But his head is anything but.
And still, beneath all the noise, something inside him is starting to stir—tentative, hopeful, and terrifyingly real.