Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is no kind way to say it: this is sovereign stupidity.

I'm sitting in an armchair that's too soft, in an office with walls too white, in front of a woman wearing square glasses and a notebook that hasn't stopped writing since we walked through the door. She hasn't said "hello" yet and is already taking notes. It makes me want to rip off her notebook and burn it right there, but apparently that is "not right".

The worst of all is not the therapist. Nor the notebook. Not even the fact of being here, which is already a nightmare come true.

The worst part is that Deku seems comfortable.

He's sitting next to me, cross-legged, his hands resting on the knees, and a nauseating expression: open, receptive, ready to collaborate.

Like this was a fucking emotional analysis class and he's getting straight A's.

“So...” the therapist begins, in a soft, professional voice, one of those who want to sound kind but I just want to rip my ears out. “To begin with, I want to thank you for coming. I know it can be uncomfortable at first. But this program aims to strengthen emotional bonds and communication between couples who share a work environment as intense as yours.”

Strengthen emotional bonds, my balls.

This was not our idea. It was the agency's new policy, one of those genius initiatives by the HR department that believes several sessions with a stranger will prevent "personal disputes on the battlefield." Sounds nice. On paper. In real life, it means that couples like us —yes, couple, we've been dating for a couple of years — have to go through this every fucking week.

One hour. Sitting. Speaking of emotions.

I prefer to face a Nomu with my bare hands.

“I've read your reports.” she continues, flipping through some papers as if she were reviewing the results of a failed experiment. “Your coordination on the field is excellent. You cover each other, anticipate movements, and communicate fluently.”

I don't know if she means the latter. Because if you consider that a "Midoriya, move out of there, you idiot" counts as fluid communication, then maybe I do have emotional talent and no one had noticed.

“What I want to work with you,” she says, “is the emotional part. How are you taking care of yourselves as a couple? How are you hearing each other off the battlefield?”

Beside me, Deku nods. He's not even pretending. The damn one believes in this.

“I think it can be useful.” Izuku confirms, in that soft voice he uses when he tries not to provoke me, as if I were a bomb with legs. “We are in tension for a long time, working side by side. Sometimes we don't give ourselves the space to... talk.”

“We talked enough.” I growled.

The therapist tilts her head towards me, interested. It makes me want to shoot an explosion on each earring.

“What do you mean, Katsuki?”

I hate being called by my first name. It sounds to me like when my mother used to yell at me for breaking something. But I know that if I growl again she'll write it down, and she's already got enough grunts in that notebook to publish a dictionary of "Bakugou Nonverbal Language."

“We don't need to come here to tell a stranger how we feel. We're fine. We do our job. We didn't argue much. We eat together, we sleep together, we fuck, we save the world. The end.”

The silence that settles after my statement is dense.

Deku turns red up to his ears. He puts his hand to the back of his neck and lets out that nervous laugh that makes my hair stand on end. Not because it bothers me. Because I know it. Because I love it. Because I heard it so many times as a child that now it's like a damn emotional alarm.

“Excuse me.” Deku says, looking at the therapist. “Kacchan has a... direct form to express himself.”

“Don't apologize for me.” I murmur, crossing my arms.

The therapist smiles as if I were a wild child trying to chew on the furniture. I clench my fists so as not to explode the vase of flowers in the corner.

“Katsuki,” she says calmly, “how do you express affection for Midoriya?”

There it is. The awkward moment.

Deep breath. I scratch the back of my neck. I swallow half a dozen rude words.

“I don't kill him.” I reply, without looking at anyone.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“That if I couldn't stand him, he'd be dead by now. But he is not. So...”

Deku tries to intervene again.

“What he mean is that… he is very protective. He is always attentive to whether I am tired, if I have eaten, if I have been hurt. He doesn't say it out loud, but he shows it.”

The therapist writes something else. I'm almost certain she wrote: emotionally closed male with homicidal tendencies.

“And when you tell him you love him?”

I choke on my own breath.

“I don't have to say it if I prove it.” I reply, more brusque than I should.

“But you could try it.” Deku says, looking at me with that expression of his. Tender. Comprehensive. As if he knew that inside I am a pressure cooker.

I can't handle that look. He's powerful and manages to stir up everything I've been buried since we were kids.

It makes me want to yell at him. To embrace him. To push him against the wall and kiss him until he has no breath left.

“I... well, you know.” I mumbled.

“Was that a compliment? An insult? A declaration of love?” The therapist asks, tilting her head.

“What if it was all at the same time?” I answer with a crooked smile.

Izuku laughs and looks at me as if I were a work of abstract art that only he understands.

I'm screwed up.

After that trick question about how I express my feelings —as if someone who breathes fire from his hands had time to think about poems— the therapist decides that it is time to "energize the session."

That already smells like shit to me.

“Let's do a little exercise.” she says, and bends down to take something out of a box next to the armchair. What she takes out is not a notebook or an emotional smoke bomb. It's worse. Is... a ball.

A damn rubber ball, red, with a smiley face.

I want to die.

“It's a very simple game. We passed the ball to each other. Whoever receives it must say something positive about the person who threw it at them. It doesn't have to be something very deep, it can be something that they appreciate, admire, or has made them feel good lately.”

I look at Izuku. He's already smiling. Of course. This seems adorable to him. Surely this reminds him of those ridiculous school dynamics where everyone shared what they liked about the classmate next door while eating cookies and drinking milk.

I, on the other hand, am sitting here with my arms crossed, swallowing my desire to pop the ball with a single slap.

“Let's start with something easy.” says the therapist, and ignores me olympicly. She throw the ball to Izuku.

He catches it without a problem, of course. He played baseball a couple of years when we were teenagers, the nerd. I didn't forget it.

Izuku holds it in his hands, a little tense, but with that look of his that mixes enthusiasm and anxiety in the perfect proportion to make you want to hug him or give him a bump on the head.

“Well…” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I guess I want to thank the agency for taking our mental health seriously. It's important. We don't always have time for this kind of thing, and... and it feels good to have a moment to stop and talk. I also want to thank the you for being so kind.”

The therapist nods, smiling, as if she had been given a flower.

I, meanwhile, roll my eyes so hard that I almost fall off the sofa.

Stay with him, then, I mean. Do couples therapy with Midoriya if you like his gratitude so much.

But I am not saying it. Because I know that if I do, Izuku is going to look at me with that expression between disappointment and patience. And damn, I'm not here screw up his day.

Izuku turns to me. He throws the ball to me.

And he does it with that little smile of his.

The ball hits me in the chest. I could catch it, but I let it bounce off my arm and fall to the ground, with a ridiculous little bounce. I pick it up reluctantly. It is soft. I hate that it's soft.

“Well?” the therapist asks, too calm.

Izuku looks at me. Patient.

I hate him. No. I don't hate him. But I hate that he looks at me like that, as if he really expects something good from me. As if he believed in me.

And that's worse.

“This is stupid.” I say, looking at the ball as if it were a mutant bug.

“Even so,” the therapist replies, “try it... Try saying something.”

I squeeze the ball in my hand. The sound it makes is disgusting. Squeak.

I look at Izuku. He's looking at me with those damn eyes that glow even under this ugly office light.

I take a deep breath.

Fuck it.

“Izuku.” I say, as if reciting a condemnation. “You're a nuisance. You talk too much. You're always analyzing everything as if you're a green encyclopedia with legs. Sometimes you make mental lists while you're naked. And don't deny it, I've seen you move your lips in the meantime.”

Izuku turns red. Very red. The therapist blinks several times in a row.

“But…” I continue, forcing myself not to look at the floor, “when we sleep together, you always turn to me without realizing it. Even when you're on the other side of the bed. Like you want to be close to me. And I don't know why, but that calms me down. So... that's all.”

A brief but tense silence formed.

Izuku looks at me as if I've just given him a bouquet of roses with several hidden granades.

The therapist blinks twice. After... she smile.

“That has been very valuable, Katsuki. Thanks for sharing. Sometimes, even a simple observation can say a lot about how we feel. And that you have expressed it... even in your own way, it's a step.”

I rolled my eyes. Once again. They should have given me a medical warning by now.

“You wanted a compliment, there you have it.”

“I liked it.” Izuku says quietly, stroking the ball with his thumb. “The thing about me turning over in bed...”

“Don't make this weirder than it is, damn it.” I growl, though I get a laugh.

And then, at the height of absurdity, I pass the ball to the therapist. I do it quickly. Strongly. Not enough to break her nose, but enough that she has to move her torso to catch it.

She laughs, as if she expected it.

“What now? Do you have anything nice to say about me?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“Of course. Since you've passed the ball to me, Katsuki, I'll return the gesture.”

The therapist adjusts her glasses. She looks at me with those eyes that try to look warm, but only remind me of the reports I hate to read.

“You seem like a strong, determined, direct person. Rude. Very rough. On the outside. But.” Dramatic pause, of course. “I have the feeling that if you dig deep enough, there's something warm in there. Maybe even tender.”

Izuku nods slowly. As if confirming a long-suspected theory.

“Don't dig.” I answer dryly. “There are mines.”

The therapist laughs. Izuku too.

Not me.

But I look down, for a second. Because, damn, she's not entirely wrong.

I just don't want her to say it out loud either.

The silence at home weighs more than the fucking reports they made us fill out this morning.

I slam the door of the apartment shut, more out of habit than drama. I take off my hero boots and leave them aligned with his, as always, although I hate that his takes up so much space. They have that wide sole to cushion falls. Practical and tacky.

Izuku walks in front of me, hanging his jacket on the coat rack. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't look at me. But he doesn't seem annoyed either. He's just... thoughtful. And that's worse. When he doesn't speak, his head does things. Processes. Analyzes. He relives each word, as if he were going to draw an emotional thesis about the afternoon.

I, on the other hand, am already regretting everything.

Not what I said. Not that. It's true. He turns on the bed to me every night and I have no idea why that gives me so much peace, but it does. What bothers me is having said it there. With that lady taking invisible notes with her wisdom glasses.

I scratch the back of my neck as I walk to the kitchen.

Izuku plops down on the couch. I hear the sound of his legs bending, his head sinking into the cushion, the air coming out of his lungs as if trying to release tension without bothering me.

Perfect. Now he is in reflexive mood. Terrific.

I should take a shower. Change. Watch a series. Ignore. Let it happen. But I don't move to the bathroom. I don't pick up the TV remote. I stop at the kitchen threshold and look at the clock. It's almost eight o'clock.

He doesn't tell me he's hungry. He never says it. Not because he doesn't want to, but because he always waits for me to say it first. As if he was afraid of appearing demanding.

I sigh.

Dammit.

Cooking is something I like. I enjoy making complex dishes, as long as I have enough time to make them perfect. But this time it is different. This time I don't cook for myself. I cook his favorite food. The one that always brings out a stupid smile, that mixture between tenderness and gluttony.

Katsudon.

Yes. It's not subtle. Nor original. But every time I do it, even though I've made it dozens of times, his face lights up like it's Christmas.

I prepare the rice with the exact timer he likes. Not too loose or sticky. I cut the onion thinly, just the way he likes it. The egg right at the midpoint, not too unny, nor raw. I do it without speaking, without him knowing. I do it while he is still there, on the sofa, surely mentally reviewing each sentence of the therapist as if it were a combat strategy.

The smell begins to fill the apartment.

I hear a movement in the living room. I know he has smelled the hot miso.

But he says nothing.

Me neither.

I finish serving the two dishes. I do it in silence, but I leave his on the table with the chopsticks firmly placed, on his side. I sit on the opposite and start eating. Normal. As if this had nothing to do with today.

A few seconds later, I hear his footsteps approaching. Slow. As if he doesn't know if this is a trap.

“Did you do... Katsudon?”

I don't look up. I put a bite of rice in my mouth. I chew. I shrug.

“There were ingredients. They were going to be spoiled.”

Lie. I bought it yesterday knowing we had the first session today. I already knew that the night would end like this.

He sits across from me. He has not yet touched the food. He just watches me. He has that expression between grateful and skeptical. As if he knows exactly what I'm doing, but he doesn't dare to break the spell.

“Thank you.” he says quietly.

“Tch.”

One more silence. He eat the first bite. Close his eyes and smile. A real smile. Not the pretended one. The one that sprouts when he is genuinely happy. The one that changes the shape of his cheekbones and causes a dimple to appear on his right cheek.

“It's perfect. As usual.”

I keep eating. But my stomach tightens up a bit. Not from hunger. But something else.

“Don't get used to it.”

“Too late.” he replies, without looking at me.

A second passes. Then two.

“What you said today.” he begins.

“Don't start.” I cut him off, without looking up.

“No, just... I meant that I also feel calmer when I feel you close. Even when you're grunting in your sleep.”

I look at him. Just a second. He smiles, with no intention of mocking. Just being honest.

I look away.

“Shut up and eat.”

He laughs, softly. And he obeys.

Later, when we finish dinner and he's washing the dishes —because obviously, if I cook, he washes— I approach from behind. I stop there, for a second. I could say something. A "thank you" for not laughing in therapy. A "sorry" for being so clumsy. A mispronounced "I love you", like someone pulling out a tooth.

But I don't say anything.

I just put my arms around his hips and rest my chin on his shoulder.

He remains motionless. Then he lets the water run and rests his head against mine. Speechless. Without needing to say anything.

And at that moment, even though it annoys me to admit it, I understand that maybe this therapy shit isn't as useless as I thought.

Although I still hate the ball.

And the therapist.

But maybe... just maybe... I won't mind going next week so much.

Chapter Text

Another week, another fucking session.

When they said at the agency they were going to implement an "emotional wellness program," I thought the trash can would be happy, another pamphlet that would feed it. A couple of talks about post-combat stress, sleeping more, eating better, and then it would be the same. But no. Apparently, the agency's psychological team is taking very seriously this thing of preventing breakups between couples who are also partners in the field.

They literally control that we go to the damn therapy sessions.

And of course, as if we didn't already have enough of rescuing civilians, coordinating patrols and surviving training that would make anyone vomit, now we also have to go once a week to sit in a fucking white room to talk about our feelings.

Heavens. What a horror.

Things haven't changed much since the first session. We haven't had fights. Nor any transcendental conversation. But there's something... strange. A millimeter of distance between us. Something in the way he touches me. Not in a bad way, but I notice it.

He hasn't stuck to me while we're having breakfast. He hasn't slept with his body so close this week. And although he continues to speak to me the same, I feel that he measures every word. As if he were suddenly remembering that I am difficult.

I didn't ask him anything. Obviously.

And yes, I know it's been a complicated week too. Three night shifts, two false alerts, and a fight against a villain with a sulfuric acid Quirk that almost ruined my gloves. He's been busy, too. Maybe he's tired. Maybe I'm imagining things.

But, equally, I hate this feeling. This damn restlessness.

The therapist is still wearing the same round earrings as last week. They are green. Large. Pendants. They remind me of the detonation balls in my old hero suit, which is ironic. Maybe she does it on purpose. A psychological game. Or maybe she doesn't care and she just like them.

Izuku sits as before, legs together, arms resting on his thighs, and hands clasped. Open, sincere, attentive posture. I, of course, sit with my arms crossed, my legs spread and the expression of "this is a waste of time" planted on my face.

The therapist smiles as if she doesn't realize how tense we are. But she knows it. Of course she knows. It's her job to realize these things.

“I'm glad to see you again.” she says, settling into her armchair. She crosses one leg over the other and flips through a folder that definitely contains notes about us. I'm sure she have a page titled "Bakugou: Trauma for Expressing Emotions."

I don't answer.

Izuku nods with a small, polite smile. As usual. Polite even when he doesn't need to.

“Today I would like us to explore something important in any relationship,” says the therapist, and I know that something horrible is coming: “ways to express affection.”

I want to run away.

“Each person has a different style to show that they care about someone. And many times we assume that the other understands it only because "they know it". But this is not always the case. So I want us to talk a little bit about how you express affection.”

Izuku lowers his gaze for a second. I know he's getting ready to say something he's a little embarrassed about, but he's going to say the same, because that's who he is. Loyal to the bone. He always steps up, even when no one asks him to.

“I think I've always been someone very... expressive.” he begins, and his voice has that soft tone he uses when he's really being sincere. “I like to hug, touch, be close. But with Kacchan it's different. Not because I don't want to, but because I try not to make him uncomfortable.”

I grit my teeth. Izuku continues:

“He's not one for romantic words, and I don't want to force him. So I try to show him what I feel with actions. In the small gestures. Touching his back when he are stressed. Make him coffee when I know he didn't sleep well. Sit close without invading his personal space. I don't always know if what I'm trying to convey reaches him... But it's what I can do without him feeling pressured.”

The therapist nods. She smiles as if she had just heard a love letter and it had touched her soul. A ridiculous heat rises to my face, although I try to keep my brow furrowed. I don't look at Izuku. I can't. My neck burns.

The lady turns to me.

“Bakugou, what about you? How do you usually express affection?”

Shit.

I don't move.

I don't want to talk.

I hate this game of dissecting what should be obvious: If I cook for him, it's because I care. If I let him sleep next to me, it's because I like to have him around. If I don't yell at him when he touches my neck, it's because it's him.

What part of that needs to be said?

But that's not the worst thing. The worst thing is that... If he wants words, if he wants to hear them, why hasn't he told me directly?

Are he afraid of me?

The thought shakes me like a punch.

Does he think I'm going to break something if he tell me what he need? Has he been avoiding certain things for me? So as not to make me uncomfortable?

I feel exposed. Like I'm naked in the middle of an emotional minefield.

This chick wants me to talk. That I says things that I myself don't quite understand. And the worst... the worst... is that Izuku is here, by my side, waiting to hear me.

And I don't know if I can do it without exploiting.

The therapist continues to look at me as if she was going to drop an emotional pearl from one moment to the next, as if she had a beating heart tied with a bow ready to give away. But it doesn't work that way. Not with me.

And yet...

I can't help but think about all those things that I do do. The ones that no one asked me for. The ones I don't mention because I feel that, if I say them out loud, they will break.

Like that mania of getting up before him —which is not difficult, the bastard sleeps like a fucking rock if there is no evacuation alarm— and preparing breakfast for him without making a sound. Not just any breakfast. I always think about what he's had during the week. If he trained hard, I put more protein in it. If he had a cold, I make him that spicy soup that my mother taught me. I never tell him why. I just leave it on the table.

And before —when we started living together, a year ago— I left him little notes. Little pieces of paper with clumsy scribbles: "Eat, nerd", "Don't fall asleep training", "If you break another rib, I'll break you another one tonight". Things like that. He kept them, I know. He has a little box on the shelf on his side of the bed with all he has been able to rescue. Sometimes they peek through books. He doesn't say anything, but I know he smiles when he sees them.

I don't know when I stopped doing it. I guess I started to think that it was no longer necessary.

Maybe I was wrong.

There are also patrol days. Sometimes I get to play with him, sometimes not. But if I'm around and I see him fighting a villain, I jump in without thinking. Even if I have to take a risk. Even if it's not my area. Even if they scold me later. And it's not just because I don't want to hear him complain later, or because I don't feel like spending a night in the hospital by his side. It is... Because I can't handle the idea that something will happen to him. Not again. Not after all it took to get here.

I know how he thinks. He believes that he can handle anything. That can protect everyone. But I'm here to remind him that he doesn't have to do it alone. Even if I don't tell him. Even if I can't tell him.

And now I am here, in front of a woman with ridiculous earrings and a notebook with my name on it, trying to put into words something that I have not even finished accepting out loud.

“I...” I begin, and my voice sounds hoarse than usual. I clear my throat, irritated with myself.

The therapist nods patiently. Izuku looks at me out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't say anything, but he has that soft look that is so much his own. Hopeful. Like he expected anything, even a shit response, and it was still enough.

“I'm not one to say things.” I clarify, first of all. “And I don't think that's a bad thing. I act. I've always acted. I already said it in the previous session.”

Izuku doesn't react, but I know he's listening to every word with surgical attention.

“I've always worried about him.” I continue, my jaw tense. “That he eats well, that he does not overtrain, that he does not forget to rest. That he doesn't break, fuck.”

I say this without thinking too much. It's like a compressed confession. I don't like to feel that vulnerable. It's like having your chest without armor.

“Since we've been together... I haven't stopped taking care of him.” I add, more quietly.

There is a moment of silence. An uncomfortable moment that the therapist, of course, does not let slip away.

“That sounds like you care a lot. Do you think he knows?”

I look away.

“He's not an idiot. He knows I love him. Even if I don't tell him.”

Izuku lowers his gaze a little. It is not sadness. It's a little harder to decipher. Like he's grateful but also a little hurt.

“And do you ever say pretty things to him?” The woman asks, without losing her smile. It doesn't seem like a trick question, but it is.

My eyebrow arches.

“Pretty? What kind of word is that?”

“Things that make him feel loved.” she clarifies. “Verbal. Not just acts.”

Silence.

“No.” I finally reply, unashamedly, but not proudly either. “I'm not like that.”

“Never?”

I shrug. I'm tired of justifying myself. To explain why I am the way I am.

“It doesn't work out.” I say. “Not without sounding ridiculous. Or weak.”

The therapist nods, as if it were what she expected. But she does not insist. She leaves me in that awkward limbo where words float like unexploded bombs.

Izuku says nothing. But his gaze says it all.

He's not judging me. He's not disappointed. But there's something... a quiet sorrow, a resigned tenderness.

And that hurts me more than any scolding.

I don't know at what exact moment we went from the post-dinner silence to having his tongue down my neck, but I'm not complaining.

Izuku is on top of me, hot, wet, with that soft but defined body that arches right where my hands squeeze it. The steam from the shower still envelops our skin like a second layer, and for a moment I feel that the world is reduced to this mattress, to his agitated breathing and his hips brushing against mine in that swaying that I swear, is going to drive me crazy.

It's wild. It has always been with us. Intense, like everything in our fucking life.

And that's why I need him.

It's not just sex. It is reconnection. It's a battlefield where I can touch him without speaking. Where my tongue and my teeth say everything that my mouth is silent.

His back curves as he moans my name:

“K-Kacchan, ah, shit...”

And I swear to God I could die right here, with his nails marking my shoulders and his breath trembling against my ear.

But then... The therapist gets into my head.

"And do you ever say pretty things to him?"

Fuck.

I grit my teeth, literally. I feel the warmth of his skin on top of me, his heart pounding as I fuck... I make love to him, I guess that's what the lady with the earrings would like to hear.

And yet, there it is. Her voice tucked between my eyebrows.

"Do you think he knows?"

Does he know? Of course he knows. If he didn't know, would he be kissing me with that sweet mouth and those squinting eyes he only puts on when he's melting? If he didn't know, would he be letting himself be carried away by me like this, completely spread his legs, trusting that I'm not going to break him?

So I ask myself a question: Does he feel the way he needs it to?

I stop for a second, just for an instant. I don't stop moving completely, but I slow down the intensity. Enough for him to sit up and look me straight in the eye.

“Kacchan...? Everything is fine?” He says hoarsely, confused by the pause, his hands still clutching my sides.

Shit.

I can't handle this.

His eyes are so open, vulnerable. I love him, fuck, I love him so much that I'm scared to say it. Because if I say it out loud, it looks like I'm manipulating him. As if it conditioned him.

So, without much thought —with blood still ringing in my ears, with his skin soaking on top of mine, with my body screaming for me to say it at once— I let it go:

“Fuck, Deku... I like how you shout my name while we're doing it... It feels like I am the only fucking guy in your universe.”

He blinks. His face instantly reddens. And then he lets out a laugh. One of those laughs that he can't stand, that shakes his chest and makes him hide the face on my shoulder.

“Kacchan!” He exclaims between laughs, still trembling with pleasure, my penis still inside him. “That was… a compliment?”

“Shut up.” I growl, more out of embarrassment than annoyance. I hug him so that he falls on my chest and I move hard again. “Don't make me regret it.”

“Don't tell me those things in this situation, I'm going to have a fit of laughter!” He pants against my ear, though his hips don't move an inch apart.

I continue to move with intensity, as if I could express with my body what I cannot say with my mouth.

“Would you rather me tell you that you have the most ridiculously beautiful face when you're about to cum? Because I think so. I've always thought so.”

That's when his breath is gone. He sits up on me and his eyes are fixed on mine, bright, wet, and for a second it looks like he is going to cry. Or laugh louder. Or both at the same time.

“Kacchan.” he whispers, or moans. I'm not sure. As if my name escaped his soul.

And it pisses me off. Because that's when I realize: this type of sex is as brutal as it is necessary. But it's not enough if I don't open my mouth from time to time and spout some nice idiocy. Even if I sound like a fucking caveman in love.

Because I am. There is no way to disguise it.

So I grab him by the back of the neck, bite his neck softly and growl in his ear:

“You're mine, you idiot. Even if you force me to go to that stupid therapy.”

He laughs again, but this time he gasps harder, his muscles tensing around me, and I feel how he's cumming between our abdomens. His ass tightens around me and I follow him, almost at the same time, with a growl that sounds more like a confession than a climax.

We both fall, breathing as if we had done a marathon throughout the city.

I stay under him, with no strength to move, but no desire to walk away.

Izuku caresses my arms with a tenderness that disarms me.

“You know...?” he murmurs against my neck. “That was the most romantic thing you've said to me in weeks.”

“I just told you that your face is pretty when you're about to cum. What more do you want? A poem?!

“Well... It wouldn't be bad.”

I push him with my forehead, growling, but I know I'm smiling. I know he feels it.

And even if I don't say it —because I still can't get it, because it makes me angry to have to put words to something that vibrates in my blood— I know he knows.

He knows I love him.

Even when I don't say anything.

Chapter Text

The week had been shit. But one of those shit that camouflage themselves well: with hot coffee, action movies on giant screens and enough sex to keep me more or less sane.

I can't complain. Not much, at least.

After the last therapy sesión —where, by the way, I opened my mouth again more than I would like— Izuku and I fell into that kind of weird synchrony where neither of us mentions the word "therapy," but suddenly we communicate with fewer grunts. Well, he's always talked like he's in a cheesy novel. But I... I try not to look so stupid with my gestures.

And it worked. I guess.

We went to the cinema one night, without an invitation or anniversary or excuse. I just said, "Let's see that one, there's explosions," and he smiled as if I'd proposed to him. We chose the loudest, stupidest movie, and even so, he spent the entire hour and a half with his head resting on my shoulder. He didn't need deep dialogues or complex plots, just to be there, with the popcorn shared and my hand on his thigh.

Later... well, there was sex. Several times. Because when Izuku looks at me with that face and runs his tongue over his lower lip as if he didn't do it on purpose, my brain shuts down. And that's despite the fact that this week we slept little, we had double patrols, meetings in the agency and even a foot chase through the rooftops of District 4 that almost cost us a leg.

But the best part was one night when I arrived in a wreck —literally, with my suit singed and my muscles in shit— and he already had dinner served.

Nothing special: rice that is a little stuck together and chicken that is half flavorless, but hot.

“Thank you.” I growled as I slumped into my chair. “It's... not bad.”

He smiled at me without lifting his head, without stopping stirring his food.

And as if they were pointing an invisible gun at me, I blurted out:

“I mean... that it's good. Thanks for cooking today.”

He almost chokes on fright.

He looked at me as if he expected me to dissolve in the air the next minute. I pretended it was because I was so tired. But he looked at me as if I had given him a little star.

I didn't say it just to say it.

He does those little things for me all the time. And I... well, I'm learning.

But of course. All that went to hell when Round Face appeared.

Damn Uraraka.

I don't have a problem with her, okay. I've known her for years, we fought side by side in the U.A., we've saved each other's butts more times than I'd like to admit. She is strong, fast and worst of all, a good person.

But she laughs very loudly when she is with Deku.

And she gets too close.

And she looks at him as if she still had that stupid high school crush she pretended to overcome.

The three of us meet for a drink in a bar that is fashionable among the heroes of the center. Izuku was the one who suggested to see us: "It's been a while since we've spoken to Ochaco, it would be nice to catch up, don't you think, Kacchan?"

Yes, right. Nice.

I was there, in the corner of the couch, my beer half hot and cross-legged, watching her touching his arm to tell him some silly joke about the agency, how she leaned toward him when they talked, how her eyes sparkled when he let out one of his blushing laughs.

I swear I almost choked on drinking.

Because yes, I know that we are a couple. I know Izuku loves me —even if he says it more times than I can bear without turning red—. I know that he sleeps next to me, that he gets in the shower with me, and that he knows me like no one else on this fucking planet.

But there are things that turn your stomach just the same.

Like seeing how someone else laughs with him so naturally. How old references that I, honestly, don't feel like remembering look at and understand. How they look like a heteronormative romantic comedy couple... And I'm the background villain who growls every time she gets too close to him.

I didn't say anything. Of course not. I crossed my arms, drank my beer, and let my jaw hurt from clenching it so much.

And when we finally left the bar and walked back home, on that damp night with the smell of smoke and electricity, Izuku dared to ask:

“Why were you so serious about Ochaco?”

I shrugged. As if it were nothing.

“I was tired, that's all.”

“Sure?”

“What do you want me to tell you? That her voice pierces my ear? That her perfume smells from six feet and that makes me dizzy? I am fine.”

He didn't say anything.

But his silence weighed.

And the worst thing is that he didn't get it in my face. He didn't make a scene. He didn't get angry. Just... he remained silent. He grabbed my hand, as always, and we walked the rest of the way with our steps synchronized. No reproach.

As if nothing needed to be said.

And that's when I felt like an idiot.

Because if he had made a fight, I would have had an excuse to shout, to argue, to divert the conversation. But no. He answered me with understanding. As usual.

And that, that, is what me off the most.

Because he doesn't deserve my silent jealousy. He doesn't deserve to be looked at his hands when they touch someone else. He doesn't deserve my passive-aggressive grunts.

And yet, I can't help it.

I'm a fucking volcano. And sometimes, even without eruption, I burn everything nearby.

When we walked into the therapist's office for the third time, I felt the same annoying tingling at the base of my neck as the previous two times. As if my body knew that here they disarm me, break me, word by word.

But this time there was something worse.

Cards.

Piles of colored cardboard perfectly ordered on the low table in the center. Green, yellow, red. Like a damn traffic light of emotions.

“Good evening.” the therapist crooned, in that voice of tea with honey. “How do you feel today?”

Lying to a villain is easy. A therapist, not so much.

Next to me, Izuku smiled at her with that automatic gesture he uses with everyone when he's uncomfortable but wants to be nice. I know him all too well. He is trying to take the tension out of the atmosphere. Me.

I just shrugged my shoulders, as if that question didn't deserve an answer. As if I hadn't been chewing stones since I knew that today's topic would be jealousy.

Because of course, no one says "today will be a relaxed day" when you have to take out your emotional insecurities to play with colored cardboard.

“We're going to talk about jealousy today.” she began, clasping her hands over the open notebook. “An emotion that, like all others, fulfills a function. It speaks to us of unmet needs, hidden fears, and misperceptions or miscommunications. But it is not negative in itself.”

"Sure," I thought. "Like an open wound, which is not bad in itself, but is showing you that you are bleeding."

“The problema,” she continued, “is what we do with that emotion. Do we ignore it? Do we transform it into rage? Or do we use it as a bridge to get closer to who we love?”

Izuku nodded silently, too good a student as always. I clenched my fists.

“Today we're going to use a tool that may seem childish, but works great for exploring the origin and need behind jealousy.” she said as she pushed the cards toward us. “This is the game of the three colors.”

The name already made me snort.

“Each color represents a step.” she explained with infinite patience. “Green: "What I see." Here you must describe a specific situation that makes you jealous. No exaggerations or assumptions. Only what they see. Yellow: "What I fear." What fear is hidden behind that annoyance? Red: "What I want." What do you need emotionally from the other in that situation?”

Izuku nodded again. Why am I not surprised?

“One of you will start. You will choose one card of each color and share your answers, in order. The other will listen without interrupting. Then we will make the exchange.”

His gaze locked on me for a few seconds longer than usual. Yes, ma'am, I understood that I can't grunt or get into the middle of Deku's speech. I get it, fuck. I'm not an imbecile.

“Who wants to start?”

Izuku raised his hand with an almost comical shyness. Who raises their hand in a private therapy session? Even so, I didn't say anything. I let him do it.

He took the first green card and held it between his fingers as if it were delicate. His eyes sought mine for a second, but then landed on the therapist.

“What I see” he read in a clear but low voice: “When you talk to other heroes and laugh... And I arrive, you get serious.”

My eyebrows arched. What the hell...? Does that bother you?

Izuku took a yellow card without looking up, and took a deep breath.

“What I fear: That you won't feel as comfortable with me as you do with them.”

What? Are you kidding?

And then, the red card.

“What I want: That... Don't feel like you need to protect me from your emotions.”

The silence that followed fell on me like a bucket of cold water.

I don't know how long I went without saying anything. I only know that I felt a high-pitched ringing in my ears. It didn't exactly hurt. It was something more poignant, like pressure.

Is that what he think? That I get serious with him because I don't want to show him anything?

I wanted to say something. I swear. I opened my mouth, in fact.

But the therapist held up a finger firmly. Almost as if she knew I was about to protest like an idiot.

“We listen without answering yet, Bakugou. Each one will have their turn.”

I folded my arms and sank into the seat.

I didn't say more, but the idea kept drilling into my head.

I don't feel comfortable with him, he says.

I protect him from my emotions, he says.

Doesn't he have a fucking idea how fucking vulnerable I already feel being with him? Of everything I had to change so as not to scare him away? How many times do I have to bite my tongue not to say something that sounds like a roar?

And of course, the therapist looks at him with those eyes of infinite understanding as if Izuku were absolutely right. As if I were the monster, the villain of the movie.

I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to... I want to run out of this room before I get split in two with more colored cards.

But I don't.

Because I look at him.

And for a second, Deku is not the kind, brave, and brilliant professional hero. He is not the patient companion or the man who cooks half-baked rice. He's just a boy afraid of not being enough.

And that hurts me more than I want to admit.

And the worst part is that I can't wait for it to be my turn. And my green card is going to have to do with Uraraka. And he knows it. And he is waiting for it.

Dammit.

When the therapist nods with that calm smile of hers, it makes me want to tell her to shut her mouth, not to look at me like that, that this is fucking stupid. But I don't.

Instead, I grab the first card, the green one. With rage.

It's just cardboard. Leaf-green color. Slightly rough.

But it feels like plumb in my  fingers.

I clear my throat.

“What I see: When you receive messages from fans... and you don't tell me.”

I don't look at him. I know Izuku has blinked. I know this because the air next to me has changed, because he is no longer relaxed, because he tenses when he does not understand where I am going.

Then I grab the yellow card. Easier, faster.

“What I'm afraid of: That you think you deserve better than me.”

The silence in the room becomes absolute. I feel the pressure in my ears as if I were underwater. Don't look at him. Not yet.

I breathe through my nose. I take the red one. My stomach spins against my viscera.

“What I want: To know that I'm enough for you.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

And then, a small inhalation noise. By Izuku. He doesn't say anything. Neither does the therapist.

I want to put my head in the ground. I want to curse myself. Why the fuck did I say that? Why didn't I talk about Round Face, about what it made me feel last weekend? Why didn't I release the whole poison and that's it?

But no. Because this was worse. More real. More mine.

The therapist smiles, that damn smile of total understanding that makes me feel more naked than being in front of a thermal camera.

“Thank you, Bakugou.” she says, softly but clearly. “It's a very difficult exercise, and you've done it well.”

"Don't talk to me like a five-year-old," I want to growl at her, but my teeth are clenched and nothing comes out.

Izuku looks at me now. I know this because I feel his attention like a hand on my shoulder.

When I finally glance at him out of the corner of my eye, his expression is... Complicated.

It's as if he understand. As if he already knew. As if my fear was not surprise, but confirmation.

But he also seems lost. As if it had never occurred to him that that kind of thing could affect me. As if he still thinks I'm a rock with no cracks. Or as if he forgot that I haven't been one for years.

“Now,” says the therapist, in a calm voice, “I want you to talk to each other."Listen, respond, dialogue. What have you learned from each other? What has surprised you? I will only intervene if necessary.”

And then Izuku, who still holds his red card in his hand as if it were a sacred object, speaks.

“I didn't know that affected you.” he says, without raising his voice much. “The messages.”

“I'm not saying that because it affects me.” I answer too quickly, almost automatically. “It's just weird that you don't tell me, that's all. Sometimes I see them by accident. And you laugh. And you don't say anything.”

Izuku nods, as if he's doing calculations in his head.

“I've never hidden it.” he says. “But... I guess I didn't think it was important. Most of them are fans, jokes, people I don't even know.”

“And yet you answer.”

“Yes,” he admits, “because I think it's part of the public image. I like to be close to civilians. Be kind.”

“Yes, of course. Close. Kinf.” And unintentionally, the image of Uraraka leaning too much on his shoulder while laughing comes to mind. Close. Of course.

Izuku cringes a little, as if he can feel that unspoken poison in my voice.

“I didn't know you felt that way either.” he says suddenly. “That you don't feel enough. It... it hurts.”

I look at him. He's being honest. Vulnerable.

And I kind of hate him for doing it so easily. I hate it for having to do it in front of "Giant Earrings".

“You said I was weird.” I snapped. “That I get serious when you arrive. And do you know why? Because when you arrive I have to be alert. Because you look at everything. In how I speak, in how I move, in whether I am behaving like the "ideal boyfriend" and not like me.”

Izuku looks surprised.

“I've never asked you to change.”

“Not with words. But sometimes” I swallow. “Sometimes I feel like I'm letting you down without realizing it. And you don't tell me.”

The therapist observes us, without saying anything. But there's something in his gaze that makes me understand that this was the real goal.

Izuku is silent for a few seconds. Then he puts the card down on the table, as if it were suddenly burning in his hands.

“I never wanted you to feel that. Really.” He rubs his neck, uncomfortable. “But I understand why you felt it. And I promise I'm going to think about it. I don't want you to feel like I'm comparing you or that... You're not enough.”

I mean something sarcastic. Mock. Make a face. To be Bakugou.

But the only thing that comes out is:

“Tch. You better think that.”

Izuku smiles at me. Not happy, but relieved.

The therapist nods once.

“Sometimes we don't need to come to perfect agreements in these sessions.” she finally says, her voice slow. “Only to better understand the other's gaze. Sometimes that's enough.”

I want to protest. Tell her no, that it's not enough, that I don't want to feel exposed or confused every time we open our mouths.

But then Izuku brushes my hand under the table, quickly, as if it were an accident. And even though my body doesn't move, I don't push it away.

Maybe it is enough.

The silence when we arrive at the apartment is different from other times.

It's not awkward. Or not at all. But it feels as heavy as a thick blanket in summer.

I close the door behind us. Izuku takes off his shoes and goes straight to leave his backpack next to the coat rack. He doesn't say anything. Me neither. Not because I'm upset, but because... I don't know what to say. There are no words that don't sound ridiculous after what we said in therapy.

"That you think you deserve better than me."

What the hell was I thinking? Who the hell says that out loud, and in front of a woman with giant earrings?

But I said it. And he listened to him. And he didn't laugh. He didn't even leave.

Izuku enters the kitchen. I hear him open the fridge.

“Do you want dinner?” he asks from there. “There is rice left over yesterday. And tofu.”

“No. Don't eat that.”

He rears his head.

“Huh?”

I scratch the back of my neck. I walk over, gently nudging him away from the fridge.

“If you're going to eat reheated shit, at least let me get my hands on it and turn it into something decent.”

Izuku blinks.

“Will you cook?”

“Do you have earwax or what?" Of course.”

And without waiting for an answer, I start to get out ingredients. Rice, tofu, a little ginger, garlic, onion and soy sauce. Nothing complicated, but tasty. As I chop the vegetables, I hear him move around the apartment. He doesn't follow me into the kitchen. But he is not far away either. Enough for me to notice his presence nearby.

It's one of those things that he has. Izuku is like static electricity. You never see it, but you always feel it. And strange as it may seem, when he is silent, even more so.

I turn on the pan. The smell of garlic begins to fill the space.

“Hey, Katsuki.” he says from the couch. “What you said today...·

“Don't start.” I growl, without turning around. “I already said it, didn't I? Don't make me repeat that I already had a hard time saying once.”

“It's not for you to repeat it.” he replies, gently. “It's just... I liked what you said.”

I tense up. I turn my head a little.

“Did you like it? Are you sick or what?”

“No. But I liked it. To know it.”

I snort. I focus on the tofu again. I gild it. I add the rice. I mix it.

“I'm not one to say those things.” My voice comes out hoarse than I planned. “But that doesn't mean I don't think about them.”

“I know.”

He says it so quickly that it takes me by surprise.

I continue cooking. When I finally serve the two plates, he is already seated at the table, elbows resting like a child waiting for dessert. He looks at me as if he expects me to do a magic trick with food.

“Did you sit down without asking or helping?”

“You said you didn't want me to touch it.”

“That doesn't exempt you from putting on the cutlery, you idiot.”

He laughs. It's a small laugh, just a snort of the nose. But it feels real. And for the first time since we left the office, the blanket in the air is lightening up a little.

We eat in silence for a few minutes.

“It's Delicious.” he says with his mouth half full.

“Of course.” I reply. “I did it.”

“Thank you.”

We look over our chopsticks. There is nothing cheesy about the gesture. Just that language we share: rubbing, looks, sarcasm. Sometimes emotions are better off without packaging.

When we're done, he gets up before me and starts washing the dishes. I lean back in the chair, my arms crossed.

“Do you want to see something?” he asks suddenly, without turning around.

“What?”

“A movie. Something about robots or monsters. Whatever takes away your "I want to destroy the world" face.”

“Tch. I don't have that face.”

“You do.” he says with a laugh. “Whenever we leave therapy. It's been three times now, I learn quickly to detect your faces.”

I get up and approach him. I lean on his side as he scrubs.

“Only if you choose a good one. No drama.”

“Promised.”

“And don't even think about falling asleep this time.”

“Me? Sleep? If you snore after half an hour.”

“I don't snore, you nerd!”

We laughed. Lightly. Tired, but together.

Then, on the couch, under the blanket, Izuku curls up against me. His head on my shoulder. His breathing calm. I have the remote control, but I don't use it. I just let the menu pass by itself.

We don't need to see anything. We're fine like this.

“Kacchan.” he whispers.

“What?”

“Thank you for saying what you said. Even if it cost you.”

“I didn't do it for you.”

“I know.”

“I did it because that woman would swallow me alive.”

“Kacchan!”

He laughs. Then he reaches out to kiss my jaw. A silly gesture. Small. But it warms me up more than any action scene.

“I'm jealous sometimes, too.” he says against my skin. “But more than jealousy... I'm afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That one day you'll get bored. That you decide that you are tired of being with someone like me.”

I swallow hard. I put my hand on his head.

“That's not going to happen.”

Silence.

“Sure?”

“You'd better do it. You've already signed a contract.”

“How?”

“Two years putting up with me. There is no refund.” He looks at me. I pause briefly. “I think it's time to renew the contract.”

Izuku laughs. He squeezes me. He kisses me.

And, for one more night, what we feel doesn't need to be explained out loud.

Chapter Text

“Do you have a healthy sexual routine?”

Boom!

The small explosion that escapes from my palm reverberates in the office like a sneeze with dynamite. Just a spark, but the fright makes the lamp that rests on the therapist's table tremble.

Izuku jumps in his chair. I cast a murderous look at the cushion that decorates the sofa, which was not to blame for anything.

“Kacchan!” Izuku protests, between nervous laughter and panic. “Seriously?”

“What kind of question is that?!” I snapped, leaning my body forward, elbows on my knees, tense as a spring. “Can't she asks us first how we sleep or if we do the dishes together!? No, she has to get straight to the point like a damn pervert!”

The therapist, undeterred, blinks slowly and just takes a sip from her water bottle. It has little flowers and that gets on my nerves.

“It's a clinical question, Mr. Bakugou. Perfectly normal. I've been listening to other people's sexual stories for fifteen years. Believe me, you are not going to scandalize me.”

“And what the hell makes you think I want to talk about it in front of you?”

“That you agreed to join the couples therapy plan.”

“Tch... They forced us rather.”

Izuku is red. Red traffic light level. But at least it doesn't seem like he wants to die swallowed by the earth. He is uncomfortable, yes. But like any good nerd, when the situation gets tense, he pulls out the most reasonable and calm voice he can.

“We... We have relations frequently. I think. Sometimes more, sometimes less, it depends on the job, on how we are physically. But, yes. We have sex. Pretty much.”

“Hmm.” The therapist nods, writing something down in her notebook calmly. “How do you usually do it?”

Silence.

I blink. Izuku blinks.

“Excuse me?” Izuku murmurs.

“How do you usually do it?” she repeats, in the same tone that someone asks if you prefer coffee or tea.

Izuku gives me a pleading look. As if to say "please, say something". But I'm as rigid as a stone statue. The only visible movement is the nervous twitch in my right eyebrow.

“Ehm...” Izuku begins, swallowing hard. “Well... you know. The typical. Sometimes... one position, sometimes another. Usually in bed. Although... sometimes on the couch. Or in the shower if we are very tired but... looking forward to...”

God...

The therapist nods, as if she were evaluating the climate of Tokyo and not the sex lives of two professional heroes with a teenager complex.

“Do you have a favorite position?”

Silence falls like a nuclear bomb.

“Tch! Why do you need to know that!?” I burst, feeling the heat rise up my neck to my ears. “This isn't a damn National Geographic documentary!”

“Mr. Bakugou.” she replies, not losing her composure by half a millimeter. “Understanding how a couple connects physically is also understanding how they build trust. It's not just about the act, but about what they feel, how they negotiate pleasure, vulnerability, desire. In addition, you can choose not to respond.”

“Obviously I'm not going to answer!”

Izuku, between embarrassed and resigned, raises his hand as if he were in high school.

“I... I don't mind saying it, I think. It doesn't bother me that much.”

“Deku!” I growl at him. “Are you crazy too?!”

“Kacchan, we're just talking. It's not like I'm describing in detail and signs...” He swallows. “When... When I'm the passive one, I like to be on top of him. Sitting on him. I feel more... free to move, to control the rhythm.”

An involuntary snap sounds in my knuckles as I clench my fists.

“And when I'm the active one... well, I like it when we do it on doggy style.” He laughs nervously, cringing a little. “Sorry. It sounded more vulgar than I wanted to say.”

“Do you reverse roles frequently?” the therapist interjects with genuine clinical interest.

“Hey! What the hell does that matter to you?!” My voice resonates louder than it should.

Izuku opens his mouth to explain, but this time I won't let him.

“It's none of your business, or the country's, or anyone else's! We don't keep a damn record of how many times each one does what! And if we did, I'm not going to put it in a damn PowerPoint to show you!”

The therapist waits patiently for me to calm down.

“Katsuki.” she says, with infinite patience. “I promise that I am not here to judge or violate your privacy. I only look for patterns. If you reverse the roles, that is positive in many aspects: flexibility, empathy, openness. But it can also hide insecurities that would be useful to work on.”

That keeps me quiet. Inside, my brain is a hotbed of ill-armed thoughts.

Hiding insecurities?

How do I explain to her that when I let myself get fucked, when I actually let him in —not just my body, but everything inside of me— I feel in a state that is as scary as it is pleasurable? How do I explain that I like it, but that saying it would make me feel weak? That I enjoy when Izuku grabs me by the hips and makes me moan like an idiot, but if anyone knew that... If only the world knew...

I'm not weak.

I'm not.

“I...” I start, but the words stay there, stuck like shrapnel in my chest.

Izuku, on the other hand, looks at me with a softness that bursts my nerves.

“Sometimes…” he says slowly. “Sometimes I feel that Bakugou goes on autopilot. Like he has to do everything perfectly. Be the strong one. The one who gives everything. But when the role changes... when he let himself go... I feel like he really lets me into his world. In his space. Is... very intimate.”

The therapist nods.

I just want to melt on the ground.

“Thank you for sharing that.” she says. “You are one of the most assertive couples, which surprises me...”

Izuku smiles. I growl. As usual.

The silence has barely settled again in the room, when the therapist throws another bomb at us.

“And are you satisfied with your sexual relations?”

This time I don't wait half a second. I lean back on the sofa, cross my arms and let go in complete safety:

“Obviously.”

Izuku turns to look at me, surprised by the speed of my response.

“Could you be more specific?” she asks.

“Yes. I love fucking Deku. I Enjoy it. A lot. He turns me on like a beast, and he knows it.” I say it bluntly, without blushing, without embarrassment. Because it's true. I don't have a filter and, honestly, I don't give a shit if the therapist hears that word if I make it clear to her what I want to say.

Izuku shrinks, covering part of his face with his hand, red to his neck.

“Kacchan! Don't say that so... like this”

“What? It's the truth!” I turn to him, frowning. “Do you want me to lie? To tell her that I don't like you? That I don't enjoy when I have you underneath, on top, next to me, or whatever?”

“No...! It's not that! It's just... There's no need to use words so... Strong”

“Which one, "fuck"?” I reply, deliberately trying to make him blush more. “Or "beast"? Because in both of them I got it right, right?”

Izuku buries his face in his hands and the therapist clears her throat, although she seems slightly amused.

“Thank you for your honesty, Bakugou.” And then she turns his gaze to Izuku. “What about you, Midoriya? Are you satisfied?”

The room suddenly cools down.

Izuku lowers his hands. His eyes move as if he were looking for a way out. I know him. I know that when he takes a long time to answer, it is because the answer is not a simple yes.

“I... yes. Yes, of course.” He forces a smile. “In other words, I am satisfied. I love being with him.”

“But...” says the therapist, as if she had seen this thousands of times.

Izuku swallows hard. I hold my breath.

“It's not that I don't enjoy it. I do. And a lot. But...” he looks at the ground, uncomfortable. “Sometimes... It's very intense. Very wild.”

“And you don't like that?” I ask.

“Yes!” he replies quickly, as if he wants to avoid making a possible scene. “I like it. I like that you are like that. But... sometimes, I also... need something else.”

“What do you mean?” the therapist asks.

Izuku takes a deep breath. He doesn't look at me. He speaks as if he needs to remove it from his chest.

“Sometimes, I feel that it is more physical than emotional. That... there is so much desire, that there is no room for... something else. Not always, but… I wish he was more... delicate on some occasions.”

Silence.

My mind "clicks" like a grenade about to explode.

“Delicate?” I repeat, slowly, the word tastes strange in my mouth.

“Yes.” he says, looking at me at last. “Not all the time. Just... sometimes.”

I freeze. Delicate? What the hell is he talking about? Didn't you like me to grab you by the waist as if I needed you more than air? Wasn't it you who shuddered when I told you that you made me lose control? Weren't you the one who moaned my name as if it were a spell?

“I thought…” I begin, but my voice sounds tense, dry, scratched. “I thought that's how you liked it.”

“And I like it.” Izuku repeats, in a hurry. “But I would also like to... that sometime... I don't know, we would slow it down. With more eye contact. That you touch me as if you were caressing me, not as if you were marking your territory.”

The therapist says nothing. Just observe. She's letting this flow. As if she knows there's something bigger cooking here.

I feel like an idiot.

Part of me wants to yell at Izuku "why the fuck didn't you tell me before?", but another part is too hurt to even scream. Because this isn't just about sex. It's about not having seen it. Not having known. Not having noticed it.

Me, the guy who brags about watching everything in combat. The one who knows how to read body language, anticipate movements, detect the slightest weakness in an opponent. That same idiot couldn't see that his partner needed something different in bed.

“Tch...” I look at the ground, trying not to show anything on my face. I don't want to look hurt. I don't want to look injured. Although I am.

Izuku lowers his gaze slightly, as if he realizes he's struck a chord too sensitively.

“I didn't mean to bother you, Kacchan. Just... I thought that if I didn't say anything, nothing happened. Because I also like how we do it.”

“Yes, of course.” I muttered. “Because talking it over with me must be harder than facing a fucking villain.”

“It's not that.” he says quickly. “It's just that sometimes... You seem so confident, so convinced that everything is alright, that I'm afraid to break it. I'm afraid of breaking you.”

“I don't break.” I answer in a low voice. But I don't even believe that shit.

“I didn't mean that. I mean...” He turns to me, this time his eyes shining a little, as if he were going to cry. “I don't want to make you feel like you're not doing things right. Because you do a lot of things well. And you make me feel desired. But I also like to feel loved.”

The words stay there.

Loved.

Not just fucked. Not just possessed. Loved.

The therapist, for the first time in several minutes, intervenes gently.

“You've taken a big step today. Talking about this is not easy. But it's the first step to building deeper intimacy. It is not about changing who you are, but about learning to find a meeting point where you can both feel satisfied and safe.”

I don't say anything. Neither does Izuku.

The therapist takes some notes and informs us that we are already at the end of the session. She suggests that for the next one we think of an "ideal night": each one should describe what an ideal intimate experience with the other would be like. No filters. With honesty.

When we leave the room, the street welcomes us with fresh air. The sky is cloudy and the air smells of rain, the kind that has not yet fallen but threatens to ruin everything.

I walk in silence. Izuku too. For once, neither of us feels like filling the space with unnecessary words.

That damn session was like fighting an invisible villain armed to the teeth. It made us look at each other. To say things. Things that are not said out loud. Things that hurt even if they are true.

I could pretend I don't care. I could complain, growl, change the subject. But no. There's something dense floating between us. It is not tension. It's something else. Something like... vulnerability in its purest form.

After a couple of minutes, I murmured:

“You could have told me about delicacy.”

Izuku looks at me, as if he doesn't expect me to speak.

“Yes. I know. Sorry.”

“We've been together for two years.” I say, looking straight ahead. “I just want to do it right.”

And he smiles. That way that disarms me every damn time.

“Then we're going to learn how to do it right. Both of us.”

So, without looking, without adding anything else, I slide my hand to his. And I grab it.

I don't squeeze hard. Just enough for him to know I'm there. That I'm still here. That it doesn't matter what we said. Nor what we keep silent. Nor what I still find difficult to say.

Izuku stands still for a second. I feel his hand hesitate. And then, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, he intertwines his fingers with mine.

He doesn't look at me. But smile.

And that... That's worse than any session. Because it makes me feel like I'm doing it right.

And maybe it's true, maybe for a damn time, I'm doing it right.

Chapter Text

One week. Seven damn days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand eight hundred minutes of... abstinence.

It hasn't been because we've been busy. Not because we have an argue. Not even because there are villains blowing up half city or emergencies non-stop.

But because since Izuku mentioned that he wanted more "delicacy," I haven't been able to touch him without feeling like I have dynamite in my hands.

The irony is not lost on me. I'm a human bomb. Literal. And now he ask me to be delicate?

It's not that I don't understand it. I know he wants something softer, more emotional. That it is not all gritted our teeth and charging as if we were fighting a battle. I understand. But knowing that doesn't mean I can do that.

I have no idea how one is supposed to be delicate without looking insecure, without looking weak, without ceasing to be... me. It's my essence, that's who I am.

And so the week has passed.

We share bed, we have breakfast together, we train, we work, we give each other looks that last longer than normal. But I don't touch him. Not when I want to. And that, in my case, is almost always.

He notices it. I know this because Midoriya is one of those who realizes everything, even the things I don't say. He looks at me with those green eyes of a confused puppy and doesn't ask me, but I know he asks himself. Doesn't he want to anymore? Did I say something wrong? Are he angry?

No. It's not that. I just don't want to fail him.

And I don't know how to do this without exploding inside.

One of those days, in the midst of the charged silence, Izuku blurted out of nowhere:

“What if we don't go out today?”

I watched him from the couch, where I had thrown myself after a double morning training session. He had disheveled hair, an old T-shirt and mismatched socks. He looked like a teenager on Sunday, but still... damn, he was handsome. I was annoyed by how handsome he was without trying.

“Not going where?”

“Nowhere. To stay here and do something... relaxed.”

I frowned.

“Relaxed how?"”

I smiled.

“Afternoon of video games. You against me. Total war.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to humiliate you? In your own living room?”

“What I want is for us to have some fun.” He shrugged. “And if you beat me, you'll be able to show off.”

“I don't need to beat you to show off.” I snorted, but sat down. “What do we bet?”

And that's how it began.

First it was a simple fight in a fighting game. Then races. Then another fighting game with ridiculous characters. Laughter, insults, cushions thrown into the air. And finally, the ultimate bet:

“If you lose this round,” I said, my eyes alight with the impending victory, “you wash the dishes naked.”

Izuku laughed.

“That's not fair.”

“Then don't accept the bet.” I smiled sideways, confidently.

“I accept.”

He lost.

And he complied.

After showering, I watched him walk to the kitchen with a ridiculous towel tied around his waist, humming nervously as he washed dishes. He didn't dare turn around too much, just in case I looked at him —I was looking at him, of course—. The atmosphere became intimate and laughter gave way to an electrical tension. He knew he was perfect like this, with the steam rising, the drops running down his back, the perfect ass peeking out of the edge of the towel...

And I, like an idiot, just watched it.

I didn't go close. I didn't touch him.

Not because I didn't want to. But because I was afraid. Fear of touching him wrong.

Afterwards, we went to bed without talking about it. He stuck a little more than usual next to me. He hugged me. He kissed my back. But he didn't try anything. He didn't force anything.

As if he knew he was waiting for me to take the plunge.

But I didn't give it to him.

Now it's Saturday. Tomorrow is the next session. And I'm faced with a damn blank sheet of paper.

"Describe what your ideal night would be like. Be honest. No filters." That's what the therapist said.

I thought that after the sexual questions of the last time there could be nothing more uncomfortable.

I was wrong.

I don't even know where to start. What do you mean by "ideal night"? What level of pretentiousness are we talking about? Do there have to be candles? Music? Talk about feelings? Is that part of the pack?

I run a hand through my hair and snort. I have the pencil in the other one, but it doesn't go down to paper.

The temptation to say, "We arrive, kiss, and then rip off our clothes like two desperate bastards" is real. But I know that is not what the therapist is looking for. Nor what Izuku is looking for.

And, unfortunately, it's not what I want right now either.

Because I've spent the whole week thinking about how to look at him. How to touch him without looking clumsy. How not to screw it up.

And I don't want to do it just for the sake of it. I don't want to do it with him again just to check if he still likes me. I want him to feel loved. I want him to have no doubts.

Damn, I want to do it right.

So I start writing.

Slow. Doubting. With rage. With shame.

A word. Then another.

A pair of studs. A couple of grunts. And at the end, a full sheet.

I'm not going to read it. I don't want to go over it. If I do, I'm sure I'll break it in two and make an excuse like "the neighbor's dog ate it".

I fold it in half. I put it in my backpack. And I leave it there.

Ready. I guess.

Tomorrow we'll see what the hell Izuku thinks of all this...

The therapist's room always has the same damn temperature. Neither hot nor cold. Neutral. Impeccable. As if it was designed so that you would feel absolutely nothing, which, considering today's topic, was a brutal irony.

My legs are apart, my body thrown back in the armchair, as if I didn't care about anything. But in my hands I hold a badly folded piece of paper, one of those torn reluctantly from an old notebook. Scribbled in pencil, with some stronger pressure marks than normal. As if the words had been pushed, not written.

In front of me, Izuku had a page-size cardboard, written in black pen, straight line, clean handwriting. As if it were a primary school task done with dedication. That irritated me. Or maybe I was nervous. Whatever.

The therapist crossed her legs, with a faint, professional smile.

“Thank you both for taking the time to write this.” She paused briefly. And she looked at me for a second longer than usual, saying nothing, but just enough for me to feel it. As if she hadn't been sure I would do it. “Let's start with Katsuki, if you agree.”

“Why not.” I snorted, as if I were being forced to take part in a ridiculous exam. But I don't protest. Not like the first time I came to therapy.

I unfold the paper with tense fingers. The sheet creaks, almost as if it also resists being read.

I didn't look up once. My eyes fixed on the paper. My words, quick at first, then slower, more vivid. As if, when reading, things take shape inside me too.

“My ideal night doesn't have a fucking name.” I begin, without hesitation.

Izuku opened his eyes slightly. The therapist did not react, not even to the rudeness.

“It's not a candlelight appointment. It's not a stupid walk in a park. It's not one of those cheesy that comes out in dramas that you do watch, even if you say no.”

A slight clearing of the throat escaped from Izuku, unintentionally.

“It's coming home after a shitty day. Both alive. Tired. Broken a little, but whole.”

The room became strangely quiet. As if even the sound of the air conditioning decided to turn off for a moment.

“It's that you shower first. Because I like it when you go out with wet hair and you put on that old t-shirt that I wear sometimes, the one with the neck stretched out.”

I swallow hard and squeeze the edges of the paper with my thumbs. But I continue.

“It's that I cook, without saying anything. That you play low music while I do it, some of those quiet playlists that you tell me relax, but that I only like because they play when you are there. It's dinner without having to talk much. Just looking at me, with that face that puts pause on everything else.”

Izuku is not breathing. Or at least, it is not noticeable.

“And then… I do not know. Maybe we're on the couch, you reading something and me on your lap. You better in mine. More comfortable. Easier. And if there is sex, fine. But there doesn't have to be. Sometimes I just want to touch your back and feel your breath.”

There, the therapist raised an eyebrow. Not out of judgment, but as if so much… humanity were not expected, so much careful image, of someone like me.

“If there's sex, yes, I like it hard. I like it fast. I like that you moan like the world is ending. But I also like it when you're on top of me, slow, like you're not in a hurry. I like it when you caress my face like I'm not a ticking time bomb.”

The last sentence came out with a lower, but firmer thread.

“My ideal night is the one when you fall asleep first. Because it means you feel safe with me. And if you hug me in my sleep, all the better. Because then I don't have to ask for it.”

When I finished, there was no silence. There was a kind of space. A restrained pause, as if even the air needed to be digested.

I fold the paper awkwardly. I don't look at anyone. I just lay the sheet on my knees, as if burning my fingers.

The therapist leans forward a little, with a friendly smile but no exaggeration.

“Thank you, Bakugo. That was... very clear. Very honest. You've made an effort, and it shows.”

She said nothing more. She didn't applaud me. Nor did she look at me like a child who has just learned to ride a bike without falling. She only validated what I had done: an act of vulnerability, without unnecessary sweetness.

And the worst thing is that I liked that feeling.

Deku still said nothing. I turned to look at him. He had those eyes open, bright, but without tears. As if he didn't know if he wanted to smile, hide or cry.

“What do you think, Midoriya?” The therapist asked him.

Izuku looked down for a moment. Then he lifted his gaze up to me, as if he had trouble finding an expression that didn't look like... ridiculous.

“I... I thought you'd write any nonsense.” he admitted with a trembling smile. “Something like "we lie in bed, fuck and that's it".”

I snorted at his answer.

“I was about to, fuck.”

“Yes. But you didn't.” Izuku looked at me again, more serious this time. “What you wrote was... more than I expected. Not because I don't think you feel those things, but because I didn't know you could say them like that.”

“Don't look at me like I've saved a damn cat from a tree.” I growled, turning my face to the side.

“I don't. Just...” Izuku interrupted himself. Then he sighed. “You surprised me. For the better.”

The silence returned, but now it was warmer. Less uncomfortable.

“And you, Izuku?” The therapist interjected. “Are you ready to share yours?”

Izuku nodded, and twirled the cardboard between his fingers, as if to buy time for the excitement rising in his throat. It was so straight, so white, and so perfectly written, that it irritated me.

I know what's there. Not the exact words, of course. But I know what he was going to say. Or so I thought.

He made a little noise with his throat before starting. His voice cleared as if he were about to read his doctoral thesis, not a letter about how he would like to fuck with me. That's great.

“My ideal night doesn't have to be perfect.” he begins, in that soft tone he uses when talking to civilians or stray cats.

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. Not because of what he says, but because of how he says it. Because I know that, whatever comes, it's going to hurt a little. But not in that way that I can hit back.

“It doesn't have to be in a special place or with an itinerary. I just want you to be there. That you are present. With me.”

I clenched my jaw. He was reading it slowly. As if words had to sink into the ground before they reach us.

“I'd like us to get home after a long day, not talking about reports or injuries or alarms. Just you and me, without the suits, without the weight of being heroes.”

It is true that I talk a lot about technical things, about patrols, about arrests. It makes me angry when I try to fill the silence and the only thing I can do is talk about work. As if I didn't know how to say anything else.

“I would like you to look at me as you look at me when you think I don't see you. That look that lasts a second, but makes me feel that you are still surprised that we are together.”

I swallow hard. He looks at me. All the fucking time he looks at me. I didn't know that he noticed it too.

“On my ideal night, you're the one who makes the first move. Not because I don't want to, but because you want to. Because it is born to you. Hold my hand, hug me from behind while I wash the dishes. Laugh a little more. That you tell me, even once, that you love me without having to be in a limit situation.”

I didn't look up. I look at my knees. I focus on the vibrations of his voice. "I love you without having to be in a borderline situation." I'm not cut out to say those things. They only come out when I feel like I'm going to die. Or when he's crying. As if I really needed a fucking tragedy to say an "I love you".

“I love it when you desire me, but I'd also like you to make love to me. Slow. As you look into my eyes. Touching me like there's no hurry.”

My chest shrinks. I don't know how to make love. I know how to fuck. I know how to devour. How to grab him by the waist and make him unable to walk the next day. But slowly... look into the eyes... what if I break there?

“I'd like us to talk during sex. Don't run away from what you feel. And if something bothers you or worries you, you say so. Even if you spit it out in anger.”

I didn't know that he noticed my silence so much. I thought he just wanted moans, gasps. Not... this.

“But most importantly, on my ideal night, you're not someone else. It's still you: stubborn, intense, with poorly managed emotions. But you let me in a little more... literal and... figuratively.”

There he paused. As if he regretted the final joke. But he doesn't laugh. No one does.

I wipe my palms on my legs. They don't sweat, but they feel heavy.

Izuku lowers the cardboard. He doesn't look at me right away. His ears are red, his fingers are trembling, and his eyes are fixed on the edge of the table as if he wanted to disappear into it.

The therapist smiles. Not that commercial smile that some doctors wear. This is another one. One more... human.

“Thank you, Izuku. You have expressed very clearly what you want. And you have done it with affection, not with reproach. That's the most important thing.”

Izuku nods. Hardly.

I... I don't say anything at first. I don't know what to say.

But the therapist looks at me. She is waiting for me.

“I don't know if I can give you all that.” I blurt out at the end, scratching the back of my neck. “Not because I don't want to. It's just... I don't know how.”

Izuku finally looks at me. And he doesn't have a disappointed face. He has the face of someone who has been waiting for that answer for a long time. As if the simple fact that I try is already a step.

“But... I can try.” I add, forcing my throat to work.

There is a silence. And this time, it's not awkward.

The therapist nods, satisfied.

“That's what it means to work in a relationship. Not to change who you are, but to open up enough to integrate the desires of the other without losing yourself.”

Of course. Nice phrase. But I'm stuck in something else.

She began to talk about "sex as an escape". She said that sometimes we use sex to avoid talking. To close gaps that we do not know how to fill with words. That there is desire, yes, but also anxiety, and that it mixes. That grabs us by the waist and pushes us to confuse connection with emotional discharge.

Then she mentioned something about dedicating quality time to each other, going on a trip together, to a spa, a guided tour in a nearby town... That reminded me that we have to ask for days off work for that thing I have planned.

Anyway, my attention was diverted. I was listening to her, technically. But I'm not really paying attention to her.

Because under the desk, without saying anything, I stretch out my hand and look for Izuku's fingers.

His fingers find me halfway. He intertwine it without looking at me.

We don't say anything to each other. We don't have to.

Because while she talks about emotional repression and psychological escapes, I'm just thinking about tonight.

On getting home. That he enters first, with that loose shirt that is almost mine. To hold his hand in the kitchen. To kiss him without urgency. In doing so... slowly. Delicate.

As if I knew how...

I don't know if tonight is going to be shit or not. But I'm trying not to.

I knew it since we returned from therapy. Izuku looked at me strangely all the way. Not with sorrow, nor with hope. With something more tender, more fucked up to decipher. Like he's waiting for me to do... which I don't know how to do.

And here I am. Standing in front of him, in the kitchen. I see him with his back against the counter, that fucking old shirt that is too big hanging down as if it had no weight.

“Do you want to...?” I start, not knowing exactly what the fuck I'm asking.

“Dinner?” he asks, with a little smile.

I refuse. My face burns. I hate myself for it.

“No.” I growled. “That later.”

He laughs. He laughs softly, as if he doesn't want to break the silence that surrounds us. And take a step towards me. He touches my chest with his fingers, soft. I feel like a damn time bomb.

“Do you want to go to the bedroom?” he says, lowering his voice.

I nod. Because if I open my mouth now, I'll ruin everything.

We are in the room. The light is dim. I didn't turn on the main one, just the one on my bedside table. I like how it shades his body. I've always liked his body. His back. His neck. His mouth. All of him. But today I can't devour him as usual.

Today I have to do something else.

I take a deep breath.

I approach him. Slow. Like I'm approaching a wounded animal that could run away if I move too fast. Is this how this is done? That slow?

I brush the edge of his T-shirt with my fingers.

“May I...?” I murmured.

Izuku nods, surprised. And that breaks me a little bit. Are he really surprised that I ask?

I grip the hem carefully. I don't tear it up. I don't pull it out. I lift him slowly, running my fingers over his stomach, over his chest. I feel how he trembles.

“You're trembling.” I say, almost in a whisper.

“I'm... nervous.” he admits, lowering his gaze.

He tells me so. The one who always wants to talk, the one who always knows what to say. He tells me he's nervous. Which, in a way, gives me permission to be so too.

I take off his shirt. I ran it through his head. He raises his arms, obediently. He doesn't say anything when I put it down on the back of the chair. Normally I would throw it on the floor. Today is not just any day.

My hands go to his shoulders. The skin is warm. I am too, but I don't move more than necessary. I kiss him there, on the bone. Then I go down, leaving more kisses.

On the neck. On the collarbone. On the chest. I don't bite. I don't mark. Just kiss.

He strokes my hair. His breath trembles. I'm doing well, I guess.

“Kacchan.” he says, and looks down at me with that look of his, as if I were something sacred and dangerous at the same time.

I don't answer. I can't talk right now. But I continue on my way. I kiss his abdomen. Slow. For once I stop to savor it, not to eat it.

And I kneel. Yes. I kneel on the floor. And he is startled.

I unbutton his pants as calmly as I can afford. I see how he bites his lip. His eyes are wide open. He did not expect it. Nor me.

It's not that I've never given him a blowjob before, of course I've sucked his dick before. But it's usually something I reserve for special moments, on his birthday, on our anniversary, or if I have ever drunk more than I should.

“Are you going to...?” he asks.

I nod. I finished pulling down his underpants. I observe him from below. I get excited when I see his erection, which forces me to bite my lower lip so as not to attack like an animal in heat.

I take his member in my hand. I give it a soft kiss before opening my mouth. His hips tense and I hear him gasp. I'm doing this. I. Katsuki Bakugo. A fucker with an unstoppable rhythm, explosive, selfish at times. I'm on my knees. With him in my mouth. Smooth. Slow. Delicate. Looking at him from time to time, just to check if I'm doing the way he wants. To see if he looks at me too.

And yes. He looks at me.

“God...” he gasps.

My tongue slides down the base before slowly ascending, licking and sucking every inch until I reaches the tip. There I stop, my mouth closed around his glans, sucking gently. My hand working to the rhythm of my mouth.

When I'm done, I don't make him cum. I don't want this to end. Not so fast.

I take him to bed. I undress myself in silence. Not as a show. Just... I take off my clothes, one garment after another. I feel weird. Vulnerable. But he looks at me like I'm something beautiful.

I put him to bed. I lie down next to him.

“Do you want to...?” I ask, again. Always asking. I don't even recognize myself.

He nods. And he kisses me. A long and warm kiss. One of those kisses that break you into a thousand pieces and then rebuild you again.

This time I prepare everything. I use lubricant. I stroke his cock while inserting a couple of fingers. And, most surprising, I am talking to him.

“Like this...? Is it ok...?” I ask hoarsely.

“Yes... that's fine.” he replies between sighs.

“Tell me if I do something wrong.” I say, without thinking.

He looks at me.

“You're doing great, Kacchan. Don't stop.”

And I don't. I'm staying.

I kneel on the bed. I watch my erection throbbing in my hand as I line up with his entrance. I move slowly at first. Very slowly. It's hard for me. My whole body screams at me to increase the pace, to take it hard, to make him mine with all my anger, with all my love, with everything I don't know how to say. But no. Not this time.

“Look at me.” he says, and I do.

We looked at each other. Body against body. His legs on my shoulders. His chest rising and falling. His eyes shining.

“You're holding back a lot.” he says, and strokes my abdomen. “It's okay if it's you too.”

I close my eyes for a second. I take a deep breath. And yes. I let it out a bit. The pace accelerates. He moans. He clings to me. He tells me my name, not the hero's, nor my nickname. Mine.

“Ahh… Katsuki...”

I listen to him as if it were a prayer.

In the end, I can't help it. I get lost. Push harder. Faster. I press him against me as if he will fall apart if I don't have him around.

I masturbate his penis in the meantime. He moans louder. Me too. Our bodies no longer move delicately, but they are together. We are together.

When we're done, I collapse on top of him, but I turn quickly so I don't crush him. I stand by his side, breathing like an animal.

He laughs softly.

“Was that your attempt to make love?”

“Shut up.” I reply, covering my face with my arm.

He snuggles up against my chest.

“It was... nice.” he says, and sounds sincere. “I enjoyed it a lot, really.”

I don't know what to answer. So I just kiss him on the hair.

I don't tell him that I love him.

Not today.

But I do caress his back with my fingertips. And I stay like that, touching his breath. Waiting for him to fall asleep first.

Only then do I allow myself to close my eyes.

Chapter Text

The room is quieter than normal. And it's not because the therapist has kept quiet. It's something else. Something thick in the air. Something that comes from the past and that I don't want to come out.

The therapist crosses her legs and interlaces her fingers on her lap.

“Today I'd like to talk about the beginning.” she says calmly, in that voice that seems to break nothing, but that runs through everything. “How long have you known each other?”

Izuku smiles. Of course he smiles. For him, the beginning is always bright.

“Since childhood.” he replies without hesitation, and squeezes my hand a little under the table, as if I needed support. Maybe so. Maybe not. “We went to kindergarten together... Our mothers knew each other. We spent our summers playing in the park or running through the meadows near the river. Kacchan hunted beetles. I drew them.”

He pauses. It's not long, but it's long enough for me to see his eyes warm with the memory.

“I used to follow him everywhere. He was always in front.” he says. And he laughs, with a nostalgia that strangles my chest. “I always wanted to be by his side.”

I want to tell him to stop. That he says no more.

Not because he lies. But because he tells the truth.

And the truth, on this issue, hurts me.

The therapist nods, as if she already knows what comes next. She looks at me. And it is one of those looks that cannot be avoided.

“Have you always been friends?” she asks me. “During elementary school? High school?”

I swallow hard. It gets stuck.

I feel my body stiffen. As if someone had put an iron bar between my vertebrae.

I squeeze Izuku's hand tightly. More than it should. He doesn't say anything. Just interlock his fingers with mine, firm.

“Katsuki.” she calls to me, softly. “Have you always been friends?”

I don't know why, but I feel like I'm going to break.

It's not because of what happened.

It's because I never said it.

Not even when everything began to change. Not even when I cried like a damn kid that day. I always avoided it. I buried it.

But now I'm here. And this woman, with her silken voice and her face of infinite patience, is looking at me as if she knows.

So I take a deep breath.

And I speak.

“No.” I say. The word comes out like a shot. Drought. Definitive. “We were not always friends.”

Izuku lowers his gaze. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

“Do you want to tell me what your relationship was when you were younger?” She insists, without changing her tone. As if she were not holding sticks of dynamite with the teeth.

I don't want to.

But I nod.

Shit.

“I was... well. I had a strong Quirk. Since I was a child. And that made me believe it. Believing that I was special. Better than the others. That I had more rights than them.”

Silence.

Nobody says anything. Not even her.

I keep talking.

“Izuku didn't have a quirk.” I say, and every syllable hurts. “and that pissed me off more than I want to admit. Because despite that... He was always there. Looking at me like I was the best in the world. He admired me.”

I close my eyes for a moment.

“And I... I hated him for that.”

Silence again.

“Not because he admired me.” I add. “But because... I didn't understand why. Why did someone who had nothing keep going? Why didn't he give up? Why did he keep smiling? It seemed to me... unfair.”

The therapist watches me carefully. Not with judgment. With... something more complicated.

“What did you do with that feeling?”

I know.

I know this perfectly.

“I turned it into rage.” I reply. “I pushed him. I yelled at him. I looked down on him. I insulted him. I treated him like garbage. Because if I did it, if I crushed him, if I made him feel less... then I could continue to be the best.”

I see Izuku out of the corner of my eye. He is still. He has not moved.

“And did it work?” She asks.

“No.” I admit, lowering my voice. “Because he was still there. Always. Even if I was a son of a bitch with him. Even if I made him cry. He was always there.”

My jaw trembles. I can't help it. I don't want to cry and even less in front of her, or Izuku.

“And deep down... I think that saved me.” I say. And I hate myself for feeling my eyes get wet.

Izuku looks up. He looks at me.

There's no hate on his face.

There is sadness.

But also something softer. Something... ancient.

“You never apologized to me for everything before.” he says, his voice low.

“I know.” I reply. “I thought it was no use. That time had buried it.”

“It didn't bury it.” he says. “It just let it grow on top of it.”

We stayed like that. In silence.

Until the therapist intervenes.

“These types of wounds, those of childhood, those that occur when one is forming, are difficult to name and more difficult to close. But you have done it. You've built something together. Despite that. Or precisely because of that.”

I close my eyes.

“I'm not proud of what I was.” I murmured.

“You're not that kid anymore.” she says.

“Sometimes I feel it. Sometimes, when I get angry, when I get brute, I feel like I'm the same bastard who yelled at you, "don't butt in where you're not wanted."”

“But you're not.” Izuku says. “Not for long.”

I look at him.

“Why did you forgive me?”

“Because we grew up.” he replies, simply. “Because you changed. And so did I.”

“And it doesn't hurt?”

“It's been a long time since it hurts anymore.”

I feel short of breath.

I thought we had already dug enough for today. I thought that was it. That we had torn off enough pieces of history and left them bleeding on the table.

But no.

The therapist settles down a little in her chair, as if she had just picked up a new shovel.

“And what about your families?” she asks. “I'm interested in knowing what kind of bonds you have had at home, with your fathers, your mothers... how they have influenced how you relate to each other today.”

Izuku does not hesitate. Sometimes it drives me crazy that he doesn't hesitate. Other times I get envious.

“My mother is incredible.” he says, and he says it with that proud idiot smile that comes out every time he talks about her. “She calls me every other day, or I call her. She always has something to tell, even if she hasn't left the house in days. Sometimes she sends me photos of the food she makes, as if she were an influencer. The other day she even sent me one of her feet watching a movie. With socks from All Might. And she captioned the photo: "This is how I'm spending my Friday, what about you, son?"”

He laughs. And I swear that laughter relieves a little of the tension in my back.

“When I have time, I go to see her. We almost always cook together. Well... we try.” he gives me a sideways glance. “Although the last time we were the two of us, she learned more recipes from you than you did from her.”

I purse my lips, growling softly.

“Because she doesn't cook badly, but she talks while she cooks. And she gets distracted. And she puts the spoon where she shouldn't, adds more salt than necessary or forgets to add others...”

Izuku raises his eyebrows and looks at me.

“You have culinary OCD. Not a millimeter of curry outside your safe zone.”

The therapist smiles softly. As if she knew that this conversation is not just a detour, but a tightrope that keeps us walking above the void.

“And you, Katsuki?” she asks then. I feel like I'm dying a little inside. “How was your childhood at home?”

Part of me wants to say something. Another wants to get up, throw the chair and leave. But I don't move. I don't speak.

I just stare at the ground.

The therapist waits.

Izuku too.

“My mother was screaming a lot.” I spit, finally. I don't know why I say that. I hadn't planned to talk about this. It just comes out. “She screamed for everything. If I was late, if I didn't win something, if I got less than a ten. I had to be the best. Not because I wanted to, but because she couldn't tolerate that I wasn't.”

I feel my neck tense. As if my mother's voice could come out of my own throat at any moment.

“She hit me, of course. Not much, nor with hatred. Not like in tragic stories. But enough. Hard pats. Slipper when I made her angry. And the screams... damn, the screams were constant. They were worse than the blows. Because you saw them coming. They got into the head and stayed there.”

Izuku squeezes my hand under the table. He doesn't say anything.

I don't need him to say anything.

“She's strong.” I add. “She has always been strong. She didn't drop anything. Neither the dishes nor the ovaries. I guess that's where I got something out of it.”

I failed to add: "I grew up with that: if you're not the best, you're not worth a shit."

The therapist nods slowly.

“And your father?”

I take a deep breath.

“He wasn't there. Either he was there and he wasn't. He worked too much. Traveled. He was one of those guys who caress your head when they come and tell you "keep it up, champion", as if that were enough. He didn't scream, though. He was the complete opposite of my mother.”

Silence settles between us like a fourth person in the room.

“I haven't spoken to them for months.” I say. Not with anger. Only with truth. “Nor do I miss it.”

The therapist leans forward a little.

“And do you think that all that has influenced how you bond with Izuku?”

“Obviously.” And then I let a little of the anger come out. “I don't know how to ask for affection without sounding pathetic. I can't say what I feel without looking like I'm about to throw up. I don't know how to be delicate without feeling... exposed.”

I look at Izuku. And my chest hurts, but I say it:

“But I'm trying for him.”

Izuku moves. He is about to speak, but stops.

His eyes are moist.

And then, to relieve the tension, he says:

“My mother loves you as if you were her son, you know?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Yes. She always says, "That kid needs more rice and more hugs."”

I let out a low laugh. Just a little. But the therapist notices it.

“And how does that make you feel, Katsuki?”

I don't answer.

I can't.

But I think it shows in the way I didn't let go of Izuku's hand for a second.

The therapist closes the notebook gently.

“Well, we've touched on a lot today.” she says. “Some of the deepest so far. I want you to know that this work is not measured in how much it hurts, but in how much you are willing to see the other and let yourself be seen. And that, guys, you're already doing.”

We left the office in silence.

I had a dry throat. Izuku with a faint smile.

And a part of me, deep down, begins to think that maybe… I deserve that rice and those hugs.

Two days later, the nerd of Deku forced me to go see his mother.

And it's not that I'm complaining. Seriously. It was just my day off, and in my head that meant lying on the couch, with the old t-shirt and a beer in my hand, watching whatever was recommended to me on TV. But no. Turns out, that's not "real rest." According to Midoriya, of course. According to him, visiting his mother was part of our "emotional well-being as a couple."

I laugh inside every time he says it so seriously. He is taking the therapy very seriously...

So there I am, standing in front of the door of the apartment where he grew up. He knocks, she opens it, and as soon as I see her, I feel my memory wrinkle.

Inko Midoriya smells like hot soup, talks like the world is a soft place, and hugs like it's never enough.

“Katsuki!” she exclaims, in that high-pitched voice that seems never to have aged. “Oh, but you're more handsome than last time. Come, come in, come in. Izuku, take off your boyfriend's jacket, don't you see he's stiff?”

I let myself be done. Reluctantly, of course.

But I have to admit that... There is something comforting in that little maternal chaos that she generates. The narrow corridor, the smell of freshly made rice, the crooked paintings with photos of Izuku at different ages —in all of them he seems to be screaming or crying or holding up a notebook. What a nerd—. It is like entering a time that no longer exists, but has not completely died.

She makes us sit at the table while she finishes preparing dinner.

Izuku offers to help, and disappears into the kitchen with her. I'm left alone in the dining room, with a stuffed cat staring at me from a bookshelf and a flower-patterned tablecloth that has clearly survived more battles than the two of us.

I can hear them whispering.

I don't hear the words, just murmurs, giggles. But I know they talk about me. I know this because Inko pokes her head out for a second to look at me with that face of suspicious tenderness, as if she wanted to hug me and ask me for forgiveness for something that hasn't happened yet.

When they return, the atmosphere is a little warmer. Or I'm less defensive. I do not know.

We eat rice with vegetables, glazed chicken and miso soup. Everything smells like home. To one different from mine, but home nonetheless.

Inko talks about everything. About the new neighbors who make too much noise, about the new oven that still doesn't understand how it works, about a bread recipe that "I'm sure Katsuki is better at than me." She's just as geeky as Izuku.

And she treats me like I've always been a part of this. As if she didn't remember that in elementary school I pushed his son down the stairs.

Or maybe she remember.

And she forgave me before I forgave myself.

“And you, Katsuki?” she asks suddenly, as she pours more tea. “You still cook so well, right? Izuku sometimes sends me photos of what you prepare for him. That ramen with marinated egg!? I swear it makes me want to lick the screen.”

I choke on tea a bit.

“Yes, I cook. Better than him, at least.”

“Hey!” Izuku protests, raising his voice. But he's smiling.

“You've always been very skillful with your hands.” she adds, as if nothing had happened. "Don't think badly, Katsuki," I scold myself. “From a very young age, when you came to play here, you already put your fingers in the dough or wanted to stir the pots. Of course, then you screamed four times and wanted to be the king of the world, but I could see that you liked cooking. I always said it: this child is a volcano with the soul of a baker.”

Izuku laughs with that silly laugh that comes out when he feels comfortable.

And I... I swallow something that is not food.

A knot.

Because that woman is talking to me as if I hadn't been a mess with her son. As if she had seen something else in me... since always.

After dinner, Izuku offers to do the dishes, and for some damn reason, I get up too.

But Inko gets in the way.

“No, no, you sit down. The guests do not work.”

My shoulders tighten.

I sit in the living room and when Izuku returns he smiles at me from the doorframe. That smile that he has just for me.

Finally we said goodbye with hugs —too many for my liking, but hey, I survive— and we went out to the corridor.

I walk for a while in silence.

“What did you say to your mom in the kitchen?” I ask, without looking at him.

Izuku shrugs.

“I told her about the agency's new therapy plan.”

“And?”

“And that I love you.”

I stop.

I look at him.

He stares back at me.

“I love you too.”

I do not tremble when I say it. I don't swallow my tongue or my throat explode inside. I say it as it is. Simple. With a low voice, but firm. As if I had rehearsed it. I didn't, though.

And it's not the first time I've told him that. I know. There were others. Few. Disguised between gaspes or on the verge of sleep, when everything is dark and words escape unintentionally. I once told him that after a horrible mission, still with dried blood on my neck, and he pretended not to hear it because he knew that if I repeated it out loud I was going to close like a trap.

But this is the first time I've said it... like this. Looking Izuku in the eyes. With him looking at me. With enough light for him to see my face. With Inko a few meters from us and the stomach full of rice, and not adrenaline.

And yet, I feel my chest stiffen.

Deku blinks. He doesn't smile like an idiot or jump on me. He just take a deep breath. And his eyes get a little wet. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds. He leaves me the space. As if he knew that a "me too" said by me costs ten times more than a thousand of his.

Then he approaches. Not much. Just enough.

He rests his forehead on my shoulder, as if he needs to stop. As if he needed me to hold him for a while.

“Thank you for saying it.” he whispers, barely audible. “I like it when you open up to me.”

I don't answer. I can't. Because if I open my mouth, something else comes out. And I'm not going to cry like an idiot in the hallway of his childhood apartment.

But I put a hand to the back of his neck and stroked his hair.

I said it because I needed it. Because I need to confess what I feel, because I need to confirm that I am something more than explosive dynamite, that I can be a functional adult with the ability to love people. Because Izuku deserves it, and even more so after the damage I have caused him.

Chapter Text

The week passed like a damn emotional hangover. And not the good kind, the kind that comes after a wild night with cold beer and brutal sex. No. It was the kind of silent, dragging, sticky hangover that leaves you with a headache even if you haven't had anything to drink.

Izuku tried to approach me about ten times this week. In every way.

And yes, I'm talking about sex.

I don't know how many times in these seven days the nerd stuck to me as if he were a cat in heat. He caressed the back of my neck while cooking, he sat on top of me on the sofa when there was clearly more space, he showered with the door ajar as if I didn't notice the fucking steam coming out. Pure cliché.

And I...

I dodged it as if I had leprosy. And yes, I know that a few weeks ago I was avoiding it too... But the reasons are completely different.

“Do you want to come to bed?” He told me on Tuesday, with that voice that sounds somewhere between tender and hot, half-dressed, leaning against the doorframe with that little face he makes when he wants something more than hugs.

I was on the couch, watching a documentary about volcanoes.

“I can't.” I said, without looking at him. “I think I have... dermatitis.”

“Dermatitis?”

“Yes. On the thigh. It's contagious, I think.”

He looked at me as if I had told him that I became a mole. I think dermatitis isn't contagious. But I said it anyway.

“Since when?”

“From now on.”

He sighed and left the room. He didn't add anything else, but he left the door open. I suppose in case the "dermatitis" healed itself in five minutes.

The next day he tried again.

He brought me breakfast in bed. Pancakes. Pikachu-shaped.

Who the fuck can resist that? Well, me. Or at least, I pretended to devour them so I wouldn't have to look him in the face.

“Don't you want to... Try again what happened the other night?” He murmured, sitting down next to me, in a low voice, as if he were afraid of breaking something.

Of course, after the last such delicate sex, it's normal to want more of that.

“I have an appointment with the physiotherapist. Tight right buttock.”

“But if today is Thursday...”

“The buttocks don't rest, Midoriya.”

He sighed again. And he left me alone.

The truth is that my buttocks were not tight. Nor dermatitis. Not a damn number of medical excuses.

I was just afraid.

And I shit on everything, because I'm not one of those who flee. I am not one of those who tremble, nor of those who look at the past and stop like thoughtful idiots. But after that last session with the therapist —that calm-voiced, sharp-eyed witch— something in me stirred so strongly that I had to sit quietly in the kitchen for half an hour to avoid destroying anything.

She had touched myself right where it hurts the most.

My parents. My childhood. The things that made me this. The things that I still drag, even if I deny it. Even if I laugh. Even if I clench the teeth.

And the worst thing is that the very bitch knew it.

"Have you always been friends?" she asked, as if talking about the weather. As if she knew we weren't.

And of course not.

No, we were not always friends.

I was a bastard with Deku. I pushed him, I insulted him, I excluded him from games, I treated him like he wasn't worth shit, like the fact that he admired me was an offense. Because it was. I was terrified. Because that idiot without Quirk had more heart than all of us combined, and that fucked me up.

And now it's here. In my bed. In my house. Making pancakes in the shape of Pikachu and waiting for me every night as if I were worthy of it.

And I don't know if I am.

So yes, I dodged him.

Over and over again.

And he began to realize it.

On Friday night, after dinner, he looked at me more than necessary.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Are you avoiding sex?”

“No.”

“Dermatitis again?”

“This time in the elbow.”

“And it goes down to your pants?”

I got up from the table and went to the balcony, with the imaginary cigarette that I never light. It's silly, but I always do it when I'm stressed. He finds that gesture funny.

The breeze hit me in the face as if trying to shove common sense through my pores.

"In the end, it seems that the fuckung lady had managed to dig into me..."

And that pissed me off as much as it relieved me.

Because I had never felt the need to look inside myself before. I had never cared. I was Bakugou. Strong. Decided. A walking bomb. But now... now I felt like wet dynamite. As if everything I considered solid had cracks.

Childhood is not something that is easy to overcome. It creeps. It shapes you. It breaks you. My mother screamed louder than the alarm clock. My father was almost never there. And I grew up believing that love was noise, that discipline was violence, and that emotions were weaknesses.

And suddenly I have this idiot with green eyes and big hands who just wants me to touch him gently, tell him I love him, and hug him from behind while he washes the dishes.

And I'm terrified that I can't give him that. I'm terrified that my good version won't be enough. And I'm even more terrified that it is. Because in that case, I no longer have excuses.

So yes, I hid. I protected myself. I took refuge in comfort.

But Sunday arrives. And with it, the new session.

And even if I want to make up another excuse —bird flu, panic attack from undercooked rice, scabies, whatever— he looks at me with those eyes that no longer expect a perfect version of me.

He just hopes I try it.

And that, as fucked up as it is... encourages me to want to try.

Seventh session. We've been going to see this lady with huge earrings and glasses for seven fucking days now. I don't even remember her name, have she ever said it?

If someone had said to me months ago "Bakugo, you're going to sit once a week on a soft sofa to talk about feelings with a geek and a therapist with a chamomile tea face" I would have exploded their face without hesitation.

But here I am. And no one has been harmed.

Still.

“Today I propose a simple dynamic.” says the therapist, crossing one leg over the other as she writes something in her endless notebook. “It's called "Three Things I Like About You."”

I look at her with a frown.

Seriously? Are we going to play that now?

“One related to the emotional, one to the behavioral, and one to the physical.” she adds, as if reading my mind before I can snort.

Too late. I've already snorted.

Izuku, on the other hand, settles into the sofa. He seems nervous, but also excited. He has that expression that comes out when he is about to win something in a battle. A little fire in his eyes, only now he's not wearing gloves or a uniform, but that fucking green T-shirt that suits him too well.

And of course, as an idiot that I am, my mind wanders alone.

Three things I like about him.

Simple.

Their hair messy, especially after sex. Messy, stuck to the forehead, with some strands of hair that still retain traces of sweat. It drives me crazy.

His muscles when he wear tight shirts. It's not that he is bragging, but... fuck. Who tells him to have that back and not hide it?

And his face when he blushes. His freckles darken. It looks like he's going to melt, and I get to lick his skin just to see if he really melts.

But then the therapist looks at me.

“Remember,” she says, in that friendly tone that begins to pierce my skull, “an emotion, a behavior, and a physical characteristic.”

Shit.

Of course.

This is not about it warming me up even when he breathe. It's about he's more than that. That I know he's more than that. And yet, my head went straight to the physical. To the easy.

I want to throw myself out of the window. But we are on the first floor. It would not be as effective.

“Who wants to start?” She asks.

Izuku raises his hand as if we were in high school. Again.

It makes me want to laugh, but I hold back. Although not much.

“Okay.” Izuku says, and takes a breath as if he were going to declare himself live. “I start with the emotional...”

I settle on the couch, resting my elbow on my knee, as if I don't give a shit, but I'm tighter than a bare wire.

“I like that you're loyal.” he begins. “Even if you don't always show it in a traditional way. But when you are, you are. And you never hesitate to protect your loved ones, even if you don't know how to say it well.”

He looks at me as if he fears that it will bother me.

But I only nod. Because he's right. I don't know how to speak beautifully. But I know how to stay. I know you don't have to leave even when everything goes to hell.

“And the behavioral?” The therapist asks, smiling.

Izuku laughs, a little nervous.

“I like it when you cook without saying you're doing it for me. You pretend to be indifferent, but you always choose my favorite dishes. You even made the curry once with less spiciness, although you prefer it stronger.”

I shrug a little. I'm not going to tell him that this time it burned me to the soul because of how dull it was.

“And the physical…” Izuku says, lowering his voice as if he were confessing to a crime.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye.

“...I like your arms.” he murmurs. “And your chest.”

He covers his face with his hands, laughing.

“Especially when you're shirtless and... well. Already.”

I feel my ego inflate as if compressed air had been put in my chest. I don't smile, obviously. But inside I'm screaming "That's what I thought!"

“Bakugou.” says the therapist.

I raise my head, as if I've been called to the front in the middle of class.

It's my turn.

And I hate myself a little bit for being more nervous than in a combat round.

I take a deep breath.

“The emotional thing,” I say, swallowing hard “I like that you believe in people.”

Izuku blinks.

“Even in idiots like me” I add, unable to avoid letting out a half-crooked smile.

The nerd smiles too. But he says nothing.

“Behavioral?” The therapist insists.

“I like it when... when you organize things.” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “When you make lists of everything. Hero, reports, the shopping list, whatever. It makes me feel like if you know where the world is going, I can stop thinking for five minutes.”

I said it without wanting to sound cheesy, but... it has already been said. And I don't regret it. That happens to me sometimes with him. He makes me talk without me planning it.

And now comes the best part. The physical part.

I look at the therapist for a second. After talking to her about my favorite sex positions, this is a walk in the park.

“And the physical...” I begin, lowering my voice “...I like your neck.”

“My neck?” Izuku repeats, surprised.

I nod.

“When you're focused, it gets a little tense. And you have that line that goes down to the collarbone.”

Now the one who wants to cover his face is me.

But I don't.

“Also your back. And the legs. And the hands. But there was only one thing to choose, right?” I add, quickly, as if it went unnoticed.

“It's okay.” says the therapist. “You have done a very good job.”

I don't know if she means it or if she just wants us not to run away.

Izuku takes my hand without saying anything. Under the table. As usual. And I don't let go.

Because if I have learned anything in these seven sessions, it is that there are things that are worth sustaining. Even if they are scary.

Even if your first three answers were "tousled hair," "exciting freckles," and "firm ass."

I'm screwed up, yes.

But I'm not alone.

And that... I like that about him too.

Silence after therapy is the worst. It's always the same for us: we tend to come home mentally exhausted.

Izuku has that face of serene concentration as he waters the plants, as if he's solving a fucking life puzzle with every drop of water. I, meanwhile, have a boiling pot and half a chopped onion on the cutting board. And all I can think about is the fucking session.

"Your arms. Your chest."

Not that it bothers me. On the contrary. My ego dances a samba in my chest. But there's something in his voice, when he said it, something so honest, that it threw me off.

And that, in me, means sarcasm to defend myself.

“So you like my arms, huh?” I shout from the kitchen, still stirring the pan.

I hear a soft bang of the pot against the glass. Then, steps. But he's not coming. He plays dumb.

Of course.

I lean against the doorframe, looking at him without him seeing me. He moves around the room with his loose T-shirt and those old pants that should be retired by now, but that he adores because "they are comfortable." I don't care. They fit him well. Everything looks good on him, dammit.

“Which pectoral do you like the most?” I add. “The right or the left? Because if I have to promote one in the gym, it is said and done.”

He doesn't answer, but I know he heard me. The way he shrugs, his neck red to his ears. I know how to read his body better than any instruction manual.

I go back to the kitchen with an idiotic smile that I erase as soon as I smell that the rice almost sticks to me. No way. I do this perfectly.

And then something stupid comes to mind.

Or genius. It depends on the point of view.

I take off my shirt. I throw it into a chair and adjust my pants, ignoring that I'm a little harder than usual since he started talking about my fucking muscles in the office.

"Let's play, nerd."

The food is now ready and hot. I wipe my hands on a rag as I listen to the footsteps back. He comes.

When he enters the kitchen, he stops in his tracks.

“Huh...?” he murmurs, looking at the back of my body.

“What? It's hot.” I reply, turning my neck slightly. “You didn't say you liked the show?”

He doesn't say anything.

Just walk towards me. Slow. With those steps of his, half cautious, half determined. It reminds me of when he's in hero mode: assessing the terrain but still moving forward. That turns me me.

And then he sticks to my back, barely touching me.

And leave a soft kiss right where the neck meets the shoulder.

Then another.

And another.

I finish plating. I still keep my eyes fixed on the plates, but I don't think about the food anymore. My breathing is agitated without being noticed. Or so I think.

His hands land on my abdomen. At first gently. Then, one slides down. No hurry. As if feeling if I'm going to allow him what he's doing.

And I leave it.

Fuck, of course I leave it.

Because his hand enters through the edge of my pants. And his fingers brush my erection as if they were doing it by accident.

It's not.

And I don't want it to be either.

My body reacts before I do. I arch just back, giving him more space, more skin. I bite my lip.

But then...

“I'm hungry.” he whispers, in his usual voice, as if nothing was happening. “Dinner?”

My heart almost fell to my feet.

“Are you making fun of me?” I snap, turning halfway.

But he only smiles, that little smile of his that mixes innocence with mischief, as if he did not know the chaos he has just caused.

He takes his hand out of where he put it and goes to the table with his usual gait, leaving a trail of innocent mischief in his wake. I follow him, with the plates in my hands and my body temperature through the roof.

I let go of one in front of him, the other in front of me. I sit down. I pick up the chopsticks. I take a deep breath.

I'm still shirtless. I still have an erection half awake.

And he helps himself to some rice as if all this were an ordinary night.

Damn nerd.

But I don't say anything.

Because it's not just his hand. Or his mouth. It's that, for a moment, when he touched me, when he stayed there, he made me feel forgiven.

He didn't tell me, of course. Not with words.

But I knew.

And that... It hurts more than a blow. Because I know I don't quite deserve him. Because I still have shit inside that I haven't finished processing.

But he is here. Caressing me as if I were worthy. Like I didn't have any scars inside. As if he did not remember having hurt him.

And, of all things, that's what turns me on the most.

Not his mouth. Not his hands. That.

I finish the rice without looking at him too much. I feel like if I look at him, I'm going to want to say things that I don't have ready yet. Things that he deserves, but that I'm afraid to pronounce.

We pass the salt, a little sautéed vegetables, some veal in sauce. There are no words, but there is no need. There is something floating in the air. Somewhat tense, but good. As if dinner were a truce before another battle.

I barely remember dinner.

Not because it was bad, of course, I cooked it myself. But because while I was chewing rice and watching him move across the table, with that damn serene face as if he hadn't reached into my pants ten minutes before, I already had my head elsewhere.

Well... in another part of him.

So when he put down his chopsticks on the plate and licked his lips with that naturalness of his that kills me, I didn't think twice.

I got up. I went to his side. I grabbed him by the waist without saying a word.

“Where are we going?” he asked laughing, surprised, stumbling a little when I picked him up as if he weighed less than a backpack.

“To bed.”

I didn't say more. I didn't need to say anything else.

He let me guide him, between hurried steps, suppressed laughter and a twinkle in my eyes that hit me harder than any caress. I took him straight to the bedroom. I closed the door with my foot. I didn't feel like subtleties. I was also not clear if this was sex or redemption.

I just knew I wanted him around.

I already had the shirt out before, so I just unbuttoned the button of my pants, letting it fall. He looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time, with that mixture of desire and tenderness that breaks me inside. I don't know how he can look at me like that after all. But he does.

And the worst thing is that I like it.

He approached slowly, as if he was afraid of breaking something. He placed his hands on my chest, caressed my pectorals with his fingertips and then kissed me. That kiss was soft, warm. My palms burned. I bit my impatience. But it was short-lived.

Because I couldn't hold back.

“Come here.” I growled, and helped him take off his shirt at once. “Slow as always, Deku...”

“I'm enjoying.” he murmured with a laugh, but he let me do it.

I unbuttoned his pants awkwardly, without taking my mouth out of his. I liked to kiss him. I liked to feel his tongue moving against mine, hot, wet, secure. It was as if he told me here I am, over and over again, without using words.

When he was naked, I gently pushed him onto the bed and made him fall on his back. I climbed on top of it without wasting any time. My hands on his chest, my lips devouring him, my body burning to have it all. He squirmed beneath me, panting, surrendering without protest.

And then... I noticed it.

Too much.

Too abrupt. Too fast. Too much me.

I stopped.

With my forehead resting on his collarbone, I let out the air through my nose.

“Excuse me.” I murmured, almost voiceless.

Izuku opened his eyes and looked at me, surprised.

I am not one to ask for forgiveness.

“I'm sorry.” I repeated. “I let myself go.”

He said nothing. He only caressed the back of my neck, with that patience of his that I don't know how he never runs out. His fingers soft, firm. As if he were telling me calmly, I'm here.

So I kissed him again.

This time slowly.

Savoring.

My mouth moved over his unhurriedly. My tongue sought out his with affection, not hunger. I closed my eyes and let myself be carried away by the rhythm. The whole world stopped mattering. There was no noise, no work, no therapy, no guilt. Only his lips. Only its warmth.

And fuck... I liked this too.

I didn't know I liked it.

But yes. To feel his breath accelerating against my face, to hear the sigh that escaped him when I barely bit his lower lip, to notice how he arched with each slow caress... that also turned me on. That was sex, too. Only different.

And not for that reason worse.

I sat up a little, without leaving him. I sat on his hips, feeling our erections trapped between both bodies. I looked him in the eye. He stared back at me. And then, without ceasing to observe him, I lowered my hand.

I put my palm between our bodies. And I grabbed it. Him. Me. Both.

Together.

My hand moved slowly, steadily. At the same pace. Squeezing, caressing, provoking. I watched him closely, without shame. His pupils dilated, his mouth half-open, his cheeks cherry-colored. Sweat beaded his forehead.

He was so handsome that it hurt.

“Is that all right...?” I asked hoarsely, still moving my hand.

He nodded hard, gasping. And in his eyes I saw everything. Confidence. Wish. Love. And, for the first time, I didn't feel the need to run away from that.

I stretched to the bedside table without saying anything. I pulled out the tube of lube with one hand, opened it with a familiar click, and dropped it between my fingers. Cold, thick, as always. I worked it into my palm before returning to his cock, which was already hard and throbbing, as if he had been waiting for me.

I didn't say anything. It was not necessary. His breath said it all for him.

I continued to caress both of us, our erections clenched between my fingers, sliding with every movement. Slow. With rhythm. Like I've finally understood the rhythm of this dance and I don't want to fuck it up. His forehead furrowed with each shake, his lips parted, his moans came low, with that vibration that drove me crazy. I don't know how long we were like this, between the touch, the heat and the kisses that I stole from his from time to time. It was intimate. More than I was used to. More than I thought I could bear.

And yet... I didn't want to stop.

But then, something squeezed my chest. Not literally. Not like a contracture or shortness of breath. It was something else. Something more like a punch in the shape of a thought.

I stepped aside. Not much, just enough to stop moving. I looked at him. He blinked, confused.

I swallowed hard. Rarely did I feel as stupid as when I tried to talk about emotions. And yet, I opened my mouth.

“Didn't you say that… This was your favorite position?”

He raised his eyebrows, bewildered. Until he saw me turn around and get on all fours on the bed. I didn't give him time to say anything. I propped up my elbows, my forehead brushing against the sheets. I was red, I knew it. Even my ears were burning. But I stood my ground. It was not the time to back down.

“Don't make me repeat it.” I murmured, without looking at him. “Do it if you want. Just... calmly, okay?”

The mattress creaked under his weight. I felt him approaching. He stroke the curve of my back. Brush his lips against the hollow of my neck. I closed my eyes. His soft voice caressed me more than his fingers.

“Kacchan… are you sure?”

I nodded, unable to say anything. Then I felt it. First his hands spread my legs a little further apart, then his fingers, soft, careful, spreading the lubricant with a patience I didn't think he had. I tensed up, not out of fear, but because of the fucking vertigo I felt when I was like this, so... exposed. Vulnerable. He noticed, of course. He caressed my back, whispered something against my skin that I couldn't understand. I just know that, after that, I relaxed a little.

And then, he penetrated me. Slowly. A warm pressure that increased with every centimeter. I clung to the sheets and let out a muffled grunt. Not pain. Fuck, no. It was something else... It was overwhelming. To feel him like this, inside me. Izuku. The freckled nerd. The same one I used to torment as children. Now he had me on my back, panting, swallowing my pride along with each slow thrust he gave me.

I didn't deserve it. But I wanted it anyway.

Izuku leaned over me, his lips running down my back. He kissed my spine as if it were something sacred, as if his tongue could clean up all the from the past. I didn't say anything. I was just moaning. Because yes, I liked it. More than I'd like to admit out loud. There was something about letting go, about trusting. To give him that space. It bothered my ego a bit, I'm not going to lie. But it also made me feel... free.

“Kacchan.” he whispered, his voice cracking with effort. “You look so sexy like that...”

I told him to shut up with a grunt. Not out of anger, but because if he kept saying things like that, I was going to melt completely. He picked up the pace, but he didn't lose his care. His hand slid down the side and grabbed me. He masturbated me at the same rate he thrust at me. And I no longer owned anything. Nor of my breathing. Nor of my thoughts.

I was shaking.

And still, I held on a little longer.

Until he came out of me and, seconds later, I felt him end up on my back. His hot semen, falling like an offering. I stood still, panting, my face buried in the mattress. I loved that feeling. I don't know why. Maybe because it was his. Because he was mine. Although normally I only said it with the body.

I didn't move. It was still not finished. But he knew it.

I rolled onto my back and pulled him by the waist, causing him to settle on top of me. His breathing was still heavy. He looked at me. I raised an eyebrow.

“I'm not done yet.”

He smiled, guessing my tone. He leaned over to kiss my chest, his lips descending to my abdomen. I tensed up. I already knew what was coming next.

And yes, he did it. He took me in the mouth with that delivery of his so Izuku. Slowly. With passion. With tenderness. I grabbed the edge of the bed as I watched him between my legs. His green hair tousled, his cheeks red from the effort, his half-closed eyes seeking to please me. And fuck... he did it. In less than a minute he made me see the fucking stars.

When I finished, we were both lying down, half sweaty, half dead.

Silence.

Until he spoke first, with that shy little voice that I don't know how the fuck he can survive after having fucked me like that.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” I replied, my voice hoarse, almost smiling. “Don't get excited. This will not become customary.”

Izuku laughed, resting his head on my chest.

“I know. But... Thank you for trusting me.”

I didn't say anything. I just ran my hand over his back, stroking every muscle, every scar. I couldn't promise him that I was always going to be this open. Not even that soft. But at least, for tonight, I had been.

We were still sweaty. He on top of me, with his head resting on my chest as if that were his fucking natural place. There was no noise. Just his breathing. And mine. Still out of sync.

I thought he would fall asleep like this, in silence. That he would have the decency to let me enjoy those minutes without useless words. But no. Obviously not. We're talking about Izuku Midoriya, the most talkative nerd —and the one I love the most— in the country.

“Kacchan.” he began, his voice half sleepy.

“What?” I snorted, without opening my eyes.

“Was it... Was it weird for you?”

I opened one eye. Only one.

“What? Let you fuck me? Not that it was the first time. But don't get excited.”

“I'm not getting excited.” he lied.

“I'm feeling you smile against my chest, stupid.”

He laughed quietly again, that warm laugh that always dislodged me more than I want to admit. He settled in more, as if he wanted to get under my skin.

“Hey... why did you want today...?” He interrupted himself. “I mean... why like this?”

I snorted. I knew this conversation would come. And he also knew that I could not escape it, even if I tried.

“I don't know.” I half-lied. “it just happened. I felt that... I owed it to you. That it was fair.”

“You don't owe me anything, Kacchan.”

“I know.” I murmured, turning my head to avoid looking at him.

There was a strange silence. The kind that smells of thoughts.

“What if we repeat it more times?”

“Are you negotiating shifts now or what? Do you want us to put a calendar in the kitchen? Tuesday and Thursday, Kacchan puts his ass up. Monday and Wednesday, Deku puts it. And on Saturdays, only blowjobs.”

He laughed louder this time.

“No! Just... I like both ways. What you did today... It was beautiful. It was your decision.”

“Stop saying "beautiful". It makes me gag.”

“But it was.” he insisted, stubborn as always. “And thank you.”

“Ok. Well. I'll remember it the next time you cry because I said a bad word.”

He sat up a little to look at me.

“Hey, I don't cry that much.”

“You cried watching an ad for diapers last week.”

“It was a baby with a puppy in his arms, Kacchan! How could I not cry at that?!”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help but smile inside. The idiot had me completely trapped.

“You're going to get dehydrated from feeling so much.” I joked

Izuku stared at me. As if he analyzed every inch of my face. It made me uncomfortable.

“What?” I asked him.

“Nothing.” he replied quietly. “Only you're very handsome like that.”

I rolled my eyes so hard that I almost cramped.

“Enough. Stop looking at me with those little stray cat eyes. You're making me uncomfortable.”

“Really?” he asked, amused. “After what we just did?”

“That was sex. This is... emotional. They are two different things.”

“And you can't deal with the emotional?”

“I can! I just don't like to be analyzed as if I were a laboratory subject.”

“Too late.” he whispered, biting his lip. “You are my doctoral thesis.”

“You're a cheesy person. A danger. They should lock you up for too much tenderness.”

“But you love me all the same.”

I growled.

“God, shut up now.”

And then I realized that his head was no longer resting on my chest. He was running out of space on his pillow. He was literally hanging half body off the mattress, all so as not to bother me.

I sighed. I moved my arm, flexed my bicep, and placed it there, swollen on purpose, as if I was preparing for a photo shoot.

“Come on.” I said, without looking at him. “Your pillow is waiting for you.”

It took him two seconds to react.

“What?”

“My arm, you idiot. You said in therapy that you liked my arms. Well, come on. Use one.”

I heard a gasp of surprise. And then, he snuggled up against me and rested his head on my bicep as if it was the most comfortable position in the world.

“I can't believe it... are you doing this seriously?”

“Don't get used to it.” I growled. “Limited time offer. Single use.”

“Shut up, I'm going to marry you.”

“Don't even think about taking out a ring now.”

“I already have one.” he joked. “Gummy, but it's worth the same.”

“Izuku, I swear to All Might that if you make a proposal with a jelly bean ring, I'll go live in the woods.”

“I would follow you. Even if you hide in the bushes.”

“Of course you would. Like the perverted voyeur that you are.”

“Your favorite pervert.” he added, his voice sleepy, burying his face deeper into my arm.

I was silent for a moment, listening to his body relax. How his breath dropped. How the heat of his body merged with mine, as if they were destined to be like this.

And then... I said it.

In a low voice. So low that I hardly heard myself.

“I love you, nerd.”

There was no response. Just a little squeeze of his hand against my chest.

Perhaps he had already fallen asleep.

Or maybe he was just waiting to hear it.

Chapter Text

I don't know why, but every time we climb those narrow stairs, my body gets tense. It's as if my legs remember before my head that we're going to sit for an hour and open Pandora's fucking box. The therapist calls it a "safe space." Sometimes it is. Sometimes it looks like a minefield with incense and comfortable chairs.

Izuku is in front, as always, two steps ahead, as if that marked something. He doesn't do it on purpose. It's just that he walks quickly, excitedly, as if we were coming to have a coffee with an old friend. It makes me want to push him downstairs when he smiles just before he rings the doorbell. But only sometimes. When he smiles like that... It is difficult not to get carried away.

That usual woman opens the door. The therapist. She never says her name, and I don't ask. It's her style, I guess. Professional, direct, and with that look that reads you inside without permission. I hated her the first time. Not because of what she said, but because she didn't say anything for fifteen minutes. She just listened. It got on my fucking nerves. Although now it me up a little less.

She makes us pass, same sofa as always. Izuku sits nearby, as if to make it clear that he is in my orbit. It bothers me that he feels that way. I'd be upset if he walked away. It's a weird balance, but it works for us.

“How has the week gone?” She asks as she settles in front of us, notebook on her lap, pen in hand, but without urgency. Her voice is calm. As if she really cared. Sometimes I'm surprised at how well she pretends, or how well she listens. I don't know what's worse.

Izuku takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a school exhibition.

“Pretty good. I would say that it has been... calm. No major ups and downs.”

He says it as if that were a merit. I guess it is. In our history, normalcy feels like a superpower. He continues speaking:

“We worked a lot this week. There was an emergency in Shibuya and the agency needed reinforcements, but we managed to coordinate well. Bakugou led the offense, as always, and I was covering the east zone. Zero civilian injuries. I think it was a good job.”

His eyes shine when he tells it. Not to brag. It's because he cares. And that touches me something inside. Not enough to tell him, but enough to feel it.

“After that, we took a day off, Friday. We went out to eat ramen. A spicy one, which he insisted on choosing. I almost died.” He laughs. The therapist also smiles a little. I twist my mouth.

“Exaggerated.”

“I told you while I was eating it: "It's killing me." But you said, "It's not that bad, nerd."”

“And it wasn't that bad. You're just a softie.”

“Sure.” he says, and gives me a very slight nudge. It's not even annoying, it just makes me hold back a smile that I'm not going to let out.

The therapist nods, writing something down in her notebook. I always distrust that fucking notebook. It makes me want to tear it off and read it in its entirety, line by line. Sometimes I imagine what she writes. "Bakugou Katsuki. He responds sarcastically to displays of affection. Level of self-awareness: intermittent. He exposes himself emotionally only under threat of death or unexpected tenderness." I'm sure it says something like that.

Izuku continues to speak. About a documentary about retired heroes we saw on Saturday, about a night when he fell asleep with his face on my shoulder and I didn't push him away, even though my neck hurt. On how well he's slept this week. About me. All the time talking about me.

And I listen. I don't talk much but I'm there. Not mentally checking the mission calendar, nor planning what we are going to have for dinner. I am... here. And that, for me, is already rare.

At one point, the therapist interrupts him with a gentle question:

“I'm so glad to hear that, Izuku. It sounds like a week full of good times.” Pause. Then she turns her face a little towards me. “And you, Bakugou? How did you experience it?”

I shrug.

“Normal. Quetly. I like it when there aren't many incidents in the agency.”

She nods, as if it serves her. Izuku smiles. I look away.

They spend a few seconds in silence. The therapist observes, studies us. Not invasively, but as if she were measuring the invisible threads between us. Sometimes I feel like she sees things that I don't even know I'm showing.

Then she closed the notebook slightly, her index finger still marking the page, and looked up.

“You've never told me how you started dating.” she said. Her voice was soft, as if she didn't want to poke anything, but the subject was sharp. “I understand that you have known each other since you were children, then no, then yes... And now you've been a couple for two years. How was that process?”

I felt something stir inside.

Izuku turned to me with that expression of "shall we tell it?" But I didn't say anything. Not a yes, not a no. I simply looked down at my own hands, which rested on my thighs, and let the memories push me back. As if someone opened a floodgate under my feet.

I don't know at what exact moment it happened. You don't wake up one day and realize that you don't hate someone anymore. It doesn't go that way. With Deku it was more like stopping breathing in anger every time he walked into a room. Like noticing that his steps didn't bother me so much. That his words no longer stung me by default. That my teasing was getting more... tactics. More automatic. Or empty.

In the second year at the U.A. I continued to provoke him by inertia. It was easy. It was comfortable. But there was no real poison in my words anymore, and he noticed it. Of course he noticed. Damn observer. He stopped looking at me with that idiotic glow of admiration, but he didn't ignore me either. He analyzed me. Responded me. He would return the comments with a smile and a "are you really still with that?". And I swear that attitude fuck me off more than anything he'd ever said to me before. Because he was no longer the child who was looking at me from below. Now he was looking at me straight ahead.

We had to work together on more than one internship mission. Forced couple. Stupid academic rotation. I almost shouted at Aizawa more than once. But then... It wasn't that terrible. We coordinated well, even if I was annoyed by his way of improvising. And when I covered him in an ambush and he returned the favor without hesitation, I understood that we were no longer at opposite poles.

After that, we started talking to each other alone. Not deep conversations, of course. Practical things. Training details. Techniques. Sarcastic comments. But... I was in places where I knew he would be. The library, the rooftop, common rooms. And when I saw him, I didn't leave.

It was a kind of tug-of-war. Sometimes I felt like I couldn't stand it... but then I realized that I couldn't stop looking for him.

Already in third grade, it made no sense to pretend that there was not... something. We didn't name him. We didn't explore it. But there it was. How we looked at each other after a well-done fight, how we sat on the grass after practice, not saying a word, how I knew he was behind me before I heard his footsteps...

I was surprised by looking for his reaction when I spoke in class. Watching if he smiled when I said something stupid. Listening to his laughter among others.

I never admitted it. Not then. But yes: it reassured me to know that he was close. His presence gave me security. I hated him a little for that, of course. But also... I began to love him for that.

Although I didn't use that word yet. Not even a joke.

After graduating, professional life sent us down different paths. Different agencies, separate cities. But it doesn't take long for us to cross paths again. It usually happens. The circle of heroes is not as big as people think.

The first shared missions were like walking through a minefield. A lot of unsaid respect. A lot of unresolved tension. He had grown up. In power, in confidence —a little in height—. So do I, of course. But I looked at him and I no longer saw someone I had to protect or overcome. I saw him... as someone I could count on.

After some intense battles, we started training together. First for "strategic" reasons. Later... because we want. It became a kind of routine.

And then came the post-mission meals. The long conversations in the car, when we didn't want to go back yet, the messages in the early hours of the morning and the spontaneous visits with stupid excuses.

"I was in the area." "The area is forty minutes from here." "And so what?"

No one made my blood boil like he did. And no one could calm me down with a single sentence like him. It was a damn paradox.

I didn't know what name to give to all that. To what I felt. To what I expected. I just knew that, when he was gone, the world seemed less noisy, but also emptier.

It took me time to understand that I had stopped competing with him. That I was no longer defined by being above or below. That I only... wanted to be by his side.

And when I understood that, I was scared more than in any real fight.

When we were twenty-two —it had been four years since we graduated. Sometimes it seems like an eternity. Sometimes, yesterday—, Aizawa proposed it. Or he plotted it, rather. He didn't say it straight up, of course. He only informed us, with that dry tone of his, that he knew of an agency that had new vacancies, and that our profiles were suitable for the type of missions they were handling lately. It wasn't until the second meeting with him that I discovered that Deku had also been called. Or maybe he already knew and didn't tell me to see how I would reacted.

Old fox.

I did not object. I didn't ask questions either. I said yes and that's it. I suppose that, deep down, I didn't dislike the idea of working in the same place as him. Sharing a field of operations again. Measure myself against him again... but on another level. We were no longer students. We were no longer under the magnifying glass of teachers or limited by school restrictions. We were professional heroes. With all that that implied.

And, damn, it did imply things.

We trained together again. The first time was at the agency's dojo, in front of a couple of recruits who didn't know if they were watching a fight or a choreography. I couldn't help but observe how his way of moving had changed. Smoother, faster, safer. He didn't take his eye off me either. But it was not competitiveness. It was something else. Something denser, more electric.

We started spending more time together outside of work. It was nothing planned. They weren't dates, exactly. Just... hang out. Meals until late. Case talks. Comfortable silences. Walking at night to the station and not wanting to say goodbye yet.

I still didn't name it. I didn't want to do it. Because to name something is to make it real, and the real can fail you. But he already knew. I'm sure he knew.

And then it happened.

It was a minor mission. A routine rescue. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the building was more unstable than anticipated, and a beam gave way just as Izuku tried to pull out a trapped civilian.

I didn't see him fall, but I heard the blow.

When I found him, he had blood on his forehead and a clearly crooked knee. He did not lose consciousness, but almost. He laughed. He laughed, the idiot. He told me that he was fine. That he had cushioned the fall.

And I screamed.

I don't remember what I said, I just remember that he was shaking, that I squeezed his arm so hard that one of the doctors asked me to move away. But I didn't care. I went with him to the hospital. And I slept in a damn chair, next to his bed. Because the idea of leaving him alone drove me crazy.

At some point in the early morning, he took my hand.

And I didn't let go.

I didn't sleep that night.

I felt a fucking swirl in my chest. Not because of the fright. Not only because of that. It was something else. Something that burned me inside and, at the same time, calmed me down. Something I hadn't felt for anyone else in my life. And I was scared. It made me angry. It made me feel like I finally understood what I had been denied for years.

I love him. Not as a friend. Not as an ally. Like someone I didn't want to lose, fuck.

Days passed.

I became an imbecile. Grumpy. Irritable. I tried to act as if nothing had happened. But nothing was the same as before. That night in the hospital had changed everything.

And one day, in the break room, I exploded.

He was talking to me about a strategy, smiling as if I wasn't about to self-destruct inside. As if he was not affected by the fact that I had kept quiet about what was happening to us.

And then I let it go. As if spitting shrapnel:

“I like you, okay?”

Silence.

“I don't want to talk about that. I don't want to analyze it. Just... you and me. If you don't want to, that's fine. I don't care. Well, yes, but I put up with it. But if you want to... I am here. That's it. That's all.”

I was so tense that my teeth hurt from clenching them.

Deku looked at me.

He stood still. As if my confession was a bombshell that he didn't know how to defuse. And then... he smiled. A small, sincere smile. As if he had just heard the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I thought you'd never say it.”

We didn't have a romantic date with candles or movie. That was an ordinary night, talking at home, with no other light than that of the lamp on. I didn't leave. I stayed to sleep with him. Nothing physical happened that time. We were only together. Breathing at the same pace.

The next morning, while we were reviewing some reports, he handed me a coffee without saying anything.

And in that simple gesture, I knew that we had started something. Something different. Something ours.

We don't tell it in as much detail in the session, not with hair and signs, as I am reliving it in my head. But we said something like that. The essentials, at least. The important thing.

The therapist looked at us in silence for a few seconds, then asked, as if she had waited for the right moment:

“Who noticed first?”

I didn't need to think about it much.

“Him.” I said, without looking at Izuku. “As usual. He always realizes everything first.”

Izuku did not deny. He didn't smile. He just looked at me, with that honest expression of his.

“I felt it before.” he admitted. “But I didn't want to pressure. I let it flow. I waited for you...”

“To stop me playing the idiot.” I interrupted, crossing my arms.

The therapist let out a soft laugh. Almost imperceptible. But there it was.

And I... Well, I didn't say anything else. Because after all, I never stopped revolving around him. Always. Since we were children. Ever since I hated him. Since I didn't know what to do with what I felt.

Izuku Midoriya. The only chaos in my life that I don't want to put out.

Coming home after therapy has something strange. Not uncomfortable, just... silent. As if the brain was buzzing in the background, thinking about everything we said. We didn't talk much on the way, but he had a slight wrinkle between his eyebrows, the one that comes out when he's thinking too much. I didn't mean anything. Nor was it necessary. Some things are best digested in silence.

When we arrived, he left the keys on the shelf with that soft sound of shared routine. He went straight to the laundry area, saying something like "I have to finish the dark batch." I grunted under my breath in reply and went straight to the kitchen. It was time to make dinner. As usual. It doesn't bother me. Cooking puts my head in order. Cut, stir-fry, listen to how the broth bubbles. Everything makes sense there. Everything is under control.

I made curry. Not the spicy one that I like, but the medium spicy one, the one that Izuku tolerates without looking like he's going to cry. I serve it with rice and a couple of boiled eggs on top. Simple, effective, hot. When he comes out of the dryer, his eyes light up with that exaggerated glow, as if I had prepared a five-star feast for him.

“It smells great, Kacchan!”

“Don't exaggerate.” I reply, but I let him hug me for a second from behind before we sit down.

We had dinner in silence, except for a couple of comments about curry and a "tomorrow we have the meeting with those from the northern sector, remember?". I nod. Of course I remember. But Izuku is like that. He likes to repeat things. Sometimes I want to tell him to shut up. Sometimes I like him to say it, as if he also carries the calendar in his head for both of us.

After scrubbing, I take off my shirt and lie down on the couch. Izuku takes a little longer to come. He is turning off the lights, checking that the door is properly closed, doing one of those ritual tours he does before going to bed. When he finally drops down next to me, he has his mobile phone in his hand. I snort.

“You're going to go blind if you look at it in that light so late.”

“It's ten o'clock, I'm not about to sleep.” he says, without looking up.

“You could get electrocuted.” I say just to say something.

“You could also electrocute me while I'm sleeping.”

“Tempting.”

He laughs softly. I love that sound. Because it's soft and intimate. It's not the laugh he uses when he's out in public. This is mine. Our.

He settles next to me, with his head close to my shoulder, without fully leaning on it. From time to time he swipes his finger across the screen. I don't give it much importance. Or I try not to. Until he tells me:

“Do you want to see something funny?”

I turn to him suspiciously.

“Is it a meme?”

“No. A message. One of the ones I received today. Look.”

He shows me his mobile phone and that tells me a lot: he is choosing to show it to me.

The message reads:

"Hi Deku ❤️ I don't know if you'll see it, but if you do, I just wanted to thank you for saving me the other day. You're amazing. My girlfriend says I have a crush on you, but I swear that if you were my neighbor I would make you katsudon every day and do your laundry even if you hate me 💚  PS: tell Dynamight not to get angry, he is also sexy but in a scary way 🧨 hahaha."

I don't know why, but it makes me want to laugh. I almost did.

“Do they really send you this?”

“More than you think.” he replies, still smiling. “But I thought this one was funny. Look at the katsudon. Can you imagine? Having someone in the building leave food for me at the door every day.

“You already have it.” I answer without thinking. He looks at me.

“You?”

“I cook for you practically every day...”

Izuku laughs again, and this time he pushes me with his forehead, softly.

“Thank you for not grunting this time.”

“I didn't grunt.”

He puts his phone down on the side table and turns to me, resting a hand on my bare stomach. He doesn't say anything at first, but I can tell he is thinking.

“I know it bothered you before... not to tell you when I was talking to people.” he begins, carefully. “And it wasn't because I didn't want to tell you. Just... I didn't give it importance. They are fans. Grateful people. I don't see it as something intimate, or special. But I understand that it seems that way to you. So... I just wanted to tell you that there is nothing hidden.”

I nod slowly. I don't mind what he says. It bothers me that he is right.

“It's not that I don't trust you.” I reply, without looking at him entirely. “I just don't like the idea of others saying things to you and you smiling at them. Even if it's just a fucking emoji. It's stupid, I know. But sometimes my blood boils.”

“It's not stupid. It's very you.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

“You're welcome, you grump.”

He snuggles up a little more, his eyes narrowing. I stare at the ceiling for a few seconds. Thinking, reviewing. Those messages are not going to stop coming. Not even his smiles are going to disappear. But if he shares them with me... if he let me see that piece of his world... so the rest doesn't matter to me.

“Hey.” I say before he falls asleep completely. “That guy... that of the message.”

“Yes?”

“Tell him that his katsudon must suck.”

Izuku laughs. He does not answer me. He just squeezes my waist a little tighter. And that is enough for me.

Chapter Text

It wasn't during a meal, or in bed, or walking home as it usually happens when Izuku wants to propose something. It was one of those strange mornings, when he leaves before me. He had already said goodbye with a quick kiss, still half asleep, and I thought that the day was going to go on without further ado.

But when I came back from training in the afternoon, I found a note stuck on the fridge door. A fucking post-it. The calligraphy was his: tight, orderly, with those "j" that make a rounded curve.

"Would you like to have a picnic tomorrow, Friday? I thought we could go to the park when we were kids. Only if you don't have a mission. Take a change of clothes in case we swim in the river :)"

Underneath he had drawn a beetle. A green one, with those ridiculous little legs that he loved as a child. I stared at the note in silence for a while. As if it were a bomb and I had to decipher what kind.

It was not a rare request. Actually, it was simple. A picnic. An outdoor place. Nature. Peace. It almost sounded stupid how hard it was for me to decide whether or not.

But I already know myself. When something is going around like that inside me, it's because I already know the answer.

And the answer was yes.

At eleven o'clock on Friday we were on our way. Izuku carried a backpack with food, repellent, a towel and a metal box where he put cutlery and napkins as if we were going to face the country apocalypse. I carried a blanket and a large bottle of water. Nothing else. Because he was already taking care of everything else.

We got on the train. We got off at the station in the neighborhood where we grew up. Everything smelled different, but at the same time... equal. I don't know how to explain it. The atmosphere was strange, as if it dragged the voices of twenty years ago.

We walked about fifteen minutes until we reached the park. The real one, not the one that one invents or recreates in one's memory.

They hadn't fixed it much. The swing was still crisp, rusty. The planks of the wooden bridge over the stream were still crooked. But the trees... Fuck, the trees were huge. As if everything we had experienced here had been trapped in its branches.

Izuku stopped near the clearing where we used to hunt insects. He bent down and touched the grass with his fingers, as if he could identify the exact spot where he caught his first butterfly.

“Do you remember this place?” he asked without looking at me, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“I remember you made me draw bugs for two summers.” I snorted, but with no bad intentions.

He laughed.

“You didn't complain so much. You always said that mine looked like mutations.”

“Because they looked like mutations. You weren't as good at drawing as you thought.”

He turned to me with a smile that wasn't just joy. It was something else. As if he were touching something with his eyes, something that could not be named. Something we share even if we never said it.

We spread the blanket near the river, where the sound of the water served as a background. The sun filtered through the leaves. It was still early, so there was no one there. Only the murmur of the wind, the song of a couple of birds and that silence without a city that always leaves me a little on alert. It's hard for me to let go in these environments. Like something tells me I'm not in control. But Izuku... He's the one who gives me back that control with his stupid smiles.

He opened the bento with onigiris, the ones he makes with seaweed and sesame, and handed it to me as if that were enough to relax me. And yes, it was enough.

We ate quietly. No hurry. Then I lay on my back on the blanket and looked at the sky. Izuku lay down next to me, very close, just enough for his arm to touch mine.

“How long has it been since you came here?” he asked.

“Since I was fifteen, I think.”

“And before that?”

“Every damn summer.”

I said it almost with a smile.

Because not everything was shit when we were kids.

Of course, there was shouting, competition, pride. That wall that I built even when I didn't know why. But there were also baths in the river, and water fights with plastic bottles, and insects stuffed into jars with holes in the lid. There were whole afternoons drawing under the biggest tree, where Izuku made clumsy sketches and I criticized him... but I enjoyed it all the same.

There were moments. Good. Small. Sincere. Even if my rage disguised them as something else.

“I liked to see you run here.” I said suddenly, without planning it.

Izuku turned his head, surprised.

“Huh?”

“You ran like everything mattered to you. Even chasing a beetle seemed like a life-or-death mission.”

He laughed quietly, almost embarrassed.

“Well... you also took it seriously. You wouldn't let me catch anything without a strategy.”

“Because if not, they would have stung your face.”

“Beetles don't stung.”

“Let one bite you and tell me...”

Izuku did not answer. But I saw him close his eyes and rest his head on my shoulder. As if the whole world made sense there. And for a moment, it had it.

The river kept flowing. The trees said nothing, but they knew everything.

And I, lying there, with him by my side, understood something very simple: Returning to this place was not a regression. It was not about opening wounds. It was a way of remembering that, even when we were idiots, even when we didn't know how to say things, we were already choosing ourselves.

We didn't know yet. Not at all. But here something began. And now... Now we were old enough to come back and choose each other.

I don't know how long we lay there, but the sun had moved quite a bit when I opened my eyes again. I felt Izuku's breathing, slow and deep, right next to me. He had fallen asleep with his arm on his stomach and his head tilted toward me.

And fuck, I had fallen asleep too.

I guess it's not that weird. We had been busy for a week: two night shifts, an evacuation, half a dozen reports. The strange thing was not falling asleep. The strange thing was to fall asleep like that. No surprises. No tension in the jaw. With the whole body relaxed.

With him by my side in the middle of the field.

I didn't say anything. I just stayed like that for a while longer, watching his eyelashes tremble from time to time, as if dreaming of something he didn't want to forget.

When he finally opened his eyes, he blinked in confusion. He looked at me and smiled.

“Shall we fall asleep?”

“You look like an old man.” I blurted out, softer than usual.

“And so do you.” he answered, stretching like a cat before standing up.

After picking up the remains of the picnic, Izuku approached the edge of the river, crouched down, and reached in.

“It's freezing!” he said, but he smiled with emotion, not with complaint.

And without thinking much about it, he rolled up his pants to his knees and got into the water.

I, of course, watched him from the shore with a frown.

“Are you crazy?” I growled. “You're going to catch a cold, you idiot. You're not ten years old anymore.”

“Neither do you,” he said, turning with a raised eyebrow, “but look at you. Complaining like you're my mother”

“I'm not complaining. I just don't want to have to put up with your sneezes for three days.”

Izuku shrugged, crouched down again, and put both hands in the water. He splashed me unceremoniously.

“Hey!” I protested, taking a step back.

“Oops.” he said, without a hint of regret.

He looked at me. He knew exactly what he was doing. That little smile of his, half contained, pricked me right where he knew it was going to hurt.

“Fuck it.” I said at the end, throwing my shirt on the floor and taking off my shoes.

I went into the river with my pants still on. The water was so cold that my ankles hurt for the first few seconds, but I was already in. He looked at me as if he didn't expect me to do it for real.

“What? Did you think I wasn't going to go in?” I snapped, advancing towards him.

“Well... You're the one who said we're not kids anymore.”

“And I'm also the one in charge in this relationship.”

He didn't have time to reply. I threw a good splash of water right at his chest. He shouted, laughed, counterattacked. In less than a minute, we were soaking wet and laughing like nothing else mattered.

We play.

Fuck, we played like time has stopped. As if we were not suddenly heroes with emotional backpacks weighing on our shoulders. As if this park, this river, this time without context, had given us back something that we didn't even know we had lost.

Lightness. Fucking innocence, even if it was only for a little while.

When we got out of the water, the sun was already going down. We spread out the towel to sit down, but Izuku slumped on his back into the blanket and sighed.

“How long has it been since we did this?” he asked, without addressing me specifically.

“I don't know.”

“We should do it more often.”

I was silent, squeezing the hem of my pants to wring out the water. But that phrase did not escape me. We should do it more often.

The return train was half empty. Just a couple of old men and a mother with a child asleep on her chest. The sound of the carriage, with its soft hum and rattle, lulled me to sleep in a way that made me strangely calm.

Izuku was sitting next to me, his hair still damp, messy from the wind. His pants were folded at the knees and his backpack between his feet. In his hands he held his sketchbook. I just looked at it, turning the pages, as if I were looking for something.

“Thank you for accepting the idea of the picnic.” he said, without looking up.

“You don't have anything to be thankful for.”

“Yes, I do. It's not every day that I get you to get into an icy river with me.”

“I can stand the cold. And stand you.”

He smiled.

“I had a great time, Kacchan.”

Silence. Although one of those comfortable ones.

“Don't you think we should do more things like that?” he added. “Get out of the house more. Not because we are not well at home, but... I do not know. Sometimes I realize that time is slipping away without us realizing it. Between patrols, reports, therapies, cooking... Everything happens so fast.”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. That way of saying what he feels without forcing you to respond in the same way. No demands.

But he expresses it. He puts it on the table. As if trusting that you are going to pick it up was enough.

“I don't mind the routine.” I said.

“I know. Neither do I.”

“But I understand what you're saying.”

“Yes?”

I nodded.

And I thought about what I had planned. In what I had been planning for weeks. In the schedules I had checked, the bills I had hidden, the informal itinerary I had sketched out in my mind. Not to surprise him with something spectacular. But because it was what he deserved.

A few days away. No expectations. No obligations. Just him, me, and a little piece of the shared world.

"I already have everything planned," I thought.

I didn't tell him.

But I liked how it sounded inside my head.

“Today I want you to try something new.” the therapist said, crossing her legs as she watched the two of us over her glasses.

It was already Sunday, we were in the new weekly session, and we were starting badly.

When she starts with that tone, as if she were about to open an emotional toolbox, I already know that something is going to stir inside me.

We were in the usual consulting room, sitting on the same sofa, with the dim afternoon light filtering through the half-lowered blinds. The clock hanging on the left wall showed that there were still forty minutes left. Too long to confide in myself.

Izuku had a straight back. He seemed calm, but I know him. That finger that played with the edge of his sleeve was his signal of "I'm attentive but I don't know what's coming".

“I want us to talk about the future.” the therapist said.

I didn't say anything. I only looked at an indeterminate point of the carpet, the one that had a half-tribal and half-geometric design.

“On what aspect of the future?” Izuku asked, curious but without tension.

“Your future as a couple.”

Ah.

“Do you see yourself living together in ten years? Or even forever?”

I turned a little to her, then to Izuku, and then lowered my gaze again. Not out of shame. Or maybe it does. What do I know.

It's not that I've never thought about it. But the whole idea... live together forever. It's such a big phrase that it doesn't seem like it fits in your chest.

Always.

It's a fucking leap into the void, and I'm not even sure I have a parachute.

Izuku, as always, was the first to break the silence.

“Yes.” he said, as if it were the most logical answer in the world. No drama. “Right now, that's what I want.”

And then the usual thing happened. What had been going on for several sessions: his hand reached for mine under the table. His fingers brushed me gently, and as I felt his touch, my body relaxed a little. As if he reminded me that, even if I didn't have clear answers, he was there.

“Me too.” I said then. Not with total certainty, but not with doubts either. I said it because it was true. Because I wanted it to be true. “I haven't imagined anything else lately.”

The therapist nodded, as if taking mental notes.

“And start a family? Do you see yourselves with children? Pets? That kind of structure?”

That's where I felt the knot in my stomach.

The question was not absurd. But it was... big. Once again. Too big for someone who learned to plan his life in blocks, based on missions, shifts and public reconstructions. Someone whose family nucleus had more explosions than I produce in the palms of my hands.

Izuku blinked. He seemed hesitant between laughing or taking it seriously. But before he said anything, the therapist spoke again.

“Are you afraid of long-term commitment?”

I didn't have time to think.

“I'm not afraid of anything.” I blurted out. Automatic. Instinctive.

Lie.

A very fat and burning lie that got stuck in my throat as soon as it came out.

But it was also true that I didn't want her to be the one to make me doubt. I didn't want that woman with her huge earrings and calm voice to push me to feel small because I didn't have all the answers.

I looked at Izuku again. And then I spoke a little more sincerely:

“It's not fear. It's just... I was never taught to think about those things. I was always busy surviving, training, winning. Now all this...” I waved my hand, spanning the space between us. “This is new. But what I do know is that we are fine as we are. And if at some point he wants a dog, or a bigger house, or whatever... we will discuss it. Like the adults we are.”

Izuku squeezed my hand, amused.

“A dog? Would that be your line of engagement?”

“I'd prefer a cat. They are less noisy.”

“But you're allergic to cats.” he said, laughing quietly.

“Then a turtle. Something that doesn't bother.”

“What if I want a child?”

I swallowed hard. It caught me off guard. Not because I was scared of the idea exactly, but because... Now that's thinking long-term. Very long-term. And it's hard for me. I don't understand how people do that without the world falling apart.

“Well... we would also talk about it... But the child would be mine. I've had enough with one nerd.” I said, this time lower.

The therapist nodded again. And for the first time in the whole session, she cracked a small smile

“I wasn't looking for a definitive answer. I just wanted to hear how you deal with a conversation like that. I am happy to see that, even with discomfort, you know how to communicate without breaking down.”

“What a detail.” I muttered.

Izuku let out a soft, nervous laugh. The one he uses when he doesn't want me to twitch more than necessary.

“Do you want to add anything else?” she asked, looking at her wristwatch.

Izuku shook his head. Me too.

We stood there, with our hands still clasped under the table. And inside, I reflected.

I thought about how all of this —the weird chatter, the quiet afternoons, the silly days like the one in the park— was something I'd never expected to have.

I was thinking about how, although it is still difficult for me to look ahead, when I do it with him by my side, it does not seem so complicated.

Maybe I still can't give that future a name. But I know who I want to be with if I get to it.

Chapter Text

7:12 in the morning.

A shitty hour for everyone, except for the idiots who come off the night shift.

I open the door to the apartment with only one hand, the other can barely lift well. My side was burning, right where that imbecile from last night had brushed me with those improvised claws he uses as a Quirk. A scratch, technically. However, the area stings as if my skin had been rubbed with sandpaper and then salted.

I shoulder the door shut and take off my boots at the entrance, leaving a small trail of dust and fatigue on the floor. Silence. The apartment was calm, that real calm that only exists when Izuku is still sleeping.

I head to the bathroom without turning on the lights. The shadows of dawn do enough work. And, to be honest, I don't want to see my face in the mirror either.

The hot water hit my back as a belated apology. I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on the tiles, letting the steam fill the bathroom as I washed the wound with my other hand. It was not serious. It bled a little, but the stinging did not help. I had to cure it before Izuku saw it and put on the show.

I can see it coming: "Are you okay?", "Why didn't you tell me anything?", "You have as much trouble as I do to sit still, right?".

I snorted low.

I'm not too bad. Just a little... loose. As if the body did not respond at all. Maybe it's lack of sleep. Or maybe, just maybe, I was starting to catch a cold. But no. Not even a joke. It wasn't going to be so cliché that I got sick from getting into a fucking river in the spring.

I got out of the shower and dried off quickly. I didn't feel like drama. I was going to bandage myself, grab something cool drink, and lie on the couch a couple of hours before Izuku woke up and started planning my day with his "let's take advantage of the free time" voice.

I walked into the kitchen in my underpants, my body still wet, the wound burning, and the bandage hanging between my fingers. I leaned against the counter, bit off one end of the bandage roll, and tried to wrap it around my torso with one hand, pulling with my teeth to tighten it. But of course, between the balance, the angle and my general state... I ended up looking like an idiot doing acrobatics with toilet paper.

Just then a soft creak was heard on the floor of the hallway. The kitchen door opened slowly.

“What are you doing?” asked a half-hoarse voice, carried away by sleep.

I turned around a little. Izuku stood in the doorway, disheveled, his pajama shirt hanging over his shoulder and in his underpants. He blinked, as if he wasn't sure he was seeing well.

“Don't look me like that.” I growled. “It's just a scratch.”

“A scratch?” he said, coming closer, now more awake. “Kacchan, you have several thirty-centimeter red lines on your abdomen.”

“Exaggerated.”

“Why haven't you woken me up?”

“Because there is no need.” I answered, pulling the end of the bandage again with my teeth. “I can do it alone.”

Izuku approached calmly, that calm he uses just before doing something that he knows will disarm me.

“Stop moving.” he said, already in front of me. He removed the bandage from my mouth with a steady gaze. “I'm your boyfriend. Of course I have to take care of you.”

I swallowed hard. I leaned better against the countertop without saying anything as he knelt before me. Literally. With the roll of bandage in one hand and the other resting on my hip to turn around a little, gently.

My pulse trembled.

I don't know if it was because of the incipient fever or the fact that I had Deku on his knees in front of me, with his head down, focused on bandaging me as if I were the most important thing in the world. Or maybe it was how his fingers, warm and confident, moved over my skin, brushing me right at the edges of the wound. Or how his hands, large, seemed to encircle almost my entire waist. Or how that felt. Intimate. Truly intimate.

“Dou you want to stop moving?” he muttered without looking at me, tightening the bandage around my side.

“I'm not moving.”

“You're shaking.”

Lie. Or maybe not. Who knows?

When he finished adjusting the bandage, he carefully fixed it. And then he did.

He kissed me. Right on the bandage. Just above the wound.

It was not a passionate kiss or one full of promises. It was a gesture. A simple "you're safe." And I stood still. Very quiet. Because if I moved, he would notice how fast my heart was beating. Because if I said something, my voice would give me away.

Izuku raised his head and our eyes met. We were both red.

“It was nothing, just... I wanted to make sure of it.” he said, with a clumsy smile that went up to his cheeks.

“Sure.” I replied, looking down for a second. “For medical safety, right?”

“Obviously.”

And then we both laugh a little. Just a couple of seconds. A soft, intimate laugh. One of those that have no sound but says it all.

I bent down to help him up, grabbing him by the wrist.

“Thank you.” I murmured.

Izuku looked at me like it went without saying. But he appreciated it anyway, just with the way he brushed my back as he walked past me, walking toward the coffee maker as if nothing had happened.

As if he hadn't left me trembling. As if he didn't know that, with a simple kiss on a bandage, he had just dismantled me entirely.

I woke up sweating like a pig.

And not because it was hot. No, the sweat had that disgusting texture of fever: sticky, cold in some places, and burning in others. My throat looked as if I had swallowed a handful of blades and every time I blinked I felt like my eyes had been scratched with sand.

But no. I wasn't sick. Obviously not.

Just... I was hot. And a little thirsty. And, well, my whole body ached as if I had been run over three times in a row.

I snorted and sank deeper under the covers. My head throbbed with each heartbeat, as if someone was playing drums inside the skull. I would have gotten up, but even blinking seemed like too much work.

I heard the door of the apartment close and then some bags creak. Izuku's voice, soft, humming a silly thing. That's great. He was in good spirits. He was healthy. And me here, dying for a fucking excursion to the river. What an irony.

Light footsteps and then the bedroom door opened with a barely audible creak. I pretended to be asleep. Maybe that way he would leave.

“Kacchan?” His voice. That damn voice of his that has the nerve to sound so sweet in the mornings. “Are you awake?”

I didn't answer.

I heard him approaching. I felt him bend down next to the bed. The quilt moved a little, and then his hand brushed the fabric at shoulder height.

“You're covered up to the ears... are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” I growled from under the blanket, not moving.

“Yes? Because you don't look right.”

“I'm telling you I'm fine, isn't I?”

Silence. Then the traitor lifted a part of the quilt and put his hand directly into my forehead.

“Hey!” I complained, pulling away like a wet cat. “What are you up to?”

“You have a fever.” he said, not even bothering to hide his concern. “You're boiling.”

I turned my back to him.

“Tsk. It's your fault. Because of that stupidity of the river.”

“Mine?” Izuku laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that sounds warm and indulgent. “You were the one who said "fuck it" and enter with me.”

“You shouldn't have started.”

“Wow. I didn't know you were so interested in following in my footsteps.” he said, clearly enjoying the situation more than he should. “I'm going to bring you the thermometer, okay?”

“I've already told you I'm fine.”

“Yes, of course. And I am the Symbol of Peace.” he replied from the door.

He came back in a minute, with that damn thermometer in his hand. He put it in my armpit before I could really protest. I grunted something between my teeth as he sat back on the edge of the bed.

“This is ridiculous.” I murmured. “Who gets sick from a quick bath? I fight villains who shoot acid out of the eyes and I survive without a scratch! And now I am prostrate because of a drop of polluted river?”

Izuku didn't respond at first. He just looked at me, with that expression of his that always mixes a little tenderness, a little contained laughter and a little infinite patience. As if I were a half-wild stray cat that he has decided to adopt.

“Kacchan.” he said at last, in a soft tone, “I'm going to call the agency and let them know you're not going today. Ok?”

“Don't even dream of it.”

“Katsuki Bakugou.”

“I'm fine.”

He looked at me. I didn't look at him. I felt the thermometer vibrate slightly. I tensed up.

He took it out.

“Almost 39°C (102.2°F).” he announced as if he were giving the war report. “I am sorry. I officially declare you out of action.”

I folded my arms under the covers, growling like a wounded animal. To which Izuku, to top it off, gave me a kiss on the forehead. That bastard.

“I'm going to make you a soup and bring you some pills, okay? Don't move from here.”

“Tsk.”

He left without waiting for a response. I heard him in the kitchen, moving between drawers, jars, and pots. Surely he was also tidying up everything in his path, because he was obsessed with order, even in my kitchen. Because obviously I spend more time in it than he does.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Fuck. We had a good time that day. I know. I remember. His laughter, his green eyes shining in the sun, the water splashing us, that feeling of freedom I hadn't felt since we were kids. But of course. My body decided that fun had to have consequences.

I sighed. I didn't know if I was sweating from the fever, from the wound from last night or from rage. Everything hurt. I felt weak. And that Izuku took care of me, although part of me was grateful for it, made me feel useless.

I didn't like it. I didn't like having to depend on anyone. Not even from him. Although... if it had to be someone, I preferred it to be him.

When he returned, he brought a tray with a steaming soup, a glass of water, two pills and a napkin folded as if we were in a damn hotel —or in a hospital—.

“All this is unnecessary.” I murmured in a doughy voice.

“Shut up and sit down.” he ordered with a smile. He helped me sit up against the pillow and placed the tray on my lap. “You're going to take all of this and then you're going to rest. And if you protest, I'll videotape you and send it to Kirishima.”

“Don't even think about it.”

“Then start with the soup.”

I took it with reluctance, but not because it was bad. In fact, it had been quite tasty. Damn nerd. Even when he cooks medicinal soup it seems that he does it with love or whatever. I didn't tell him. It was not necessary.

Izuku sat next to me on the bed, silently. His arm brushed mine. He didn't speak, he did nothing but be there. And that, for some reason, helped more than any pill.

I didn't say it out loud. I would never say it. But silently, I thanked him.

I don't know what exactly the film was about. I think it had to do with a guy posing as a chef to sneak into luxurious homes and steal works of art. Or maybe he was a real cooker and just got into trouble by mistake. It doesn't matter. There were tense scenes, a bit of comedy and long shots of foreign cities that probably smelled of spices and money. Izuku had said that he had seen it at a festival years ago.

I was too comfortable.

My head was resting on his chest, slightly tilted, just where his cotton T-shirt was beginning to wrinkle from the heat of his body. I listened to his heart. I could felt his breath rise and fall. My legs were still under the covers, but the rest of my body was leaning towards him, as if by instinct. My arm was around his waist, hanging as if it were part of the mattress. And his hand...

Fuck, his hand was tangled in my hair. And he moved slowly, carefully, as if he knew exactly when to press with his fingertips, when to gently scratch my scalp, when to leave only his palm still for a few seconds.

I could tell that I let myself do it because he was sick. Because I didn't have the strength to protest. Because I was kind of feverish.

Lie.

I liked this. It didn't happen to me often. Not even on quiet days. Because there was still something in me that I thought that if I relaxed too much, if I gave myself completely to that feeling of... peace, something would fuck everything up. As if it couldn't last. As if I didn't deserve it.

But not today. Today I was weak. And he was there, with me.

Behind me, his voice broke the silence.

“I love this scene.” His chest vibrated slightly under my cheek as he spoke. I felt the murmur more than I heard it.

I didn't look at him. I just kept looking at the screen. A guy was crossing a gigantic kitchen with gleaming knives. He looked ridiculous in that white hat. But Izuku sounded happy. It sounded like when he talked about heroes when we were kids. With that kind of brilliance in the words that not even the years had taken away from him.

I could imagine the smile on his face without needing to turn around. I had seen it so many times that I could now mentally reproduce it with surgical precision. And then...

I slid my gaze down.

First the shirt, wrinkled, somewhat raised, leaving a strip of pale and warm skin visible. Then the navel, which barely peeked out from under the fabric. And then... the bulge. Normal. No apparent tension. Just the contained outline under the light grey sweatpants.

I don't know what happend to me. I wasn't thinking. Or yes. I don't know.

I raised my hand, the one that rested on his side, and slid it slowly towards the center. I put my palm on it and squeezed a little.

I felt him tense. His body gave a slight, almost imperceptible, but he said nothing. Not a single sound. He just stopped stroking my hair for a second. Then he did it again, slower.

I continued to stare at the screen, as if I wasn't doing anything. As if it wasn't me who had my hand on his crotch, playing with the impudence of someone who is simply... checking something. Without a goal, without haste, without need. Just... to touch. For having him here. For knowing that I could.

My thumb moved a little, unconsciously. I caressed it. The cotton crumpled under my fingers. I felt it shape, it weight, that warmth that wasn't exactly excitement yet, but wasn't indifferent either.

I didn't say anything.

“Kacchan.” he whispered.

Only his voice. Nothing else. Not a real protest. Not a single complaint.

I shrank a little against his body. I could feel the heat of the fever still on my cheeks, but that feeling was different. That was... denser.

Izuku was still stroking my hair. Still with a trembling hand. I could imagine him biting his lip. I could imagine how his eyes were half-closed. His chest had become a little stiffer. His breathing slows.

And I, as if it wasn't enough to be half dead from a cold, now had something else beating in sync with my heart.

The film continued. In it, I think the fake chef escaped through a window after being discovered. Alarms sounded, fast music, there were cuts between scenes. It didn't matter.

My hand didn't move any further. I wasn't looking to do anything. Just... to know, to feel, to have that reminder that it existed. That there was still room for desire between fever, cough, and damn tiredness.

“Why do you do this if you're sick?” he said suddenly, in a low voice, as if he didn't want to break the moment entirely.

I didn't answer. It was not necessary.

“You're an idiot.” he added later, with a minimal laugh.

“And you're too calm to have your sexually frustrated patient touching your balls.” I murmured.

“Technically you haven't touched anything directly.” he replied, with that damned composure of his.

I laughed under my breath, hoarse, my throat shitty.

Perhaps, after all, what cured the most was not soup, or pills, or rest... It was this. To have him so close that it hurt in a different way.

And it was that technically that turned me on completely.

I put my hand in.

Under the fabric, straight against his hot skin. Elastic. I touched it with my palm until I felt it full: hard, firm, throbbing against my fingers. There was nothing "technical" now. There was no ambiguity. The contact was real. His breath cut off as if I had punched him in the stomach.

“Take off your pants.” I murmured, without moving from his chest.

And he did.

With that clumsy little jump he makes when he's in a hurry and a little embarrassed, he pulled his sweatpants and boxer down to his knees. His erection rose between my gaze and the film that was still playing in the background, as if the protagonist was running for his life while we did something completely different.

I grabbed it again, this time with more intention. Firm fingers. Thumb barely caressing the glans. He was hot as a demon. Or maybe it was me who was burning. I no longer knew what was fever and what was desire.

“Kacchan.” he gasped, but did not turn away. “You're sick... We shouldn't be doing this...”

He was right. And yet, there we were.

Me, half lying on top of him, with my heavy body and my joints torn to shreds, my head clouded and still... with enthusiasm. Not exactly about fucking. My body couldn't do that much. But I wanted him close. I wanted that connection. I wanted that thing that only he could give me.

I pursed my lips. I stood still for a second. Then I let out a long sigh.

“You touch yourself.” I said, withdrawing my hand.

I felt him tense. He said nothing.

For a few seconds, the only sound was that of the television. A car exploded on screen. A guy was shouting something in Italian. The light from the television illuminated his chest, his abdomen, the sweat on his skin, the shadow cast by his erection.

And then he did it.

His hand went down, shy, as if he still hesitated. But he got involved. He began to move. Slowly. Very slowly.

From my position, still leaning on his torso, I had the perfect angle. I could see everything: the path of his hand, the way his abs tensed with every movement, the slight tremor in his legs, the flush in his body. The sound of his breathing was louder now. Nearest.

I just watched.

It wasn't exactly voyeurism. It was something more intimate. As if looking at him that way provided me with more information than he himself could convey to me in words.

He touched himself for me.

Not as a mere show. Not as a fantasy. But because I had asked him to. Because he trusted me. Because he knew I wanted to see him.

And I... I wanted everything from him.

My erection was noticeable against my pants. Stiff, annoyed, like a reminder that my body was still reacting, even if I felt like I'd been hit by a train. I barely moved, adjusting myself, without breaking contact with his body. He was still leaning on it. I could hear his heart racing. I could feel it underneath me.

Izuku bit his lip. His hand continued, firmer now, rising and falling at a slow pace. Like he knew I liked seeing it that way. His other arm rested on my back, caressing my neck and the back of my neck with his fingers. His fingers pressed on me sometimes, as if seeking to anchor me or anchor himself.

And then he murmured:

“Kacchan... I'm close...”

“I want to see you cumming” I said.

No more needed to be said.

He didn't stop. On the contrary, he clung tighter. His back arched slightly, his abdomen contracted, and his breathing ragged. And then... I saw it.

The orgasm completely ran through him. With a muffled groan, he ejaculated on his own abdomen, warm, thick, bright under the bluish light of the television. I didn't look away at any time. I didn't even blink. I felt his body tremble under mine and I hugged him tighter, saying nothing. As if all his pleasure is mine too. As if that moment healed me more than any medicine.

And fuck... I was still horny.

The fever had not gone away. Nor tiredness. But neither does the desire or the hunger. Nor that silent need to be with him in that way, without filters, with no rules other than ours.

He let out a long, satisfied, vulnerable sigh. Then he looked down, still panting, his cheeks burning.

“I didn't know you liked the show.”

“Shut up.” I replied, quietly, while giving him a soft bite on the side.

He laughed. Not the thunderous laughter when the air escapes him, but that soft, low one that hits me in the chest more than in the ears. It was contagious.

He sat up a little and, without letting go, stretched out his arm towards the bedside table. He took a tissue —one of those lavender-smelling soft ones he buys— and wiped his belly with lazy movements. I looked on without saying anything, still leaning on him, with my head resting on his chest, feeling his breathing calm under my ear.

When he was done, he put the crumpled paper aside and came back to me and kissed me.

Straight on the lips.

I closed my eyes for a second, because fuck, kissing him was always like a shock. But when I realized what we had just done, I pulled away suddenly, frowning.

“Are you an idiot? I don't want to give you the virus.” I snapped at him, grumpy, more out of habit than out of real anger.

Izuku smiled as if I had just told him that he had won the lottery.

“I don't care.” he whispered. “If I get infected by this, it will have been worth it.”

Foolish. Romantic. Irritating.

My chest contracted a little, but I didn't say anything.

Izuku looked down at my torso and then pulled it up again, as if he was pondering something. I knew him all too well. That sparkle in his eyes was dangerous. And the next thing he said confirmed to me.

“Do you want me to help you "heal" you?” He asked, in a voice so low that it sent shivers down my spine. One of the good ones.

Before I could let out a sarcastic remark, he had already lifted my shirt carefully, running his fingers along the edges of the bandage, without directly touching the wound. The bandage still hurt, but his fingers were so soft that I could hardly feel it.

Then came the kisses.

First in the neck, slowly. Then it went down my collarbone, my chest... the abdomen. Barely brushing the skin, hot with fever. Each kiss was like a spell with a taste of mint and affection.

I gasped as I felt his mouth move through my body.

I was tired. Sore. Half groggy from medications and congestion. But that didn't stop me from having a painfully present erection. Each kiss of his lit me up a little more. It was a slow fire. A gentle torture. And I was going crazy.

Then he pulled down my pants.

My cock came out, hot —from the fever and everything else—. Izuku stood there for a second, between my legs, watching. As if he were analyzing a damn plane before entering combat. He looked up at me, looking for something.

Approval. Permission. Whatever. As if he needed to ask.

I nodded, slowly.

And then he did.

His tongue came first. Slow, moist, gliding from base to tip, savoring every inch. I felt my body tremble with that first contact. I clung to the sheets without being able to help it.

Then came his lips. They wrapped me in that mixture of softness and just the right pressure. He started sucking me at a slow, methodical pace, as if he had all the time in the world. As if we were not in the middle of an infernal flu.

Fuck, he did it so well....

I had always preferred quick, wild sex. The physical. Instinct. But this... this was different. He took his time. Every movement of his tongue was intentional. Each suction sought a reaction. And I gave it to him, of course. My breathing became more and more erratic, more choppy. I felt the sweat running down my forehead. I didn't know if it was the fever or the pleasure.

Probably both.

Izuku looked up several times while holding me in his mouth. He was looking for my reaction. He wanted to know if I liked it. If I was okay. If I need to stop.

I didn't need him to stop. I needed it to never stop.

His fingers held me by the base, while his mouth rose and fell in a steady, perfect, devastating rhythm. I closed my eyes for a moment, biting my lip. My hips were shaking, but I forced myself not to push. To let him do it. To let myself be taken care of by him, even in that.

Because that's what he was doing.

Taking care of me.

With his mouth. With his hands. With his damn tenderness.

It was sick how much he had me. And I didn't want to let him go.

When I came, it was silent. I didn't scream. I didn't growl. I just let out the air as if I had torn something from inside. He swallowed it all, with that calm that makes me desperate, and then he slowly climbed up, leaving a row of kisses on my abdomen, on my chest, on the bandage.

My mouth was half-open, still out of breath. I was expecting another kiss on the lips, as before. And why to lie, I was excited to taste my own cum mixed with his saliva.

But he turned his face away and kissed my forehead instead.

“Didn't you say not to kiss you on the mouth?” he murmured, with a smile. “That you were going to infect me.”

“Idiot.” I whispered, not having the strength to really growl.

And yes, he was right. I didn't want him to get sick. I didn't want to see him with a fever, complaining, or with a red nose and moist eyes like I do now.

Well... unless that also included slow blowjobs like this.

I thought about telling him. To tell him that perhaps it would not be so bad to infect him if it led us to another afternoon like that. But I kept quiet.

It went without saying. He already knew it.

I settled back into his chest. He wrapped his arm around me again, stroking my hair.

And, as incredible as it may sound, for the first time all damn day, I fell asleep without coughing.

Chapter Text

Thank God I remembered to tell Deku to ask for those days at work. It would have been a logistical catastrophe if he didn't. It's not that I am used to planning surprise vacations, okay? This is not my thing. But I did it. Me. I bought tickets, booked the hotel, planned the fucking schedules. All this because... for spending quality time, I guess. Because it's worth it. Because after everything we got into our heads during the therapies, it was the logical thing to do, the... healthy.

What a shitty word.

I haven't told him where we're going yet. I told him to put on comfortable clothes, to prepare as if we were hiking. And he's been asking all week, with that damn expression of excitement stuck in his face, as if he were a child about to go to his first amusement park. I would be like this too if they had prepared a surprise for me. But of course, I wouldn't become a nuisance.

I haven't said another word. It's more fun to watch him squirm.

I got out of the shower early, the steam still filling the bathroom like a fucking battlefield fog. I wore gray sweatpants, a black tank top —it's not vanity, it's hot— and comfortable sneakers. I threw my dirty clothes in the hamper, ran the towel through my hair and went out.

And there he was.

Izuku.

Standing in the living room. Waiting.

With his ridiculous special edition All Might T-shirt —garish design, yellow background, huge letters—, green shorts, a cap that seemed stolen from a five-year-old boy... and the worst: white sunscreen poorly spread all over the face. He looked like a beach clown.

I stood at the entrance to the hallway, arms crossed. I didn't say anything for a few seconds. He smiled at me.

“Am I okay like this?” He asked, as if he didn't know perfectly well that he looked like a catalog of "dress up for the summer of your favorite hero."

“Do you want me to tell you the truth or do you want to continue with your illusion of being a nerd influencer?” I answered, wiping my hair with the towel.

He laughed, as he always does when he knows I'm not serious. Or not at all.

I approached him. It made me nervous to see the sunscreen badly distributed. I don't know how the hell someone can be so meticulous about saving lives and so useless putting on sunscreen. I grabbed his face with one hand, a little rougher than I should have, and began to spread the cream well with my fingers. He closed his eyes immediately.

“I don't understand why you don't tell me where we're going.” he said, smiling as I rubbed his face. “I promise I won't insist any more if you give me a clue.”

“You said the same thing yesterday.”

“Yes, but today I say it with more conviction.” he blurted out, and opened one eye. “Are we going too far?”

“It depends on your tolerance for heights.” I said, wiping a glob from his eyebrow. “You just put on the damn cap and follow my instructions.”

He laughed again. He looked at me as if it was the best thing that had happened to him in the week. And, fuck, that disarms me a little bit.

“Thank you for arranging this.” he said suddenly, quietly.

“You don't know what it is yet.” I reminded him, trying not to melt inside.

“I don't need to know.” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

I didn't answer. I didn't know what the fuck to say that didn't sound... cheesy. So I just patted him on the shoulder and went for the backpacks.

Mine was ready. Practical, light, not unnecessary things. In his, he had put everything. An extra change of clothes. Just in case. A portable charger for his mobile phone. Two bottles of water. Wipes for sensitive skin. An emergency case with pills, bandages and plasters... for God's sake. Are we going on a trip or to the hospital?

We went out to the garage. The wheels of the gate squeaked a little when they opened. Our car was there —it's actually Deku's, but I always drive—, like new, even though we hardly ever used it. Most of the time we fly to places or use public transport. But this trip deserved something different. Direct conduction. Shared time. Music if I feel like it. Air conditioning controlled by me. Without having to share space with strangers or deal with hero trafficking.

I climbed into the driver's seat without saying a word. Izuku climbed in as the co-pilot, fastening his seat belt and turning his head as if searching for clues to the hidden destination. He checked his backpack, looked at his mobile, then looked at me. All without saying anything. He was clearly holding back. You could almost tell the urge to explode.

“Any clues?” he asked, again.

I started the engine. The sound was clean. I liked that noise. Control, power. It all started there.

“Yes. You're going to like it.” I said, without further ado.

He smiled.

And we started.

The road was quiet, which is strange. There was hardly any traffic, the sky was clear and the air conditioning of the car was just the level of cold that I like. Not too much, just enough so that my shirt didn't stick to my back. We were about twenty minutes into the journey and, by some cosmic miracle, Izuku hadn't yet exploded with questions every five seconds.

I say "yet" because, come on, it's Deku.

He was sitting next to me, looking out the window as if expecting to see an illuminated sign with clues to the destination. From time to time, he would turn his head towards me as if it would make me confess. Spoiler: it wasn't going to happen.

“Do you have any playlists or... Do you want me to put something?” He asked, in his eternal attempt to fill the silence. He can't stand even five minutes in silence.

“I don't want you to put anything of yours, that's clear.” I snorted. “I don't plan to listen to anime openings at eight in the morning.”

“It's not all openings!” He protested, turning red. “I also have instrumental!”

“You're making it worse.”

He laughed, unrolling the headphones he'd been holding. In the end he didn't use them, he just dropped them on his lap. I squeezed the steering wheel a little more. Not because of nerves, just... I don't know, it was comfortable to go with him in silence. The strange thing was not having to be on the defensive.

And then, without thinking too much, I did what my body wanted before my head.

I slid my hand from the shifter to his thigh. Like this, smooth, natural. Almost as if it were nothing.

Damn.

I don't know what the hell happened to me. I just did it. I guess I wanted to touch him. Not out of morbidity or anything weird —well, maybe a little—, but because he was there, next to me, silent. And it felt... strangely well.

Izuku tensed for a second. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. His shoulders rose as if he had swallowed air all at once. Then he turned to me very, very slowly.

“Are you okay?” He asked, as if I were suddenly an endangered creature showing affection for the first time.

“I have one hand.” I said, without looking at him. “And you have a leg. It's not science.”

“No, of course not. It's just that... this is very much for a couple going on a honeymoon or something.” He smiled nervously. “I didn't expect you...”

“What? To show affection as a functional human being?”

“I didn't say that!”

“You thought about it.” I growled, but I didn't take my hand away. Fuck you. I am committed to my decisions.

For a while I just drove like this, with my fingers resting on his thigh as if that were the most normal thing in the world. Although inside, I felt my brain wanting to restart.

I was surprised that he didn't say anything else. He just slid his hand over to mine and held it there. He squeezed a little. Not much. Just enough to let me  know he was happy. And fuck, I was too. He smiled like an idiot, with that stupid curvy on his lips that he makes when he tries to restrain himself. I could see his reflection in the glass no matter how hard he tried not to notice me.

“Are you sure you can't give me a clue?” He said after a few minutes.

“Are you still at it?”

“We've been there for half an hour now! At least tell me if it has to do with water or not. Should I have brought a swimsuit?”

“We're not going anywhere where you have to show more skin, don't worry.” I growled, although really... It wouldn't be bad. Only if I saw him half-naked again before the day was over, we probably wouldn't arrive to the hotel.

Izuku snorted, amused. He settled back in and began to look at the highway signs. He didn't say it, but he went into "detective mode," I know. I know him.

I liked that he was enthusiastic. Even if he tried to hide it as if it were just casual curiosity. I knew him too well to swallow that façade.

After almost an hour of travel, a sign appeared in the distance, huge and colorful: "Adventure Max! Amusement Park. Next exit: 5 km."

And of course, he read it.

“Are you serious?” he asked, rising suddenly. “Shall we go to the amusement park?”

I didn't respond right away. I only let out a little smile that I tried to hide under a throat clearing. But he saw me. Of course he saw me.

“Bakugou! Are we going to Aventura Max for real?!”

“Fuck, yes, what's going on?” I said, cocking the steering wheel to overtake a slow car. “You're already screaming like I've told you we're going to Disneyland Paris.”

“It's almost the same! I've never been there! I always wanted to go but I never found who to go with and...!”

“And now you have your boyfriend who thinks for both of us.” I interrupted, airing hesitantly. “It was about time someone planned something decent in this relationship.”

“Yes, of course, the great Katsuki Bakugo planning a few days of extreme fun! I must be dreaming!”

“Keep making fun of it and I'll get you off at the next service stop.”

But he was happy. Emotions came out of his freckles even he had sunscreen on them. He tapped his knees lightly, smiled nonstop, and looked at me as if I had just given him the sun.

And, I admit it —quietly, to myself and the world if I say this out loud—, I was excited too. Maybe not to the point of jumping around like him, but something inside me vibrated with the same intensity.

Go to an amusement park. Something so simple, so... normal. But not for us. For us, this was a big deal. Something out of the routine, out of responsibilities, out of the weight of being who we are.

This was just... us going back to being children.

Parking was easy, to my relief. I had a reserved place right next to the entrance of the hotel, because of course, when you make a plan you do it well. I had left everything closed in advance, lest we arrive and have to fight with a family of four for a place between two columns. Not even a joke. I come to relax, not to battle for a decent parking.

We got out of the car and, for a change, Deku was already looking at the building with those "wow!" eyes. It was a pretty good hotel, one of those modern ones but without too many excesses. No unnecessary gilding or fountains with naked statues. White façade, dark windows, sober black letters that said the name of the place and little else. Class without wanting to show off. I liked it. Quiet, orderly. The kind of place that gives you peace just by stepping a feet on it.

“Wow, Kacchan, this place is amazing!” He said as he got out of the car and carefully closed the door. “Look at those balconies! Will we have one like this?”

“Probably. I didn't do all this to get a room without windows.” I snorted, taking the suitcase out of the car trunk. “Come on, I don't want to waste half of the morning.”

The interior smelled clean. Not cleaning products or cheap hotel perfume, but something fresh, like green tea or eucalyptus. The polished marble floor shone as if it had been waxed five minutes ago, and the lights on the ceiling were warm.

The reception was quick. Efficient staff and smiles without overdoing it. In less than five minutes they were giving us the room card and wishing us a good stay.

The elevator was made of glass on one side and showed the interior garden of the hotel: a huge backyard with tables, small fountains and even a pergola covered with vines. Izuku glued himself to the glass as if he were seeing a rare species in a zoo.

“Look at that, Kacchan! Can you imagine having breakfast there tomorrow? It's beautiful!”

“If there is strong coffee, yes. If not, you'll see me having a grumpy breakfast in bed.”

“But the bed is sure to be…!”

He did not finish the sentence. Because as soon as we opened the door of the room and entered, a high-pitched and happy cry escaped him that was probably heard on the entire floor.

“Look at this bed!”

And he threw himself into it headfirst, without even taking off his shoes.

I went in the back, closing the door with my shoulder and putting the bags aside. I looked around, examining the details with a critical eye. The floor was well waxed dark wood, just the right lighting, not too obtrusive. That's right, the bed was huge, with white sheets that looked like they came out of a fucking fabric softener commercial, and a padded headboard that looked more comfortable than my couch. The air conditioning was already on and the atmosphere was cool without freezing your balls.

The bathroom had a large bathtub, one of those modern ones with matte black taps. Perfectly folded towels, soaps that smelled expensive, and even two bathrobes hanging waiting for someone to use them.

“Kacchan, it has a giant bathtub! And the bed is bigger than ours!”

“We're in a hotel room, not on the NASA space station, calm down.” I said, but I couldn't help but smile as I saw him rolling down the bed as if he were five years old.

I walked over and threw a pillow in his face. He laughed and handed it back to me, though he missed the shot completely.

“What do you want to do first?” he asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Shall we go to the park now?”

“Yes, but first we have to eat something. I'm not going to line up to ride a roller coaster on an empty stomach. I just hope you don't throw up.”

“Hey! It only happened to me once and I was twelve years old!”

“And now you have twice as much, so let's put something in the body.”

We left the hotel and walked to the fast food area that was right between the hotel and the entrance of the park. There was everything: hamburgers, pizzas, wraps, salads that didn't look like salads —why the fuck were there salads with pepperoni?—. I felt like a traitor to my gastronomic principles, but efficiency won this time.

Izuku chose a combo with a double burger, fries, and a soft drink. I ordered something less ridiculous, a salad with chicken and rice —not the pepperoni one, of course— although the bread and cheese that came with it was pure sin.

The queue was eternal. I don't know how the hell it can take so long for people to turn in tickets, but there we were, sweating in the shade of a poorly placed umbrella, surrounded by children with balloons and parents who already looked defeated.

“I could be taking a shower right now.” I muttered.

“Or spinning around on the roller coaster with the arms up.” added Izuku, who had already started eating the fries as we walked to the entrance to the park.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He had some ketchup at the corner of his mouth. I didn't say anything. I just stretched out my hand and wiped it with my thumb.

He stood still for a second.

“Thank you...” he said quietly.

“I don't want you to be mistaken for a lost child.”

Finally, we arrive at the entrance of the park.

And there it was.

Adventure Max, in all its glory. Huge posters, bright colors, lively music playing from the speakers hidden among the trees. Roller coasters that rose like mechanical beasts, giant wheels spinning slowly, water features in the background, and a huge castle that looked like something out of a fantasy movie.

Izuku's jaw dropped.

“It's... enormous.”

“Yes. Like your enthusiasm.” I murmured.

But I understood him. I felt it too. Something in the atmosphere, in the mixture of happy shouts, the smell of cotton candy and the crunch of footsteps on the gravel of the road... It made you want to be a kid again. It made you forget why you're always tense.

And that was just what I wanted.

The park was divided into several sections; Since we will spend two days here, the logical thing to do was to divide it.

Entering the Adrenaline Zone was like going from a walk in the park to a nightclub with explosive lights, sounds and vibrations. Metal buildings in dark tones, torn signs that lit up with neon and people screaming for no apparent reason. The air smelled of hot metal, burnt fritter and electricity. Almost as energizing as an explosion.

“Welcome to hell.” I muttered.

Izuku smiled from ear to ear.

“Exactly! This is what we came for!”

The first was the most obvious: a black roller coaster with metallic reflection, slow climb, crazy curves and a loop that challenged even trained heroes. We got on. I sat in the driver's row without even thinking about it; he by my side.

“Shall we compete to see who shouts the loudest?” He asked, adjusting his protection bar.

“Nonsense.” I growled without looking at him. “It should be to see who doesn't shout, that would be a challenge.”

The climb on the first stage was eternal, calculated to torture you, and the tension rose every inch. Heavy breathing, sweaty hands, Izuku's gaze fixed on the horizon. As soon as we reached the top, I saw the height; The ground seemed miles away and my guts skipped a beat.

And then, the fall: a brutal wind that drew screams from even the bravest. Izuku screamed like a hero and let out an "I love you!" in the middle of the fall, his voice vibrating with gravity and it exploded in my chest. I didn't scream, but my jaw went limp at the sound of him.

When it stopped, there was a photo. The screen showed our faces: His face with his hair tousled by the wind and his eyes closed as if he were experiencing ecstasy, mine stiff, eyes wide open, that strange grimace between surprise and embarrassment.

Izuku grabbed the arm of the seat.

“Did you hear me?” He said, laughing and nervous. “You said something like... "What the hell?!"”

“I didn't say anything.” I lied. Because I did say it. Maybe quietly, but I did.

“Of course you did” he grumbled happily. “It was epic.”

We went out with an accelerated pulse and went straight to the free fall. Two metal platforms rising almost fifty meters to an open platform: you sit down, they secure you, the lights go out, and then they release you suddenly.

We sat next to each other. The operator staged a kind of documentary about the history of free fall on a gigantic screen. The narrator was talking about records, engineers, and nerves as we climbed. I saw Izuku absorbed, with that look of "I want to know everything about every shit", and although I thought it was silly, I let myself go. I listened to it, aware of his breathing next to me, of the slow and curious rhythm. I was comfortably present.

Until they released us.

The first seconds were of absolute silence, then wind, involuntary screams and a discharge so powerful that my heart stopped for an instant. When we got down, I felt the adrenaline rushing through my veins. Izuku jumped up and raised his arms in the air as if we had saved the world.

“I heard you... You said you weren't going to scream.”

I nudged him.

“I went... measured.” I said, trying to sound harsh. “Hero stuff, okay?”

“Yes, hero.” he sneered, amused. “What a hero who almost cried for a free fall.”

Despite his comment I laughed. I did scream.

Before finishing that area, we got into a VR simulator. I put on my glasses first, and then Izuku. It was a cooperative game: we had to save a fictional city from total disaster. Explosions, missions, screams. I refused to admit that this made me a little lazy —after all, I do this every damn day of my life—. However, seeing Deku on the other side, aiming at moving targets, made me smile: that nerd had sniper reflexes.

I cheated. Because that's how I am. I took advantage of a trick they shouldn't know, used it, and I won. Izuku called me in the game, laughing.

“Were you using... Hacks?”

“It's not hacks. It's called strategy.”

Inside I felt like a fucking kid enjoying doing something so stupid but effective. We finish the mission with an explosion of holographic confetti and epic music.

I took off my VR goggles and stared at him. We were too close.

“Even though…” he whispered, incredulous. “That was intense.”

It was hard for me to breathe. He looked incredibly —and strangely— sexy in those VR goggles. I didn't answer. I didn't say anything. I just held his gaze.

It felt eternal and brief at the same time. As stupid and heroic as everything we are together.

When we left the Adrenaline Zone, Izuku's eyes were wide. He had sweated, screamed, laughed and almost lost his cap twice. I was more whole, of course. Although I admit it, I needed a break before my heart asked for early retirement.

We walk to the next area. According to the plan, it was the Fantasy Zone. The name already smelled of glitter, unicorns and girls in tutus, and I was not wrong.

Everything was decorated like a damn Christmas card mixed with a catalog of toys. Floral arches, trees with pastel-colored lights, fountains in the shape of chubby dragons that blew bubbles instead of fire... All that shit.

“This is... adorable.” Izuku said, a smile that split his face.

“This gives me a headache.” I grumbled, looking at a bench that was shaped like a cloud with a happy face. “Who designed this, a sugar-overdosed leprechaun?”

But I didn't protest anymore. Because the imbecile was happy, and that... Well, I liked to see him smile.

The Garden of Wishes stretched out like a small path full of vegetation —artificial, of course—, soft lights and ambient music that seemed to come out of a perfume commercial. There were couples sitting around, children running around, grandmothers taking photos with giant cell phones, and in the center, a well. One of those wishing wells, all decorated with colored pebbles, ribbons and slips of paper hanging from a nearby tree.

“Kacchan, let's go there!” Izuku said, tugging at my arm. “It is the Wishing Well. You can write a wish and put it inside.”

“So what... the fairy godmother reat it?” I snorted, my arms crossed.

“Don't be a jerk.” he said, laughing. “It is symbolic. Let yourself go a little bit.”

I sighed. I rolled my eyes. I walked after him. When we arrived, there was a small stall with pencils and decorated papers. The imbecile began to write immediately, as if he were going to send a letter to the three wise men.

“What do you write?” I asked him.

“You can't read it! If you do it, it is not fulfilled. It's the universal rule of wishes.” he replied, covering the note with his chest as if it were classified information.

“How childish.” I muttered, but I let him do it.

I saw him approach the edge of the well, throw his note, and close his eyes for a few seconds as if he really believed in that crap.

And then he looked at me.

“Aren't you going to ask for one?”

“I'll pass.”

“Really?”

I snorted again. I approached. I leaned over the well. Inside there was nothing but decorative stones, LED lights, and wet notes. But I took a second.

A wish...

"May that idiot smile never fade when he looks at me."

I didn't write it. I didn't say it out loud. I just thought about it. Then I moved away quickly, as if the well could laugh at me.

“Shall we go?” I asked, my back to the well.

“Did you make a wish?”

“Shut up, nerd.”

The last attraction of the day was a big wheel. One of those slow ones, with closed cabins and air conditioning. It had warm, almost romantic lights. And I swear for a second I thought about backing out. But Izuku had already climbed in, so what a remedy.

The cabin closed with a clanging noise, and the world began to descend. Or we go up.

From there you could see everything: the different areas of the park, the roller coasters from before, the rest areas, the children's area with bouncy castles, the distant entrance, and behind, the city. A breath. A silence very different from the constant noise we had had all day.

Not even he spoke. He was just looking out the window, his arms resting on the edge, his face relaxed.

I also kept silent.

I thought about how stupid it had been not to do this sooner. Two years together, and rarely had we done something so... couple. The therapist, as unbearable as she is, was right. Quality time doesn't come out on its own. You have to look for it. And yes, I planned this trip. From the tickets to the hotel reservation, even the clothes. I did it all without telling him anything. And seeing him so happy fuck me off... because I liked it more than I wanted to admit.

I turned to him. And just then, he also turned his head to look at me.

He said nothing. He just watched me, with that soft face he puts on when he feels too much. The relaxed face, the eyes a little wetter than usual, as if his own heart trembled a little.

I kissed him.

Without saying anything. Without waiting for him to move.

I just kissed him. It was slow. More than I usually do. As if I was trying to memorize it, as if I was not in a hurry this time. His lips tasted like the chocolate ice cream from an hour ago, like candy, like suppressed laughter.

He parted with a smile.

“That wasn't on the itinerary, huh?”

“Shut up.” I said, but I was smiling. Not much. Just enough.

Before getting off the big wheel, I told him:

“When we leave, we'll go to the hotel to change.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I booked a table for dinner.” I blurted out as if it wasn't the most romantic thing of the fucking day.

“What?! Where? Do I have to be fancy? I didn't bring clothes of that kind!”

“Don't worry, nerd. I brought yours. I chose it for you.”

He looked at me with his mouth open.

“Did you choose my clothes?”

“Yes. So, at least, you're not going to wear another T-shirt with drawings of astronaut bears eating mochi.”

“That T-shirt is adorable!” he protested, pretending to be hurt. “I have it in my suitcase...”

“And that's why I have to intervene. I'm not going to let you wear it to a decent dinner.”

We left the big wheel while he continued to protest half jokingly, half seriously. I was quiet, but satisfied. As if something inside me had finally lined up. As if Izuku and I were finally on the same track...

And fuck, that was fine.

Chapter Text

We returned to the hotel without too much haste, although the minutes were starting to bite me. I had made the reservation for nine o'clock and we still had to shower and change. Izuku wanted to pass by the souvenir shop on the way and I had to drag him almost by the neck.

When we finally entered the room, the first thing I did was point to the bathroom.

“You go first.” I said, as I took off my shoes.

“Sure?” he asked, half surprised.

“You have longer hair, it takes longer.”

Izuku chuckled as he grabbed his toiletry bag.

“Okay, but don't come to spy.” replied the very nerd.

“Yes, yes... Let's go.”

He closed the door and as soon as I heard the water running, I sat up on the bed. I ran a hand over my face, blowing the air out. We had a crazy day, but I couldn't deny that I was enjoying it. Much more than I thought.

I opened the suitcase. I took out the clothes I had brought for myself: black shirt, long sleeves rolled up, tight dark pants. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then, Izuku's.

The shirt.

Fuck.

I couldn't help but smile.

It was one of those fine white linen shirts, the kind that seem harmless but fit him in just the right places. On the shoulders. In the biceps. On the chest. He didn't use it much because he said it was a little tight... but that's why I brought it. Because it squeezed him right where it should. And he knew it. Because when he wore it, my gaze went too far. And today, he was not going to be able to complain. It was my night, my plan. And he'd wear that fucking shirt because I felt like it.

I also took out a pair of beige pants, elegant but comfortable. I folded it over the bed, with the belt ready, and then I went to get my toiletries, although I didn't have time to do much more because the bathroom door opened and Izuku came out, still drying his hair, with his torso exposed, a towel hanging from his shoulder and... only in underpants.

I turned to look at him.

And I stood there, looking at him.

“What?” he asked, noticing my gaze.

“Nothing.” I replied, with a half-smile, approaching him without taking my eyes off him. “I'm just saying that if we didn't have a reservation within an hour...”

I kissed him.

This time it wasn't slow or smooth.

It was not like on the big wheel.

It was a hungry kiss.

It was my hands on his waist, his back, his neck. It was him panting against my mouth when I squeezed his buttock a little more than necessary. It was my tongue demanding space. And he, opening up. He always let himself be touched by me.

I pulled away after a few seconds, taking a deep breath, my forehead pressed against his.

“... I'd rip off those underpants and we'd forget about dinner.” I whispered.

Izuku was red. Not just the cheeks. The whole neck.

“K-Kacchan.” he stammered, trying to regain some dignity as he looked for the clothes. “Let me get dressed before I give you a heart attack.”

I smiled satisfied and went into the bathroom without another word.

The hot water greeted me like a firm pat on the back. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the pressure do its work. My muscles were heavy, the skin was sticky, the body was tired... But I didn't care.

It was strange. I felt good. Not of that "good" of mission accomplished, nor of the "good" of having won a fight. It was different. Warmer. Calmer.

I hadn't had that kind of peace in a long time. Of being in one place without thinking about the next. Of looking at Izuku without wanting to calculate the future or fix anything. Just look at him. Just love him. To be there.

And yes, fuck, it sounded cheesy.

But there, underwater, I didn't feel like an idiot for thinking about it.

I guess something in me is changing. Not much, I'm not a saint. Nor do I want to be.

But if this is maturing... well. Not so bad.

I turned off the shower, dried quickly, and walked out with the towel around my waist. Izuku was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, fastening his watch. As soon as he saw me, he turned.

And his face was worth all the effort.

The shirt fit him like a glove. The white highlighted his skin, freckles and eye color. The sleeves marked his arms, the collar was just right, the pants made a good figure, and on top of that he had combed his hair well. A miracle.

“So?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What? The clothes?”

“No, you didn't destroy your shirt when you put it on.” I said, as I took out my own clothes. “I thought you were going to need butter to get in there.”

Izuku laughed.

“It was difficult, but I like it a lot. Although it may not seem like it, it is comfortable. And... you chose it, so...”

He did not finish the sentence. But it was not necessary.

He said it all with that look. With that expression he puts on when he's proud of something I did. As if he didn't expect me to have that kind of gesture. As if he was still surprised.

I dressed quickly, adjusting my cuffs, fastening the buttons up to my neck, and picking up my things.

“Ready?” I said, opening the door.

“That's it.”

We looked at each other for a second longer. He came over and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you for this.” he murmured.

“It's not over yet.” I replied, winking at him as we walked out into the hallway.

And deep down, although it was difficult for me to admit it, I was also grateful.

For him.

For us.

For still being here, fucking alive, after all.

The restaurant was in an alleyway, half-hidden among other noisier and more touristy places, as if it didn't need to shout for people to notice. At night, the warm lights of the entrance seemed like a silent invitation. It had that unmistakable aroma of oregano, freshly baked bread, and tomato sauce simmering. It wasn't the most elegant place in the world, but that's exactly why I had chosen it. Neither formal nor shabby. Perfect.

“An Italian restaurant?” Izuku asked when he saw the carved wooden sign.

I nodded.

“There aren't many of them in house, and I know you like pasta almost as much as your mother does.” I said, opening the door before he could utter any of his cloying phrases.

“I love it.” he murmured, coming in behind me like a child who has just been promised an expensive dessert.

We were greeted by a waiter in a white shirt and maroon vest. No ridiculous suits or neck-length ties. Not bad.

“I booked in Bakugo's name.”

“Yes, this way, please.” the waiter said, guiding us between dark wood tables, exposed brick walls, and a few shelves with dusty bottles of wine that probably no one had touched since 1990. Instrumental music was playing, soft, without becoming annoying.

We were seated at a table for two next to a window that looked out onto the street. There was a small candle lit in the center, and while I don't like the "catalog romantic" vibe, I admit the atmosphere was fine. Quiet and intimate.

Izuku sat across from me, relaxed.

“This place is beautiful.” he said, looking around. “It has that cozy air. As if you were having dinner at someone's house.”

“As long as they don't want to put the spoonful in my mouth, all right.” I snorted, though I didn't mean it. Well, not quite.

“So you knew it before?”

“I found it looking up on the internet weeks ago.” I admitted, without giving it too much importance. “I read that pasta is good. That was enough for me.”

Izuku looked at me, with that mixture of surprise and affection of his, as if everything I did seemed more special to him than it really was.

“You worked hard.” he said quietly. “All of this... the hotel, the park, the reserve... Not me... I didn't expect it.”

“And that? Do you think I'm so incapable?”

“No! I don't mean that badly. It's just that you're not one of these kinds of things.”

“What kind of things?” I asked, frowning. I like to make him uncomfortable.

“You know... plan romantic surprises.” he replied, imitating my tone. Then he laughed, a little embarrassed. “It's just that... It has been an incredible day. And to know that it was all your idea... I do not know. It makes me happy.”

He was silent for a few seconds.

“Very happy, really.” he added, looking down. “And I don't want you to think that I don't value it. Because I value it so much.”

His fingers trembled a little as he fiddled with the napkin. And he had that look when he gets too excited and doesn't want to look like an idiot: his eyes shining, his jaw clenched so he wouldn't cry, and his eyebrows raised in that gesture of pure tenderness that made him look younger than he was.

And there I was.

Not knowing very well what to do with all that emotion.

Because inside, I felt... proud. Happy. Fucking satisfied to have surprised him, to see that he was enjoying it. But I also had a knot in my stomach. Because I wasn't used to this. That things would go well. To have someone looking at me as if everything I did was valuable. As if I were valuable.

And yes, it sounded pathetic even inside my head.

But that's how I felt.

“You don't have anything to be thankful for.” I said, snatching the napkin from his hands with a dry gesture, just to stop the shaking. “Just... Enjoy. That's it.”

He looked at me, smiled, and nodded silently.

The waiter returned with the cards. We asked to share, although I admit I did it for him. I'm more of a person who eats my own and doesn't touch someone else's. But he enjoys snacking on everything. We ended up ordering some spinach cannelloni with ricotta, a ham and arugula pizza and a plate of gnocchi with pesto.

“I hope you're hungry.” I said.

“I'm always hungry.” he answered. And he was right. Izuku seems like a bottomless pit when it comes to eating.

While we waited, we kept talking about the day. Of the roller coaster. From my surprise cry. From the "I love you" to the wind and my heart-stopping face frozen in the photo.

“I don't regret it.” he said, crossing his arms with a mischievous air. “I saw you so tense... I knew I had to release something strong so you wouldn't squeeze the bar so hard that you broke it.”

“I almost broke the bar, yes. But it was because of your scream, not because of the fall.”

“Well, it was worth it. You had a funny face in the photo...” He smiled.

The food arrived, and damn, it smelled like glory. Hot, spicy, with bubbly cheese. We cut, we taste, we pass bites as if we were newbies on a date, as if we hadn't been living together for more than a year.

“It's amazing.” he said, after the first bite of the gnocchi.

“I know. Don't get attached, those are mine.”

Izuku laughed. He handed me half a slice of his pizza. I didn't say no.

And in the middle of the second dish, almost without thinking, he blurted out:

“I love you.”

Like this. As if nothing had happened.

And the worst thing —or the best— is that I did not hesitate to answer:

“I more.”

It came out so naturally that it took me two seconds to process it.

Fuck. What just came out of my mouth?

But I didn't take it down. I didn't regret it. I didn't even blink.

Izuku didn't question it either. He just smiled. He closed his eyes for a second. As if he kept it to himself.

We finished dinner with laughter, the occasional nudge and traces of flour at the corner of our mouths. We paid —I insisted, of course— and went out on the street again.

The night was warm, with that light breeze that caresses you more than annoys. The lampposts flashed gold on the sidewalk. And we walked. Unhurried. We didn't even say much. Just... We walked side by side.

As soon as we entered the hotel, I felt something in me come loose. As if all the self-control I'd forced myself to maintain during the day —with the roller coaster, the big wheel, dinner, and that fucking well-fitting shirt— had nearly burst.

And now, with that corridor almost empty, barely illuminated by the soft lights of the hotel, I couldn't contain myself anymore.

I turned to him, pushed him against the door before he could say anything, and kissed him on the neck. Not in a soft way. This time there was no sweetness.

I felt his back arch barely, his hands clinging to my shirt. He called out my name in a stifled sigh. His neck tasted of soap and sweat. My mouth slid down his skin urgently, kissing, biting, marking.

“Kacchan.” he gasped close to my ear. “The key...”

I separated for half a second, only to look for the card in my pocket. I got a clumsy laugh out of him when I missed twice before I hit the slit, because I couldn't think straight, not with his body against mine, with his breath on my neck, with that damn sound he made when he surrendered to me.

Finally, the door opened with a beep. I didn't even wait for him to come in by himself. I pushed him inside and closed the door with my foot, guiding him —or rather pushing him— to the bed.

I threw him on the mattress and threw myself on it as if I hadn't touched him for days. I kissed him hard, eagerly. I felt his hands run down my back, clinging to my shoulders. His tongue sought mine, and our breaths mingled with wet clicks and gasping for breath.

It was a lot. Too much.

The day had been fucking perfect, and that disturb me more than I'd like to admit. I wasn't used to everything going well. To have someone look at me as he did. To feel so loved for so long in a row.

And yes, in some weird way, that turned me on.

My lips ran down his neck, down his collarbone, until I paused for a moment, remembering the stupid word Izuku had mentioned when the therapist dared to ask what he wanted from me in private.

Delicacy.

I gritted my teeth. I took a deep breath against his skin.

It wasn't my style. It had never been. But I didn't want to ruin this. Not today.

So I slowed down. Just a little. Enough to make my lips softer, my hands not to squeeze his waist so much, my kisses to become more precise. Loaded with intention.

Izuku seemed to notice it, because he exhaled a long, trembling sigh, the kind he only lets go when he is completely surrendered. His hands began to pull at my shirt impatiently.

“Take it off.” he murmured, his voice hoarse, cracking.

I sat up, still on his hips, and looked down at him. I held his wrists, his arms spread out on the bed, his hair messed up, his lips parted. Fuck. He was so handsome so it even hurt.

I sat down on him and put my hands to the buttons of my shirt. One by one. Slowly. With all intentions.

I could have done it as usual. In one go. By ripping it off. Breaking buttons like a savage. But not this time.

This time I enjoyed his gaze fixed on me. Of how his pupils dilated with each button I released. Of how his chest rose and fell to the rhythm of my breathing. Of how, even in the warm gloom of the room, I could feel that he desired me.

When the last button came loose, I took off my shirt and threw it around without looking. I went down again, my lips brushing his jaw.

“Your turn.” I whispered.

He sat up, still under me, and helped me take off his shirt. I unbuttoned it quickly —that fucking shirt I'd picked out for him, because it highlighted just enough of his muscles to drive me crazy—. It slipped into his arms and fell to the ground.

I kissed him again.

This time with a more contained rhythm, but no less intense. My lips ran down his chest, stopping at every bend of his skin. I bit him once, gently, and felt him shudder. I went down more. Down his abdomen, warm and firm under my lips, to the edge of his pants.

There I stopped.

My fingers slid through the zipper. I haven't opened it yet. I just pressed with my palm, caressing the bulge that was already marked against the fabric. I heard him let out a low moan, squeezing his eyelids. I looked at him from below, with my hand there.

“Fuck, Deku... You're very hard.”

He just smiled. Nervous.

I took off his pants, this time with less delicacy than he would have liked. I was in a hurry. Need. Eagerness.

He lifted his hips to help me. He was completely naked in front of me, lying on the bed, his breathing uncontrollable and his eyes glazed with anticipation.

I stopped for a few seconds just to look at him.

And then I lowered my head.

I took it with my mouth, slow at first, savoring it, listening to how his body reacted to my every move. Izuku moaned, squirmed, grabbed my hair. It let him lose control. I wanted that. I wanted him to know how much I cared about making him feel that way. Because this was also part of the tenderness that he liked so much.

My hands gripped his thighs, keeping him open, trembling, vulnerable. With each moan of his, my own excitement grew. And yet I didn't stop. I wanted to hear it a little more.

I don't know how long I was down there, surrendered to him, feeling his body tense under my mouth and let go, without filters, without shame. I liked that about Izuku. That he did not hide in bed, that he did not try to appear stronger or more prudent than he was. Here it was him. Authentic and vulnerable. And that drove me crazy.

But when I climbed back up, leaving a path of wet kisses down the belly, the chest, the neck, something changed.

Izuku greeted me with open lips, eyes glazed, still panting. He kissed me without waiting for me to arrive completely, as if he needed my mouth to survive. And as our tongues intertwined, I felt his hands move over my body. One slipped between us until it found me. He closed his fingers around my erection decisively, beginning to stroke over the clothes with firm, calculated pressure, just as he liked to do. As if he knew every millimeter of me by heart.

And he did.

I had to separate for a second, close my eyes and take a deep breath. I felt his mouth go down to my neck, at first gently... but then stronger. He licked me. He sucked me. And then he bite me.

He didn't always do it. But when he did, I lost control.

“Mm...” I let out a groan, surprised at first, but not pushing him away. On the contrary. I tilted my head, gave him more space. I wanted him to. I wanted to feel that damn mouth marking me.

My hips moved instinctively against his hand, looking for more, asking for more.

And then, without saying anything, I sat up.

I stood beside the bed, my eyes fixed on him. His body still naked and agitated on the jumbled sheets, his lips swollen, his cheeks red, and that look of his that burned me more than any explosion.

I put my hands on my belt, unfastened it without haste. I took off my pants. Not with theatricality, but not in a hurry either. There was no longer any need to play the tough or impatient guy. He already knew me. He had already seen myself like this a thousand times. But this time... Fuck, this time it felt different.

I was standing in front of him, completely exposed, and for some damn reason, it wasn't just desire. There was something else in my chest, something heavy and at the same time warm.

I climbed back into bed, on top of him, but now with more control. I straddled him, kneeling on either side of his torso, but higher, until I was practically sitting on his chest.

His face was right in front of me. Right in front of my erection.

And that... That killed me.

The sight was absurd. Unreal. Izuku staring at me from below, his mouth half-open, with that expression of desire and surrender so his.

I didn't have to say anything.

One of his hands went up to my hip, the other wrapped around my member. He masturbated me first with his hand, slowly. As if he wanted to provoke me. As if he knew that I wanted to move, to take control, to ram his mouth. But I didn't. I stood still. I forced myself to stay put.

And then, I felt his tongue, his mouth.

The first wet touch, soft, almost reverent.

My breath was cut off. I threw my head back and let out a low growl.

I  was letting me do it, I was leaving him the rhythm. Something in me—something that was probably the fault of all these damn days we'd gone to therapy, of the walks, of the fucking big wheel, of seeing his happy face over and over again— was telling me that I didn't have to be the one setting the pace this time.

I could trust him with this.

And fuck, he did it well.

His lips closed around me and his hand accompanied the movements. He went up and down with precision, alternating between licking and sucking, as if it were his fucking duty to make me lose my mind. He looked at me from time to time, and that was worse. Or better, I don't know. But every time he did it, I felt like I was going to explode.

My body vibrated, trembled inside.

I didn't say anything. It was not necessary. My hands pressed against the wall in front of me, my thighs tense on either side of his body. I stood in that position, motionless, trembling with every lick, every gulp.

I didn't want to stop him.

I didn't want this to end yet.

“Ugh... Izuku...” I muttered in a husky tone than I thought possible. It wasn't even a warning. It was a sigh. A thank you.

He responded by increasing the intensity. His mouth became firmer, more insistent. Each time he sank, his tongue ran over the edge, caressing me in ways he knew disarmed.

And I, ficking still. Biting my tongue to keep from screaming. So as not to push his head. Not to take control.

Because this time it was his turn.

And I actually loved it.

I loved how he adored me with his mouth, how he touched me with his hands, how he looked at me as if I were his own.

Because I am. I'm yours.

I don't know at what point I became so soft. Well, soft is not the word. We've changed our posture, and right now, lying on my back, with Deku sitting on me —so slow, so careful— there's nothing exactly soft about my body.

He had taken his time to answer me. I asked him the damn question with all the letters, using that deep voice that he likes so much, and he still blushed. We had been naked for a while, with heavy breath and my erection on his face, and yet he blushed. I don't know whether to laugh or give up.

"Tonight... passive. But I want to set the pace," he had replied. And I nodded, of course. Because although I'm a bastard with character, I also know how to give in when it's worth it. And Izuku is worth the damn it.

Now I have it on me, a hand on my chest, lips parted, slowly lowering into place. His breath rages as soon as he receives me whole. I hold my breath too. It's so warm, so narrow... I don't know how I haven't exploded yet.

I let him do it. I promised myself that. Even though my whole body screams from grabbing his hips and setting the rhythm —as I've done a thousand times before— I restrain myself. I force myself to hold his gaze as he begins to move, with slow, almost timid movements. But what it lacks in drive it makes up for in precision. It's like he study every reaction of mine with that nerdy head he has.

And damn, he's doing great.

His hands are still resting on my chest. Instinctively, I tense the muscles under his fingers. I know he likes it. Some time ago he admitted it in therapy, and I am many things, but not stupid. He smiles, looking down at me. That smile of his, half broken by pleasure, half full of affection, is a trap. I swear. More dangerous than any villain. It has me trapped.

He keeps going up and down, little by little, barely increasing the speed. His thighs shake a little. I still don't touch him. My hands rest on the sheets, on each side of my body, even though my palms are burning from not grabbing him.

He looks at me. That look. As if he really saw me. As if he understand everything I don't say.

“Kacchan.” he whispers, almost like a secret. His voice sounds raspy and broken by heavy breathing. And the damn tremor that runs through his body electrifies me from within.

I did not answer. I can't. If I speak now, it gets out of control. So I close my eyes and let it go on. He moves his hips more decisively now. There is no longer space between us. Each time he goes down, my hips barely go up, like a pent-up impulse. I'm not stealing the rhythm, I'm just accompanying him. I swear.

A drop of sweat falls down his temple. I want to lick it. I want to turn him, make him mine in a thousand ways, elicit moans from him until he is voiceless. But I put up with it. Because tonight it's up to him to decide.

He lowers his body, rests his hands on my shoulders. He kisses me. An open, deep and wet kiss. As if he clung to me so as not to collapse. My hands, at last, rest on his buttocks. I don't guide him, I don't push him. I just touch it. I caress him like someone who holds something fragile without admitting it.

He pulls away from the kiss and rests his forehead on mine. He whispers something to me that I don't quite hear: "thank you." I think. Or maybe "I love you." It doesn't matter. I get it. I feel it in the way he squeezes me inside, in the way he moves, in the way he looks at me.

Then he pick up the pace. Just a little. Just enough for the tension in my abdomen to start to get out of control. My fingers cling to his buttocks. I can't help it anymore. My hips lift with him, my gasps deepen.

“Mm... Fuck.” I murmured, hoarse.

His name slips from my lips like a groan. I open my eyes and see him: red cheeks, glazed eyes, body trembling.

And right there, in the midst of the chaos, he smiles. And I know he knows it. That he has me. That he has defeated me.

But I don't care. Because this time, there is no fight to win.

It ended so well that it almost makes me angry.

I don't know if it was the slow pace, the way Izuku moved on top of me, the tension built up throughout the day, or just that dense silence that forms when two people are so well connected that they don't need to say anything. But we ended up together. Me inside him, and he cumming on my torso. There were no screams, no names torn in the air, just a couple of hoarse gasps, our bodies convulsing in synchrony, and that last kiss, dirty and slow, that seemed like a promise.

Deku fell on me later, limply, his forehead pressed against my collarbone, breathing as if he had just run a marathon. It took me a few seconds to get back into the world, too. But when I did, I realized how satisfied I felt.

Not only physically. Although, of course, that too.

Was... Something else. Something deeper. More annoying too. Because feeling this good with someone, with him, makes me feel unprotected.

Deku was the first to rise, muttering a "I'll be back in a moment" in a voice still trembling. I saw him walking to the bathroom half-staggering. I watched him disappear through the door, and I stood there for a while longer, with my arm stretched out on the empty bed, listening to the noise of the faucet and his movements on the other side.

A few minutes later, I heard his voice from the bathroom:

“Kacchan, you can come now if you want.”

I got up reluctantly. Not because I didn't want to, but because every muscle in my body was asking to keep lying there. But I had to clean up the mess he had painted on me. Literally.

I went in and the first thing I saw was the curtain of the bathtub drawn. I knew he was behind, because the shadow was slightly silhouetted against the fabric. I didn't see it well, but I didn't need much to imagine it either. I had seen it all, and still... I wanted more.

“You've been comfortable, eh?” I muttered with a grimace as I approached the bathroom. “Specially abundant today... Just when you cum on top of me.”

There was no immediate response, just a stifled sigh that made me smile. I grabbed a wet washcloth from the toiletry bag and started wiping my abdomen in front of the mirror.

Then I saw myself. Or rather, I saw it.

I hardly noticed it at first. I was too busy cleaning up fast to get out and throw myself back on the bed. But then I turned my neck just barely, and there they were. Not one. Two damn hickeys. Dark, purple, one on top of the other almost like a signature. Fucking nerd.

I grunted quietly, running the washcloth around my neck without much conviction. They were not going to disappear like this.

“What the hell is this, Midoriya?”

He laughed from the bathtub, his voice muffled but loaded with fun.

“Well, you let yourself be done...”

I rolled my eyes. Of course I let myself. I was so focused on not ruining his rhythm, on letting him be in control, that when he started licking my neck, all I could think about was how much I liked him and how it felt.

“You look proud.” I snorted.

“Maybe I am. I don't always manage to mark you like that.”

"As if he needed to mark me so that he would know that I was his." The phrase formed in my mind, soft, cheesy, and sticky. I didn't say it. I would never say it. But there it stayed, vibrating between my lungs.

I finished cleaning myself and threw the washcloth into the bin, taking one last look at the shadow of his body behind the curtain.

I left the bathroom before I said anything stupid and threw myself back into bed. I didn't bother to put on clothes. I just got under the covers and waited. A few minutes later, he came out wrapped in the towel, his hair dripping water from his forehead. He looked at me with that little face he makes when he doesn't know if he's going to say something ridiculous or important.

He got into bed with me and without saying anything else, he leaned on my chest. His arm crossed my abdomen and hugged me as if we were in the middle of a harsh winter and I was the only source of warmth.

“You know what's funny?” he murmured.

“Surely not.”

He laughed.

“I didn't think this trip was going to be like this. I knew you had planned something, but... a damn amusement park? You make me happy, Kacchan.”

I felt something squirm inside me. Whenever he says things like that to me, something in my brain wants to defend itself. As if I could not accept that, for him, I am more than my flaws.

“Don't get used to it. I won't do this every month.” I growled, half-jokingly.

“Once a year is enough for me... If you keep looking at me like you looked at me on the big wheel.”

I gently patted him on the hip.

“Shut up, you nerd.”

We were silent for a few seconds. His head was still resting on my chest, right above the heart. He breathed easy, and so did I. Like that was the only place where it all fit. Where everything calmed down.

“Hey, Kacchan...”

“What?”

“Do you think other guests have listened to us? You know...”

“Who cares?”

“I do...”

“Well, fuck them.” I replied, without thinking. “I'm sure they've enjoyed your horny hero moans, the very perverted ones...”

Izuku gave a short, soft, muttered laugh. Enough to shake us both against the bed.

“How romantic you are.” He joked.

“You shut up or I'll give you a hickey.”

“Hey! You're a copycat!”

“I also want to leave a mark, it's fair.”

“You leave marks of a different kind... In the heart.” he answered, and for a second, it stopped sounding like a joke.

I turned, rolling it with me, until we were sideways, face to face. I hit him with a soft headbutt on the forehead.

“Don't say things like that if you don't want me to soften.” I murmured.

“Soft? You?”

“It's a threat.”

He laughed again, this time louder, and I couldn't help laughing too.

That's how we ended the night. Laughing at any stupidity, entangled under the covers.

Chapter Text

I was awakened by a wet sensation between my legs.

The first thing I thought was that, if Izuku had peed on the bed, I wasn't going to suck that again.

But no. It wasn't that.

And it wasn't a bad dream either. It was... fucking the opposite.

I stood still for a second, still between sleep and consciousness. The room was dark, the air fresh because of the air conditioning. The sheets were messy, I was on my back, and... yes, that was definitely a mouth between my thighs. His tongue. His damn expert tongue.

“Really?” I growled, the hoarse voice of just waking up.

The only response I got was a slight, wet suction, followed by the rubbing of his hand against my hip. I laughed under my breath, half surprised, half fired up. I closed my eyes for a second, letting myself be carried away by the warmth of his mouth.

“If I ever know this, I'll give you a surprise trip every week.” I murmured, almost jokingly. Almost.

I felt him laugh lightly against my skin. The bastard was enjoying it.

And so do I, why to lie. Who wouldn't, wake up with your boyfriend between the sheets, dedicated, focused as if he were on a damn U.A. mission? I stirred a little, dropped my head against the pillow and ran a hand over my own abdomen, trying not to lose my mind so quickly.

But then, I opened one eye. I managed to look at the clock on the table. The hands returned the worst possible response: 09:42 a.m.

“Fuck…” I snorted, dropping my head back again. “Izuku...”

He looked up, still moving.

“We have a whole damn park to go through.” I said between my teeth, but without much conviction. I was having too much trouble thinking about horror houses and roller coasters with his tongue making me see stars.

“I'm helping you start the day with energy.” he whispered, in that soft voice he used when he knew he was winning.

And damn, he was.

“Do it quickly, then.” I growled. And for the record, I hate to have to say that.

I watched him smile for a second before leaning over again. I closed my eyes and let what he had started finish. He did, of course. Faster than I would have liked, but fuck... he didn't leave me empty-handed.

I moaned his name as the end came, the back arched, the sheets crumpled in my fists. The bastard knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing. And I allowed him to. No, worse: I was grateful.

When he climbed back up, he threw himself on me with his typical "good teamwork" smile, and we kissed. It was dirty. I'm not used to tasting my own. But I didn't care. I actually liked that kind of chaos.

“We could stay here all morning.” he murmured against my lips.

“We could... but we're not going to do it.” I replied, giving him a light bite on the jaw. “Move, Deku, if we lose quick access to new areas because of you, I'll throw you off the highest castle you find.”

We both laughed. Damn, we were ridiculous.

We get up. Despite the tiredness, the little we had slept, none of us complained. We dressed without too many words, in that strange synchrony that we had built over the years. Pants, T-shirt, shoes. He combed his hair a little in front of the mirror, I messed up his hair as soon as he had it ready.

“Kacchan.” he protested.

“Much better that way.”

We go down the glass elevator. The transparent walls revealed the entire hotel complex: the garden with stone fountains, the vine-covered pergolas, and beyond, the reflection of the park peeking out from between the buildings. Izuku stared down, his face resting on the glass. I watched him in profile, in silence. It wasn't out of pretentiousness or anything like that —at least that's what I repeated to myself—. I just stared at him because... well, he looked fucking good like that. Calm. Happy.

And yes, I was thinking about that morning, too. And last night. And in the damn big wheel, and in his damn smile, and in how he looks at me when he thinks I don't notice.

“What?” he said suddenly, noticing my gaze.

“Nothing.” I lied.

“You're very quiet...”

“I'm remembering.” I confessed. “A few things.”

He smiled. He said nothing more. He knew exactly what I meant.

We arrived at the hotel's dining room and took a table next to the main fountain. The sun was already shining softly over the garden, and the sound of water falling through the stone enveloped us gently. The pergolas cast jagged shadows, and the aroma of freshly baked bread and coffee filled the air.

“It is like a dream.” Izuku murmured, opening his napkin.

“Don't fuck with me, Deku. Don't even think about getting poetic at this hour.” I replied, although I smiled a little.

“I'm just saying that... I could get used to this. Breakfast with you, being out and about, beautiful gardens, warm rolls...”

“And good morning blowjobs, right?”

He choked on the juice. He coughed, looking at me with his cheeks lit up.

“Kacchan!”

“What? You said it. "Breakfasts with you."”

“I didn't mean that!” But he couldn't stop laughing, and neither could I.

We had breakfast in peace. We shared some fruit, pastries, and he stole half of my coffee without asking my permission. I let him do it. Because I'm softening, because I want him, and because seeing him happy makes my day start better than any damn double espresso.

And so, between bites, silly laughter and the silent promise of an unforgettable second day, our breakfast ended.

We got up, looked at each other, and went back to the park.

This time we went straight to the Aquatic Zone. Repellent for some adults, but not for us. We were going in a "pretty competition" mode from breakfast, so why not get a little wet?

The floor was soaked and I mentally calculated how many times I would avoid slipping. We were both barefoot, with short shorts and a T-shirt, ready for the water games. There were fountains and water attractions in every corner.

We approach a giant water slide, the kind where you get on a double float. Izuku sat in front, I behind, holding him as if he were a human boat. At the top, he didn't say anything, just turned and smiled with that "this is fucking crazy" look.

The descent was chaotic. Cold water, air burning your lungs and the boat overtaking wild curves. I screamed. He screamed more. As it passed the final bend, the boat capsized — well, I made it capsize — falling into a pool and splashing more people. We got up soaked, he grabbed my waist and gave me a gentle elbow.

“You're stupid…” he whispered, but laughing.

“Come on, didn't you say you were hot?” I answered.

He shook his head and shook his soaked hair. The drama lasted 3 seconds, then we laughed like fools.

As we dried near a fountain of jets, Izuku stumbled. "Be careful!" I jumped, grabbed him. I picked him up, still joking, and looked at him with false authority.

“Any day you'll break something.” I whispered.

“I save lives, but not myself.” he replied as if that convinced him.

And we stayed there for a few seconds, in silence, breathing hard.

Then we went to a nearby post. Plain burgers, hot dogs, fries… I went in first and chose a classic combo. He followed me, ordered a hot dog with caramelized onions.

The sun was going down a little, and I watched him eat, biting his lip every time a large piece got stuck. When he went to order his famous strawberry slushie —he'd been saying all damn morning that he wanted one— I decided to steal a few sips from it. More than necessary. And of course, he complained.

“That was mine!” he scolded me.

“Sure, keep dreaming.” I replied, slapping his arm jokingly. “Since when is yours not mine and mine is not yours?”

He made gestures of disgust, but the second he was laughing again. Later, he stole some of my chips. A sugar rivalry.

After lunch, we were encouraged to go to the Terror Zone, because otherwise we would regret not having passed through all the sections. We start with the haunted house. The typical ambient lights, sounds of chains, giant spiders jumping in our faces, and horrible actors with electric saws.

Izuku ran his hand over his chest five times in a row, seriously, he was scared more than he admitted. I made him scream once or twice, making an unexpected squeal. Until we reach the panic tunnel. That dark corridor, with walls that opened, screams of dolls, sounds of false footsteps... and an actor who jumped with a plastic axe.

Izuku was joking, he took a step forward, his chest straight, trying to appear to be fine. A lie. When the "vile actor in a mask" jumped up, he turned around and grabbed my arm.

“Holy Moly, what a fright!” He screamed, hand on his chest.

I stopped suddenly, surprised. I had also been scared, but I stopped because he came closer. He almost hung on me, resting his head on my shoulder and breathing heavily.

“What a hero.” I said, laughing.

“Shut up. I didn't expect it.” he whispered. And there he stayed, still. Just breathing.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I liked that he used me that way. I liked to protect him, even if I was angry to admit it.

Almost at the end of the day, when the sun began to set, we walked towards the Fair Area, the last one. Bumper cars, colored lights, pop music, happy faces. The atmosphere was different: more sociable, calmer, with various attractions of low intensity. I'll admit, the bustle had its charm, even for someone like me who normally hates unnecessary noises.

Izuku slammed into a sprint, as if a spell had been cast on him. I blinked with annoyance, thinking that a hyperactive squirrel or a flying balloon had crossed him... but no. In front of us was a guy blowing soap bubbles. Not normal bubbles, no. Huge bubbles, the kind that float like jellyfish in the air and explode slowly.

“Look at that, Kacchan! Have you seen the size of those?” he said, his eyes shining as if he had just witnessed magic.

“Do you really get excited about that?” I snorted, but I kept watching the larger bubble stretch into the air before exploding with an iridescent glow.

He looked like a fucking kid. But a funny one. One who deserved to be looked at so silly without anyone saying anything to him. So I didn't say anything. I just crossed my arms and let him enjoy the moment. I enjoyed it too, although I would never say it out loud.

We continue walking and we come across one of those fair stalls where hoops are thrown. "Score five and win a prize," read a half-hung sign. The prizes were figures of heroes, a bit cartoonish, but quite well done. Izuku approached with that mixture of excitement and nervousness.

“Shall we try?” he asked me.

“You first. So I see how badly you do it.” I replied with a half-smile.

He paid the manager, they gave him five rings. The first one he scored. The second, too. And as he was about to launch the third, he frowned as if he was adjusting a war strategy.

“Relax, Deku. You're not saving the world.” I said, amused.

He failed.

He clicked his tongue, but laughed.

“Almost...”

“Pathetic-“ I said, pushing him with my shoulder as I approached.

I paid, grabbed the hoops, and didn't even think much. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. All in. Clean. Precise.

The guy at the stall looked at me with some surprise.

“Wow, boy. You can choose a prize.”

I turned to Izuku. His mouth was half-open, still processing how easy I had done it.

“Which one do you want?” I asked, bluntly.

His face lit up. Literally. He pointed without hesitation at a figure of All Might in classic costume. I grimaced, of course, because he was as predictable as ever. But I asked the manager, took it and handed it to him without saying anything else.

He grabbed it with both hands and looked at me as if I had given him a piece of moon.

“Thank you.” he said, almost whispering.

“It's nothing. Make sure you don't break it when you put it in your suitcase.” I replied, looking at him out of the corner of my eye, although I couldn't help but let a slight smile slip through my finger.

We advanced a little further and saw a group of children with cork guns, shooting at small moving targets. Every time they hit the target, a little light came on and they won tickets. One of them had more tickets than he could carry.

“I do that with my eyes closed.” I said, crossing my arms.

Izuku looked at me with an arched eyebrow.

“Do you really need to compete with kids now?”

“I don't need to. I want to.”

As soon as I said it, one of the brats heard me and turned to me with a defiant face.

“Oh, yes?! Let's see if you can beat my record, old sir!”

"Old sir? I don't get over 25 damn little boy...". I growled silently at him. I was burning to compete with kids, but I wasn't going to back down. The stall attendant gave me a gun, and the boy stared.

Izuku tried to calm me down.

“Katsuki... You don't have to...”

“Shh.” I interrupted him. I was focused.

The music began and the targets moved as if possessed. I fired. One shot. Two. Three. Ten. Each with surgical precision. Izuku looked at me with that mixture of horror and resignation.

In the end, the scoreboard sounded and the manager whistled.

“Absolute record!” he shouted.

The boy gaped at me. I turned to him and stuck my tongue out at him.

“Good luck next time, brat.”

“You're a pro! That doesn't count!” he shouted as he crossed his arms and began to pout.

I felt good. I guess there are things that never change.

Izuku covered his face with both hands, dead of embarrassment.

“I can't believe you just humiliated a child.” he murmured.

“It wasn't humiliation. It was... a life lesson.”

“Of course, Kacchan...”

We walked away laughing, and although he shook his head, he couldn't stop smiling. He was red from laughing, and I felt lighter than usual.

It was already completely dark when we sat down on a small hill overlooking the park. The music had dropped in volume, and only the murmur of the people could be heard. Then, without warning, the fireworks began.

The first explosions were smooth, as if they were testing the terrain. Then came the colors. Red, gold, blue. Flower shapes, spirals, fans. It was a fairly well choreographed show, to be honest.

Izuku hugged his legs, with the figure of All Might in his lap, and raised his head.

“It's beautiful.” he said.

I didn't answer. I only looked at him out of the corner of my eye. With the lights shining on his face, reflected in his eyes, he looked like someone from another world. A better one.

“You're drooling.” he murmured without looking at me.

“You're talking about yourself, nerd.” I replied, gently pushing him with my shoulder.

We stood like this, in silence, as the sky broke into light and color above our heads.

And for a second, I forgot the noise, the past, the mistakes.

There was only this.

He and I.

We returned to the hotel with our feet in shit. And I am not exaggerating. I felt the muscles of my legs tight, my back heavy, my fingers swollen from grabbing things or getting into silly games with Deku... But I also felt a different calm, one of those that I am not used to having. The kind of tiredness that doesn't bother because it comes from a day well lived.

We didn't talk much as we walked through the lobby. I was too amused watching his wet curls hang down, still messy from the jets of the water area. He wore his shirt half close to the body, and although before that would have put me in a bad mood out of pure territorial instinct —I don't like when people see him like that—, today I only got a slight smile. One of those that I hope no one else sees.

We enter the hotel restaurant. A more elegant place than our looks allowed, but not that I cared. No one there seemed to judge. There were tourists in flip-flops, kids running between tables, and a couple in sunglasses wearing as if they were celebrities. We were not so out of tune. The only thing that was out of place... It was how calm I felt.

We sit down and order anything without thinking too much. Something hot, something fast. We were exhausted. We don't even talk too much. Izuku, in front of me, had that expression between happy and sleepy, his eyes half-closed but bright. He played with the rim of his glass, as if he still had the energy to play shy. I only watched him from time to time, letting the silence envelop us.

When we finished, we went up to the room. The glass elevator offered us the same view as this morning, only this time the park was no longer shining. The lights looked farther away, more dim. As if they knew this was over.

Izuku entered the room first and, without saying a word, dropped face down on the bed. As if it were a carpet.

“But what are you doing, you idiot?” I growled. “You're soaked and sweaty. The bed is clean.”

“This bed has withstood 3 cums, Kacchan.” he murmured without moving a muscle. “A little sweat isn't going to hurt it.”

I approached. I grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him up just enough so that I could kiss his mouth, squeezing hard. I wanted to hit him with my tongue. He deserved it. Because he is rough, because he is adorable, because he still smells of chlorine and sugar.

“To the bathtub. Now.” I ordered, my lips still brushing his.

He gave out something akin to laughter, more exhalation than sound. He allowed himself to be dragged along without protest. We went into the bathroom together. I closed the door with a gentle push and while he got rid of the clothes, I turned on the bathtub faucet.

We were moving slowly. Not out of shame. It was due to exhaustion. And yet, I felt that strange electricity when our skins brushed against each other in the rising steam. I climbed into the bathtub first, sinking to my chest with a long sigh. The water was hot. He stood for a second longer, watching.

“Come in.” I said without opening my eyes.

He sat on top of me and leaned against my chest. My arms wrapped around him reflexively. We didn't need words.

We stayed like that for a while. Listening only to the water moving from time to time and our breaths, rhythmic. I stroked his abdomen underwater with my fingertips, not intentionally, just to feel him there. With me.

“I don't want this to end.” he murmured after a while.

I didn't answer. Because I didn't want to either.

After the bath, we came out with our bodies as soft as plasticine. We dry ourselves without haste. We didn't even wear clothes, just bathrobes. Izuku walked to the bed and threw himself again, this time clean, and gave me a look that said more than any ridiculous phrase he could think of.

I sat down next to him. We had the TV on but we didn't watch it. We had low lights but they were not necessary. We were together. Last night in the hotel.

“You know what?” he said, in a low voice, as if the noise might break something. “I thought you were going to hate this. All this. The park, so much hustle and bustle, sleeping in a bed that is not yours...”

I snorted, cocking my head.

“And who tells you that I haven't hated it?”

He laughed. And so did I, a little.

“Thank you for bringing me.” he added, more seriously.

I looked at him. His green eyes were shining as if reflecting the fireworks of tonight. I didn't say anything. I just walked over and kissed him again, this time slower.

We settled into bed. He with his head on my shoulder, me with my hand on his back. I don't know how long we were like this before I fell asleep. Maybe an hour. Maybe five minutes.

The last night was not the loudest, nor the most passionate, nor the most fun.

It was quiet. Intimate. Real.

And I didn't dare to say it out loud, but I did think about it, while I listened to his breathing get heavier next to mine I answered his question:

"It doesn't matter if I'm in an amusement park, in the noisiest place in the world or in a bed that isn't mine. As long as you are by my side I will feel at home."

Chapter Text

“¡...And then the fireworks show started just as we were leaving the last stall! It wasn't planned that way, but it was as if they were waiting for us.” Izuku spoke quickly, gesticulated even more, and smiled as if it came straight from his stomach. “And it wasn't just any show. They were fireworks with choreography. Kacchan didn't want to admit it, but I watched him swallow the urge to say "wow"!”

I crossed my arms and rolled my eyes. The therapist —again with her notebook and her patient expression— let out a small, brief laugh, without losing her composure.

“Sure, sure.” Izuku said, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at her, as if she'd been there too. “It was... It was beautiful. I don't usually take breaks, and Kacchan even less. But this time he organized everything, even without telling me anything, and...”

“That's it.” I growled. “You're going to tell her even what flavor the slush was.”

Izuku looked over his shoulder at me, with that half-guilty, half-proud smile. I snorted, although without malice. I didn't have the strength to be, not after how well everything had turned out. Or, rather, not after how well he had received it.

She nodded slowly, her eyes and attention returning to me for a second, though Izuku was still talking. It was that kind of silent look that doesn't interrupt, but says more than words.

Well done.

That's what I read in it. I almost shifted in the seat.

And the worst thing is that... It didn't bother me. It only made me uncomfortable. As if someone touched a scar that no longer hurts, but still reminds you that you have it.

“And, Katsuki, how did you feel about organizing all this?” The therapist asked as soon as she saw a slight gap in Izuku's river of words.

I sighed.

“I don't know. Strange.” I said first, because it was the most honest thing I could offer.

She waited. Izuku too, though with a raised eyebrow.

“It's not that it's hard for me to plan things. I can coordinate a tactical team without messing up. But... This is different. It was not about efficiency, nor about winning. It was something to do with him.” I murmured, lowering my voice a little, more to myself than to them. “I didn't know if it was going to work, or if I was going to enjoy it. But I did. I stepped out of my comfort zone. Quite a lot, I would say.”

“Yes, you did.” Izuku interrupted, his voice soft.

“Hey, let me talk!” I blurted out, half seriously, half jokingly. “It's my turn.”

The therapist looked at me again, still with that calm expression. Professional, yes, but also with something more human. As if she recognized the effort, not the result. And that was strange. People usually applaud only when you win, when you prove something. But she didn't need any more proof.

“Did you feel that you left your comfort zone only in the part of planning it?” she asked.

I shook my head. The silence stretched for a second, but then I spoke.

“No. Also being there. In everything. Sleeping outside. Eating without schedules. To endure queues, to endure the screams of children. Not having control of what came next... And not jumping every time something wasn't as I expected. I was really more relaxed than I thought posible.” I said, and I was almost surprised to hear myself say that out loud.

Izuku stared at me. He didn't say anything, but there was something in his posture, in his gaze... as if he had just confirmed that this was real. That the "we" we were trying to build wasn't temporary or just an effort of mine to look like a functional adult. It is... something else.

“An emotionally, too.” I added, almost as if I didn't think about it much, but I did. “I allowed myself to be there. Not only to do things for him, but to share them with him. Do not keep everything inside. Just... to be in that moment.”

She smiled barely.

“That's important, Bakugou. And brave.” she said.

I grunted, as I always do when things like that are said to me. But this time I didn't fight back. I didn't turn it down. I let the words float away.

“And you, Izuku?” she asked later. “How did you live that experience?”

Izuku straightened up, as if his battery had been turned on again.

“It was incredible. Not only because of the trip itself, but because of how we felt being together. There was no pressure, no misunderstandings, no strange silences. And when there were, we knew how to handle them.” he said enthusiastically. “It's as if... Everything we work on here will really begin to come together. Before, I was anxious to think that if I left him alone in something, he could get angry. But no. This time, even when I got lost in a store and came back late, he just told me "next time let me know." And that's it! Nothing else. I was waiting for an explosion of his. And it didn't happen!”

“Not everything I do involves an explosion, you know?” I growled at him without much strength.

“I know! But it is in most cases.” He replied with a lopsided smile.

The therapist wrote something down, but did not interrupt.

I, meanwhile, leaned back a little in the seat. I let the tension dissolve from my neck and shoulders. My body felt a little lighter.

Of course, I was not "cured". I don't even know if that exists. But... I was fine. Today I was.

And that, to me, was a fucking miracle.

I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me lately. Could it be that the therapist is brainwashing us or something similar, simply, I am less tired of doing the right thing. Yesterday she told us to try new things together. That we did not lose "the spark of the beginning", as if we were in a romantic comedy and not in the middle of the emotional collapse of being on the podium of the best heroes of the country. Still, I nodded. Because she was right. Because sometimes, the worst thing that can happen is to let everything become routine.

And because, damn, I was fine with him. Not happy. Not euphoric. But... It's been a long time since we've been so good together.

So this morning, when I woke up and saw him in the kitchen, disheveled, wearing an old T-shirt that he once stole from me —and that I am not going to claim because it suits him better than it does on me— I blurted out:

“Shall we go to the gym together today?”

He looked at me with those eyes wide open.

“Together? To the gym? You and me?”

“What's wrong? Do I have to invite you with flowers too?”

He laughed a little more than necessary.

“It's just that... we never go together. You always train in the morning and I train in the afternoon. And when we coincide we prefer to stay at home, or...”

“I know what we do when we coincide, nerd.” I folded my arms. “It's only an hour. We can train together and then I could let you lick me again.”

He turned very red. Okay, maybe I went too far. But I got a silly smile and that blush that goes up to his ears. It was worth it.

The gym was almost empty when we arrived. Or so I thought. We enter with the idea of doing our usual routine, but we just come across the "Functional Class" sign at the exact time.

“Shall we enter?” Izuku asked, in that voice of excitement as if he were proposing to adopt a cat.

“Bah. Let's see how it goes.”

Spoiler: it was the class of old ladies. And to top it off, several recognized us.

One of them —tall, white hair tied back in a bun and wearing a T-shirt with the Endeavor logo on her chest— let out a "Oh, but they're the ones on TV!" so loud that it made everyone else turn their heads.

Izuku greeted with a small reverence, smiling as always. As if he had been preparing for years to greet grandmothers in sports tights with charm. I just gritted my teeth and nodded. Not that I was bothered by being recognized. What bothered me was not knowing how to deal with it without sounding like an ogre. So yes, I smiled too. A small, quick and painful smile.

“How handsome they are in person!” cried another, from the back. “Especially you, blond! That hair reminds me of my younger days!”

I didn't tell her to shut up out of respect. But I was half a second away from doing it.

The class was one of those functional circuit classes. Hip raises, dumbbell deadlifts, kettlebell swings, push-ups, jump rope... Hell for people of our complexion if you're not prepared.

Spoiler two: we were.

After ten minutes I was already sweating, but not from effort. It was because of him. By Izuku. Because of that damn tight T-shirt he was wearing and that went up a little every time he raised his arms. Because of how he concentrated on each repetition. Because of how he frowned when the technique was not perfect. Because of how, during the kettlebell swings, his hips moved with a force and rhythm that made me want to take him to the locker room.

The worst thing was that he didn't even do it on purpose.

He just trained. And I was melting with his every move.

I found myself staring at his ass more times than I'd like to admit. And not only me. One of the older ladies came up to me when we were at the skipping station and blurted out, in a low voice:

“That boy has a heart-stopping butt, huh?”

I was paralyzed. And no, I didn't yell at her. I just grunted. She left laughing.

Izuku shot me a glance from across the room. He saw something. I don't know if it was my expression, the stiffness of my shoulders or just his radar to know when I'm tense. He smiled at me, complicit. That bastard knew it. He knew everything.

Then the trainer approached us, a young guy, with overflowing energy, and proposed the "final challenge": Abs hanging from the bar.

“Who dares?” he asked. “We are going to have a small competition. Let's see who can last the most repetitions!”

Izuku and I looked at each other. We didn't say anything. It was not necessary.

We approached the bar at the same time and the grannies began to applaud.

“Come on, handsome! Show off those muscles!”

I hung up first, feeling the cold metal in my palms. He imitated me, right next to me. On the count of three, we start.

One.
Two.
Three.
Easy.

Ten.
Fifteen.
Twenty.

The legs were beginning to get heavy. The abdomen was burning.

But I wasn't going to lose.

Neither does Izuku. I saw him grit his teeth, sweat running down his temple. His shirt completely close to the body. His abs are marked under the fabric. The bastard continued with perfect precision.

Thirty-five.
Forty.

“Come on, boys!” A lady shouted, “This is better than the evening novel!”

Forty-four.
Forty-five.

I grunted as he took a deep breath. We were on the edge.

“Five more and a technical tie!” The coach shouted.

We did it. At the same time.

Fifty.

We slump almost in unison, panting. The grannies applauded us as if we had just saved the world again. Izuku came over and offered me a clenched fist. I bumped it into mine, because... well, fuck, I had earned it.

“Good job.” he said, with that awkward smile.

“I restrained myself out of courtesy.” I blurted out, with a half-smile of self-sufficiency. “But next time I'll blow you up.”

He laughed. And I, strange as it may seem, did not feel ridiculous for having put on a show. I felt good.

No matter how many years I've been training, how many times I've pushed my body to the limits, how many enemies I've crushed with my bare hands: an intense workout, right after the holidays, still leaves my muscles like stones and my lungs half out of my chest.

I came out of the shower with my body soaked and a slight ringing in my ears. It wasn't dehydration. It was... that other. That good, satisfying exhaustion. I put on my underpants, shook my hair, and as I sprayed deodorant, I saw him in the mirror.

Izuku was also coming out of his shower, walking unhurriedly, the towel hanging from his shoulder. He was in his underpants. White. Tight. Everything was marked on him.

And I, like an idiot, stared at him more than necessary.

What the fuck is wrong with me lately? My libido is through the roof. As if I were seventeen again. What we do at home is not enough for me. It is not enough for me to see him naked in my bed, nor to hear him moan my name. I don't know if it's because of the sessions, because I'm starting to feel more comfortable in my own skin, or because I can now touch him without feeling like I'm desecrating something sacred.

I don't know. I just know that I want him around. All the damn time.

He caught me looking at him. Of course. He smiled at me with that "I've caught you" expression of his and approached with his backpack in his hand.

“I saw there's a spa area downstairs.” he said, as if he were talking to me about the weather. “Sauna, jacuzzi, hot water jets... Do you feel like it?”

“After we showered?”

“To relax the muscles. They recommend it, don't they?”

“I don't have a swimsuit.”

And that's when he took two swimsuits out of his backpack. One black and one green. As if he had planned everything from the beginning.

“I'm always prepared.” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Fucking nerd.” I muttered, but grabbed the black swimsuit without complaining too much.

The spa area was practically empty. A couple of light signals indicated "closed for maintenance" in other areas, but the jacuzzi and sauna were still open. Better. I didn't want to cross paths with anyone. Not when I was going to be half naked, half surrendered, and accompanied by a half-smiling, utterly irresistible Izuku.

We start with the jet area. Pressurized water impacting against the back, thighs, calves. I tensed up at first, as always. I never know if I relax at all, even in safe spaces. But he was there, a meter away. He closed his eyes with each stroke of water and let his body float a little.

“It looks like a demon is exorcising you.” I said, watching his back as a jet hit him in the lower back.

“Or several.” He opened one eye and winked at me. “Everything hurts me. But it feels good...”

I nodded. I knew what he meant.

When we went to the sauna, the atmosphere changed completely. The dense, hot, steam-saturated air clung to the skin as if trying to melt into it. We sat on the wooden benches, facing each other.

And then I saw him sweat.

Drops running down his collarbones. Going down his chest. Sliding until it disappears under his swimsuit.

I swallowed hard.

The humidity made me feel more aware of my own body. The heat opened all the pores, the muscles gave up, the mind became slow, thick. But not enough to ignore how good that damn environment suited Izuku.

We were silent for several minutes. It was uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time. We didn't need to talk, but we didn't know what to say either. All that could be heard was the bubbling of the steam system, the occasional crack of the wood, and our ragged breaths.

“I like being here with you.” he said, suddenly.

I looked at him.

“In the sauna?”

“At the gym. Share this kind of thing. I had a good time.”

“It wasn't my idea really...”

“Well, I know the therapist proposed it. But you were the one who offered it to me. That counts.” He smiled again. He was sweating, like me, but he looked calmer, more serene. As if his world was in order.

“Don't get used to it.” I warned, closing my eyes. “Next time I'll beat you at the bar.”

He laughed under his breath. A soft, vibrant laugh.

We got into the hot tub afterwards. The water bubbled softly, warm and enveloping. We sat close to each other, but without touching. There was no one else. Just the two of us, the steam floating like low fog, and that constant bubbling as background sound.

“Do you remember when we got into a fight at the sports festival?” Izuku asked, after a while of silence.

“Are you going to revive old topics just when I'm half dead?”

“I was just thinking... on how things have changed. Before, I couldn't even be a meter away from you without you trying to rip my head off.”

“I still would, if you say some idiocy.”

“That's the beautiful thing.” He smiled. “That it doesn't scare me anymore.”

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I leaned against the edge of the jacuzzi and closed my eyes for a moment. The warm water made me sleepy. The noise of the bubbles filled everything.

And he, by my side. Almost brushing against me.

I may have been tired. Maybe my muscles hurt. But I didn't want that moment to end.

There was something in his presence that calmed me. Not always, of course. Sometimes he irritated me like no one else. Sometimes he drove me crazy. But... For a long time I had been well by his side. Comfortable. Sure. Wanting more.

And not only physically, although that too.

The hot water boiled around us, enveloping me like an overly sticky hug. The bubbles rose in a steady rhythm, breaking the silence of the spa.

I had pretended that the rubbing of his knee against mine was casual, that it was because of the small space of the jacuzzi. Lie. I could have sat on the other end, but I didn't want to. Not with that damn wet glow on his skin, with his hair a little messy with humidity and that chest that rose and fell slowly, as if he didn't even realize I was going crazy.

I didn't know what the hell was wrong with me lately. Or I did.

For some time now... I felt different. Not only more comfortable in my body —something I had never thought I'd say— but freer. More alive. As if letting myself be seen by him, without armor, without shield, was no longer a risk.

And yes, maybe that also meant having a sky-high libido. But, well. No one is perfect.

Underwater, without changing the expression on my face, I let my hand slide slowly. The damp fabric of his swimsuit offered little resistance. I noticed its heat right away. And its hardness.

“Well.” I said with a smile, not looking at him at all. “What a surprise.”

“Surprise?” His voice sounded hoarser than usual, a little shaky. But he didn't move. “You've been staring at me all day like you want to fuck me against all the machines in the gym.”

I let out a low laugh. I didn't deny it.

He looked at me, that smile that mixes defiance and shame on his lips. I could see how he swallowed as my fingers squeezed a little tighter. Then, without saying anything, he pulled his swimsuit down to mid-thigh. I did the same. The bubbles hid everything... although not entirely.

“Quick.” he murmured, drawing closer. “Before anyone comes.”

As if given the order, I took his erection with one hand while he did the same with mine. Our breaths lengthened, and the gasps mingled with the gurgling of water. It was hot, humid, and intimate. More than training, more than the sauna. There was no noise here. There were no distractions.

Just his eyes riveted on mine.

“Let's see who can hold out the most.” I said, still moving my hand.

Izuku curled an eyebrow and smiled.

“Another competition, Kacchan? Really?”

“Always.”

He sped up a bit. Me too. Our hands were soaking not only from the water, but from everything we were letting go. We were sweating from the heat of the place, but not only because of that. My temples were throbbing. The chest too.

For a moment, all I heard was his breathing and mine.

And suddenly, he groaned low. Just a sound. His body shuddered and I knew: he had cum. A second later I followed him. I tensed, gritted my teeth, and let out a suppressed grunt as pleasure ran through me.

The water kept bubbling. The drops that splashed us were hotter than before.

For a few seconds neither of us spoke.

“Have we...?” He began, looking at the water. “Did we really just do that here?”

“Yes.” I replied, without a hint of regret.

“Kacchan! There's cum floating around... I'm seeing it!” He bent down and, with his hands like spoons, tried to push the water to one end of the jacuzzi. “What a shame, how could we have done this!”

I shrugged, still breathing heavily.

“I had a clear goal since I saw you deadlifting.”

He stopped. He looked at me. And he covered his face with his hands, laughing like an idiot.

“You're the worst.” he murmured.

“And you're red as a tomato.”

“Because you make me do indecent things in public places!”

“Well, it didn't take you ten seconds to pull down your swimsuit.”

He gave me one of those looks that seem to try to kill you with tenderness.

I don't know if it was the therapy, the trip, or just the passage of time. But I had begun to understand that being okay with someone didn't mean losing anything of myself. It did not mean weakness. It meant that, damn, I could have it all: love, desire, calm... even stupid fun in a hot tub on the sly.

Izuku sighed.

“I think we're going to have to stay in the jacuzzi a while longer. I can't go out right now.”

I looked down and then looked at him.

“Do you have another erection?”

“No! It's just... I can't get out if this keeps floating here. What if someone comes in?”

I shrugged again. I lay back in the jacuzzi.

“Well, let them enjoy the show. Not everyone gets a chance to see hero cum.”

Izuku grunted.

“You're an animal, Kacchan.”

“And you know it well.”

He laughed again. He walked over, brushed his leg against mine, and for a moment just stood silent, staring at me.

“Shall we repeat tomorrow?”

I stretched a little and closed my eyes. The heat, the tiredness, the body still trembling. It couldn't be better.

“It depends.” I answered, opening only one eye. “Will you also bring swimsuits?”

Izuku opened his eyes, surprised. But he didn't say no.

Chapter Text

I didn't like how the word "trust" sounded when it came out of someone else's mouth. As if it were something weak, something that could be broken with a blow. It's not that I didn't know what it meant, just that I'd never been good at putting it into words. Much less in an office with white walls, a sofa that sank too deep and our therapist, who looks at us as if we were a fucking puzzle of a thousand pieces that she had to fit together.

“Today I want us to talk about trust. How would you define it?” she said.

Of course.

Izuku sat a little straighter next to me. His hands were resting on his knees, his fingers intertwined, as he always did when he tried to get his mind together before he spoke. That concentration of his that he had always had since fucking kindergarten.

“I think trust is knowing that you can lean on someone even when there are no certainties.” Izuku began. He said it calmly, without seeking applause or looking like a wise man. “Trusting is… knowing that you don't need to be in control all the time, that if one day you fall, the next day he's going to be there.”

I snorted, not out of mockery. It's just... that. How the hell is one supposed to compete with such a polished definition. It seemed that he had rehearsed it before, as if he had written it in one of his notebooks.

“And you, Katsuki?” The therapist asked me.

I shrugged.

“I don't know. For me, trusting someone is... not having to check if I have done things right. Knowing that if I give someone an instruction, they do it. And if they don't, at least they have the balls to say so.”

She smiled, as she always did when I said something she didn't expect but that, somehow, helped her.

“Interesting.” she murmured, and that meant she wasn't going to say whether she thought it was right or wrong. “Let's be specific. Do you trust each other? Let's talk about the everyday. For example, how do they handle money?”

Izuku and I looked at each other. Almost at the same time, we let out a half-smile.

“We have separate accounts and a common account.” he answered. “In the common one we have an automatic income every month, proportional to what we earn. From there we pay the rent, the supermarket, the house expenses, the occasional outing...”

“Sometimes I invite.” I said. “Other times him. No weird stuff.”

“Would you say it's fair?”

“Yes.” we both said.

Izuku nodded more emphatically.

“We've never had problems with money. Not even when one of the two has been fairer; We have always talked about it. Kacchan got me covered for several things when I had to pay that absurd traffic ticket last year, remember?”

I grunted, more for the memory than anything else.

“I told you not to double park in front of that bank... But yes, I did.”

Izuku laughed quietly, lowering his eyes. The therapist took some notes in her notebook.

“So, at least financially, there seems to be a solid foundation of confidence. What about household chores? How are they distributed?”

“We're pretty clear about that, too.” Izuku said. “Kacchan usually takes care of the kitchen and I clean.”

“It's not that he's imposing it on me.” I clarified. “I just cook better and don't let anyone touch my damn chive knife. It's mine.”

The therapist raised an eyebrow.

“And are there conflicts in that distribution?”

“No. Well, only that time you shrunk my black tank top. The one I liked.”

Izuku shrank in his seat as if it still hurt.

“It was unintentional! I didn't know I couldn't put it with the jeans...”

“It's okay.” I said, without thinking too much. And I realized that it was true. I didn't even care anymore. “Besides, I haven't missed it that much. I have another similar one.”

“Thank you for sparing my life.” he joked.

“Don't get too up.” I murmured, but I did so with a smile.

The therapist wrote again. I wonder if what she wrote down were real things or if she was just drawing doodles to give us time to breathe between answers.

“So, if I asked you to define the level of domestic trust between you on a scale of one to ten…”

“Nine.” Izuku said.

“Eight.” I said.

“Why eight?”

“I always leave a margin. Not because of him, it's more because of me. I want to have room to fail.”

The therapist looked up, interested.

“And you, Izuku?”

“I also leave space... But I trust you even when you think you shouldn't even trust yourself. That raises the average.”

I was silent for a second. I felt my fingers tense without realizing it, as if I didn't know where to put my hands.

“Idiot.” I murmured, but in such a low voice that not even the therapist caught it, only him. And he smiled. He looked at me with those damn eyes that seemed like they were always ready to forgive me, even when I didn't even ask for forgiveness.

The therapist closed her notebook gently and the next thing she let go made me raise an eyebrow as if I had just been asked if I would rather be burned or drowned.

“I like what I'm hearing. Do you trust each other when you are on mission?”

I had to make a real effort not to snort. Fuck, finally a question that touched on the topic of what our agency was supposed to be paying for these sessions. It seemed that they had forgotten that we worked as full-time heroes and not as protagonists of a damn Netflix emotional reality show.

“Good question.” Izuku said, raising his eyebrows. He did take it seriously. Always. “I think... yes, I fully trust Kacchan when we are on the pitch. I've seen him in action since we were kids and he's not only effective, but he understands the terrain, the pace, the danger. We read each other without speaking.”

I nodded. I didn't need to add too much, because what he said was true.

“Do you work together often?”

“Yes, sometimes we get the same turns.” Izuku replied, “or team missions, depending on the threat. But even when we go separately, I know he's going to come back whole. Well, whole in its own way, of course. Kacchan always arrives sweaty and bruised.”

“I don't need to go back without sweat.” I murmured. “Just come back winning.”

The therapist smiled, as if that seemed tender to her. Dammit.

“And you, Bakugou? Do you trust Midoriya when he's on the ground?”

“Yes.” I replied without hesitation. “I trust him more than any other squadmate. He does not launch himself without thinking. Well, sometimes yes, but now he knows what he's doing. And if he throws himself, I throw myself behind, or in front. Anyway, we cover ourselves.”

Izuku looked at me with a small smile that I tried to ignore. Because if not, I was going to lose the thread of what I kept saying.

“Sometimes,” I added, scratching the back of my neck, “I get to do it with others, and I do it well. But with him... everything goes faster. Better. I guess because I know I don't have to explain anything to him, just look at him and that's it.”

“It seems that you have a good work synergy.” concluded the therapist.

“Work synergy”. Another one of those motivational office poster phrases.

“And in the sentimental?” She added, changing her tone, like someone changing gears in the middle of the highway. “Do you trust each other as a couple the same?”

I sighed inside. Here came the awkward part.

“Jealousy?” she added, pointing to the jugular. “Sexual confidence?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Talking about sex again.” I muttered.

Izuku laughed, lowering his head. The therapist didn't say anything, but you could see her taste for gossip. This lady knows more about our sex life than any friend we have, and that says a lot. But hey, I think I'm getting used to her uncomfortable questions. She also doesn't seem like the kind of person who would be telling people that the great Dynamight prefers to use raspberry-scented lubricant.

“It's not that I mind talking about it.” I clarified, scratching my knee. “I just feel that this woman knows how many times I've bitten my boyfriend's neck. And that is not public information.”

Izuku laughed, literally. He put a hand to his face.

“God, Kacchan, shut up...”

“What I'm saying is that... Yes, I trust. It doesn't bother me anymore that fans write to him. Not even if they comment on photos with little fires or hearts... I don't get angry anymore. I feel something else,” I added, looking away, “but not anger.”

“What you feel, Kacchan?” Izuku asked, with that provocative smile of his.

“I want to upload a photo together, with my hand on your ass, to make things clear.”

The therapist coughed, Izuku turned red, and I lay back on the couch a little, satisfied.

“But I don't.” I clarified. “Because I don't need to prove anything to anyone anymore.”

“I trust you completely.” Izuku said then, more seriously. “I know you'd never hurt me. You wouldn't even fool me. Nor... You'd make me feel small.”

I didn't know what to say about that. All I did was nod. Only once. Because yes, because he was right. I would never do that to him again.

“And as for intimacy? Has anything changed?” The therapist continued, as if we hadn't just thrown shrapnel flowers at each other.

I scratched the back of my neck again.

“We're becoming more... Delicate. As he wanted.”

“Delicate?” The therapist repeated.

“Slow, gentle... you know. Less like we're about to break the bed every time we do it. Although that also has its fun, I have to admit.”

“You're right.” Izuku added, laughing softly. “Before, it seemed that we were fighting over who dominated whom. Now... Well, now it seems that we make love. That we are a couple, not just two guys who put up with each other.”

I frowned.

“Hey, it doesn't have to sound so bad either.”

“It's not that, Kacchan. I love how we do it now... although sometimes I miss you ramming me against the door. A little bit.”

I turned to look at him. He was red. But he also held my gaze. What the hell? Who has stolen your shame, Midoriya?

I swear, for a second, I forgot that we were in a white office with the smell of chamomile infusion and with a girl with huge earrings psychoanalyzing us. Because I saw only him: the outline of his jaw, sharpened by the direct light from the ceiling; the way in which the shirt was a little tight on his chest, marking that treacherous musculature that he hid under his appearance as a good boy; and those eyes, green, luminous, looking at me as if he knew exactly what I was imagining.

It wasn't fair.

This was supposed to be therapy, not a damn covert taunt session.

“Kacchan...?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

I shifted in my seat.

“Nothing. I'm just thinking about how you're going to pay for saying that in the middle of a session. Like you don't know that now I'm not going to be able to get that image out of my head all day.”

Izuku smiled. And the therapist... well, she pretended not to listen. Although I know she listened and probably took notes. I'm sure she'd write things like, "Explore role-playing. Soft versus aggressive dynamics. Possible fantasy of embedding against doors."

That's great.

I crossed my arms, trying not to show how my pulse was racing.

And right then, when I began to think that there could be no more intimate questions, the therapist looked at us again with that "now comes the interesting part" face.

“Let's try a Dynamic.” she announced, as if we hadn't finished emotionally baring our sex and work lives. “It's simple, but it can be very revealing.”

I frowned. "Simple" and "Couples therapy" are two words that did not combine well. It was like saying that a bomb is just a flashlight that explodes.

She handed each of us a sheet. It had incomplete sentences, the kind of elementary school exercise. "I trust you when...", "I have a hard time trusting you when...", and so on.

“You are going to fill in at least five sentences. You can choose the ones you want from the list. Write them with sincerity, without looking at the other. Then, they will read them aloud, alternating.”

I nodded reluctantly. Izuku, of course, seemed motivated as if we were taking a test to save the world.

I took the pen. I looked at the sheet. I sighed.

What the fuck are we doing?

I started writing.

When we finished, she instructed us to start reading. Izuku first.

“Well...” he said, settling a little in the armchair. “I trust you when I know you're listening to me, even if you don't say anything.”

I swallowed hard. Not because it was corny, but because he was right. I listened more than I spoke.

“Okay.” I said, clearing my throat. “I trust you when you're calm. When you don't scream, or try to fix everything at once. It makes me feel like I can... Let my guard down a bit.”

Izuku lowered his eyes and smiled.

“I have a hard time trusting you when you shut down. When it seems like you're far away, even though you're right here.” He was silent for a second. “I don't mind you getting serious, Kacchan. It bothers me when you disappear behind that seriousness.”

My neck itched. Not of anger, but of recognition.

“Yes…” I murmured. “I have a hard time trusting you when you doubt yourself. When you crawl inside and won't let me help you. As if you could do everything at the same time.”

He stared at me, and I wanted to make a joke. But I didn't do it this time.

“My turn.” he said. “I wish you would trust me more when you make decisions. Not only at work, but also on a day-to-day basis. You don't always have to carry everything around on your own.”

“We're a couple of jerks.” I recognized automatically.

“I know.” he replied softly.

“I wish you trusted me more when you're screwed up and don't say it.” I looked at him. “I know you argued with your mother the other day and you didn't tell me about it.”

He looked down. Assented. But he did not mention the issue.

“Next.” he said. “In money, I trust that you don't spend on nonsense. Except for that slow cooker with seven functions that you use once a month.”

“That pot is the fucking awesome!”

He laughed.

“I know, and the food you make is delicious. I'm just saying that it looks like a war tank.”

I shook my head, unable to help but smile.

“In money, I trust that you remember to pay the bills on time. Because I hate it. I get me hives. Literal.”

“It's not literal, Kacchan.”

“It could be.”

“Fool.”

“Next.” I said, wanting to end this torture. “In bed, it makes me feel more confident when you tell me what you want. Bluntly. When you have no shame... That turns me on.”

I just dropped it, without a filter.

Izuku stirred, visibly blushing.

“In bed…” he began, swallowing hard, “it makes me feel safer when you're not in a hurry. When you look at me. When you pause as if... as if you had no other place to be more important than that moment.”

Silence.

“Shit, Deku...”

He laughed, covering his face.

“Work time." I said, trying to get back to safety. “As a hero, I trust that you always understand the context. You always know why someone does what they do. And that, although sometimes it drives me crazy, is useful.”

“Thank you.” he said, and then added, “As a hero, I trust that you always give one hundred percent. Even when no one sees it or they don't thank you. You're always giving it your all and that's always inspired me to do my best.”

I didn't know what to answer. I just nodded.

There was a silence. A good silence.

The therapist cleared her throat.

“Thank you both. That was very honest. And very revealing.”

She looked at us, crossing her fingers under the chin.

“I would say that you, Katsuki, tend to trust more when there is structure. When everything is under control, predictable, clear. Whereas you, Izuku, trust when there is emotional connection. When you know that the other is present with you, not only physically, but emotionally.”

“Aha…” I murmured, uncomfortable. Was she now going to classify us by Pokémon types?

“What's wrong?” she asked, noticing my face.

“Nothing. I just feel like I'm at a fucking self-help conference.”

“What's stopping you from being yourself, Katsuki?” she said suddenly.

I looked at her. At first I thought it was another question of dynamics, but no. She looked serious.

I didn't think much about it. I answered the first thing that crossed my mind:

“The penal code, human rights and the constitution.”

Izuku laughed so hard that he bent forward.

The therapist does not. She just looked at me as if I had just given her more information than I understood myself.

Well, here we are. Fucking against the door, as Izuku had asked me to do today in the session.

He didn't ask me with those words when we got home, it's hard for him. He gets tongue-tied with the word "fuck," as if it were too ugly for his mouth. But not for his body, that is clear.

And yes. Fuck, yes. I missed this.

His nails scratch my back and I don't give a shit. He moans against my neck, bites my jaw and asks me for more without saying it in words. He squeezes me with his legs, arches and clings to me as if his life depended on it. And I, who try so hard to control myself —on missions, at home, in bed, in therapy— give myself permission to lose control only here. Only with him.

There is nothing ceremonious about this type of sex. No sweet pauses or prolonged glances. There are no lit candles or slow-motion caresses. Just the urge to have us, to fuck us like we didn't have tomorrow. As if desire were a fucking bomb and we wanted to die inside.

And the best thing is that he needs it too, even if sometimes it's hard for him to admit it. I feel it in how he responds to me, in how he grabs me, in how the air escapes him as if he had been holding it all day.

Today we do not speak. We just growl, bump into each other, bite each other. We hit on the door unintentionally, carelessly. We ended up on the floor, then in bed. He on top, then me. The order does not matter. Only the heat, the weight, the damn friction matters.

And when it's all over, when we're soaking wet and panting, when our bodies calm down but the muscles keep shaking, I realize how much I needed it.

It's not that I don't like how we do it now. The soft, the emotional, the looking into each other's eyes as if we were saying "I love you" with our skin.

But this... This is my native language.

And he speaks it perfectly even if he doesn't want to admit it.

Afterwards, he goes straight to the shower. I know that after something like this, he need some time to get back to planet Earth. And I need to lie there staring at the ceiling as if I had just come back from the war. A good war, of course.

I get up lazily. I run a hand through my hair, still wet with sweat. I look at the messy room, the sheets half falling, the lamp crooked. It makes me laugh.

I walk over to the desk. It's been months since I left him one of those damn post-its. At the beginning of our relationship I did it all the time. I stuck notes in the mirror, on the fridge, in his notebook. Silly messages: a "you have to buy bread, nerd", followed by "I saw you asleep this morning and I was almost late for work because I overstayed".

It was my way of saying what I didn't know how to say out loud.

But then we settle in. Or worse: I accommodated myself.

I sit down. I pull out a yellow notepad. I write without thinking too much about what I feel, what I want to say to him without looking like an idiot:

"I love doing it looking into each other's eyes, but I'll never trade it for wild sex. Ps: there is no milk left. We have to buy :)"

I sign it with a little face. Cheesy and absurd. But I know it will bring a smile to his face.

I leave it on the pillow, right where he will rest his head when he gets out of the shower. And I leave the room. I head to the kitchen and open the fridge just to confirm the obvious: we run out of milk.

Sometimes I'm a prophetic genius. Or simply the one who drinks as if he were a human cow.

I make some tea, nothing complicated. Just to have something hot on the hands while he dries his hair and comes out with a freshly fucked wet cat face.

I hear him come out of the bathroom and then I hear the door to the room open. Silence.

A few seconds later, a soft laugh. Almost shy.

“Kacchan!”

I don't answer. I just smile to myself, like it's the stupidest thing in the world.

He appears in the kitchen still wearing his bathrobe. His hair was dripping a little and his skin was red from the hot water.

“You can't say something like that and then talk about milk.” he says, waving the post-it notes in the air.

“And what did you want? A poem?”

“I want more post-its. As before.” He approaches, stands in front of me. “I liked them, even if they were bullshit.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” I say, taking a sip of the tea. He leans over and kisses me on the forehead, softly.

“Thank you...” he murmurs.

“Thanks for the fuck? Or for the little paper?”

He smiles and kisses me, this time on the lips. A quick kiss.

“Both.”

And there we are. As usual. Finding ourselves again in the small details.

Sometimes fucking against the door. Sometimes with a silly note on the pillow.

Chapter Text

The week has been quiet, which, in our case, means that we haven't argued over food, that we haven't shouted in the middle of the kitchen about who ruined the washing machine  —this time it wasn't me— and that the sex has been decent, although without fireworks. Sporadic, yes, but the good kind.

We even had a picnic.

We bought things at the market in the central square, he insisted on bringing a ridiculous tablecloth with blue and white squares, and I cooked some onigiris that ended up with soy sauce on my white T-shirt. Which, by the way, is no longer removed. We sat under a tree. It was hot. He was talking about something from the last TV series we followed together, and I pretended to pay attention to him as I focused on how the sun lit up his face.

I don't know if that's romantic or if I'm just losing my mind. But at least it was a good week.

And now we're here again. In that room with the smell of cheap incense and air conditioning always two degrees lower than necessary. We sat down, Izuku to my right, as always. He offers me a soft smile that I don't completely return. Not for nothing. Just because I'm not the one to smile when I know I'm going to be torn to shreds inside again.

The therapist crosses her legs and takes out her usual folder. She has that "I have everything under control" air that makes me nervous. Not because I don't have it —I probably do— but because I hate it when I feel like she is going to made me think. Or worse: to feel.

“Today we will work on two axes:” she says, as if we were at a fucking scientific conference “the tension between the public and the intimate, and what is shown versus what is felt.”

Perfect. Another session to stir my guts.

“We will start with a simple dynamic. I am going to give you a sheet with three questions. Take a few minutes to answer them silently. Without speaking. We will share them later.”

She passes us the sheet and pulls out a ridiculously small hourglass. Who the hell uses that nowadays? And she turns it around.

I read the questions and they sound more complicated than they seem.

"What part of me only expresses itself when I'm alone?"

I stare at the paper. The pen weighs in the hand.

I begin to write, without thinking too much:

When you're not around, I'm more efficient. I concentrate better. I don't have to think about whether what I say is going to worry or hurt you. But also... I'm more lonely. I realize that I talk less. I don't care if I leave the lights off or if the clothes stay in the washing machine overnight. It's not that I become another person, but I disconnect. With you I am more... present.

I read it in my mind and I'm surprised that I haven't written any nonsense. I'm maturing. What a horror.

"What things do I do (or don't do) when you're not around?"

I stop cooking well, eat crap or not eat. I skip the routine, I don't clean the bathroom, I don't make an effort to look less bastard than I am, I don't listen to background music, I don't bother to put cologne on. I go to bed late and sleep worse.

And the worst: I don't feel at home.

I stop and take a deep breath. I hate myself a little because of how cheesy everything that comes out of my brain sounds. But it also feel... real.

"How different am I when I'm not with you?"

Not much, but enough for me to notice. I don't feel like talking as much and I think of the days as something I just have to survive. I'm more aggressive and I'm more bothered by noise. Everything bothers me, although it helps to be alone sometimes because you usually talk too much. But without you, everything becomes grayer, as if I live in energy-saving mode."

Shit.

I look up and he's finished writing, too. His face has that concentrated expression that I love. Frown a little, wrinkle lips, he move the pen with his fingers. As if the sheet of paper was about to rebel and bite him.

The therapist applauds softly.

“Very good. Now we will read aloud. One by one. Remember: without interrupting each other. Listen first.”

Izuku nods. He looks at me. I shrug.

“I'll begin.” he says, looking down at his paper. “What part of me only expresses itself when I'm alone? When I'm alone, it's hard for me to organize myself. I get lost in thoughts. I give myself permission to be more clumsy, more insecure. With you around, I try harder. Like I need to be at your level all the time.

I'm a little embarrassed about that. I don't know why.

I read mine later. When I'm done, he gives me a soft look. Not sad, not condescending. I don't really know how to interpret it.

We continue like this, reading the three questions. Taking turns.

He mentions that he listens to anime soundtracks when I'm not there because I don't like them. That he cries with videos of kittens but doesn't do it with me around because he thinks I'll laugh. And that without me he is freer to feel, but also more chaotic.

I don't say anything, but I write it down mentally: never laugh if I see him crying for a cat. At least not in front of him.

When we finish, the therapist remains silent for a while. Then she speaks.

“It seems that each of you acts as a kind of "center of gravity " for the other.” She looks at us, alternating her gaze between the two. “Izuku, you command Katsuki's emotional chaos. And you, Katsuki, make Izuku find a stronger version of himself when he's with you.”

I shift in my seat. I can live with that.

“But I wonder.” she continues, her voice calm, “Have you learned to hold those versions of yourself when you're alone? Are you emotionally dependent on each other to the point that you don't know how to be alone?”

I don't know what to answer.

I remain silent. Not out of rebellion, only because... I have no fucking idea.

Izuku looks at me. It seems that he wants to say something, but he keeps it to himself. Good idea.

The therapist says no more. She only adjusts her glasses and goes on to take out another set of papers. A new dynamic.

And I stand there, ruminating on what she just said. "Holding a version of myself." What the hell does that mean, exactly. Am I supposed to be functional in solitude as well? Of course I can't even stand myself. Sometimes I think that Izuku is the only person who can stand me.

I sighed. It gets worse.

“We will now move on to the second Dynamic.” says the therapist, after that long silence that the previous question left floating.

She gives us another sheet. Three new questions. I read them and, as always, I feel like throwing them out the window.

"What image does the world think they have of you as a couple?"
"Does it bother you to feel seen or exposed as one of the most famous hero couples?"
"Did you ever hide anything important about your relationship for fear of being judged?"

Again dealing with the public. As if it wasn't enough to have a million cameras pointed at you every time you breathe in the street.

I don’t think I mentioned it, but yeah, of course they took pictures of us at the amusement park we went to a few weeks ago. A big headline said, "Explosive heroes ride the Big wheel too. " In the photo, we look more lovey-dovey than I usually like to be in public. But Izuku looks happy. And… so do I. There were comments, memes. Even Izuku’s mom sent me one. He thought it was adorable. I thought it was the end of my reputation… but I didn’t delete the photo from my phone. And I’m not going to.

The therapist asks us to answer one by one, but not like before. This time she seeks to turn it into something more conversational. She wants us to alternate answers, as if we were having a conversation with each other.

I watch him. He looks at me. Well, at this point, what does it matter?

He begins, of course.

“I think people see us as a peculiar couple.” he says, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Like "the explosive and the sweet". Some scoff, others say it's cute. That opposites attract...”

“How original.” I snorted. As if I hadn't heard that shit a hundred times in interviews. “How do two such different personalities manage to coexist? It makes me want to blow up their asses.”

Izuku smiles, but it's not a mocking smile. It is of understanding.

“Sometimes it is difficult for me when the media use us as an example of how 'differences complement each other'.” he says. “As if we were the argument for self-improvement. Something to boost magazine sales.”

“You smile and make it look simple.” I comment, without thinking much. “But it is not.”

He lowers his gaze, somewhat tense.

“Yes... And sometimes I'm afraid that the way you are will make people misjudge you.”

“And when they don't?” I blurt out dryly. “The preferred narrative of the press is that I am with you because you "tamed" me. As if I were an indomitable fucking beast and you were the hero who managed to subdue it.”

He puts on an expression that denotes his annoyance. It bothers me too.

“That hurts me a lot.” he admits. “Because I know how much you strive to improve in every aspect. Not only as a hero, but also... here. With me. With us.”

At first I don't say anything. I squirm a little in my chair.

This is too personal to have a third person taking notes, even if it's just in her head.

“I don't like to show affection in public.” I confess. “Not because I'm ashamed of how I feel, but because I have a feeling that... when I show it, they are going to take it away from me. As if by exhibiting it, I would make it less real.”

He nods slowly, as if he already knows.

“But it also fuck me off that I don't.” I continue. “Because sometimes the cameras are pointed at us after a victory and you look at me waiting for something. A caress with the hand, a word, a kiss... And I am paralyzed.”

“And you don't.” he whispers.

“And I don't.” I admit.

Uncomfortable silence. Heavy. As if the room had been charged with an invisible but oppressive air.

The therapist clasps her hands on her knees and looks at us, serenely. As if she had already foreseen it.

“Then,” she says, “by showing yourselves excessively, you feel that you lose. And when you hide, yoy feel that you are betraying yourselves.”

She aim with her eyes, not the finger.

“What aspect do you want to protect... and of what?”

I was going to speak, but Izuku beats me to it.

“What I want to protect most... it's how he looks at me when no one else is watching,” he mentions, without taking his eyes off mine. “That part is mine. And his. And I don't want to share it with the world.”

My stomach contracts.

Not out of shame. But because... shit. He's right. There are moments that are only ours, and they are authentically real. It bothers me that everyone has to know every detail of our lives constantly.

“... And” I say, after swallowing hard, "I want to protect the fact that he trusts me.”

I mention it bluntly. No frills.

“Because that has cost me too much to earn it to let them trample on it.”

He closes his eyes for a moment and nods. He doesn't add anything else, but he doesn't need to.

The therapist takes a deep breath. Satisfied, I guess.

“Very well.” she says, with that calm tone that I already identify as her way of concluding the subject. “I am proud of your work together. And of your relationship. Both in the daily and professional spheres.”

I snort. Not out of disdain. But because I have a hard time listening to those things without feeling the need to break something to balance it.

But I am not saying anything else.

Izuku smiles.

The therapist gives us a sheet with recommendations for the week. Something about spontaneous communication, notes, and I don't know what else the fuck is. I don't read it. I'll take care of that if necessary.

We said goodbye and left the office.

As we descend the stairs, he brushes my hand with his fingers. I allow it despite having a camera nearby; I've been watching that damn paparazzi since we arrived at the consultation.

But today I don't care. In fact, I grip his hand tighter.

The way home was silent. It wasn't that awkward silence when there's something pending. This was that kind of silence in which words are superfluous because we are both equally exhausted.

Today's session was intense. And on top of that, it's Sunday. A shitty Sunday, by the way. It's raining, the traffic is a nightmare, my shoulders, my legs, my jaw hurt. All.

We go in, we leave our shoes at the entrance and Izuku goes straight to the kitchen, I go to the bathroom. When I return, there are two bowls of instant ramen on the kitchen table. They were hot. Nothing special, but enough for a day as tiring as today.

“Thank you.” I growl, more out of habit than anything else.

“You're welcome.” he replies.

We eat quickly, standing up. There was no meaningful conversation, we didn't even talk about today's therapy. Today there is no room for that. Just the desire to throw ourselves on the sofa and forget that we exist.

And that's exactly what we did. We sink into the cushions. He on one side, I on the other.

And that's where the real war begins.

The TV remote is between the two of us. Harmless, cold, neutral. But not for long.

We looked at each other out of the corner of our eyes. He moves his leg a little closer. Me too.

We don't talk. It was not necessary. This battlefield does not require shouting.

Izuku tries to be stealthy. He reaches out as if he's stretching, but I know perfectly well that he's going for the control.

With my knee, I push him.

He pushes me with his.

I hold his gaze.

“Don't think about playing that weird movie of yours, the one about children with powers that communicate with the soul or I don't know what shit.” I murmur, half growling.

“And why not? I won the last time we played rock, paper, scissors.” he replies without even moving a facial muscle.

“That was three weeks ago, nerd. It has already expired.”

“Who says so?”

"The Bakugou's constitution.” I answered.

At that moment, he makes his move. He lunges like a ninja rat, grabs the controller with the speed of a professional thief and raises it high like the sword of a damn king.

“Victor!” he exclaims, victorious, as if he were in the middle of a mission.

“How ridiculous you are.” I tell him, but I don't take it away. Not yet.

And of course, he puts his film. One with a long name, one of those that I know are going to have a nice animation, but that I won't understand a shit.

“You asked for it.” I say calmly.

I turn, lean over and take off his pants. Like this. Without asking permission or explaining anything.

“Huh?!” he shouts, but he does not resist. He just lift his hips so it end up coming out easier.

Coward.

“Universal equilibrium.” I reply. “You take over the TV. I take over your pants.”

Izuku snorts, with one of those little smiles that he tries to hide, but it shows.

And there he is, sitting in his wide All Might T-shirt that he wears as pajamas, and only in his underpants. The legs crossed. Flushed cheeks. And yes, he has a slight erection that he doesn't try too hard to hide.

Dammit.

My eyes drift to the edge of his thigh. How the shirt barely covers the top of his boxers. How the hip line is marked.

Izuku has that body that looks harmless when he's dressed, but when he starts undressing you realize he's stronger than many high-end heroes. The bastard is fucking attractive.

I bite my tongue. Literally. Then I look at the screen. A child cries in a train station, it's raining, the sky has more filters than an influencer selfie.

Perfect. A slow and sentimental film. One of those that last two hours but seems like six.

My plan:
Step one: Wait until he's distracted. Step two: Put my hand under his underpants. Step three: See if a moan escapes in the most dramatic moment of the film.

I was already smiling like an idiot.

But there was a problem.

The couch is very comfortable, his shoulder is warm, and his smell is enveloping me like a blanket.

Fuck. Halfway through the second act, I can't take it anymore. I literally have no strength after this shitty week.

Izuku says nothing. He just moves his arm and runs his hand through my hair with an almost hypnotic slowness.

And then... Darkness. I fall asleep.

I don't know how much time has passed. I just know that I wake up in the same place, still with his arm around me.

The film is now over.

“Did you fall asleep?” he asks, in a soft voice, the kind he uses to keep from breaking the moment.

“No. I was training for a night infiltration.” I muttered without opening my eyes completely. Fuck my attempt at my sexual assault today.

“Of course. And I'm All Might.”

I growl at him something incomprehensible, but I don't move. He doesn't either.

“Did you like the movie?” he asks.

“I didn't see ten minutes, Izuku.”

“Then you can't criticize it.”

“I can and I will.”

He laughs quietly and we stay like that for a while longer. In silence. No more fights for control or the need to talk about what we had mentioned in therapy.

Sometimes, the best end of the week was to fall asleep on the shoulder of the person who drives you crazy the most and you like the most at the same time.

Chapter Text

Tuesday started like any other damn Tuesday: with the sound of the alarm clock at 6:00 a.m., my face pressed to the pillow, and the comforting certainty that at least today I didn't have the night shift. Small victories, I guess.

Izuku left before me. He had to cover a patrol round in district four, a quiet, almost touristy area. He always came back with stories of rescued stray dogs or grannies who gave him cookies. For my part, I spent all day putting out fires, literally and figuratively, because of course, some idiot thought that launching fireworks from the rooftop of a shopping mall was a good idea.

But hey, nothing prepared me for what awaited me at home.

I was in the living room, lying down with a cold drink in my hand, when I heard the keys. And before the door even closed, I blurted out:

“I was saying you should have arrived an hour ago...”

“Is that a welcome?” he asked, placing a bag on the table.

He sounded good-humored. Suspicious.

“It depends. Did you bring something to eat?”

And yes, he brought something. But no food. Nor something useful like cleaning products or bandages, no. He brought clothes.

“What the fuck is that?” I said, watching as he pulled out a black T-shirt with a huge design of a chibi skull with cat ears and glowing letters that read: BOOM BOY.

...Shit.

“I saw it and thought of you.” he said with the most fake and charming smile in the universe.

“Because I have a gothic stuffed face?”

“Because I imagined your reaction you putting it on. And I need that laugh in my life.”

“You're a bastard.” I snorted, but I couldn't help but let out a lopsided smile.

And he hadn't just brought that. Also a short-sleeved shirt with an orange and white floral print, as if we were planning to go on our honeymoon to Hawaii. And some damn braces.

“No.” My answer was automatic. “I don't go through that.”

“Just try it.” he insisted, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his elbows on his knees, as if he were about to witness a theatre play.

“I'm going to look like an idiot.”

“You look like it without the need for extravagant clothing.”

I threw a cushion at his head. I failed. Damn agility of his.

In the end, of course he convinced me. But if I was going to make a fool of myself, at least I would do it on my own terms.

I went into the bedroom, closed the door, and came out a few minutes later with the floral shirt buttoned badly, the braces wrongly attached, and the "BOOM BOY" t-shirt tied around my head as if it were some kind of ninja band.

“Introducing the spring-summer collection of "Things Bakugo Would Destroy If I Didn't Love Him So Much"!”

Izuku laughed so hard that he had to lean back on the sofa. And I swear I'll save that sound for when I have a bad day. That kind of laughter is worth more than any official recognition.

But then, when I took the shirt off my head and put on the floral in good condition, well buttoned.... I looked at myself in the mirror at the entrance.

And then I perceived it. How he looked at me.

Not like when we're getting upset on purpose, or when he bother me to see if I react. But with that look in which desire and devotion abounded. As if he wanted to devour me whole, and even then, it was not enough for him.

“You're looking at me as if you're going to devour me.” I said without turning around, watching him in the reflection.

“Because I am.” he replied, and his voice was no longer laughing.

Fuck.

In less than a minute, the shirt was on the floor, the braces flying through the air, and I was already under his body, moaning against the cushion.

That day, for some reason, I wanted to give up control of him. I wanted him to put it up to my gut.

Maybe it was his look or the way he stripped me of my clothes, as if his hands were burned. The thing is, we fuck like rabbits. And yes, that day I let myself go. I submitted. I opened up. Literally and figuratively. And I don't regret it.

Wednesday was another story.

My mood went to shit from ten in the morning.

The agency is evaluating a new protocol for joint missions with student interns and, as usual, they did not consult the real heroes who executed them. One of the rookie recruits was injured for not following my instructions and the press chased us in the middle of a emergency scene. Everything went wrong.

When I got home, I didn't even say hello to Izuku. I took off my boots, left my jacket lying around, and locked myself in the room like a teenager with existential dilemmas.

It was not my best moment, I admit.

When I left, late at night, Izuku was gone. It was his turn tobe on night watch. The house was quiet.

However, as I passed through the bedroom door, I saw that he had left something stuck there.

A post-it. With his calligraphy.

"I left katsudon in the microwave.
You don't have to talk if you don't want to.
Just eat."

I stood there, paper in hand. Like an imbecile.

I didn't send him a message. Not because I didn't want to. But because if I started, I would end up expressing more than I was capable of at the time.

So I ate the katsudon in silence. It was delicious, really. He had that sweet touch in the sauce that only he knew how to achieve.

Before I went to sleep, I left my answer in the fridge. Another post-it:

"It was good. Don't get me used to it.
I am the chef of this house (◣_◢)."

Unsigned. Just a hand-drawn face, it eyebrows furrowed as if it was angry.

I knew he would understand the tone. And I also knew that he would smile when he saw it.

Friday night looked like one of those quiet days that you don't remember. And that was fine.

We had both had decent weeks work-wise —no serious incidents, except for Wednesday— and when we got home we didn't even have the energy to discuss. We showered, had a simple dinner, an omelette with rice made by me, and plopped down on the couch without drama.

No disputes over the remote this time. A kind of miracle.

Television was broadcasting a documentary about polar bears. Izuku had probably put it on without thinking. And I just nodded. Sometimes the silence comfortable with him feels like a victory. Like we don't need to talk about anything because everything was already said in the way he sits close to me.

I was about to fall asleep when he turned to me and said in that little voice he uses when he is plotting something strange:

“Hey... shall we play something?”

“What?” I snorted, without opening my eyes completely. I didn't want to get up or lift a finger, but I already know him. When an idea gets into his head...

“A silly game. To connect.”

“Connect? Are we in therapy again or what?” I snorted. My tone was sarcastic, but not hostile.

“We don't have to be in therapy to play games like that with each other.” he replied, smiling with that little face of "you'll see that you're going to like it even if you don't admit it."

“What kind of game?”

“Close your eyes and trust me.”

I frowned.

“I don't like those words in that exact combination.”

But I let myself be done. He sat me in a chair in front of him and brought a blindfold. A fucking black cloth bandage that I don't know where he got it from, but that he adjusted carefully.

“Do you see anything?”

“I don't see nothing.” I answered.

“Perfect.”

I heard him walk away, open the refrigerator, rummage through a drawer. I felt footsteps, noises, movement. Then something came close to my face and a strong smell hit my nose.

“What is it?”

I sniffed. Spicy, greenish, familiar.

“A fucking pepper.”

“Right.” he said with a chuckle.

“Really? Are we at that level of difficulty?”

“It's to warm up engines. Other.”

Next: stronger, more sulphurous.

“Onion.”

“Yes!”

“I'm going to sleep at any moment, Izuku...”

“Wait, one more.”

Third: sweet, citrusy.

“Orange.”

“How do you know so quickly?”

“I have the nose of a professional hero. This is very easy. Give me something more difficult or I'm going to think you're hooking up with an old man with a good nose.”

Then he put something in my hands.

Cold, irregular, with a curved shape and slippery surface. I felt it carefully. It had a handle. A body... of ceramics?

“Is it... your cup of the muscular All Might?”

“Yes!”

“How did you expect me not to recognize that ridiculous thing with 3D abs?”

“It's pop art!”

“It's an insult to good taste.” I blurted out, removing the blindfold and looking at him with an arched eyebrow. “But I admit it: it has been more entertaining than I expected.”

Izuku laughed as he stood up and took the cup out of my hands. Then, without me having to say anything, he sat down in the chair and put on the blindfold without my asking. With that excited smile that annoys me because it touches me.

“Your turn.”

“Are you sure you want to leave your sensory destiny in my hands?” I asked, leaning against the back with my arms crossed.

“I trust you.” he replied, so calmly. “You know I trust you. We have treated it in therapy.”

Idiot.

I stared at him for a few seconds. His hair messy, his posture relaxed. That confident gesture that he didn't have when we were teenagers.

I never understood how he could sit in front of me with a blindfold and not feel afraid. Not after all I was.

But there he was. Trusting me. Once again.

I didn't say anything. I just got up and went to the kitchen.

I picked up something randomly, thinking about continuing with the game... But a part of me stood there, watching him silently from the doorway.

I saw him move his fingers slightly, expectantly, as if he had a hard time standing still. And I don't know... I thought it was funny.

I won't say it out loud, not even crazy. But yes: I liked that he took this seriously.

I came back with a teaspoon covered in honey and brought it to his lips.

“Open.”

“What is it?”

“You trust me, don't you?”

I put it in his mouth before he could reply. He frowned as he tasted.

“Honey?”

“Right. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you love it. It's just as cheesy, sticky, and cloying as you are.

“Not true!”

“No? Then you won't mind if the next one I shove it down your chest and suck it straight out of there.” I said with a crooked smile, enjoying how his face blushed even though he couldn't see me.

“Don't play like that, Kacchan...”

“Why not? You started with the game.”

He swallowed hard and shifted a little in the chair. He was tempting me unintentionally.

I watched him in silence, with his lips parted, licking some traces of honey with his tongue. He seemed vulnerable and I loved that.

Well, things got a little out of hand. As usual.

Izuku with the blindfold on, calm, with that air of "this is to connect" that sometimes makes me laugh and other times turns me on. Because damn, when he gets cute, sometimes all I want to do is pull it all off. And this time it was not going to be different.

“Stay like this.” I said, and he just nodded.

I walked over and, without saying anything else, lifted his shirt from his back and took it off. His muscles contracted slightly on contact with the air, and then I saw him smile.

“Is this also part of the game?”

“Now yes” I whispered in his ear, intentionally.

I took one of the black bandages he had brought —a longer, thicker one— and tied his wrists behind the chair. He did not resist. He just laughed softly, as if he were having fun, although I felt his breathing quicken.

There is nothing more beautiful than an unarmed hero. And no one carries that status with as much dignity as Izuku.

I crouched in front of him, my face at chest height. He had it exposed, erect, his arms pulled back, making his pectorals even more marked. The posture forced him to open up, to surrender. There was no defense.

I whispered in his ear.

“Let's play, nerd.”

I tipped the jar and dropped the honey onto his collarbone. The first contact was instantaneous: a thick, slow stream that began to run down his skin. I inhaled deeply without realizing it. The honey was running down the center of his chest, sliding between the muscles, getting caught in the lines of his abs.

“It's cold.” he whispered, between laughter and chills.

“I'll warm you up.”

I ran my tongue from the center of his torso upwards, licking the honey as if it were part of him. It had a sweet taste, yes, but there were also traces of sweat, heat, living skin under the sugar. The taste of Izuku. Soon his breathing was agitated and his body reacted. I felt the vibration under my mouth, like an electric current. My tongue advanced slowly, going up and down, exploring his chest, stopping sometimes to lick with more dedication.

I stood aside for a second to watch him.

He was handsome. His torso shines with honey, his cheeks are on fire, the blindfold is covering his eyes and his breathing is short. The bandage on his wrists kept him in that vulnerable position that turned me on so much. So strong and so dedicated.

I didn't think much more about it.

I pulled down my sweatpants and underpants. There was no noise, only the faint sound of the fabric falling.

I came closer, without warning, and whispered to him:

“Lean over a little.”

He did it without question, as if by instinct.

Then, with my hand holding my erection, I touched his cheek with it. Not softly, precisely. It was a light but firm blow, a sudden caress with intention, a touch full of provocation. His body shuddered.

“What is it, Izuku?” I asked, imitating his tone of voice with sarcasm.

A mischievous smile appeared on his lips, the one that always throws me off and makes me feel the blood on my head. And not specifically in the head above.

“I'm not sure... Try again.” He blurted out, with that low, playful voice that melts me inside. Is he playing innocent?

I couldn't resist. I slapped him on the cheek again with my cock.

“Haven't you figured it out yet?” I said, imitating his voice, bordering on mockery, although I was already on the verge of losing control.

But Izuku didn't answer, so I did again, harder, without giving him time to respond.

And then I heard a groan from him. It was not a simple sigh, but a sound that came directly from his chest, and that made me burn completely. It drove me crazy.

I bent down and brought my erection to his lips. Feeling them there, so warm, so soft and moist, was like an electric shock. His tongue brushed with a shy but firm touch, while I moved slowly, in and out of that mouth that was mine and at the same time only his.

We were two repressed beasts, trapped in that instant, unhurried but hungry. His body tied, vulnerable, just for me. Feeling his chest rise and fall, the sweat mixed with the honey stuck to his skin, made each caress of his tongue a delicious torment.

When I felt like I was about to climax, I pulled away with a gasp, barely whispering, "One second." I went to the bedroom and took the lube, without taking my eyes off that reddened and sweaty torso, which was patiently waiting for me.

I returned and found him the same, still tied up, still with that expression of desire and submission that disarmed me. I pulled down his pants and he took a small leap to help me, exhibiting his quiet confidence, his total surrender.

Carefully, I smeared the lube on his penis, and then turned around, aligning his erection with my entrance as I sat on it. I felt that warmth, that tension that is only unleashed when I let my guard down and let myself go.

I thought, half jokingly, half seriously, "Second time being passive this week." But I didn't care; there was something about letting Izuku take control that I liked, that made me feel safe and loved.

I moved quickly over his body, unceremoniously, just the way I like it. No eternal pauses or cheesiness; Pure intensity, pure strength. Feeling him penetrate me, panting behind my back, drove me crazy. The combination of his sweaty skin, the scent of honey, and his taut body under mine burned my skin. I never got tired of that feeling, of that mutual domination, of that fucking heat that consumed us when we were like this, adrift and without restrictions.

As I moved, I felt his breathing quicken. When I felt like he was about to cum, I didn't slow down for a second. I continued, faster, stronger, more determined. In the end, I couldn't hold it back anymore and came while masturbating with my hand, expelling all the tension on the floor while still sitting on Izuku.

When he was done, panting, I carefully stood up to untie his hands. I slowly removed the blindfold from his eyes, wanting him to see everything calmly, without haste. His eyes were fixed on me, with a mixture of satisfaction, tiredness, and something else… confusion, perhaps? As if our game of guessing vegetables has been completely transformed.

I couldn't help but laugh inwardly, mentally reproaching myself: "Always thinking about sex, Katsuki..." But honestly, who am I kidding? I loved to fuck. I loved Izuku. We were a couple, we were young, and what did it matter if we were fucking every now and then? No one was going to reproach us for anything, least of all him. It was part of who we were, what kept us alive and connected.

I approached him and kissed his lips. It was a slow, deep kiss, loaded with all those things that I didn't always know how to express in words. It was like a liberation, a mute and fierce promise. Izuku hugged me tightly, and at that moment we didn't need anything else. Just that moment of calm after the storm.

When we separated a little, with the crooked smile that characterizes me, I blurted out jokingly:

“I suppose I'm getting a taste for this thing of you hitting me from behind.” Izuku stared at me with that expression that combines tenderness and surprise, and then he let out a giggle that made me want to give him another kiss instantly. I did, and then I told him: “I love you.”

He seemed to enlarge his eyes, which now looked wet, foggy.

“Bah, don't start crying now.” I told him with an arrogant smile. “But yes, that... I love you, idiot.”

He didn't tell me back, but it wasn't necessary. The way he hugged me —so firm, so warm, and comforting— said it all.

And so, between laughter, kisses and that complicity that only we shared, we ended another day. Building a connection that didn't need overly sentimental words.

Chapter Text

Sunday. Yes, Sunday. That damn day that should be sacred. The only day of the week when you can supposedly sleep until your body says enough, have breakfast calmly, ignore the clock, and if you feel like it, spend the whole morning in your underpants watching any crap on TV while the other strokes your hair without saying anything.

But no, of course not. Today I have to be on guard at work.

The advantages of being Hero Number Five —because yes, I'm still fighting for that shitty fourth place that Izuku doesn't let go of even with fire— is that they don't put me on patrol in quiet areas. The downsides: they don't forgive myself for a fucking Sunday off if there's a shortage of staff, either.

So there I am, in the kitchen, with a cup of black coffee in my hand, still half-asleep, staring out the window as if the cloudy sky was to blame for me having to get dressed at 6:20 in the morning.

Not even the smell of coffee wakes me up completely. But it gives me enough energy not to bite anyone. Which is saying a lot.

Silence. Just the creak of the chair when I sit down, the dripping of the coffee maker still hot. I like this part of the day, before the city wakes up. Before someone tells me what to do or expects anything from me.

I finish the cup in two gulps and leave the coffee grounds in the sink. There is no time for nonsense.

I tiptoe back to the bedroom, almost without making a sound. I live with the most adorable fucking nerd in the universe, and I don't want to wake him up. The idiot fell asleep like a log last night and there he is. Lying on his side, half entangled in the sheet, with his hair in a mess. One leg out of the blanket, mouth half-open, breathing slow and deep. There's a slime stain on the pillow.

And, fuck... I don't know what the fuck is going on with me lately, but seeing him like this leaves me blank. And not in a bad way. But in the one that makes me clench my jaw so as not to smile like an imbecile.

How the hell can this still cause this to me after two years? That's not fair. I'm not made to feel this tenderness that eats away at me when I see him sleeping so peacefully. As if the world were a safe place. As if he knew that as long as I'm around, nothing is going to touch him. And he is right. I wouldn't let anything come near him without stepping over me.

I approach slowly, open the closet without making a sound. I look for my suit. Today's is black, the one of urban interceptions. It is lighter, more practical. I put it on quickly, almost without looking, but my eyes keep coming back to his sleeping face. He blinks in his sleep, settles down and sighs.

Idiot.

I grab a post-it from the drawer and grab a pen. I write quickly, leaning against the bedside table:

"Tonight after therapy... I want more than last night. Don't make me beg you, Izuku."

I add a little face at the end. Don't say I don't have a sense of humor.

I head to the kitchen and leave it stuck in the fridge. I know he's going to see it when he gets up, because since the other day I always leave him a note when I can and, even if he denies it, I know that the first thing he does every day is to check if I left him one before leaving.

And, without meaning to, I am surprised by the stupid smile that escapes me as I hang the backpack of my uniform and open the door to leave. I close without making a sound, put my hands in my pockets and let the fresh air clear me completely.

The shift will be long. And in the afternoon we have therapy. But if all goes well, tonight... it's going to be worth it.

The therapist has the lights in the office half down. We are not in the dark, but just enough to make the room look soft, as if we were inside an aquarium. Or as if we were going to take a guided nap and not uncover the emotional shit that we carry every Sunday.

I'm sitting on the floor, with my arms crossed, my legs too. Straight back, staring at a point on the carpet. Not because I'm interested, but because if I look into her eyes she's going to ask me some of her tricky questions.

Izuku is to my left, same position but with his hands on his knees, as if he were waiting for his final grade in the entrance exam to the U.A. He has that tension that is noticeable even in his eyelids. I know him so well that he doesn't even need to talk to me anymore. I know which face is nervous, which face is "concentrated nerd" and which face is "I'm horny".

But before we got into this incense-scented environment with round cushions, my day began with another kind of surprises.

The working day was shit. But not by what people would imagine.

There was a minor incident with a cat and an old woman. And... Okay, a broken bus stop. But it was the cat's fault.

I was on a routine round of District Eight when I heard screams. I threw myself, as always, believing that someone was being attacked. I found a lady in her eighties screaming as if her hair had caught fire. She pointed to a tree.

There was a cat up there. Very high.

“He can't go down!” she shouted, as if she were losing a son.

Normally that is solved by the fire department. But of course, I'm a hero. And I was there. And the fucking cat meowed as if he were being charged rent at the end of the month.

So yes, I got on. I activated my explosions to propel myself and climbed onto the thickest branch. But the creature —white, with a pink bow on its head, I swear by All Mighty — was even more frightened. He jumped, caught on my arm, scratched my uniform and lunged... directly to the bus shelter at the stop.

Broken glass. A scandal was made.

I went down to the ground with a face of "this has not happened", I picked up the cat unharmed —luckily—, I returned it to the old woman, who hugged me crying and left me full of lavender perfume, and I left before the press arrived.

Ridiculous. But I survived. And I didn't exploit anything else. So, technically, it was a success.

I returned to the apartment at about two o'clock. And there was the idiot, waiting for me. He had showered, he was wearing comfortable clothes and wearing that apron that I hate because it has a drawing of All Might doing the peace symbol while holding a salt shaker. It's horrifying. But of course, he loves it. And the worst part is that it looks… fucking Good on him.

The table was set. Smoke coming out of two dishes. Something with rice, vegetables and meat. Izuku doesn't cook like I do, but he doesn't burn garlic like he used to, either.

He didn't say anything about the note, but it was no longer stuck to the fridge. I know perfectly well where it went. Like all the others.

Izuku has a drawer on his nightstand where he keeps my notes. The tender ones, the obscene ones, the ones I wrote angrily. Even the one that said "If you forget to turn off the tap again, I'll put it up your ass". Literal. I found it folded up next to others when one day I needed to look for a pill for my headache.

He has never told me, but I know he keeps them. And that makes me feel... well. It makes me feel a lot of things.

I ate, changed, and we brushed our teeth at the same time. We look in the mirror as if we weren't the same two idiots who a few years ago couldn't even spend ten minutes in the same room without screaming.

And then, we end here. Couples therapy. That strange ritual where we bare our souls without touching a hair.

Right now the therapist is looking at us with that serene expression that comes so naturally to her that it irritates me.

“Today we are going to work on something different. Not a conflict, nor a concrete discussion. Today I want to introduce you to a tool. It's called mindfulness.”

I raise an eyebrow. I don't even try to hide my skepticism.

“Isn't that about breathing and that's it?” I ask, direct, with my arms still crossed. “Because what a shit, sorry.”

Izuku laughs softly. Although as always, he wants to appear serious. The idiot takes these things seriously. He loves to learn. You give him a new concept and he studies it as if it were part of the syllabus to save the world.

“I... I think it can be fine, right?” He says, a little tense. “So... you don't have to have a giant trauma to practice this.”

The therapist nods with a small smile. She has that way of not taking what we say badly, which makes me suspect that she understands us too well.

“Precisely.” she says. “Many of your conflicts have to do with automatic reactions and expectations that you project onto the other. Today I want to teach you something that is not about solving, but about observing. To be present.”

Izuku frowns, as if fearing that "present" means "if I don't make it perfect, I fail."

I snorted.

“And what are we supposed to do? Looking at us and breathing? Smell an imaginary flower?” I murmured. I don't say this to make fun of her. I say this because it sounds like a yoga class for rich old women.

“There's no way to do it right or wrong, Katsuki.” she replies calmly, without sarcasm. “I just want you to be present. Here. Now.”

I shift in my seat. I feel watched, as if I had been asked to undress in the middle of a square. To be present? I am always present. If I wasn't, I would already be dead.

But something in her tone makes me shut my mouth. And something about the way Izuku looks at me out of the corner of his eye —waiting for my reaction as if he cared more than he should— makes me stand still.

“Okay. Whatever.”

“That's a good start.” she replies.

And there we go. To close your eyes. To breathe. To "be present". Not to burst anything... for the moment.

I don't know how long I had been looking at the clock in the office. Sometimes I feel like the ticking doesn't even sound, but today, as the therapist prepared her fucking soft voice of relaxation, I swear I could hear every second creeping in.

Couples therapy. Sunday afternoon. I could be sleeping. I could be fucking Deku. I could be doing any of those things better than this.

But no. Breathing, observing, "connecting"...

“Let's do a mindfulness exercise as a couple.” the therapist announced with a smile that made me want to throw a chair at her.

“And how the fuck do you do that?” I snorted.

Izuku nudged me very gently in the side.

“Don't be like that.” he whispered, as if that would change my mind.

“So how? I'm being realistic.”

She made us stand back to back. Sitting on cushions, cross-legged on the floor. We closed our eyes and she began in her soft voice:

“Notice your breathing. The weight of the body on the cushion.

Yes, of course. I could feel the fucking numbness in my legs.

“Feel the temperature of the room. The contact of the clothes with your skin...”

In theory it was simple. You just had to be present. Not thinking about the past, or the future. Only in the now. But of course, now it was a therapy session with my eyes closed and my back close to Izuku's, listening to how he breathed, as if we were Buddhist monks and not two heroes who work with explosions and muscles.

I tried. I swear I tried it. I took a breath once, twice... But on the third attempt to "notice the body", I could only think that Izuku's hair was tickling the back of my neck.

I opened one eye and then the other. I turned very slowly so as not to make a noise.

And I saw that Izuku was completely focused. With a frown, as if the simple act of breathing was a matter of life and death.

And of course. I laughed.

First it was a sigh, then a snort. Afterwards, it was already a slight laugh that I could not contain.

“What's wrong?” Izuku murmured without opening his eyes.

“Nothing. That it looks like you're going to pull an egg out of your nose because of how tense you are.”

Izuku tried to remain stoic. But a second later, he was already laughing too. He tried to cover his face with his hands, as if that would help.

“Kacchan! You're losing my concentration!”

“I didn't do anything. It was you who took this as if you were going to save the world with your breath.”

The therapist was watching us. She didn't even seem upset. Rather, she had that expression of "this is also part of the process", which irritated me even more.

“Do you want to continue the exercise or will we share what you felt?” she asked.

We straightened up a little. I crossed my arms, as if I didn't care. But my back itched from being like this for so long.

“I noticed... that it took me a long time to concéntrate.” Izuku began, scratching the back of his neck, as he always does when he's nervous. “But I liked feeling his breath against my back. As if we were... synchronized for a moment. Although then he laughed and lost my concentration.”

“Don't complain. That was the best thing that happened to you today.” I blurted out, turning to him. “I disconnected after ten seconds because I heard how you breathed and I thought you had mucus.”

Izuku let out an infectious laugh, that laughter of his so intense that it makes his whole chest tremble.

“I don't have any snot!”

“Actually, I got frustrated.” I admitted, lowering my voice. “I wanted to do well. I thought maybe it would be like meditating before a mission... But I ended up laughing. Because of him.”

“It was shared fault.” Izuku defended me, smiling at me. And fuck, every time he looks at me like that, I completely forget that I came here reluctantly.

“What you felt,” the therapist interjected, “that discomfort, the frustration, the laughter... all that is also being present. And although the exercise did not go as planned, you did become aware of how you felt in the moment. That's a big step in itself.”

We were silent for a while. This time, the atmosphere was not awkward, but calm.

“I'm proposing something for next week.” she added. “It is not mandatory, but it might help you: try to practice a three-minute exercise together, just once. Without speaking, without looking at each other. Just breathing in the same space.”

“We can't touch each other either?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Preferably not.” she replied.

Izuku nodded. I gesticulated in annoyance, but I kept silent.

We left the office a while later, walking in silence. Not because we were angry, simply because each one was processing his own.

And in my case, I was surprised that even in those silly exercises... I kept feeling connected to that freckled nerd. Even if he didn't know how to shut up for three minutes. Even if the mucus is noticeable when he breathes concentrated.

When we got home from therapy, as usual, I went straight to the kitchen. Izuku stayed doing his things, those tasks that I think are shit but that in the end someone must do: wash clothes, water plants, sort papers that I don't even know why we keep... Always so meticulous and patient, a total contrast to me. I just wanted to disconnect, prepare dinner and let myself be carried away by the routine to save the day.

As I peeled some potatoes and prepared the chicken, I could hear Deku humming a melody in the living room. Even though I was bothered by that fucking mania of his of playing soundtracks at home, strangely, he also made me feel at peace.

We ate dinner in silence, facing each other under the dim light of the dining room. Izuku was trying hard to get the conversation flowing, but I was on "autopilot" mode after a long day.

After dinner, we ended up on the couch. Izuku put on one of those documentaries that explain how flowers grow or something like that, but I didn't feel like watching for a second more. I settled down, closed my eyes for a while, trying not to think about anything.

When I opened them, I saw Izuku with the TV remote in his hand, looking at the screen and then looking at me, with that shy and hopeful smile that only he knows how to offer me. He turned off the TV and blurted out:

“What if we try to do the mindfulness exercise now?”

Inside, I thought: Really? Again? We literally just did it a few hours ago and I barely resisted ten seconds without letting out a laugh. But seeing him like this, so enthusiastic, so convinced, I had no choice but to accept.

“Okay.” I replied, my voice a little softer than I intended. “But I don't promise anything.”

We sat on the couch facing each other, cross-legged. The lighting was dim, the house silent except for the faint hum of the fan. Izuku closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and I tried to imitate him with the little knowledge I had managed to acquire in the session.

“Let's focus on the breath, on the momento.” Izuku whispered, more to himself than to me.

At first, I tried hard, but within a minute I was already feeling restless. To feel his breath so close, to see his eyelids tremble, his torso to move with each breath... It was so intense that I began to ramble.

Unintentionally, I opened my eyes and found him, also with his eyes half-open, trying to contain the laughter

“What's wrong?” I said, holding back a smile.

“Nothing.” he replied hoarsely. “It's just that this is harder than I imagined.”

And then, without being able to help it, we laugh. It was a soft, complicit laugh, the laughter that comes out when you know you're making a fool of yourself but still enjoy it. We looked at each other and approached without thinking much more.

Our lips met in a slow, warm kiss, which ended up awakening a desire that had been pent-up throughout the day. At that precise moment, I was only thinking about fucking him against the back of the sofa.

But just as I was about to take off his shirt...

Ring! The damn cell phone rang.

Damn phone, I cursed as I pulled away in annoyance. I got up to pick it up and saw on the screen who was calling.

My mother.

We hadn't spoken for months. Actually, I don't remember who it was who stopped calling the other first, but from then on, each call of her became a kind of impossible mission: to answer without being invaded by a thousand memories and pains.

I picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and answered.

“Hello?”

On the other side, there was an initial silence. Then, her voice, hers, full of emotions that I did not know how to decipher at the time.

My face went in seconds from the smile I had a moment ago to seriousness, with a wrinkled forehead and tense muscles.

Izuku looked at me from the sofa, worried.

“All right?”

I didn't say anything. I just gritted my teeth and heard a couple more sentences that left me cold.

I put my mobile phone in the pocket and returned to him, trying not to let my voice betray what I felt.

“Who was it?” he insisted.

“My mother.” I said, frowning.

Izuku nodded, a mixture of understanding and concern reflected in his eyes, which made me want to lean on him even more.

Chapter Text

I didn't want to get up so early. Not on a Monday. And even less so for this.

I tossed the sheets aside reluctantly, grumbling as I got out of bed and crawled into the bathroom. Izuku had already woken up before, as always, the damn maniac of morning routines. I didn't have the energy or the will to face this day. Nor the people. Nor, much less, my parents.

The water from the shower fell on the back of my neck and made me close my eyes tightly. There was something suffocating about thinking that I would return to that house. To that damn silence full of reproaches that floats between the walls when you're with people who are supposed to love you, but don't know how.

My parents have been living in the village for more than a year, when Grandpa could no longer fend for himself. My mother, with that temper of contained fury, moved there with my father —that specialist in being present without making an appearance— to take care of him. I suppose it has some merit. I never admitted it, but I thought about it more than once.

“Are you okay?” Izuku's voice came from the hallway, just as I came out of the bathroom, my hair still dripping and a towel around my waist.

“Do I look good?” I snorted. I paused for a second as I looked at him. Already dressed, suitcase ready by the door, and that expression of soft concern that always hung on his face when he read me like an open book.

“No... But that's not new.” he replied with a barely visible smile.

I rolled my eyes and went straight to the room. I put on some clean boxers and opened the closet with one more pull. The air in the weather was starting to warm up and, for some reason, that also pissed me off.

“You didn't need to come.” I blurted out suddenly, without looking at him, as I stuffed a T-shirt into my backpack too tightly.

“I know.” he replied, calmly. Always so damn quiet. As if nothing I did could get on his nerves.

“Deku, I'm serious.”

“And so do I. I want to be with you.” he replied. His voice did not rise, but it sounded firm. Almost as if he had been rehearsing that phrase since last night.

I frowned and let the folded pants fall onto the bed with a sigh.

“I don't need a damn caregiver. I'm going to go, I'm going to stay for a while and I'm going to come back. I don't need you to be there like I'm going to fall apart in the middle of the damn wake.”

“I don't think you'll fall apart, Kacchan.” he replied, approaching the bedroom door with his hands in his pockets. “But I don't want you to go through this alone, either. Even if you think you can.”

Silence. I turned to the suitcase and started to do it without saying more.

I could do it. Ten hours on the road in a single day. Five one way, five one way back. I've been driving for as long as I can remember. With my quirk, I could drive on explosions if I had to. But then he had let go of that stupid idea of staying overnight, and now I couldn't get it out of my head.

Spending the night in my grandparents' house. A whole night breathing the same air as my parents. Sleeping in the room that smelled like past. A cumulative disappointment.

“I could do it all in the same day.” I said, as if speaking into the air, as I rolled up some socks with unnecessary violence. It's not that bad.

“Of course you could. But you don't have to.” he replied, this time closer. “I don't want you to have an accident and die on the road because you're proud.”

I let out a dry laugh.

“Dramatic as always.”

“And you're stubborn as always.”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and that damn half-smile that escaped him when he was right and knew I knew it.

I clicked my tongue and yanked the zipper of the backpack.

“One night. Not even half an hour more. And I don't intend to talk to them any more than I have to.”

Izuku nodded, as if it was a small but significant victory.

“Whatever you say, Kacchan.”

I grabbed the backpack and walked past him in the direction of the entrance, without looking at him. But just as I walked past him, I noticed how his hand brushed my lower back, barely a second, a gesture as light as a sigh.

And, against all odds, that calmed me down.

I wasn't going to admit it out loud, of course. But having him close today... it helped me breathe.

As we went down to the garage and loaded things into the trunk, I gave him a sideways glance. He settled into the passenger seat as he always did.

“Did you put the address on the GPS?” he asked.

“There's no need. I know it.” I growled, starting the engine.

He smiled without saying anything, and I hated him a little for knowing me so well.

GPS was not necessary. What was needed was to breathe. Not thinking. Not remembering.

I wish it were that easy.

Five hours on the road go a long way. To be silent, to think, to want to get off on the move...

Izuku fell asleep within half an hour of leaving, his head leaning against the window, one leg tucked back into the seat. I envied him. Sleeping on the move always sucked to me. I never trusted enough to relax completely, neither when I was on the train, nor when I was driving with my parents. Much less now, with the tension accumulated at the base of the neck as if I were carrying a bomb about to detonate under my skin.

The landscape was as monotonous as I remembered it. Countryside, hills and the occasional lone tractor dragging the dirt. Everything as if frozen in time. And there we went, like two idiots in a Toyota, on my way to settle accounts with the past.

“Do you want me to play music?” Izuku asked after a while, when he woke up. His voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Do what you want.” I replied, without taking my eyes off the road.

It took him a few seconds to connect his mobile. It began to sound something calm, soft. Guitars with a nostalgic air. Nothing I would put in, but it didn't bother me either. I was actually surprised at how much it fit in with the day.

A few more miles passed without speaking. It was not uncomfortable silence. It was the kind of silence that dwells between two people who don't need to fill everything with words. Although... He tried to break it from time to time.

“Do you remember when we got a flat tire on our way back from the coast?”

I rolled my eyes without taking my eyes off the asphalt.

“It was your fault for insisting on that shitty country road.”

“But it had incredible views!” He laughed.

“And a huge ditch that almost blew us away.”

“Technically, you were the one driving.”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was smiling. He wanted me to loosen up, to let go of everything I had inside. And he succeeded, a little. His little tactics, the ways of invading my walls without firing a single shot.

After a while, I let the mental autopilot kick in, while my eyes were still on the road. Hands on the wheel, but thoughts elsewhere.

When I was a child, trips to the village were punishments disguised as family visits. My parents fought in the front seat. I sank into the back belt, wishing I was gone. But when we arrived, things changed a little. The air smelled different, of earth, of wet grass. To something more real than the city.

My grandfather was a serious man, with a deep voice that seemed to boom even when he muttered. But he didn't scream, not like my mother. And he didn't evaporate like my father. He was there, he looked and listened to you, even if he didn't always respond. And sometimes, sometimes, he would do something that looked like affection.

I remember one afternoon, when I was ten years old, when he took me to the river with some old fishing rods. I didn't understand a shit. I had no patience. But he sat down next to me, in silence, and taught me how to bait the hook. He corrected me once, in a low voice, and then let me do it all on my own. The fishing rod was bigger than my arms. At the end of the day we didn't catch anything, but he ruffled my hair with his rough hand and said, "That was fine, Katsuki."

Nobody told me those things at home.

We walked back along the sidewalk as the sun went down through the trees. I didn't say anything. But I felt... peace. Or something similar.

“Are you okay?” Izuku asked in a soft voice, as if he had noticed that I left for a second.

I tightened the steering wheel a little more. I didn't look at him.

“I'm driving, don't distract me.”

He did not insist. He just nodded slowly, I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He turned his gaze to the landscape and I was grateful for the silence, even if it left me alone with what was boiling inside me.

The truth is that I didn't know if I was right, or bad, or anything. I felt something, but it was like a fog, like a knot in my stomach that I didn't know if it was sadness or just exhaustion. Perhaps it hurt me that I had never told my grandfather out loud that I admired him, that I listened to him, that I respected him. But in my family, saying those things was like speaking in another language.

“It's still half an hour away.” I said, to get away from my thoughts. Izuku nodded and put on another song, a little more lively this time.

We move on. The trees became denser and the curves more familiar. The town appeared behind the hills, with its low roofs, its rusty gas station and that damn sign that still said "Welcome" in half-erased red letters.

My jaw tensed on its own. My foot became heavier on the accelerator, as if I wanted to go through the village and not have to stop.

“We're close, aren't we?” Izuku asked.

“Yes.” I replied dryly.

I turned down a narrow street, skirting the low houses with white walls and tiled roofs. Some facades had old cracks, others were better cared for. Everything was in its place, almost unchanging. As if time here is dragging instead of running.

The grandparents' house was at the end of a hill. White, wood-clad on top, with small windows and a half-neglected front garden. I parked parallel in front of the entrance.

I sat there for a second, my hands still on the steering wheel.

Izuku looked at me, but said nothing.

I looked at the door. Closed. But I knew they were inside. My parents, the past, the discomfort. The conversation I didn't want to have. The grief that I didn't know how to handle.

I opened the car door.

The air smelled of the same thing I remembered. To field. To memories.

I haven't taken out my suitcase yet. I stood still, standing next to the car, staring at the façade as if it were an enemy. As if I had to calculate the strategy to enter hostile territory.

“Shall we go?” Izuku said, already out of the car.

I took a deep breath. I was not even close ready. But yes, let's go.

The door was still there. The same old wood, varnished with the same bad taste as twenty years ago. Maybe they had changed it once, but for me it was still the same: the mouth through which you entered another life, one that I spent years trying to bury.

I knocked twice, dry, direct. As if that would make it seem like I cared less.

Only five seconds passed, but I counted them one by one.

Then it opened.

She first, then he, peeking out from behind.

“Katsuki.” my mother said, in that voice that was always bordering on judgment.

“Mitsuki.” I replied. I didn't call her "mom" since I was sixteen.

My father just nodded a little, as if he were greeting a neighbor and not his son after... how long? Seven months? More?

Izuku, of course, smiled with that absurd warmth of his that made even the next-door neighbors smile back.

“Good afternoon. Thank you for receiving us.” he said, with a small bow.

And you know what? I swear to God: my mother's expression softened more at the sight of Izuku than at the sight of me. What a surprise.

“Izuku.” she said, even with something that almost sounded kind. “Come in, son. As if you were at home.”

"As if you were at home." Of course. She said it for him, not for me.

W entered. The house smelled the same as always, of old wood, dust, and a little camphor. But now it was more orderly. It seemed more... like a museum. What used to be grandfather's armchair was covered with a blanket. The photos on the wall were still the same: family portraits, my mother as a young woman, me as a child in an ugly dressing gown. Everything was framed as if that past had some value beyond the rubble it left behind.

We sat down. She brought tea. Two cups for us, one for her. My father didn't bother to approach the table, preferring to lie on the couch as if he were part of the furniture.

The conversation was a corpse that no one wanted to bury.

“So... are you still with the professional hero thing?” My father said, looking at nothing, not at me.

"The professional hero thing." As if it were a passing hobby. As if it hadn't been the only thing I broke my soul for the rest of my fucking life.

“Yes.” I answered.

He nodded slowly.

“You're doing well, aren't you? Although I guess you still have a way to go to become number one. Even Izuku is ahead of you in this quarter's rankings.”

The cup in my hand squeaked as I pressed it against the plate. A protest in the form of ceramics.

My mother laughed at his comment. It wasn't entirely sarcastic or cruel, but... as if it amused her. As if it were true.

Are they laughing at me? What kind of joke is this?

Izuku noticed. The nerd always knows what's going on in my head before I open my mouth.

And then, he stretched out his hand under the table, reaching mine that rested on my right knee, and interlaced his fingers with mine. His voice was like a blanket on broken glass.

“Oh, Kacchan is always hot on my heels. At any moment he can overtake us all.”

He said it with a calm smile. As if nothing happened, as if he already knew that I was about to send everything to shit.

But I swear it calmed me down, at least a little. His tone, his touch, his incredible ability to lower my fire without drowning it. I took a breath and took a sip of the tea. It was hot, too hot.

And then I got up suddenly.

“I'm going to leave our things in the room.” I said, tugging at Izuku with my hand still clasped.

I didn't wait for their answer. We climbed the stairs and each step creaked as if protesting my mere existence.

“Are you going to lock yourself in the room yet?” my mother said from below, with that tone she used when she wanted to prick without it looking like a stab. “It took your grandfather to die for you to come and see your parents.”

I did not answer; she didn't deserve an answer. I closed the door harder than necessary.

The room was the same. The same wallpaper, the same furniture, the same bed, the desk with the rusty lamp and some faded posters of All Might, which I had to leave hanging when I was twelve. Like a time capsule.

I left the suitcase on the floor in one fell swoop. I turned around.

Izuku was looking at me. He didn't say anything. Just... he looked at me. As if he already knew I was going to break.

I felt my eyes sting. No. I wasn't going to cry. Not now. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.

I rubbed my face with my hands, clenched my fists. It wasn't enough. The shit was rising, choking, thick.

“I don't know why the fuck I came.” I murmured, as if that served as a shield.

Izuku slowly approached and hugged me. Strong. Like he had to hold on because I couldn't.

And I... I couldn't help but stay there. With my forehead resting on his shoulder. Trembling. Swallowing the knot. Feeling the tears threaten. Damned, disgusting, treacherous.

I don't know how long I was hugging him.

I didn't cry, but I felt something in me break anyway. Like an old crack that opens right in the same place where it was fractured before. It was not a collapse. It was something more subtle. More fucked up, actually. Like feeling like your lungs are burning but you have to keep breathing the same way so you don't die.

Izuku didn't say anything, he just held me down. With that calm that was scary because of how real it felt. And I... I stayed there with him. For once, I didn't feel like I had to hide the shit I've been dragging around forever.

When I finally separated a little, he looked at me. His face was so close that I could count the freckles, one by one. As if they were coordinates. A map to return to when I get lost.

“I'm sorry.” I murmured, and I don't know why. I don't know if I was saying it because I brought him here, because I couldn't control my reactions, or because I was born in a house like this.

Izuku shook his head, softly.

“You don't have to sorry for anything, Kacchan.”

It fucked me off that he talked to me like that, as if I were a child to be comforted. But at the same time, I was grateful for it.

I slumped down on the bed on my side, and he lay behind me, hugging me by the waist. My shoulders were still tense, as if every fiber of my body thought we were going to fight at any moment. And the funny thing is, I wasn't wrong. Only that the fight was against all this; against the memories, against the voices in my head, against the damn house that seemed to be breathing with us.

“I don't know why I came.” I said again.

Izuku didn't respond immediately. He rested his forehead on the back of my neck, I felt his warmth.

“You came because, in spite of everything, this is also part of you.”

I frowned.

“I don't want it to be.”

“Yes. But it is.” he said softly. “That doesn't make you any less you. It doesn't erase everything you've built, or who you are now.”

I turned on the bed to look at him. He was too close. His eyes were green, intense, wide. And they were not running away from anything. They made me angry. They gave me peace.

“I told you that you didn't need to come.” I reminded him, though the phrase sounded more like an excuse than a reproach.

“And I told you I don't care.” he replied without blinking. “I want to be with you. Here. Even like this.”

I looked down. His fingers intertwined with mine without asking permission as if they had the right. And boy did they have it.

“I can't get over this.” I confessed, in a low voice. “I thought so. But only... it is kept. Somewhere.”

He nodded. Not with pity. With understanding.

“Sometimes it's enough to know that you don't keep it alone.”

I laughed, but not funny.

“Fuck, Izuku... You sound like our fucking therapist.”

He smiled. He gave me a short kiss on the forehead.

“And you sound like an idiot when you try not to cry.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

We stayed like that for a while. His hand tangled in my hair and my forehead against his chest. The silence in the room was heavy, but not uncomfortable. As if someone finally understands that I don't need to be saved, just not to be released.

But, of course, the moment could not last long.

The door slammed open. They didn't call or ask if they could come in, just a dry voice:

“The wake is at six. We're leaving in an hour.”

It was my mother and she did not wait for a response. She closed it again as if she didn't care about anything that might happen on the other side.

Izuku sighed. I didn't say anything.

I am not going to go into details.

The wake was exactly as I expected: a parade of familiar faces with forgotten names. Distant relatives, uncles I hadn't seen since I was twelve, cousins who married people I don't even know their names and neighbors from the village who looked at me as if I were a distorted memory. From when I was only "the son of Mitsuki and Masaru". The old man's grandson.

The four of us went in the same car. Me in the back, next to Izuku. My parents in front. Not a fucking word the whole way. Not even the radio, just the hum of the engine and my breathing, which sounded louder than it should. The steering wheel creaked in my mother's hands. And my father had that statue-like face that he's lived with all his life.

When we arrived, it was like falling into a movie I didn't want to star in.

The place smelled of cheap incense and flowers too alive to be surrounded by death. Everything was white, too neat. As if someone had tried to embalm the pain in an elegant way.

Izuku stayed close the entire time, as if he knew I was one step away from setting everything on fire. And the truth is that I appreciated it. Because, although I don't admit it out loud, if I had been alone... I don't know if I would have endured.

Some relatives came to say hello. People I haven't spoken to in over ten years.

“You've grown a lot...”
“You don't look like your father,.”
“I bet, you're so famous, huh? Look how quiet you are!”

All with forced smiles. With a tone that was intended to be familiar but that only sounded unfamiliar. As if they knew me because we share blood, and that was enough to not be a complete stranger.

I wanted to answer something. Something hurtful that would cut through the hypocrisy. But I didn't, I kept quiet. I just looked straight ahead, keeping my jaw tense and my fists tucked into my pockets. Squeezing hard. Very strong.

At one point, my mother came over to my side. Not to hug me or to tell me that everything would be fine. Just to let go:

“Your grandfather would be glad to see you here, even if it took you so long.”

I didn't even answer her. Because if I said anything, I would earn a lascivious look from everyone present. And that night I didn't feel strong enough to light another bomb.

The coffin was there, with its face of polished wood and flowers all too vivid. I didn't go close. I didn't want to see him.

Izuku spoke to a few. He was kind. He even bowed to my mother at some point, as if she deserved it. I hated him a little bit because of it. And then I loved him more.

We walked back, him and I. I told my parents that I preferred to walk a little. That I needed air. They did not object, nor did they ask why.

The town was already half dark. The old streetlights were shining orange on the cracked asphalt and the air smelled of wet dirt, even though it hadn't rained. It was that rare humidity of the villages, which gets into your bones even if you are well dressed.

We walked in parallel with our hands together. He didn't let go of me once. And my throat was in a knot. The stomach too.

Too many things at once: the reunion with my parents, the fucking passive-aggressive phrases, Izuku's face, so serene, so fucking sweet in the middle of all this shit, my grandfather's coffin, the memories...

Too much.

I stopped in my tracks.

So did he.

We stood still in the middle of the empty street. The lamppost above us was sizzling a little.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

And something in my chest fell apart, again. Something I've been trying to keep in place for so long... who no longer remembered what it was like to live without that constant lump in his throat.

Izuku said nothing. He just tilted his head a little, with that expression of his that sometimes makes me desperate because he understands everything  without having to ask. Because he never forces me, but he is always there, by my side. Always.

And that damn constancy of him was what broke the last tightrope that held me together.

“This is beyond me.” I blurted out, my voice hoarse, harsh. I felt my jaw tremble just as I spoke.

Izuku narrowed his eyes, not letting go of my hand. He waited. He said nothing. And that, in a way, gave me permission to continue.

“This is a trap.” I said. I didn't know if I was referring to the town, to my family, to the death of my grandfather or to myself. Maybe everything. Maybe it always has been. “I thought I could handle this. That I was already an adult. That all that shitty childhood, the screams, the comparisons... I had forgotten it. Overcome. Like a phase. A fucking shitty stage.”

I couldn't help it. I laughed. Short and hollow. Halfway between laughter and vomiting.

“But no. I come back and... and everything is still there. Everything is the same. I'm still the same.”

Izuku squeezed my hand, and his pupils seemed to dilate.

“You're not the same.”

I didn't believe him.

“I keep shouting instead of talking. I still don't know how to cry or tell you what's wrong with me without sounding like an arrogant imbecile. I keep pretending that I don't care about everything, that it doesn't affect me, that I'm strong. Always strong. Always biting the tongue.”

I said and felt a sob escape me. One. Small and clumsy. But it was enough for everything else to start tottering.

“Fuck...” I squeezed my eyes tightly, hating how the burning felt behind my eyelids. “I don't want to cry.”

Izuku didn't answer. He left me space. He let me break.

And I did.

“I don't want you to see me like that.” I continued, almost spitting out the words. “I don't want you to think I'm weak. That I am not in control. Because if I lose it..... If I start letting go of all this... I don't know if I can pick it up again afterwards.”

I looked up. He looked at me with those big, green eyes that have never judged me, not even when I pushed him, insulted him, despised him.

“I don't deserve you.” I blurted out. It was a whisper, but it hurt like something was being ripped from my chest. “I've been a shit to you. I'm a monster.”

He blinked. He frowned.

“Don't say that.”

“But it's true. You know what I did to you, what I told you, everything that... what we have been dragging since we were children. I was cruel to you. More than anyone has the right to be. And you... Fuck, you're still here. You keep treating me like I'm not a fucking mess.”

Izuku let go of my hand, only to wrap both arms around me. He pulled me to him with a gentle firmness, as if he knew I was going to resist. And he was right. Because at first I tensed up. I refused to give in. But then...

Then I gave up.

I slumped against his shoulder, my hands gripping his jacket as if I was going to drown. Because that's what I felt; I was drowning in myself.

“You don't owe me anything, Izuku.” I murmured, my voice breaking, between sobs I could no longer contain. “Nothing. You could have told me to fuck off years ago. You should hate me, and you'd be right.”

I felt his hand on the back of my neck. His fingers in my hair.

“I'm not here because you owe me.” he replied, in that calm but truthful voice of his. “I'm here because I want to be. Because I know you. Because I love you.”

I closed my eyes. Tears flowed out uncontrollably. They stained his clothes. I didn't care.

“I don't want you to love me.” I lied, gritting my teeth.

“You can't forbid me.” he whispered, caressing me. “It doesn't work that way.”

I let out another sob. Higher, more raw this time.

“I don't know how to love well. I've never known. I screwed everything up. I screwed you up. And on top of that... On top of that, you look at me as if I was still worth it.”

I felt naked, unprotected, destroyed.

But also... free.

Because I was finally saying it. All that I ate since I was a child who only knew how to defend himself with his fists. All that I didn't tell anyone. Not even my mother. Nor the therapist. Not even myself.

And he was listening to it. Without moving away.

“I'm sorry. For everything I did... You don't deserve anything wrong.” I said at last, my voice so low that it was barely air.

Izuku didn't respond instantly. He just hugged me tighter. His chest against mine. Its warmth enveloping me.

“You don't have to apologize.”

My legs trembled. I would have dropped if it wasn't for him being there.

I didn't understand how he could forgive me. How, after all, he still held me like there was no fire in my hands, like he didn't remember everything I was. I felt something break inside me, but not from pain, but from relief. The kind of relief that weighs so much that it also hurts. I still didn't quite believe it, nor did I know if I would one day. But in that moment, with his body pressed against mine and his forgiveness as simple as breathing, I knew that maybe... Just maybe, I wasn't doomed to continue being the kid who screamed so he wouldn't break.

We were like this, in the middle of the empty street, the sleeping houses and the starry sky.

And I, crying like never before. Like that child who never allowed himself to do it when he needed it most.

“Thank you.” I murmured.

I don't know how long we were there. But at some point, I calmed down.

My body was still shaking, but it didn't hurt as much anymore. Or it hurt in another way. Like when muscles stop being tense after hours of tension.

We were still hugging. He caressed my back with those slow and steady movements. As if he was not in a hurry. As if he wasn't afraid of me, of what he had seen, of what he had heard.

Of what I am.

“Come on.” he said at one point. “Let's rest.”

Izuku took my hand and we walked.

When we arrived at my grandparents' house, we stayed in the room in silence. Outside, the town slept with its darkness poorly lit by old street lamps.

We lay down together on that small bed, hugging each other. His legs tangled with mine. His cold nose against my neck. His slow, metronome-like breathing marked a rhythm that I could hold on to.

Chapter Text

It's been two weeks since my grandfather passed away.

In the end, I didn't have that big pending conversation with my parents. The one that, in theory, was going to fix something or break everything definitively. It just didn't happen. Not because I didn't have the opportunity, but because I didn't have the strength or the will, or both.

The farewell was what everything has always been with them: dry and brief. My mother patted me on the back as if I were a colleague she hadn't seen for years. My father muttered something about the traffic on the way home. Izuku thanked everything with that smile of his as a diplomat in a war zone. I... I just nodded and got in the car.

It didn't hurt or make me angry. I wasn't surprised either. At this point I don't expect more from them.

There are people who are born in homes where affection is given without having to ask for it. I got a different kind of place and for years I broke my back trying to prove that I deserved more than what they gave me.

I don't do it anymore because I understood it: it's not that I didn't deserve it, it's that they didn't know how to give it. And that's okay. I don't need them to be anything else. Because, fuck... Now I have someone who does see me, who does listen to me, who stays.

I have Izuku.

The week after the wake was like a parenthesis, a pause in life that does not end up being rest. We went back to work, to routine, to alarms, to hero costumes and reports that no one wants to read but everyone wants to sign. The city was still the city: noisy, voracious, demanding, the same as always. And at home, everything was... not bad.

Izuku would play low music while we cooked, leave his cup next to me when I worked on the laptop, and lie on top of me on the couch even though he said he wasn't sleepy. And I simply existed by his side. That's it.

We didn't argue, we didn't yell at each other. But I felt like I was... disconnected.

I didn't even feel like fucking. And that's saying a lot coming from me.

It wasn't that I didn't want to. Of course. It's Izuku, fuck. It's just that... I had no energy at all. Not to want to, not to show it, not to pretend that everything was going well.

I felt like my guts had been pulled out and only the shell left. I moved, I talked, I responded... but inside there was nothing left. Just a thick fog and a knot in the stomach.

I know Izuku could tell. He noticed it from day one. But he didn't say anything or demand answers from me that I didn't have. He just stayed, and that was enough.

The therapy session on that first Sunday after the wake was... strange.

The therapist told us about grief and its forms. How one not only mourns a death, but also an emotional loss, a failure or a past version of oneself. I didn't say much. I just looked out the window and muttered just enough. But her words hit me harder than I want to admit.

Because yes. I cried for my grandfather. But I was also crying other things that I never said out loud: the childhood I didn't have and the version of me that was hidden behind the rage and the desperate need to be enough for parents who never knew how to see me.

And I also cried —although in silence— how close I was to losing Izuku. Not for lack of love, but for all the times I did not know how to tell him that I loved him with words. Or all the times I did things my way, without taking into account his feelings.

Then came another week.

Nothing extraordinary. Saving lives, signing papers, making statements for media that only want headlines with bold names... Normal.

At home, something more of the same. Izuku brought new plants for the balcony, forgot a meeting and spent a whole afternoon asking me not to remind him of it for the rest of the month —spoiler: of course I reminded him—, and one day he locked himself in the bathroom for thirty minutes because he thought he had seen a cockroach —it was a dirty sock—.

The fucked up thing is that even in that nonsense... I felt a little more alive. As if everything is returning to normal, but at its own pace.

And now... today... It's Sunday again. Last session of couples therapy.

The idea of an end to this forced torture should cheer me up. Fewer questions, less awkward silences, less opening up for someone to tell me that "that's valid too, Katsuki". I should be celebrating that this fucking weekly emotional dissection is over. And yet... I feel a little sorry for it.

Because, although I don't admit it out loud, these sessions made me understand things that I had been avoiding for years. And because I like how Izuku looks at me when I leave those sessions, as if he understood something else about me that I didn't know how to explain before.

I guess it's not just about talking. It's about wanting to talk. To choose to do so. And as annoying as it is and as uncomfortable as it may be... I have begun to want to talk, to let go a little. At my own pace. In my own way. But to what, after all.

Today I have that feeling in my chest that I don't know how to name. That mixture between fear, vertigo and a kind of silent relief. Perhaps that is what they call "growing", "maturing".

Izuku calls me from the door. He's already put on his jacket and he's waiting for me with those fucking eyes that make him look nerdy and beautiful in equal parts.

Last session. Last time I sit on that couch and pretend I'm not nervous about talking about feelings with witnesses. Last time I'm going to try to make him understand what he should already know: That I love him. Despite my way of being. Or perhaps precisely because of that.

The elevator goes up slowly. It always does, but today it seems slower than ever. As if it also knew that this is the last time. Izuku is next to me, with his hands in his pockets and that concentrated gesture he makes when his head does not stop. I would like to know what he is thinking about, but I do not ask him. Sometimes, I let him breathe. And sometimes, I let myself breathe.

The elevator door opens and we walk down the hallway. The wooden floor creaks under our steps. The same floor, the same white walls, the same fucking aroma diffuser that always smells like synthetic lavender.

And there it is. The door with the engraved plate: Individual and Couple Psychotherapy.

Wonderful. One last time to open our chests as if we were a fucking mature orange.

“Ready?” Izuku asks me, with a soft smile.

“No. But let's go.” I reply, crossing the threshold.

The room is the same as always. Warm, orderly, full of that forced peace that all psychological offices have. As if beige cushions and fake plants could save you from yourself.

The therapist welcomes us with a smile. She wears new glasses but the same earrings as always. Strangely enough, they don't bother me as much as they used to.

“Welcome. I'm glad to see you.” she says, sitting down opposite us with that calmness that has driven me crazy more times than I can count.

Izuku and I sat on the couch. Me on the left, he on the right. As usual. Routine even in that.

“Well,” she begins, crossing her legs. “this is our last session. I want us to start with a little dynamic, if that's okay with you.”

Izuku nods. I shrug my shoulders. Of course we think it's fine, we have no escape.

“I want you to think about your first session here. In how you were then, in what you felt, in what you thought about each other and the relationship. And now, tell me what has changed.”

It catches me by surprise. I thought she would make us write ridiculous phrases about "what we've learned" or something. But this is worse. This is looking back and noticing the mud you had on your shoes.

Izuku looks at me but I avoid his gaze. I clear my throat. The therapist waits, of course she waits. She enjoys the awkward silence, the very bitch.

“I suppose I should start, shouldn't I?” I say, snorting.

Izuku smiles with that "I'm listening to you even if you're being an imbecile" gesture that works so well for him. I hate him. And I love him. All at the same time.

“When we started... I was pissed off.” I begin. “With everything. With me, with him, with you too... Because I was convinced that this was a waste of time. I thought that if something didn't work, it would be fixed. Or it was not fixed. That… enduring was already enough proof of love. And if he didn't like the way I was, then fuck him.”

The therapist nods. She doesn't speak, she just nods. It bothers me and calms me down at the same time.

“I didn't know... I had no fucking idea how to say what I felt. If I said it, it was shouted or insulted. As if it hurt less that way. As if shouting it out doesn't sound like a confession.”

Izuku doesn't move. He listens to me with the attention of a surgeon in the middle of open-heart surgery. And that's just what this is; A fucking operation without anesthesia.

“Before, I didn't let myself be taken care of, nor did I know what "making love" was. It was as if accepting his tenderness was a weakness. And much worse if I was the one who was affectionate with him. As if it made me less of a man, less strong, less... I do not know. And now... I'm not saying I like it, but I do. Sometimes. Just enough.”

Pause. The therapist continues without interrupting. It's hard for me to breathe a little, but I keep going.

“I also thought that asking for help was cowardly, that only crazy people went to therapy and that if you opened your mouth to say that something hurt, it was because you hadn't put up with it enough. Now... Now I understand that you don't have to be broken to need help.”

God, how ridiculous all this sounds said out loud.

“And above us...” I look at Izuku at last. “I do not know. I used to see him as someone who had to put up with me. As if it were a punishment that he had unintentionally. Now... I know he doesn't deserve it. And I'm willing to improve for him because I know I don't want to lose him. Never.”

Silence.

Izuku blinks. His eyes are bright, but he doesn't say anything yet. And I... Fuck, I feel naked. I want to hide under the devil's beige cushion.

The therapist turns to Izuku.

“And you, Izuku? What would you like to share?”

He gives me a look that hurts and comforts, like a tight bandage.

“When we started here... I was tired. Not from Kacchan, but from feeling that every day was a fight to get close to him, to hit a wall over and over again. I knew he loved me. I always knew. But sometimes... it was not enough. Because he didn't say it, he didn't show it as I needed him to.”

It hurts me to hear it. But I don't interrupt him. Because it's true.

“And now… Now I feel like he finally sees me. That listens to me. That not only does he love me, but he chooses to love me. Even if he has to fight with everything he learned in his life to do it.”

His words are a punch in the gut. But they are also a hug.

“I've seen how he's changed. How he strives. How he opens, even if it's little by little. How he lets me hug him in public, even in front of the cameras, without getting tense. And that... That means the world to me.”

The therapist smiles. I squirm on the sofa.

“Okay, okay now. Stop talking about me as if I were a dog that has been taught not to bite the postman.”

Izuku laughs. The therapist too. And yes, I smile too. A little bit.

“You're doing great, Katsuki.” she says.

“Yes, yes. High approved in functional human being.” I murmur, crossing my arms. “What an achievement.”

But inside... something loosens. Something is falling into place.

Because for the first time in a long time I don't feel like a mistake with legs. I feel like someone who can learn. That I can truly love and that I can be loved without having to stop being who I am.

“Well, to say goodbye,” the therapist announced, after the post-introspection silence had settled in for a long time, “I want you to take a few minutes to write a letter. For your partner. But in reality, for both of you. A letter that is addressed to the "you" of the future.”

Izuku straightened up a little on the sofa. I frowned.

“A letter?” I asked, because obviously someone had to question the ridiculousness of the moment.

“Yes.” she replied, unperturbed. “Not to read it now or to share it with each other. Just to keep it. And to turn to it when everything goes wrong. When you have doubts. When you feel disconnected or lost.”

Izuku had already picked up a pen. Yes of course.

“Take your time, Katsuki.” the therapist added, knowing full well that I didn't agree with it.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye and picked up the damn pen too. Okay, let's write.

The therapist left us with our sheets and discreetly moved away to her desk, as if she were not there. But she was. I saw how she watched us out of the corner of her eye, even if she pretended to be distracted.

Izuku leaned over the paper, serious, focused, as if he was writing a battle strategy. I stared at the blank sheet of paper for a long time.

What the fuck am I supposed to say to the "we" of the future?

I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and wrote:

"For us, in case I ever get lost again:

I have no idea why you're reading this. Maybe things are bad again, maybe you argued with Izuku because you said something you shouldn't have or maybe you closed yourself off again like an imbecile, believing that you can do everything by yourself.

If it's any of that, remember: you've already done it once. You've opened up, you've let your guard down, and you've survived. No one tore your skin off for showing what you felt. Izuku is still there. Even if you don't see it clearly right now, it's still there. He endured your walls, your silences, your sharp words. Not because he had no other choice, but because he wanted to. Because he chooses to do it every day...

So don't be cowardly. Talk to him, tell him that you love him with words, leave him those post-its that he likes so much and remember the nights when you felt so fucked up that only his hug gave you back the oxygen. Remember the last visit to your parents, the dark street and your face wet with tears against his body. He is not the enemy, he never has been.

You don't have to be invincible all the time and if you've come back to thinking you don't deserve him... Well, maybe not. Maybe no one fully deserves someone like Izuku Midoriya. But he's not with you out of pity. He is with you because he sees in you something that you do not see. Trust that, trust him. Don't be an idiot. Go back to him.

—Katsuki."

I folded the paper slowly, put it in the envelope the therapist had given us, and wrote the date in one corner. Izuku was finishing too. I saw how he closed the envelope carefully, as if he were keeping a relic.

The therapist looked at us, smiled, and said nothing more.

Because it was not necessary.

We got up, thanked her for everything and left the office for the last time.

We didn't talk much as we were leaving. It was not necessary. There was something quiet in the silence, something comfortable.

When we got home, it was already dark. The city lights flickered behind the windows as if they were waiting for us to settle into the routine again.

Izuku took off his shoes at the entrance. I went straight to the kitchen.

“What do you fancy for dinner?” I asked, opening the fridge.

“Do you have the energy to cook? I can do it today if you want.” he replied from the living room, as he left his letter in the drawer of the cabinet, with an almost reverential delicacy.

“Nah, leave it. I feel like it. Besides, I get the curry better.” I said, because yes, even in that I'm competitive.

Izuku laughed quietly. I didn't hear it, but I imagined it. His small laugh, that sound that escapes him when he is really quiet.

I turned on the stove, chopped onions, the pan began to sizzle. Izuku walked up behind me and patted me on the ass —as if it were the most normal thing in the world between us— and went to play low music on the speaker in the living room. Smooth jazz. He hates it, but he knows it relaxes me.

That's the kind of thing he does. Those small, silly, important ones.

“Do you think that in a few years we will remember that letter?” he asked from the sofa.

“I don't know.” I said, without turning around. “I hope not. I hope we don't need it.”

“But if we need it, we will have it.” he added, as if pointing out the obvious.

I didn't answer. I added the rice, stirred it. I concentrated on not missing the point.

The atmosphere still felt intense, but not heavy. Like a blanket on top of the body after a long day. In all these weeks of therapy sessions we had torn off layers, we had stripped ourselves inside and we were still here. Whole and together. No more was needed.

Izuku ate slowly, his head resting on one hand. I watched him at times, as if I needed to check that he was still there, whole, with me, after these two weeks at half throttle. And yes, there he was; with his calm face and his old T-shirt that he wears as pajamas.

When we finished eating, we picked up the plates together. Even that wasn't uncomfortable. Just... natural, synchronized movement. I washed the plates and he dried them. That kind of routine that makes a place stop being just a house and become a home.

And somewhere between drying the last fork and turning off the kitchen light, his hand brushed against mine. It was not accidental. He didn't say anything else.

Nor did he need to.

We went to the bedroom without haste, without speaking. Just walking at the same pace, as if the whole world had calmed down around us so as not to interrupt us.

Inside, we lit only the lamp on the small table. The warm light bathed the room in a stillness that felt more intimate than any caress. I closed the door with a soft click, turned and there he was. Waiting for me without haste, without demands. Just giving me my space.

“Are you okay?” he asked, quietly, as if he were afraid of breaking something.

I nodded. Then, I walked over and leaned my forehead against his.

“I don't know.” I confessed. “But I know I want this. With you.”

His fingers brushed the back of my neck, he caressed me so gently that it almost hurt.

I kissed him slowly.

Not like before, not with the urgency of wanting to devour him or with the contained rage that sometimes sneaks between our bodies. Not this time. This time I kissed him like someone who comes home after being lost. As if I could swallow his breath and with that rebuild myself inside.

His lips moved against mine with familiarity, but also with something new. As if he too had been waiting for this moment, not only out of desire, but out of necessity, out of comfort, out of connection.

My hands tangled under his T-shirt and I slowly pulled it up, exposing his skin inch by inch. He did the same with mine. This time there were no sudden gasps or clumsy pushes. Only breaths that intertwined as we took off our clothes as if we were unwrapping something valuable.

We fell on the bed and the mattress creaked a little under our weight. I stood on top of him, resting my forearms on either side of his head. His hair was scattered on the pillow. His eyes were half open, as if he was looking inside and couldn't decide whether to hug me or cry.

I leaned over and kissed him again. First his mouth, then his neck, his collarbones, the hollow of his chest.

He while caressing my face with his fingertips.

“You're trembling.” he murmured.

He was not lying. But I wasn't really trembling with fear. It was as if my whole body had been on pause for two weeks, two years, a lifetime, and now it was hard to move again.

“I'm fine, really.” I replied, more for myself than for him.

And then we made love. Yes, fuck. Love. There is no other way to say it.

It wasn't sex like other times. It was not a battle. It was not a war of mouths and hands. It was slow. It was looking at us, feeling us, holding us...

I moved over him with a slowness that I would never have allowed before. As if it was difficult for me to let go of control, but this time... I didn't want anything else. Izuku guided me speechlessly, arched just enough and his hands caressed my back tenderly, as if he knew I was still sewn inside and didn't want to open up more than necessary.

But I swear I didn't take my eyes off his once. And neither does he.

And that was what disarmed me the most, because I had never let myself be seen so much by anyone. I had never allowed myself to be like this: vulnerable, exposed, soft.

But I didn't feel weak.

I felt... beloved.

And that, for someone like me, is the most hard thing to accept.

We moved together, in rhythm. My sighs filled the room and my name escaped him at times, whispered between breaths. And at one point, without knowing why, without planning it, without thinking about it, I said it:

“I love you.”

I told him without anger, without sarcasm, without hiding it behind a joke or being on the verge of death. Just that. The truth.

He looked at me with moist eyes, as if I had just saved his life.

“Me too.” he groaned against my lips. “I love you so much.”

I kept moving slowly, without breaking that moment. Looking him in the eye as we did it, surrendering to him, to what I've always felt but tried to hide. And when we both reached the end, it was as if the world stopped for a few seconds.

Then I plopped down beside him, panting against his neck, my chest still pounding like crazy.

He hugged me and I closed my eyes for a few seconds. There was something definitive in all that. Not because it was perfect, but because we had survived the shit we were dragging around, ourselves. And now... Now I could finally stop fighting.

The room smelled of skin, of sweat, of clothes freshly thrown on the floor without care. Outside you couldn't hear anything, not the distant murmur of traffic, not the neighbors. Just us, our breath and the slight creak of the sheets as I moved a little to get closer to him.

Izuku had his face turned toward me, resting on his arm. His eyelashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. He seemed at peace. And that fuck me up a bit. Because it made me feel a lot of things that I've never quite known how to handle.

There were no lights on anymore. Only the pale glow of the moon sneaking through the window, painting us blue.

“You think too much.” he murmured, without opening his eyes.

I snort through the nose.

“I can't turn off my brain. Mine is defective.”

He smiled, barely.

“I like it that way.”

Silence. His thumb moved absentmindedly over the inside of my wrist, where he held me without force, with no intention of holding me back. Like he knew I wasn't going to leave.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, in that low voice he used only when we were like this: naked, unarmed.

I stared at the ceiling for a moment, as if waiting for the words to come down on their own. They didn't. I had to take them out by force.

“What this feels like... good.” I swallowed. “And that's scary.”

I felt him turn a little towards me, more awake now.

“Why?”

I shrugged.

“Because I'm not used to good things staying. To last.”

He didn't interrupt me. He didn't correct me with cheap optimism.

“For years,” I went on, “I thought I had to endure alone. That I could not let go of anything, or show anything, because that was weakness. Because if I did it, they would leave. Or worse, they would use it against me.”

Izuku slid his hand to my chest. He left it there, above the heart.

“And now,” I said, “this is happening to me.”

He looked at me without understanding.

“This...” I nodded toward us, the room, the bed, the whole fucking universe that seemed to have become small in his arms. “This thing of being with you and not wanting to be anywhere else. Of not having to hide anything. To do it slowly and delicately. And all that... It breaks me a little inside. Because I don't know what to do with all of it.”

He came closer, until our foreheads touched.

“Just live it.” he whispered. “You don't have to do anything else.”

I hated him a little because of how easy he said it. And I loved him, at the same time, for not asking me for more than I could give to him.

“It scares me.” I confessed.

“What?”

“To feel at home with you.”

His eyes widened, surprised. He didn't expect it, clearly. But he didn't laugh or make it a joke.

“Why does it scare you?” he asked.

“Because I never had it. And now that I have it, I'm afraid of losing it.”

He looked at me as if it hurt. As if he could feel it too, that fear nestled under my skin, always alert.

“You're not going to lose me.” he said, firmly.

I sighed. My hand reached for his.

“You're more than I deserve.” I murmured.

He rolled his eyes.

“Again with that?”

“It is true.” I insisted. “When I think about everything I put you through... what I was, what I didn't know how to give you when you needed it...”

“Kacchan.”

“No.” I interrupted. “Let me finish this time.”

He closed his mouth, but didn't let go of my hand.

“I never knew how to love well. They taught me to be silent, to endure, to make myself strong. But no one taught me to ask for forgiveness, to listen or to give in. I learned it late. And it was for you.”

Izuku said nothing. His eyes were shining.

“I haven't been cured.” I went on, more quietly. “But I've learned not to hide completely. And now I get it. You... You've always been waiting for me while I was doing it.”

The silence that followed was one of those that feels denser than air. One of those that do not bother, but that weigh heavily. Because it is full of what is not said, of everything that has already been understood.

Izuku put both arms around me and pulled me towards him. We fit in easily, as always.

“I like the way we are now.” he said against my forehead. “And I think we're going to be okay.”

I nodded. Not out of habit or to keep him quiet —as I have done more times than I would like to admit—. But because this time I really believed him.

I don't know how long we stayed like this. Just feeling our breath in rhythm. Each with their story written on their skin, but sharing a new paragraph together.

Sleep came without warning and as I dropped into it, with his warm chest under my cheek and his fingers playing with my hair, I thought about it once more, as a certainty that no longer hurt:

I'm not perfect, but at least now I don't pretend I am anymore. I don't hide my cracks behind screaming or my fears behind arrogance. And he... He has always been there. Even when I didn't deserve it. Since we were children and I didn't know how to defend myself other than by attacking, until now, when I am beginning —only beginning— to understand what it means to love without fear. It's not about being someone new, or erasing what I was. It's about continuing to choose ourselves even when it's hard. To learn together, to grow and to let me see myself as I am, and still... stay.

Chapter Text

I get home exhausted.

It's not the tiredness of after a fight against a villain —that one puts me in a good mood— it's the other one. The one that leaves you with heavy muscles, a dull head and the desire to lie on the floor face down without moving. Long patrols, paperwork, meetings with people who talk too much... Shit.

I close the door, leave my boots in place —not because it comes naturally, but because if not, the nerd leaves a piece of paper on my forehead reminding me— and I head straight to the shower. He's not at home, I feel it in the air. No noise, no smell of reheated coffee, no voice of his telling his mother on the phone about any stupid thing of the day. Surely he is on a mission; I think he told me this morning between bites of toast.

The shower is quick, I don't have the patience for anything else. Hot water to release tension from the back, a couple of strokes of soap, and I'm done. I come out with my hair still dripping, put on some old pants and a black T-shirt, and then I see it.

On his bedside table is a box. It's not the first time I've seen it, of course not. It has been there for years, stored in a closet drawer, with a bunch of colored paper peeking out as if they were poorly placed flowers. I know perfectly well what it is.

Post-its. My post-its.

It wasn't always a box. At first he left them stuck where I placed them: the fridge, the bathroom mirror, the lid of his laptop... But they end up accumulating and it made cleaning difficult, so he bought that box and kept them there.

The custom started when we moved in together, three years ago. I remember the first one perfectly.

It was because of a stupid thing: I left one in the rice cooker that said "Learn to program this, useless". I did it because I got up and found that he had touched the buttons and it completely deconfigured the machine. I thought it was funny to leave him a note instead of saying it to his face.

When he told me that he had read it and liked it, he looked at me as if he had found a treasure, and I... Well, I told him he was crazy.

From then on, every time I left one —whether it was a complaint, a reminder or a threat with sexual reward— he kept it. As if they were important. As if they weren't simple phrases that I came up with to screw him up or make him laugh.

Today, the box is on his nightstand, the lid open. I peek inside and the note at the very top is one I left him stuck to the fridge yesterday:

"There is no toilet paper left.
Ps: I love you."

I stared at it for a moment. It was an impulse, to write the second part. I don't do it often.

I ignore it and reach to the bottom of the box. I want to see the oldest ones, the ones from the first year. Those that were pure sarcasm, bad blood or... Well, I remember some who were not so innocent.

I take out a crumpled one, written in black marker:

" If you're going to stay training until late, let me know.
Or at least send me a photo so I can touch myself thinking of you."

Yes, that's how subtle the first year was. And the worst part is that I know I wrote it because we were halfway between fucking like rabbits and still fighting over who did the dishes.

Another, bright yellow:

"I left dinner on the oven. Don't eat it unheated, you damn animal.
And if you're going to thank me for cooking for you, do it naked."

This one brings a lopsided smile to my face. I can imagine his face when he read it: blushing, but with that damn smile of "You're going to find out, Kacchan."

I keep serving. A green one:

"The next time you wake me up by sticking your icy hands under my shirt,
I'll fuck you until your eyes roll back.
And don't take the blanket off me, motherfucker."

I remember that afternoon perfectly, and yes, we fucked like rabbits when he came home from work.

A pink one —because yes, sometimes I wrote in pink if it was the only color left—:

"Buy your fucking gel, this is mine.
If I want your balls to smell like mint, I'll tell you."

I let out a laugh. I left this one for him after he used my gel by accident three days in a row. The nerd always smelled like something sweet: vanilla, cinnamon, oatmeal soap... and suddenly to strong mint. I didn't believe him for a second when he said it was unintentional.

I find another one that is basically a threat:

"If you leave your underpants on the couch again, I'll burn them.
With you inside."

And, among all those, one that I did not quite remember:

"I'm in the shower. If you don't get in 5 minutes, I'll get mad."

I look at it for a second longer. I imagine how that day ended.

I put my hand in again and take out an even older one, half colorless:

"If you're going to look at my ass when I do push-ups, at least admit it."

I lean back and let the stack of papers fall onto the bed. There's a mix of colors that almost makes me dizzy. Red, blue, yellow, green... each one with a part of those first months, when we were still getting used to living under the same roof, not to kill each other, to learn not to fuck everything up.

The funny thing is, at the time, I never thought these pieces of paper had any value. They were just quick notes, phrases that came out just for the sake of it. Now, seeing them all together, I know that for him they were something else. A way to keep... I don't know, what we are.

And although it fuck me to admit it, reading them makes me remember more than I want.

I stare at the pile I left on the bed, fingers playing with a couple of them as if they were letters. I already know the ones from the first year by heart: pure edge, pure quick discharge, and, if there was any affection, it was buried under ten layers of sarcasm and swearing.

But I start digging through the rest and I notice the change. The second year of the relationship smells different.

They are insults, yes, but with less venom. More... damn, more ours.

I take an orange one, with my fastest handwriting:

"I've made coffee. If you don't get up in ten minutes, I drink it all.
And yes, I know you're an ogre without your caffeine dose."

I remember that day: it was pouring rain and he was deep asleep, entangled in the blankets like a damn cat. In the end I didn't follow through on the threat, of course. I kept the biggest cup for him, but I'm never going to tell him.

Another, light green:

"I left you the last slice of cake of Kirishima's birthday.
Don't turn it into something sentimental, nerd."

The cake was his favorite flavor, chocolate, and I distinctly remember writing this after a stupid argument. He obviously calmed down when I got home and there was no cake left in the fridge.

Then there's a pink one that makes me frown and smile at the same time:

"If you dare to wear my favorite t-shirt to sleep,
do it without pants."

He did fulfill that one, and more than once. My erection is marked just by imagining him…

I keep passing papers and one appears that is not mine. I recognize his handwriting instantly: neat, with those silly curves in some letters. Sky blue, almost new:

"You are unbearable.
Ps: I like you that way."

I don't remember, but because of the torn edge it sounds like I tore it off his hand when he tried to leave it somewhere.

Another of his, yellow, folded in two as if he wanted to hide it:

"Today you look especially handsome.
And I don't just mean physical."

I put it aside, slower than I expected. That's not like mine. That's... direct, without shell.

And then a red one appears, in his handwriting too, which makes me raise my eyebrows:

"If you get up early tomorrow, I'll pay you with whatever you want.
Literally whatever you want."

I don't remember if he fulfilled that or not, but I'm sure I got up early.

I return to mine. The third year ones are beginning to appear, because they are less bent, less worn out and also because... well, I recognize them.

The tone is different. They still have mischief, but underneath there is something that I didn't let him see before.

One yellow:

"I bought hot sauce. And before you complain:
yes, I also bought milk for when your mouth burns."

Other, blue:

"Don't wait for me for dinner. But leave a little room in the bed;
just enough for me to hold you."

That one surprises me. I don't even remember writing it like that.

A pink one. I do remember that night...

"Today oral sex marathon.
Whoever cums first cleans the dishes."

And a green one, more recent, almost intact:

"Don't forget that you have an appointment with the doctor.
If he doesn't cure your cold, be prepared to cuddle at home.
Ps: I brought you ramen."

Among all these there is also another one of his, new, light blue:

"Thank you for not giving up on me."

I stare at that one for a second. It has no jokes, no ulterior motives.

I leave it on top of the pile of recent ones, along with one of mine that, seen now, seems to respond to him even though I wrote it before reading it:

"I'm not good with words. But fuck, I love you"

I scratch the back of my neck, uncomfortable with myself. Not that I'm ashamed, but... Well, I'm not used to seeing myself so clearly, without noise, without filters.

Even so, I keep stirring, taking out some that are pure me although with softer edges:

"Valid coupon to do it slowly and looking us in the eye."
"Stop falling asleep on the couch. I want you to do it on my shoulder, not on the cushion."
"You have a nerdy face... but nerdy that drives me crazy."

It's weird.

I look at the half-empty box and realize that I can read our relationship as if it were a map. The first year is like a minefield: explosions, challenges, relentless mischief... The second is a kind of weird balance: we still bite each other, but we stay close afterwards. And the third... The third year together is something I never thought I would write on paper and that he would keep without laughing at me.

I close my eyes for a second, my fingers squeezing the last post-it I have taken: a red square that says:

"I love you very much.
For the rest of our lives."

It is from a month ago. And I know I wrote it without much thought, before I ran off on a mission. But that, in a way, makes it more valuable.

I look at the bed. It's a mess with all those damn colored papers strewn over it, as if a stationery store had exploded right there.

And yet, I can't stop looking at them. It's weird. I don't usually stand like this, standing still, contemplating sentimental shit... But this is different.

Three years. Three years compressed into squares of five by five centimeters. Three years in which we went from yelling at each other for any stupid thing to sitting together on the sofa; from looking at us with suspicion, to looking at us with complicity; from fucking like two animals that want to mark their territory to making love.

I lean back a little, resting my hands on the bed. I admit it, at first it seemed cheesy to me to collect them. But now I understand that they are not just papers: they are clues. Breadcrumbs that, if you put them together, take you straight to where we are today.

Not because it's nostalgic, although it is. But because this... This is us. That's how we are. No frills, no filters. An "I love you" disguised as a threat. A joke that only the two of us understand. A silly reminder that, if you read it between the lines, says more than it seems.

I let out a sigh and begin to pick them up. I'm not careful —I'm not going to start acting like they're relics— but I do make sure they all end up in the box. Even the ones that have made me clench my jaw or let out a laugh. I put them all in.

When I'm done, the box is full again, the lid closed and those damn colors hidden... although I know that he could recognize each one only by the edge that peeks out.

I stare at it for a moment. I could leave it there, as it was, and go do something else, but...

I take a blank post-it and a black marker. I remain silent for a few seconds, thinking about what to put in.

I don't want to sound sweet or soft, it's not my style. And if I put something too obvious, he's going to look at me with those little eyes about to cry.

So I write the first thing that comes to mind, just as it comes to my head:

"I don't know why you keep all this shit. But don't ever throw them away."

I stick it right on the lid of the box, pressing with my thumb so that it doesn't come off. I look at it one last time and straighten up, grabbing my towel to carry to the bathroom.

When Izuku comes home from his mission and sees the box, I know he's going to smile. And he's not going to tell me out loud, because we know each other too well, but I'm going to notice it. Just like he notices when I laugh inside at one of his bad jokes even if I make a disgusted face.

I close the bedroom door behind me.

Three years.

And, despite everything, I still feel that we have a lot to write.