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Izuku.
Kacchan called him Izuku.
Izuku’s skin erupted in goosebumps. All at once everything in his chest rolled up into a thick, overwhelming sob.
The rain fell steadily around them.
Izuku felt like Katsuki had reached into his chest and unlocked a door, pulled it open with both hands to let the light in. A wave of something shimmering and bright and loving rushed through him. It washed him out, swept through the dirt and rot clinging to the walls of his skin and bones and cleared it all away, until Izuku was clean and dripping and suddenly very aware of how weak he was.
That lovely feeling of clarity had taken all his stubborn adrenaline with it and now Izuku was subject to the reality of his dwindled strength. He swayed dangerously, drops of fatigue flying.
A splash, and Kacchan was there.
Izuku’s stomach had barely a chance to swoop at the free fall before he landed against Kacchan’s solid form, in his arms. His heart swooped instead, weakly, grateful and full of adoration. Here was a welcome touch.
Someone’s breath stuttered at the heavy meeting of bodies, almost a sigh, tinged with relief. With gratitude. Izuku wasn’t sure which of them it came from.
“I’m sorry,” Izuku whispered brokenly, chest twinging.
“I get it,” Katsuki said back, lowly, just for his ears, almost gentle, and Kacchan was never one to be gentle, and Izuku barely knew if he deserved it, but oh, Kacchan never did anything he didn’t want to, did he, and oh, Izuku could be forgiven, couldn’t he. He already was. Oh, to make mistakes and be pulled into arms and forgiven. Izuku shuddered, the last of the tension leaving his body. It was safe, he was safe, here. Kacchan understood.
His friends loved him.
Blackness clouded Izuku’s vision, finally uninhibited, and Izuku let it consume him for the first time in days, closing his eyes to the sweet relief of guiltless sleep.
They carried him to UA, and Izuku cried some more as his friends fought to let him in, his family, his supporters. Never had he ever been so torn apart and bared open, never in his life, his ugly insides forcefully exposed to the cold air for the stubborn love of his friends to scrape clean.
He made it inside, got lovingly kidnapped and dumped in the bath.
Kacchan called him Izuku again. It was just as earth-shattering the second time.
His friends refused to let him out of their sight, feeding him and walking him to his room. Uraraka threatened physical violence if he even thought about running away. Izuku had laughed, and it must have been tired-sounding enough to convince them all, because every person present got some soft sort of look in their eyes, patting him or waving as they bid him goodnight.
And Izuku was finally alone with his thoughts again. He didn’t mind it much; he loved his friends, but care can be stifling. And Izuku had so much to think about.
He was in a weird state, mind a mess, nerve endings frayed, colours dull and intense feelings balancing on the edge of a knife at the same time.
Izuku leaned against the side of his bed on the floor, knees pulled up and arms around them. He had to trust his friends, that it was okay for him to be there. He had to push down the cloying guilt and pounding anxiety and trust them, like they trusted him. So Izuku let himself think about something else, the other weight on his mind.
Contrary to popular belief, Izuku didn’t mind Kacchan calling him “Deku,” much. He was used to Kacchan’s antics, the way he had a rude name for everyone, and anyway Izuku had made the name his own.
A tiny, hidden part of Izuku really didn’t mind the nickname, not when it was so distinct from any Kacchan had ever given any “extras,” a term that seemed to apply to everyone who wasn’t Kacchan, his parents, All Might, or Izuku. It was almost a pet name, he could convince himself, deep in delusion in the darkness of a late night.
At any rate, it was what Katsuki had called him for the last 13 years, since there were tiny children. It would be awful to be called Midoriya, after all those years of history, however tumultuous.
So Izuku was used to it, accepted the name as part of who Kacchan was, who he and Kacchan were, did not take offense or care and even liked it the tiniest bit, enough to make it his hero name.
Izuku had never, ever, dared to even dream about Kacchan ever saying his given name. Not in broad daylight, when the want would feel so exposed and scandalous, so clearly a fantasy. Embarrassing. Even in his dreams Kacchan called him Deku, the tone varying depending on the nature of the dream.
Izuku.
That was what Kacchan had called him, across the water, voice clear even in the rain, even while softer than Izuku had ever heard it, deep and rumbly and gentle. Careful with his words, like Kacchan always was, but then directed at Izuku, calling him Izuku, lifting him up so carefully from where he had been crumbling without realizing. With words full of care, Katsuki brought him back to himself, made him whole and alive again. Made him open his eyes to what his friends were doing, and why.
Izuku.
He kept playing it in his head, over and over. Izuku couldn’t control how he shivered, helplessly, every single time. Izuku. He was sure his cheeks were red. I’ve got to speak my truth, Izuku. Izuku shoved his face into his knees.
He had been on the run, a vigilante hero before anything else. No one had called him anything but “Deku” for weeks.
How fitting, that when Izuku had been out and alone and losing himself, Katsuki had handed him back his name.
“Izuku,” said the wall across from him.
Izuku lifted his head in bewilderment. Huh—??
Kacchan (Kacchan?) watched him steadily from his stance leaning against the cement, hands in his pockets.
“Didn’t even notice me follow you in, nerd.”
Izuku hadn't. Or maybe he had, deep down, but his subconscious registered Kacchan as a part of Izuku, so his presence had not triggered any alarm bells in his weary, shaken state.
Perhaps this was why Izuku had felt oddly calm, like a weighted blanket lay over his stuttering nerves. Still jumbled, but contained. Because somewhere in his mind he knew Kacchan was here, and Kacchan meant safe.
Awareness was weird. He saw Kacchan before him, but everything still felt foggy. He barely felt the little butterflies or heart-skipping he normally did when Kacchan looked his way. Katsuki was staring at him intensely, and Izuku registered his hot face detachedly, butterflies lethargic.
Katsuki came to crouch in front of him, eyes roving over his face.
“You okay?” he asked lowly, watching him carefully. Izuku nodded a second too late, caught in his attention. He blinked sluggishly. He was here, but not. It all felt so weird, that Izuku was barely present enough to care. The longer Kacchan sat there, though, the better he felt. That much he knew.
He looked hesitant but determined, eyeing him with his hands flexing a little, wrists draped over his knees. Izuku stared back guilelessly, mind whirring and tripping over itself.
When Kacchan is honest, his arms are open. Izuku had seen it before, on Ground Beta, Kacchan with his face twisted up horribly in anguish, arms out and limp and low, hanging from him as he stood with his head bowed. Izuku had thought Katsuki had been tired, at the time. Now Izuku sometimes wondered if that was his sign of surrender. To lower his arms.
Katsuki lifted his hands carefully. Dangerous hands, softened in the lamp light, shadows highlighting the strength of those palms, waiting to see if they were welcome. Kacchan, waiting. Izuku was afloat with it all.
Kacchan, waiting. For permission, forgiveness, allowance. He was so careful with his hands, nowadays. Izuku was so, so proud of him.
Izuku tilted his head forward, and Katsuki cradled his face like it was precious. Like he, Izuku, was precious to him.
“You can’t do that again,” Katsuki said seriously. He looked deep into Izuku’s eyes, mouth a grim line, eyes soft, soft, soft. He nodded, for both of them. “You won’t.”
Izuku couldn’t promise that, but god, how he wanted to. Maybe he could give himself enough reason to be selfish.
“Can you…” Izuku hesitated, the words brimming up his throat like they had been for hours, poking at his cheeks from the inside, desperate and wanting. The want pressed at his chest from inside with flat, spread hands, pulsing and insistent. “Kacchan. Can you...” He was burning.
Katsuki’s eyes darted back and forth between his, searching. “What?” Izuku’s mouth opened and closed silently, the words not coming, and Katsuki’s brow furrowed. “What, Izuku?”
Izuku shuddered.
His eyes had fluttered a little, vision going hazy. Izuku had not thought he was particularly affection-starved, but perhaps he would always be hungry when it came to Kacchan. When his eyes focused, Katsuki was staring at him.
One of the hands on his cheeks lifted slightly, strong fingers outstretched, and Izuku stood still as Katsuki dragged a thumb on Izuku’s forehead, down the side, tucking an errant curl away. The heat of it tickled, and lingered.
Kacchan’s gaze was steady, analytical. Izuku wilted a bit, underneath it, being read.
Kacchan sighed.
“What do you need, Izuku,” he said, low and easy, watching him, patient. Patience from Kacchan. It gave Izuku strength.
“Say it again,” Izuku whispered, drowning in shyness, trying not to whine, flushed a little because he knew how desperate of a request it must sound. How revealing.
Then he froze, because Kacchan moved closer, kneeled and held Izuku to him, fit a hand in his hair and another up and down his back. Body hunched over him, a little, like he wanted to pour more into the hug but was holding back, wasn’t sure how much Izuku could take in this state.
Izuku took it upon himself to shift closer, leaning into Kacchan’s warm, solid body, vibrating under his skin at the sensation of being held. Of being held by Kacchan.
Something soft brushed his ear. Every cell in Izuku’s body went abruptly still.
Kacchan leaned his cheek against the side of his head, almost nuzzling him, nose in his curls and lips brushing his ear as he murmured his name. Izuku willed his knees not to buckle.
“Again,” he didn’t beg, didn’t, but it was a near thing.
This time, Katsuki pressed his lips to his temple as he spoke his name quietly, almost reverently, like he was giving it back to him. Izuku leaned into it with a sigh, unconsciously.
Izuku.
With every cradling of his name in Kacchan’s mouth before he passed it to him, Izuku healed. Katsuki took his name and poured it into him along a steady stream of golden light, gentle and patient like sunlight dripping down a river. Hands flat along his back, between his shoulder blades, round his waist, in his hair. Bit by bit, more himself by the second, Izuku was pulled back to earth and grounded just like he had been in the rain, but even more violently carefully this time, held and awakened with a kind hand and soft voice.
Something shimmered in Izuku’s chest, overwhelming and alive. Full of love for Kacchan, for his people, even for himself.
“Say it again,” Izuku rasped, shakily.
“Izuku,” Katsuki murmured, lips to his forehead, and Izuku crumbled.
His apology and gratitude leaked out of him in gasping, quiet sobs, and Kacchan held him through it, took it from him, pressed his name to his face like a balm. Voice rumbling into his skin, the tone steady and constant. Izuku, again and again, letting Izuku soak in the pauses. It’s okay, it’s okay.
Izuku.
His name, the sound of forgiveness. His name, the word for sorry.
Katsuki and Izuku, apologetic and forgiving in turns, a cycle of giving and receiving and healing each other. Finally, finally, finally.
They ended up on the floor in a heap, Izuku practically in Kacchan’s lap, Katsuki’s back to the wall, limbs around him almost protectively.
Kacchan, I’m sorry, Izuku said again, like a child, and Katsuki forgave him before he finished speaking. Izuku, I’m sorry, Kacchan said again, like a child, and Izuku forgave him in the same breath. Thank you, Izuku said, with and without words, pressed to his childhood friend and weeping with it, thank you’s seeping out every pore. Thank you, Kacchan said, silently, soaking Izuku in and shuddering with it.
The skin to skin was sucking all the poison out of Izuku, and he was so warm everywhere they touched. Warmth along his back, his legs, his arms, his neck and head and face. Forgiveness seeping into him from the skin he felt, pushing out of him everywhere he put his hands.
And between it all, cradled between sentences and sorrys, Izuku’s spilled from the other boy’s lips like water, until Izuku himself was drowning in them, in the soundfeel of his own name. Rumbled Izuku’s that floated in the thick atmosphere between them, sank into his skin until he was saturated, flooded his chest where they coagulated and warmed him, glowing. Lips brushing his earlobe, the tender skin behind it, his temple, to shorten the travel time.
Like Kacchan was making up for the thirteen years since Izuku had last heard it from him. To hear your name is to be known, Izuku thinks, wrapped in the arms of the person who knew him better than anyone. He hadn’t realized it would affect him this much. Yet here he was, crying.
Everything was gentle enough that Izuku was overwhelmed but sweetly, nowhere near a sensory overload, despite the kindness stuffing his ears and hugging his skin and coating his tongue.
Something had been nagging at the back of his mind for hours, and here in the clarity of the comfort in Katsuki’s arms, Izuku finally put the pieces together.
Back in the field, when the class came for him, Kacchan had only dared to touch him when Izuku needed it, not a moment before, not for a single instant of violence or force. He had kept a respectful space between them, head bowed and arms limp at his sides, until the instant Izuku needed a gentle touch, and then he was there. Izuku could hardly wrap his head around it, the dichotomy of current Kacchan and past, the contrast of Katsuki’s role in his capture compared to the rest of their friends’. Izuku couldn’t imagine what Kacchan had been thinking, feeling, when the class decided on their strategy of brute force if necessary, coupled with desperate, kind speech.
He wondered if Kacchan had trusted himself to touch Izuku at all.
Imagine if that were the case, if Katsuki had decided to keep space between them, let Izuku be grappled by the rest of the class, had secured that plan right to his chest; until Izuku had swayed, about to fall, falling, and Kacchan’s body had moved on its own, catching him in the first gentle touch he’d had in weeks, the first gentle touch he’d probably had from Katsuki at all.
Izuku had spent the whole day running away from people. In that moment, he’d stepped toward Kacchan. And just like Katsuki promised, he’d made up the difference, and run toward Izuku instead.
Izuku had chills just thinking about it. Chills, and a rush of warmth.
“Hey.” Something nudged him, just slightly.
Izuku peeled his eyes open. Had he… fallen asleep?
Kacchan peered down at him with a hint of something hopelessly fond tinting his gaze. “The bed’s right fuckin’ there, dumbass. C’mon.”
Despite his words, Kacchan made no motion to move. Izuku looked down at their position. He was fully leaning on Kacchan, practically cuddled into him, the other boy’s limbs wrapped around him in the exact position he remembered them being before he fell asleep.
Meaning Kacchan had held himself still, careful not to shift, to let Izuku sleep on him.
Oh, Kacchan.
“How long was I out?” Izuku croaked, wincing at how the words clogged in his sleep-slow throat.
Katsuki shrugged, swallowed, looked away. Izuku peered curiously at the pink on the very tops of his cheeks. “Dunno.”
Izuku made a face. “Kacchan.”
Kacchan stood up decidedly, practically lifting Izuku with him, and shoved him on the bed, still gently, somehow. Like Kacchan was remembering to be careful with his hands.
He was not being gentle with his own face, though, which was twisted up defensively as Izuku stared at him plaintively. “Fuckin… I don’t know. An hour, maybe.”
Izuku’s breath caught in his chest.
Kacchan let him sleep on him for an hour. Held his smaller weight in his arms, let him lay against his chest, kept his arms around him. Held his warmth to his own chest, let Izuku cuddle into him like a heat-seeking thing, before going still and soft and sleep-heavy against his solid form. Izuku slept, and Katsuki kept watch, holding him. Only waking him, really, so that Izuku could spend the night asleep somewhere comfortable.
Katsuki stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching him steadily again, while Izuku climbed under the covers, limbs aching.
It was almost silly, his stubborn stance. It made Izuku smile.
“Are you going to tuck me in?” Izuku teased lightly, relishing in Kacchan’s scrunched-up scorn.
“Shut the fuck up.” He gave him one last once over, then, apparently satisfied, took a step back to leave. “If I see you out of this bed before 9AM, I’m telling All Might about those magazines in your drawer.”
Izuku flushed brightly, even while something under his sternum tugged forward violently. “I’m gonna sleep, jeez.”
Katsuki nodded, turning.
The tugging grew abruptly painful.
“Don’t go,” Izuku blurted out.
Kacchan stilled.
Something bright and new was sparking between them, something exhilarating, something that burned steady and popped off sparks now and then. Izuku couldn’t carelessly let it slip between his fingers.
Izuku swallowed. “Um. You could. Uh-“ he stammered. “Make sure I stay put?”
Wrong choice of words. Katsuki whirled on him, eyes fierce. “If you even think for one fucking second about—“
Izuku shoved his face in his hands, shaking his head and groaning.
The bed dipped. Izuku peeked out of his hands.
Kacchan was—? “Shove over, nerd.”
“Kacchan.” Izuku was smiling brighter than he had in a long, long time.
“Shut it.”
They settled, facing each other. Izuku watched Kacchan’s face grow steadily pinker. He tried to ignore how he was rapidly approaching cosplaying a strawberry, himself.
Katsuki reached out and planted a hand flat on Izuku’s face, to his muffled protests. The hand slid up and into his hair, holding it away from his forehead and pushing his head back, a little.
Katsuki’s whole face had softened, somewhere between understanding Izuku’s meaning and his hand in his hair. “Go to sleep, Izuku.”
Izuku shivered, again. Kacchan’s eyes flicked over him, following with a touch of amusement. Blessedly, he didn’t say anything.
“Sleep,” he said again, insistent and gruff, and Izuku listened, shutting his eyes. The hand in his hair carded through the curls before settling in the dip of his skull, near his nape. Just like before, once then twice in Kacchan’s arms, the heat and comfort seeping out of his oldest friend lay a balm on Izuku’s aching soul, settled bone-deep. Here he was safe, forgiven, could rest.
Here with Kacchan, where his name was Izuku.