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There are things you don’t expect to remember.
You think they’ll fade like the rest of high school—sweat, noise, the blur of half-finished dreams and sleepless nights. But some memories stick like smoke. They cling to you, even after you’ve washed the smell off your skin. Years later, you’ll catch a trace of it and your lungs will seize, like you’ve just stepped back into the fire.
For me, it’s the day Midoriya put on that goddamn dress.
It was supposed to be a joke.
Some dumb bet he lost to Kaminari—something about hitting the target fastest during training, a typical mess of noise and bragging rights. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he showed up the next day, flustered and stubborn, muttering “a deal’s a deal” as if pride could shield him from the spectacle. Remember- Mina had gone all in—foundation, eyeliner, lashes. His hair brushed soft around his jaw. The dress was a pale yellow thing that caught the light and turned him into something almost unreal.
And then there he was.
Midoriya. My Deku.
In drag.
And I forgot how to breathe.
Everyone was laughing. Kirishima nearly fell over, Mina was squealing with delight, Sero was clutching his stomach, wheezing that he hadn’t thought the nerd would actually do it. And I laughed, too—because that’s what I do. I laughed loud enough to drown out the sound of my heart tearing itself apart.
But then he looked up—
eyes impossibly bright under a sweep of gold shimmer,
lips painted a trembling cherry red—
and said my name.
“Kaachan?”
And that was it. That was the moment the ground gave out.
The world tilted, quietly, mercilessly.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, scattering in dust motes and warmth. It landed on him like a confession, like even the sun had gone soft for him.
He smiled, nervous, a little embarrassed—his fingers fidgeting with the hem of that stupid yellow dress—and something in me broke.
Because it wasn’t funny anymore.
It wasn’t a costume.
It was him.
It was always him.
Every inch of him shimmered with something I didn’t have words for yet, something raw and terrifying and holy.
My heart went loud in my chest, desperate and traitorous, whispering things I wasn’t ready to hear. And for the first time, I understood what it meant to want something you could never touch.
And in that moment—
with everyone laughing and the sunlight turning him to gold—
I realized I’d spend the rest of my life trying, and failing,
to forget the sight of him looking at me like that.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—
that crooked, nervous smile, the way he tried to laugh it off like it didn’t matter, like the whole world wasn’t orbiting around him for just one impossible second. I could still see the faint smudge of red lipstick on his teeth, the way his lashes fluttered when he looked anywhere but at me.
He’d looked soft.
God, soft. Like the edge of something dangerous wrapped in sunlight. Like a dream that would disappear if I reached out too fast.
I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my body humming like I’d swallowed lightning. The laughter from earlier echoed faintly in my ears, but underneath it there was something quieter—his voice. Saying my name. Like it meant something.
“Kaachan?”
The sound of it kept looping in my head, threaded with the memory of that damn dress. Yellow fabric shifting against his skin, catching light like it wanted to worship him. My breath kept hitching, uneven, as if my body was trying to tell me a truth I didn’t want to hear.
I could see it so clearly—
his hand brushing against mine in some different version of the world, one where I wasn’t so scared of wanting him. I could picture us older, braver maybe, sitting shoulder to shoulder somewhere quiet. Him leaning into me without hesitation. My arm around him like it belonged there.
In that fragile, sleepless hour, the walls of my room felt too small to hold what was happening inside me.
I wanted—no, needed—to unlearn everything I thought I knew about myself.
I thought about the girls I’d kissed, the ones who laughed and called me intense or impossible. I thought about how every one of them had something in common—green eyes, soft smiles, a way of looking at me like they might understand.
And it hit me like a punch to the gut.
I didn’t want them.
I wanted him.
Or maybe just the ghost of him that I could touch without burning everything down.
I lay there, fists clenched, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The night was quiet, too quiet, the kind that makes you feel like the only person alive. And evrytime I started to get some sleep I’d wake up beacuse I could almost see it—some future that would never exist—
him in my arms, laughing into my neck, the scent of sun and salt and something sweeter. My thumb brushing over those freckles I used to count like constellations I wasn’t supposed to name.
I could see it all.
Too clearly.
And it hurt.
Because I knew the moment I opened my eyes again, the world would reset.
He’d go back to being Deku. My rival, my reminder, my everything I couldn’t say out loud.
But for one night—just that one sleepless, merciless night—
I let myself imagine what it would feel like if the sun ever hit me the way it hit him.
We grew up.
Somehow, against every odd stacked against us, we made it.
He became the hero everyone always knew he would be.
And I—well, I kept up, more or less. We stopped fighting each other and started fighting beside each other, and somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, he became my best friend.
We built an agency together. Dynamight & Deku. Stupid name, I know, but he loved it.
We’d argue about branding and patrol routes, and he’d bring coffee to my office every morning because he said I never remembered to eat breakfast.
He was right. Like always.
We were a good team. Too good. The wonder duo- if you will.
Everyone said it—how we balanced each other, how it felt like we’d been designed to fight side by side. And I’d laugh it off, but inside, I was thinking, yeah. maybe we were.
He dated, of course. Men. Women. People brave enough to touch the parts of him I couldn’t.
He’d tell me about them sometimes—awkwardly, bashfully, like he didn’t want to make it weird.
And I’d listen. I always listened.
I’d tell myself I was being a good friend, that’s all.
But when they hurt him—when they made him cry, or made him doubt himself—I wanted to burn the world down.
I’d picture how I’d treat him instead.
How I’d cook for him after long shifts, make him rest when he pushed too hard, hold him until the shaking stopped.
I’d imagine what it would be like to love him out loud instead of in silence.
And then I’d bury it again.
Because he was my best friend.
Because I couldn’t risk what we had.
Eventually, we moved in together—two pro heroes running an agency together, might as well live together too.
He said it made sense.
And I agreed, because it did.
Because I’d already spent half my life following him into battle—why not share a damn apartment too?
But every night, when he’d fall asleep on the couch beside me, his head tipped onto my shoulder, I’d feel something in me unravel.
He’d snore softly. I’d turn off the TV, sit there in the dark, and let myself look at him. Really look.
And fuck—
I loved this man.
More than I was supposed to. More than he’d ever know.
He’d mumble my name in his sleep sometimes—and I’d sit there, heart aching, hand hovering over his hair, not daring to touch.
I remember the next night clearer than I should.
I’d gone on a date. Some reporter, maybe—sweet, smart, laughed too easily. I was trying to be normal. Trying to move on. Trying to prove to myself I could have a life outside of him.
When I brought her back to the apartment, he was still awake.
Of course he was.
The lights were low, his laptop open on the coffee table, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked soft, domestic—like home.
He blinked when he saw us in the doorway, and I swear something changed in the air. His eyes went sharp, then wide, then sharp again.
“Oh,” he said, too quickly. “You’re back early.”
“Yeah,” I said, stepping aside to let her in. “This is—uh—”
“Hi,” she offered, smiling. “I’m—”
“I know,” he interrupted, voice light but tight. “I’ve read your articles.”
There was a pause. Not long, but enough.
The kind of pause that hums.
She thanked him, awkward, but he didn’t move. Didn’t look away from me.
He stood there in sweatpants and a faded All Might hoodie, but somehow he looked like he was guarding the space. Like he didn’t want her there.
“You didn’t tell me you had company,” he said.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Of course not.”
She shifted, uncomfortable. Asked if there was somewhere she could wash up, and he pointed her toward the bathroom—but his gaze stayed locked on me the whole time.
When she was gone, he exhaled, sharp and shaky.
“So. You’re bringing people home now?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, too casual. “Nothing. Just… surprised.”
Something in his tone made my skin prickle.
He crossed his arms, stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath.
“Do you even like her, Kacchan?”
“Why’s that your business?”
He laughed—short, bitter. “It’s not. Forget I asked.”
He turned away before I could answer, retreating to his room. The door closed harder than it needed to.
The girl left not long after—something about an early morning meeting. I didn’t stop her. Didn’t want to.
The apartment felt too quiet.
Through the wall, I could hear the faint sound of him pacing.
Later, when I passed his room, his light was still on. I almost knocked. I didn’t.
Back then, I told myself he was just being protective, weird about boundaries. But now, looking back—
I can see it for what it was.
He was jealous.
Possessive, even. The kind of jealous that comes from loving someone so long you forget where you end and they begin.
And me?
I loved him a little more for it.
Because for once, he wasn’t hiding it either.
The morning after, I did what I always do when I don’t know what else to do—
I cooked.
The kitchen was quiet except for the sizzle of oil, the low hiss of the pan. The smell of eggs and soy sauce filled the air. I told myself it was habit, not guilt. Told myself that if I just kept moving, the weirdness from the night before would fade.
When he walked in, it was like the air changed temperature.
He looked half-awake, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, eyes heavy but sharp. There was a tension in his jaw, something coiled tight and waiting.
“Morning,” I said, without looking up.
He hummed and sat at the table. I could feel him watching me.
A minute passed. Two. The silence started to feel too loud.
Then he said it—light, sing-song, fake casual.
“So… did your friend stay over?”
I froze for half a second before flipping the egg. “No. She left.”
“Ah.” He hummed. “Early, huh? Guess she wasn’t impressed.”
I turned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Just—thought you’d finally found someone who could keep up with you.”
“Keep up?” I echoed. “You sound like you’re keepin’ score.”
“I’m not.” He clipped. “It’s just—people come and go, Kacchan. You never let anyone stay.”
I laughed, short and sharp. “That supposed to be my fault?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you don’t give them a reason to.”
Something in me snapped at that.
“And what the hell would you know about it, huh? You don’t even let people close unless they’ve nearly died for you.”
His head jerked up. Green eyes bright, furious.
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither’s you actin’ like I did something wrong for bringin’ someone home!”
He stood so fast his chair nearly toppled.
“Because it was wrong!” he shouted, and the words seemed to shock even him.
The room went still.
I stared. “You wanna run that by me again?”
He was breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides. “She doesn’t get you, Kacchan. None of them do. They never could.”
My heart was pounding now, too. “And you do?”
“Yes!” he snapped, voice cracking. “I do! I’ve always understood you! Since we were kids, since before I even knew what that meant!”
He took a step closer, wild-eyed, raw. “You think it’s easy? Watching you try to love people who aren’t me?”
“Deku—”
“I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen!”
The words came out like an explosion—messy, unstoppable, real.
He stood there, chest heaving, tears starting to sting his lashes. “I thought it would go away. I tried. But it never did. And last night—watching her in our space, laughing at your jokes—” He shook his head. “It felt like I was losing something that was never even mine.”
I couldn’t breathe.
He looked at me then, eyes shining and furious and so damn alive. “You’re an idiot, Kacchan. You always have been. But you’re mine, too. Whether you decide to ever say it or not.”
And then he was gone—stormed off to his room, door slamming hard enough to rattle the walls.
I remember standing there, the smell of burnt eggs filling the kitchen, my hands trembling over the stove. I didn’t chase him. Couldn’t.
And if I’d been braver, maybe I’d have told him then that I’d loved him just as long.
But all I did was stand there and let the eggs burn.
The smell hit me first—the eggs burning in the pan, bitter smoke curling up like an accusation. Something inside me snapped.
I grabbed the handle, yanked the pan off the stove, and threw it into the sink. Oil hissed, steam rising in a furious cloud. The eggs hit the metal with a wet slap, and for a heartbeat, the whole room felt alive with it—my pulse, the smoke, the goddamn weight of everything I’d refused to see.
“Fuck,” I muttered. Then louder: “Fuck!”
The word tore out of me, raw, guttural. I slammed my palms down on the counter hard enough to sting.
He’d told me. He’d told me. Not just now, but a hundred times before—
in the way he looked at me after missions,
in the way he followed me into hell without hesitation,
in the way he smiled when I made him laugh, like that was enough to save him.
And I—
I’d been too proud, too stupid, too me to see it.
I pressed my forehead to the cool countertop, breathing hard, smoke still curling from the sink. The guilt was heavy—thick, molten. Every moment we’d ever had flashed behind my eyes: his hand brushing mine when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, the way his face lit up when I praised him, the countless times he’d said I’m glad you’re here, Kacchan and I’d just grunted like an idiot.
He’d shown me love over and over, and I never said a goddamn thing back.
My chest hurt. Not the kind of hurt from battle—this was different. This was deep, dragging, like the ache after being healed from something that should’ve killed you.
“Holy fuck,” I whispered, voice shaking. “He’s right. He’s right, and I’m—”
I swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the counter like it might keep me standing.
“I’m so damn stupid.”
Because I loved him. I always had.
Since before I knew what love was.
And it took him screaming it through tears for me to finally see it.
All that time—years of fighting, training, living together, building a life side by side—and I’d let him think he was alone in it.
I wiped at my face, surprised to find it wet. My hands were trembling.
“I have to tell him,” I said out loud, just to hear it, to make it real.
“I have to tell Izuku I’m sorry. And he’s right. And I—”
The words caught in my throat, then broke free.
“I love him.”
The words hit the air and stayed there, heavy and undeniable.
I loved him.
The next night, I came home late.
The kind of late that sticks to your bones. Patrol had gone long—villain cleanup, debrief, endless paperwork—and by the time I made it back, my knuckles were split, my ribs sore, and I was running on pure spite.
I pushed the door open with my shoulder, the plastic bag in my hand swinging low, heavy with takeout. The apartment was quiet, except for the soft buzz of the lamp in the living room.
He was there.
Of course he was.
Izuku sat curled up on the couch, notebook abandoned on the cushion beside him, his face half-lit by the glow of the TV he wasn’t really watching. His hair was still damp from a shower, loose curls sticking to his forehead.
He looked up when he heard me.
And I swear, the air shifted again.
“Kacchan,” he said—flat, cautious. Not angry, but not gentle either.
The way someone says your name when they’re still deciding whether to forgive you.
I kicked off my boots, winced as my knee cracked.
He noticed immediately.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You always say that.”
I set the bag on the counter, exhaled hard. “I brought food.”
He didn’t move at first. Just stared. Then, slowly, he stood, crossing the space between us. He stopped a few feet away—close enough that I could feel the heat from him, but not close enough to touch.
“Why’d you bring me food?” he asked, voice quiet but sharp. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
“So why?”
I rubbed the back of my neck, throat tight. “Because we need to talk.”
His brows furrowed. “Talk? After yesterday?” He laughed once, humorless. “What’s there left to say?”
“Everything,” I said. “There’s everything left to say.”
He crossed his arms, defensive, tired. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Kacchan. I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t walk it back.”
That stopped him.
I met his eyes then, really met them. “You were right.”
He blinked, wary. “About what?”
“About me. About how I don’t let people in. About how I’m too stupid to see what’s right in front of me.”
He opened his mouth, but I kept going.
“You told me yesterday that you loved me,” I said, voice rough, cracking on the edges. “And I threw a goddamn frying pan because I realized I’ve been loving you for years and didn’t even have the guts to admit it.”
His eyes widened. I laughed, breathless. “I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, all I heard was you saying it. All I could think was how fucking blind I’ve been.”
I reached into the bag, pulled out the takeout containers, set them on the counter with trembling hands. “I figured if I was gonna say it, I’d better bring food. You always listen better when you’re eating.”
That got a small, startled sound out of him—half laugh, half sob.
I stepped closer. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “For yesterday morning, for the night before. For every time you looked at me and I didn’t say it back. For making you think you were alone in it.”
He looked up at me then, eyes shining, mouth trembling. “You mean it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean it.”
Silence stretched between us—thick, trembling. Then he stepped forward, hand shaking as he reached for my sleeve.
“You’re such an idiot,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“An exhausted, bleeding idiot.”
“Still handsome, though.”
He laughed—real this time. Soft and wrecked. Then he pulled me into him, arms tight around my shoulders, his forehead pressed against my jaw.
And for the first time in years, I let myself hold him back.
He didn’t pull away right away.
Neither of us did. The city outside was quiet, the kind of silence that hums after a storm. His head rested against my shoulder; I could feel the steady tremor of his breath against my collarbone.
I wanted to stay there forever. But there was more to say.
“Izuku,” I murmured, and he looked up—eyes soft, red around the edges.
I swallowed hard. “You wanna know when it started? When I started feeling this way?”
He blinked, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “Kacchan—”
“No, listen,” I said, voice low but steady. “You deserve to know.”
I exhaled slowly, like peeling something raw open. “It was when we were fifteen. That stupid bet with Kaminari. The one where you lost and Mina dressed you up.”
He frowned for a second, confused—then his cheeks flushed, realization dawning. “You remember that?”
“Course I do,” I said, a faint, broken laugh slipping through. “How the hell could I forget?”
I looked past him, into the half-lit room, as if I could still see it—the sunlight through the windows, the sound of everyone laughing.
“You walked in wearing that stupid yellow dress,” I said softly. “Hair brushed, lips red, cheeks pink from embarrassment—and I laughed, because everyone else did. But inside, I was losing it. I couldn’t breathe. The light hit you like it belonged to you.”
He stared at me, eyes wide and glassy.
“That was the first time I realized something was wrong with me,” I went on. “I kept telling myself it was nothing—just shock, or stupid teenage shit. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was you smiling through it. I didn’t want to kiss girls anymore. I wanted to kiss you.”
He made a small sound—half gasp, half sob—but I kept talking, the words shaking loose faster now.
“And I never stopped,” I said. “I told myself it would fade, that we’d grow out of it, that I’d get over you once we were heroes. But every damn day, you’d show up, and I’d fall harder. Every stupid mission, every time you smiled at me, it just got worse.”
I dragged a hand through my hair, laughing quietly, helplessly. “And I was so fucking scared, Izuku. Scared of ruining what we had. Scared that if I said anything, I’d lose you. So I bit my tongue for years and tried to be your friend, tried to be good. But I’m done being scared.”
He was crying now—quiet, shaking, a hand pressed to his mouth.
“I’ve loved you since that day,” I said, voice raw, honest in a way it had never been before. “Since the moment you said my name in that stupid yellow dress. I think maybe I loved you even before that. I just didn’t know what to call it yet.”
He stepped even closer, close enough that his forehead brushed mine.
“God, Kacchan,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “But I’m your idiot, right?”
He laughed—wet and broken and perfect—and then he kissed me.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t cinematic. It was messy, desperate, real. The kind of kiss that felt like coming home after a lifetime away.
And I remember thinking—
this was what it felt like when smoke finally clears,
when the fire doesn’t burn you anymore,
when all that’s left is warmth.
“…and that,” I slurred, waving what was probably my fourth glass of champagne, “is how I realized I was the dumbest bastard alive.”
Kirishima was already wheezing. Sero had his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Mina was halfway between laughing and crying.
“You’re telling me,” Mina said through a grin, “the yellow dress was your bisexual awakening?”
I pointed my glass at her. “Don’t make it sound like a punchline. It was life-altering.”
Sero snorted. “You fell in love ‘cause Deku wore Mina’s dress.”
“Hey,” I shot back, “it was a good dress.”
Kirishima leaned on his elbows, red hair falling into his face. “Bro, you’ve been holding that in since you were fifteen?”
“Yeah,” I said, laughing, though my voice cracked a little. “Fifteen. Took me fifteen years to figure out I didn’t just wanna beat him—I wanted to be next to him. Every damn day.”
There was a beat of silence. The good kind. The kind that hums warm in your ribs.
Mina reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You two really made it, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said softly, looking down at my glass, watching the bubbles catch the light. “Guess we did.”
Music drifted from the dance floor—some slow, lilting thing that wasn’t really our style but fit the moment anyway.
I turned to look.
Izuku was there, in the middle of the floor, laughing as Iida tried to twirl him. His white suit caught the light every time he moved—crisp, clean, ridiculous. Uraraka clapped her hands to the beat, even Denki had joined in, and the whole room shimmered like a dream that had decided to stick around.
He looked radiant.
He always had.
He caught me staring and grinned, waving me over like he didn’t know I’d drop dead if I got up too fast.
I raised my glass instead. He laughed. God, that laugh.
I turned back to my friends, grinning through the ache in my chest. “He made me promise,” I said, a little quieter. “Said if we ever actually got here—if we made it all the way to this—then I had to tell the story. Start to finish. No explosions, no swearing, no bullshit.”
Kiri coughed. “You swore at least fifteen times.”
“Details,” I muttered. “He’s not grading me tonight.”
They laughed again, the sound mixing with the clatter of glasses and the music and Izuku’s voice calling my name from across the room.
I looked over one more time.
He was waiting for me now, hand outstretched, that same damn light on him as the first day I fell.
And I thought—
fifteen-year-old me wouldn’t believe this.
He’d never think the story ended like this—no heartbreak, no loss, just him.
Just us.
I set the glass down and stood, smoothing my tux.
Mina whooped. “Go get your husband, Dynamight.”
I smirked. “That’s the plan.”
And as I walked toward him, the noise of the room fading behind me, I thought about every version of us—the kids, the rivals, the partners, the fools in love.
The whole damn story.
The one I finally got to tell.
Because I’d promised him I would.
And he was worth every word.