Chapter Text
The night air had been cool that evening — clean, quiet, and full of the kind of stillness that came only after a storm. The lights of the city glimmered far below the dorm rooftop, distant and small, like the world itself had shrunk to a hum.
Katsuki remembered that night clearer than most battles.
Izuku had been sitting beside him on the concrete ledge, his legs swinging over the edge, his hair messy from wind and training. His hands were bruised. His cheeks streaked with dirt. And he was laughing — not the nervous kind, but the kind
that came from something real.
Katsuki hadn’t known what to do with the sight of it.
The moonlight caught on his freckles, the kind of detail Katsuki’s brain latched onto without permission. Freckles, green eyes, hair that looked almost black in the dim light but still carried that faint forest hue. He should’ve looked away.
Instead, he’d stared until Izuku noticed.
“What?” Izuku had asked, still smiling.
“Nothing,” Katsuki had muttered, and turned his eyes to the horizon.
But it hadn’t been nothing. It had been everything. The realization that he’d never met anyone more magnetic in his life — not because of quirks or power or rivalry, but because Izuku shone, quietly, even in exhaustion. That had been the night
Katsuki finally admitted it to himself: he didn’t just admire Izuku. He was drawn to him, in every way that mattered and every way that didn’t make sense.
He never told him. He never could.
Eight years later, the memory still refused to fade.
Katsuki leaned back against his apartment wall, the light from his phone screen washing his face pale. A new message glowed on the screen.
Class 1-C survived another day with minimal explosions. That’s a win, right? — Izuku
A small snort escaped him. The bastard always texted like they were still at U.A., like the years between hadn’t happened, like Katsuki didn’t lie awake some nights replaying the sound of that old rooftop laugh.
He typed a reply — You call that a win, nerd? — then erased it, thumbs hovering.
Instead, he sent a plain thumbs-up emoji.
Coward.
He tossed the phone onto the couch and raked a hand through his hair. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the low buzz of the city outside. Too quiet. Always too quiet after hearing from him.
On the kitchen table, a folder sat open — sketches, payment receipts, a few photographs from Mei Hatsume’s lab. Lines of design notes scrawled in her manic handwriting. He stared at the top page, at the rough outline of a suit: light armor, flexible weave, adaptable for someone without enhanced strength.
A suit that wasn’t for him.
It had started as an idea he told himself was practical — something he could contribute, just in case Izuku ever wanted to step back into the field for demos or emergencies. But it wasn’t about that anymore. It was about giving the idiot something that said, you still belong here.
It was stupid, sentimental, exactly the kind of thing he used to mock. And yet, here he was, working double patrols, cutting back on agency upgrades, saving quietly. Because if anyone deserved a new suit, it was the one person who’d never ask for one.
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the window where the city glowed faintly green from distant billboards.
Freckles. Emerald eyes. Forest-green hair.
He used to think attraction was just about looks — surface-level. Then he met Izuku. Then he realized it could be something else entirely: the way someone carried hope even after losing everything, the way they smiled like it wasn’t an act of defiance.
That was what killed him, every damn time.
U.A. looked smaller than he remembered.
Katsuki stood at the front gates, the afternoon sun washing everything gold — the trees, the metal, the rows of windows that had once reflected his whole damn adolescence back at him.
Once, just standing here felt like holding a lit grenade in his palm.
Pressure. Pride. Competition.
The desperate, choking need to win so hard the world had no choice but to say his name like worship.
Now the gate just felt… still.
Like it had been waiting.
He hated that thought.
He also couldn’t shake it.
Katsuki rolled his shoulders, exhaling through his nose as heat prickled under his collar. The air smelled the same — sun-warmed stone, cut grass, something faintly chemical from the training grounds — but it tasted different on his tongue. Less like adrenaline. More like memory.
More like before.
He clicked his tongue, irritated at himself. He didn’t come here for nostalgia. He wasn’t some washed-up alum returning to cry about the glory days. He was a pro hero, invited to teach because he was the best. Period. End of story.
And if his chest felt tight, that was just… oxygen.
Altitude.
Whatever.
He told himself that twice. Three times.
A breeze pushed at his jacket. He adjusted the strap of his duffel, ignoring the weight that had nothing to do with gear. He could turn around. Walk back to the station, go home, pretend he never—
His phone buzzed.
A short message on the screen:
Glad you agreed to join. I’m on campus already — if you need help finding the guest rooms, just call.
Izuku.
Of course it was Izuku.
There wasn’t a second number he would’ve checked that fast.
Wasn’t a person who could make him stand up straighter with two damn sentences and a smiley face emoji from earlier this morning.
Katsuki stared at the text too long, like an idiot, thumb hovering. Typing back something casual suddenly felt like trying to thread a needle while wearing combat gloves.
He locked the screen instead, shoving the phone in his pocket like it burned.
It didn’t matter.
He came because it was an honor. Because Aizawa asked. Because it was strategic for his career. Because—
Because Izuku asked last.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and clicked his teeth again, louder this time. Stupid sentimental crap. He didn’t do that.
Except apparently he did, because his feet were already moving, crossing the threshold like muscle memory had decided the argument for him.
Through the gate.
Onto the stone path.
Every step felt like walking back into a version of himself he thought he outgrew — the kid who shook with ambition and fear in equal measure, who only knew how to sprint and explode and demand the world bend first.
But there was something steadier now too. Something quieter.
Something he didn’t have the language for.
He shoved it down.
He was here to work.
Teach some brats how not to get themselves killed.
Show them what power looked like without apology.
Not to feel things like some—
His heart kicked when he caught sight of the dorm buildings in the distance, heat rolling through him like a slow fuse.
Not for that reason.
Definitely not.
He adjusted his bag, set his jaw, and walked.
One week.
He could handle that.
And if part of him — a stupid, stubborn, soft part he’d never admit existed — wondered whether a certain green-haired idiot was watching from one of those windows…
Well.
He ignored it.
Mostly.
The dorm lobby was quieter than Katsuki remembered it ever being — late afternoon lull, students still in class, sunlight pooling warm and honey-soft across the tile. Dust floated lazily through the beams like the whole place was breathing slow, unbothered.
He wasn’t used to U.A. being calm.
He wasn’t sure he liked it.
He definitely wasn’t sure why his palms suddenly felt hot.
He scanned the empty lounge, the couches, the trophy case — little snapshots of a life that used to be sharp edges and noise. He should’ve felt pride walking in here as a pro hero. He did. But layered under it was something else, quieter, rawer. Something uncomfortable in its honesty.
He shifted his bag, looking for the elevator.
Then footsteps — light ones — padded down the hallway, and Katsuki’s spine snapped straight like instinct.
He didn’t need to look to know.
His body knew before his eyes did.
It always had.
Izuku turned the corner, tablet in hand, hair slightly messy like he’d been pushing it back all day in thought. He still walked a little too fast, still led with his shoulders like he was leaning toward the world instead of bracing against it. Same freckles, same damn earnestness in his face that time never touched.
He looked up — and his whole expression lit, bright and warm and stupidly sincere.
“Oh—Kacchan! You made it!”
Like Katsuki could’ve said no and lived with himself.
Izuku’s smile hit him in the gut before he could brace. Katsuki forced his throat to work, nodding once, sharp, controlled.
“Yeah. Obviously.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
He swallowed, annoyed at himself.
Izuku jogged the last few steps closer, tablet hugged to his chest like a nervous student instead of a grown man and teacher. His voice had deepened but still carried that open-hearted warmth that felt like sunlight and pressure at the same time.
“Was the commute okay? I—I was gonna wait at the gate, but Aizawa-sensei needed help adjusting the rescue-course parameters and—”
“You don’t have to babysit me, nerd.” Katsuki meant it to sound gruff, dismissive.
It came out… softer than he liked. Like sandpaper trying too hard to be glass.
Izuku blinked — not hurt, just surprised. Then he smiled again, smaller this time, gentler. Like he heard what Katsuki
meant, not what he said.
“I wasn’t babysitting,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just—wanted to welcome you. That’s all.”
Katsuki’s chest pulled tight, something sharp catching behind his ribs.
He looked away, jaw flexing. “Tch. Whatever. I’m here.”
“I know.” The way Izuku said it — quiet, warm, like it mattered — made Katsuki want to punch a wall or lie down forever. Hard to tell the difference.
Izuku gestured toward the hallway. “I can show you to the guest rooms, if you want. They renovated them this year, and they’re really nice — better insulation, new desks, soundproofing—”
Katsuki shot him a glare. “Why would you bring up soundproofing like that?”
Izuku froze, face turning red so fast Katsuki almost choked. “N-No reason! I just— it’s useful for privacy! For sleeping! Or—or work calls!”
Katsuki’s lips twitched. He killed the smile before it fully formed, but not fast enough. Izuku saw it — Katsuki could tell from the way his eyes softened, stupid and bright and too knowing.
Damn him.
“Lead the way,” Katsuki muttered.
Izuku nodded, flustered but happy, and started walking. Katsuki followed, each step heavy in a way that had nothing to do with his bag.
They walked in silence, a comfortable one — or it would’ve been, if every breath didn’t feel like swallowing sparks.
Izuku glanced back once, just briefly, like checking Katsuki was still there. Like he wanted to keep him in his sight.
Katsuki looked away before their eyes could meet.
Burning never did suit subtle feelings.
But his heart — traitorous damn thing — beat a little faster anyway.
He really should’ve turned around at the gate.
He didn’t.
He never would’ve.
The guest suites were tucked near the faculty wing — quiet hall, polished floors, the hum of ventilation instead of teenagers yelling or blasting music. Katsuki pretended not to notice how Izuku walked a little slower than usual, like he wanted to draw out the time it took to get there.
They stopped at a door.
Not far from Izuku’s, Katsuki realized. Too close to be coincidence.
“Here it is,” Izuku said, keycard in hand, smile soft. “You can settle in and rest before dinner. Or, um—if you want to eat alone, that’s okay too—”
Katsuki scoffed. “Stop acting like I’m a stray cat you gotta tempt with food.”
Izuku blinked, then grinned. “I did bring taiyaki just in case.”
Katsuki hated how fast his stomach reacted.
And how fast his chest reacted more.
“Tch. Whatever. Open the damn door.”
Izuku swiped the card and stepped aside, letting Katsuki enter first.
The room was… nice. Minimalist. Soft gray and pale wood, sunlight spilling through tall windows. Cleaner and warmer than he expected from a school dorm. Desk, bed, small kitchenette.
It felt temporary.
And somehow safe.
He set his bag down. The thunk echoed louder than it should’ve.
Izuku stood near the doorway, hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. Like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go. Like he wanted to do both.
“So,” Izuku said, voice gentle. “You’ll be here all week. We can go over the schedule later, but Aizawa-sensei put you with the first-years tomorrow morning. And—”
He hesitated. Katsuki looked up.
“—I’m glad you came, Kacchan.”
Simple words.
Too honest.
No armor on them.
Katsuki swallowed hard, throat suddenly sand-dry.
“Don’t make it a big deal,” he muttered.
Izuku didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrink. Just… smiled. Soft and warm and stupidly sincere, like he always did when Katsuki tried to push him away.
“It is a big deal,” he said quietly. “To me.”
Katsuki’s pulse stuttered.
A memory flickered — Izuku smiling at him on the U.A. rooftop all those years ago, saying thank you like it meant salvation instead of survival.
Same eyes.
Same heart.
Still pointed right at him.
Annoying bastard.
“Go do your job or whatever,” Katsuki grumbled. “I gotta unpack.”
Izuku nodded, but he didn’t turn right away. He lingered, eyes sweeping the room — or maybe sweeping Katsuki. It was hard to tell.
“If you need anything,” he said, voice soft, “my room’s just down the hall.”
Katsuki’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t trust his own voice, so he just gave a curt nod. Izuku smiled one more time, shy around the edges, and slipped
out, door clicking shut behind him.
Silence fell heavy.
Katsuki stood there, staring at the door like it might swing back open if he wanted it enough. It didn’t. Obviously.
He dragged a hand through his hair, huffed out a breath that tasted too much like longing.
“Pathetic,” he muttered. “You’re here for work, not to — whatever the hell this is.”
He opened his duffel, pulled out his gear. Gloves, grenadier bracers, hero boots — all set down with mechanical precision.
Then something softer — a folded blueprint packet and a matte-black tech catalog, edges worn from being handled too much.
He hesitated, fingers hovering before he set them gently on the desk.
Izuku’s reconstructed support suit.
Or—what would be. Eventually.
A project two years in the making.
Contacts called. Materials sourced. Engineers bribed with favors and dinners and pride. All quiet. All hidden.
He wasn’t done saving for the final components yet. But he would be.
He always finished what he started.
Katsuki stared at the papers, jaw ticking.
He shouldn’t have brought them. It was stupid. Sentimental. Dangerous. Too much hope in one place.
But he couldn’t leave them.
Not when he was going to see Izuku every day.
He’d told himself it was practical — time to review specs, ask discreet questions, check fit measurements he memorized long before he should’ve.
Liar.
He sat on the bed. Leaned forward. Elbows on knees.
He came here to teach.
To work.
To be professional.
Not to watch the idiot he never stopped being drawn to walk around with soft eyes and warm smiles like the past never scarred them both.
Not to want things he’d spent years pretending he didn’t want.
He pressed his palms together, breath steady but trembling under the surface.
“One week,” he told himself again.
But it didn’t sound like a promise this time.
It sounded like a countdown.
Katsuki unpacked until his mind stopped trying to climb out of his chest.
Boots lined up. Gear squared in neat rows like discipline could smother feeling. It didn’t — it never did — but it made the room feel less like a trap and more like a bunker. Order where there used to be chaos.
He needed that.
He grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, downed half, then stepped into the hallway.
Walking would clear his head.
Air. Space. Distance from thoughts he didn’t ask for.
Turning the corner, he heard voices.
“…—you really handled that situation well today, Midoriya. Your insight with the tactical groups was incredibly sharp.”
Soft, professional, annoyingly admiring. Some young teacher — sharp suit, kind face, that earnest faculty energy Katsuki already hated.
Izuku laughed. Light but shy. Warm enough to twist something inside Katsuki that had no business moving.
“Oh—thank you, um, Hoshikawa-san, I just try to—”
“I meant it,” the teacher said. “The students adore you. And your quirk analysis seminars have been a highlight. Truly.”
Katsuki’s jaw locked.
Quirk analysis. Right. The thing Izuku poured himself into when fate ripped power out of his hands and called it destiny. Izuku didn’t look resentful. He never did. That almost pissed Katsuki off more.
Hoshikawa stepped a little closer. Too close. Katsuki’s eye twitched.
“If you ever want to collaborate on a course, I’d be honored.”
Izuku smiled — polite, flustered, that little bow of the head he only gave when he was genuinely grateful.
“I… I’d like that. Thank you.”
Something burned in Katsuki’s chest. Hot. Sharp. Irrational as hell and impossible to ignore.
Before Izuku could turn and see him hovering like an idiot, Katsuki cleared his throat, loud enough to break the air clean in half.
Both men looked up.
“Kacchan!” Izuku brightened, too fast, too visibly. “I was just—”
“Yeah, I heard,” Katsuki said, voice even, expression flat. Too flat. “Gonna form a study club or hold hands and talk about hero ethics next?”
Hoshikawa blinked. “Ah—Bakugo-san, hello. I’m—”
“Didn’t ask,” Katsuki snapped. “Don’t care.”
Izuku’s eyes widened, embarrassed. Hurt flickered — not deep, just a pinch — but it stabbed anyway. Katsuki hated himself instantly, which only pissed him off more.
He jerked his chin toward Izuku.
“You done? We got shit to prep.”
Izuku hesitated. “Kacchan, I was just discussing—”
“Yeah, I could tell,” Katsuki cut in, tone like a blade glinting in light. “Real thrilling stuff. Try not to sprain anything with all the mutual admiration.”
Hoshikawa’s polite façade faltered. Izuku frowned — soft but disappointed, the way he used to look when Katsuki kicked a vending machine because it jammed.
Izuku stepped forward slightly. “Kacchan. That was rude.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve.
Katsuki felt it — like gravel under his ribs — and hated that too.
He scoffed, turning away so neither of them could see the crack.
“Tch. Whatever. I’m not here for social hour.”
He walked off. Heavy, steady steps.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t need to — he could feel Izuku’s gaze on his back, warm and confused and hurting just a little.
He deserved that.
He hated that he cared.
Hours passed.
Training schedule reviewed, notes scribbled, anger simmering low and stupid in his veins.
Sunset bled slow through the guest room windows, painting everything amber. Katsuki lays on the bed staring at the ceiling, feeling like he was sixteen again — furious at himself for emotions he couldn’t kill, frustrated at wanting things he had no right to.
He didn’t like jealousy.
It made him feel weak.
It made him feel seventeen in a hospital bed watching someone else rise while he rebuilt himself from dust.
He closed his eyes.
Exhaled slowly.
A knock interrupted the spiral. Soft. Gentle. Familiar rhythm.
Katsuki sat up before he could think not to.
He opened the door.
Izuku stood there holding a lunchbox and two bottled teas, wearing a cardigan that shouldn’t have made Katsuki’s chest feel like someone was squeezing it gently and cruelly at the same time.
“I… um. Thought you might not have eaten yet.”
Katsuki stared.
Too long.
Too silent.
Izuku shifted nervously. “I made curry. And… taiyaki. The ones you used to like from the station bakery.”
Like he remembered.
Like he paid attention.
Like the pieces Katsuki dropped over the years were precious instead of pathetic.
Katsuki swallowed. Hard.
“Come in,” he muttered.
Izuku followed him inside. Set the food on the small table. His movements careful, almost reverent. Katsuki hated how gentle he was. Loved it more.
“I’m sorry,” Izuku said quietly. “If I upset you earlier.”
Katsuki blinked. “The hell are you apologizing for?”
Izuku rubbed his thumb over the tea bottle label. “You seemed… tense. And I don’t want—”
He paused, voice thinning.
“I don’t like fighting with you. Not anymore.”
Something in Katsuki’s chest pulled tight, then tighter.
“We weren’t fighting,” he said. “I was just being—”
Jealous.
Petty.
Afraid.
He swallowed the truth, replaced it with something jagged but vague.
“Difficult.”
Izuku smiled — sad and understanding, because he always, always knew how to read pieces Katsuki didn’t want seen.
“That’s okay,” he said softly. “Let’s eat.”
Katsuki’s breath stilled.
Izuku sat across from him. They ate in soft silence — chopsticks moving slowly, steam curling between them, warmth filling the space like it had weight.
Every time Izuku looked up, Katsuki dropped his gaze.
Every time Katsuki shifted, Izuku’s knee brushed his under the table like the universe forgot how to keep distance.
Halfway through the meal, Izuku spoke, barely above a whisper:
“I like it when you’re here.”
Katsuki didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
But he didn’t look away this time.
He let himself meet those green eyes — just for a second, just long enough to feel the ground tilt and steady again under the truth he never stopped carrying:
He came here for work.
For duty.
For pride.
But mostly, stupidly, helplessly —
he came here for him.
Katsuki woke to sunlight cutting sharp across the room, the faint hum of campus already alive. He dragged a hand through his hair and scowled at the ceiling, which had done absolutely nothing wrong except exist above him during his feelings last night.
Last night.
Izuku sitting across from him, knee brushing his, voice quiet like a confession he wasn’t ready to call one.
“I like it when you’re here.”
Stupid.
Stupid, dangerous words.
Katsuki kicked off the blankets like they’d been the ones who said it.
He’d survived villains, training hell, PR interviews, and reporters trying to psychoanalyze his resting explosion face. He could survive one nerd being sentimental over curry.
Probably.
He suited up — not full hero gear, just training attire — and headed out, jaw set, expression neutral in that “I will blow up your entire lineage if you try to talk to me before coffee” way.
He turned the corner toward the staff kitchen — and nearly walked face-first into Izuku.
Izuku, hair sticking up like he fought a pillow in his sleep.
Izuku, hoodie too big, sleeves swallowing his hands.
Izuku, blinking at him with bleary eyes over a steaming mug.
“G’…morning,” Izuku mumbled, voice rough with sleep, half-smile soft and totally unaware of the emotional damage he
was causing.
Katsuki froze for half a second too long.
Then scowled. Harder than necessary.
“You look like a damp dryer sheet.”
Izuku blinked. Then laughed — tired and warm and entirely unbothered, like Katsuki hadn’t just opened the day with violence.
“That’s… oddly specific,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Coffee?”
Katsuki crossed his arms. “What do I look like, someone who needs caffeine?”
“Yes.”
The answer came instantly.
Katsuki’s mouth twitched. “Tch.”
Izuku stepped aside, gesturing toward the machine. Katsuki moved past him — too close, shoulder brushing shoulder.
Izuku flinched like electricity went through him, then pretended it didn’t, which only made it more obvious.
Katsuki grabbed a mug, poured coffee like it personally betrayed him.
Izuku leaned against the counter beside him, stirring his own drink, trying to blink his brain online.
“You sleep okay?” Izuku asked.
“Fine.”
“Any noise?”
“No.”
A beat.
“…Did you dream about work schedules attacking you? That happens sometimes, when Aizawa-sensei piles too much—”
“For the love of—Izuku, I don’t dream about spreadsheets.”
Izuku sipped his coffee, cheeks warm. “Mine had explosions.”
Katsuki snorted. “Of course it did.”
Izuku nodded seriously. “And one of them turned into a duck.”
There was silence.
Katsuki stared at him.
Izuku stared at his mug, mortified he’d said that out loud.
“Shut up,” Katsuki muttered, turning away before the laugh could escape. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I—I was half asleep!”
“Clearly.”
A heavy pause.
Light, easy.
The kind that only existed between people who knew each other down to the bone.
Izuku shifted, cheeks still pink. “I, um… I can walk you to Training Hall B. If you want. It’s on my way to the first-year advisory meeting.”
He said it too casually.
Like he didn’t care.
Like it wasn’t the highlight of his morning already.
Katsuki lifted his mug to hide the way his mouth betrayed him with a reluctant tug upward.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “Try to keep up.”
Izuku smiled — small, private, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be happy about something that simple.
They stepped out into the crisp morning air. Students crossed the campus lawn; birds chirped. It would’ve been peaceful if Katsuki didn’t feel like his heart was a live wire tucked under his ribs.
Izuku shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets, walking beside him. Close, but careful not to brush. Like he wanted to, but didn’t trust himself.
Katsuki glanced at him.
“You still walk like you’ve got your damn backpack on,” he muttered.
Izuku blinked. “Do I?”
“Yeah. Nerd posture.”
Izuku huffed. “Well you still scowl like someone insulted your breakfast cereal.”
“They probably did.”
Izuku laughed again, gentler this time — a soft exhale that sounded like nostalgia.
Katsuki let it hang in the air between them.
They reached the training hall doors. Izuku hesitated.
“Kacchan.”
Katsuki stopped. Turned. Annoyed at how expectant his chest suddenly felt.
“When you’re done later…”
Izuku shifted, eyes flicking away.
“…you can come find me. If you want. I’ll—be around.”
Katsuki swallowed.
Idiot.
Dangerous, earnest idiot.
“Don’t get all clingy just because I’m here.”
Izuku’s smile was tiny. Sad and hopeful at once. “I don’t cling.”
“You do.”
“…Ok, maybe a little.”
Katsuki fought the curve of his mouth. Lost. Barely.
“Go teach someone something useless,” he muttered, pushing the door open.
Izuku laughed under his breath.
“You too.”
And then, as Katsuki stepped inside, Izuku called softly behind him:
“And…good luck today.”
Katsuki didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
But his hands felt warm around his gloves.
His chest too full.
His jaw too tight from holding everything in.
I like when you’re here.
Stupid.
Soft.
Impossible to shake.
God help him.
This week was going to kill him in the most infuriating way possible.
Katsuki walked into Training Hall B like he owned the place.
He didn’t.
But nobody needed to know that.
A cluster of first-years straightened the moment they saw him — wide-eyed, whispering like someone had just unleashed a legendary Pokémon into their natural habitat.
Good. Fear and awe were healthy motivators. U.A. should bring back quake-in-your-boots energy anyway. Standards had gotten soft.
Aizawa was leaning against the far wall, arms wrapped in capture cloth, looking like he hadn’t slept since the dawn of
civilization.
“You showed up,” he said.
Katsuki clicked his tongue. “Don’t sound so shocked, old fossil.”
Aizawa didn’t blink. “If you traumatize anyone, you’re doing the paperwork.”
“Please. I don’t traumatize. I educate efficiently.”
Aizawa’s eyes narrowed like he was cataloging that for future lawsuit defense. Then he waved the students forward.
They lined up — nervous, stiff, waiting.
Katsuki crossed his arms and let silence do the first round of work.
Silence was pressure. Pressure forced instinct. Instinct showed weakness.
One kid cracked first.
“H-hello, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight-sensei!”
Katsuki stared at him.
“Don’t call me that.”
The kid paled.
Katsuki rolled his shoulders, voice sharp but controlled — clipped edges softened only by the faintest thread of grudging patience.
“Listen up. Heroes don’t win because they’re strong. They win because they refuse to lose. You got that?”
A few nods. One determined tremor.
Right. Time to separate the flailing idiots from the idiots with potential.
He paced down the line like a military drill sergeant who also happened to be legally allowed to explode things.
“You’re here to learn how to move.”
He tapped the side of a student's elbow. They jumped.
“How to react faster.”
He pushed another kid’s stance wider with his boot.
“How to think while your lungs feel like they’re full of broken glass.”
The kids swallowed hard.
Good. They should. That wasn’t cruelty — that was truth. Hero work wasn’t warm-ups and inspirational speeches. It was pain, and grit, and surviving by being sharper than the world expected you to be.
He snapped his fingers. “Pair up. Mobility drills. I want dodges like your lives depend on it — because someday they will.”
They moved — messy at first, then cleaner as adrenaline kicked in.
Katsuki stalked between them, correcting stances, barking commands, occasionally demonstrating with a precision that shut everybody up mid-breath. Sweat hit the mats. Feet scraped. Air shifted fast with the sound of bodies in motion.
This — this he knew. This was the battlefield without the blood. Effort without the funerals.
And fuck if it didn’t feel good to be back in the environment where his instincts made sense.
One kid misstepped. Katsuki caught their wrist before they face-planted, flipping their balance back with practiced ease.
“Don’t look at the ground. The ground doesn’t care if you die.”
“Y-yes, Bakugou-sir!”
Sir.
Hah. Funny.
He stepped back, arms crossing again.
The hall hummed with focus. Determination. Spark. Real spark.
He felt his chest tighten — the good kind, like pride and irritation mixed in a shaker.
They were rough. But they were trying. Hard.
And Katsuki secretly, stubbornly respected people who tried.
His mind flickered — annoying, automatic — to a green blur from years ago, tripping and shaking and still getting back up again, over and over like gravity didn’t apply to his stupid willpower.
Dammit.
He shoved the thought away like it had personally offended him.
Fine. Whatever. Back to work.
“Break,” he called.
Half the class sagged in immediate relief. The other half pretended they didn’t.
“You get ten minutes to drink water and question your life choices. Then we go again, harder.”
One girl whispered, “He’s… kinda terrifying.”
Another whispered back, “But he’s so cool.”
Katsuki’s eyebrow twitched.
Aizawa drifted closer, hands in pockets.
“You’re good at this.”
Katsuki grunted. Compliments still tasted unfamiliar, like food he hadn’t learned how to chew yet.
“I don’t do babysitting,” he muttered.
“You say that,” Aizawa replied dryly, “but you very clearly just prevented three ankle sprains and a concussion.”
Katsuki clicked his tongue. “Bad injuries waste time.”
“Mm,” Aizawa hummed, entirely unconvinced. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Katsuki glared at him, which Aizawa ignored with the practiced grace of a man who’d been ignoring teenagers for decades.
Then Aizawa spoke again, deceptively casual.
“Midoriya mentioned he was looking forward to watching you teach.”
Katsuki’s spine went stiff.
He forced a shrug. “The nerd likes watching people work. It’s creepy.”
Aizawa’s eyebrow rose. “Did you see him?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Too defensive.
He corrected, slower. “Didn’t look.”
Which was worse. Because it meant he thought about looking.
Aizawa said nothing — just a tiny, microscopic smug downturn of his mouth like he knew everything.
Katsuki scowled hard enough to crack concrete.
“Mind your damn business.”
“I am,” Aizawa said. “That’s why I’m saying nothing.”
Katsuki hated him.
Or respected him.
Same thing.
“Go drink water,” Aizawa added. “You look like you’re overheating.”
“I look perfect.”
“You look like emotion gives you hives.”
“I’ll give you hives.”
Aizawa walked away, capture cloth swaying. “Ten minutes.”
Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shake off the conversation.
Fine.
Whatever.
Back to work soon. No distractions. No nerds. No emotional nonsense.
He tilted his head back, eyes closing for a moment.
The hall echoed with panting breaths, determination, the quiet buzz of ambition.
And somewhere — whether Katsuki looked or not — he knew there was a pair of green eyes that would’ve been watching every move like it meant something.
Stupid.
Hazardous.
Warm in a way he didn’t know how to put out.
Katsuki sat alone at a corner table, murderously hunched over a tray of curry rice that somehow tasted worse than he remembered.
Had the chef gotten lazier, or had his standards gotten higher?
Probably both.
Kids whispered as they passed, trying (and failing) to be subtle.
“Is that—”
“Shh!”
“He’s even scarier in person—”
“Do you think he’ll—”
“He punched a villain through a truck once—”
Idiots. Half of that wasn't true, and the other half was exaggerated.
…Mostly.
He shoveled another bite into his mouth, scowling like the rice owed him money.
He was not looking around.
He was absolutely not checking for a mop of green curls anywhere in the room.
He’d trained. He’d been competent. He didn’t need praise. He didn’t want—
A group of first-years walked by.
“Midoriya-sensei watched the whole time,” one whispered. “He looked so proud—”
The spoon paused halfway to Katsuki’s mouth.
Proud.
The hell did that mean?
He wasn’t a damn kid that needed gold stars, but—
“Shut up and eat your veggies,” he barked automatically.
The kids scattered like pigeons under a grenade.
Katsuki stuffed another mouthful in, jaw tight, face hot for reasons that definitely were not emotional.
He wasn’t flustered.
He was perfectly calm.
He was—
“Kacchan?”
Katsuki froze.
He didn’t need to turn toward that voice. His bones recognized it. His teeth recognized it. His fucking pulse recognized it.
Slowly, like the universe was mocking him one molecule at a time, he looked up.
Izuku stood there, lunch tray in hand, bright eyes, messy hair, smile soft like it wasn’t even trying to kill him but somehow still was.
He’d changed into a soft cardigan—dark forest green, obviously.
Academia looked stupidly good on him.
“Can I… sit with you?” Izuku asked, hopeful, hesitant, like he was ready for Katsuki to say no even though Katsuki never actually did.
Katsuki grunted. Which was universally accepted language for “yes.”
Izuku sat.
Too close. Not close enough. The usual.
For a second, neither spoke.
Then Izuku brightened. “I—I heard training went great! The students were really excited! A-Aizawa-sensei said you—”
“Stop vibrating,” Katsuki muttered. “You’ll spill your food.”
Izuku ducked beaming, flustered like Katsuki had just complimented him instead of bullied him gently.
“It’s just… I’m happy. They learned a lot.”
Katsuki shrugged. “They’re not total dumbasses.”
“That’s— very high praise coming from you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Izuku laughed, soft and warm and right under Katsuki’s ribs like someone set a tea light candle in his chest.
Then, quieter:
“I… um… I really like it when you're here.”
Same line from last night. But different setting. Different weight.
No hesitation this time. No sleepy vulnerability.
Just truth, laid bare.
Katsuki swallowed — once, hard.
“Tch. Don’t get sentimental on me at lunch.”
Izuku smiled at his tray, voice tiny but bright.
“I’ll try. No promises.”
Silence. Comfortable, charged, goddamn catastrophic.
Katsuki picked up his spoon again, because food was easier than feelings.
Izuku nudged his elbow, just barely — like he didn’t realize he’d done it.
Katsuki’s hand almost slipped.
“I was watching you teach,” Izuku blurted suddenly. “A little. You were… amazing.”
Katsuki stared straight ahead.
Of course he had been.
He knew that.
But hearing Izuku say it?
That was a different kind of explosion.
“‘Course I was,” he finally muttered. “I’m not half-assing it just ‘cause you’re staring.”
Izuku flushed. “I wasn’t— I mean I was— I mean—”
“Breathe, nerd.”
Izuku inhaled sharply like he’d forgotten how lungs worked.
Katsuki smirked into his rice.
Good. Balance restored.
Except it wasn’t.
Nothing in his chest felt balanced at all.
The Support Wing smelled like oil, ozone, and too much caffeine.
Katsuki walked in with his hood up like a criminal trying not to be caught on camera — which was stupid, because everyone here had cameras. Dozens. With zoom lenses. And facial tracking. And probably heat sensors.
Whatever. He wasn’t hiding.
He was just… being efficient about not being seen.
He wasn’t sneaking around U.A. just to make sure the nerd didn’t find out he was secretly funding a one-of-a-kind mobility suit designed specifically for him.
That would be pathetic.
And he was not pathetic.
He pushed the workshop door open—
—and immediately had a wrench flung at his head.
He caught it. Barely.
“MEI,” he barked, “HOW MANY TIMES—”
Hatsume spun on her stool like she was piloting a damn helicopter, goggles pushed into frizzy pink hair.
“Bakugou!” she beamed. “My favorite investor-slash-reluctant test dummy!”
“I’M NOT—”
He cut himself off. Gritted teeth. Deep breath.
“I’m not a test dummy.”
“Oh please. You’ve let me blow you up more than Midoriya ever did.”
Katsuki twitched. “Don’t bring him up.”
“Ohhhhh,” she sing-songed, "touchy subject~"
“I will launch you.”
“Into science? Yes. Excellent motivation.”
She hopped off the stool and gestured wildly around the cluttered space like a mad prophet in her natural habitat.
Sparks flew from a welding station in the back. A prototype jet boot was sizzling in a cooling vat. Something beeped
aggressively in the corner — possibly a bomb, possibly a rice cooker.
Katsuki didn’t care. He had one objective.
Well. Two.
- Check the progress on the suit.
- Not look like a lovesick idiot while doing it.
Mei jabbed a thumb toward a covered mannequin.
“Project Greenlight is coming along beautifully!”
He stiffened. “Don’t call it that.”
“Why not? It’s for—”
Katsuki clamped a hand over her mouth before she said a name he definitely wasn’t thinking about.
Mei blinked at him through smudged goggles.
He hissed, low and lethal, “Do not say it out loud.”
She pulled his hand away like this was a perfectly normal conversation.
“You’re too secretive for someone so emotionally obvious.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. It’s adorable.”
Katsuki snarled. She patted his arm like he was a feral cat throwing a tantrum.
“Relax! Your precious… anonymous recipient of extremely customized gear isn't going to find out.”
He ignored the warmth in his ears. Probably just workshop heat. Whatever.
Mei ripped the cover off.
The mannequin stood there wearing the skeletal frame of the suit — matte plates, joint reinforcement, lightweight armor plating, mobility boosters. Green accent panels that almost glowed.
Not bright like Hero Deku once had been.
Deeper. Softer. Thoughtful. Hopeful.
A suit for someone who still wanted to protect, even without power to burn the world bright anymore.
Katsuki’s chest went tight.
Mei leaned in. “It’ll boost mobility, kinetic support, impact resistance. Blend assist tech with muscle fiber strengthening. Think ‘soft exo-armor’ meets ‘support gauntlets’ meets ‘I care so much it's embarrassing.’”
Katsuki scowled. “The last part’s not part of the specs.”
“It’s in the emotional specs.”
He glared.
She wiggled her eyebrows.
“Why don’t you just confess to—”
Katsuki picked up a screwdriver and threw it at her. She ducked, giggling like this was foreplay between her and physics.
He turned back to the suit.
It looked good. More than good.
He imagined him wearing it — moving confidently again, not holding back or curling in on himself when his body complained. The kind of freedom Iz— someone deserved.
A stupid, quiet warmth curled in his gut. Heavy. Steady. Too much.
Mei watched him with a smirk.
“You know, Bakugou… People don’t usually go this far for ‘rivalry.’”
He didn’t respond.
Because what was he gonna say?
It’s not rivalry. It hasn’t been rivalry since I was sixteen. It’s something I still don’t have a name for without feeling like I’ll choke on it.
Nah. He’d die first.
Instead he just grunted, “Get it done.”
“It’ll be finished by the end of the residency week,” she chirped. “Perfect timing for your big emotional climax!”
“I’m leaving.”
“Oh! Also the new destabilizing ankle servos might explode!”
“I’M LEAVING.”
Katsuki left the workshop with his hands shoved in his pockets, jaw tight, steps too sharp.
Stupid.
Stupid place, stupid pink gremlin, stupid suit.
Stupid flutter in his chest like someone had lit a fuse and then walked away before it could go off.
He wasn’t doing this because of feelings.
He was doing this because—
…because someone deserved to stand strong again.
That was all.
He ignored the way his pulse didn’t believe him.
Outside, the campus was quiet. Evening settling in. Sky painted that bruised-purple color that always made things feel like endings and beginnings at the same time.
He didn’t go back to the dorms.
Couldn’t. His thoughts were moving too loud. Needed something to drown them out before they exploded.
His feet knew the way before he did.
Gym lights.
Card reader beep.
Door hiss.
Sanctuary.
He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and headed toward the training room like maybe he could punch the softness out of his own damn ribcage.
Sweat dripped down his temple. Warm muscles, steady breath, fists connecting with the padded dummy in sharp, controlled bursts.
This was simple.
Simple was good.
No thinking. No remembering the way green looked under workshop lights. No imagining reactions that didn’t exist yet.
Just impact.
Just control.
Just—
Door hiss.
Of course.
The universe hated him personally.
Green hair. Big eyes. Soft joggers.
Izuku stepped inside like a gentle problem Katsuki would never solve cleanly.
“K-Kacchan!” Izuku stuttered, then smiled — small, warm, like seeing him here made sense. “Sorry! I didn’t know anyone was—”
“It’s a gym, not a damn shrine,” Katsuki muttered, wiping his forehead with his forearm. “You can enter without acting like you’re trespassing.”
Izuku laughed sheepishly and stepped in further, closing the door behind him.
The sound echoed.
He headed toward the stretching mats. Rolled up his sleeves. Settled in.
Katsuki didn’t look.
Except he absolutely did.
It wasn’t like before — training for hours until the world bent around his power.
Izuku moved like someone rebuilding a body brick by brick, patient and stubborn and quietly shining in a different way now.
And Katsuki—
Katsuki hated the ache in his chest that felt suspiciously like pride and grief tangled together.
Izuku bent to stretch, wincing just a little.
Katsuki’s voice came out before he could stop it.
“You’re warming up wrong.”
Izuku blinked. “Huh?”
“You’re compensating like a dumbass,” Katsuki said, stepping forward, annoyingly drawn in by concern he would never voice properly. “You’ll strain your lumbar.”
Izuku blinked, then pouted. “But this is how I used to—”
“Yeah. Used to.” Katsuki stopped in front of him — close enough to see the freckles shifting with every breath he took. “Your body’s different now. Stop pretending it ain’t.”
Izuku’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.
Not hurt — just… seen.
And damn it, seeing him like that — soft, vulnerable, trying — did something to Katsuki’s insides he would never put into words.
Izuku whispered, almost shy, almost honest:
“I… I’m still figuring out how to move without power. It’s strange. Like I’m wearing clothes that don’t fit.”
Katsuki had to look away.
Because if he didn’t, he might say something raw.
Like I know. I watched every part of you change.
Instead he grunted, “Then stretch like someone who wants to stand tomorrow.”
Izuku’s eyes softened. “Will you… show me?”
Katsuki’s pulse jumped like a misfired grenade.
And because he was an idiot with no self-preservation instincts around this one person, he muttered, “Yeah. Fine.”
He dropped to the mat beside him — closer than he meant to. Heat brushing heat. Breaths mixing.
Katsuki adjusted Izuku’s posture with careful, precise touches — wrist, shoulder, spine — nothing lingering, nothing inappropriate, and still somehow too much.
“Like this,” he said.
Izuku nodded, voice soft. “Okay.”
Okay.
Like that one word didn’t knock the wind out of him.
They stretched in silence.
Electric, quiet, almost domestic.
If Katsuki turned his head, their faces would be inches apart.
He didn’t turn his head.
He also didn’t move away.
He didn’t know how long they sat there stretching side-by-side, but at some point breathing settled, muscles loosened, and the room went quiet in that good, thick way gym silence does — humming vents, faint sweat-smell, two heartbeats existing too close.
Then Izuku looked down and frowned.
Not at himself.
At his hands.
At Katsuki’s.
“Your hands…” Izuku murmured, voice low like noticing this was private. “They’re worse lately, aren’t they?”
Katsuki stiffened automatically, reflexive irritation flaring where softness tried to grow.
“They’re fine.”
They weren’t.
Palms raw, knuckles split in places that would heal ugly, little white scars crossing old burns like a roadmap of every fight he ever refused to lose.
Izuku didn’t listen — shocker. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small tube of hand cream. Plain, unscented, medical-grade stuff he always carried now.
For scars.
For pain.
For healing.
Katsuki wanted to snort.
What a damn metaphor.
Izuku held the tube out gently. “Give me your hands?”
Katsuki could’ve refused. Should’ve refused. Would’ve refused if he had even one working neuron left.
Instead he stared a second too long, then wordlessly extended his hands, palms up, like surrender.
Izuku’s fingers brushed his skin — warm, careful, reverent — and Katsuki’s breath got stuck somewhere between his chest and throat.
Izuku squeezed cream into his palm and started rubbing it in, slow and deliberate. Thumb sweeping over knuckles, working circles into tight scar tissue, like mapping old hurt and smoothing it down one pass at a time.
Katsuki didn’t move.
Shoulders loose.
Jaw unclenched.
Face soft in a way he’d punch someone for noticing.
He hated this.
He loved this.
Nobody touched him like this — not since… hell, maybe ever. Not like he was something fragile, not like he could break and shouldn’t have to.
Izuku’s voice was quiet. Almost shy.
“You work too hard.”
Katsuki swallowed. “I don’t know how else to be.”
Izuku didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. His touch said it — I know. I’ve always known.
Izuku slid his fingers between Katsuki’s, spreading hand cream along every rough line. And something in Katsuki’s chest — some armor-plate welded there since childhood — clicked loose.
Without thinking — reflex, instinct, need — his fingers curled.
Not a tight grip.
Not possessive.
Just… holding on.
Izuku froze in surprise.
Katsuki realized what he’d done and heat shot up his neck like an explosion winding up.
Shit.
Abort.
Reboot.
Too late.
Izuku’s cheeks went pink, but his voice stayed soft, breath brushing the space between them.
“Ka—”
Door hiss.
Both of them jerked like they'd been caught making out behind the gym mats in middle school.
Aizawa stepped in, eyes half-lidded, cup of tea in hand, deadpan expression in full effect.
He saw them.
He saw them holding hands.
He blinked slowly.
Sipped his tea.
Sighed the sigh of a man who did not get paid enough for emotional disasters.
Katsuki’s soul left his body.
“We have a curfew for a reason,” Aizawa drawled. “And therapy exists. Use one. Preferably before the other.”
Katsuki let go so fast his hands slapped the mat. “IT’S NOT— WE WEREN’T— I WASN’T—”
Izuku buried his face in his shirt.
Aizawa turned to leave, already exhausted. “Don’t make me regret inviting you, Bakugou.”
Katsuki stared at the door closing behind him, brain melting, dignity in critical condition.
Silence.
Izuku peeked up, shy smile tugging at his mouth. “That could've been worse.”
“No it couldn’t,” Katsuki muttered, ears burning so hard they could power a city block. “I’m moving to Siberia. Don’t visit.”
Izuku laughed — warm, small, private.
And Katsuki, traitorous, felt his shoulder tension melt right back down again.
The week blurred and sharpened at the same time.
Katsuki wasn’t sure when U.A. shifted from “place he tolerated” to “place he… didn’t mind.”
Maybe it was the routine.
Mornings started with half-awake students sprinting to class and Katsuki pretending he hadn’t waited to see a certain nerd jog across campus with a coffee and five notebooks under one arm.
Afternoons were explosions and drills, sweating teens learning that power meant jack shit without control. Katsuki yelled, they panicked, progress happened. Classic education.
He was good at this — not that he'd ever say it out loud. The brats listened, respected him, even looked up to him. It was infuriating. And secretly satisfying.
Evenings were quieter.
Training gym again, sometimes solo. Sometimes not.
Sometimes Izuku wandered in with excuses so flimsy they could’ve been made of wet tissue.
"Oh! I forgot my towel!"
He was wearing it. Around his neck.
"I just wanted to… um… check the equipment logs."
The logs were digital. In his office.
Katsuki pretended not to notice.
Izuku pretended he believed he didn’t notice.
Found excuses went both ways.
Katsuki’s were worse.
"I'm, uh… testing student patrol routes."
At 9:30 PM?? In the teacher dorm hallway??
He’d rather die than say the truth:
I wanted to see you again. Just a little longer.
And then there were the small things:
- Izuku making extra tea and leaving one at Katsuki’s door like it wasn’t obvious.
- Katsuki "accidentally" fixing things in Izuku’s classroom — loose chair screws, projector alignment — grumbling the whole time.
- Them brushing shoulders in narrow hallways, neither pulling away as fast as they should.
- Quiet dinners at the faculty lounge, end of table, shared space, knees almost touching.
No big confessions.
Nothing dramatic.
Just slow, stupid gravity.
Little pulls he kept pretending weren’t pulling.
And every night Katsuki lay in the guest dorm bed and told himself he was fine. He wasn't thinking too much. He didn’t want anything.
Liar.
The hero rankings were one thing. Explosions, praise, pressure — that he could handle.
But this?
This soft shit?
Izuku smiling at him over miso soup like he was someone worth staying near?
That was dangerous in ways villains never managed.
He could survive injuries, scars, losing blood.
He wasn’t sure he could survive hope.
By the time the last day rolled in, a heavy thing sat in his chest — dread, excitement, longing, something stupid and unnamed.
Endings always sucked.
Especially ones he didn’t want to end.
He told himself it would be easy to leave.
He’d been lying to himself all week.
Katsuki woke up with that tight feeling in his chest — the kind that sat between ribs, pretending it was just caffeine withdrawal but hurting like hell anyway.
Last day.
He rolled out of bed, scowling at nothing, at everything, at the way the morning light came through the dorm curtains like it didn’t give a damn about emotional stability.
He got dressed mechanically, boots laced, gloves tugged on, expression set to default don’t talk to me unless you want to explode.
Routine was supposed to help.
It didn’t.
The halls were already buzzing — kids running late, teachers shuffling papers, Present Mic yelling something about “BIG LAST DAY ENERGY YEAH!!” like society hadn’t already suffered enough.
Katsuki ignored everyone.
He only looked for one person.
Izuku was usually out front this time — morning patrols, notebook out, smiling like a damn sunrise nobody asked for.
But today?
Nothing.
Katsuki’s stomach dipped.
Weird.
Annoying.
He told himself he didn’t care and bee-lined to the teachers’ lounge anyway. Obviously not to look. Obviously not.
The door slid open —
Izuku was there.
Sitting at the far table, coffee untouched, staring out the window like someone pressed pause on him. Shoulders pulled in. Not bright, not babbling, not… him.
Katsuki’s feet stopped like they'd hit concrete.
Something was wrong.
And Katsuki, master of subtle emotional handling, entered with all the grace of a grenade going off.
“Oi. Why do you look like a kicked puppy?”
Smooth.
Perfect.
Flawless human interaction.
Izuku jerked, blinking fast, plastering on a polite, stiff smile that stabbed Katsuki somewhere inconvenient.
“Oh—morning, Kacchan! You’re up early.”
Katsuki frowned. “You say that like I don’t get up at dawn every day.”
Izuku laughed weakly. Not his real laugh. Not even close.
“I just meant— um— right. Yeah.”
Silence settled — weird, heavy, wrong.
Katsuki crossed his arms, brows knitting. “You sick or somethin’? You look like you swallowed anxiety for breakfast.”
“I’m fine,” Izuku said too fast, eyes darting away.
Sure.
Even Katsuki could tell it was a lie.
A pit opened in his stomach.
Was it something he did? Something he said?
He hated that thought. Hated how quick it came.
Katsuki tried again — quieter, rough around the edges.
“You ignoring me or what?”
That got Izuku’s eyes back — startled, soft, guilty.
“No! No, I just—” Izuku hesitated, fingers tightening around his mug. “It’s your last day.”
Oh.
…That.
Izuku forced a smile — bright but trembling, like a hero patch barely covering a wound.
“I guess I’m already… missing you.”
Katsuki’s breath punched out his lungs in a way no villain ever managed.
Idiot.
Stupid, reckless, earnest idiot.
He looked down sharply, scowl hiding the way his chest twisted.
“Tch. I’m not dying. Don’t be dramatic.”
Izuku chuckled, this time real — small, fragile, but real.
“I know. I just… got used to you being here again.”
Katsuki swallowed.
He wanted to say:
Me too.
He wanted to say:
Stay close.
He wanted to say:
I don’t want to leave if you’re not there.
Instead he grunted, shoving his hands in his pockets like they didn’t remember holding Izuku’s.
“Don’t go gettin’ clingy.”
Izuku smiled at his coffee. “Too late.”
Katsuki's heartbeat went feral, sharp and loud and alive.
…He needed to hit something. Immediately.
“Come on,” he muttered, jerking his head toward the door. “I’ll walk you to class.”
Izuku blinked, surprised, then brightened — the ease sliding back into his posture like sunlight returning to a room.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m going the same way,” Katsuki lied. Bold. Effortless. Shameful.
Izuku stood, still soft around the edges. “Okay.”
They walked side-by-side down the hall.
Not touching.
Close enough Katsuki felt the warmth anyway.
He hated that it was the last morning.
He hated how much he wanted another one.
And he hated — most of all — that leaving suddenly felt like losing.
They didn’t talk much on the walk.
Didn’t need to. Footsteps in sync, quiet hall, morning sunlight catching dust in the air like some sentimental movie Katsuki absolutely was not starring in.
Every now and then Izuku glanced over — tiny looks, soft looks — like he was memorizing being near him.
Katsuki pretended not to notice. Which meant he noticed every damn time.
They reached the first-year wing — kids already loitering outside class, buzzing like caffeine-addicted gremlins.
The moment the two of them rounded the corner together, the hallway went silent.
Eight heads swiveled.
Brows raised.
Smirks appeared like mold in humidity.
Katsuki immediately regretted existing.
One brave idiot whispered — loudly —
“Are they… walking together again?”
Another stage-whispered,
“They keep doing that.”
A third, bolder moron:
“Do you think they’re—”
Katsuki’s eyebrow twitched so hard it could’ve detonated something.
Izuku turned scarlet on sight.
“Morning, Midoriya-sensei! Morning, Bakugou-sensei!” a girl chirped, very poorly hiding a giggle.
“Bakugou-sensei walked you today?” another added, tone conspiratorial.
Katsuki snarled. “I was already going this way. Quit making up stupid stories.”
One kid nodded solemnly.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Definitely zero romantic implications, sir.”
Katsuki saw red. “YOU WANNA DO PUSHUPS 'TIL YOU CRY?!”
The kid saluted. “No romantic implications!”
Izuku, who clearly wanted the floor to swallow him whole, waved both hands. “Everyone, please—this isn’t—just—focus on your warm-ups!”
Unfortunately, that was the moment Aizawa appeared, coffee in hand, scarf dragging like he’d been resurrected reluctantly from death.
He surveyed Katsuki, then Izuku, then the blushing, whispering students.
One slow blink.
“You two are exhausting.”
Katsuki bristled. “I didn’t do anything!”
Aizawa took a sip. “That’s the problem.”
Izuku squeaked on the spot. A sound only dogs and Katsuki’s patience could hear.
Aizawa sighed like his soul left years ago.
“If you're going to keep orbiting each other like this, at least stop confusing the children.”
Katsuki sputtered, heat crawling up his neck. “I don’t orbit shit!”
“Mm.” Aizawa nodded, deadpan. “Just remember to actually say goodbye before you leave. Preferably with words.”
Izuku froze. Katsuki’s stomach dropped like a failed quirk landing.
Aizawa started walking away, muttering, “I should’ve stayed underground.”
Katsuki glared at his retreating back. “You need better hobbies!”
“Teaching emotionally constipated heroes is my hobby,” Aizawa called without turning.
Students giggled. Katsuki prayed for meteor impact.
Izuku turned, awkward, pink-cheeked, clutching his notebook like a shield.
“S-so, um… good luck with your class— I mean you don’t need luck— I mean—”
Katsuki cut him off by flicking his forehead lightly. “Breathe, nerd.”
Izuku laughed softly — the kind that slipped under armor.
“I’ll see you after class?”
It wasn’t really a question.
More like hope in sentence form.
Katsuki nodded once, gruff. “Yeah.”
Izuku walked away, glancing back one last time.
Katsuki watched him go, jaw tight.
If he had any sense, he’d start emotionally detaching right now.
Cut the cord.
Walk away clean.
Instead, he stood there like an idiot with a full chest and an empty future.
This place was going to taste like him when Katsuki left.
That scared him more than villains ever had.
Katsuki's last lesson went smoother than it had any right to.
The kids were sharp, alert, and– annoyingly – actually trying. Even the habitual problem child didn’t start a fire today.
Progress or pity? Hard to tell.
Katsuki barked orders, corrected stances, demonstrated a maneuver so clean it made half the class gasp and the other half scribble like their future depended on it.
Maybe it did.
Last drill. Last corrections. Last “no, dumbass, your center of gravity isn’t there unless your organs migrated.”
Then Aoyama Jr. (not his real name, just his offense-by-sparkle level) raised a hand.
“Um, Bakugou-sensei?”
“What.”
The class exchanged glances. Weirdly coordinated. Katsuki's instincts lit up— ambush behavior.
A girl stepped forward holding something. A folded card. Covered in stickers and glitter stars.
He stared like it was explosive.
“It’s just a… thank-you thing,” she mumbled. “For this week.”
“It’s not dumb!” another kid rushed out, panicked. “We worked hard on it!”
“We didn’t put anything cringe!”
“Except that one part—”
“I told you to take that line out!”
“It’s cute!”
“It’s embarrassing—”
Katsuki cleared his throat once, loudly enough to shut them up.
“…Give it here.”
The girl placed it in his hand with the reverence of someone handing a grenade pin back to its owner.
He opened it.
Bright marker messages. Sharp scribbles. A crude doodle of him blowing up a villain while saying "LEARN OR DIE!"(he did not say that. Out loud.)
Notes crowded the page:
Thank you for taking us seriously.
I want to train harder now.
Your advice helped my control a ton.
You’re scary but in a motivational way.
You didn’t yell as much as I thought you would! …mostly.
Please come back again!
Someone drew him with sparkles. Someone gave him cat ears. One wrote “Mr. Bakugou is kinda cool don’t tell anyone I said that.”
Something warm, unfamiliar and sharp pricked under his ribs.
Damn kids.
He forced his voice steady. Gruff. “Don’t slack off just ‘cause I’m leaving.”
“We won’t!”
“Come back again!”
“You have to!”
They swarmed him. It wasn’t a hug. Katsuki wouldn’t allow that. More like… a gravity field of gratitude and noise.
When they dispersed, he exhaled and realized—
Izuku was in the doorway.
Watching.
Soft-eyed.
Hands tucked in pockets like he didn’t know where to put all the feelings in him.
Katsuki nearly fumbled the card.
He looked away fast, shoving it in his bag like it wasn't a live sentiment bomb.
Izuku stepped forward.
“That was… wholesome.”
“Tch. They’re just not entirely hopeless.”
Izuku laughed under his breath.
“You’re good with them.”
Katsuki grunted, throat tight.
“Don’t make it weird.”
Izuku smiled, small and warm.
“I didn’t have to. You already are.”
Katsuki scowled. Not at him — at how much he felt.
“Go prep your lesson, nerd.”
Izuku mock-saluted and left with that pleased bounce in his step.
Katsuki watched the empty doorway for a second too long.
Then he grabbed his bag.
Last class down.
Only the leaving left.
He hated every second ticking toward it.
The guest dorm was quiet when he returned. Afternoon sun cast long bars of light across the floor, dust floating in slow little spirals.
He stood there a moment, staring at his half-packed duffel. Gloves, shirts, the notebook he pretended wasn’t a feelings notebook. All of it felt heavier than it was.
He started packing in short, clipped movements.
Boots.
Charger.
Small card now hidden under spare shirts. Shut up.
He paused before folding his hero jacket — the one he always wore around Izuku, like some part of him liked being seen in it.
Stupid sentimental brain.
He exhaled, low and rough.
Leaving hurt.
He wasn't ready to name why.
A soft knock came at the door.
He froze.
Then:
“…Kacchan?”
Izuku’s voice. Quiet. Uncertain. Too gentle for Katsuki’s heart to survive cleanly.
Katsuki swallowed. “Door’s open.”
It slid aside, and Izuku stepped in — still in his staff jacket, hair a little messy from wind, clutching something small behind his back.
He took in the half-packed room, the duffel, Katsuki standing there like he didn’t know how to move.
Izuku's expression flickered — sad then bright then trying not to show either.
“So… you’re leaving soon.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
Heavy. Full. The kind you could drown in if you weren’t careful.
Izuku stepped closer, hesitated, then held something out — a tiny All Might keychain, worn but polished, one Katsuki vaguely remembered seeing on Izuku’s bag months ago.
“Thought you might… like this. For your place. Or your gear bag. Um. Just— something small.”
Katsuki stared.
Izuku hurried on, nervous ramble rising, “You don’t have to keep it! I just— it reminded me of— well, us, when we were kids, and the way you used to— I mean, not that you— uh—”
“Izuku.”
Izuku shut up immediately.
Katsuki reached out slowly, took the keychain, held it like it might break.
He didn’t joke. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t tease.
Just—
“…Thanks.”
Izuku’s breath caught.
Two freckles on his cheek curved with the smallest smile.
Katsuki’s knuckles brushed Izuku’s when he pocketed it.
Neither moved away.
Not yet.
One heartbeat.
Then another.
Then one more — dangerous, hopeful, too much.
Katsuki’s voice came out low, strained.
“You’re acting weird today.”
Izuku’s eyes softened — sad, brave, helpless all at once.
“So are you.”
And Katsuki knew — if he didn’t leave now, he never would.
But he also knew… maybe he didn’t want to.
Izuku looked like he was holding himself together by threads — hope and nerves and something else shining raw in his eyes.
Katsuki’s throat felt tight.
He forced his hand to drop from where it hovered too close to Izuku’s. Clenched it at his side instead, because apparently he couldn’t be trusted with proximity.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered.
“Like what?” Izuku asked, voice barely above a breath.
“Like I’m—” Katsuki swallowed. “Like I’m some kinda good thing worth—”
Worth staying for.
Worth hoping for.
Worth loving.
He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.
Izuku took a soft step closer. Just one. Enough to pull Katsuki’s focus down to the way his lashes shook, the way his lower lip worried between his teeth like a secret trying to escape.
“You are a good thing,” Izuku whispered.
Every muscle in Katsuki’s body went tight. His breath hitched — barely, but enough to feel like a quake inside his ribs.
“Don’t,” he rasped.
Izuku blinked. Hurt. Confused.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say shit like that unless you—” Katsuki forced the words out, each one sharp. “Unless you mean it.”
Izuku’s breath trembled. Then—
“I do.”
The room snapped silent.
Air stopped moving.
Time held its damn breath.
Katsuki’s heart thudded once, hard, like it hadn’t prepared for impact.
Izuku looked so painfully sincere it burned to see. “Kacchan… I meant every word.”
Katsuki’s pulse was a roar in his ears.
Too loud.
Too hopeful.
“So what?” he muttered, eyes dropping to Izuku’s mouth before he could stop them. “You gonna say something stupid like you’ll miss me?”
Izuku exhaled, shaky, smiling helplessly. “Of course I’ll miss you.”
Katsuki’s stomach flipped like an idiot gymnast.
“Don’t.”
It came out harsher than he meant.
Izuku's voice gentled, softer than Katsuki had any defenses left for.
“It’s not a bad thing to be missed.”
“It is if you’re not gonna do anything about it,” Katsuki shot back, low, almost bitter.
Izuku blinked — then his cheeks flushed, realization dawning slow and warm.
Katsuki cursed himself immediately. Too much. Too close. Too honest.
“Forget it,” he growled, stepping back — only for Izuku to move instinctively forward, closing the space again like gravity existed between them.
“Kacchan,” Izuku breathed, “you don’t have to pretend you don’t care.”
Katsuki looked up — and it was a mistake, because Izuku’s eyes were right there, open and stupidly sincere, and Katsuki felt something in his chest tilt dangerously.
“Don’t say I care,” he said quietly. “Say I’m losing my mind.”
Izuku’s smile was tiny and devastating. “Okay. You’re losing your mind. And you care.”
Something inside Katsuki snapped.
Softly. Quiet. Like a thread finally giving out under the weight of years.
His voice dropped, rough and honest without permission:
“I don’t wanna go either.”
Izuku breathed in like the world shifted beneath him.
“Kacchan…”
Katsuki’s hands curled into fists because if they didn’t, they’d reach. They’d hold. They’d ruin everything or fix everything and he didn’t know which terrified him more.
“Say somethin’ else,” he muttered, raw. “Anything else. Just— don’t look like you’re about to say goodbye.”
Izuku’s eyes glimmered — not tears, but something achingly close.
“…Then don’t make it a goodbye."
And the silence that followed was not empty.
It was an invitation.
A question.
A cliff's edge Katsuki had walked toward for eight years without admitting it.
His voice came out a low, broken scoff — less anger, more disbelief.
“You’re not taking is seriously.”
Izuku swallowed, steadying.
“I am.”
Their foreheads could’ve brushed if either leaned even a breath closer.
Katsuki breathed like he’d forgotten how.
“…Then say it right.”
Izuku’s lashes lowered, voice trembling and steady all at once.
“Kacchan,” he whispered, “stay.”
And Katsuki—
didn’t run.
Didn’t explode.
Didn’t throw up a wall.
He just stood there, shaking slightly, heart wide open and terrified.
Izuku’s words hung between them like they weighed a thousand tons — soft, simple, impossible to dodge.
Stay.
Like it was easy.
Like it didn’t rearrange his entire damn chest.
Katsuki forced a breath, jaw tight, voice rough like gravel dragged over an open wound.
“You wanna know why I came back?”
Izuku blinked, startled — because that wasn’t the question he asked, but it was the one Katsuki needed to answer.
“I didn’t come here for Aizawa,” he muttered. “Didn’t come here to ‘give back,’ or whatever PR crap they put on the damn flyer.”
Izuku’s mouth parted, quiet, waiting.
Katsuki looked away — at the wall, the floor, anywhere but those eyes that saw too much.
“I came ‘cause I wanted to see you.”
There.
Said it.
No explosions.
No shields.
Just truth, raw and terrifying.
Izuku’s breath caught — small sound, soft like he didn’t know how to hold it.
Katsuki swallowed hard, throat tight.
“I kept thinkin’—”
He clenched his fists, trying to force the words through his chest.
“—if I showed up, it’d get easier. Seeing you. Talkin’ to you. Bein’ around you.”
He huffed a humorless breath — half-laugh, half-bruise.
“But it didn’t. It got worse.”
Izuku’s heartbeat was almost audible in the quiet.
Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, exposed.
“You walk in a room and I forget how to be a person. You look at me and I feel like I’m—”
He cut himself off, jaw clenching, then forced it out anyway.
“—like I’m sixteen again and I don’t know where the hell to put all this.”
Izuku whispered, “Kacchan—”
“No.” Katsuki shook his head, voice raw. “Let me get it out before I explode and launch myself through a wall.”
He took a shaky breath, met Izuku’s eyes head-on, finally brave enough to drown in them.
“I didn’t come here to teach. I came because I missed you. Because I kept lookin’ at my life and thinkin’—”
His voice cracked in a quiet, shameful break he didn’t try to hide.
“—you weren’t in it enough.”
Silence.
Soft. Trembling. Sacred.
Izuku’s eyes glistened — not tears, not yet, but close, warm, stunned.
Katsuki’s voice dropped to a whisper, the kind of confession nobody like him ever learned how to say.
“And if I leave now, it’s not because I want to. It’s ‘cause I don’t know what the hell happens if I stay and… and you don’t want me the same damn way.”
Izuku stepped closer — slow, steady, like approaching something fragile and dangerous and precious.
“Kacchan,” he murmured, voice tremoring, “I asked you to stay because I do.”
Katsuki froze. “Do what?”
Izuku smiled — small, shaking, unbelievably tender.
“Want you.”
Katsuki’s breathing stuttered — chest collapsing, rebuilding, collapsing again.
Izuku lifted a hand — tentative, asking without words — then rested it against Katsuki’s cheek.
Warm. Gentle. Real.
Katsuki didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
He leaned in.
Just barely — but enough.
Izuku’s thumb brushed his skin. “You’re the only person I ever—”
“Don’t you dare lie,” Katsuki whispered, voice cracking again.
Izuku laughed — breathy, choked, joyful like breaking sunlight.
“Kacchan. I've meant it since we were kids.”
Katsuki shut his eyes.
Pain and relief and something terrifyingly close to happiness flooded his lungs.
He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, breath mingling — not a kiss, not yet, but close enough to feel the promise of one.
His voice came out low, unsteady, reverent:
“…If I stay, I stay for you.”
Izuku’s hand slid to the back of his neck — gentle, firm, anchor-steady.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because I want you to.”
Katsuki inhaled like the world finally let him.
A beat. A breath. A miracle.
Then Katsuki opened his eyes — molten, honest, unguarded — and murmured:
“Then I’m staying.”
Not shouted.
Not dramatic.
Just true.
Izuku’s answering smile was soft enough to kill a man.
And Katsuki let himself lean in — slow, careful, like he’d been waiting eight years for the right second —
foreheads pressed, lips a breath apart, everything held in the quiet space right before the world changes —
and whispered,
“…I always thought you were the only thing worth coming back to.”
The week ended.
The students went back to normal schedules, the guest rooms emptied, and life at UA shifted back into its steady rhythm.
Except one thing didn’t shift at all.
Katsuki.
He didn’t stay overnight anymore — didn’t have a reason to, not officially. His duffel had gone home with him. His guest keycard deactivated. His temporary staff badge turned in.
But every morning, he still showed up.
Like gravity didn’t care about paperwork.
He’d roll in around nine — sometimes earlier — always muttering at the gates like coming here wasn’t a choice but a damn obligation the universe carved into his bones.
Teachers nodded to him with knowing looks.
Students whispered like they were witnessing some legendary beast become domesticated by love.
But Katsuki didn’t flinch under the attention.
Let them stare.
He wanted to be seen showing up for Izuku.
He’d waited too damn long to hide this.
At the end of the faculty hall, Izuku’s door was cracked open — a habit they’d fallen into without talking about it. An invitation. A welcome. A silent you can come in whenever you want now.
Izuku was hunched over his desk, sorting papers he cared too much about, lips moving as he muttered through notes — the same way he always had. But when he sensed Katsuki nearby, he looked up.
God.
That smile.
It started small — a flicker, hesitant, real.
Like he still couldn’t believe Katsuki was walking toward him without hesitation, without fear, without anything to prove except that he wanted to.
“Morning, Kacchan.”
It wasn’t loud.
Wasn’t giddy.
Just warm. Familiar.
Like home.
Katsuki stopped in the doorway for half a second — not because he was unsure, but because sometimes happiness hit harder than explosions.
Sometimes it felt like taking a punch right to the ribs in the best way.
He stepped inside. No hesitation, no armor.
“Tch. Don’t sound so relieved. I was always gonna show up.”
Izuku flushed — flustered, fond, hopelessly obvious — but didn’t argue.
“I know,” he whispered.
And Katsuki… yeah.
That did something to him.
He moved behind Izuku's chair, hand settling lightly on his shoulder — not possessive, not claiming. Just there. Like grounding. Like reassurance. Like he needed the touch to believe this was real.
“Got thirty minutes before patrol,” he muttered. “And I have somethin’ for you.”
Izuku blinked. “For me?”
“Yeah. C’mon.”
It smelled faintly of chalk and old sweat mats.
Familiar. Safe.
Katsuki dropped a case on the table — sleek, reinforced, with hero-tech locks.
Izuku’s breath hitched. “Is that—?”
“Open it.”
Izuku lifted the lid like it might explode — then his hand flew to his mouth.
Inside: a suit.
Midoriya Green, All Might gold accents — but redesigned. Sleeker. Grounded. Grown.
It wasn’t a copy.
It was a future.
Izuku’s voice cracked. “Kacchan… this is—”
“Yours,” Katsuki cut in, quiet but firm. “If you want it.”
Izuku looked up, eyes glassy. “Does this mean—?”
“It means,” Katsuki said, jaw tight like the words were too vulnerable to let loose without control, “I want you back out there with me.”
Izuku inhaled sharply.
Katsuki stepped closer — not looming, just real and impossibly gentle for him.
“I want you by my side again. In the field. In the damn sky if you feel like flyin’ that day.”
His voice dropped, raw.
“And I wanna see you shine the way you used to. Smilin’ like the world can’t crush you ’cause you’re already holdin’ it up.”
Izuku made a shaky sound — half-laugh, half-sob.
“You were always meant to protect this city,” Katsuki continued, quieter. “And— hell— maybe I was meant to protect you while you did.”
Silence, warm and full and trembling.
Izuku’s fingers brushed the suit fabric like it was sacred.
Then he looked at Katsuki like he was.
“Kacchan… why now?”
Katsuki didn’t flinch this time.
“’Cause I’m done runnin’ from somethin’ that never stopped chasin’ me.”
A breath.
“And ’cause you never stopped bein’ the only one.”
Izuku’s heart stuttered visibly. “Kacchan—”
Katsuki leaned in — slow, giving space to pull away.
Izuku didn’t.
Their foreheads touched first.
Then breath.
Then the smallest shift and—
Soft.
Not desperate. Not rushed.
A kiss like recognition.
Like coming home to something that waited quietly and faithfully.
Izuku’s hand lifted to Katsuki’s collar — gentle, grounding — and Katsuki kissed him again, deeper, like he finally exhaled after years of holding something in his chest too tight.
They broke only when breathing became a thing again.
Izuku’s voice trembled. “Kacchan…”
Katsuki brushed his thumb over Izuku’s cheekbone, eyes steady.
“You’re it for me, Izuku. Been it since before I was smart enough to know.”
A smirk, soft and real.
“I don’t give a damn about anyone else. Never have. Never will.”
His tone dipped — honest, reverent.
“You’re the only one I ever saw. And the only one I ever will.”
Izuku’s breath shook — then he laughed, unsteady and bright and full of that teenage spark Katsuki swore he’d chase forever.
“Tomorrow?” Izuku whispered, teasing and hopeful at once.
Katsuki’s answer was immediate and certain, thumb still against his skin like he’d earned the right to hold him there.
“Every tomorrow.”