Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Marry me.”

Midoriya Izuku blinked. Slowly.

He was sitting on the floor with his math notebook open, halfway through peeling a Pikachu sticker off the cover because it was crooked and bothering him. There were snack crumbs on the carpet and his socks didn’t match. Sunlight spilled in through the living room window and caught in the curls at the top of his head.

He looked up.

“…Huh?”

Katsuki stood dead center in front of him like a little storm cloud coming to rain on his content parade. His fists were clenched tight, nails biting into his palms. His cheeks were lit up bright red — not embarrassed red. Angry red. Katsuki didn’t do embarrassed. Not officially.

“I said marry me,” he repeated, like Izuku was the dumb one for needing to hear it again.

Izuku just blinked at him some more, the sticker dangling off the notebook now. “Kacchan. You’re six.”

Katsuki crossed his arms. “So?”

“I’m eleven.”

“And?” Katsuki snapped, staring him down like this was somehow Izuku’s fault.

There was a long pause. Izuku tilted his head.

“Nhh…Is this because I gave you the last jelly cup?”

Katsuki’s entire face scrunched up like Izuku had just stepped on something sacred. “No, dumbass! That’s not—ugh! You don’t get it!”

He stomped his foot, which would’ve been more dramatic if his socks didn’t squeak on the hardwood. Then he dropped down onto the floor right next to Izuku, legs straight out, face all twisted like he was chewing on a lemon.

“I decided already,” he mumbled, arms folded so tight his shoulders nearly touched. “You’re gonna be a hero. I’m gonna be a hero. Heroes can marry each other. That’s a rule now.”

Izuku stared at him.

He wasn’t smiling exactly — not yet. But the corners of his mouth twitched. And his chest felt a little weird. Not in a bad way. Just in a warm way. Like being handed a cup of tea you didn’t ask for, but now you didn’t want to let go of.

He looked at Katsuki. Really looked. Not just the scowl or the messy blond hair or the fact that he’d nearly picked a fight with a second grader earlier over who got to be “All Might” during recess. But the way his knees were pulled in, how his voice got quiet at the end, like maybe this had taken more out of him than he meant to show.

Katsuki didn’t meet his eyes.

“You’ll wait,” he said, like it was that simple. “I’m gonna get older. And you’ll wait.”

Izuku swallowed.

And then, just because something in his chest told him it mattered:

“Okay,” he said.

Katsuki’s head whipped toward him like a shot.

“…Wait—what?”

Izuku shrugged, soft but sure. “If you still want to when we’re older, and if we’re both heroes, and if you stop calling me ‘nerd’ and ‘Deku’ and start using my name.”

Katsuki made a face like he’d just been sentenced to death. He looked away.

“…Izuku,” he muttered.

Izuku blinked again, for a completely different reason this time.

“What?”

“I said it. Your dumb name. Don’t make me do it again.”

Izuku broke into the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped even if he tried. 

They didn’t say much else after that.

Just sat there, two kids in socks, on a living room floor with the smell of dinner starting to drift in from the kitchen. Katsuki didn’t explode. Izuku didn’t tease. The silence between them didn’t feel heavy or awkward. It just… was.

And that, somehow, made it feel important.

The Pikachu sticker was still on the notebook — faded now, corners curling, smudged with graphite fingerprints and maybe a bit of curry.

Izuku didn’t try to fix it anymore. It had become part of the notebook’s personality, like the little scribbled hero logos in the margins or the fold in the back cover from where Katsuki sat on it once, pretending he hadn’t.

It had been months since that day in the living room. Since the “marry me.” Since the quiet, weird little moment that neither of them ever really brought up again.

Not out loud, anyway.

Now it was autumn. The leaves in the yard had started turning gold and crunchy, and the air smelled sharp and dry, like chalk dust and wind. Izuku’s voice had started changing a little — not a lot, but enough that Katsuki noticed. He wasn’t taller by much, but he was stronger. And busier, too — always with his notebooks, or training, or chasing after older boys with big quirks and bigger dreams.

Katsuki didn’t say it, but sometimes it made his chest ache.

They were in Izuku’s room this time. The floor was littered with sketch pages and open textbooks, and the desk lamp buzzed softly with a warm yellow light. Katsuki sat cross-legged on the rug, one cheek squished against the carpet. He’d been pretending to nap, but really he was just listening.

Izuku was muttering to himself while scribbling in a notebook — half sentences, power stats, quirk analysis terms Katsuki didn’t even pretend to care about.

“Hey,” Katsuki said, suddenly.

Izuku stopped mid-sentence. “Huh?”

Katsuki rolled onto his back, arms folded behind his head. “You’re not gonna be one of those jerks, right?”

Izuku blinked. “What jerks?”

“The ones who get famous and then turn boring.”

He smiled a little. “I don’t think I’m anywhere near famous.”

Katsuki shrugged, not looking at him. “Still. You better not forget stuff.”

Izuku’s smile softened. He reached over and ruffled Katsuki’s hair. He swatted it off. (I’m not a kid dont treat me like one!) “I won’t.”

“Like that sticker,” Katsuki added, still not looking at him.

Izuku glanced at the notebook by his bed. The sticker was a little ghost of what it had been — yellow faded to pale gold, black eyes rubbed soft gray.

“Yeah,” Izuku said quietly. “Still sticks.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. Ugh, nerd, but he didn’t push it.

Outside the window, the wind rustled through the leaves. Someone in the neighborhood was raking. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then again.

They stayed like that — quiet, close, not really needing words. Izuku went back to his notes. Katsuki let his eyes drift half-shut.

It was different now — not new, just growing. A little older. A little quieter. Still them.

And underneath everything, Katsuki could still hear it:

You said okay.

His cheeks flushed again.

Chapter Text

Katsuki hadn’t seen him in weeks.

Izuku wasn’t around like he used to be — not after his internship started, not with his school hero work pulling him across the city. It wasn’t like he disappeared. Just… shifted. Moved further into the future that Katsuki was still trying to reach.

It pissed him off more than he’d ever admit.

He still texted him sometimes.

Katsuki walked home alone now. They used to walk together — not every day, but enough that his feet remembered where Izuku would stop to tie his shoes, where he’d slow down to talk about some new hero stat. Now the sidewalk felt too wide. Too quiet.

The notebook was still in his room, though. The one with the stupid sticker.

Katsuki had found it the other day when he was cleaning out his closet — crumpled pages, messy notes, that dumb Pikachu still stuck to the corner like it had something to prove. He didn’t throw it away. Just shoved it back under the bed.

Like maybe he’d need it later.

He didn’t know what that meant.

Sometimes his mom asked if he’d heard from “that green-haired nerd.” Sometimes he said no. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all.

He’d catch glimpses of Izuku on TV now, once in a while. Not in action, not yet — just in the background of news clips, smiling too wide, standing too tall in that dumb high school uniform that made him look like a real hero already.

It made Katsuki’s teeth grind.

He was still in middle school. Still surrounded by kids who didn’t know what it meant to mean something. And it made him feel small.

Smaller than he ever wanted to be.

And deep down — where he’d never say it out loud — it made him wonder if Izuku remembered.

If he still meant it.

If he still would.

His phone buzzed against the desk.

Katsuki didn’t look at it right away. He was mid-sulk, arms folded, head half-buried in his hoodie. Homework sat untouched beside him. So did an open packet of senbei his mom bought that morning — stale already. He’d ignored three group chats, and whatever the hell his teacher was assigning online.

Then it buzzed again.
And something in him flinched.

He glanced over.

Midoriya Izuku
1 new message

Katsuki stared at the name for a second. His stomach twisted.

He hated that he had to blink a couple times before opening it.

IZUKU: hey kacchan
you still alive?

Katsuki’s fingers hovered over the screen. His chest felt weird — tight, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks and forgot how to let it out. He could see Izuku’s typing bubble start, stop, start again.

IZUKU: sorry
been crazy busy
didn’t mean to disappear

He scowled.

Of course he didn’t.
Of course he was busy.
He was always busy now.

Katsuki could already feel the anger creeping in. It made his hands hot. Made his jaw lock.

But under that — way under — was something else. Something stupid. Something hopeful.

He stared at the keyboard, not typing. For once, his fingers didn’t know what to say first: Where the hell have you been?, I don’t care, Don’t text me out of nowhere like that, I thought you forgot.

And then the third buzz came.

IZUKU: i saw this kid on the train today
reminded me of you
he was yelling at pigeons
made me laugh

Katsuki made a strangled sound — half-choke, half-scoff — and buried his face in his hoodie again.

What a dumb text.
What a stupid, annoying, Izuku thing to say.

He read it five times.

Then he typed, fingers moving before his brain caught up:

KATSUKI: bet he was cooler than you
did he have friends too?

Read. Typing…

IZUKU: ouch. how mean kacchan!
you still suck

KATSUKI: good

And that was it.

The ache in his chest didn’t go away, exactly.
But it felt… looser.
Like maybe — just maybe — he hadn’t been forgotten after all.

Stupid Deku.

Katsuki didn’t text back again.

Not that night, anyway.

He stared at his phone until the screen dimmed, then clicked it off and dropped it on the floor next to his bed. He didn’t feel like doing anything after that — not homework, not brushing his teeth, not eating the cold senbei on his desk. He just laid there in the quiet, hood pulled up over his eyes, arm flopped across his stomach.

It was stupid, how warm his chest felt. Over a few lines of dumb messages and a pigeon story. Like a match got lit and wouldn’t go out.

He fell asleep without meaning to.

The next day started like trash.

His alarm didn’t go off — or maybe it did and he’d punched it into silence. He missed breakfast, stepped in a puddle, and had to sprint the last block to school because the crossing guard was taking her sweet time. He didn’t even yell at her. Surprisingly.

By the time he got to class, his pants were wet, his shoes squeaked, and he had exactly zero patience left.

“Someone woke up angry,” said one of the guys in his class, stupidly.

Katsuki shot him a glare so sharp it nearly peeled paint off the wall.

He dropped into his seat, threw his bag on the desk, and slammed open his textbook like it owed him money. But even as he was pretending to care about whatever page they were on, his phone buzzed again in his pocket.

He didn’t check it.

Not right away.

But all day, it was like the vibration was still echoing in his leg, crawling under his skin.

Lunch came. He ignored everyone. Ate too fast. Bit the inside of his cheek and swore so loudly a teacher passing by knocked on the window.

And finally, walking home, his fingers twitched for it.

Sidewalk cracked under his shoes. Wind whipped up leaves in sharp, loud circles. It smelled like someone was burning something two blocks away — probably trash.

He pulled out his phone.

1 New Message — Midoriya Izuku

He swiped it open with his thumb.

IZUKU: i might have a patrol shift near your neighborhood next weekend
if you’re free
maybe we can hang? ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)σ"

Katsuki stopped walking.

Just stopped in the middle of the sidewalk while a group of kids on bikes swerved around him.

He stared at the screen like it was in another language.

The word "hang" was so casual. Like they hadn’t drifted apart for months. Like they still saw each other every week. Like it didn’t still sting a little, every time someone said Deku on the news and he looked up too fast.

He didn’t reply right away.

He kept walking, phone in hand, like maybe if he moved his feet, the answer would come with it.

Hang.

What did that even mean anymore?

Chapter Text

Katsuki kicked a rock down the sidewalk.

It bounced twice, then clattered into a gutter and disappeared, just like the words he kept not sending.

The message sat open in his pocket. Still unread. Still staring at him every time he flipped his phone over and didn’t type a damn thing.

What the hell was he supposed to say?

“Yeah, let’s hang, like nothing changed”?

“Sure, pretend you didn’t forget I existed for three months”?

Or maybe just, “I missed you.”

No. Hell no. Not that.

He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the wind. The sun was going down behind the rooftops, setting everything on fire — all orange and gold and too much like a movie. Katsuki hated it. Felt like the whole sky was mocking him.

He turned left instead of going straight. Took the long way home.

His feet knew where they were going before his brain caught up.

Past the vending machines where Izuku used to try every weird soda combo just to take notes. Past the corner where they once argued about who would win in a fight — All Might or thirteen pigeons with a grudge. Past the little wall outside the park where Katsuki once let Izuku sit beside him without saying a word, back when saying nothing said enough.

His shoes scraped the gravel as he walked toward the swings.

He didn’t sit. Just stared at them.

One creaked in the breeze, empty. Moving like someone invisible was still there.

Katsuki hated metaphors. Hated how stupidly poetic they made him feel.

He pulled out his phone again. Thumb hovered. Jaw tight.

And finally — finally — he typed.

KATSUKI:
idk
guess i got time
don’t be late

He hit send before he could take it back.

It delivered. Read.
Then nothing.
No reply.

Katsuki snorted under his breath. “Figures.”

He shoved the phone in his pocket and turned around. Started walking.

Didn’t get ten steps before the buzz hit.

He didn’t even look. Not at first. He just… smiled. The kind no one ever saw. The kind that only lasted half a second before he shoved it down like always.

By the time he checked it, the sky was darker, and the streetlights had blinked on.

IZUKU:
wouldn’t dream of it
can i bring snacks?
unless you’re still a senbei snob

KATSUKI:
you bring wasabi flavor again and i’m throwing them at your head

IZUKU:
so yes then
cool
looking forward to it
:)

Katsuki stared at that stupid little smiley face.

And even though it was small — even though nothing was fixed, and they hadn’t talked about any of the stuff that sat like wet cement between them — he felt lighter.

Just a little.

Just enough.

He didn’t know where he was heading, really. His feet just kept moving, pulling him past the same streets he’d walked a hundred times before. But it felt different now.

Because he was coming back.

Izuku — Deku, dumb nerd, whatever — had actually answered.

After weeks, months, of silence. After disappearing into that Pro Hero life like he’d been swallowed whole. Katsuki had half-convinced himself he’d never hear from him again. That maybe Izuku had finally let go of the kid still stuck behind him, trying to catch up.

And now he was coming back. Meeting up. Like it hadn’t been months. Like they weren’t living in two completely different worlds.

Katsuki kicked at the pavement hard enough to sting his toe. His hand curled tighter in his hoodie pocket.

Fourteen felt old sometimes. Too old for middle school. Too young for… whatever this was. This weird space where his name was still on rosters and homework sheets, but his thoughts were already on U.A., already out there fighting people he hadn’t met, trying to become someone who mattered.

Izuku already mattered.

Nineteen. Pro Hero. Out there saving people for real while Katsuki was still stuck writing essays on quirk law and watching old battle footage after dinner.

Still stuck being the one left behind.

He turned down a side street before he could stop himself — past the bus stop where they used to meet on weekends, back when Izuku would wave like an idiot every time he saw him coming, even if they were the only ones there.

Everything felt smaller now. Even this street. Like it had shrunk while Izuku was gone.

Katsuki didn’t stop until he reached the old building behind the station — the one with the rusted ladder and no door to the roof, just a fire escape they used to sneak up together.

They hadn’t been up there in over a year. Not since Izuku started his internship. Not since everything started to shift and stretch and turn into something that felt harder to hold.

He climbed anyway.

Slower than before. Taller now. Different.

When he reached the top, the city stretched out in front of him, glowing orange and blue in the fading light. He sat, legs dangling over the edge like he used to, and let the wind tangle through his hair.

He stayed like that for a while. Let it all settle in. The quiet. The ache.

Then, without thinking too hard, he muttered, “I missed you, dumbass.”

Just once. Just to the sky.

And like fate had been listening, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

IZUKU:
still remember the rooftop
can i come early?
or is that weird now
i don’t wanna make it weird

Katsuki rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. Idiot was still the same. Hero or not.

He typed back, quick.

KATSUKI:
u said next weekend?
get here before me and i’m pushing you off the ledge

There was a pause.

Then his screen lit up again.

IZUKU:
mm yea but im coming back to Musutafu since its friday!ᕕ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )ᕗ
classic kacchan
see you soon

Katsuki didn’t smile.

But his chest felt a little less heavy.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket, stood up, and looked out at the skyline.

Just a few more months.

He’d get into U.A.

He’d catch up.

And maybe — maybe when he did — they wouldn’t feel like strangers anymore.

Chapter Text

The rooftop had gotten colder.

Katsuki didn’t notice it at first, not with his arms tucked around his knees and the sky bleeding color in slow motion. But once the sun dipped below the buildings, the wind picked up and reminded him the world hadn’t stopped just because he was stuck here waiting.

Waiting.

He didn’t call it that, but it was what it was.

He was about to leave. He’d decided, like, three times already. But every time he shifted to stand, something in his chest told him to wait just five more minutes.

That’s when he heard it — the faint, familiar creak of the ladder.

His breath caught, just for a second.

He didn’t turn around. Not yet.

A foot hit the ledge behind him, careful and quiet. Then another. Metal groaned as someone swung themselves up onto the roof like they’d done it a hundred times before.

And then — finally — that voice.

“Hey.”

Katsuki didn’t move. “Took you long enough.”

Izuku came up beside him, hair tousled from the climb and the wind. He looked almost the same as always, except… not. Taller, sure. A little bigger. Voice deeper, And he carried himself like someone who knew people were watching — even up here, alone.

He crouched near Katsuki’s side, hesitating just a second before sitting down.

“I ran. Got caught by some fans outside the station.” He pulled a bag out of his backpack and set it between them. “Peace offering.”

Katsuki glanced at it. “You bring the wasabi ones again?”

Izuku smiled like he was relieved Katsuki had said anything at all. “Only if you want me to suffer.”

“Tch.”

They sat in silence, the plastic crinkle of snack bags the only sound between them for a while. Izuku leaned back on his hands, staring out at the lights of the city. Katsuki watched him from the side — the shape of his nose, the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders didn’t quite fit that hoodie anymore.

He hated that he’d noticed that. Hated more that he cared.

Izuku tilted his head, eyes still on the skyline. “This place feels smaller than I remembered.”

“That’s ‘cause you grew, nerd.”

Izuku chuckled, soft. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Another beat passed.

Then: “I missed it.”

Katsuki looked at him. “This place?”

Izuku’s mouth tugged into a half-smile. “You.”

The words hit like a gut punch. Not because they were dramatic — they weren’t. Izuku said them like they were just… true.

And Katsuki didn’t have the armor for that tonight.

He stood abruptly. “You should go.”

Izuku blinked. “Wha—Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” Katsuki shoved his hands in his pockets, jaw clenched. “I just… got stuff to do.”

Izuku stood, slower. “Kacchan—”

“Don’t.”

Izuku stopped.

The wind picked up again, biting at the back of Katsuki’s neck. He turned away, not looking at him. Couldn’t.

“You can’t just show up like this,” Katsuki said, voice low. “After three months. Like nothing happened.”

“I didn’t think I’d be gone that long—”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

Silence.

Katsuki let the words hang there, sharp and ugly. He hated how tight his chest felt. Hated even more how quiet Izuku was being.

“I thought—” Katsuki swallowed. “I thought you forgot about me.”

Izuku stepped forward. Just once. Close, but not touching.

“I didn’t.”

Katsuki’s fists clenched. “You didn’t text. You didn’t show up. Not even once.”

“I didn’t know if you’d want me to.”

“Of course I—” Katsuki stopped himself. Bit down hard on the rest.

He hated this. Hated how much he wanted something from Izuku, even now.

Izuku’s voice dropped. “I didn’t want to be a reminder of how far ahead I am.”

Katsuki flinched. Not because it wasn’t true — but because it was.

Izuku rubbed the back of his neck. “I know I’m not the same anymore. I just… I wanted to come back. I wanted to see you. Even if it was stupid. Even if you didn’t want me here.”

Katsuki finally turned to face him.

“I do want you here,” he said, low. “I just don’t know what to do with you anymore.”

Izuku’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s the problem.”

And for once, Izuku didn’t have an answer. He just nodded.

Katsuki looked down at the snack bag between them, then up at Izuku’s dumb, tired, honest face.

“…You’re staying a while this time?”

Izuku blinked. “Yeah. At least a few weeks. I took a break.”

Katsuki kicked at a loose pebble near his foot. “…Then maybe we start over.”

Izuku raised a brow. “Start over?”

Katsuki didn’t look at him when he said it.

“Just… show up. Like you used to. Even if I yell at you.”

Izuku’s smile broke through slowly. “You always yell at me.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

But his voice wasn’t sharp this time.

They stood there, rooftop lights buzzing faintly, wind rustling through the wires and vents. Two people who hadn’t figured it all out yet — but for the first time in months, they weren’t pretending nothing was broken.

And that felt like something.

He, Izuku, stayed sitting on that rooftop, just a few feet away, knees drawn up like he used to when they were both shorter and the world was simpler.

Except it wasn’t simple anymore.

Not when Izuku was nineteen, fresh off a Provisional License and part-time patrols, and Katsuki was still stuck in his third year of middle school — one foot in kid, one in something else he hadn’t figured out yet.

Katsuki didn’t look at him. Just stared out at the skyline, sharp-eyed, like the city had answers he couldn’t ask for.

“I didn’t know if I should come back,” Izuku said, voice quiet but not soft, breaking the silence. “Not after disappearing like that.”

Katsuki’s mouth twisted. “Then why’d you bother?”

“I guess…” Izuku exhaled. “Because I missed you. Even if I thought maybe I didn’t deserve to anymore.”

Katsuki didn’t respond right away. His fingers were tight around the hem of his hoodie, knuckles going pale.

“Three months, Deku.” His voice was low. “You were gone for three months. That’s a whole semester for me. I kept thinking—maybe I said something. Maybe I pissed you off and you just didn’t say.”

Izuku’s chest ached. “You didn’t. I swear. I just… let time get away from me. Patrols, reports, school stuff. You were always on my mind, I just didn’t reach out. And I know that’s not enough.”

Katsuki snorted bitterly. “You think?”

“I messed up. I know I did.”

Silence.

Katsuki finally turned to look at him. Not the full scowl Izuku had braced for — just something sharper. Sadder.

“I’m not like you,” Katsuki muttered. “I don’t have a license. I don’t have teachers telling me I’m ready. I’m still trying to get there. You think it doesn’t matter, but it does.”

“I never said it didn’t.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Izuku didn’t flinch. He just let Katsuki talk.

“Everyone keeps saying I’ll make it. I have to make it. And I will,” he snapped. “But while you’re out there being a hero, I’m still in a uniform, writing mock battle plans in science class.”

Izuku stayed quiet for a moment. Then: “You’ve always wanted it. I never doubted that.”

Katsuki looked away.

Izuku shifted slightly, drawing his knees up to his chest again. “Back when I was in middle school, I used to watch you train. I told myself that if I worked hard enough, maybe I’d catch up to you.”

Katsuki glanced at him sideways.

“I never did, really,” Izuku said, smiling a little. “But you didn’t make me feel like I had to. Not once.”

Katsuki’s throat felt tight. He hated that.

“I thought you forgot about me,” he muttered.

“I didn’t.”

“You sure?”

Izuku nodded. “I thought about texting a hundred times. But the longer I waited, the harder it got. Like… if I messaged out of nowhere, maybe you wouldn’t want to hear from me.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t heat behind it. “Idiot.”

“Yeah.”

More silence. But this one didn’t choke them like the last few did.

The wind blew dust across the rooftop. One of the nearby vents rattled loose.

Katsuki shifted his weight, then grumbled, “If you’re gonna stay, pass the damn snacks.”

Izuku grinned — not the hero smile. The one from before. The one Katsuki remembered from summers and scraped knees and stupid plans.

He slid the bag over. 

They ate in silence. The sky had gone dark, but neither of them moved to leave.

After a while, Izuku glanced at him. “Did you already apply to UA?”

Katsuki raised an eyebrow.

“Nhh! I mean—I remember you talking about it?” Izuku said, trying to sound casual but clearly curious.

Katsuki smirked. “Obviously. You think I’d settle for less?”

Izuku laughed softly. “I know you. Just making sure.”

“I turned in my application two weeks ago.” Katsuki crossed his arms, leaning back on his palms, the city lights painting his face in shades of orange and gold. 

Izuku’s eyes lit up with genuine pride. “That’s amazing, Kacchan.”

Katsuki shrugged, cool as ever. “I’m not here to just get in. I’m going to own it.”

Izuku nodded, impressed. “I don’t doubt it. You’ve been training since you were a kid.”

“Since I was seven,” Katsuki corrected, eyes sharp. “And I’m not stopping now.”

“Good,” Izuku said, smiling wide. “Because UA’s going to need someone like you.”

Katsuki glanced sideways, a hint of a challenge in his gaze. “Don’t get all sentimental on me.”

Izuku chuckled. “No promises.”

The wind shifted, bringing the distant hum of the city below. Katsuki’s jaw tightened, and he looked up at the darkening sky.

“You’re going to graduate before I get there,” he said, voice steady. “I won’t be able to beat your ass.”

Izuku’s smile never wavered. “I’m always allowed to come back. They always do alumni training with students and those who previously graduated!”

Katsuki shot him a quick look. “Really?”

Izuku grinned. “Yeah Kacchan.”

They sat side by side, the weight of unspoken words settling comfortably between them.

Izuku pulled out a small, worn notebook from his bag, flipping it open carefully. “I was going through some of my old notes the other day. You’re all over these pages.”

Katsuki’s brow furrowed. “What kind of notes?”

“Analysis on fighting styles, strategies — you were my benchmark.”

Katsuki snorted. “Glad I could help.”

Izuku laughed. “You helped more than you know.”

They shared a quiet moment, the kind that only happens when the past and future settle side by side.

“I’ll be at your mock trials.” Izuku said suddenly. “If visitors are allowed.”

Katsuki met his gaze, steady and sure. “Don’t get in my way.”

Izuku smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

For the first time in a long while, Katsuki didn’t feel like he had to prove anything to anyone — because Izuku was here, believing in him.

And that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

The second Katsuki stepped through the U.A. gates, it hit him — this was real.

Not a practice course. Not some half-assed city track he’d run a hundred times. This was the U.A. — and the examiners didn’t care that his backpack was three years old or that his palms were already starting to sweat.

He clenched his fists anyway, forcing his nerves down like bile.

Focus.

Eyes up. Shoulders square. That’s what he told himself as he moved through the crowd of examinees, some chattering, others pacing. No one said a word to him — probably because he was scowling hard enough to make them reconsider.

Good. He didn’t come here to make friends.

He came here to win.

Still, his gaze scanned the crowd, sharp and automatic.

No Izuku.

He hadn’t expected him to be here, not really. Pro Heroes didn’t just drop in on the entrance exam unless they were assigned — and Izuku had said he’d “try,” whatever the hell that meant.

Katsuki clicked his tongue and refocused.

He didn’t need Deku babysitting him. He was here to prove something.

To everyone.

Especially to himself.

“Entrance exam applicants, please report to your designated testing blocks.”

A robotic voice echoed through the courtyard. Students surged toward the testing gates. Katsuki’s group was headed to Block B.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t need to. Every step he took was measured, deliberate, like the ground itself was waiting for him to give the signal.

As he reached the gate, a small drone hovered overhead, its red light blinking.

“Testing will begin in five minutes. You may stretch or prepare.”

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers. Sweat prickled the back of his neck.

A few examinees nearby were muttering.

“There’s no countdown?”

“I thought we were getting instructions…”

Katsuki grinned, low and sharp.

“Bunch of extras.”

“Excuse me?”

A girl near him frowned, clearly offended. Her hair was done in a bob, her cheeks pink as hell. She looked him up and down like she didn’t expect someone to sound so sure.

Katsuki didn’t blink.

“If you’re waitin’ for someone to hold your hand, you already lost.”

The girl blinked. Then glared. “You’re rude.”

Katsuki grinned wider. “And you’re slow.”

The air shifted — the ground vibrated faintly.

BOOM.

The gate exploded open, and giant robot sentries stormed the mock city, metal limbs crashing against pavement.

The voice overhead boomed: “What are you guys waiting for?! There’s no real countdowns in real life! That guy has the right idea. Go! Go! GOOO!”

Everyone started running. Katsuki already ahead of the game.

One step, two — then he leapt forward with a blast from his palm, propelling himself through the broken gate and into the fray.

Sparks crackled from his hands as he twisted midair, landing clean on a rooftop. He didn’t hesitate — eyes locked on the nearest robot, a three-pointer, barreling through the narrow streets.

Target acquired.

He dropped straight down, boots slamming into the metal shell before it could pivot. The impact echoed, and before it could recover, he drove a blast into its core.

BOOM!

Shrapnel flew. Smoke puffed around him.

Katsuki straightened, eyes fierce, lip curling.

“Let’s fucking go.”

From above, in a concealed observation room lined with reinforced glass, a handful of Pro Heroes watched the footage unfold in real time.

Most were silent, scribbling notes.

One of them leaned a little closer.

“Midoriya,” someone said, Aizawa said.

Izuku didn’t respond right away.

He was standing near the monitor, arms crossed, fingers tapping against his sleeve — eyes locked onto a single screen.

The one that showed Katsuki.

He looked like he was trying not to smile.

“You requested observation access for this block, right?” He asked, flipping through a tablet. “Personal connection?”

Izuku’s voice was even. “Something like that.”

On screen, Katsuki slammed into another robot, gritting his teeth as sparks flew. His stance was textbook. Controlled aggression. Fluid power.

Izuku’s chest burned a little.

Not with jealousy — not anymore.

It was something else. Something softer. Warmer. Pride, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

Another hero elbowed him gently. “Kid’s good.”

“Yeah,” Izuku said, quiet. “He is.”

The feed crackled, camera shifting angles again.

Izuku leaned forward just slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Watch him,” he muttered.

Aizawa blinked. “What?”

“He’s not just hitting hard. He’s thinking.”

Because Katsuki wasn’t just blowing up the nearest bot anymore — he was predicting movement, tracking patterns, adjusting angles. He didn’t waste time, didn’t overextend.

Izuku’s lips curled.

He knew that rhythm. He remembered it.

Like watching a fire catch in all the places you thought were soaked through.

And yet, even knowing what Katsuki could do — it still took his breath away.

Katsuki ducked beneath a mechanical claw, dragging his hand across the ground before propelling himself sideways with a sharp blast.

Four more bots down. One cracked shoulder. Three minutes left.

He didn’t slow.

“Come on, come on—” he growled under his breath.

His legs were screaming. His palm ached. But he kept going.

Until—

The ground trembled. Hard.

A shadow fell over him, massive and fast.

Katsuki’s head whipped up — just in time to see a Zero Pointer tearing down the main street, mechanical arms dragging through buildings like paper.

He braced.

But he wasn’t the target.

The robot passed right by him, charging toward another part of the field.

Katsuki’s brows furrowed — just as a scream cut through the air.

He moved.

Didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

One of the other examinees — the girl with the pink cheeks — was trapped beneath a collapsed beam, eyes wide with panic as the Zero Pointer loomed.

She was gonna die.

Katsuki cursed under his breath and ran.

(Just like Izuku once had.)

Izuku saw it the second Katsuki changed direction.

The second he pivoted.

The second he chose someone else over the scoreboard.

“…Don’t do it,” he whispered.

But he already knew.

Katsuki was already moving.

He couldn’t look away.

Not now.

Not when it was all coming full circle.

Katsuki planted his foot, clenched both fists, and charged.

Every muscle in his body screamed. His left arm wouldn’t lift right. But he channeled everything he had — pain, heat, terror, anger — into one last explosion.

He leapt.

And fired it directly into the bot’s main sensor.

The blast was instant.

The light in the Zero Pointer’s eye flickered, and the whole thing shuddered, joints groaning like metal in a thunderstorm — and collapsed.

Katsuki barely got clear, skidding across the pavement, coughing smoke.

Then silence.

And the buzzer.

“EXAM TERMINATED. PLEASE REMAIN STILL FOR SCORE COLLECTION.”

Katsuki just lay there, one arm slung over his eyes, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.

“Fuck.” He croaked.

He couldn’t feel his legs.

But he smiled anyway.

Izuku was already gone.

Didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t wait for the other Heroes. He heard a faint “Midoriya!” from the distance, probably Aizawa.

He kept running.

He was in the observation room one minute, and vaulting down to the city grounds the next.

He didn’t even care if he was breaking protocol.

He just ran.

Dodged scorched debris, leapt over crumbled stairwells — looked for him.

And there he was.

Half-conscious. Burned up. Still grinning like a lunatic.

Izuku’s heart cracked clean open.

“Kacchan!”

Katsuki’s head lolled toward the voice. His eyes fluttered.

“…Deku?”

Izuku was beside him in an instant, crouching low, checking his breathing, already unstrapping his med kit.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You’re hurt. You need—”

“You saw that, right?” Katsuki slurred, eyelids heavy. “That dumbass girl was gonna get herself squashed—”

“I know. I saw. Kacchan, just—just breathe, okay?”

But Katsuki only huffed a laugh.

“Did I pass?”

Izuku blinked, throat tightening.

He reached down, gripped Katsuki’s hand tight.

“You passed,” he whispered. “You more than passed.”

“…Told you I would,” Katsuki muttered.

Then he passed out.

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and scorched cloth.

Izuku stepped in quietly, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Katsuki was sitting upright, kind of. Bandages wrapped around one shoulder, his dominant arm in a sling, a neat line of medical tape tracing the edge of his cheek. He looked like hell — and still somehow managed to look pissed about being stuck in bed.

Typical.

Izuku hovered at the door.

Katsuki glanced at him, expression unreadable.

“I’m not dying, Deku,” he muttered.

Izuku exhaled. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Silence stretched between them for a second.

Then Katsuki jerked his chin toward the chair by the bed. “Well? You standing there all night?”

Izuku moved without thinking.

The second he sat, Katsuki’s eyes flicked to him. A beat of silence. Then—

“…They say how I did?”

Izuku blinked. “You—wait, seriously? That’s what you’re asking?”

Katsuki’s scowl deepened. “If I broke my arm saving some nobody for nothing, I’m gonna riot.”

Izuku’s mouth twitched. He couldn’t help it.

“You scored one of the highest rescue points of the whole exam.”

Katsuki’s brows shot up.

“…No extra credit for blowing the thing’s face in?”

Izuku shook his head, but smiled. “Guess that part was expected.”

Katsuki snorted.

Izuku hesitated, then reached into his jacket pocket.

“I… wasn’t supposed to bring this yet.” He held up a sealed envelope — the kind with the official U.A. seal stamped dead center. “But I pulled a few strings.”

Katsuki stared at it.

Then up at Izuku.

“You serious?”

Izuku nodded.

Katsuki didn’t take it right away. Just stared like it might catch fire in his hands.

“You wanna open it?” Izuku asked gently.

“…Dumb question.”

He reached out with his good hand and tore it open with his teeth.

The hologram lit the room in soft blue.

Then All Might’s voice boomed out of thin air.

Katsuki startled so hard he almost fell off the bed.

“—CONGRATULATIONS, YOUNG BAKUGO!”

Katsuki gaped.

Izuku covered a laugh with his hand.

“Based on your performance in the Entrance Exam — not only combat, but your heroic instinct and willingness to act — we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into U.A. High School’s Hero Course!”

Katsuki’s mouth parted. He blinked at the hologram like it had just announced his own funeral.

“Please note,” All Might continued, “that your rescue points were among the highest we’ve seen in recent years. Remember — being a Hero is not just about strength. It’s about protecting others, even at great personal cost.”

The hologram flickered.

Then vanished.

Silence.

Izuku stared at him, waiting for it to hit.

Katsuki blinked once.

Twice.

Then said, very quietly:

“…Holy shit.”

Izuku smiled.

“You did it, Kacchan.”

Katsuki leaned back against the pillows, hand still loosely clutching the envelope like it might disappear.

He didn’t say anything at first.

But after a few long seconds, he looked over.

“You’re not crying, are you?”

Izuku blinked fast. “I’m—no. Shut up.”

“You’re totally crying.”

“Shut up.”

Katsuki smirked.

A real one this time. Tired, and a little cracked around the edges, but real.

“I told you I’d make it.”

Izuku nodded. “You did.”

A pause.

“...I’m proud of you, Kacchan.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

Didn’t scoff. Didn’t bite.

He just let the words hang there, quiet and whole.

Outside the room, a tall figure stepped back from the door.

His smile was quieter now. A little less dramatic. A little more human.

All Might tucked the brim of his cap lower and turned down the hall, unnoticed.

There’d be time for introductions later.

For now… he’d let these two have their moment.

Chapter Text

First Week at U.A.

Katsuki didn’t believe in fate.

But when he stood in front of U.A. for the first time — backpack slung over one shoulder, sky glaring down on the building like it was challenging him — something in his chest said: This is where it all starts.

Not just for him. For them.

Even if Izuku wasn’t here.

Even if Katsuki hadn’t seen his stupid face in weeks after the hospital visit and his arm healed.

Even if things were still complicated and quiet in ways that made his stomach twist.

The promise still lived somewhere under his ribs, stubborn as hell. He was six when he said it.

“I’m gonna marry you, Deku.”

And he’d meant it.

He still did.

Even if it didn’t make sense. Even if it pissed him off now to think about how earnest he’d been.

He wasn’t here for anyone else. He was here to become the kind of person Izuku wouldn’t have to wait for anymore.

The class was loud.

He tuned most of them out the second he walked in. Too much chatter. Too many wide eyes, like they were surprised to even be here.

Katsuki knew exactly where he belonged.

He picked a seat in the front, dropped his bag, and let himself look — just once — at the empty desk behind that his brain stupidly wished Izuku would show up and fill.

He didn’t, of course. He wasn’t in this class. He wasn’t even here.

Still on patrol somewhere. Provisional license, sidekick work, making a name for himself while Katsuki was just starting the climb.

He looked away. It didn’t matter.

Katsuki had never followed. He chased. And then he passed.

They didn’t get an introduction.

No “congratulations.” No welcome tour. Just some sleep-deprived dude in a yellow sleeping bag and a Quirk Assessment Test ten minutes after arrival.

Katsuki liked him immediately.

When it was his turn to throw the softball, Aizawa called him out without looking up from his clipboard.

“Bakugou. You're up.”

Katsuki stepped forward.

The rest of the class watched with open curiosity — some smirking, some pretending not to care.

He didn’t care what any of them thought.

He wound back his arm, felt the ignition in his palms flicker to life, and threw.

A controlled blast rocketed the ball into the stratosphere. 705.2 meters. A satisfying, solid number.

Some kid with red hair whistled low. “Dude. That’s insane.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. He was already walking back to his spot.

Every test, he went harder.

He wasn’t here to show off.

He was here because he said he would be. Because even when he was fourteen and furious and didn't know what to do with how much he missed Izuku, he remembered what he said when they were kids.

He'd marry him.

But how the hell could he promise a future if he wasn’t worth standing next to?

Later, when they were dismissed for the day, he stayed behind in the locker room, sitting on the bench with his fingers tight around the straps of his bag.

He could still hear Izuku’s expression from that rooftop weeks ago.

“Just show up. Even if I yell at you.”

Katsuki clenched his jaw.

“Dumb nerd,” he muttered, and stood up.

He wasn’t going to send a text. Not yet.

But tomorrow — he'd be even better.

He’d keep showing up.

Even if Izuku wasn’t here to see it.

Yet.

By the time Katsuki showed up to class the next morning, he already knew three things:

1. His locker smelled like industrial floor wax.

2. Half the class still stared at him like he might explode.

3. He was dreaming about him again.

He hadn’t meant to. It wasn’t like that. It was stupid. Just a flicker of something from when they were small — that one afternoon in the rain, where Izuku slipped in the mud and Katsuki helped him up and called him a dumbass for crying even though he was older.

Except in the dream, Izuku didn’t get up.

He just looked at him, all wide eyes and water in his lashes and whispered, “You promised.”

Katsuki had jolted awake before he could answer.

Now, sitting in his desk, arms crossed, frown cemented to his face, he couldn’t stop hearing it.

You promised.

Aizawa didn’t waste time.

Hero Fundamentals, Rescue Theory, Movement Training — it was all back-to-back. No breathing room, no coddling, and Katsuki liked that. He liked the burn in his calves and the fire in his lungs.

What he didn’t like was the quiet that followed.

Because the second the noise died down — the second his body wasn’t too busy surviving to think — his brain wandered.

Back to the stupid rooftop. Back to the soft look in Izuku’s eyes when he said, “You don’t have to do anything.” Back to being six and eleven years old, hair full of dust, cheeks red, tugging on Izuku’s sleeve and saying it with a grin: “When I grow up, I’m gonna marry you, Deku!”

He remembered how Izuku smiled. Not even shy. Just… like it made perfect sense.

Back then, it had made sense.

Now, Katsuki didn’t even know what they were.

At lunch, he sat alone by choice.

There were seats near that red-haired kid — Kirishima — and the girl with the zero-gravity quirk and the pink cheeks he had saved. She waved at him once, like maybe she wasn’t scared of him yet.

But Katsuki didn’t want friends.

He wanted results.

He picked at his tray, eyes scanning the courtyard beyond the glass windows like maybe he’d see a mop of green curls pushing through the crowd.

He wouldn’t. Izuku wasn’t coming.

Still, he looked.

The gym after class was better.

He found a corner punching bag no one was using and took it out on the leather like it owed him something. Jab, cross, explode, reset. Over and over. Let the sweat drown out the noise. Let the muscles remember why he was here.

You’re not behind, he told himself. You’re building something.

You’re going to be the kind of person he won’t have to wait for anymore.

You’re going to catch up.

You’re going to make him proud to keep that promise.

When the sun dipped low again and he was finally back in his dorm room, alone with the ache in his arms and the buzz of exhaustion under his skin, Katsuki pulled out his phone.

He didn’t open the messages.

Just stared at the screen.

One unread from weeks ago.

Izuku:
i’ll come back when you’re ready ;)

Katsuki’s thumb hovered over the reply box.

He didn’t write anything.

He just locked the phone and threw it onto the pillow beside him.

Tomorrow, he thought, rolling onto his side.

He’d show up again tomorrow.

Not because he wanted to impress anyone.

But because when they were kids — before the hero stuff, before the pain, before the gaps in time and growing up too fast — Katsuki had said, “I’m gonna marry you, Deku.”

And he was still planning to.

Even if he had to become the strongest damn version of himself first.

when he got home he hit  the showers immediately, washing away the sweat, the insecurity. He leaned into the tile and let the hot water scald the tension out of his shoulders.

His mind wandered again.

Back to Izuku’s dumb laugh. The curve of his handwriting on a note Katsuki still kept buried in a box. The way he used to say, “You’re gonna be amazing someday, Kacchan.”

You promised, Katsuki thought again, forehead pressed to the wall. So I’m gonna make damn sure I’m someone worth that.

That night, the old hag knocked on his door.

Katsuki didn’t answer. She heard her grumble something along the lines of: “Damn kid didn’t even say hello.”

He waited until the footsteps faded before getting up, towel around his shoulders, phone in hand.

No new messages.

Still that old one.

I’ll come back when you’re ready ;)

Katsuki scowled and finally typed something out.

Then deleted it.

Typed again. Deleted again.

Finally:

Kacchan:
i'm at U.A. now

He stared at it. Thumb hovered.

Then added:
i’m getting stronger…like i said i would

He hit send before he could change his mind.

The message read Delivered, not Read.

Didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he said it.

Chapter Text

Katsuki was already seated, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the dull ache of yesterday’s drills still lingering in his muscles. He barely glanced up when the classroom door opened again.

All Might stepped in first with a shout “I am here!”, his towering frame casting a familiar shadow that filled the room with quiet respect. Behind him came Izuku Midoriya.

Izuku.

Five years older. Nineteen. The Pro Hero who wasn’t supposed to be here.

Everyone erupted in cheers for All Mights arrival, But Katsuki? Katsuki’s heart slammed against his ribs like a punch to the gut, He’s here. He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat and fixed his gaze on the front.

Izuku’s eyes flicked around the room — calm, patient — until they settled on Katsuki. For a moment, something almost soft passed between them, like a spark too stubborn to die.

All Might clapped his hands together.

“Alright, Class 1-A, let me introduce someone very special.”

Izuku stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Hi. I’m Izuku Midoriya, Hero name: Deku. Some of you might recognize me. I’m here to help today — to share what I’ve learned, and give you some tips.”

His voice was steady but kind, carrying a quiet weight that filled the room better than any flashy Quirk could. Hero name: Deku. He made his hero name Deku…

Katsuki didn’t look away.

Izuku’s eyes found his again, this time with a small, knowing smile. No words needed. Just... presence.

The class was too stunned for a moment. Then the questions started.

“How do you stay focused during fights?”

“What’s the best way to save civilians?”

Izuku answered every one patiently, breaking down hero basics — rescue tactics, situational awareness, teamwork. He didn’t talk down or brag. He spoke like someone who had been through the fire and wanted them all to come out stronger.

When he finished, All Might nodded proudly.

“You all have a lot to learn, but today you’ve had a glimpse of what it means to keep pushing — even when it feels impossible.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. He was listening. He was hearing.

“Now young heros! Get changed and meet me at Gym Beta!”

The gym was a controlled chaos of shouts, explosions, and clashing quirks. Class 1-A was running through their first beta Hero vs. Villain training exercise — a simulated scenario designed to test teamwork under pressure.

Katsuki Bakugou was in the thick of it, as always.

He was relentless, every blast precise and fierce, pushing forward without hesitation.

His eyes burned with that same fire he’d had since childhood — the fire that made him say, I’m gonna marry you, Deku. And now, more than ever, he was fighting to become someone worthy of that impossible promise.

He was still here afterall, Katsuki having caught sight of a figure leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp and analyzing every move.

Izuku.

He hadn’t spoken since the classroom. Just watched.

But that quiet presence did something to Katsuki — made the pressure more real, the stakes higher.

Bakugou didn’t need to prove himself to anyone else.

But to Izuku?

Every move mattered.

One of their opponents — a tall boy with the ability to shoot tape from his elbows — swung a pole toward Kirishima, who barely managed to block it. Kirishima grunted, struggling to keep up.

Katsuki’s lips curled into a smirk.

He launched a controlled explosion, sending the metal spear flying away with a sharp crack.

“Got your back, idiot,” Katsuki shouted to Kirishima, but his eyes scanned the battlefield, alert.

Midoriya stepped forward then, voice low but steady, carrying across the noise.

“Bakugou, watch your left flank! Todoroki’s dealing with ice — you’ll want to cover his side.”

Izuku’s advice was precise, tactical — the kind of insight that came from hard experience.

It was exactly what Bakugou needed.

With a quick blast, Katsuki knocked Todoroki off balance, then switched his focus to supporting Kirishima.

The class continued pushing through the exercise, their quirks weaving together in a chaotic dance of offense and defense.

After the drill ended, Bakugou wiped sweat from his brow, chest heaving.

Midoriya caught up with him again.

“You’re improving, Kacchan,” Izuku said with a small smile, hands stuffed in his jacket.

Katsuki’s scowl softened just a fraction.

“Yeah, well. Don’t expect me to slow down.”

Izuku chuckled softly.

“Good. You’re not behind. You’re ahead — just remember to watch your team.”

Katsuki’s eyes flashed with determination.

“I’m not gonna let you wait. Not anymore.”

Izuku’s smile deepened, and for a moment, the space between them felt smaller.

The promise was still alive — stretching through time and distance — and neither of them was ready to break it.

Chapter Text

Izuku sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed out of his hero uniform, the sleeves tied around his waist and a thin shirt clinging to his skin with the kind of sweat you didn’t get from battle — just nerves. Residual. Quiet.

The kind that always came after seeing Katsuki again.

He’d barely spoken to anyone once he and All Might left U.A. — just nodded at the staff, offered polite goodbyes, kept his mouth shut on the train. Even now, his phone buzzed with a few messages from other Pro interns asking how the school visit went.

He hadn’t answered any of them.

His fingers hovered over the most important thread on his screen.

Kacchan:
Come back again.
If you want.

Izuku stared at it like it was a wound.

Not sharp. Just… real. Raw in the way only Katsuki could be — where even the simplest words felt heavy. Final. Like a door slowly creaking open after being locked for months.

He let his phone drop onto the bed.

Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Kacchan hadn’t said it directly, but Izuku knew. He could feel it in the way Katsuki moved during the exercise. The way he listened when Izuku spoke — not like he had to, but like he wanted to. Like it mattered.

It had hit harder than he expected, seeing him there in the thick of it — smaller than Izuku remembered, but stronger, sharper. Like someone still building the bones of something incredible.

Izuku’s chest twisted.

He’s fifteen, he reminded himself, and I’m nineteen. This isn’t like before.

But the promise hadn’t left either of them.

Not really.

“I’m gonna marry you, Deku.”

He could still hear it, years later — muddy shoes, scraped hands, Katsuki saying it like it wasn’t up for debate.

Back then, Izuku had laughed, told him, “Okay,” like it was just another game.

But now?

He hadn’t laughed when he saw him.

He hadn’t even smiled right away.

He’d looked.

He felt it.

Izuku laid back, arm draped over his face, the room dim but warm. The city hummed beyond the window — low, alive, unbothered.

He breathed out slow.

Then turned his head, picked up his phone again.

Typed:

Izuku:
i do want to.

Paused.

Then:

i meant it when i said i missed you.
so if you're really okay with it... i’ll be there next week too.

No heart emojis. No smiley faces. Not this time.

Just truth.

He hit send and set the phone down for good.

There was no telling where this would go — what it could be.

But the promise was still alive. Maybe changed. Maybe stretched.

But not broken.

And if Katsuki was still showing up —

Then Izuku would, too.

Even if he had to keep earning the right to stand beside him.

Katsuki didn’t answer the text.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

It sat in his notifications like it was waiting — like Izuku himself was leaning against the inside of his screen with that dumb patient smile, the one that always made Katsuki feel like a live wire.

i do want to. i meant it when i said i missed you. so if you're really okay with it... i’ll be there next week too.

One week.

Seven days.

Katsuki had trained for entire months with worse deadlines. But this felt different. This felt like waiting for something with teeth.

Day One

He woke up early. Earlier than usual.

Ran extra laps before homeroom, even though his legs still ached from Gym Beta.

Didn’t talk to anyone.

Didn’t yell when someone bumped his shoulder in the hallway — just glared hard enough that they tripped over their own feet.

During Hero Fundamentals, he stared so hard at Aizawa’s diagrams he stopped hearing the lesson halfway through. His brain was stuck on Izuku’s voice, the way it had sounded calm but not cold when he gave orders across the training floor.

“Bakugou, watch your flank.”

That used to be his job — pointing things out. Shouting corrections. Telling Izuku what he was doing wrong.

But now…

Now Izuku was taller. Sharper. A pro hero, standing across the room with a calm like fire under glass.

Katsuki’s fists clenched under his desk.

He wasn’t mad at him.

He just didn’t know what to do with the feeling left behind.

On the second day at lunch, Kirishima waved him over.

“Yo! Bakugou! You gonna sit with us today or—?”

Katsuki just shook his head and kept walking.

He ate in the shade behind the gym, eyes flicking toward the sky like maybe he’d catch a glimpse of someone flying overhead. He didn’t.

That night, he stayed in the training room an extra hour after lights-out.

He worked until his hands hurt and the pads of his fingers were raw. Every punch against the reinforced wall echoed through him like an argument he couldn’t win.

When he finally showered, he stood under the water too long and let his forehead rest against the tile.

“I’m getting stronger… like I said I would.”

The message he’d sent still looped in his head like a damn curse.

On day four, he slept through his alarm.

Aizawa narrowed his eyes when Katsuki burst into homeroom five minutes late, hair still damp and shirt half-untucked.

No one said anything.

But Katsuki could feel it — the weight of that small failure.

It didn’t matter that he crushed the rescue drills an hour later, or that his reflex time was nearly half a second faster than the week before.

He’d messed up.

And the thought of Izuku walking into class again next week and seeing that — seeing him anything less than focused — made his throat burn.

That night, he didn’t text anyone back. He didn’t even open the app.

He just laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how Izuku hadn’t pushed him. Hadn’t expected anything.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he’d said once.

Bullshit.

Katsuki had to do everything.

After class, Aizawa called him out with a flat, unreadable voice.

“You’re running hot.”

“I’m fine,” Katsuki bit out, grabbing his water bottle without meeting his eyes.

“You’re not.”

Katsuki turned halfway, jaw tight. “I said I’m fine.”

Aizawa stared for a long moment. Then nodded once.

“Just don’t burn out before he gets here again.”

Katsuki froze.

“…What?”

“I’m not blind, Bakugou. You’ve been different since the visit.”

Katsuki’s heart slammed once in his chest. Then again, harder.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Aizawa stepped past him, calm as ever.

“Whatever you’re fighting against — or for — make sure you’re not just swinging at shadows.”

And with that, he was gone.

That was it.

But his chest felt a little lighter with just those few words.

Like maybe this wasn’t about catching up anymore.

Maybe it was about walking forward — even if it meant walking alone for a while.

Because a promise like that — the kind you make when you’re six and mean it more at fifteen — wasn’t something you gave up on.

Not if you were him.

Chapter Text

He didn’t come.

Not Monday.

Not Tuesday.

Not even by Friday, when the last bell rang and Katsuki found himself staring at the hallway like something might shift — like someone might appear.

But no footsteps echoed down toward Class 1-A.

No familiar mop of green hair.
No awkward smile.
No Izuku.

By the time the weekend rolled around, Katsuki told himself he was over it. That he’d imagined too much into a maybe. That he’s busy, he’s a pro hero, he’s not here for you.

The thoughts didn’t stick.

Not when the ache under his ribs still pulled tight every time he passed the staff wing.

Not when his phone stayed silent.

It had read “Delivered” for days.

Still no “Read.”

Still no answer.

Still nothing.

Until Sunday.

Late. Just past lights-out.

Katsuki was in the training room again — fists bruised, shirt clinging to his back, sweat dripping into his eyes — when his phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket.

He ignored it at first.

But something in his gut twisted wrong.

He wiped his hands, grabbed the phone.

The message wasn’t from Izuku.

It was from All Might.

Young Bakugou — I’m reaching out because I know you two are close. Midoriya is in the hospital. He collapsed during patrol last night. He’s stable now, but he’ll be off-duty for a while.

Katsuki stared at the screen.

Read it again.

Then again.

He didn’t move for a full minute.

Just stood there, alone in a room that suddenly felt too big — like all the heat he’d worked up in his body vanished through the soles of his feet.

Collapsed.

Stable.

Off-duty.

The words echoed too loud in his ears.

He didn’t reply. Not at first. Couldn’t.

His knuckles went white around the phone.

Izuku didn’t come because he couldn’t.

Not because he didn’t care.

Not because he forgot.

Because he pushed himself so hard that he hit a wall Katsuki hadn’t seen coming — and Katsuki hadn’t even known.

He should’ve known.

His chest burned with something sharp and cold.

Katsuki didn’t sleep that night.

He paced his hallway when his parents weren’t awake.

Sat on the roof until the sun threatened the edge of the sky.

Ran laps around the U.A. training grounds until his lungs screamed and his vision blurred.

He didn’t cry.

He just kept moving.

Because he remembered how Izuku looked the last time he saw him — not tired, not weak, just steady. Holding everything together. Carrying the weight of his promise like he always did.

Katsuki had been so focused on catching up, on being strong enough to stand beside him, that he forgot what it meant to carry someone else's silence.

He forgot Izuku had weight on his back too.

And now he was in a hospital bed somewhere, probably scolding nurses for overreacting, trying to sit up even when he shouldn’t, and Katsuki wasn’t there.

Didn’t even know which hospital.

Didn’t even know how bad it had really been.

Because Izuku hadn’t told him.

Because Katsuki hadn’t asked.

By Monday morning, Katsuki was back in class.

Face neutral. Mouth a little tighter. Eyes sharp, but not volatile.

Kirishima nudged his arm once between lessons. “Hey… you good?”

“Fine,” Katsuki muttered.

But when Aizawa pulled him aside after training, voice low and unreadable, Katsuki didn’t flinch.

“I heard you got the update.”

Katsuki nodded once.

“He’s gonna be okay.”

“I know,” Katsuki said.

“You don’t have to hold your breath.”

Katsuki looked away. “I’m not.”

Aizawa didn’t push further. Just offered a quiet nod and walked off.

That night, Katsuki sat on the school roof again.

Same spot as the week before.

But now his phone sat face-up beside him, screen dark, quiet, waiting.

He stared at it.

And for once — he picked it up.

Opened the thread.

Typed slow.

Kacchan:
you dumbass.
why didn’t you say anything.
i would’ve come.

He hovered over the send button.

Then added:

you better be okay.

Sent.

Set the phone down.

Then leaned back, arms behind him, eyes on the stars.

The promise still lived under his ribs.

Still stubborn. Still loud when it shouldn’t be.

But it wasn’t about catching up anymore.

It was about holding on.

Even when one of them fell behind.

Even if all they had between them for now… was waiting.

Izuku woke up to beeping.

Not the dramatic kind from shows or movies. Just the slow, steady rhythm of something medical. Familiar in a way that made his stomach sink before his brain could catch up.

The lights were soft. Someone had dimmed them.

His mouth was dry. His legs ached.

And there was that distant hum of city life beyond thick glass — too far away to touch, too close to ignore.

He blinked slowly. The ceiling looked different than the last time he remembered.

Right. Hospital.

Again.

The weight of the blanket across his chest, the soreness behind his eyes, the distant pulse of pain along his ribs — it all came back piece by piece.

Patrol. Rain. A villain with a compound quirk. Too much movement in too little time.

A collapse.

He'd known it was coming, probably.

But he hadn't stopped.

He never did. Not until his body forced him.

The door creaked open.

Recovery Girl stepped in with a clipboard and a sigh so familiar it nearly made him smile.

“You really don’t know how to rest, do you?”

Izuku opened his mouth. It came out hoarse: “Apparently not.”

She gave him a withering look before checking his chart and adjusting his IV. “Vitals are good. You’ve slept off the worst of it. Stay horizontal for another day or two and I might let you go home.”

He didn’t argue.

Just nodded once and stared at the ceiling again.

When she left, the silence came back — deeper now. A little heavier.

He’d told All Might not to worry. Told the nurses he was fine. Told himself this didn’t count as a setback.

But now, alone with the machines and the static hum of a quiet recovery wing, he let the weight settle.

He was supposed to go back to U.A. this week.

Supposed to walk into that classroom again. Supposed to stand next to All Might and offer tips like it didn’t mean anything.

Supposed to see him.

Kacchan.

Izuku’s chest tightened, something raw just under the surface.

He rolled his head toward the side table.

His phone sat there, screen dark. Someone must have brought it from his bag.

He reached for it with slow, clumsy fingers and tapped it awake.

Missed messages blinked into existence — a couple from All Might, one from Aizawa, some from support team staff.

Then—

Kacchan [7:14 PM]: you dumbass.
why didn’t you say anything.
i would’ve come.
you better be okay.

Izuku stared at the words.

His throat went tight in a way painkillers didn’t help.

It was the most Katsuki had said to him in weeks — maybe months — and it felt like a punch and a lifeline all at once.

No emoji. No filler. Just the same as always: direct. Brutal. True.

A shaky breath escaped his chest.

He hadn’t answered the last message. The one from days ago. Come back again.

Because he didn’t know if he was allowed to.

He didn’t want to be something that made Katsuki wait. He didn’t want to show up broken, tired, stretched thin.

But the words on the screen didn’t ask for perfection.

They asked for him.

Izuku let his head fall back into the pillow.

The ceiling looked a little blurrier now.

Later that evening, after another check-in and a bland dinner tray he barely touched, Izuku opened the message thread again.

Typed slow.

Izuku [9:47 PM]: i was embarrassed.
but i should’ve told you.
i’m okay now.
and i’m still coming back. if you still want me to.

He hit send before he could overthink it.

Set the phone down.

Closed his eyes.

And for the first time since waking up, he didn’t feel like the quiet was winning.

The second morning in the hospital was harder than the first.

Izuku’s body wasn’t in as much pain — the bruises along his ribs were just dull reminders now, and the tightness in his legs had started to ease. But the stillness… that was worse.

It felt like punishment.

The city moved beyond his window, same as always — taxis in stop-and-go traffic, birds looping past skyscrapers, flashes of light from distant hero work.

Izuku could only watch.

He wasn’t good at staying still.

Recovery Girl had said it herself on her last visit.

“You heal fast, but you don’t rest right. Your body needs to catch up to your heart.”

Izuku had tried to joke about it — something dumb, something about heroes not having off switches — but it hadn’t landed.

The truth sat too heavy in his chest.

Because Katsuki was out there. Training. Growing.

Showing up.

And Izuku was here, stuck behind glass and clean sheets and the sterile quiet that made every second crawl.

He stared at the ceiling until his neck hurt, then rolled over and reached for his phone.

No new texts from Kacchan.

Still the last one he sent sitting there like it had teeth:

Part of him still didn’t believe he deserved to hear that voice again — even through text.

He flipped to another thread. All Might’s name.

All Might [9:02 AM]: Young Midoriya! I’ll visit soon. Rest first.
The staff sends their best.
Try not to be TOO heroic in the meantime!

Izuku smiled faintly. Then closed the app.

Heroics.

He turned his head, let it rest against the cool pillowcase. Closed his eyes.

And let his mind drift.

Not to villains. Not to battle.

To the rooftop.

Katsuki sitting cross-legged, arms over his knees, not looking at him. That low voice. That almost in the way he said things.

“You can’t just show up like this…”

“I do want you here…”

“Maybe we start over.”

It had been weeks. Maybe a month now. But Izuku remembered every line like it had been carved into him.

He wondered if Katsuki remembered it that clearly, too.

Maybe he’d ask next week.

If his body cooperated. If Recovery Girl actually let him go. If he didn’t mess this up again by trying to rush the process.

The knock on his door came quiet.

He blinked. Sat up slow.

Aizawa stepped in, dark circles under his eyes and a small paper bag in hand.

“Hope you’re not bored enough to want visitors like me,” he muttered.

Izuku startled. “Aizawa-sensei—! I—I didn’t think—”

“Clearly.” He dropped the bag onto the side table with the same blunt care he used when tossing a villain across a training mat.

Izuku peered into it.

Energy bars. Mints. A small bottle of hair oil.

He blinked. “I—thank you?”

Aizawa slouched into the guest chair. “You’re not as invincible as the headlines think.”

“I know.”

“You pretend not to.”

Izuku looked down.

A long beat of silence passed.

Then Aizawa sighed. “All Might told me what happened. Your vitals were unstable before you collapsed. Overexertion, dehydration, post-quark rebound. Classic burn-out.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No one ever does.” He studied Izuku with unreadable eyes. “You’re not back at U.A. yet because we’re still making sure you don’t do this again.”

Izuku nodded quietly.

Another pause.

Then — softer — “Bakugou’s been training harder since you left.”

Izuku’s heart jumped.

“He hasn’t said anything. But I see it.”

“…He’s always been like that,” Izuku murmured.

“Maybe,” Aizawa replied. “Or maybe it’s different this time.”

Izuku met his eyes. Something gentle passed between them. Not sympathy. Just understanding.

“He sent me a message,” Izuku said.

“I know.”

Izuku’s eyes widened.

“He asked All Might if he could visit you.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

Izuku’s breath caught. “What—did All Might say?”

Aizawa shrugged. “Told him no. Said you needed rest.”

“Oh…”

“Bakugou didn’t argue.” A small beat. “But he didn’t walk away mad, either.”

That surprised him more than anything else.

Kacchan… didn’t push?

“Look,” Aizawa said, voice level. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two. I don’t need to. But if you want to be a pro — if you want to stand beside him, or anyone — you need to let yourself be human sometimes.”

Izuku’s throat felt tight.

“I’m trying,” he said softly.

“Good.” Aizawa stood. “Keep doing that.”

And with that, he left — same as always. No fanfare. Just silent doors and tired footsteps and the faintest breath of approval left in the air.

Izuku sat back.

Looked at the bag again.

Unwrapped a mint. Let it sit on his tongue.

Then picked up his phone.

No new messages from Kacchan.

Still the old one.

But it felt less like silence now.

And more like waiting.

Chapter Text

Two Weeks Later

Katsuki didn’t look up the day Izuku came back.

He felt it before he saw it — the way the air shifted at the edge of the room, subtle but loud in his bones. Like static. Like gravity. Like something that had always been missing slotting back into place.

But he didn’t lift his head.

Not right away.

He was half-bent over the bench in the support wing, goggles pushed into his hair, grease smudged across one glove. Working through a circuit upgrade he didn’t even need to finish today.

He’d stayed late on purpose.

Most of the class had already left. Even Iida had clocked out after patrol prep. Only Mei was still clattering around behind him, elbow-deep in a prototype she hadn’t named yet.

The silence that followed the soft click of the door was louder than it should’ve been.

Then:

“…Kacchan?”

The voice was soft. A little rough.

Not quite steady.

Katsuki didn’t move for a second. Just let the name settle into his spine.

Kacchan.

Izuku hadn’t said it since before the hospital.

Not in person.

Not out loud.

He reached for a cloth, wiped the grease from his glove, and finally turned around.

There he was.

Same stupid hair.

Same face, thinner now, with faint shadows under his eyes he hadn’t bothered to cover. The hoodie hung looser around his frame, sleeves pushed up to the elbows like they always were when he was anxious.

But his eyes were steady.

Green. Bright.

Locked on him like he was afraid he might blink and miss something.

“Finally crawl out of bed, nerd?” Katsuki said, voice even.

Izuku smiled. Slow. Real.

“I missed you too,” he said.

Katsuki snorted — but it was soft, almost quiet.

He stepped away from the bench.

Izuku didn’t move.

So Katsuki did.

He walked up. Stopped a foot away. Close enough to count the freckles he’d always pretended not to notice.

He looked him over, slow. Chest. Arms. Eyes. Like he was checking for damage. Or maybe for proof.

“You look like shit,” he said, low.

Izuku laughed — just a breath. “I know.”

“You shouldn’t’ve come back yet.”

“I know.”

“You still pushed it.”

“I always do.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. But he didn’t move back.

Didn’t walk away.

Izuku’s voice dropped a little. “I wanted to see you.”

Katsuki’s throat tightened.

The room felt smaller.

Brighter.

“Dumbass,” he muttered, and Izuku smiled wider.

It was quiet for a beat.

Mei was still working, mercifully oblivious. Outside the glass, the sky had gone orange with evening. Training lights flickered to life along the walkways.

Izuku reached into his hoodie pocket. Pulled something out.

It was a folded receipt. Faintly crumpled. Katsuki frowned.

“What is that.”

“My hospital bill,” Izuku said, holding it up. “Thought maybe you could split it, since it was your fault I pushed so hard.”

Katsuki snorted again — louder this time. “You really trying to die twice?”

Izuku grinned.

The tension cracked.

And for the first time in weeks, they were just… there again. No screen. No quiet. No waiting.

Just Katsuki and Izuku.

Katsuki shook his head and finally took the stupid receipt, crumpled it tighter, and shoved it in his own hoodie.

“You’re not allowed to almost die again,” he muttered.

Izuku tilted his head. “Is that a rule?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it just for me?”

Katsuki looked at him.

Long. Slow.

Then said, “Yeah. It is.”

Izuku didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the next thing he did was step forward — just enough to close the last bit of space — and bump his shoulder against Katsuki’s, light, but sure.

Katsuki didn’t move away.

Didn’t tense.

He just stood there, watching him, until the sky outside turned navy and the stars started to fight through.

And in that small quiet space between words, Izuku spoke again.

Low. Uncertain.

“Kacchan… do you still think we could—”

“Yeah,” Katsuki said before he could finish.

Izuku blinked.

Katsuki didn’t look at him.

Just stuffed his hands into his pockets, jaw tight, voice gruff.

“We can start over. If you still want that.”

Izuku exhaled, soft and shaky.

Then nodded.

“I do.”

Katsuki finally looked over.

Held his gaze.

No more distance. No more silence.

Just two boys standing in the space they’d both grown into — bruised, imperfect, and still holding on.

And this time, no one was falling behind.

Izuku didn’t show up in their classroom.

Not right away.

Aizawa had cleared it — said he could sit in on training blocks if he felt strong enough, but no full return. No patrols. No late nights. Nothing strenuous. Nothing stupid.

Which meant Izuku floated. Why he decided to float on a year one class as a graduate, he never understood.

Between nurse’s check-ins, support tech labs, and paperwork All Might kept sneakily dumping on him “for morale-building purposes,” Izuku spent most of his hours either shadowing faculty or hovering at the edge of Class 1-A’s space like a guest at a party he wasn’t sure he was invited to.

But Katsuki noticed him.

Every time.

It started Tuesday — right after lunch.

The class was finishing warm-ups when Katsuki caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Subtle. Near the bleachers. Hoodie up. Clipboard in hand.

Izuku.

Not saying anything. Not making a scene.

Just… watching.

Their eyes met once.

Izuku lifted his hand in a small wave.

Katsuki didn’t wave back.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t even nod.

He just blinked, scowled, and turned back to the field.

But he ran harder that afternoon.

Pushed longer.

And when Izuku was gone by cooldown, the space where he’d stood felt bigger than it should’ve.

Wednesday, it happened again.

Class 1-A was running tactical drills — Kaminari wiped out early, Jirou shouting instructions across the training zone — and Izuku was in the same spot as before, this time next to Cementoss, taking quiet notes.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt.

But Katsuki felt him.

Like a live wire at the edge of his focus.

When class ended, the rest of 1-A broke off toward the showers, and Katsuki turned — wiping sweat from his eyes.

Izuku was still there.

Clipboard under one arm, bottle of water in hand.

He offered it out.

Didn’t say a word.

Katsuki hesitated.

Then walked over. Took it. Cracked the cap.

Izuku smiled.

Katsuki muttered, “This doesn’t mean I forgive you for being a dumbass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Izuku said softly.

But he looked a little lighter walking away.

After most classes ended, Izuku caught him in the hall.

Not on purpose, probably — just a weird overlap of schedules and staircases. But Katsuki slowed when he saw him.

Izuku looked tired again. Not the dangerous kind — just the lingering kind. The sort that didn’t leave after a hospital stay.

“Hey,” Izuku said, falling into step beside him.

Katsuki grunted.

They walked a few feet in silence.

Then Izuku spoke again. “I, um… saw your numbers in the latest combat eval. You’re up ten percent.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “That’s it?”

“It’s impressive.”

“It’s late.”

Izuku laughed. “You’re impossible.”

Katsuki glanced over. “You’re slow.”

“I’m recovering.”

“Still slow.”

Another laugh.

Then Izuku bumped his shoulder lightly as they walked.

Katsuki didn’t push him off.

Later that night, Katsuki sat on the rooftop again.

Same spot. Same wind. Same skyline.

He pulled out his phone.

One message thread.

Still pinned.

Kacchan [8:01 PM]:
you looked like a damn intern today

Izuku replied two minutes later:

Izuku [8:03 PM]:
rude
i’m a guest faculty observer  >:/

Katsuki stared at the emoji.

Then shook his head, lips twitching.

Kacchan:
you’re still slow

Izuku:
and you’re still impossible

Three dots.

Then Katsuki sent:

Kacchan:
and yet, here you are.

It was Yaoyorozu’s idea.

Which meant it was organized, over-prepared, and somehow had a printable itinerary that Kaminari immediately lost.

“Okay,” she said, clipboard in hand and a hopeful smile on her face, “we’re meeting at the station at ten sharp, splitting into two groups for lunch, and regrouping at the arcade by fourteen-hundred. And no straying too far—”

“Iida already yelled at us about that,” Kaminari groaned.

“I reminded you,” Iida corrected, straightening his glasses. “Because half the class almost missed the train last time—”

“Because Bakugou wandered off,” Sero added helpfully.

Katsuki clicked his tongue. “I didn’t wander, I left.”

“For thirty minutes,” Jirou said, dry. “In the wrong direction.”

“I came back, didn’t I?!”

Kirishima clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning. “We’re all just saying we’re glad you’re here today, bro.”

“Shut up.”

“But we are!” Mina said brightly, twirling beside Yaoyorozu. “You’re way less explodey than last time.”

“Barely,” Tsuyu added.

Katsuki growled low in his throat.

Then someone behind him muttered, “I dunno. This is kind of peak Kacchan behavior.”

The sound cracked through him like static.

He didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Izuku had arrived late — hoodie up, hands stuffed in his pockets, lingering near the edge of the group like he wasn’t sure if he was really invited.

But he was here.

First time outside U.A. since the hospital.

Katsuki didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look at him, even when the group started moving toward the train platform.

But he didn’t walk fast either.

And Izuku fell in beside him.

A little behind.

But close.

Chapter Text

The mall was loud.

Too loud. Too many voices ricocheting off glass and tile, too many faces crowding into Katsuki’s space. He hated it already.

“Alright, everyone!” Yaoyorozu stood at the front of the group, clipboard balanced against her arm like she was leading a conference. “Lunch first, then we’ll reconvene at the arcade. If anyone needs—”

“Arcade first!” Kaminari whined, already craning toward the neon glow on the upper floor.

“We need to follow the schedule.” Yaoyorozu’s smile tightened.

“Schedules are for school,” Mina sang, looping her arm through Jirou’s.

“Fun can and should be structured,” Iida barked, chopping the air.

Jirou sighed. “You realize you sound like Yaoyorozu’s hype man, right?”

“I am simply providing support for her organizational efforts!”

Katsuki rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. He opened his mouth to tell them all to shut the hell up—

—and then he heard it.

“Maybe… just let people pick for themselves?”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean through the chatter. Familiar. Steady.

The group turned.

Izuku stood a step behind, hands in the front pocket of a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He looked different in the crowd—not just older, but apart. The hoodie couldn’t hide the muscle under his frame, leaner than before, stronger. There were shadows under his eyes he hadn’t bothered to cover, and the scar near his jaw caught the mall lights.

He didn’t look like one of them.

He looked like what he was.

A pro hero.

And still, when he spoke, it was simple: “If some of you want to eat first and others want to hit the arcade, you can just meet back up after. That way no one’s stuck.”

Kaminari grinned. “Deku’s right!”

“It is… efficient,” Iida admitted, adjusting his glasses.

“Good idea, Midoriya,” Yaoyorozu agreed, scribbling a neat note anyway.

Katsuki didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t move.

But the sound of that voice—the calm in it, the weight—lit something restless under his skin.

They split. Half the group went to the arcade, half toward the food court. Katsuki, somehow, ended up in the food court group, dragged by Kirishima before he could pick otherwise.

The tables they claimed were already half full, trays cluttering with takoyaki, skewers, burgers. Izuku slid into the edge of one, setting down a tray with nothing but miso soup and plain rice. Quiet. Practical. He was still healing after all.

Katsuki dropped into the seat across from him before he realized what he was doing.

Their eyes met.

Izuku smiled, small, almost sheepish. “You… want some?” He nudged the soup a little closer, like it wasn’t already obvious it wasn’t enough food for him in the first place.

Katsuki snorted. “The hell would I want your leftovers for?”

Izuku flushed faintly, scratching the back of his neck. “Right, sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Katsuki snapped.

Izuku blinked. Then his smile softened.

Before he could answer, Kirishima plopped down beside Katsuki with a tray stacked high. “Man, this is awesome! First time we’ve hung out as a group, and we’ve even got Deku with us.”

“Seriously,” Mina said brightly, dropping into the seat next to Izuku. “It’s like we’ve got a celebrity guest! Can I get a picture after?”

Izuku laughed, rubbing the back of his neck again. “If you really want, sure.”

“It’s so weird seeing you outside the news,” Kaminari leaned across the table, wide-eyed. “Like, just yesterday you were on TV fighting that sludge villain, and today you’re just… here.”

Izuku’s ears went pink. “I’m still just me.”

“Just you, huh?” Jirou smirked. “Tell that to the ratings.”

Katsuki’s chest felt like it was tightening.

They were all looking at him like he was some untouchable thing—hero, role model, star.

Not the same idiot who used to sit cross-legged on his floor and argue about jelly cups.

Not the boy who once said you’ll wait.

Katsuki clenched his jaw, hard.

Izuku glanced across the table, green eyes catching his for just a second.

And even with everyone else talking, laughing, filling the air with noise, Katsuki felt like the world went too still.

He stabbed a piece of karaage with his chopsticks and pretended not to notice the way the entire table kept circling around him. Not him as in Katsuki. Him as in the idiot across from him with the soup.

“—so seriously,” Mina said, grinning wide, “you’ve gotta tell us. What’s it like? Fighting villains for real?”

Izuku shifted, shoulders hunching like he was trying to make himself smaller. “It’s… dangerous. Unpredictable. Honestly kind of terrifying sometimes.”

Kaminari leaned in, eyes sparkling. “But you’re always calm on TV. Like, even when that Nomu tried to crush you—”

“That wasn’t calm,” Izuku cut in quickly, smiling but faint. “That was… acting on instinct. Trying not to freeze.”

“You’re so humble,” Yaoyorozu said with quiet admiration.

“Or maybe just embarrassed,” Jirou teased, propping her chin on her hand.

The table laughed. Izuku ducked his head, cheeks pink, and Katsuki ground his teeth so hard it made his jaw ache.

Because he could see it—the way they looked at him. Like Izuku was untouchable, larger-than-life. Like he wasn’t just some nerd with messy hair who once tripped on Katsuki’s front step and skinned both knees at the same time.

Kirishima nudged Katsuki with his elbow. “Crazy, right? Having a real pro here hanging with us?”

Katsuki scowled. “Tch. He’s not that special.”

The table went quiet for a half-beat. Then Mina gasped dramatically. “Not that special?! He’s literally a top rookie hero!”

“Number doesn’t mean anything if you don’t know the person,” Katsuki muttered, stabbing his food harder than necessary.

Izuku blinked at him across the table. His mouth opened—then closed again. He didn’t correct him. Didn’t argue. Just watched him, expression unreadable.

“Man,” Kaminari whispered, leaning toward Mina, “does Bakugo have beef with literally everyone?”

Katsuki snapped his head toward him. “Say that again, I fry you.”

Kaminari held his hands up fast. “Kidding! Kidding!”

The tension broke with nervous laughter. Izuku quietly sipped his soup like nothing had happened.

By the time everyone finished eating, the group naturally drifted toward the arcade.

The place pulsed with neon and noise—flashing machines, kids shouting over crane games, the thump of bass-heavy music. Class 1-A scattered like they’d been waiting all day for it. Kaminari and Sero rushed the racing simulators, Mina and Jirou made a beeline for dance battle, and Iida tried (and failed) to organize “a proper line system” for the claw machines.

Kirishima grabbed Katsuki’s wrist. “C’mon, man! Let’s hit the punching strength tester. Bet you’ll crush it!”

Katsuki pulled his arm back with a scowl. “I don’t need a dumb machine to tell me how strong I am.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun,” Kirishima grinned.

Before Katsuki could retort, someone else stepped into his line of sight.

Izuku.

Hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, eyes flicking from game to game with a quiet kind of curiosity. He didn’t look like he belonged here either—not like the rest of the class, wide-eyed and laughing. He looked… older. Grounded. Like the noise was something he’d stepped away from years ago.

And still, he smiled when Mina waved him over to the dance machine. “You’re not really gonna make me do that, are you?”

“Yes!” Mina beamed. “It’s mandatory. Hero training, but with rhythm!”

Izuku laughed, scratching his cheek. “I don’t think that’s how it works…”

Katsuki looked away fast, heat crawling up his neck.

This was wrong.

All of it.

Izuku being here. Smiling like that. Letting them treat him like some kind of hero-celebrity while Katsuki sat in the middle of it, choking on the fact that he’d known him before any of this mattered.

The only one who knew him before.

Chapter Text

Katsuki didn’t even realize he’d wandered off until the noise dulled behind him.

The arcade stretched further back than he thought—past the dance machines and claw games, past the VR setups Mina and Kaminari were screaming over, into a dimmer row of older cabinets. Faded screens. Dusty plastic buttons. Quieter.

He leaned against one, arms crossed, letting his breathing steady.

Then—footsteps.

Of course.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Izuku said, voice low.

Katsuki didn’t turn right away. “Don’t you have a fan club to entertain?”

A small laugh. Not mocking. Just… there. “They’re busy. Besides, I’m not here for them.”

That made Katsuki glance over. Izuku stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his hoodie, eyes softer than the fluorescent buzz deserved.

“Why the hell are you even here, Deku?” Katsuki asked, sharper than he meant to. “You’ve got pro shit to do. Real shit. Not—this.” He gestured vaguely toward the chaos of Class 1-A, their shouts echoing faintly from the main floor.

Izuku’s smile faltered, but he didn’t look away. “Because I wanted to see you.”

The words hit harder than Katsuki expected. Like they’d been aimed.

He scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You could’ve just texted. Plus, aren’t you still healing?” His eyebrow raised.

“I did and yeah I am,” Izuku reminded him gently. “But it’s not the same.”

Silence stretched. Somewhere in the distance, Mina shrieked with laughter. A crane machine clattered.

Izuku shifted closer—just enough to stand beside him, not in front of him. Not pushing. Just there.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird,” Izuku said after a beat. “With your class. I know it’s… awkward. Me being older. Already a pro.”

Katsuki clenched his jaw. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Katsuki didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words clawed at his throat, messy and tangled—five years of distance and unspoken shit too heavy for a dim corner of an arcade.

Izuku let the silence hang for a moment, then tilted his head toward an old cabinet between them. A beat-up two-player fighter. The screen flickered weakly, but it was alive.

“Play me?” he asked, voice lighter. “Winner gets bragging rights.”

Katsuki gave him a flat look.

Izuku shrugged. “Unless you’re scared.”

That did it.

“Move,” Katsuki growled, stepping forward and slapping a coin into the slot.

Izuku grinned—real, bright—and slid into the opposite seat.

For a few minutes, the world shrank to glowing pixels and button mashing. Izuku laughed when Katsuki cursed at the stiff joystick. Katsuki smirked when he landed a perfect combo Izuku clearly hadn’t expected.

And for a little while, it felt almost normal again. Just them. No titles. No gap.

Just Kacchan and Deku, side by side, letting the noise of everything else fade.

“Hey—hey, no fair!” Izuku yelped, twisting the joystick frantically as his character got pinned against the side of the stage. “You’ve been practicing!”

“Practicing? On this piece of junk?!” Katsuki scoffed, landing another combo. “You’re just trash at games.”

Izuku laughed—an unguarded sound that pulled at something deep in Katsuki’s chest. “Says the guy who only knows how to button mash!”

“It’s called strategy, nerd.”

“It’s called luck!”

Izuku managed to break free and land a sloppy counterattack. The machine dinged loudly, announcer voice blaring: K.O.!

Izuku threw both hands up like he’d just won the Sports Festival. “Yes! Victory!”

Katsuki growled. “Rematch.”

“You can’t handle losing gracefully, can you?”

“Shut up and sit down.”

But Izuku didn’t hit start right away. He was still grinning, a little breathless, green eyes bright in the flickering glow. And then—like someone had pulled the sound down on the whole arcade—he just looked at Katsuki. Really looked.

The grin softened.

“You’re the same,” Izuku said quietly.

Katsuki frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Even after everything. You’re still…” Izuku trailed off, searching. “…you.”

The words landed heavier than they should’ve.

Katsuki scoffed, breaking eye contact. “What, you expect me to start crying or some shit? Just play the damn game.”

But Izuku didn’t move. His hand rested on the joystick, unmoving, the light from the screen cutting across his face.

“I meant it, you know,” Izuku said finally, voice low. “Back then. When I said I missed you.”

Katsuki’s throat tightened. Too fast. Too close.

“Tch. You’re such a sap,” he muttered.

But his hands stayed on the controls. His shoulders didn’t move away.

Izuku just smiled faintly. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

For a second, the noise of the arcade blurred out completely—the laughter, the beeps, the chaos of Class 1-A somewhere up front. It was just them, tucked into a corner that felt safer than it had any right to.

The screen blinked back to the title menu, waiting.

And slowly, Katsuki shoved another coin into the slot.

“…Best two out of three,” he muttered.

Izuku’s smile widened. “Deal.”

Katsuki crushed him in the tiebreaker. Obviously. Izuku insisted the machine was rigged, even though his grin never really faltered.

By the time they rejoined the others, the arcade’s glow had dulled into the steady hum of a dozen overlapping voices. Mina was dragging Kaminari toward a dance platform, Kirishima and Sero were locked in an air hockey death match, and Yaoyorozu was trying to keep track of who had borrowed her tokens without asking.

“Finally!” Mina shouted when she spotted them. “You two disappear and suddenly everyone wants to know where you went—”

“We were right here, raccoon eyes,” Katsuki snapped automatically, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Suspicious,” Kaminari sing-songed, even as he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Izuku’s ears went a little pink under his hood. He opened his mouth, probably to explain, but Katsuki cut in before he could.

“Idiot nerd just lost three rounds in a row. He’s sulking.”

“I won one,” Izuku corrected, trying for indignation, though his smile gave him away.

“Ohhh,” Kirishima grinned, pausing his air hockey battle to point at him. “So Deku can lose. That’s good to know.”

“Heroes don’t have perfect win rates,” Izuku said, rubbing at the back of his neck, the picture of sheepish humility. “Even All Might—”

“Boooring,” Kaminari groaned. “Just admit Bakugou destroyed you.”

Katsuki smirked. “Damn right I did.”

Izuku glanced at him then, quick, like it wasn’t meant to linger. But Katsuki caught it anyway. The curve of his smile. The faint warmth in his eyes. The way it didn’t feel like losing at all.

And for the rest of the night, even when they split into groups again, Katsuki kept catching those looks. Small, fleeting, tucked between the chaos of his classmates—but always there.

Like no matter how loud the world got, Izuku was tuned only to him.

The ride home was quieter than the trip in. Class 1-A was sprawled across the train like they’d just run a marathon, bags dangling from knees, chattering low with tired laughter.

Katsuki sat by the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights blurring past. The hum of the train, the flicker of neon, and the occasional squeak of the brakes filled the silence.

And across from him, Izuku was there again—hands in his hoodie pockets, eyes flicking from window to ceiling, occasionally glancing at Katsuki.

Katsuki kept his gaze out the window. Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“You… seemed faster today,” Izuku said quietly, voice low enough that only Katsuki could hear.

Katsuki tensed. “Faster at what?”

“Running drills back in class. You pushed harder.”

Katsuki snorted. “Of course I did. I’m not about to let some pro hero make me look like trash.”

“You didn’t look like trash,” Izuku said simply.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. He wanted to snap at him. Wanted to yell, to push, to shove all this tension somewhere far away. But the truth stuck in his throat.

The train rattled along the tracks, each click and groan punctuating the quiet between them.

“Why’re you here anyway?” Katsuki asked again, voice low, though his back stayed rigid. “You could’ve just—y’know—skipped this. Let them have fun without a hovering pro watching their every move.”

Izuku shrugged, eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second. “I told you, I like seeing you,” he said.

The words hit hard, and Katsuki felt heat crawling up his neck. He looked away fast.

“You sound like a damn kid,” he muttered, voice rougher than he intended.

Izuku’s laugh was soft. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just honest. That’s harder sometimes.”

Katsuki’s hands curled into fists in his lap. He didn’t move closer, didn’t speak, but his chest felt tight with the weight of it.

A pause stretched between them, the kind that only existed when words had failed for years.

Then Izuku’s hand moved—slow, careful—onto the edge of the seat between them. Not touching him, not close enough to be forward, just there. A tether.

Katsuki didn’t pull away. Didn’t tense. Just let it be.

The train hummed. The city blurred. The world faded.

And for the first time in weeks, Katsuki realized it didn’t matter how far apart they’d been, how much had changed. Izuku was here. He was present. And maybe, somehow, that was enough.