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A year after they graduate, Izuku and Katsuki work at separate agencies as sidekicks. One day on his way home, Katsuki corners him on the train and shoves a basket of muffins in his face. “Here.”
“How do you know which train I take?” Izuku asks, startled out of the news on his phone.
Katsuki grunts in response, which is fair. Izuku could’ve asked a better question, like why he’s bringing muffins or where Katsuki got them from because they smell delicious, but the doors ding open and Katsuki dashes away.
With a shrug, because weirder things have happened, Izuku hangs the basket on his arm and finishes the route home. He keys open the door to his house and places the basket on the counter.
He eats a muffin. He eats another. Dinner is now muffins, and Izuku is seriously considering switching jobs to work at a bakery.
The muffins are ginger, which makes sense because it’s Katsuki. If the food doesn’t hurt in some way, then it isn’t worth being consumed. Izuku never considered the merits of ginger, but since Katsuki chose them specifically for him, he’s willing to reconsider.
He eats enough to burst. He brings the remainders into the agency the next day. One of the other sidekicks runs up to him, and Izuku is preparing a speech that yes, there were in fact enough muffins left in the basket to bring to work, when they say instead, “Deku, I found this at the bottom—it’s for you!”
An apology letter. It’s brief and blunt because Katsuki isn’t anyone but himself, but it’s honest. At the end, Katsuki writes that he, Katsuki, has to be better.
A lifetime ago, Izuku would’ve said that he didn’t deserve the gesture of friendship—he hopes that it’s an overture of friendship. But his therapist tells him he’s deserving of love and to be loved in return. His friends tell him the same over and over, until somewhere along the line Izuku started believing it.
Patrol be damned, Izuku calls Katsuki on the phone in tears. Katsuki incoherently yells at him, and that’s the true beginning of their friendship.
-
It’s funny that memories Izuku thought weren’t important at the time are the ones he remembers most.
(He can’t recall the words in Katsuki’s apology but can taste the tang of ginger as vividly as it was yesterday.)
Izuku sometimes reads about himself in the history books that children bring to him. They point to a page and squeal, “Uncle Izuku, it’s you!” and Izuku is surprised because he doesn’t remember or remembers differently.
That saddens him. On one hand, there are things he’d rather forget. It’d be easier to erase the majority of his childhood, the pain and the obscurity and the thick, overwhelming hurt. But some part of Izuku needs those memories to remain stark. They fuel him and remind him of why the world needs to change.
Heroes have many jobs that aren’t talked about: peacekeepers, celebrities, caretakers, advocates for social justice. Once he establishes an agency with Katsuki the way they promised each other when they were kids, gains a little clout and waits for his workload to settle down, he throws himself into the latter. He’s in awe when Katsuki does the same—not because Izuku doesn’t expect it, but rather because of Katsuki’s intensity. Izuku often spots his former classmate at rallies, promoting and petitioning. It shouldn’t be surprising, after all these years.
Izuku sees Katsuki in a video online giving an impassioned speech on the consequences of bullying. Izuku starts crying right there in his bed. He stares at the small screen of his phone, Katsuki’s concluding words ringing in his ears: “You have to be better, okay? You have to be better.”
Izuku tastes ginger.
-
It’s a few years later. Katsuki and Izuku’s agency is thriving, considering it’s “run by two psychos.” Not Izuku’s words.
One night, Katsuki throws a pool party. It isn’t of his own volition, because Katsuki will always be a bit of a loner at heart. But he owns a pool, and sometimes the only way for their former class to gather as a group is to congregate unexpectedly. Izuku texted Katsuki a warning, to which Katsuki had left him on read. Katsuki yells from inside the house when they actually arrive, but as long as they don’t make too much noise, he leaves them be.
Most but not all of their old class comes over and splash around together. It’s a lazy Friday on a warm July night, so they break out the drinks and settle into the water to talk.
This isn’t the first time they’ve convened under the night sky, and it’s familiar. Granted, Katsuki is usually with them. His absence is odd, because it’s not that their circle is incomplete but rather their dynamic has shifted. Izuku remembers when this was all it was: Izuku and the rest, with Katsuki off to the side or not there at all.
Katsuki’s in his room now. Izuku hopes he comes out soon.
Memories are a strange thing. The human brain is complex, and even over the centuries, the inner workings of the mind remain a mystery despite the scientists’ best efforts. The technical aspects were cleared up relatively quickly: neurons, blood, etcetera. Emotions begin in the brain and they’re theoretically a mixture of chemicals. The potency of how humans feel and their capacity for emotions is incredible, but no one knows why some memories are retained but not others.
Science is cutting edge, and once the legislation was approved and the ones from another era stripped away, technology improved in leaps and bounds across all areas. Support is no longer a backup to heroes and now an individual career. It’s much easier to be a hero on the sidelines now. Izuku thinks that in another life, he could’ve been an engineer. But he wouldn’t trade anything for what he’s got now.
It really is funny how memories work. Most of the ones from day to day life are tossed out or catalogued away into obscurity. Practice breeds permanence, and muscle memory is sometimes more useful than recall ever will be: Izuku needs to act instinctively, and it’s better to let his body move on its own.
Still, memories are weird—most disappear but some stay, and the ones that remain aren’t often the ones he expects. Negative memories are detail-oriented, while the positive are impressionistic. His recollections of life at its best are ephemeral. Less a digitized photo album of his most heroic moments and more akin to a few scattered drops on an endless canvas. However, the emotionally charged ones remain poignant.
Someone nudges him, and Izuku startles. “You okay?”
The water’s still warm, but the darkness is absolute as the air chills. There are lights embedded in the walls of the pool, and they cast everyone in shadow from below.
“Just reminiscing,” Izuku answers.
An hour or two from the moment they jumped into the water, Katsuki joins them. The others take care to act normal despite his arrival, because nothing’s really changed within their group. Everyone’s the same as they’ve always been, including Katsuki.
Izuku tosses him a beer and Katsuki cracks off the lid. The others chat around them, and Izuku chimes in. Katsuki rests his arms on the rim of the pool and watches everyone interact.
Izuku could try to include him because this hang-out is for his benefit, but Katsuki didn’t seem isolated. More at peace and observant. Somewhat subdued, although that’s to be expected.
Another hour passes, and one by one, their friends leave. They call out their goodbyes, promising they’ll get back home safe. A few pat Katsuki on the shoulder, to which he grunts but doesn’t throw them off.
Eventually, it’s just Katsuki and Izuku, alone in the pool under the stars. Izuku waits for Katsuki to break the silence; Katsuki stares at the crescent moon.
“The hero rankings come out tomorrow,” Katsuki finally says.
Izuku scratches the back of his head. There’s some residual dampness from when someone splashed him, but not much. “Are you nervous?”
Katsuki snorts. “Are you?”
“No, not really. I’m mainly just disappointed.”
“Your attempt at a comfort party didn’t work for either of us,” Katsuki tells him.
“Not even a little?”
Katsuki studies the tiles of the pool’s walls rather than meet his eyes. “Maybe a little for me,” he admits grumpily. “It’s nice to see the idiots once in a while. Don’t think I didn’t notice that some of them weren’t there.”
Izuku’s shoulders slump and he sighs. “I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Izuku of all people knows that if he doesn’t acknowledge the way it hurts him, then it doesn’t exist. “The trash takes itself out.”
“Is the media still harassing you?”
“Nah,” Katsuki says. “They’ve moved onto more annoying topics. They’ll tail and ask if I have a girlfriend, then say, Oh, it’s fine if it’s a boyfriend too! Not that it matters anymore!”
“Are you queer?” Izuku teasingly asks him, even though it might be a little soon.
Katsuki splashes water at him, and there goes Izuku’s hair. “Did you know that the other day, a reporter asked me if I’d ever date the esteemed Deku?”
Izuku stifles a laugh. “What did you tell her?”
“That I was a fucking aro-ace, obviously.” Katsuki rolls his eyes. “She then proceeded to ask me if I would date you if I wasn’t aro.”
“And? What does the great and powerful Kacchan have to say about that proposition?”
“Ha.” Katsuki unexpectedly sighs. “I told her that if I wasn’t an aro-ace, then I wouldn’t be me.”
“Oh,” Izuku says, joking mood suddenly gone. “I, uh. Sorry.” He leans forward. “You know I support you. Even though I get confused sometimes because it’s new to me too, and I’m still trying to understand what aro means—”
“No, it’s”—Katsuki waves a hand—“it’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just… advocacy. It’s not well known.”
“I’m sure the RPF writers are perfectly aware and disregarding that completely.”
Katsuki groans. “Don’t remind me.”
“Did you know that you and your aceness and the ‘debate’ whether to include you in explicit works is raging as much as ever?”
“Hey, douchebag, ace people can have sex—oh, you’re messing with me.”
“No,” Izuku says, lips twitching, “I’m completely serious. Did you know that you’re one of the most popular heroes in the RPF hero fandom? There’s fanart and everything.”
“Uh-huh, Mister Unofficially Confirmed Future Number One Hero. Like you’re completely ignored.”
“I was once tagged in a drawing of you in a maid outfit.”
“My manager runs my socials! I don’t see anything unless one of you douchebags shoves it in my face!”
“Is that an invitation?” Izuku reaches for his phone, which is lying on a chair out of his reach. “I distinctly remember a frilly apron and heels—”
Katsuki tackles him. Izuku dodges, but Katsuki’s quick to RKO him under the water. Izuku emerges sputtering—his hair!—about to swing his leg and knock Katsuki off his feet, but Katsuki is already climbing out of the pool and skidding away.
“You coward! No running!” Izuku hollers, before hopping out of the water and racing after him into the house.
He’s in his trunks and nothing else, so the temperature change hits him like a truck after he slams the backdoor behind him. It takes him a moment to figure out which way Katsuki’s gone, but he hears a curse and spots Katsuki detangling himself from an umbrella stand. Katsuki looks up at Izuku’s thudding steps, throws the stand out of his way, and books it.
They skid down the main hallway, Katsuki giving Izuku a run for his money. They slip and slide, laughing wildly because they’re soaking wet and the house is freezing; Katsuki taunts him with Izuku responding in kind.
As Katsuki blows a raspberry at him, Izuku is suddenly struck with the realization that although he and Katsuki have known each other their whole lives, this is the first time they get to have this: being real, true friends.
They’ve worked so hard and for so long to get to this point. Although Izuku teases, their friendship is so much more important than the romantic relationship that he once hoped they could have. Katsuki is aro-ace and completely uninterested in dating, and if he wasn’t, then he wouldn’t be himself, just like he told the reporter.
There’s a certain rightness to the way things are. Katsuki will always burn bright, and Izuku will push his nose against the glass to stare. Izuku pokes fun at Katsuki until he yells. They’ll tussle until something shatters, and then Katsuki makes them dinner and threatens Izuku with spice. Joke's on him—Izuku has a higher tolerance.
They chase each other through the house, and even though they crash into walls and careen in and out of rooms, leaving a mess in their warpath, it’s right. It’s so right.
Izuku’s life may not be perfect, but he’s satisfied. He’s always had a feeling that he was destined for something greater—and while that always motivated him to reach for the stars and beyond, it left him with a perpetual feeling of dissatisfaction.
Katsuki helps alleviate it. Together, they’d taught each other many important, corny things: how to replace five agency lamps in three months without garnering exasperated looks from the IKEA saleswoman and getting lost, how to cook with minimal explosions both from the food and Katsuki, and perhaps most importantly, how to repair a friendship that they’d both given up on.
They were whole until they weren’t. Their relationship fractured due to Katsuki’s biases, but now that they’ve repaired themselves, Izuku refuses to let his own biases break something that’s meant to be whole.
Izuku may not be an aro-ace, but he does his best to understand. Underneath all the confusion and the spectrum and the insecurities, it’s just Katsuki. The relationship they have is important, and Izuku realized that they don’t need romance to make their relationship worth existing.
It’s Katsuki, pure and simple. Katsuki—who will always conk out by 9:30 PM even as an adult. He pours Sriracha in his soup to surpass Izuku and gags when he tries to eat it. Katsuki is Izuku’s symbol of victory, whether it’s a villain takedown or a bowling match.
Katsuki; whose aro-aceness characterizes but doesn’t define him—who will always strive to be the best that he can be.
Izuku can’t articulate those feelings, but he often tries to tell Katsuki how important he is to him. Katsuki always puts a hand over Izuku’s mouth to muffle him when Izuku starts to stutter and cry, because they’re terrible with emotions even after all these years.
Izuku expresses his affection for everything Bakugou Katsuki is through the one way he knows how: being annoying. Katsuki reciprocates.
Katsuki’s house has two stories. Katsuki has evidently run up the stairs judging from the pounding steps above, having exhausted the options on the first floor. Izuku stands at the base of the dripping stairs, in despair at the puddles left by Katsuki’s bare feet.
“Date me!” Izuku yells, hoping to bring him into view by pissing him off. “A relationship with me includes kissing with free shipping included!” He knows how much kissing grosses Katsuki out. That’ll bring him back for sure, if only to deck him.
“No! Besides, queerplatonic relationships exist,” Katsuki shouts back, still running around. There’s a distinct thump as he runs past something that falls over. “You’re my last choice for that sort of thing!”
“We both know that's not true! I sleep over more often than not!”
“So does Kirishima!” A door slams. “Do you suggest I lay a smackeroo on his lips?”
“His teeth are too sharp,” Izuku whines. “And smackeroo? What are you, eighty?”
“I’m aro-ace!” Katsuki howls, running back into view with two towels in his hands. He slips and skids straight into the wall. “I don’t know how you stupid allos are supposed to act!”
“I’m not allo!” Izuku wails. “And even if I was, it’d be a perfectly valid thing to be!”
He loses patience, so he braves the stairs and catches Katsuki, shaking him until he relinquishes a towel. They mop the hallways together until Izuku twists his and whips Katsuki on the ass with it. Katsuki caterwauls loud enough to raise the dead and chases Izuku downstairs. It’s fun until Izuku slips and falls, bringing Katsuki down with him in a pile of limbs and cursing. They clean up in earnest after that, careful of the puddles on the tile, and fling themselves onto the couch after drying themselves and the floor off.
Izuku hits Katsuki with the towel once more just because he can, and Katsuku grabs it and tickles him until Izuku cries for him to stop. From then, they joke and generally harass each other, until Katsuki suddenly says, “We should probably go to sleep. The reveal is early tomorrow.”
The joking mood is suddenly gone. Izuku tried his best to distract Katsuki, but all the towel smacking can’t delay the inevitable.
“Are you going to be there?” Izuku says. “I’d understand if you didn’t go...”
Katsuki sighs. “No. I have to. Even if I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“It’s just… I gotta. I have to show people that even if they don’t like me or accept me, I’m there. Even if it’s humiliating or hard. I’m here and queer and I’m not going away.”
“Kacchan, I—”
“It’s lonely at the top, okay?” Katsuki looks down. “Just… remember that when you’re standing by yourself.”
“But I’m not by myself,” Izuku says, reaching out. Katsuki gently pushes his hand away. “I have you.”
“And everyone else.”
“The rest of our friends.” Izuku rolls his eyes. “But I have you first and foremost.”
“Deku.”
“What?”
“We both know that I’m not gonna be up there on the stage with you tomorrow,” Katsuki says quietly. “I’m not going to be in the top ten. I dropped after I came out a week ago, and I haven’t recovered. I don’t know if my ranking is ever going to recover.”
“But you’re the first,” Izuku says, trying to reassure Katsuki even though he doesn’t know what to say. “Being the first is always the hardest. The trailblazer always has to do the most work.”
“Says the future number one hero.”
Izuku sighs. “Being the number one hero is nothing new. There have already been queer heroes. Not a ton, but some of them can’t come out and that’s okay. Some of them can’t afford the popularity drop and the decrease in salary. Some are scared or aren’t ready. They have all their reasons. But you’re the first aro-ace hero. You did it.”
“Fat load of good it did me.”
“Kacchan, being who you are is brave.”
Katsuki snarls. “Don’t patronize me.”
“No, I—” Izuku’s doing his best not to cry, but it’s kind of hard. “I don’t mean to patronize you. I really do mean it. Some people refuse to acknowledge who they are because of—of whatever reason, but you’ve identified yourself and are out and proud. That’s hard, okay? Some of us know who we are and haven’t come out.” Izuku points to himself and laughs, somewhat hysterically. “Case in point. There are always going to be people who don’t understand and don’t accept, but we have to keep teaching others and ourselves.”
“I’m trying to be better,” Katsuki says.
“But…?”
Katsuki grunts in embarrassment. “If you repeat any of this to anyone, I’ll kill you.”
“Okay, Kacchan.” Then: “...But?”
“But it feels like because I’m aro-ace, that I don’t belong and I’m intruding into a space that isn’t mine.”
“Wait—”
“The world—regular citizens, other queer people, everyone—tells me that I’m not supposed to be like this.” Katsuki waves his hands. “You saw what the media said about me. I even read the fucking comment sections.”
“You read the—?!”
“Listen, Deku,” Katsuki says, and grips his hands in his hair. “For once in your life, shut the hell up and listen to me, okay?”
He springs up off the couch and paces, agitated. Izuku watches in detached horror.
“I know it’s okay to be like this because I did my goddamn research and you hel—you helped me figure it out, but everything inside me screams I’m missing something!” Katsuki punches his hand into his fist with a meaty sound, and he’s trembling. “Something is fundamentally wrong inside me, because even though I’ve been like this all my life, other people are different.”
Katsuki hunches his shoulders, and only years of repaired friendship allows him to confess what he says next. “Everyone seems to think that I’m not enough. Sometimes I even f-fucking believe them.”
“You’ll—you’ll always be enough,” Izuku chokes out. He’s somehow on his feet and reaching out towards Katsuki. He closes the gap between them, and tentatively puts a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder. Katsuki flinches just the slightest bit, but this time he doesn’t throw it off. “You understand that, right? You’ll always be enough no matter what you identify as. What was your first emotion when you figured out you were ace?”
“Relief.” Katsuki bites his lip to make it stop quivering. Izuku doesn’t think any less of him for crying—if anything, it reminds him of how strong Kacchan is.
When Izuku realized he was queer, that there were others, that it wasn’t just him, he was hit with such a wave of euphoria and catharsis that he felt tears in his eyes and—
“Hey, Kacchan,” Izuku says, because they’re both trembling for different reasons and trying not to cry.
“What.”
“Can I crash here tonight? And...” Izuku picks at his fingernails. “You’d… you’d tell me if my dating jokes made you uncomfortable, right?”
“What do you take me for, a coward?” Katsuki sneers, but it’s shaky. “Of course. I think they’re funny, in a pathetic, eager puppy sort of way.” He takes a shaky breath. “And yeah. You can—you can stay. Just shower and take one of my sweats before you put your bare ass on the cushions.”
Katsuki tries for a fierce grin, but it’s more tired than anything else.
“And don’t get any ideas. You’ll never get to date me. It’s a privilege that’ll be granted to no one. What does Kirishima always say...?” He snaps his fingers. “Oh, yeah. Gay rights. But now it’s aro, so, uh—aro rights.”
There are dark circles under Katsuki’s eyes. The sparks are present, but they’ve burned to embers and it hurts to see. Izuku holds in a sigh. It’s been a long day, and nothing else is going to get done. Maybe tomorrow he’ll think of something that removes the misery from Katsuki’s face.
For now, Izuku pouts. “Never ever?”
Katsuki walks back over to the couch and tosses a blanket onto Izuku, covering his head entirely. “You’re sleeping on this couch tonight. It won’t even be hard on your back since Kirishima broke it in last week after he accidentally burned his fucking house down.”
Izuku spits out fleece. “I’m getting sloppy seconds?”
Katsuki throws him onto the couch, pins him down, and smothers him with a pillow.
-
The night passes and tomorrow becomes today. Katsuki gets dressed and walks Izuku to his house, because even when they bought places of their own, they made sure that they were near each other. Izuku changes out of his clothes, puts on his suit, and asks Katsuki to tie the tie. The train ride to the convention center is silent, and Katsuki’s foot taps on the floor as Izuku bites his nails.
They go inside the yawning entrance and are directed to an auditorium, where they sit together side by side as they call the top ten heroes one by one. Katsuki remains at Izuku’s side until they announce the number one hero.
It’s Izuku.
It’s not a surprise. He’s worked hard—harder than most, but not all, and he was lucky. His property damage is the lowest it’s been, and his successful saves are at an all-time high. He also saved the little girl last week, and a video of him fishing a cat out of a tree went viral and garnered hundreds of thousands of likes on Twitter, and it’s so fucking stupid—
But not unexpected. Almost all of the heroes from the generation before him have retired. Those that stuck around are immobile and mostly sticking to paperwork.
So… Izuku’s happy. At least, he thinks he should be. He rises from the auditorium seat, leaving Katsuki behind, and makes his way to the stage. He doesn’t stumble. He’s past having a lack of control over his body.
The crowd cheers and roars around him, filled with heroes who accept him but not Katsuki. Izuku walks on the stage, polished shoes clicking on the auditorium’s wooden floor, and shakes the hand of someone and accepts a certificate from someone else.
Photographers crowd him, and he’s pushed towards a stand with multiple microphones of various news channels. There’s the bright flare of flashbulbs, and the shouting of the reporters causes squealing feedback. Only experience forces Izuku to stand still and not flinch.
He tries to be present—forces a smile on his face because even though All Might says it gets easier every time, it doesn’t. All Might told Izuku many times that Izuku’s not All Might and shouldn’t aspire to be everything that the former Symbol of Peace represented and rather something different, and logically Izuku knows it should be true.
But he’s spent so much time analyzing the hero. When someone spends that much time and energy thinking about someone else, they absorb some of their essence. Izuku chose to assimilate himself as closely as he could to All Might’s image and gave up some independence and originality.
This logic doesn’t hold to Katsuki. Katsuki breaks every barrier and defies all expectations, and Izuku’s been with him his entire life. They’re so different from each other that to compare one to the other is a disservice to everything they are.
Isn’t part of everyone just an amalgamation of others? A person begins as themselves through their temperament and appearance and sexuality, but made who they are through life events. If Izuku hadn’t experienced what he’d gone through—suffered a little more, or hurt a little less—would he still be the same person he is today?
If he had a quirk, would he really be so different from the person he’s become? A quirk defines a person in the world that they live in—but as Izuku preaches to toddlers and middle schoolers and adults: it’s not what the quirk is, but rather what people do with it. Izuku of all people knows what can be done with quirks. What if, he thinks, what if…?
If he’d never met Katsuki, then he might’ve met All Might but wouldn’t have had a reason to meet him again. Izuku would’ve gone home and lived a normal life, maybe made some friends and became an accountant, had kids and died a normal death at a normal age. He’d never have received a quirk and made it into the hero course. He’d have gone to a tech school and found something else that he was good at, because he was determined and he can achieve anything he sets his mind to, and he learned that from Katsuki—
If he never met Katsuki, would Izuku have developed into the person he’s become? If he never realized he was queer through Katsuki, then would Izuku ever fully realized who he is? Because to Izuku, who he is and who he’ll become is just as important as anything he’ll ever do.
There are so many what ifs and what could’ve beens that it makes his head spin. His life has so many defining points that a different turn at any of them would’ve changed him irrevocably. What differs him from the infinite number of Dekus out there? What makes him the most interesting, the best, the one worth reading about out of the thousands out there?
He thinks that it’s probably not him that’s appealing—at least, not by himself.
“Deku?” someone asks him, and Izuku doesn’t respond.
His eyes are glazed, and he’s staring in the distance, because there in the audience is everyone he’s ever known, standing and throwing their hands up in the air. Someone has a party popper and there are confetti and streamers all over the floor. Some are dancing and a few are hugging each other. Izuku looks out at them, and there’s one word on all of their lips, and they’re repeating it from all over the room in every color and shape and size, and they’re all smiling at him and chanting, Deku, Deku, Deku!
“Deku?”
He’s not even there. Instead, he flashes back to the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the pool, where the water rippled hot and the air blew cold. Katsuki’s words echo back at him: It’s lonely at the top, okay? Just… remember that.
It’s not fair.
Katsuki should be here too. He deserves it just as much as Izuku. There are consequences to being ready to come out in a world that isn’t ready for you—and there shouldn’t be.
It’s not fair.
Izuku will make it so it will be. Something needs to be changed, and Izuku is now the number one hero. Who better to propose reforms and get shit done?
“I have so much work to do,” Izuku mutters, and for once he isn’t talking about villains or the yakuza or HPSC. “The hero society won’t know what hit it.”
“Okay?” a cameraman says.
Izuku shakes himself out of it and recites the speech he prepared a week ago before everything hit the fan. He’s been dreaming and practicing it ever since he was a kid, yet the words fall flat on his tongue. He doesn’t remember what he says. Probably nothing important to what he’s going to say next.
That night, he types out a post on Twitter. He’s about to post, and for a minuscule second, he hesitates. He should’ve done this a long time ago, because he’s been ready ever since he discovered who he was, but the rejection and discrimination he fears prevented him. He wanted the number one spot so badly, and once it was out, there was no taking it back. (Just like with Katsuki. Once people knew, that was it.)
He’s torn up inside, because deep down, he thinks that it’s kind of selfish to wait until after he’s won. But he didn’t know he was going to do this—he really didn’t. He was scared.
He is scared.
When Katsuki came out, the backlash was insane. Bad enough to drop him out of the top ten entirely. It’s stupid and discriminatory, and there wasn’t a single fucking thing Izuku could do about it. He’d been the one who encouraged Katsuki to be himself and follow his dream. Katsuki knew the consequences, but the truth is that there shouldn’t be consequences to showing the world who you really are.
Selfish, Izuku thinks, I’m so selfish, but he knows that Katsuki would tell him otherwise, because Katsuki is an ass but he’s a good person. Katsuki would tell Izuku that he wasn’t selfish, that coming out was his own decision and that Izuku shouldn’t put his neck on the block for the sake of him—even though Izuku continues to do so every day. Katsuki would say to come out when he’s ready.
(That, if anything, shows how much Katsuki has grown and how much they both have left to go.)
Izuku is ready. He’s been in hiding his entire life and it was safe, but now he’s going to thrust himself out there.
I can do more this way, Izuku tells himself. As the number one hero, he can do so much more. He can make the world better. But he needs to go through with it because this is the first shaking step.
Right before he hits post, he adds two sentences. The second one is: We have to be better—I have to be better so this never happens to someone again.
Izuku presses the button.
Thirty seconds later, his phone explodes with notifications. Izuku closes his eyes and breathes in, breathes out.
-
Exactly three days later, Izuku sends a cryptic text to Katsuki with a location and time. It’s not a secret location or undisclosed time—in fact, the last one to know about this is Katsuki, because Katsuki doesn’t check his social media unless his manager tells him too, and Izuku was very clear about keeping this a surprise.
Katsuki shows up, grumbling, only to be met with a giant mob of colors and flags. Katsuki visibly balks, but Izuku’s glad so many people came out to show their support. The street is bustling, loud and chaotic, almost bursting with life.
Izuku beams at him, although he’s shaky. Katsuki hasn’t contacted him the past few days, but that’s fine, right? It has to be fine. Izuku is here now and wearing a t-shirt that says this is my ace shirt and the word “ace” is an ace that’s found on a playing card.
“Stupid Deku,” Katsuki chokes out, hands over his mouth. He’s staring at the sheer amount of people, torn between the noise and the constant motion of the crowd. “Is all of Japan here?”
“Are you angry at me?” Izuku asks him. “I know it was shitty to come out right after the results, but I honestly thought of it right then and there. I know it’s selfish, but—”
Izuku hands Katsuki a muffin in saran wrap.
“You moron,” Katsuki says, taking it. He looks like he’s trying not to cry. “It’s not selfish, you idiot. Did you do this for me?”
“Yeah,” Izuku says. He gestures around them shakily. “Do you like it?”
Katsuki’s shoulders shake. He swipes angrily at his eyes. “This is for me?”
Izuku laughs, and it gets caught in his throat. “Do you know how hard it is to organize a parade—highlighting aces and aros, I may add—in three days?”
“You motherfucker…”
Izuku can’t stand to see Katsuki attempting to suck tears back into his face through sheer force of will, so he shoves a green, white, gray, and black shirt over his head. Katsuki’s head emerges from the top, sputtering as Izuku drags a black, grey, white, and purple cape over Katsuki’s shoulders.
“Happy pride month, Kacchan,” Izuku says and Katsuki maneuvers himself into the shirt. “Making the world better is really damn hard, but for now, let’s enjoy ourselves.”
Katsuki blinks away something from his eyes. Must be dust. “Okay,” he croaks out.
Izuku thinks that the memory of Katsuki’s teary smile as he looks around in awe is something he’ll remember. The moment seems inconsequential in the grand scheme of things—the two of them drowned in a wash of color—but just like memories, it's the seemingly unimportant things that stick, and vice versa. Katsuki coming out as aro-ace should’ve been a big deal and something that they remember forever, but it's not. It's just Katsuki, and he's the same.
What’s different—the only thing that changed—is that he finally identified a part of himself that was always there. What's important is their friendship and the small moments between them that stick, rather than the “supposedly momentous” event of coming out. People shouldn't need to come out, because that process of coming out as different from the norm is inherently isolating.
That’s another thing that they need to change. But for now—
“C’mon, it’s about to start!” Izuku throws an arm over Katsuki’s shoulder, and Katsuki leans into him.
“Let’s do this,” Katsuki says, carefully holding the muffin, and they start to move forwards along with everyone else.
They’ll see themselves on TV later. Some camera angles are taken from a drone; Izuku notices that from above, the parade blurs together until it’s not individuals and rather a rushing mass of water: loud, full of motion, and inevitable.
Still, Izuku manages to spot the two of them in the crowd. He peeks over and sees Katsuki looking at the screen and grinning. Izuku doesn’t bother hiding his own.
-
The people in the hole
They don't understand the people outside of the hole.
If we wanted to learn...
If we wanted to learn...
If we wanted to learn—
Could we?