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The comb running through Izuku’s hair was made of the teeth of a male komainu, with the roots of the bones slotted into notches carved onto a gleaming piece of wood. If Izuku could get his hands on his notebook, placed in his closed satchel a few feet away, he could flip to the page on komainu. They warded off evil, often came in pairs, and were virtually unseen by city folk, though barbarian clans occasionally celebrated the successful hunting of a pair. Kacchan had killed the pair whose teeth were used for the comb.
It was also Kacchan’s hands, adept in killing and bloodshed, that were gently running the comb through Izuku’s hair.
Kacchan, as if feeling Izuku’s sudden desire to scamper over to his satchel, paused his combing to lightly smack the comb onto his head. Ignoring Izuku’s instinctual ‘ow,’ he said, “Stay still, you damn city boy. I can hear you muttering and it’s annoying as shit.” Izuku, who hadn’t been fooled by Kacchan’s supposed irritability for months, made a small noise of apology before beginning to mentally recite all of the districts, territories, and counties under King Todoroki’s rule in alphabetical order. That would be the only way he’d be able to take his mind off of how close Kacchan’s crossed legs were to his back.
The white noise in Izuku’s mind (Aldera, Deika, Esuha—) was promptly shattered when Kacchan set down the comb to give Izuku’s now-smooth locks a few cursory rakes of his fingers before resuming with the comb.
Izuku was sure that his vest and collared shirt were soaked through with sweat at their proximity. Kacchan had foregone even his bare minimum of a fur pelt, leaving him bare-chested with the exception of a few clacking necklaces made of corals and quartz and peridot, all gathered over the course of his travels with the rest of his nomadic clan. The leather vambraces that usually covered his forearms were unbuckled and set aside in the tent they were seated in, revealing tattoos crawling up his arms. His breath hit Izuku’s neck in warm puffs as he ran the brush through green curls, and it was safe to say that Izuku wanted to die.
This wasn’t… a normal occurrence. Izuku wanting to die a blessed death because of his embarrassingly large crush on the fiery barbarian was nothing unusual, but the lack of distance was. The quiet of the tent, not even interrupted by outside forces, as if the world had stopped, was just as unusual. Most abnormal of all, however, was the silent struggle Izuku felt from the man behind him. It wasn’t like Kacchan to be so quiet, or to spend so long doing something as simple and mind-numbing as brushing hair.
“Kacchan,” Izuku began, throwing caution to the wind, “is there something wrong?” He grimaced the moment the words left his mouth. Kacchan would probably take them the wrong way, seeing them as a veiled sort of pity or offer of unneeded help, and then he’d kick Izuku out of his tent and then out of his temporary stay with the Bakugo clan, and then Izuku would be doomed to walk the ends of the Earth mourning his lost friendship over something as silly as hair combing, and then—
“Shut the fuck up. I’m gonna tell you a story.”
Izuku immediately brightened, straightening his back under Kacchan’s hands.
When Izuku had first met the clan, he had been working under the direction of King Todoroki to take record of the lands, flora, and cultures that lived in the less-explored outskirts of the Todoroki kingdom. As he travelled, he met a low-flying dragon shifter named Kirishima. When Izuku politely inquired about the general cultural practices of his clan (“Not if you don’t feel comfortable sharing, of course! It’s just that I’ve yet to meet a clan that has a dragon shifter, and your scales are absolutely stunning, do they have temperature fluctuation? Have you ever—”) he laughed and said, “Well, I think us Bakugo clansmen can tell a mean story. You wanna fly there? It’s not too far from here.” Izuku had never heard of such a clan and, disregarding every warning of stranger danger his mother instilled upon him since birth, he climbed onto Kirishima’s transformed back.
When they landed at the campsite of the clan, a large bonfire was roaring, surrounded by a circle of people. The leader, however, was evident: the blond man with a pelt around his shoulders, narrating a folk tale to the silent circle as the fire lit up vermillion eyes. His voice was deep and contemplative as he spoke about the sun god, Toshinori, and his epic struggles against the god of decay, who took on many names. Izuku, despite not knowing anything about the sun god or the beautiful man who spoke with the same burning intensity of the bonfire, was helplessly drawn into the story.
Now, months later and with significantly more knowledge of both of those powerful figures, Izuku smiled. Kirishima was right: Bakugo clansmen told wonderful stories, but Izuku’s favorites were always the ones told by Kacchan.
Kacchan cleared his throat, and his voice turned deeper, more emotive. His hands never stopped moving. “While the sun god Toshinori no longer resides on this realm with a form discernible to his subjects, he once carried a glorious vessel, cultivated by centuries of work and made strong by his heroic deeds. However, when Toshinori fought his fated battle with the god of decay, he sustained a life-altering injury.”
Izuku thought of the scars that littered Kacchan’s body, that still stretched and ached when the air turned frigid.
“Despite this injury, he still sought to provide light to his people. He was a beacon of hope for the farmers who needed sun for their crops, for the poor who faced cold and windy nights without the aid of a clan, and for anyone who was blessed to bathe in his light.”
Kacchan was the backbone of his tribe, Izuku knew. He spit curses and foul words to all of his fellow clansmen, but he was the same who stitched up Kirishima after a nasty crash, who told stories around a crackling fire to remind his people of their beginnings, of the power of their hopes and hard work.
“No one knew of his injury but a handful of gods that he regarded as his comrades and friends. Every day, when Toshinori would stumble back to his palace situated in the clouds, away from prying mortal eyes, his injury would cause his glorious form to collapse into one that was weak and emaciated. This form was beautiful in its own way, because the rays of the sun are blessings whether they are weak or strong, but performing small tasks was difficult in this weak shell.”
Kacchan’s body was beautiful. Only years of physical training, after all, would allow someone as young as him to challenge the former clan leader for his place. Izuku knows that he would love Kacchan if he sustained an injury like that of the sun god, one that turned his body into something it wasn’t today.
“When the other gods discovered how weak he truly became, they sought to do something about it. Kayama, the goddess of love, provided food. Hizashi, the god of music and language, provided entertainment. All of the gods who knew his secret worked to keep the spirits of the sun god up, because not only was he the beacon of hope for mortals, but he was for the gods as well. Still, no one gave him the thing he truly wanted, the thing he had desired for so long but was hesitant to ask for, even before his injury.”
What was it? What was it that Kacchan wanted most in the world, more than anything?
“One day, after arriving at his palace and collapsing into his weaker form, Toshinori found an unexpected guest: the god of the moon, Aizawa. There were no words exchanged between them. The stoic god simply held up a brush, made of the finest materials found in the heavens, and gestured towards Toshinori, who understood what Aizawa wanted. The moon god ran the brush through the sun god’s hair, each strand shining like a string of gold, and as the seconds passed, Toshinori’s form relaxed. The moon god had given Toshinori what he had wanted all along: the quiet intimacy of someone who cared about him, and the gentle touch of a loved one.”
Oh.
“And so, ever since then, the Bakugo clan regards the brushing of hair as a gesture of care, respect, and a willingness to show weakness to those you love.”
Oh.
A comb of the finest materials. A head full of curly green hair instead of woven gold. A stoic immortal, a hot-headed leader. A willingness to show weakness to a loved one. Izuku felt his body begin to shake minutely, like a leaf caught in a breeze. He looked down at his scarred, twisted hands as teardrops trickled off of his face. Izuku heard the clearing of a throat, and Kacchan’s voice was back to normal. “If you’re gonna reject me, at least do it to my face, shitty nerd.”
Izuku scrubbed away his tears before turning. Now, his and Kacchan’s knees were touching. Izuku wanted to laugh through his sniffles, because the blonde’s face looked as if it was torn between being angry, confused, and hopeful. Not breaking eye contact, Izuku blindly reached for the comb that the other had set aside. Feeling the smooth wood in his palm, he slowly lifted it up.
Izuku’s voice was quivering. “Can I?” He waved the comb around a little and felt his cheeks bunch into a smile as Kacchan’s messy amalgamation of expressions gave way to pure shock. His necklaces clicked against one another as he turned to bare the back of his head to Izuku, but his neck suddenly tensed.
“If you… I’m not—I didn’t do that as a friend, you know? I didn’t fucking brush your hair in a friendly way. That’s not what it means.” Izuku wanted to start crying again, but he sucked in a deep breath, barely reigning in the new onslaught of tears. “Don’t worry, Kacchan. I know what it means. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s all wrong. I don't have anything to… regret. I don’t regret feeling the way I feel for you, because I do feel for you. I’m not pitying you.”
With that, he ran the comb through Kacchan’s short hair with clumsy, inexperienced hands. Kacchan slowly relaxed under the back and forth of the comb, and Izuku recorded every second with greedy eyes. Was this how the moon god felt, Izuku wondered, when the sun god was at his mercy? Did he feel the stirring sensation of pride in being able to see his image of victory under his hands? In giving him what he had wanted all along?
Maybe he felt all those things, Izuku concluded. His brushing stopped, and he set aside the comb to place his hands on Kacchan’s shoulders in quiet request. His heart skipped as Kacchan, combative and contrary, obeyed by turning his back around to where they were face to face.
Maybe the moon god felt all those things, but it was only Izuku who got to ask: “Do you know what us city boys do to show intimacy?”
Izuku still felt the weak vines of disbelief around his heart, but the shock at the fact that oh my god, Kacchan likes me back was slowly making way for the overwhelming need to kiss Kacchan silly. Him being shirtless didn’t help abate the situation at all.
Kacchan’s cheeks filled with blood and he looked away. “‘M not dumb as shit, Deku. You people like to kiss or whatever, like a bunch of animals.”
“Kacchan,” Izuku laughed, happiness suddenly buoyant and airy in his chest, “you’re the one who serenaded me with a story and a comb, but you’re getting shy now? Cute.”
“Fuck off and fucking kiss me, you piece of dragon shit!”
Izuku inched closer and closer towards Kacchan until he was almost in his lap. Izuku’s voice was permeated with fondness. “Well, if you insist.”
When Izuku pressed his lips on Kacchan’s, it was clear that neither of them knew what to do for a second—Izuku, who had never kissed anyone, and Kacchan, who had only recently learned that kissing was something that people did and enjoyed outside of the clan—but a tilt of Izuku’s head and Kacchan wrapping his arms around Izuku’s waist sent them down a spiral of spit-slicked lips and parting only for desperate snatches of air before going back to kissing. Kacchan was clearly considering ripping off Izuku’s vest, buttons and all, so they could both be skin to skin, and Izuku was considering letting him when the flap to the tent flew open.
“GUYS, THEY DID IT, THEY WERE DOING THE THING, JIROU, WHAT WAS THE THING?”
“Kissing, you big lug!”
“THEY WERE KISSING!”
Kirishima didn’t sound as surprised as he did joyful, and he shot an apologetic glance at the pair. “Sorry, but we all thought you two had maybe died in there or something, but I can clearly see that’s not the case! Don’t mind me, you guys carry on, congra—” A pale hand, no doubt Jirou’s, yanked Kirishima out of the tent before he could continue. Izuku, still comfortable on Kacchan’s lap, blinked owlishly at the sudden whirlwind of an interruption.
“K-Kacchan?”
Kacchan tightened his grip around Izuku’s waist. “I might’ve told them to fuck off for a bit. So I could get my shit together.”
Izuku placed a chaste kiss on Kacchan’s lips, smiling at the way the blonde chased his lips before realizing what he was doing. “You wanted everything to be perfect, right, Kacchan? Because you were nervous.”
“Fuck off.”
“Love you too.”
Kacchan froze, clearly not expecting the way Izuku said it with ease. “Shut up, shitty nerd. I loved you first.”
“That can’t be possible, because I loved you ever since I saw you telling that story for the first time!”
Kacchan, knowing this was a game he would lose, shut Izuku up with a kiss. Izuku wouldn’t have had it any other way.