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The neighborhood is getting better.
Izuku can’t help but smile to himself as he walks down the block. The sunset paints the sky in front of him a brilliant mix of pinks and yellows. The darkness of twilight bleeds up from the horizon, and Street lamps flicker on one by one around him. Fat snowflakes flutter through their cones of light, bright and soft in their descent. Everything feels muffled and still and perfect, and Izuku is so happy that it almost hurts.
He’s not technically supposed to be patrolling this neighborhood. It’s a tiny little thing with a crime rate too high for how beautiful it is. It’s fallen to the wayside, not nearly at the top of the Hero Commission’s priority list, not with how busy the bigger cities keep everyone. People don’t linger outside, and they don’t look at you when they pass.
Or, at least, they hadn’t before Izuku had started checking in on them. He’d taken it on as a kind of pet project. It’s not on his official routes, and he doesn’t get paid for it. It eats into what little personal time he has after his shifts, but it’s worth it. People deserved to feel safe everywhere, didn’t they? They especially deserved to feel safe in their own homes. So if it takes Izuku an extra half an hour here and there just to make his presence known, it’s absolutely worth the time.
And it’s made a difference. He sees people on their porches, and in their backyards. They take walks, and they laugh together, and they smile more.
There are still incidents here and there, of course, but people know how to get a hold of him when it matters.
He’s rounding the last corner, about to peek down the last alley, and he hears a weak groan from the side-street to his left. He’s immediately alert, eyes finding the slumped figure in the shadow of a dumpster behind the building across the street. Lightning crackles at his heels as he bounds over, sliding to a stop in front of them.
“Are you alright, miss?” He asks gently, reaching for the young woman in front of him. She’s small, with fluffy, dark red hair and two curled horns. Her skin is a shade of blue that he can’t diagnose as hypothermic, or something natural to her quirk. Her head lolls back as he props her up with one arm. She’s wearing a mask on the lower half of her face. Her eyes flutter open to look at him.
They widen almost comically in surprise. He’s about to reassure her, about to reach for his phone to call the nearest clinic to have her looked over.
And her hand darts out to slap him hard across the face. Her sharp sting of her nails whips across his cheek.
A vicious chill spreads from that point of contact, flooding down into his chest and through his limbs, into his fingertips and down to his toes.
Izuku collapses.
The woman whimpers, shoving him off of her and scooting away frantically.
Izuku intends to get up and apologize for scaring her. He wants to tell her that he’d only meant to make sure she was okay and to get her somewhere safe.
But he can’t move.
He blinks, breathes hard through his nose, and tries to push himself up on his hands. But he doesn’t budge. His eyes dart around wildly.
The mystery woman is still on the ground in front of him.
And then two men appear from the shadow of the dumpster.
The one on the left is tall and blonde, and would appear non-threatening if not for the striking blood-red of his eyes. His pupils are pinpricks, nearly nonexistent.
And the one on the right is more snake than man. His scaled skin glints in the fading light, inky black with snapdragon yellow rings around his eyes.
His fingers end in cruel, sharp claws.
He makes choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a hiss, clapping in amusement as he rolls his neck. “Another successssssss,” he purrs.
And then he stops short, floundering when he spots their next supposed victim. The blonde man isn’t far behind him on the uptake, eyes widening, pupils growing to cover almost his entire iris.
The snake man bends to grab their female accomplice by one wrist, yanking her roughly to her feet. “What is thissssssssss?” He spits, forked tongue jumping out of his mouth, “Do you know who this issssss?”
“I- I didn’t-” she stutters, eyes filling with tears, “I panicked- I didn’t know!”
“What?!” The blonde man barks, and his deep voice is voice layered and distorted, “Didn’t know that you were about to paralyze Pro Hero Deku?”
So her quirk is some sort of paralytic. Touch based, obviously, most likely temporary. Izuku tries to reach for One for All. Gets nothing. He tries for Black Whip. Still nothing. His heart thunders wildly in his chest.
The blonde man shoves the snake man out of the way, grabbing the woman by the front of her shirt, “You thought we would rob the number two hero?” He booms. His head snaps to the other man, “This is your fucking fault. I told you she’d fuck this up for us. How many years did we go without her, huh? And we were fine!”
The snake man’s pupils narrow into slits, and a rattling, warning sound bubbles up from his throat. “Then we ditch her. Drop her back with her lowlife friendssssss. Find a new gig.”
“I- I can-” the woman babbles pathetically, “I can undo it!” She reaches a hand blindly toward Deku where he’s still crumpled on the ground.
“And what?” The blonde man asks dangerously, and his entire being seems to distort with his anger, “Apologize and hope that the merciful hero will let us go?” He barks out a vicious, layered cackle that sends a shiver down Izuku’s spine with how wrong it sounds, “How long does your quirk last?”
The woman fidgets, face pale, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Dread crawls down Izuku’s spine.
“How long?” The blonde man roars, shaking her harshly, and even the snake man shrinks back.
The woman whimpers hysterically, hands scrabbling at the fist still clenched in her shirt, “I don’t know! I- It- It’s different every time! I don’t know why! I don’t use it very often!”
The snake man rattles again, louder this time, clawed fingers coming up to turn her chin toward him, pressing harshly into her cheek, “An essssssstimate.”
She swallows visibly, chest heaving nervously, “It could be-” her eyes dart between them, flickering over to Deku briefly, “It could be a few minutes, or a few hours.”
The blonde man makes a sound unlike anything that Izuku has ever heard before. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Danger sense buzzes wildly in his skull in response.
They turn to look at Deku, face down, cheek pressed to the snowy alleyway.
“Fuck- fuck!” The blonde man growls. He yanks at the woman’s shirt, turning on his heel to drag her behind him toward the other end of the alley. The snake man follows him with one last lingering look at Deku.
The woman’s head whips back toward Deku, eyes wide and frantic, “Wait! Wait- Wait!” She shrieks, “We can’t just leave him here! He’ll freeze!”
“Of coursssssssse we can,” The snake man says, “He just better hope it wears off ssssssssoon.”
And then they’re gone, lost to the long shadows of the alleyway.
Izuku takes a deep breath, and then another, and tries to think. He reaches for his quirks again, but they don’t come. He tries to wiggle his fingers, his toes, tries to clench any single muscle in his body. He tries to move his eyebrows, to wiggle his nose, anything. He can blink, he can control his breathing, he can swallow. He can’t move his tongue.
He makes note of these things, gathers it together in his head. He’d been too distracted when they’d been in front of him that he can’t remember whether or not he’d been able to do those three things two minutes ago.
Her quirk is a paralytic. She’d activated it by touching him. It seemed like she’d be able to deactivate it by touching him again, but otherwise it would wear off on its own. Is it a toxin? Is it more powerful because she’d drawn blood when she’d scratched his cheek open? Does it have to do with how much contact she’d made with his skin? Is it at all proximity based? With the quirk snap to an end if she gets far enough away?
Izuku continues to try to wiggle his fingers, to no avail.
Snow continues to fall around him, the last streaks of color in the sky succumb to the dark of night, and Izuku shivers.
There’s snow underneath him, and there’s snow piling onto his back. It slowly starts to soak through his suit, and when the chill of it reaches his skin, he shivers again.
And then it occurs to him.
Nobody knows he’s here.
Izuku hadn’t told anybody that he’d be patrolling this neighborhood after his shift today. For all anybody knew, if they were trying to contact him, he might just be taking a well-deserved rest after a long shift.
He tries to settle the panic that threatens to bubble up into his throat and make him hyperventilate.
Snowflakes melt against his cheek, the water rolling down to drip off his jawline. He supposes his position could be worse. He’s on his side, vaguely curled into the fetal position. That should help to maintain some semblance of his body heat for longer than it would were he laying flat on his back or stomach. And his bare skin isn’t touching the ground, so he shouldn’t have to worry about frostbite from direct contact with the frozen ground. His gloves and socks are thick. The cold bites into his extremities first, but he still has a while to go before he’s in danger of frostbite.
He tries to breathe shallowly, to conserve his heat and energy, not to let too much cold air in to chill him from the inside.
He keeps trying to pull at his quirks, keeps trying to move his fingers, hoping that this might be the time that they twitch into movement for him.
Izuku’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he hopes it’s someone asking him where he is, and not Todoroki asking him to explain another meme to him.
He prays that his presence has made somebody, anybody, feel safe enough to walk around this neighborhood at night, so they might find him.
He wonders if his friends had really been paying attention when he’d babbled on and on to him about this place.
Izuku wonders if he’s going to die here.
And wouldn’t that be ironic, really? To survive a war against the incarnation of evil, the thing that his quirk was created to defeat, only to freeze to death at the hands of a terrified woman who hadn’t even really intended to hurt him.
Wouldn’t it be such a terrible thing, to die, and to not be able to fight it as he’d fought everything else that his life had tried to drop on him?
Wouldn’t it be so awful, to never see his mother again, to prove her right in worrying about him? To let All Might feel as though he were responsible, because hadn’t he given Izuku the means to be in this very spot at this exact moment? To not be able to thank Ochako, and Tenya, and Shouto for their unwavering friendship, to let them know how grateful he was for their loyalty? To not be able to tell Kacchan-
And even the start of that thought takes his breath away. He’d been tamping it down, resolutely refusing to address it to himself. But really, what else did he have to lose? His head is already swimming, hazy with cold and fear and regret. There’s no sense in lying to himself now.
To not be able to tell Kacchan how much he meant to him. How endlessly thankful Izuku is that after all these years, they’ve managed to fix things. That they finally finally finally understand each other. That they’re friends, best friends. That Izuku doesn’t have to hide from Kacchan and Kacchan doesn’t have to hide from Izuku. That they’re everything that Izuku has ever wanted them to be-
And that’s where Izuku cuts himself off. That’s where he’s been lying to himself. He’s too selfish to let this be everything that he wants. He’s too selfish not to want more. And really, how is he supposed to be anything but selfish when it comes to Kacchan? When his personal symbol of all things beautiful and heroic and good finally feels human and attainable and sees him?
How can Izuku not be in love with Katsuki Bakugo?
Izuku gasps, tries to steady himself against the onslaught of emotion in admitting that to himself. He’s known for years, of course. Kept it cradled somewhere deep and dark, clamped tight behind walls and waves of refusal and misdirection and excuses.
But there’s no use now, right? He’s dying, after all. If he can’t admit it to Kacchan, he might as well admit it to himself. He doesn’t have to be scared of it, because nothing else has ever been so true in his life.
His suit is about soaked through by now, and his shivers, involuntary as they are, are becoming more and more violent as his body tries to generate any amount of warmth. His scarred fingers ache, stiff and almost burning with how cold they feel.
Well, at least his socks are still dry.
He’s sure that he’s imagining the crunching sound that echoes behind him. Because it almost sounds like footsteps in the freshly fallen snow, and Izuku has made peace with a few facts in the time that he’s laid there.
He can’t say goodbye to any of his loved ones.
He’s in love with Katsuki Bakugo.
He’s going to die here.
So there can’t be anybody coming to rescue him.
But the crunching continues, and there’s something that sounds like an irritated sigh. It makes him think of Kacchan, and he wants to sob.
And then there’s a string of swears, everything to remind him of what he’s going to lose when he dies, and the crunching gets faster, and louder.
And someone is skidding to a stop behind him. He glances up, vision blurry, and suddenly he feels angry.
He can’t even die in peace. His subconscious has to taunt him one final time. What’s next? His mom? All Might?
There’s no way Kacchan is dropping to his knees beside him, rolling him over and pulling him in to cradle him in one arm. His lips are moving, but Izuku can’t really hear what he says. He’d frown if he could.
Hallucination Kacchan slaps him across the face.
Izuku blinks harshly, and the ringing in his ears dissipates.
Oh, maybe he isn’t a hallucination. His other hallucinations of Kacchan never slap him.
“The fuck, Deku?” Katsuki asks.
But Izuku can’t answer him. He remembers to try, but he still can’t move even his fingertips, still can’t call his quirks. He tries to convey anything at all with his eyes, flickering over Katsuki’s face wildly.
Katsuki lets out a few other choice words that would usually make Izuku blush
“You’re fucking freezing,” he frowns harshly, “You tryin’ to get hypothermia?”
Izuku just stares up at him, hoping to convey anything at all with just his eyes, explanations and excuses and apologies springing to the forefront of his mind.
Katsuki jostles him a bit, half a sneer curling at his lips.
“What? Nothin’ to fuckin’ say for once?” He snorts, rolling his eyes, “Someone finally found your fuckin’ off button?”
Izuku still can’t do anything more than watch him. The feeling of being trapped starts to creep up his spine, hot and unsettling. He feels small and powerless in a way that he’d never experienced; not in all his life, not even during his lowest moments when he’d been quirkless. There were times that he’d felt trapped in his own body, but never this literally. It’s an entirely different sense of weakness. His head starts to swim.
A terrible thought comes to him, unbidden.
What if the quirk never fades?
What if he’s stuck like this forever?
His breathing quickens against his will.
Katsuki must see something in his eyes. The smirk slides from his face, and his eyebrows knit together.
“What the fuck happened?” He asks, quiet and serious.
A moment of expectant silence.
Izuku wants to answer him so badly. To apologize and explain and get up to take care of it all himself.
“Fuck,” Katsuki hisses.
He shoves one arm under Izuku’s knees, tightens his hold around Izuku’s back, and gets to his feet. He takes a moment to adjust and settle him comfortably.
“You’re heavier than you fucking look, you know,” he complains as though he hadn’t just hoisted Izuku up like he weighed nothing at all, “The fuck? You sit around and eat bricks all day?”
Izuku might’ve laughed at that on any other occasions. But as it stands, he can’t manage more than a slight huff of breath through his nose. Besides, he’s more preoccupied with how warm Katsuki is. It's nearly enough to burn. His eyes nearly roll back in his head at how good it feels after how horrifically cold he’d been.
Katsuki hesitates there for a moment.
“If I take you to the hospital, they’re gonna fuckin’ suspend you,” he sighs heavily.
Dread settles in Izuku’s stomach. Katsuki is right. Five years of pro hero experience hadn’t tamed his recklessness or stymied his penchant for landing himself in the hospital. Their agency doesn’t take very kindly to these habits, and after the last one, their director had warned him that any future incidents that were a result of his impulsive behavior would incur penalty.
“It would be a shame to take you out of the field, Deku,” she’d said gravely, “But you’re no good to anybody dead. You have to keep yourself safe if you’re going to keep anybody else safe. And you have people who care about you. If not for yourself, do it for them.”
Izuku burns with disappointment thinking about it.
“You can’t make anything easy, can you?” Katsuki grumbles, “The fuck am I supposed to do with this shit? I don’t even know what the fuck is wrong with you!”
He sighs heavily, and starts walking.
Izuku’s head is still fuzzy, but he has enough presence of mind to understand that he’s completely at Katsuki’s mercy. He can’t do anything to protect himself, and he can’t say anything about what he needs or how he’s feeling. He has to rely entirely on Katsuki’s decisions.
And really… that’s not so bad.
Katsuki will make the right choices. He’ll do the best he can. Izuku is long past the time in his life where he’d be terrified to leave his life in Katsuki’s hands.
Izuku’s eyelids droop. He trusts Katsuki with his life. He comes to the slow realization that he feels safe. That he is safe.
Whatever Katsuki chooses, Izuku knows he’s going to be okay.
~
Izuku flits in and out of consciousness while Katsuki walks and complains, lulled by the steady cadence of his footsteps and the low hum of his voice.
He doesn’t pay much mind to where they’re going until they’re at the front door of their shared apartment.
At age 15, Izuku wouldn’t have believed for even a second that Katsuki was okay with sharing a dorm building with him, let alone that someday Katsuki would approach him with the offer to share an apartment. Well, it was less of an offer and more of Katsuki stomping up a month before graduation and demanding that Izuku sign the lease with him because the building was close to their new agency and he was “the only shithead that I won’t end up punting into the fucking sun.”
He can’t quite comprehend how Katsuki manages to support him and fish his keys out of his pocket, unlock, and open the door, but it’s not as though he could help if asked, so he lets it stay Katsuki’s problem.
The apartment is warm. Katsuki has never been fond of the cold, to put it lightly. And Izuku has to agree that it’s nice to come home after a long winter patrol to that warmth.
He stays in his dreamlike state while Katsuki sets him down on the couch and stalks off. It’s easy to drift and doze until Katsuki comes back an announces “You’re gonna get sick if you stay in that suit. It’s fuckin’ soaked and I’m not listening to your dumb ass whine over a shitty little cold.”
At that, Izuku’s eyes snap open, and he breathes in sharply through his nose. Katsuki has returned with a towel and what looks to be a fresh stack of clothes.
He can’t respond to protest and demand that Katsuki absolutely does not have to do that and can definitely leave him to die on the couch. So Katsuki hesitates awkwardly for a second, and drops the things he’s holding next to Izuku.
He kneels down and sets about unlacing Izuku’s boots. The laces are all but frozen into the knots he’d tied them in this morning. He gets them undone eventually, and wiggles the boots off Izuku’s feet. And then he looks up incredulously.
“Are these my fucking socks?”
Izuku feels his cheeks heat up despite himself. It’s great to know that he can still blush in this ridiculous state.
So he’d stolen Katsuki’s socks, sue him! They’d been in his laundry basket and they were thicker and warmer than his own. He knew he’d be out for a long patrol. And so what if he’d spent a good fifteen minutes thinking about how horrifically domestic it was that they did their laundry together.
“Hah,” Katsuki huffs, “You don’t listen, and you won’t buy your own, but you’ll fucking steal mine. S’ the only reason your stupid feet are still fucking dry, you know. Fuck you.”
Katsuki grumbles in complaint as he tugs the offending socks off Izuku’s feet, and Izuku can’t help but, for what must be the millionth time since they’d moved in together, reflect upon the changes that Katsuki has gone through as they’ve grown up.
At age fifteen, Izuku would have been sucker punched to high hell for even accidentally being in possession of one of Katsuki’s possessions. And Katsuki would have blown up said possession after Izuku had returned it for good measure.
But the passage of time and their growing closeness had softened Katsuki into something that high school Izuku wouldn’t have recognized as the same person. At age 23, Izuku escapes his theft of Katsuki’s clothes with some light ribbing, and an insult that Katsuki doesn’t even really mean.
And as it stands, Izuku can’t help the way his mind wanders to the thought of borrowing Katsuki’s other clothes. Like the Dynamight prototype long sleeved shirt that their agency’s director had sent to Katsuki for his approval. It had been the only one that Katsuki hadn’t exploded in dissatisfaction. It had been a sleek black, minimal in its branding, and ridiculously soft. The design hadn’t made it onto the market, but Izuku knows that Katsuki keeps it tucked in the back of his top dresser drawer.
Katsuki had forbidden Izuku from buying his hero merch (he’s oblivious to the box of it stuffed in under Izuku’s bed, nearly too full to close). It’s the only piece of Dynamight memorabilia that Izuku doesn’t own. So just once, he’d like to curl up on the couch in that shirt, warm and content, and watch the face Katsuki might make at the sight of it.
Katsuki keeps mumbling while he lifts the tattered yellow cape from Izuku’s shoulders and folds it neatly to place on the opposite end of the couch. Izuku spares a moment of affection for Katsuki’s obvious show of care for Izuku’s most treasured piece of his hero suit. His gloves are tossed to the ground momentarily, and Katsuki hisses when he makes contact with Izuku’s bare fingers.
“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” He says quietly, and his palms are so hot against Izuku’s hands that it hurts. His fingers are nearly purple, stiff and swollen from nearly being frost bitten. Anybody else would get stuck on the lack of Katsuki’s usual bite in that insult, and miss the tinge of concern, of fear, that lay underneath. He watches Katsuki cradle one crooked, scarred hand in both of his own. Even if he could respond, Izuku would have nothing to say.
Katsuki sighs, and pushes himself up from the ground to brace one knee on the edge of the couch, between Izuku’s thighs. Ah, he’d almost forgotten. Katsuki is going to have to take off his soaking wet suit. Being in warm, dry clothes sounds almost heavenly. It’s the getting there that’s the problem. But Izuku can’t exactly do it himself.
Katsuki hesitates briefly, averting his eyes.
“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that. Actually, don’t fuckin’ look at me at all,” Katsuki snaps, folding his arms tightly over his chest.
“What, I’m gonna carry you all the way here and let you die of hypothermia on the fuckin’ couch?” He continues, and leans to tug Izuku forward until he’s braced against Katsuki’s shoulder. “Coulda just left you in the fuckin’ alley for that. Stupid green popsicle.”
Izuku tries to calm his internal panic when Katsuki’s fingers catch on the hidden zipper of his suit and tug it down his back. He almost has to peel the fabric from his chilled skin. Katsuki’s fingertips drag over his spine, leaving a vicious trail of heat in their wake.
On any other occasion, Izuku would be over the moon about this development. He’s well past lying to himself. He can admit that he’s thought once, or twice, or a billion times about having Katsuki pressed close like this. Sure, his face is buried in Katsuki’s neck, and Katsuki is sliding his arms out of his hero suit, but it’s not in the way he wants.
“And what’s the big fucking deal anyway?” Katsuki grumbles, “Known you since we were four. Had to change in the same stupid locker room how many fuckin’ times.”
Once his top half is freed, Katsuki leans Izuku back against the couch. Izuku is relieved that, despite his protesting that it’s nothing, there’s still a slight flush sitting high on Katsuki’s cheeks.
“Coulda called your fuckin’ mom to do it instead,” he smirks, “Or All Might. Idiot’s basically your dad anyway.”
Izuku could die of shame at how embarrassing it would be to have All Might take care of him like this.
But he smiles a little to himself at Katsuki’s rambling. He may complain about Izuku’s muttering, but Katsuki himself has a tendency to word vomit when he’s overwhelmed. Throwing little insults and jabs to take the attention off himself.
He wiggles Izuku’s suit down his legs, cursing at the way the heavy, sopping wet fabric gets stuck every few inches. He finally divests Izuku of it with a triumphant “Hah!” And tosses it to the floor with his other clothes, where it lands with a heavy thump.
Leaving Izuku in only his underwear, Katsuki’s eyes give him a sweeping once over. Izuku feels horribly exposed, wishes he could curl into a ball to stave off the feeling of vulnerability, and the chill of self-consciousness. He knows he’s no slouch in his training, and his physique reflects that. Tons of people have seen him in various states of undress through gym classes and accidents in the field that have left his costume in tatters. But it’s different when it’s Katsuki looking. It’s different when Izuku cares about what he finds.
Katsuki doesn’t comment, and instead his face flushes further. He seems to set his shoulders, mouth pressing into a hard line. He stares determinedly at Izuku’s collarbone, and reaches forward to grab the waistband of Izuku’s underwear.
Izuku stops breathing for a few seconds, heart thundering stupidly, head swimming with anxiety and panic. He wants nothing more than to bat Katsuki’s hands away and tell him he doesn’t have to do this. But Katsuki is already shimmying the fabric over his hips, yanking it out from under him roughly, and easing it down his legs. It goes mercifully faster than his suit had. He’s endlessly appreciative that Katsuki is silent. That he doesn’t poke or prod or tease him here.
And he can’t help the way his brain whirls over the fact that Katsuki is just as affected by their situation as Izuku is himself. He tries not to hope too hard that Katsuki’s face is flushed with more than just embarrassment. Tries not to make something more of Katsuki taking care of him than what it is.
Katsuki pointedly keeps his eyes trained on Izuku’s collarbone, cheeks redder than Izuku has ever seen him, opting to feel blindly for the pile of clothing to Izuku’s side. And then he’s pulling another pair of underwear back up over Izuku’s hips.
Then Katsuki is tossing a towel over Izuku’s head, not leaving any room for an awkward pause, and ruffling it over his wet hair. Izuku lets himself breathe out, and gratefully takes the moment to try to compose himself. When Katsuki finally lifts the towel to drag it over his skin, he feels at least marginally calmer than before. Katsuki’s face is carefully impassive, but the tips of his ears still look red. An involuntary shiver wracks through Izuku’s body, even in the warmth of their apartment.
Katsuki huffs, and tosses the towel at the soggy heap that is Izuku’s hero uniform. He grabs at the pile of clothes, and dangles a pair of socks in front of Izuku’s face, the same kind that Izuku had swiped from their laundry this morning.
“Buy your own next time, you fucking mooch,” He grumbles in a voice that very much makes it sound like he knows Izuku will be stealing these particular socks whenever he gets the opportunity.
A pair of thick black sweatpants are next. Izuku doesn’t remember anything he’s ever owned feeling this comfortable before. It feels incredible to be in something dry again. He lets his eyes slip closed momentarily.
They snap back open at the feeling of Katsuki’s palm worming its way between his spine, and the back of the couch. The pads of his fingers press into the knobs of Izuku’s spine, tugging him forward so that Katsuki can manhandle him into a shirt. Katsuki struggles to get his arms through the long sleeves, huffing and cursing under his breath.
And it’s so endearing, to watch the tiny frown that pulls at Katsuki’s mouth. The furrow of his eyebrows, the absolute focus in his eyes. No matter the task, how small or insignificant it might be, he needs to get it right. His mouth twitches up lightly once he gets Izuku’s hands through the sleeves, smoothing the shirt over Izuku’s shoulders absently to straighten it. Affection blooms viciously in Izuku’s chest, sits heavily around his lungs.
Izuku is struck by the enormity of how badly he wishes that this could be anything else. Something that Katsuki isn’t doing because he has to, because he can’t just let his hero partner die. Not because Izuku is halfway to hypothermia, and it’s either this, or a hospital visit that ends with a suspension that will only complicate Katsuki’s own job. Not because it’s just the best option.
He wishes, so desperately that he can barely breathe when Katsuki meets his eyes, that Katsuki was doing this because he wanted to. Because he wants to take care of Izuku. Because he can’t stand to see him hurt. Because he’d do anything to make sure that Izuku was safe.
Because he wants Izuku in the same way that Izuku wants him.
Katsuki’s eyes narrow for a split second. “The fuck is that look for? What, this shit suddenly not good enough for you?” He raps his knuckles against Izuku’s chest. “Never shut the fuck up about it before. Didn’t you wanna wear it so badly?”
Izuku can’t tilt his chin down to look at his chest, but he recognizes the orange cuffs of the sleeves, the stitching that matches it. It’s the shirt. The shirt. The one piece of Katsuki’s hero merch that he’d resigned himself to never having. And he’d been so busy wallowing in what he thought Katsuki would never give him to pay attention to what Katsuki was giving him.
He’s selfish. So goddamn selfish. Always wanting more. Never satisfied with what Katsuki gives him.
“Damn,” Katsuki drawls, sighing dramatically, “Guess I’ll fuckin’ take it back.”
And the look in Izuku’s eyes must be enough to accurately convey his absolute panic and plea for Katsuki to do no such thing, because he snorts and rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, whatever dork,” he ruffles Izuku’s hair, shoving at his lightly, “Fuckin’ keep it. Already been stealing my shit, was only a matter of time anyway.”
He slides his hand down to press the backs of his knuckles to Izuku’s neck, frowning, “Still too fucking cold.” Katsuki glares at Izuku like he’s actively choosing not to warm up faster as a personal offense to him.
He sighs, long suffering and exhausted, and stands, joints popping in protest from the time he’d been crouched at Izuku’s feet. And then he stoops back down to scoop Izuku up in his arms for the second time that day. Izuku is lucid enough to fully appreciate Katsuki’s strength. He’s not exactly light, packed with dense muscle to handle the strain of One for All. Yet Katsuki barely huffs out an exhale.
“Gettin’ real tired of carrying your ass around like a stupid fuckin’ green pillow pet,” he gripes, “Yeah, Yeah- ‘Sorry Kacchan!’ What the fuck ever,” he raises his voice in a mock impression of Izuku’s constant apologies.
There’s no heat behind any of Katsuki’s jabs, just there to fill the silence that Izuku would otherwise be stuffing with endless apologies. Katsuki isn’t wrong. But then, he never is, not when it comes to Izuku. He wonders what that should make him feel, the fact that Katsuki can read him so well only by the look in his eyes, to know exactly how he’d be reacting in these moments, that he knows precisely when to stop his teasing.
And again, Izuku has to plead with himself to not make more of this than it is. After all, Katsuki might still feel like he owes his lifelong friend a handful of favors for his early mistakes.
And surely, that’s all this is, isn’t it?
They may be friends, best friends, even. They’re hero partners. They live together, coexist naturally, and it’s comfortable. But understanding that they’re better then they’re not at each other’s throats is a far cry from Katsuki feeling the same depth and intensity of care for Izuku that he feels for Katsuki.
And this is precisely why Izuku hadn’t been thinking about it, he acknowledges bitterly to himself. If he holds these feelings at arms length, he doesn’t have to admit how breathtakingly painful it is to understand that they’ll surely never be returned.
And it hurts, to know what it is to have his face pressed into Katsuki’s neck, to breathe him in, to know that there’s nobody he trusts more than Katsuki to have just taken care of him like that.
He doesn’t dare to give himself hope, tries not to acknowledge that he can’t fathom Katsuki doing this for any of his other friends.
But now that he’s admitted his feelings to himself, half-dead and frantic, it’s the only thing that he can think about.
Izuku’s not sure he’s going to survive this experience, that he’ll be able to live with the way that things will surely go back to normal when this quirk wears off. Katsuki will undoubtedly tell him not to ever mention this again, and Izuku won’t be able to look at a pair of his stupid socks without waiting to burst into tears.
Katsuki kicks open the door to his bedroom, jostling Izuku out of his thoughts.
“I can fucking feel you thinking,” he grumbles, “Knock it the fuck off.”
Katsuki’s room is comfortable, with its dark wood and shades of burnt orange. Different from Izuku’s own startlingly bright All Might shrine of a bedroom. Katsuki has a taste for finer things. Everything he owns is carefully chosen to be wildly comfortable, but look effortless.
This holds true for the plush comforter that Katsuki is shoving down the bed with his heel, balancing on one foot.
“You’re making this really fucking difficult, you know that?” He huffs.
And Izuku wishes he could tell him that he doesn’t need to burden himself further. That he could just drop him into his own bed and wrap him in his own blankets and just hope he’d be fine by the morning.
“Still love to know what the fuck you did to end up like this,” Katsuki says sharply, probably to distract Izuku from the way that he settling them both down onto the mattress, adjusting the pillows so he can recline himself against them and settle Izuku’s back to his chest. “Found your stupid ass face down in a pile of fucking snow and you can’t even tell me what bullshit you did to get there,” he scolds, to cover for the way his hand presses into Izuku’s chest while he leans forward to pull the comforter over both of them.
“Stupid fucking thing is too fucking warm,” Katsuki spits.
He knows Katsuki can never manage to actually sleep under it, and it ends up balled at the end of the bed. And yet he doesn’t get rid of it, opting to make his bed every morning and kick it off again at night. Why keep it if it’s such a nuisance?
‘You bought it for him,’ Izuku’s brain helpfully supplies. And… Surely Katsuki wouldn’t keep it just for that reason. When they were moving in, Izuku had stumbled upon it when shopping for his own room. It had probably cost him a little bit too much money, but it was soft and luxurious and matched Katsuki’s other things too well to pass up.
Katsuki had snatched it from him with a gruff thank you, terrible at accepting gifts as always, and stomped away to his room with it.
And now here Izuku sits, wrapped up in the same comforter that he’d given to Katsuki all those months ago, wearing Katsuki’s clothes, leaned back against Katsuki’s chest.
His head is settled back against Katsuki’s shoulder, Katsuki’s cheek pressed to his temple. Katsuki is a long line of heat pressed to his back.
“You’re like a fucking ice cube,” he murmurs, reaching down absently to grab at one of Izuku’s hands and examine it for signs of frostbite.
They still ache, his bones creaking when Katsuki bends each of his fingers. “Fucking idiot,” he sighs, knocking his cheek against Izuku’s temple. His hands are warm, and devastatingly gentle as he rubs his thumbs in circles against Izuku’s palm. He slowly massages the feeling back into Izuku’s crooked fingertips. After an eternity in which Izuku barely dares to breathe, lest Katsuki realize exactly what he’s doing and stop, Katsuki tucks that hand back down beneath the blanket, and reaches for the other one.
All Izuku can do is watch. Watch the way that his scarred, battered hand fits into Katsuki’s broad ones. The swipe of Katsuki’s thumbs against his knobbly knuckles. He feels no fear when Katsuki cradles his hand between his deadly palms. Only quiet safety.
And then it’s all too much. The feeling of Katsuki’s skin on his own. The rise and fall of Katsuki’s chest against his back. The thrum of Katsuki’s pulse ringing in his ears. The smell of him, heat and cinnamon and caramel, straight down into Izuku’s lungs.
He’d never have let this happen if he’d been able to help it. Nobody should have to take care of him. Nobody should have to deal with his mistakes. They’re his own, borne of his own poor judgment and back decisions. He shouldn’t slow anyone else down.
Especially not Katsuki.
Izuku’s knows he’s not worth waiting for.
Izuku swallows hard, slamming his eyes shut. He desperately wants to be something more than a constant disappointment. He should be more than a useless thing in need of constant support.
But Izuku is selfish. And he wants. Nothing he ever gets is good enough. He always wants more. He wants Katsuki to fight through all of his self-sacrificial bullshit and show him that he’s worth being cared for. To have Katsuki want to take care of him.
And this is so close to everything he wants, everything he can never have for real. Now that he’s had it, he doesn’t know how he’s going to pretend it never happened. It’s so good. Better than anything he’s ever imagined. He can’t simply be happy with a knowledge of what it would be like to be wanted back. He has to have it forever.
He has to wonder what it would be like to be able to hold Katsuki back. To be able to turn and bury his face into Katsuki’s neck, to press his nose to the space behind his ear, to smile against the point of his jaw.
What is it like, to have Katsuki smile at him like he’s the only good thing in the world?
How might Katsuki kiss him? Unhurried and gentle, like Izuku is the only thing that he doesn’t have to rush toward? Frantic and eager, like they’d wasted too much time getting here and have to make up for it?
Shame and longing burn in his chest, irritatingly contradictory, settling like a rock in his stomach, choking him in their intensity.
And fuck him, his tear ducts still work. Tears well up hotly at the corners of his eyes, sliding down his cheeks in messy tracks and soaking the collar of his borrowed shirt.
And still, Katsuki’s fingers pressing into the back of his hand feels so good that it sets his teeth on edge. He feels too big for his own skin. He’d do anything to keep this.
He’d beg. He wishes he could slot his fingers through Katsuki’s own, just to see what would happen. He feels nearly frenzied with the need to tell Katsuki precisely what he means to him, to speak it into existence. It’s too much for him to hold within himself, a feeling too big to keep constricted around the wild pounding of his heart.
In that exact moment, Izuku thinks it barely matters anymore, what would happen afterward, as long as he gets to tell Katsuki at least once. It’s overwhelming, being so desperately in love. He feels drunk with it, heady and warm and dizzy.
And then as suddenly as it had come, the desperate need to blurt out his feelings evaporates, and Izuku is grateful for his current predicament. He’s struck with terror at the idea that he would have ruined everything that they’d built together up to this point by pushing his confession onto Katsuki, spurred on by Katsuki simply trying to make sure he doesn’t die.
Don’t make this more than it is.
Izuku feels absolutely miserable.
Katsuki finally finishes massaging the icy stiffness from Izuku’s fingers, tucking that hand back under the blanket as well, settling it on his stomach and laying his own over it. He wraps his free arm around Izuku’s shoulders, and flinches when tears drip from Izuku’s chin onto his forearm. He freezes, stops breathing as the tears roll over his skin to disappear into the fabric of Izuku’s shirt.
It’s deathly silent for a long moment, and then Katsuki is moving to turn Izuku in his arms, just enough to look at his face. Izuku watches Katsuki’s eyebrows furrow. The hand that isn’t holding him upright reaches upward. He catches a tear with the pad of his thumb, swipes the curl of his index finger at the tears that threaten to drip from Izuku’s chin.
It’s so soft. There’s something in Katsuki’s eyes that Izuku can’t quite read, something concerned and displeased. His mouth twitches downward just so.
And Izuku hates himself for thinking about how easy it would be to lean forward and brush their mouths together. He wonders if he’d be able to resist the pull of it, were he able to move.
He finds himself wanting to apologize again. For Katsuki having to take care of him, for his tears, for how badly he wants more than this, for the way he can’t just accept what he’s given. For how horribly, ridiculously in love he is. And when Izuku reaches for this voice, this time he finds it.
“Sorry…” Izuku gasps out, ragged and horrible, “Kacchan.”
Katsuki’s eyes go wide, then narrow, and he frowns harshly, baring his teeth. Izuku just can’t seem to stop disappointing him.
“Bullshit,” Katsuki growls, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Sorry,” Izuku sobs, whole body shuddering with it.
“Don’t fucking apologize,” Katsuki hisses, shaking him lightly, “Just tell me what happened!”
Izuku takes a hiccuping breath. There’s enough feelings in his fingers for him to ball his hands into fists. “Shouldn’t- have to-” he says haltingly, and it feels like sandpaper in his throat.
“Apologize to me one more fucking time, Deku,” he spits, “I’ll throw you out the fucking window. You’ll be right the fuck back where you started.”
So instead Izuku’s eyebrows pinch together, lip quivering, and he says, “Thanks… Kacchan.”
“So help me god,” Katsuki roars, “You think I do anything I don’t wanna do? You think I woulda sat here and done all this bullshit if I didn’t fucking give a shit?”
And if that doesn’t cut right down into the heart of Izuku’s problem. He tries again, to remind himself that Katsuki doesn't want him to die, and it doesn’t mean more than than that. Izuku opens his mouth again, but Katsuki cuts him off.
“I will explode your fucking face off,” he threatens. “Tell me what happened, or I’m going to smother you with a fucking pillow.”
Izuku swallows, throat burning from disuse, “Civilian… faking hurt… criminals…” his chest aches as the feeling floods back into it, hot and sharp, “Quirk… Paralytic…”
“Are you fucking kidding me? What did they look like? Where the fuck did they go?” Katsuki looks positively murderous.
Izuku gives a jerky shake of his head, “Left town.”
He can flex the muscles in his arms now, he might be able to sit up if he tries. He can crawl out of the room if he needs to, so he can go wallow in his suffering alone.
He tries to weakly push himself away from Katsuki’s chest. “Please-” he croaks, “I can-”
“Would you knock it the fuck off and let me take care of you?!” Katsuki shouts, chest heaving.
That stuns Izuku into stillness, staring wide-eyed at Katsuki’s He opens his mouth, and promptly closes it again, teeth snapping together with an audible click. He can’t fathom what to say to that. Everything that Katsuki does is starting to taste too much like the hope that Izuku has been desperately trying to swallow back down.
So Izuku tries to change course, to distract himself from the idea that maybe Katsuki isn’t lying about wanting to do this. That maybe he can let himself fall into this feeling.
“How did-” he sucks in a wheezing breath, but his voice is a little stronger now, “How did you… find me?”
“You didn’t show back up after patrol,” Katsuki says quietly. “Agency swept your route, didn’t find squat. So they called me.” He rolls his eyes, huffing out a breath that might be a laugh, “Spiral Bitch thinks I’m your keeper or something-”
“Not nice… Kacchan,” Izuku interrupts him at his nickname for their boss.
“Then she shouldn’t wear her hair like that,” Katsuki snaps back, “Fucking anyway- I told them to fuck off and that I’d deal with you. Pretty easy to find you when your dumb ass can’t keep your nose in your own fucking business.”
Izuku laughs, ragged and painful, tears still streaking down his cheeks. Their director had called Katsuki first, over anyone else. And Katsuki hadn’t even questioned it. He hadn’t even had to think about where to look.
Katsuki thumbs at his endless tears, warm and gentle.
“Stop fuckin’ cryin, would ya?” he sighs, “Gonna make me think I’m not doin’ this right.”
Izuku shakes his head furiously despite the way it makes his brain feel like it’s bouncing off his skull. “No,” he protests before he can help himself. The last thing he wants to do is make Katsuki feel self-conscious about doing this for him. Not when it means so much to him that he’s doing it at all. “You’ve been… amazing.”
“Then act like it, dweeb,” Katsuki retorts, shaking him lightly.
Izuku can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips, “Kacchan… sugoi,” he teases.
That earns him a snort of laughter from Katsuki. “Window’s right over there,” he warns.
There’s a moment of quiet, and if Izuku is being generous with himself, he might say that Katsuki looks a little fond. He swears he imagines Katsuki’s eyes flicking down towards his mouth. Wishful thinking.
“Wanna try moving a bit?” Katsuki asks softly.
Izuku nods.
Katsuki helps him sit up, and watches while he flexes his fingers and bends his arms through clenched teeth. He rolls his shoulders and swivels his neck, wincing at the ache in his muscles. Katsuki grumbles at him to take it slow. His hand hasn’t left Izuku’s back, palm rubbing soothingly up and down his spine. The heat of it is so good that he wants to sink right back against Katsuki’s chest and never let him stop.
“Think you can stand?” Katsuki asks after a few minutes of Izuku proving that he’s regained some semblance of control of his upper body.
“Only one way to find out,” Izuku answers.
Katsuki slides off the bed and holds his arms out, letting Izuku latch onto his forearms. He waits patiently as Izuku tries to swing his feet off the bed, snorting at Izuku’s impatient grumbling.
He doesn’t flinch when Izuku presses down to get enough leverage to stand on two shaking legs, just lets him hang on. Izuku tries to step forward immediately.
“Woah woah, what the fuck, take it slow.” Katsuki warns him, grabbing at his elbow to support him. “You wanna end up on your ass? One step at a time, nerd. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“You are good at this, you know.” Izuku says without thinking.
Katsuki ducks his head, but Izuku can see the tips of his ears go red, “Yeah, yeah, sure. Just focus on walking. You can build a shrine to me or whatever later.”
Katsuki supports him through a handful of shaky steps, murmuring encouragement as he goes. Izuku has never seen him so soft. He watches Katsuki’s face as he tries to take his next step, the quiet focus in his eyes, the set of his mouth.
He’s everything that Izuku has ever wanted.
On his next step, Izuku’s knees give out.
Katsuki is there to catch him. Without hesitation, his arms loop around Izuku’s waist to support him. Izuku presses his forehead against Katsuki’s shoulder, fingers clutching at the back of Katsuki’s shirt.
“You’re too nice for your own good, you know.” Katsuki says quietly, head dipping to press his cheek to the side of Izuku’s head. “Almost died for a couple of scumbags.”
His hands press a little harder into Izuku’s back, holding him that much closer.
He really had come that close to dying, hadn’t he? A hysterical little sound bubbles out of Izuku’s throat, half a laugh, half a sob. He squeezes his eyes shut against the burn that wells up behind them.
“It’s a good thing I had Kacchan to save me,” he says, for lack of a better response.
“What if I’m not always fucking there, Izuku?” Katsuki says, louder than he expects, a little more desperate than he expects.
Izuku lifts his head from Katsuki’s shoulder then to look him in the face. He finds another fact of his life settled in the smoldering crimson of his best friend’s eyes.
“You will be,” Izuku says simply. “I know you will be.”
Katsuki’s expression in that moment is indescribable.
And then he’s leaning down to press their mouths together.
It’s abrupt, and too hard, and Izuku is too shocked to even properly feel it. And then Katsuki is pulling back, looking like someone has just punched him in the face.
They stare at each other for a long moment, bewildered.
“Oh,” Izuku’s voice breaks, tears welling in his eyes.
He leans back in to kiss Katsuki. Slower this time, so it’s less of a desperate smashing of their mouths and more of a real kiss. He can’t help the way that his fingers dig into Katsuki’s arms. He’s barely on his feet the way it is.
His head swims with the feeling of Katsuki’s hands sliding up his back, one settling between his shoulder blades, one moving to curl into the too long hair at the back of his neck. Izuku doesn’t think he’ll be able to bring himself to cut it, now that he knows what it feels like when Katsuki tugs at it.
Katsuki slides their mouths together, slowly, and stars explode behind Izuku’s eyelids. His knees nearly buckle. He catches Katsuki’s next exhale, a tiny whine that’s going to be playing on loop in his head until the day he dies.
He can’t believe this is real. How can any of this be real? Maybe he’s having a very vivid hallucination on the ground in the alley where he’s dying.
Then Katsuki’s teeth scrape across his bottom lip with a sting that zaps pure electricity straight down to his toes, and he has to admit that there’s no way that his brain could come up with something this good.
Katsuki pulls back, only to press his mouth to the corner of Izuku’s, then to the line of his jaw. The hand in his hair slides around to cradle his cheek.
Katsuki pulls back to look at him. Izuku leans into his palm, brings a hand up to trail his fingertips across the back of it. He fits there like he was made for it. He curls his fingers around Katsuki’s wrist to keep him there. He’s never moving again.
“Be more careful next time,” Katsuki breathes, thumb stroking over the freckles that dot the curve of his cheek, “Don’t fucking do that again.”
Izuku nearly bursts into tears at the concern, the warmth of affection that lingers in the rumble of his voice . At the note of fear that lay just beneath. At the way that Katsuki doesn’t even bother to hide it.
Maybe it would have been easier to figure all of this out if Katsuki had sounded like that all the time. Or maybe Katsuki had sounded like that for a long time. Maybe Izuku had been so convinced that it was impossible that he hadn’t noticed.
He nuzzles further into Katsuki’s palm, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“No promises.”