Work Text:
Izuku shines brightly even in the dim light.
Katsuki keeps watch, as he always does.
The clink of glasses and a chorus of cheers ring through the haze of his thoughts, and he pulls himself together. Tries to. With his head pillowed on his arm, sitting in the corner, there’s not much he can do to elevate his image.
This isn’t his battlefield. His palm twitches under the table, begging for a fight. Begging to let loose. It would feel good to let the ugly parts of himself rear their head, the release snuffing out the blaze of his scorching throat. But he must keep them under wraps.
The path to atonement is thorny and never ending, even all these years later. Katsuki has a promise to keep. Forgiveness has long been granted, but it’s the principle of it.
Izuku is surrounded by all the love he could ask for, and all the love Katsuki can never give him. That’s the truth, cold and harsh as it may be.
Whether Katsuki likes it or not is irrelevant. His feelings are irrelevant. His pain is irrelevant.
The fire in his chest burns low, but any attempt to put it out only fans the flames, so Katsuki has stopped trying.
Watching is the correct course of action. The only course of action.
-
Izuku is oblivious.
There is comfort in that, a small mercy that Katsuki is thankful for.
But friends and family are a different matter. They are too polite, too afraid, to bring attention to it. Or maybe they sense the futility of the endeavour.
It’s not like Katsuki is particularly good at hiding his feelings. No matter how hard he tries, they are woven into the foundation of his existence.
Izuku soars high and by his lonesome, but there is no Kacchan without him. Katsuki wouldn’t know how to be, without him.
But Izuku is oblivious.
-
They are closer than they have ever been.
Their home is a mosaic of their broken pieces stitched together into something warm and good and them. They are not together in the sense that Katsuki craves, but their souls are intertwined and on display for all to see here.
Tacky furniture and decorations, a collision of both their tastes, but Katsuki wouldn’t have it any other way. Their kitchen is stocked with ingredients for comfort food, and they break bread every night over a small table where they each have their designated chair.
The bedroom is the worst-best part. They only have one, so they share a bunk bed, with Katsuki on top.
Something comforting about the notion that Izuku would catch him if he fell. It’s a silly thought, but he knows Izuku would.
They brush their teeth side by side in the morning.
Sometimes, if Katsuki sleeps in, if he pretends to, Izuku will stand on his own bed so he can poke his head over Katsuki’s bunk.
Waking up like that always puts Katsuki in a good mood, with Izuku’s warm breath on his cheek. With his gentle voice in his ear. With Katsuki’s nickname in his mouth, spoken easy and soft as it always is.
Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan.
Katsuki has to resist smiling every single time.
It doesn’t matter if this is all they can get. When Katsuki is not overthinking it, he can tell himself he’s happy.
-
Katsuki is happy.
Denying that would be a disservice to how far he’s come. How far they both have.
Izuku is not some unattainable goal when he sits pretty on their couch and welcomes Katsuki home quietly.
He’s just Katsuki’s best friend.
-
Katsuki puts his shoes away and slides his feet into house slippers. Matching ones, one half of a pair.
It’s Izuku’s birthday.
Last night, they celebrated with their friends at a bar. Today, Katsuki gets him all to himself.
It is all but a coincidence that it worked out this way, but Katsuki has learned to cherish moments like these over the years.
-
Pork chops sizzle in the pan.
Izuku won’t be home from his shift at work until later. He doesn’t even know Katsuki left early to come home and prepare a proper dinner.
A birthday cake sits in the fridge. Nothing too fancy or complex. Izuku would hate it if he felt like Katsuki went out of his way, so Katsuki compromises by making it look like he hasn’t.
Even so, there’s a giddy feeling in his chest. The thought of Izuku’s soft, brilliant smile once he comes home warms Katsuki inside out.
Nothing else matters, besides that.
-
“Thank you, Kacchan,” Izuku says after, bumping their shoulders as he dries the dishes Katsuki hands him. “Everything was so great. You’re amazing.”
Katsuki’s heart swells; his cheeks flush. Izuku can’t see all of it from this angle, but one half of his face is surely enough to give it all away.
“Tch.”
He taps his foot. Hands Izuku another plate.
Izuku says nothing, but his smile remains.
And Katsuki, moth to flame, can’t help but take it all in.
-
“Watch a movie with me?” Izuku pats the cushion next to him on their three seater.
It’s late. Katsuki has a morning shift.
“‘Kay. What do you wanna watch?”
He takes the far seat, on the other end of the couch. Being close to Izuku is not so bad most of the time, but Katsuki is feeling extra fragile from Izuku’s earnest appreciation.
They pick a movie. Izuku doesn’t mention it.
-
Katsuki must have fallen asleep halfway through.
When he wakes up, the credits are still rolling. Izuku is staring at him, biting his lower lip.
Katsuki’s neck aches from the stiff angle he’d kept it in, and he rubs away the pain while avoiding eye contact.
“Sorry, I wanted to move you, but I wasn’t sure…” Izuku trails off.
Katsuki grunts. The easy atmosphere from before is gone, replaced by something murky, muddy. Sludge that they have to travel through to find their groove again.
Katsuki makes to stand, steels himself for an awkward good night, but Izuku’s hand shoots out and latches onto his wrist.
Doesn’t let go.
Izuku crawls the distance between them, kneeling next to Katsuki. His house slippers fall uselessly to the carpeted floor of their living room with a small thud.
“Kacchan.”
Katsuki’s breath stutters and trips over itself. Izuku’s voice is low; close. His breath is warm, like when he wakes Katsuki up in the morning sometimes, fanning Katsuki’s cheeks, except this time Katsuki doesn’t have the luxury of pretense. His eyes are wide open, staring into Izuku’s green ones.
Bright like always. Beautiful.
Too good for Katsuki.
He still holds Katsuki’s wrist in his hand, and Katsuki doesn’t have it in him to pull away, even though he burns.
Desire pools low in his stomach. Katsuki doesn’t bother pushing it away. He knows it’s no use.
He doesn’t even have the luxury to lie awake at night and let it fester. Let it build and crescendo into something less red-hot and more manageable.
No, as close as they are, as much as Katsuki loves sharing this space—this life—with Izuku, it means there’s no running away from him. From his love. From this want.
Izuku is an ever-constant. Always here. And with him, so is Katsuki’s itch, desperate to trace Izuku’s shape underneath his dorky oversized shirts. To map the swell of his throat with his tongue and press his mouth to the bend of his elbow. Katsuki wants what he can’t have. Wants and wants and wants.
He wants access to secret places no one else has had the chance to touch Izuku yet. To be touched by him in return. The simple pressure on his wrist is the tip of the iceberg that Katsuki wants to uncover, even if it comes at the cost of crashing into it.
It’s not fair.
Izuku hasn’t asked anything, so Katsuki doesn’t say anything in return. His mouth is cotton. From sleep, or from their current arrangement, he doesn’t know.
Izuku’s shirt collar rides low on one shoulder, revealing an expanse of skin that begs to be kissed. Katsuki’s eyes dart from there to Izuku’s lips, then back again.
His hair is mussed up and messy. Katsuki’s fingers twitch as he quashes down the urge to reach out and touch. The simple action in itself is not so damning, but it would be for what it would make Katsuki feel. Another barrier he cannot cross. Another layer of separation that, if taken down, Katsuki wouldn’t know how to convince himself not to go further.
Everything about Izuku is imperfect in that way that drives Katsuki to the brink with the need to explore. Explore why Katsuki wants him with all his chips and cracks.
They both have them. But Izuku’s make him more beautiful, while Katsuki’s make him more…
Well.
Cracked and chipped. Broken, not beyond repair, but just shy of it. Izuku falls and picks himself back up.
Katsuki falls and needs Izuku.
“Thank you for everything,” Izuku says. Close, too close. He lets go of Katsuki’s wrist and glances away.
Katsuki holds his arm to his chest and steels himself. “S’nothing,” he mutters back.
Izuku sighs. “It means a lot to me.”
That—feels good. Makes it all worth it. The ache in his chest is nothing if it means he gets to see Izuku like this. Soft and happy and. Not his, but close enough.
The credits end and the TV dims.
Katsuki is glued to his spot even without Izuku holding him down, just because from this angle, he has a view of the cut of Izuku’s jawline.
Eventually, Izuku’s eyes find their way back to him. They always do.
“Happy birthday, Izuku.”
Katsuki smiles as he says it.
The sharp edges of anxiety drop from Izuku’s posture. His shoulders slump, and he picks Katsuki’s hand back up again. Only this time, he plays with Katsuki’s fingers like they’re one of the fidget toys he keeps on his desk.
“Sometimes,” Izuku starts. “Sometimes, I don’t know how to thank you properly.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I want to, Kacchan. I want to—make you happy.”
Katsuki’s chest pangs. His voice cracks. “I am.”
“Not like me,” Izuku says, quiet and pensive. “Not like I am.”
The space between them is small but suffocating. The words unsaid speak louder than anything else.
This is it. This is what it boils down to.
Maybe Izuku is not oblivious, like Katsuki thought. Maybe he knows, and he pretends not to, for Katsuki’s sake.
It’s Pandora’s box. Once it’s out, there’s no putting a lid back on it. There’s no sweeping it under the rug. No more pretending that he can be happy with what he’s given.
“I don’t need your pity,” Katsuki says, working to keep the edge out of his voice. He can’t be scathing. He can’t take it out on Izuku when none of this is his fault.
“It’s not pity, Kacchan. I want you to be happy, like me. Is that so hard to believe?”
“No, I—” Katsuki takes a deep breath. “What’s your endgame here? We both know it’s not a possibility, so why bring it up, if it’s not out of pity?”
“A possibility…?”
Izuku frowns, winces. Katsuki loosens his grip on Izuku’s hand. He hadn’t even realized how hard he was holding on.
There’s an unwelcome lump forming in his throat, and he wills it to go away and take the burn in his eyes with it, but it doesn’t work. The harder he tries, the more worked up he gets, and eventually, the tears fall.
They always do around Izuku.
Izuku gasps, gentle hands letting go of his to gingerly hold the sides of his face. His scarred fingers tangle in Katsuki’s hair, his thumbs brushing the wetness away.
Katsuki can’t speak, can’t push him away. Can’t do anything but be his pathetic self.
It’s Izuku’s birthday. He’s ruining it.
“Kacchan, don’t cry.”
Katsuki’s never been a pretty crier, nor a silent crier. An ugly hiccup rips itself away, and soon he cannot put a cap on it. He brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them.
It makes him feel so small. His feelings, Izuku, everything. Maybe if he’d had space to cry alone, it wouldn’t have come to this.
“Hey, hey,” Izuku says. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can work it out. Like always.”
Katsuki laughs. This isn’t like any of the other times.
Izuku wraps his arms around him, and Katsuki pushes his face to his knees to keep the sounds hidden.
The only thought on Katsuki’s mind is that it’s not fair.
“I’m sorry,” Izuku says. “I’m sorry, Kacchan. I didn’t realize something was wrong. You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”
He keeps mumbling. His voice is soothing. The words less so, if only because Katsuki knows the truth of it all. That it doesn’t matter how good and ready Izuku is. He’d never be ready for the storm that Katsuki holds inside.
Izuku rocks him back and forth, and somewhere along the way, decides it’s a good idea to press kisses to Katsuki’s head. Maybe in another life, under different circumstances, it would be. Calming, or whatever. Katsuki doesn’t fucking know anymore. The mess inside is impossible to detangle.
How much of it is him and them in this life? Born of circumstance?
Katsuki thinks he wouldn’t recognize himself in another life, where his existence isn’t defined by Izuku. Where he doesn’t live and breathe and think of him and how good he is, every second of every day. No, that wouldn’t be him.
In this life, and in every life, Katsuki is only Katsuki because Izuku calls him Kacchan, and every kiss is a punch to his ribcage, bruising his heart.
“Ngh. Let go,” Katsuki says.
Reluctantly, Izuku does. His eyes are shiny and concerned, and he hovers. Katsuki hates it. He loves it. He would fracture into a thousand pieces if Izuku left him alone right now.
“Nothing is wrong, and you didn’t do anything wrong, so get that out of your head,” Katsuki starts. “I just…”
“You just?” Izuku prompts gently.
If Katsuki’d had the chance to decide, he wouldn’t have done it like this. But, as with many things, fate forces his hand. And for the thousandth time, Bakugou Katsuki lays his soul bare in front of Midoriya Izuku and waits for the universe to laugh in his face for it.
“I just love you.”
Simple is best. Katsuki is many things, but he’s not a coward. And when he tackles a problem head on, he doesn’t shy away from its consequences. So he looks Izuku in the eye and braces himself.
The rejection doesn’t come. Katsuki didn’t expect it to. Not this fast, at least. For as well as he knows Izuku, he can’t figure out where he stands on this. Cluelessness? Purposeful ignorance? He’d noticed something is wrong. Was that the extent of it?
Izuku is neither shocked nor puzzled. He keeps waiting for Katsuki to say more, but Katsuki said it all already. Those four words incapsulate all of it with painful brevity and precision.
“Say something,” Katsuki says when he can’t take it anymore.
Izuku licks his lips. Nervous gesture. They’re both on the ledge, off their game. Feels good to know it’s not all one-sided.
“Why do you say it like it’s a bad thing, Kacchan?” Izuku asks.
A million reasons. Is he really asking?
They share the tense silence for a moment, as Izuku’s eyes bore into him. Katsuki can’t find the words to say. His tears are dry on his cheeks, and he wipes his snot on his sweatpants.
Izuku leans close again and tips his chin up with his index finger. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then decides against it. Instead, his eyes dart to Katsuki’s lips, and Katsuki is helpless as he watches Izuku close the gap between them.
It’s like he is watching from outside his own body, as Izuku’s lips press into his own. It’s wet and messy and salty, but Izuku is relentless.
Katsuki’s body reboots. His hands shoot out and hold onto Izuku’s hair, finally touching. Touching. His hair is as soft as every passing encounter Katsuki’s hands have had with it, but this time he gets to hold on.
The fire inside infernos. Izuku has the height advantage from being on his knees, but Katsuki can’t lose. He scrambles up and pushes Izuku down on the couch. Lays him down.
His shirt rides up in the process, so Katsuki slips his hand under, like he’s always wanted. Izuku’s skin is warm to the touch. His scars textured. Katsuki’s already got their placements memorized, and now he gets to put that knowledge to good use. Augment it with the additional sensory information.
There’s a disconnect between his mind and his body. He hasn’t caught up. Like his hands have already decided where they’re going next, but his brain hasn’t quite gotten there yet.
Their lips part with a wet sound, followed by Izuku gasping.
Katsuki pants into the few inches between them, still not quite understanding. Izuku’s hands land on his shoulder to play with the straps of his tank top. Each touch sends a zing down Katsuki’s spine, making it harder to think.
“Kacchan,” Izuku sighs.
It snaps Katsuki out of his trance.
God, what is he doing? This is Izuku. He can’t—they can’t—
“Fuck,” he says. “Don’t do this to me.”
Izuku’s eyes gentle again. It’s not fair.
“Whatever we do, it’s up to you, Kacchan. I’m okay with anything.”
The words dangle between them. Katsuki turns them in his head for any hidden meaning and finds none. It doesn’t help him make sense of it at all.
“Stop overthinking so much,” Izuku says. “I think I understand now. That’s what you’ve been doing this whole time, isn’t it? But it doesn’t have to be so complicated.”
His hands find Katsuki’s cheeks again, thumbing under his eyes. Katsuki’s breathless with every motion. Izuku touches him like he’s something precious; it sends butterflies dancing around Katsuki’s insides.
“Nothing about this is uncomplicated.”
“But it is, Kacchan,” Izuku says. “I love you, too. I always have.”
Katsuki’s lungs collapse, and so do his arms. When he can’t hold himself up, he falls into Izuku’s waiting arms, like always.
His face tucks into Izuku’s collarbone and breathes in his scent. Sweat and their shared detergent. Familiar. Home.
Another kiss lands on his hair. This time, it doesn’t feel like it’s scorching him from the inside out.
“I’m sorry, Kacchan. I didn’t know we were… I didn’t know that you didn’t know. Figured we were just waiting, you know? For the right moment.”
“What’s the use in waiting, idiot?” Katsuki pinches his side for good measure. “Since when do you wait for things?”
“I’ll always wait for Kacchan.”
Katsuki doesn’t have a response to that.
But maybe that’s okay. Izuku rubs a mindless pattern on his back that has him closing his eyes in sleepy pleasure.
“Mm. Happy birthday.”
Izuku laughs. “That’s the fourth time you said that.”
“And I’ll say it again. Next year.”
He has so many birthdays to make up for.
“It’s okay, Kacchan,” Izuku whispers. “You already gave me the best gift.”
And Katsuki falls asleep like that. With the secret confession held close to his chest, keeping him warm.