Chapter Text
Prologue: Hard To Be Faithful
New York, NY
10:00 AM
(Izuku: 21, Katsuki: 21)
Sometimes Izuku pretends.
And he hates himself for it.
Sometimes, when Shouto rolls over in their shared bed and places a gentle kiss on his neck, Izuku’s entire body tenses and he closes his eyes and wishes that he were somewhere else with someone else. He wishes that Shouto’s hands were a little rougher, with calluses on the pads of his fingers. He wishes that Shouto’s chin were a little scratchier; that his kisses tasted like the burnt sugar sweetness of nitroglycerin-laced saliva. He wishes that Shouto’s quirk was a little more explosive; he wishes for the familiar scent of burnt fabric from sweaty palms sparked to life from overstimulation. He wishes that Shouto were Katsuki, blonde and beautiful, laid out in their bed and begging Izuku for more.
And then he feels like complete and utter shit when he fucks him anyway.
Shouto isn’t Katsuki. He doesn’t curse or claw at Izuku while they make love; he doesn’t grip the sheets or groan or buck his hips desperately with every movement, like he’s chasing something that he can’t quite reach. Shouto is quiet and tender; he’s sweet and soft and loving in the way he trails his hands up the bare expanse of Izuku’s naked back. He’s always worried about what Izuku wants, always whispering: “is this okay, should we keep going?” It’s tooth-rottingly sweet, and it’s more than Izuku thinks he deserves. Somewhere along the lines he’d grown accustomed to the way things were with Katsuki, to the rough sex and the hair pulling and the drool on the pillow cases. He’d become addicted to the smell of him, to the way Katsuki knew him better than anyone else in the world. He’d found himself hooked on the high that came with fucking him; addicted to the taste of him.
But Shouto isn’t Katsuki.
So, Izuku pretends.
If Shouto notices, he never says anything. They’ve been together for nearly a year and not once has he ever asked about the break up. Though, it’s not like there was much to ask about that the tabloids hadn’t already covered in excruciating detail. Izuku supposes that his private business being the entire world’s news is just part of the price he pays for being one of the world’s top heroes.
“GROUND ZERO AND PRO HERO DEKU CALL IT QUITS” the headlines had read, neon blue and blinding from every fucking grocery store check-out line. “SOME HEROES CAN’T HANDLE THE DISTANCE: AN INSIDE LOOK AT THE SPLIT OF THE SEASON”.
“The Distance.” That’s what everyone blamed it on. To the outside world looking in through a clouded window, Izuku supposes that maybe that’s exactly what it had seemed like. He had accepted a job in New York, and Katsuki chose to stay in Japan. Thousands of miles and several oceans between them must have seemed like a pretty cut-and-dry case for a breakup to happen, so luckily neither of them came out of it looking bad. “Distance” is a normal reason for a couple to break up, especially a couple that has freshly graduated from hero school with budding dreams for their futures and nowhere to go but up. Why stay tied down in a relationship when there were career opportunities tapping on the glass?
What the tabloids didn’t get right were the finer points of the break up — the dirty details, the sour words exchanged between them, and the pain that had torn Izuku and Katsuki apart from the inside out. The truth of it was that yes, their split was caused by the threat of distance between them if you boil it down to something simple, but it was so much more complex than that. Izuku’s agency wanted to move him to New York. As the new Symbol of Peace, Izuku was expected to follow in All Might’s footsteps, and the opportunity was too good to pass up. The agency offered to pay for his move and to provide housing for him. New York had been struggling to fill a gap in their hero presence after their number one had been killed in battle, and All Might’s successor was the perfect replacement. To Izuku, it felt like destiny had come to call and he had an obligation to answer. To Katsuki, it felt like a betrayal.
They’d only been dating for a short period of time, but things were going well between them and he didn’t want to risk the relationship on such a big move. The opportunity arrived at the worst possible time, because Katsuki had just started his own agency. Katsuki’s dreams were different from Izuku’s — Katsuki wanted to forge his own path and Izuku felt burdened by the path that had been laid out before him by the hero he admired more than anyone. The fight they had the night they broke up was worse than any physical fight either of them had ever been in.
How do you argue with the love of your life when your dreams don’t line up? How do you convince someone that your destiny is more important than theirs? They were at a stalemate with neither of them willing to sacrifice what they had for the other. Nasty things were said. Bridges were burned. And in the process, Izuku lost his best friend.
“He chose me!” Izuku had shouted, tears burning in his eyes. He didn’t know that having his heart broken could feel so physical. He didn’t know that pain like this steals the breath from your lungs and leaves you winded, drowning on dry land. “He chose me to be his successor, not you. You need to get over this — this stupid competition between us, and stop acting like you want me to stay here for any other reason than your own jealousy!”
It’s funny, really, the things you say in the heat of an argument. A lot of that night is a blur that Izuku can’t fully remember. It’s sounds and shapes and feelings, but that one — the thing that had left Katsuki stunned into speechlessness, that one he remembers.
Now, Izuku sits in his living room and stares at Katsuki’s contact in his phone. It’s been a little over a year since he left, and he hasn’t had any contact with Katsuki at all. It’s been an entire year since he’s heard Katsuki’s voice, which is a strange feeling all on its own. For as long as Izuku can remember, Katsuki has always been a strong presence in his life. He’s been a constant, unmoving thing. A tattoo on the arms of a complicated lifetime. As kids, they played together. As preteens, they were at each other’s throats. As teenagers, they were borderline obsessed with one another, with one always in the other’s orbit. Not having Katsuki around in any capacity has felt suffocating in a way that Izuku can’t fully explain. The temptation to reach out has plagued him several times before, but today is a little bit different. Today marks the three year mark of their very first kiss, as his social media memories unpleasantly reminded him of, which means that today marks the moment in time that things first shifted between them. And fuck, maybe one of his quirks is super strength, but he’s never felt more weak in his entire life.
He knows he shouldn’t call, but Shouto is at work and he’s home alone, so the clawing desire in his chest is louder now than it is most days. The stupid, awful, loud analog clock that Shouto insisted on hanging ticks incessantly, as if egging Izuku on in the silence of the apartment.
His finger hovers over the call button. He pushes down.
He starts hating himself at the third ring.
“Deku?” Katsuki’s voice comes through on the other end of the line and he sounds tired. Izuku knows that it’s late in Tokyo — just about midnight, he’s pretty sure. Katsuki must have been sleeping.
“Kacchan,” Izuku manages, but his throat feels like it’s closing up. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have called. He should hang up, he should—
He hears rustling on the other end of the line, and then Katsuki mumbles something to someone away from the receiver. Izuku presses his ear to his phone and can just make out the familiarity of the other person’s voice and he feels his stomach drop.
Kirishima.
Right. They must have moved in together. Izuku read somewhere that they had been spotted out together, and rumors were flying about their potential involvement with one another, but he didn’t want to think about it too hard. It’s none of his business, afterall.
“What’s wrong?” Katsuki’s voice is clearer now and Izuku hears the sound of a door closing. He sounds concerned, which Izuku supposes makes sense. He is calling Katsuki in the middle of the night after not talking to him for a year. If their positions were reversed Izuku would probably think that someone died.
He really, really should hang up.
“H-how are you?” Izuku asks. He feels so fucking stupid.
The other line is silent as Katsuki takes in the fact that Izuku called him in the middle of the fucking night to ask how he’s doing. The crackle of static from over a thousand miles of distance between them is deafening. Izuku can hear Katsuki breathing, and he closes his eyes against the sound. He tries to picture what Katsuki must look like right now. Is he in his pajamas, sitting on the couch, looking out the window? Are the lights of Tokyo as bright as the lights of Manhattan?
I want to be where you are.
“Deku,” Katsuki says after what feels like an eternity. His voice is steady and stern. “It’s late.”
“Well, technically it’s early,” Izuku jokes. Katsuki doesn’t laugh.
“Why did you call me?” The coldness in Katsuki’s voice stings. Izuku wishes he could fix this. He wishes he could patch it up like a battle wound, just like they used to when they were younger. Izuku wishes he could pull out the emergency med-kit and sew the gaping hole between them closed, slap a gauze over it and keep it safe from harm.
But this wound is already infected and Izuku isn’t a fucking doctor. He has no way of numbing the pain, no way of treating the festering ache that they both feel.
“I missed you,” Izuku admits, feeling vulnerable. He’s being self-destructive, and he knows he is, but he can’t stop himself. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
Katsuki is quiet for a moment longer, and then he says, “Fuck you.”
Izuku expected that kind of reaction, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. He winces against the bitterness in Katsuki’s tone.
“I—”
“No,” Katsuki snaps, cutting him off. “Seriously, Deku, fuck you. I can’t — are you kidding me? I don’t hear a word from you for a fucking year, and then you call me up out of nowhere at fucking midnight to tell me that you miss me?”
“I…I just…” Izuku can’t help it. He’s always been a fucking emotional wreck and this is just too much. The sobs bubble up and burn his throat and they taste like stomach bile; his body shakes with the weight of it all as it hits him just how fucking stupid this decision to call Katsuki was.
He’s an idiot. What was he thinking? If Shouto were to find out, Izuku wouldn’t be able to explain himself out of this. Katsuki’s right: they haven’t spoken in months. So why now? Why did Izuku give in to those intrusive thoughts tonight of all nights?
“I’m sorry,” Izuku breathes. His hand is shaking where he’s pressing the phone to his face too-tightly. “I shouldn’t have called, I shouldn’t have — I’m an idiot, Kacchan, I’m sorry, I—”
He feels like he’s choking on his words. There’s a burning sensation in his chest and he grasps at his shirt, tugging hard at the fabric.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Hey,” Katsuki’s is softer when he speaks again. The ice melts away in an instant and he’s whispering into the mic, sweet soothing sounds that make Izuku’s teeth hurt. “Shh, hey. Don’t cry, fuck. Don’t...don’t cry.”
All that manages to do is make Izuku cry harder. He knows that he should apologize, he wants to apologize, but he can’t bring himself to say anything at all. It’s embarrassing, crying this hard over something so stupid. Katsuki broke up with him. It’s over between them. Izuku thought that he’d already processed this, that he’d moved on.
He hadn’t realized how wrong he was.
“I miss you,” Izuku says, instead of an apology. Stupid — he’s so stupid.
“Hey,” he says. “I miss you too.”
It hits Izuku like a suckerpunch straight to the gut. The realization of the gravity of it all. The distance between them. The mistakes that they had made. The growing pains.
I miss you too.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything and it’s fucking nothing if Izuku can’t be there in Tokyo.
“I can’t really…” Katsuki hesitates and Izuku hears the soft sound of a door closing, “talk right now. This isn’t a good time.”
Izuku knows. He knows it’s a bad time. He knows that Katsuki can’t talk because his fucking boyfriend is in the other room, sleeping in their bed and drinking in the musky smell of Katsuki’s pillow. He knows that Eijiro Kirishima is there, separated by only a few layers of sheetrock, in the apartment that they share. Izuku knows. He’s read the tabloids.
“I know,” Izuku tells him. “I know. I don’t want him to… to get upset with you for talking to me. I just needed to hear your voice, Kacchan.”
Katsuki hums into his phone at that last word, melting into the receiver. “I missed hearing you say my name.”
“Kacchan.”
“Izuku.”
Fuck. There it is. His first name, whispered so gently. It makes Izuku’s heart stop. The tears start to roll again, hot against his skin.
“I’m sorry to call you so late. I know you probably have work in the morning. I know you’re busy. I just—”
“Shh, hey,” Katsuki interrupts. “Don’t apologize. It’s good to hear from you.”
A pause. A heartbeat.
“How’s New York?”
Izuku can’t help the relieved laugh that escapes him. “It’s good. It’s loud. Busy.”
Katsuki laughs too. “Not really that different from Tokyo.”
Izuku tries to picture Tokyo. The bright lights. The busy streets. Katsuki fighting villains alongside him in Shibuya, the rich taste of their favorite noodles in the aftermath. God, he misses it.
“A little crazier than Tokyo,” Izuku concludes. “Dirtier too.”
Katsuki grunts in agreement. He hesitates for a moment too long before speaking again: “How’s IcyHot?”
Izuku clenches his fist. This is not the conversation he wants to have right now. “He’s fine.”
“Does he know you’re talking to me right now?”
Izuku shakes his head, despite knowing that Katsuki can’t see him. “He’s at work.”
Katsuki sighs and Izuku can’t help but notice that he sounds relieved. “Would it start a fight if he knew?”
“Probably,” Izuku admits, truthfully. Shouto doesn’t talk about Katsuki, but he knows about their history together. “What about you? Does he know?”
“Fuck no, Izuku, do you think I’m stupid?” Katsuki snaps. “He’s sleeping in the bedroom. He doesn’t know it’s you on the phone. I told him it was my mom.”
“I miss you so much, Kacchan,” Izuku mutters. Katsuki sighs.
“Ya know,” Katsuki whispers. “Sometimes I wish he was you.”
Sometimes, Izuku pretends.
Sometimes, more often than he’s proud to admit, he pretends that Shouto isn’t there at all. He dissociates, pictures Katsuki instead. Weaves his hands through that two-toned hair and pulls harder than he should, pulls it the way Katsuki always liked it. He bites down on Shouto’s shoulder and licks at that spot Katsuki always loved at the base of his neck. He pretends that Shouto likes it, even though he knows he doesn’t.
And he feels like a literally human trash can because of it.
“Me too,” Izuku tells him. “Me too.”
“He doesn’t fuck as good as you,” Katsuki says softly, an ache in his voice that Izuku can’t ignore. “Doesn’t make me cum the way you did.”
Izuku rubs at the bulge in his pants and leans back against the couch. Fuck. Are they really doing this?
“He doesn’t know you the way I do,” Izuku says. He presses down a little harder. “He doesn’t know the way your body likes to be touched. He doesn’t know how much you can take.”
Katsuki groans into the phone and Izuku almost chokes at the way his mouth salivates at the sound. Izuku unzips his pants.
“He doesn’t,” Katsuki says and his voice is so strained. Desperate. Hungry. “He doesn’t fuck me like you.”
“Kacchan,” Izuku whispers and strokes himself at the muffled noise Katsuki makes at his name. “Are you… are you touching yourself?”
Silence. The sound of static. And then, the sweet sound of a soft moan.
“Yes.”
Fuck. Izuku spits into his hand, loud enough for Katsuki to hear and presses the phone hard against his ear as he jerks himself off.
“Me too,” he says softly, though he’s sure Katsuki already figured it out. Katsuki’s breathing is staggered, little moans traveling thousands of miles through the receiver, velvety and smooth in Izuku’s ear. “Kacchan…”
“Izuku, tell me what you want to do to me,” he begs. He’s speaking so quietly, trying with everything he has to not be heard by his boyfriend in the other room. The thrill of that realization sends sparks through Izuku, right to his already leaking cock. “Tell me what you’d to do me if I were there.”
I’m a horrible fucking person.
Izuku hates himself.
“I’d…” He bites his lip. “I’d pull your legs up over my hips.”
“Yes.”
“I’d slam into you, rough the way you like it. I’d wrap my hand around your perfect throat…”
“Fuck.”
“I’d fuck you. I’d fuck you Kacchan. I’d fuck you until you came all over me.”
He feels so fucking dirty. Are these his words? Is this his voice?
“Izuku,” Katsuki moans and Izuku can tell he’s at his limit.
Izuku cums, hot and thick, all over his hand as the only person he’s ever really loved, the only person who’s ever really known him, moans his name over the phone.
“I’m cumming, Kacchan,” Izuku tells him, syllables too heavy on his tongue.
“Me too,” Katsuki says with a hushed groan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Neither of them say anything. Izuku listens to the staggered sound of Katsuki’s breathing and shoves his spent cock back into his pants. He feels ashamed, spent, and so fucking revolting. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s half-tempted to hang up.
“Damn,” Katsuki whispers, breaking the silence. “I guess we never really moved on, huh?”
No, Izuku thinks to himself, I guess we didn’t.
There are one thousand things Izuku wants to say.
I miss you.
I need you.
I’ve dreamt of you every single night since I left Japan.
I want to come back to Tokyo and try this again. Let me fix this.
Please.
But he doesn’t say any of them. He can’t. He knows why they broke up and he knows that neither of them are willing to change their lifestyles or give up their dreams just so that they can be together. This world that they live in is not fair. They’ve always known this.
So Izuku just says: “You should get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki agrees. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Katsuki sounds disappointed. Izuku wants to vomit.
Katsuki hangs up first. Izuku’s phone beeps in his ear, signaling the end of the call, but Izuku can’t bring himself to put the phone down. He holds it tight, eyes squeezed shut, and tries to hold onto the sound of Katsuki’s breathing. He clings to the memory of that phone call with everything he has, files away each sigh and moan and whisper. He locks them away, tucked into his brain for safe keeping.
When he finally pulls his phone away, he clears his call history, and he goes back to pretending.