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Izuku picks his target out of the crowd almost immediately. Young, hot body, dark hair. It’s like a refreshing breath of air, the complete opposite of the middle-aged or older crowd that he usually entertains. In his line of work, Izuku can’t pick and choose who he wants to spend the night with. Mostly, he screws his eyes shut when he can and deals with it.
But tonight might be different.
Not only is the stranger attractive, at least from afar, but he’s also, according to Camie, a first timer. Izuku always likes first-timers. Virgins, too, when they come to him. Either way, there’s this youthful, nervousness that buzzes around them, an energy that Izuku wants to smooth out. Nights like these, he imagines himself as a teacher and his customer as a dutiful student. It’s almost nice, how he can pretend he’s in control for once.
“Are you Hiroto?” He asks, friendly and sweet as he sits down in the empty seat next to him. It’s a Wednesday night in the casino-hotel. So, busy, but not so much that he has to fight for the stranger’s attention.
The young man turns his head towards him. “Uh… yeah, that’s me. You’re…?”
Up close, Izuku gets his first good eyeful of him. Dark hair parted on the side, slicked back a bit like he’s going on a date. A handsome face, flawless skin and angled cheekbones that can make a stranger fall in love. Izuku is pleasantly surprised. It’s not like he ever backs out if his customers don’t strike him as attractive. But it’s a bonus when they do. And this guy is ticking all the right boxes.
“Z.” He answers, grinning.
Hiroto’s brow furrows in confusion. Izuku wants to eat him up. “You’re Z?”
There’s a strange familiarity to his face. It’s as though they've met before. Wait, no, that’s not it. It’s more like Izuku knows this face, like he’s seen it every day in passing. Maybe they take the same subway route? Or maybe he lives in Izuku’s apartment building? He isn’t sure, other than that the eyes seem off somehow, like they shouldn't be dark, crisp pools of brown.
Izuku shrugs his concerns away. If it doesn’t jump out at him right away, then it must not be that important. “That’s right. I hear you’re looking for me. For some company.”
The last statement is as close as he’ll brush up against the topic in public.
The confusion fades from the guy’s face. His reaction, as he finally realizes what Izuku is there for, is complicated. It’s hard to read through the mess of emotions on his face, so Izuku dismisses it as general nervousness. First-timers are usually either that or excited, but sometimes Izuku has to help them work through the shame and guilt, too.
“It’s alright. I’ll take good care of you.” He coaches, reaching out to run his fingertip along the back of Hiroto’s palm, smoothing over that soft spot between his thumb and index finger. It’s barely a touch.
Izuku is testing the waters, making sure there isn’t anything dark and sinister hiding just under the surface. Back when he first started, he had to learn the hard way that you have to approach gently, carefully. He might scare him off if he doesn’t… or Izuku might be beaten unconscious. It’s also why he’s working in the casino. With all these eyewitnesses, people are less likely to hurt him. Less likely, but he’s not entirely safe. When Hiroto flinches away from him, Izuku withdraws just as quickly.
“You’re a prostitute?” That question comes out as incredulous, like he can’t believe it, though Izuku hasn’t the slightest clue why. Wasn’t Hiroto the one who approached Camie, asking about him? Izuku had thought he’d come here on someone’s recommendation. A lot of his business comes through advertisements and word of mouth. Now, he’s starting to doubt. Is that what Hiroto is here for? Or something else?
“Are you surprised? Because I look so normal?” Izuku feeds him the answer, hiding his slowly broiling anger behind a hooded gaze. No one could label Izuku as a prostitute based off of what he’s got on alone.
Izuku looks over Hiroto. Typical college guy. If he turns out to be a student journalist with some half-baked story in mind, he’s going to lose it. Every second that burns by, wasted on someone who isn’t going to pay, is an opportunity lost.
“…..”
The guy is staring at him openly, and not in that eager, hungry way he’s used to. It’s more like shock mixed with disgust, and Izuku isn't up for it. He’s slipping off the barstool before he’s even conscious of the movement, pulling his phone out of his back pocket so that he can text Camie something along the lines of ‘what the hell’ when a warm palm closes around his wrist, anchoring him in place.
“Wait.”
Izuku whips around to glare at him, tempering his anger into mild annoyance. “Are you interested or not?”
There’s a flash of something in the other man’s eyes and for a crazy second, Izuku thinks that they would look better if they were crimson, rather than brown. He blinks and the feeling vanishes, gone as quickly as it arrives.
“Yeah. I am.” Hiroto replies finally, in such a way that Izuku’s hopes for a somewhat enjoyable evening dies on the spot. The guy looks miserable, like he’s being held at gunpoint.
Well, Izuku can work with that, too. He abandons the sweet act, putting on a more businesslike approach, his words clipped short, slightly cold. “I don’t talk rates and I don’t want to see cash. You know that ‘No kissing on the mouth’ stereotype? Yeah, it’s true. And if you like it rough, it's fine but don’t leave marks. If things get that intense, I’m calling it. You see that guy over there?”
Hiroto looks like he's trying to keep up as Izuku runs through his spiel, dark brows shooting up high. When Izuku nods to the man at the end of the bar, his head whips in that direction so fast Izuku wonders if he’s alright. The “manager” Izuku’s indicating is a big, burly type that doesn’t take shit from anyone. He’s got his hands full keeping an eye on five of them tonight, but hey, that’s what the madam pays him for.
“Everything goes through him. I’ll wait for you at the front and we can go up together.”
Izuku doesn't stick around to hear his response, half-expecting him to drop out immediately. He goes and waits by the door, doing a quick mental check of everything. They've rented him a room for the night, he’s got the card in his pocket. Everything he needs is upstairs: lube, condoms, massage oil. When he sniffs himself, he doesn't smell the guy from earlier, his skin freshly scrubbed clean, the faint scent of cheap hotel soap wafting off of him. An hour with this guy, two tops, and he might still be able to reel in one more customer before the night fades to morning.
He gets the okay from tonight’s manager and Hiroto joins him, looking grim.
“Listen…” Izuku starts, then stops himself. He wants to tell this guy that if he’s second guessing himself, he should just go home, see if he can get a refund. But rent is due tomorrow. It’s too late, anyway. Hiroto isn't getting his cash back, so Izuku might as well see if he can salvage this. Maybe if he plays his cards right, Hiroto can turn into a regular. “…it’s normal to be nervous.”
As Izuku speaks, he reaches out, running his fingers along Hiroto’s forearm. The guy doesn't open himself up further, but he doesn’t push him away, either. “We can talk if you want. Are you a university student?”
“No talking.” His voice is rough, like it's been dragged over gravel or like he’s screamed himself hoarse. Kinda sexy, if he didn’t look like he was marching to a funeral.
Izuku sighs, dropping his hand back to his side. “Whatever you say.”
The air between them is cool for the elevator ride and trudge down the hallway. Izuku saves his words. Hiroto isn’t interested in getting sweet talked or even small talked. That’s fine. He can work in silence too, earn his gasps and moans the old fashioned way— figuring them out naturally.
“So.” Izuku waits until the door shuts behind him before he breaks the silence between them. “I’m yours. What exactly do you want?”
He turns to address Hiroto, who has, for some reason, practically glued himself to the door. It’s almost endearing, as though he is afraid to proceed. Izuku reaches for his hand, entangling their fingers to draw him in, a flirty pout on his face, when another voice calls out from inside the room.
This one, Izuku knows immediately. He freezes.
“Haven’t seen you in awhile, Z.”
Izuku doesn't need to turn around to know it’s that smug bastard. He glares up at Hiroto, dropping his hand like it's on fire. “Detective.” He hisses over his shoulder. “Jokes on you. You can’t arrest me, I’ve done nothing incriminating.”
“Oh?”
“Move.” Izuku directs his attention to the man in front of him, who’s doing his best impression of a statue. “If they had something, they would already be flooding in here, arresting us.”
Hiroto doesn’t stir. If he’s struck dumb with fear, he has a funny way of showing it, his face a blank slate. When Izuku shifts to get past him and he follows to stop him, it finally clicks.
“You’re one of them too, huh?” He accuses, voice tight with anger. There's something else there, beginning to stir as he realizes it’s two against one: panic.
So he backs up, away from the reach of Hiroto’s arms, in case the guy tries to snatch at him. He’s reaching for his pocket, to grab his phone and send out an SOS to the manager downstairs when Detective Takahashi snatches it out of his hand.
“Nope. I paid for an hour, I get an hour.”
Izuku sneers, “Is that the way it is? You're not on duty anymore? Well, too fucking bad, you’ve only paid for one person and I don’t do cops. Especially ones like you.”
This was the same guy who harassed him back when he lived on the streets. Who made it next to impossible to drum up any work. Who mocked him when he was at his lowest, sleeping on park benches and construction sites, fighting like an animal for his next meal.
“Like I would.” The detective scoffs back, rolling his eyes. “I’m here for information.”
Izuku has been retreating this whole time, inch by inch. The back of his knees hit the bed and he sinks down onto it, glaring up at the detective. He feels like a cornered animal and bares his teeth like one, too, though it’s a mocking smile rather than an angry snarl on his face. Hiroto, obviously the new guy since Izuku has never seen him before, is still rooted by the door, though he has inched forward as well, probably to keep an eye on the developing situation. Izuku is furious with him.
“Information!” Izuku laughs. “So you pay for an hour and drag me up here? Why not just annoy me down at the bar?” He eyes his phone in the other man’s hand, considers his chances of grabbing it and getting a text off before he’s put in handcuffs. Odds aren’t good.
“Relax, Z.” It’s like the detective can read his mind. He tosses the phone back to Hiroto who catches it smoothly. Izuku’s fists tighten as tension sweeps through his body, clenching his muscles tight. He’s ready to spring, to fight. The detective’s words are like fuel to the fire, rather than cool water. “No one is going to arrest you. If we can help it, that is. We have enough on you, in case you’re wondering.”
“It’s circumstantial evidence.” Izuku never said he was a prostitute. Sexual acts were never agreed upon and he never exchanged money. The detective is just trying to scare him, like he used to. But back then, when he had nowhere else to go and his stomach ached from hunger, a warm night in jail and a meal was more of a godsend than it was a punishment.
“Psh. Criminals. Every one of you thinks he’s a lawyer.” The detective shakes his head at him. “It’s shameless, really.”
The way his eyes sweep up and down Izuku signifies that it isn’t the only thing the detective finds shameless about him.
“You never answered my question,” Izuku persists. As the seconds tick by, and handcuffs aren't forced onto his wrists, he starts to feel the tension in his body loosen its grip. “Why go through all this? Just to talk to me…?”
“Because you’re a runner, Z. Obviously. If we tried to approach you at the bar, you would have ghosted immediately.”
Izuku sighs forcefully. Okay, so they want information. He’s not getting arrested, though they’re threatening him with it. His heart is slowing down, his head is cooling now. If they want to scare him into cooperating, they might want to reconsider their tactics. “You know that if you check that dumb system of yours that I've been in jail plenty of times. So if that’s all you’ve got…” Then, forget it. I’m not helping you.
“Okay, so getting arrested doesn’t do it for you? How about telling your boss that you’re trying to go solo? I’ve seen that website of yours. Do you think she would appreciate me sending her the link to it, or not?”
Izuku is sick with rage. The brothel has been his steady income for months now, and he’s allowed to work here in the casino, picking up tourists, on the nights he isn’t required to be there. But it all goes away if his madam gets word that he’s trying to strike out on his own. He grits his teeth.
“Well? Willing to talk to us?”
Izuku’s gaze flicks between the two in the room. The detective is watching him like a hawk, close and predatory. But the other is avoiding look at him entirely. It makes him think of something. “Where’s that crusty, old man that’s usually dragging you around?” He asks the detective.
“Hiroto has a wire on him. That crusty, old man is on the other end, listening downstairs.”
Izuku blows air through his nose, climbing back to his feet and approaching Hiroto in a few, quick strides. He jumps at Izuku’s sudden appearance, flinching as the shorter man feels along the front of the shirt, tracing the wire up to the microphone tucked just under the collar of his button up.
Izuku ignores him, leaning in close to shout into the device. “Hi, you old fossil! Been getting enough fiber lately?! You are illegally detaining me, you know! I should get a lawyer!!”
“We both know you can’t afford one.” The detective behind him pipes up, his voice laced with annoyance. “If you’re done playing around…”
“Hiroto? How long have you been on the job?” Izuku asks, fluttering his eyelashes prettily up at the other man. He comes up to his chin, and it’s hard to make out his expression when he’s leaned in this close to him. So Izuku, toying with him, sweeps in even closer, puffing hot air against the muscled neck. He grins when Hiroto practically trips over himself to get away from him.
“Leave him alone. He’s not an officer.” Detective Umo sighs, exasperation mounting even higher.
“Not a cop? What are you, then? A voyeur? You like to watch?” Izuku is loving the way his face goes so red. He can’t get a rise out of anyone else, so it’s a pleasure that he can make this asshole squirm.
“Come on, already. Let’s talk business.”
Izuku turns and collapses back on the bed. He lays there for a second before kicking off his shoes and shutting his eyes. They’re wasting his time, so why shouldn't he enjoy himself? Yeah, he’s still cornered, he’s still somewhat uncomfortable with two men preventing him from leaving and a third somewhere downstairs. But, since identifying them, learning what they want from him, it’s like the cats have been declawed. He’s not as bothered as before, so when he puts up a front that they aren't affecting him, it’s almost real.
“What do you want to know?”
The detective paces to the other end of the room. “Yuchiko.”
His boss’s boss’s boss. Or something like that. Izuku isn’t that familiar with the levels above his own. Leader of the triad. Everyone knows who he is. At least, everyone who’s got a toe in the shady underworld of the city. Can’t get away with doing anything illegal without his blessing, at least not in this part of town. “What about him?”
“There’s been some rumblings lately. Like he’s going to be ousted soon.” He states simply, looking out the open window of the hotel room into the dark sky that waits beyond it. It’s poetic. It’s cliche. It makes Izuku want to burst out in laughter. The serious detective, gazing off into the distance. What a joke.
Izuku has one eyes squinted open, but blinks the other one as well when he catches Hiroto’s gaze on him. Playfully, he draws his hands along his stomach, lazily hiking up his shirt so that the other man can get a good look at the toned muscle there. Hiroto’s face goes white, his gaze shooting up to meet Izuku’s. Naughty boy.
“You must be pretty desperate, to ask me about it.” Izuku replies, his eyes still pinned to Hiroto's. There’s lightning between them, a crackling attraction that Izuku is well aware of. This man, despite his best efforts, wants Izuku. He might not even know it, but Izuku can practically taste it. Why else would he be staring so intently at him? Like he wants to climb on top of him and use this hour the way it was originally intended. Izuku winks at him and finally the other looks away with an angry “tch.”
The detective is unaware of what is happening on the other side of the room. “You have connections.”
“A fly in the same room as Yuchiko has better connection to him than I do. I’m in the swamp. He’s on top of the mountain. He doesn't know me, I don’t know him.” Izuku has shifted up a bit, lifting his ass off the bed so he can shake it a little, trying to get Hiroto to notice him again. The other man’s hands are twitching as he pointedly ignores him, and the gesture seems familiar somehow.
“But you know people. People above you. Saiyaki, for example.”
“He’s a pimp. I haven’t seen him in over a year.” Izuku answers, but he’s a bit distracted by those long, slender fingers of Hiroto’s. He flops back down on the bed, stilling. Something about those hands, the way they twitch as though they are about to explode in violence, reminds him of something. Or someone, maybe.
“I’m not trying to compete against you. You’ve got to believe me!” Izuku gasps, backing up. He’s on the cold, hard floor. Is class in session? Are there other students watching this? Or is it after school again? Middle? High school? The details are faulty, like old parts to a broken machine. But he remembers hands, deadly and twitching, aimed at him. He knows to fear them, fear their touch. It’s the first person to teach him that lesson, but it won’t be the last.
“K…Kacchan…?” Izuku asks quietly, almost soundlessly to himself. Where did that come from? He doesn’t notice the jerk of Hiroto’s head, the way those brown eyes shoot wide.
The detective barrels onwards. “Your pimp. And he happens to be friends with him.”
Izuku can see where this is going. He can feel which way the wind is blowing and he sure as hell doesn’t like it. He abandons his old, foggy memories to sit up suddenly in bed. “Nope. No way. I’m not talking to that guy again.”
“You will. Unless you want your boss to see this website.” The detective is looking down at his phone now. “‘Ready to try something new? Looking for a fun time with a young, flexible student?’ Please, Z, you haven’t been a student in years.”
Maybe that’s true, but Izuku is only twenty four. There’s plenty of students his age.
“…..” Izuku bites his tongue, hard enough to almost draw blood. He was bullied when he was a kid, he’s being bullied now. Life doesn’t change, does it? Not really. “…so what, you just want me to ask him some questions? Find out what he knows?”
“Exactly.”
“And if it gets me killed? Who cares, right?” Izuku huffs out a long, deprecating sigh through his nose. He’s sick of the bullshit. Sick of being used. Sick of not being able to say ‘no’ and for people to respect that. To respect him. Has he ever had that?
No. Then, why do I want it so badly?
For some reason, his eyes track back to Hiroto.
“Don’t be like that, Z.” The detective strides over, clapping him on the back. The next second, he’s sliding a business card into Izuku’s hand. “My number. For when you talk to Saiyaki.”
“Yeah yeah.” Izuku resists the urge to shred that pressed paper immediately. “Can I have my phone back now?”
“Sure.” The detective is heading towards the door, sliding past Hiroto with a nod. The other man is still clutching Izuku’s phone tightly in one fist. The detective pauses for a long moment, as if he’s considering what he wants to say. Izuku braces himself. The shit that slips past his lips has never been worth hearing. “Don’t you feel bad? What you’re doing… a lot of those guys are probably married, you know.”
Izuku snorts angrily. He sees red and he wishes he could reach over, pluck the lamp off the night stand, and hurl it at the cop. Typical Detective Takahashi. Can’t leave without a parting shot. Always needs to make sure to put Izuku in his place, lest he forget that he’s a criminal, a lowly sex worker who deserves nothing short of a life in prison, no parole. Fuck. Him.
“Why should I?” Izuku replies curtly. “Do you think if I stop working then they’ll go back to being faithful? Do you think if all of us stop, then they won’t find some other way to get their dicks wet? Don’t be naive.” His lip curls in a sneer. “The difference between me and some random guy at a bar is that I get paid. That’s all.”
At times like this, Izuku wishes he smoked, just so he could blow a big, fat cloud right in his arrogant face. Choke on this, asshole.
“Psh. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Izuku wishes he had a rebuttal. Or that he could ignore it. He wishes those words didn't crawl under his skin, didn’t feel like a slap to the face. The truth is, he’s lying to himself. He pretends like he doesn’t care, like it doesn’t matter that the people he has sex with probably have someone at home waiting for them. Maybe they’re even married, with kids.
But despite his brave declarations, Izuku has always cared deep down. He doesn’t want to be the reason why a family breaks apart. So he carefully constructs this wall around himself. A wall that no one can breach. No chance of love getting in or out. No leaks. No one gets hurt. Everything is strictly business and the less Izuku knows about his regulars, the better.
Because when he does know, all he can picture is his mother. How she waited for his father. How she cared, hopelessly, for a man who only ever hurt her. Over and over again. Is that who is living with the men who pay him? Someone like her? Waiting for Izuku to finish up with her husband?
It’s nauseating.
“I work at night, detective. I don’t sleep.” Izuku whispers, but the man is long gone, leaving nothing but frustration in his wake.
Izuku flops back down in the bed, shutting his eyes, closing himself off from the world. Blindly, he crumples up the business card in his hand, letting it fall onto the busy-patterned carpet. He hates hotel rooms. He’s hated them since before this became his line of work. The sheets are always grimy. The decor is always over-the-top. The smell is always a little chemical, a little musty. But when he closes his eyes, he can pretend he's back home, back on his own bed. Alone.
Except he's not alone and he can very clearly hear the other man in the room shift towards him over the whirring of the air conditioner.
“Looking to spend some time with me, after all?” Izuku calls out, his eyelids still pressed gently shut. “Your foreplay is terrible. I’m not in the mood.”
He feels the weight on the bed as the man sinks into the edge of it. He hears the old spring mattress groan in protest.
“Didn’t you hear me? If you really need to crank one out, go use the bathroom.” Izuku finally opens his eyes, shooting Hiroto a cold look. “Aren’t you a cop anyway?” Though Izuku has run into enough cops, preachers, heroes and lawmakers in his line of work to know that someone’s title doesn’t necessarily prevent them from fucking Izuku relentlessly. In fact, they are some of his worst customers.
But this guy isn’t a cop apparently. Izuku remembers what the detective told him earlier, when Izuku purposefully crowded him. So what is he?
“…are you a junior detective or something? A journalist?” Izuku wracks his brain, trying to link someone who would work with cops but not actually hold his own shield. “…a C.I.?”
“I’m not an informant.” The man finally answers in that low, rumbly voice. “I’m a hero.”
Well, that makes a lot of sense. Explains the familiarity Izuku felt earlier. He’s probably seen his face around town before. Maybe he’s even famous. “Have I ever heard of you?”
There’s a silence that engulfs them, swallowing up all sound except for that air conditioner, buzzing away in the background. It's pleasant white noise and with his eyes closed, draws Izuku gently into listlessness. When the guy doesn’t answer right away, Izuku finds himself starting to drift off, which is weird because he’s in a room with a stranger, he ought to be more alert. But he’s in the space between awake and dreaming, where his thoughts are strange and he can snap back to wakefulness in an instant. So he hears the hero sigh.
“…Deku.”
…..
…..
And just like that, the sleepiness evaporates, scorched and burned up into ash. Izuku’s thoughts explode like an inferno, spinning rapidly, no single notion taking control, all overlapping, making it impossible to think straight. Wait, no, that's not true, either. There is one thought hammering in his mind, growing louder and more incessant, drumming over everything.
Kacchan.
It’s Kacchan.
KACCHAN.
The man sitting only inches away from him is Kacchan. The boy he grew up with. The ex-friend he hasn't seen in ten years. The hero who used to push him down, labeled him as useless.
The last person he’d ever want to see him like this.
“Ahhh….” The steady groan that passes his lips would be a scream if he put a bit more effort behind it. He wants to swear, but for some reason, bites the curse words back. Maybe it’s because he’s in front of Dynamight or maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to ruin the image of goody-two-shoes Izuku that’s in Kacchan’s head.
And then he’s fighting back a hysterical giggle because is that really the image Kacchan has of him? Isn’t it more along the lines of a cowering prepubescent boy? And even that is shattered now. Because Kacchan’s been here the whole time. He saw and heard everything. He knows. Everything.
Izuku’s eyes are opened now, but fixed up, locked onto the popcorn ceiling. He refuses to look at Kacchan.
“How long have you been doing it, Dek-…Izuku?”
Izuku? Kacchan hadn’t called him that since they were practically babies. Since when had they patched up that broken part of their lives?
Izuku’s head is buzzing, but he can feel his defenses go up. If he had met Kacchan back in the beginning, this is where he’d break down, sobbing uncontrollably, his face becoming a mess of snot and tears as he wails, begging for help. But that Izuku is long gone. Instead, he snorts a laugh, slamming down those warring feelings in his chest. It doesn't matter anymore. He doesn’t need help.
They’ve barely started a conversation and he’s already itching to end it. “Four years.”
“Why?”
If Izuku wants to, he could tell him all about it. About the professor in college, who had a big smile and sweet words. About how he sexually assaulted Izuku his second year. About how, when it came down to it, a terribly shy, friendless nobody didn’t stand a chance against a beloved teacher. About how he lost his scholarship and any chance at being able to afford a higher education. About how nobody would hire a quirkless kid with a high school diploma. If he wants to.
Izuku finally lets his green eyes slide to the man sitting near him, the truth poised on his tongue. Finally looks at the hero, the embodiment of everything he reached for, and all the fight in him is drained. He’s just… tired. He knows if he tells him, it’ll be the same sympathetic lines he’s always been fed. The same “I’m sorries”. And he doesn't want to hear them. Not from Kacchan. If the other even has those sentiments in him at all.
“Money.” The word slips out of his mouth, like he doesn't care. It’s true though, money is a large reason behind what he does. Sometimes, the only reason. He has a nice apartment because of his job. And enough food to keep him from going hungry. He gets time off, can afford to pay for medicine and can even do fun things with Camie, like go to the movies. He can ignore the unpleasant parts of his day.
“God, fuck! Money?” Kacchan swears and the anger is starting to build up. Now, it boils just under the surface, honing his words, making them sharp. Izuku doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to repeat himself, but a second later Kacchan’s eyebrows snap together, his mouth drops open. “Your mom got sick four years ago… Is that… is that why?!”
He gives him the barest nod.
“FUCK.” It’s loud enough that Izuku flinches back against the sheets, startled.
But then Kacchan has gone quiet, dropping his head into his hands. The silence rings the same as if a gun has just gone off, causing everything to freeze in panic. Except everything is just Izuku and he’s more stunned than panicked. A little puzzled too, because it looks Iike Kacchan is shaking apart at the seams.
“…I fucking knew… that she was sick.” Kacchan whispers. “… and I didn’t bother to check in on you two.”
“Check in? Our moms were friends, we weren't. Don’t worry about it.” Izuku says and he supposes it sounds a little bitter, but he actually means it. It just that the years have stolen away his boyish earnestness. Now everything that comes out of his mouth is cast in either sarcasm or acidity, and he hates himself for it. But Kacchan doesn’t owe him anything.
It’s strange to see Kacchan again after all this time. He’s so… different. Older, calmer, but still has that fire inside, the one that simmers constantly, ready to explode at a moment's notice. It’s almost comforting, that he hasn’t changed completely. That something is still as it was before.
Kacchan’s face is pale when he looks up, stricken, as though he’s seen a ghost. It’s an odd expression on him, especially since his hair is dark instead of blonde, his eyes brown instead of red.
Normally, Izuku wouldn’t dare approach him, would opt to run away instead. But he never expected to see Kacchan again, so he finds himself sitting up, drawing in close until they're only a few inches apart. He hears Kacchan draw in a sharp breath as Izuku reaches out, grabbing a brown lock of hair and rubbing it between his fingers. Izuku’s sense of propriety is all out of whack, so he doesn’t notice how uncomfortable Kacchan is. Or, rather, he doesn’t care.
“You're not blonde anymore?” He wonders. But that can’t be right, he’s seen Dynamight advertisements around town and he looks like the grown up version of the Kacchan from his memories.
“It’s a disguise.” He replies evenly and if Izuku wasn’t used to picking up on the subtle body language of others, he wouldn’t notice the way Kacchan’s pupils contract or the almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. He’s nervous. Because of Izuku. He’s very good at hiding it, too. He is a professional hero after all, used to facing life threatening situations almost on a daily basis.
So why would Izuku make him nervous?
“Mm… I can see that. Why?” And then Izuku realizes. “Nevermind, I get it. You’re working with the cops, right? And you don’t want anyone to recognize you.”
“…yeah.” He’s blinking those brown eyes at him, and it’s off-putting. “Didn’t expect you to be here.”
Now that the focus is back on him, Izuku comes back to himself, remembers their circumstances. Holy shit— what is Izuku doing? This isn’t friends meeting over lunch. This isn’t some storied reunion. What, he sees Kacchan once and he thinks everything is normal? What is he thinking?!
Izuku slips back. He wants to disappear and immediately goes about finding his shoes so he can get the hell out of there. Too bad they’re in front of Kacchan. So Izuku is forlornly eyeing them when Kacchan asks, “Do you enjoy it?”
“No.” The answer rushes out of his mouth, fast because it’s true and he, for some reason, needs Kacchan to know that. He’s got nothing against his co-workers who do enjoy it, though he understands that it’s the money and the hours they appreciate the most, not the act itself. Good for them. But it isn’t the same for him.
If no one ever touched his body again, he’d be happy.
“Then why do it?”
It feels like Kacchan has a spotlight locked on him. As he continues to grill him, Izuku is getting hotter and hotter. He can’t stand the attention, the way he’s zeroed in, so he gives up being subtle about the shoes and lunges for them, slipping them on while he answers. “Because I like food? And a roof over my head?”
“What if... I could give you money.”
Oh gods. Izuku can see it now, in the way his eyes are shining with something sickeningly close to hope. Kacchan is a hero. He wants to save him.
I can’t be saved.
Izuku wants to laugh. He wants to cry. His mouth twitches. He’s seen this before, too. Not very often, but enough that he recognizes the signs. A white knight comes sweeping out of the woodwork, claiming they’ll save him. If you play your cards right, you can squeeze them for every penny they have. But Izuku always lets them down quickly instead. Of all the things he does, taking advantage of people, toying with their emotions, isn’t one of them. Besides, he’s not worth saving.
“Save it. The whole speech. I don’t want to hear it.”
Don’t bother.
“What speech? You know what I’m going to say?” And there’s that familiar pride, that barest hint of outrage. Izuku can’t believe how much he misses it.
“Sure. Yeah!” Izuku injects false sunniness into his tone because he knows it’ll throw Kacchan off. Also, because if he doesn’t laugh about it, he’ll cry. Or however the saying goes. “Something like this, right? ‘Blah blah blah you don’t have to live like this, I can get you help. There’s programs. Social workers. There’s a million ways to earn money. All you have to do is try!’”
“.....”
“Don’t feel bad. It’s a nice speech.” Izuku finishes, a little melancholic. He has mixed feelings about The Speech. On one hand, he hates hearing it, is sick to death of people looking down on him. On the other hand, they must care a little, right? It's better than them not saying anything at all.
“You can earn money other ways...”
Looks like they’re doing this. Izuku sighs. “Oh yeah? Like what? Stocking shelves? Factory line?” He’s done that type of work before. It’s soul crushing. He’d held three jobs like that at the same time, once. But why work his hands to the bone when he can earn so much more this way? How else does he stand a chance of climbing out from under this mountain of debt?
Those jobs were waiting for him, eventually, when his looks faded and the customers dried up. By then, he’d probably have no soul left to crush.
And he can see how angry Kacchan is by his snide response. The corners of his eyes are red, his eyebrow is twitching. He looks like he wants to smack Izuku. Oddly, it makes Izuku’s heart flutter.
He cares about me. This isn’t just lip service.
“It‘s nice seeing you again Kacchan.” And it is. Surprisingly.
Izuku starts to walk away, ready to put this encounter behind him, but then fingers hook into his sleeve.
“No.” Kacchan declares, flatly. The heat lingers in his words and there’s a worrying determined glint in his eyes.
“No?”
“You’re done. You’re not going back.”
Izuku is confused and also has a heavily suspects that Kacchan is about to do something he doesn’t like. He tugs his sleeve, but the hero hangs on.
“Then where am I going?”
“Home. With me.” He clarifies.
Izuku scoffs and grabs Kacchan’s pinky finger, wrenching it hard, so that his grip is forced loose. But Kacchan only grabs him again, fast as lightning, his palm hot and firm around his wrist. Their eyes are locked together in a battle of wills, both unrelenting.
“Does your mom know that you do this?” Kacchan asks and he might as well stab Izuku because the way it makes him want to curl in on himself feels as though he did.
“…you wouldn't.”
It’s the one threat that’ll work, that’ll make him go with Kacchan.
“Ab-so-fucking-lutely.” The hero replies, and Izuku swears he’s heard that come out of his lips before, but with a smirk. He’s not smiling now. In fact, he’s dead serious.
…..
In the end, Izuku doesn’t really have a choice.
Author’s Note:
Bit of a longer note than normal. This fic is D.O.A. (dead on arrival) as in, I don't ever plan on finishing it. In fact, the only reason I wrote it is because my brain was holding me hostage until I did. It’ll never reach the actual planning stage, but here’s the rough outline.
Katsuki finds out about Izuku, forces him to come back to his apartment and live with him in order to get him help. He holds telling Inko everything over Izuku’s head to keep him from running away. As you can imagine, this does not go well. Izuku is furious. His friend and fellow prostitute, Camie (one of those who enjoys her job), suggests that he goes full diva-brat mode so that Katsuki kicks him out. Nothing works. Lots of hurt/comfort.
The reason why I didn’t want to actually write the entire story is that 1) I don’t think I’m capable of writing short stories, which means that 2) this story would be too emotionally draining for me. Too bleak. Can’t do it. Need. Fluff. Finally, I don’t like writing this version of Izuku.
Anyway, here’s some bonus scenes:
Flashback:
Izuku aches. His hips and waist hurt. His more sensitive parts, too, of course. And his neck, where his most recent partner pressed his palms into his windpipe, dug his fingertips into his skin. There’ll be bruising there, for sure. He's not scared anymore, like he was in that moment, when that gaunt face leaned in real close, watching his eyelids flutter, tears streaming down his cheeks.
He’s going to have to make a new rule after today.
But now, in the haze of After, Izuku isn’t scared anymore. He's just worn out, replying with absent-minded “uh-huhs” as his regular blathers on and on. He's talking about heroes and society again, as he usually does, though today seems more intense. He’s practically worked himself up into a full blown lather by the time Izuku tunes back in.
The thing is, ever since Izuku sunk into the waters of the underworld, he stopped looking towards heroes. He doesn’t pay attention to them, and doesn't seek out any news about them. When there’s an incident on the street, he turns and walks the other way. It’s not that he doesn’t admire them anymore. It’s just that he doesn’t want to look at them, in the hopes that they will return the favor. He doesn’t want anyone to notice him, in fact. Better to blend in. To go unseen.
So it’s instinct when this particular customer starts to talk for Izuku to ignore him. He’d rather count down the minutes until their time is up, until he can hobble to the shower and quickly clean up, before he has to start all over with the next one.
“…you’re quirkless, right?” The man says in that high-pitched whine of his. He is leaned up against the headboard, but he reaches out and Izuku can feel his fingers on his spine. One, two, three, and then the thumb trace down, stopping along each knot. Never the pinky though. Izuku ignores the shiver that the touch causes.
“Yeah.” He answers. He's laying on his side, gaze pinned on the window, where the light from outside is peeking in between the heavy curtains and the wall.
“You ever think about ending it?” He asks, fingers pausing, like he’s considering something. They tap, 1, 2, 3, 4 on his skin.
Izuku sighs. “No.”
“You get it, though. About how unjust society is. The way they put heroes on a pedestal.”
“Mm.” He responds, not agreeing or disagreeing. Maybe he felt that way once, after he got rejected from UA. Now? He doesn’t feel much of anything.
Later:
“Do you like it, like this?” Izuku asks. He’s in full sex kitten mode, his standard for his more enthusiastic customers. They lap up all the wanton moans and gasps like thirsty dogs gulping down fresh water. He kisses the side of Kacchan’s mouth, and when he doesn’t get a response, moves instead to his ear, which he nips and tongues playfully. Kacchan, though, remains steady underneath him, a look of extreme annoyance on his face.
“Stop it.” His hands come up to push Izuku off his lap.
That won’t do. Izuku thinks, sinking more of his weight down to pin the hero in place. It’s difficult to get to those more sensitive spots with them on the couch like this, but Izuku is a pro. Kacchan, just like everyone else, is a lock waiting to be picked. Press down the pins in the right order and he’ll open up. Izuku has never failed.
So he changes tactics, switching from a more passive role into a more active one. “How about if I push you around then?”
His touches are harsher, an edge to them. His teeth scrape over the skin of his neck instead of his lips, and he bites, hard enough to draw a sharp gasp. He feels Kacchan go lax underneath him, his breath ragged. “You like giving up control, don’t you? Want me to order you around. Faster. Harder. Have you ever had a bottom tell you what to do?”
Kacchan doesn't answer, but doesn’t push him away either, the grip on Izuku’s waist tightening slightly. It’s like he’s stuck, wants to draw him closer but can’t. Izuku will make it easier for him. Will take all his thoughts away, until he loses himself in his own skin, until his mind is blank and his world shrinks down to just Izuku, his touches and the pleasure they bring. When Izuku’s fingers pinch his nipple, Kacchan lets out a choked groan and Izuku knows he has him.
If Izuku wants to, he’ll fuck him right now, and Kacchan will beg him for it. But this isn’t about sex. This is about power. Izuku wants to show him who’s really in charge. There’s one person with the upper hand here, and it isn’t Kacchan.
When he asks his next question, a slick smile tugs at his lips. “Or do you prefer this?” Once again, his personality flips like a light switch. His voice wobbles, becoming breathy and light. “Oh, Kacchan. You’re the best. Kacchan… is a-amazing!”
It’s a sick imitation of his younger self and the effect is immediate.
Kacchan pushes him away harshly, so strongly that Izuku’s leg hits the low coffee table with a smack! He’s sent reeling, his ass hitting the ground hard as his elbows bang against the hardwood. He expected this kind of reaction, but not as violent as it comes. He blinks up from his spot on the floor, eyes rounding as he looks up at the other man.
“Fuck. You.” Kacchan is on his feet, crimson eyes just as wide as Izuku’s. His hands are clenched into shaking fists. He pants, as though he’s been sprinting and the expression on his face is thunderous.
Izuku laughs, the sound jagged and cutting. “I knew it. I knew it!” But what exactly he means, he isn't even sure himself. What he wanted, he achieves. He had a feeling that Kacchan was going to snap, was going to push him away. He only wanted to help move things along. Good! He’s done it now.
There’s a part of him though, that aches. Kacchan pushed him away.
Now finish it. He thinks.
“Kacchan… don’t you want to fuck Deku?” He asks, his brokenly gleeful expression disappearing behind that old facade again. He even opens his eyes wider, fluttering his lashes so that they’re wet. It’s almost like how Kacchan used to push him down, all those years ago. “Don’t you want me?”
But the last part comes out more broken than he intended.
Kacchan’s face is so red, it’s almost purple, but when Izuku says ‘Deku’ it suddenly drains of all color. He looks like he might get sick.
“Stop. Just… stop it.”
He doesn't explode.
…why doesn’t he explode?
For the first time, Izuku is the one caught off guard. He blinks, dropping the act, brow furrowing. Kacchan is supposed to scream at him. He’s supposed to shout himself hoarse and order Izuku to leave. He's supposed to kick him out and slam the door shut and never see Izuku again.
But he doesn’t. He just… stares at him. His fists go slack, his jaw loosens. The only thing that breaks the silence between them is his gasps, which slowly even out as the seconds tick by. It’s Izuku who speaks first.
“What is w-wrong with you?” He asks harshly, but all the venom from earlier is gone. It supposed to sound flippant, but comes off as slightly frightened. He doesn’t understand what’s happening here. He doesn’t understand the other man’s reaction.
He doesn't understand Kacchan.
To his embarrassment, Izuku even stutters. He can feel his face heat up and its like his brain is swimming in hot confusion. He can’t think straight. He wants to leave. Now.
“F-fuck this.” Izuku shoots back onto his feet, banging his knee against the coffee table. He winces and his movements are fast and jerky. He needs to get out. Now.
He doesn’t expect the hand to reach out to him as he rushes past Kacchan. He doesn't expect to be pulled into the other man’s arms. He certainly doesn’t expect his touch to be so gentle, like Kacchan is holding something fragile. Something precious.
“Don’t go.” He whispers into Izuku’s hair, voice so, so gentle that it stills Izuku immediately.
He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to react to someone touching him like this. Without any hidden intention. Without violence.
He’s scared.
“It’s okay.” Kacchan murmurs, as though he can read Izuku’s thoughts, hears his heart racing. Izuku’s pulse beats like a rabbit’s who has been pinned to the ground and is waiting for death, quick and frantic. But Kacchan doesn’t hold him too tightly, just firmly, like he doesn’t want to let go, but he's willing, if Izuku wants to run.
But, for once, Izuku doesn’t want to.