Unwritten Pages

by kokozheart

Summary:

They were close enough to be dangerous when they were small — Katsuki the furious protector, Izuku the quiet kid who always knew he’d be nothing but a producer. Katsuki gets into a string of relationships, and Izuku keeps his quiet ache to himself.

By college a single vulnerable night collapses years of tension into something messy and irreversible. They stop talking. They meet again in the rain; words spill, accusations fly, and a kiss that was meant to be confession becomes a wound. Eventually everything they’d been holding in finally comes out in the dark — gentle, angry, clumsy, real. They make love and confess, but love doesn’t fix everything. Their ending might never be in the script, not rehearsed anyway.

Notes:

pleaseee enjoy guyss... This took months of brainstorming before starting this..

playlist i made for this story:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1hFzVqcvgXRX8Jo08gJrIg?si=WGmCB2nyQIGfZm8_IE8KRw&pi=t-7H0a93Rkm8m

Chapter 1: How everything once was

Notes:

How the childhood friends find comfort and solace in each other as time gradually goes on, and their view of the world isn't how it once was.

Young Bakugo and Izuku sat side by side on rusted metal swings, their legs dangling, toes dragging lazy lines in the dusty dirt below. The sky above them was streaked with orange and lavender, the sunset painting the world in soft pastels. Their clothes were damp with sweat, their knees caked in dirt, and tiny scrapes lined their shins and elbows like badges of honor. The air smelled of warm earth and the distant river, where frogs still croaked in the reeds.

They laughed—loud, wheezy, unfiltered—as they recalled the frogs that used to leap unexpectedly onto their heads, sending them both screaming and splashing into the water.

“I swear it aimed for me on purpose!” Izuku wheezed through giggles, wiping his dirty hands on his shorts.

“You screamed like a damn baby,” Bakugo shot back, but his lips curled into a smirk, and the sparkle in his eyes betrayed any real bite.

Their stomachs rumbled in unison, but neither moved toward home. The sun was still hanging on the edge of the world, and the sandbox, the mud, the makeshift fort they built earlier—it was all still waiting. Food could wait.

Before work, before college, before everything fell apart—we promised.

Izuku jumped up suddenly, dirt kicking up beneath his shoes as he turned, face lit with a sense of purpose only he understood. “Come on!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Bakugo blinked, startled, but sprang up right after him. “Oi! Wait up!” he shouted, panting already as he chased after the green-haired boy.

His shoelace flopped wildly against his ankle with each step, the knot long since undone, but he didn’t stop to tie it. His arms pumped at his sides, his breath sharp and fast, sweat slipping down the back of his neck.

“Where are we going, Izu?” he called out, breathless, voice breaking from the sprint.

Izuku didn’t answer—just tugged him forward by the hand, their fingers sticky and scraped, the silence between them filled with the rustle of grass and the rhythm of their feet. Then, just as suddenly, Izuku let go.

Bakugo stumbled to a stop, hands on his knees, gasping for air as he looked up. “The heck—” And then he saw it.

A clearing flooded with color, where spring met summer—wildflowers bursting in every direction. Sunflowers tilted lazily toward the golden sky. Poppies and clover swayed in the soft breeze, their perfume carried on the wind. The light filtered through the trees, making the air shimmer like something out of a dream.

“Kacchan! When we grow up, I’m going to marry you!” Izuku declared, his voice breathless with certainty, arms flung wide as if the entire field of wildflowers was his witness.

Bakugo blinked, startled for a split second, before rolling his eyes with a grunt and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Tch. Fine,” he muttered, kicking at a dandelion stalk near his foot, “but you better be able to keep up with me.”

Izuku beamed, a giggle escaping his lips as he jogged up beside the blonde, bumping their shoulders together. “No one will be able to keep up with you, Kacchan!” His eyes sparkled with pure belief—so earnest, it made Bakugo’s chest feel tight.

Bakugo didn’t say anything for a beat. He just stared out toward the sunset, where the horizon bled orange into pink. His jaw set, proud. “Of course, no one would,” he finally said, tilting his chin up with a smirk.

The warmth of the sun settled on their skin like a promise, and though it made sweat drip down their backs and stain their clothes, neither of them moved. They were frozen in the glow of that dream—two boys standing at the edge of the world, believing they could change it.

“I’ll be the best,” Bakugo said, turning to Izuku with fire in his eyes. “And you’ll be right there with me, Izuku.”

Izuku’s grin widened until it hurt, his chest swelling with something too big to name. “Yeah! We’ll be the best duo ever! Nobody will stand a chance against us!”

So Izuku laughed again, too loudly, and ran ahead through the wildflowers, camera in hand, trying to shake the feeling. So he laughed instead, running toward the flowers again. And Bakugo followed.

But in the deepest part of his chest, Izuku held a secret he couldn’t say aloud. Kacchan can’t know… or else. Who knows what might happen between us?

When they weren’t at the riverbank, they climbed rooftops, capes made of old bedsheets flapping behind them in the wind. Izuku would always trail behind, out of breath but beaming, as Katsuki leapt from one roof edge to the next. He always caught the wind just right, his silhouette framed against the sky like he belonged there. Izuku said it was because Katsuki was already meant to soar, to be seen; he was a child model after all.

In the summers, they built “hero forts” out of cardboard boxes in the backyard, taping together soda boxes and appliance packaging to form crooked watchtowers. Katsuki barked orders from atop a cooler lid, hurling tennis balls like grenades at invisible villains. At the same time, Izuku sat cross-legged, drawing out battle strategies in crayon on scrap paper, brow furrowed with importance.

Their mothers would call them in for snacks, hearing slivers of their parents' conversation about their futures, but they never stayed indoors for long. The world outside was too loud, too wild, too full of possibilities to waste behind walls. When it rained, they didn’t run—they flopped into the mud, arms spread wide, watching the clouds roll by like ships. They’d argue over whose quirk would be flashier.

“It’ll be mine,” Izuku would insist, blinking away droplets. “Not because I think I’m better or anything—but because I have to believe that it will.” He always said it with this nervous, shy laugh—like he was apologizing for dreaming too hard.

Katsuki would scoff, hands on his hips, standing tall even when soaked and covered in muck. “Idiot,” he’d say, but his lips twitched at the corners. Secretly, he liked that about Izuku—how he never stopped trying.

Sometimes, in the deep hours of the night, Izuku would sneak out of bed with a flashlight and his favorite comic. He’d tiptoe barefoot across the cool floorboards and scale the side of the house to reach Katsuki’s window. The blonde would groan, but always let him in.

They’d hide under the blanket with the flashlight between them, turning pages with sticky, excited fingers until one of them fell asleep mid-panel, the light flickering out beside them.

Katsuki always made fun of the cheesy lines in the comics, but he never missed a word.

---

In sixth grade, the world started to show its teeth.

Izuku sat slumped at his desk during lunch, untouched food in front of him, eyes wandering to the small camera he carried as a kid. His hands were balled into fists in his lap, knuckles white. Across the room, the echoes of laughter still lingered—taunts about being nothing.

Bakugo stormed in from the hallway, eyes sharp, scanning until he saw Izuku’s slouched form. Without a word, he marched over and dropped into the seat beside him, the bench squeaking under his weight.

“Don’t listen to them,” Bakugo snapped, flicking a middle finger toward a group of snickering boys across the room. They scattered.

Izuku kept his head down. “But they’re right,” he mumbled. “I’m the only one who—”

THUNK.

A rice ball slammed down on the wooden table. Bakugo scowled, fists clenched, his jaw tight. “Shut up,” he growled. “You’ve got something way better.”

Izuku blinked, startled.

Bakugo turned to face him fully, fire in his eyes. “You’ve got me. And I don’t hang around with weak losers.”

Izuku looked up slowly, eyes wide, glassy with unshed tears. His throat tightened.

“You’re strong, Izu,” Bakugo said, softer now, arms folding across his chest as if trying to brace himself against how much he meant it. “Stronger than any of them. And I’m not going anywhere.”

"Kacchan, if there's one thing life has taught me, it's that you should always follow your heart," Izuku says in a serious tone, looking down, fist clenched.

Katsuki giggles, catching Izuku's attention, slightly embarrassed. "Seriously, nerd, you tryna prove that to me, or are you just trying to get picked on?" The blonde finishes up his lunch, gathering his book bag, still smiling, "Anyways, I'm headed to class talk soon."

Izuku shoots up from his seat and quickly starts gathering his stuff too, "O-Oh yeah, I should get going too, bye Kacchan." He tries to wave, but the blonde is already a good 10 steps away, unable to hear the green-haired boy's attempt to properly say goodbye. Well I guess I should just go.

---

By eighth grade, they had their secret place. Deep in the woods behind their neighborhood, beyond the rusted fence and winding dirt trail, was a quiet clearing nestled between trees. The kind of place where the world finally shut up.

The sun was beginning to set, slivers of orange and gold spilling through the canopy above. Leaves crunched underfoot as Bakugo stepped into the clearing, his face unusually blank. He sat down heavily on the old log they always used, arms wrapped around his knees, head bowed.

Izuku hesitated at the tree line, watching him. Something about the way Katsuki sat—folded in on himself, quiet—twisted something deep in his gut.

He stepped forward slowly, the weight in his chest growing heavier with each crunch of leaves beneath his sneakers. “You okay?” Izuku asked, voice gentle as he lowered himself to the log beside him, close but not too close. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, eyes darting over Bakugo’s hunched frame.

No answer. Just silence.

Then Bakugo finally looked up. His eyes were glossy, red around the edges. His jaw was clenched so hard it trembled. “I hate this,” he muttered, barely audible.

Izuku’s heart skipped. “Hate what?”

Bakugo didn’t look at him. He stared at the ground like it had betrayed him. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he angrily swiped at it.

“This feeling,” he said, voice hoarse. “Like everything’s slipping away. Like... like I’m not enough.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. He instinctively reached out, his hand hovering awkwardly before gently taking Bakugo’s.

The blonde gripped it tightly. “I’m loud and strong, and I’ve got potential, and people still treat me like I’m some kind of freak. But you—” he turned to look at Izuku, eyes burning, “you don’t even do anything to anyone but be a pillar of hope, and they treat you like trash. It’s not fair. None of it is.”

Izuku’s throat clenched. He used his sleeve to wipe Bakugo’s face, then his own, hands trembling. “Kacchan…”

“Izu,” Bakugo’s voice broke, and he turned his body toward him fully now, desperation etched into every line of his face. “What if this world eats us alive? What if we don’t make it? What if—what if one day I’m not strong enough to protect you?”

That was the moment Izuku couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I don’t want you to protect me because you think you have to,” he whispered, shaking. “I want you to stay because you want to. Because I—I don’t know how to be without you, Kacchan. You’re my reason. You’re what keeps me going, even when everything else feels wrong.”

Bakugo made a sound—somewhere between a sob and a grunt—and grabbed Izuku, pulling him into a tight, clumsy hug. His arms trembled as they wrapped around him, holding on like he was scared Izuku might disappear if he let go. “I feel everything too much,” Bakugo whispered, voice raw. “It’s like my chest is gonna explode from it. The anger. The fear. The way I care about you—it hurts, Izu. It really fucking hurts.”

Izuku pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His own hoodie sleeve rode up, revealing faint scars on his arms. He tugged it down quickly. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice unsteady. “Me too. You’re my person, Kacchan. You always have been. Even when I’m scared... even when I feel like nothing... when I look at you, I remember who I am.”

They stayed like that for a long time. Wrapped in each other’s arms, buried in silence. No Quirks. No heroes. No pain. Just two boys, thirteen-year-olds and already carrying the weight of the world. Then came the quiet part of their talks, where they sit and reflect to understand what the other is going through and feeling.

.

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.   *How yall liking this so far..*

.

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Alone with his thoughts, Izuku’s mind spun. He often wondered if Katsuki only stayed with him out of pity. He was destined to be a pro hero. Everyone said so. Why would someone like Kacchan want to be around someone like me? A loser. A nobody. His fingers twisted in his lap, heart thudding. Should I ask? He swallowed hard, eyes downcast. “Kacchan…” His voice was barely audible. “Do you… Do you like having me as a friend?”

The words hung in the air, heavy, fragile. A beat passed. Then another. Bakugo’s breath caught. He stiffened and, without warning, buried his face in Izuku’s shoulder, his voice a soft, broken whisper against his neck. “I don’t want to be alone,” he said. “I act like I don’t care. Like I’m strong enough. But I’m not. Not without you.”

Izuku’s breath hitched, his fingers curling around Katsuki’s shirt as if holding on could ground them both. His voice cracked as he spoke. “You’re not alone. You never were.”

And they held each other, face to face, eye to eye, noses touching, as they grabbed each other's faces. No more words. Just hearts beating fast and fragile between their ribs—proof that they were still here. Still holding on.

Still together.

Katsuki lets go of the boy's face, quickly standing up before brushing off his pants from the tree log he was sitting on

Just not for much longer...

Notes:

They're starting high school now; who knows what's going to happen or who they're going to meet.

Chapter 2: Can't we just stay like this?

Notes:

Well, high school changes everyone.. just hopefully not us..?

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1hFzVqcvgXRX8Jo08gJrIg?si=WGmCB2nyQIGfZm8_IE8KRw&pi=t-7H0a93Rkm8m

When high school began, Katsuki was the talk of the school.
Small whispers, jealous remarks, and dramatic sighs echoed through the halls

“He’s totally gonna be a famous model.”

“Ugh, I hate that he’s so cool. Why does he get special treatment for having rich parents?”

“Why is he so angry all the time? Is it all an act or something?”

But for Izuku Midoriya, the biggest tragedy of all wasn’t the Kacchan Fan Club. No—
It was this:

“OH CRAP, I’M ON THE WRONG FLOOR!!”

Izuku stared at his schedule like it had personally betrayed him. "I was just on time! How did I—"

Cue stampede.

Like, actual stampede.
Kids screamed. Backpacks flew. Someone yelled, “SAVE YOURSELVES, THEY’RE HEADED FOR CLASSROOM 1-C!!”

Izuku turned just in time to see the incoming wave of first-day panic:

“AGHHHH!!”

He sprinted up the stairs like his life depended on it (because it kinda did), dodging swinging lunchboxes and overly ambitious hall monitors.

Panting, sweating, shirt half untucked, he reached the right classroom door, putting his shaking hand on the knob, and—

tap. Tap. Tap.

A slow, impatient foot tapping behind him.

Izuku froze. He turned around dramatically like he was in a soap opera—

“Kacchan?! What are you doing here—wait, is that a new haircut?! It’s so long and fluffy and—POOFY! I mean, wow, you look like an angry golden retriever, I love it! It’s like how it looked when we were ki—”

“Izuku..., SHUT UP AND OPEN THE DAMN DOOR, WE’RE LATE.” Katsuki Bakugo’s right eye twitched like it was about to declare war on the entire student body.

Izuku cleared his throat, tugging at his collar. “Right, sorry! I just… kinda got distracted. Do you think you could explain why we’re late? Pretty please? I don’t want to get detention on the first day or worse—get banned from the school overall for being a minute late—”

Bakugo growled. “FINE. Just. Move.” With the force of a man ready to commit arson, Bakugo threw the door open.

Cold air blasted out like they’d opened a freezer full of judgment.

Everyone turned.
Silence.
Forty eyeballs blinked.

Izuku leaned in, whispering to Bakugo, “Kacchan… why is everyone staring at us like we just walked into the wrong universe?”

Bakugo's voice was sharp and violent: “CAUSE YOU SCREAMED LIKE A DYING PIKACHU IN THE HALLWAY, YOU DUMBASS.” Bakugo started violently shaking Izuku’s shoulders like he was trying to win a carnival game.

“KACCHAN!! YOU WERE YELLING TOO! AND STOP SHAKING ME, I’M GONNA BARF—”

Ahem.

The voice of doom. The room stilled as Mr. Takamine, their math teacher, stood by the desk with the calm fury of a man who had already written them both off in his attendance book.

Mom is gonna be so upset. I'm never late. What is she gonna say? Man, how am I even gonna bring it up to her? Izuku quickly snaps out of his thoughts when he hears his name being called.

“Midoriya. Midoriya. Midoriya.”
He said it like a curse. Tap. Tap. Tap. Foot on the floor. Glance at his watch. Tap again.

“Izuku,” Bakugo muttered, “why were you STARING AT THE FIRE HYDRANT like it was gonna propose to you? Do you wanna burn down the whole damn school? Is that it?”

The class lost it. Laughter exploded.

Mr. Takamine held up one finger. “Katsuki Bakugo,” he said, slowly, like a disappointed wizard, “that was inappropriate, and frankly, a little alarming. Please don’t joke about arson. Also, stop swearing like you're applying for a villain internship.”

Midoriya nearly melted on the spot.

“—I’m so sorry, sir! We both sincerely apologize,” Izuku said, throwing in a low, dramatic bow as if he was about to commit ritual seppuku. He nudged Bakugo. “Say sorry, Kacchan!”

Bakugo rolled his eyes and muttered, “...whatever.”

Mr. Takamine gave Izuku a polite handshake and Bakugo the same look you’d give a raccoon trying to open your car door.

The boys finally sat down. As Mr.Takamine went on teaching, Midoriya’s brain immediately lagged like a bad Wi-Fi signal.

“Wait… did he say carry the one? Or—place the variable under what?!” In a panic, he raised his hand. “Um, Mr. Takamine, can we do the rest of this at home if we don’t finish in class?”

Mr. Takamine turned around and gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Midoriya. If any of you need to take your work home, that’s fine. Just keep quiet, and don’t disturb other classes, please.”

The class collectively went:

“PHEWWWWW.”

Backpacks hit desks. Heads dropped. The girl two rows over was already asleep, face-first in her book.

Izuku finally leaned down, ready to lay his head, when—

Wait.

Did those kids just say “Kacchan”??

He lifted his head slowly like a suspicious turtle, ears perking up to listen in:

“He’s definitely gonna be a model.”

“Yeah, if he doesn’t explode from anger first.”

“Do you think his hair is naturally that… spiky?”

"Do you think he and that green-haired kid are like... dating?"

Izuku blinked.

He was now living in the Katsuki Bakugo Extended Fan Club Universe, and somehow, he was dragged into it.

Kacchan and I are dating? I mean, sure, he is unconventionally attractive, and he's the ideal type: popular, in shape, awesome, he just.. has trouble being nice to people.. But he's just a friend, and that wouldn't change.

Unless..

The midday sun streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Izuku sat alone at his usual table in the cafeteria, meticulously sketching in his notebook. The pages were filled with hero analysis about his favorite comic book heroes, poems, and random song lyrics, along with a testament to his unwavering dream of becoming a famous film major.

"Excuse me!" A voice, sharp and earnest, cut through the lunchtime chatter. Izuku looked up to see Tenya Iida standing rigidly beside his table, hands chopping the air with precision. "I couldn't help but notice you're sitting alone. It is important to foster camaraderie and mutual support in our formative years. Would you mind if I joined you?"

Izuku blinked, surprised. "Uh, sure, Iida-kun. Go ahead."

Iida sat down with military precision, placing his bento box squarely in front of him. "I am Tenya Iida, and I aspire to be a lawyer who upholds justice and order. What are your goals, Midoriya-kun?"

Before Izuku could answer, another voice chimed in. "Hey, can I sit here too?" Ochaco Uraraka bounced over, her cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. "This place is so crowded, and you guys look like you're having fun!"

"Certainly, Uraraka-san," Iida replied, adjusting his glasses. "The more, the merrier, as they say."

Uraraka plopped down beside Izuku, her bubbly energy immediately filling the space. "I'm Ochaco Uraraka! Nice to meet you both! So, what are you guys talking about?"

"I was just inquiring about Midoriya-kun's aspirations," Iida said.

All eyes turned to Izuku, who suddenly felt a bit flustered. He clutched his notebook a little tighter. "Well, um, I want to be a filmmaker," he mumbled, "like Shota Aizawa."

Uraraka's eyes widened. "That's amazing! I want to be a doctor so I can help my parents. They're always working so hard, and I want to give them an easier life."

Iida nodded approvingly. "A noble cause, Uraraka-san! It is essential to have a clear purpose driving our personal endeavors."

Izuku hesitated, then opened his notebook to a page filled with detailed notes on various topics. "I've been analyzing writing, and I have many strategies," he explained, "trying to figure out how to be the best writer I can be, even without any experience."

Uraraka leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Wow, this is so cool! You're like an analyst!"

Iida adjusted his glasses again, intrigued. "Fascinating! Perhaps we could collaborate on strategies for different scenarios. Your analytical skills combined with our aspirations could prove quite effective."

Izuku felt a warmth spread through him. He'd always admired other places of work from afar, but now, here were two people genuinely interested in his passion. "I'd really like that," he said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "We could work together, and maybe, just maybe, we could all become amazing partners someday."

As the three of them delved into a lively discussion about tactics and dreams, Izuku realized that he wasn't alone anymore. He had found two friends who shared his passion and believed in his potential, good or bad. And in that moment, surrounded by the midday sun and the bustling cafeteria, Izuku knew that anything was possible.

---

"Did you hear Bakugo Katsuki is gay?" The whispering voices echoed through the crowded hallways, each word dripping with judgment.

"Being gay is so weird," another voice chimed in, filled with disdain.

"Ugh, for real, that's so disgusting," a third voice added, laughing as if the mere thought was comical.

Izuku Midoriya felt his stomach twist into knots. It was still the first few months of school, and already rumors were spreading like wildfire about Kacchan. The rumors suggested that Bakugo was gay, and Izuku couldn't shake the guilt that gnawed at him. This could affect Kacchan's entire school career. He had to do something to stop it, but what could he possibly say or do?

"Oi, Izuku!" Bakugo's voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. He stood in front of a crowd, his usual scowl etched on his face, but there was something else there, too—concern? Izuku felt his heart race as he walked over, anxiety bubbling inside him.

"Oh, uh, hi Kacchan," he stammered, fidgeting with his fingers and occasionally running a hand through his messy green hair. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him, judging, whispering.

Bakugo frowned, his piercing gaze scrutinizing Izuku's demeanor. "Why do you seem off, huh? I bet you found a girl you think is cute, huh?" His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it, a challenge.

Izuku's cheeks flushed as he shook his head vigorously. "Kacchan, what, no! It's only a few months into the school year; I haven't found... anyone. And I don’t think I ever will. I'm too much of a nerd and a loser dork. My best friends, besides you, of course, Kacchan, are my notebooks." He managed a small, self-deprecating smile, but it quickly faded under Bakugo's intense gaze.

Bakugo yawned, dismissing Izuku's worries with a wave of his hand. "I didn't ask for your life story. Anyway, the hag wants to know if you want to sleep over this weekend. The new Fortnite season just came out; maybe we can play."

Izuku's eyes widened in surprise and excitement. "WAIT, IT DID?" he exclaimed, his voice rising an octave. He could feel the adrenaline rush through him at the thought of playing Fortnite with Bakugo.

Katsuki winced, his expression shifting to annoyance. "You really gotta stop yelling, nerd. You're gonna burst my fucking eardrum." He crossed his arms, trying to maintain his tough exterior, but Izuku could see the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

Izuku took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "I'll come over ONLY if you are All Might and make his voice as we play. It's always me, and it's getting... embarrassing, Kacchan."

"Ugh, fine, whatever, Izuku," Bakugo relented, rolling his eyes. "I'll be All Might this time."

As the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, Izuku felt a mixture of relief and dread. He and Bakugo walked side by side, the weight of the rumors still heavy in the air. They made their way through the bustling hallways, students parting for the explosive duo. 

"Hey, Kacchan," Izuku started, glancing sideways at his friend, "about those rumors... Do you want to talk about it?"

Bakugo's expression hardened, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "No. I don't care what those idiots think. I'm not letting them mess with my head." His voice was low, but there was a determination in it that made Izuku feel a little better.

"Okay," Izuku replied softly, wishing he could do more. "Just know I'm here for you, no matter what."

Bakugo glanced at him, and for a moment, the tension eased. "Yeah, whatever. Just remember to bring snacks for the sleepover."

As they stepped outside into the warm afternoon sun, Izuku felt a sense of hope. They might face challenges ahead, but together, they could tackle anything—even the rumors swirling around Bakugo.

The lunch bell rang, yet again, and Izuku felt a mix of relief and anxiety. The rumors about Kacchan hadn't died down; if anything, they'd intensified. He saw groups whispering, occasionally glancing in Bakugo's direction. Each glance felt like a tiny needle prick.

During lunch, Uraraka and Iid, the friends he made during the first week, tried to cheer him up, but Izuku was too preoccupied. He kept replaying the week's events in his head, trying to pinpoint exactly when the rumors started and what he could do to stop them. Even an All Might-themed bento box couldn't lift his spirits.

As they walked out of the school gates, Bakugo's mom, Mitsuki, was waiting, her arms crossed and a fierce look on her face. "Took you long enough," she barked. "Get in the car, both of you. I'm not waiting all day."

Izuku gulped, sliding into the back seat while Bakugo sat up front. The ride was filled with Mitsuki's complaints about traffic and the school, but Izuku barely registered them. He was too busy thinking about how to bring up the rumors with Bakugo without making things worse.

When they arrived at the Bakugo household, Mitsuki wasted no time in ushering them inside. "Dinner will be ready in an hour. Don't make a mess, and try not to break anything," she said, glaring at Bakugo before heading to the kitchen.

Izuku looks around, "Wow, there are a lot more photos on the wall, awe kacchan, it's us when we were at the farm with the goats." Izuku giggles, " I remember you fell into the mud, and you were so mad."

Katsuki looks at the green hair in the picture and then to the boy to his right, "Dang, wait, did your hair get darker?"

Izuku sighs, "Let's not talk about it." He says, walking up the stairs to the blonde-haired boy's room.

Bakugo flopped onto his bed, grabbing a controller. "Alright, Deku, let's get this over with. You ready to lose?"

Izuku hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the other controller. "I'm always ready, Kacchan!"

As they played Fortnite, the tension in the room slowly dissipated. Bakugo kept his promise and did a decent All Might impression, complete with exaggerated mannerisms. Izuku couldn't help but laugh, and for a moment, the weight of the rumors lifted.

"Plus Ultra!" Bakugo yelled as he secured a victory, making Izuku burst into laughter.

"I AM HERE... to claim victory in this digital arena, Izuku!" Bakugo's voice boomed, his All Might avatar soaring from the Battle Bus. Deku, still chuckling, landed near Lazy Lake, shaking his head at Bakugo's antics.

"Kacchan, you're taking this way too seriously. It's just Fortnite," he said, trying to keep his focus.

"Silence, Izuku! A true hero never half-asses anything, even a game," Bakugo retorted, already demolishing a nearby house for loot. They moved through the map, Bakugo's All Might persona never wavering, while Deku supported him, a mix of amusement and genuine teamwork in his play. Somehow, against all odds, they clutched a win. "See, Deku? That's the power of having the Number One Hero by your side!" Bakugo gloated, his competitive spirit shining.

Aunt Mitsuki, clearing her throat, yelled," KIDS, DINNER IS READY, COME ON DOWN!!" In response, Bakugo screamed, "COMING HAG!" As the two boys walked down the stairs, Deku couldn't help but smell.. "Is that katsudon?" Bakugo smirked, "You're so big that you could smell it from the middle of the stairs."

The green-haired boy rushed down the stairs and sniffed the air, and sighed. "Aunt Mitsuki, how did you remember I love katsudon"? Deku asked, sitting down, "It's been a long while since I've come over.' Mistuki laughed, "Katsuki has been asking me to perfect my katsudon so that you can come over—" Bakugo cuts her off. "Aw, you missed me coming over, Kacchan? I knew even you could be sweet." Bakugo blushed, and his eyes widened. "WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN, NERD?" he yells, standing up. Slamming her hand on the table, yelling, " DAMMIT, KATSUKI JUST EAT YOUR FOOD!".

Izuku eats the katsudon like a Victorian child who had been starving, "Man, that was so good I could eat that every day and not get bored." Katsuki turns to him and says, "Izuku, you could eat anything and not get bored." He laughs.

"Yeah, whatever, says you, Kacchan." He gets interrupted by Mitsuki, "Okay, boys, I'm gonna wash up and head to bed, have fun." Izuku and Katsuki wished her a good night and went back upstairs.

Later, sprawled on the couch after hours of gaming, Deku suggested watching "The Notebook." Bakugo scoffed, but didn't object. Halfway through the movie, during the iconic rain scene, Deku glanced over to see Bakugo's face illuminated by the screen, tears silently streaming down his cheeks. "Kacchan... are you crying?" Deku whispered, a mix of surprise and fondness in his voice. Bakugo shot him a glare, but didn't deny it.

As they both reached for the popcorn, their hands brushed. A jolt of electricity shot through Deku, his face flushing. He glanced at Bakugo, who seemed oblivious, still captivated by the movie. His hand... just touched mine, Deku thought, his heart racing. He tried to play it cool, grabbing the popcorn as if nothing happened, but inside, his mind was a whirlwind of confusion and longing. Maybe... maybe this is something, he mused, or perhaps I'm just reading too much into it. The room was thick with unspoken feelings, a silent tension that neither of them dared to break.

As the movie ended, a heavy silence settled between them. Deku nervously cleared his throat. "So... that was... intense," he said, trying to lighten the mood. Bakugo just grunted in response, his gaze fixed on the credits. Deku's heart sank. Had he imagined the connection? Was he just a fool for hoping?  A wave of disappointment washed over him.

"Deku," Bakugo's voice was soft, almost hesitant. Deku turned, his eyes wide with anticipation. "Thanks... for tonight," Bakugo mumbled, avoiding eye contact. Deku's heart fluttered. It wasn't much, but it was something. A small spark of hope ignited within him. "Anytime, Kacchan," he replied, a genuine smile spreading across his face. Maybe there was something more between them after all. Only time would tell.

As they went to bed, Deku couldn't help but think about the blonde-haired boy and how he felt. Man, why did I geek out just because we touched hands? Come on, Izuku, stop being delusional.. Kacchan wouldn't like me, wait, I don't even like boys.. right? Okay, I just gotta go to sleep, Kacchan is already asleep, but I'm cold and he has all the blanket. He won't mind if I get under the cover with him, only for the reason being I'm cold..

.

.

.

.

In the morning, it was warmer than usual. Izuku had woken up to the familiar sound of Bakugou's angry voice echoing throughout the whole house, possibly even the whole neighborhood. Although today, there was an added layer to it. A tension in Bakugo's words that Izuku couldn't shake off

"WHY ARE YOU CUDDLING UP AGAINST ME, IZUKU?"

Izuku's eyes shot open, heart racing. In the dim morning light, he realized he had gotten a bit too close to the blonde-haired boy by accident and ended up snuggling right up next to Bakugo in the bed. He was gobsmacked. As he remembered the coldness of the night, the way Bakugo stole all the blankets without realizing it. Izuku tried to sleep without disturbing him, but his body sought warmth, like a moth to a flame.

"S-sorry, Kacchan," Izuku stampered, instantly jumping up, practically falling out of the bed. "It was cold last night, and you had all of the blanket and I didn't wanna wake you up..." His voice trailed off, embarrassed. He couldn't meet Bakugo's gaze.

Bakugo's fiery red eyes widened for a moment, and his mouth opened as if he was about to yell, but before he could speak, a voice rang out from downstairs, sharp and stern.

"Izuku, Katsuki! It's 8 in the morning, WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH ARE YOU BOYS SCREAMING?"

Mistuki, Bakugo's mom, had never been the type to sugarcoat things. She was like a force of nature, and when she yelled, even Bakugo couldn't ignore her. Izuku scrambled to his feet and hurried down the stairs, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Sorry, Auntie!!" Izuku called out sheepishly, hoping she wouldn't make too much of a fuss about the incident. Bakugo, looking a little flushed himself, followed closely behind, grumbling under his breath as he stomped down the stairs.

Once in the kitchen, the smell of fresh pancakes filled the air, and the sight of golden, syrup-drenched pancakes made Izuku's stomach rumble in relief. Mitsuki had made the usual breakfast-fluffy pancakes, caramel sauce sitting in a bowl nearby, the kind of comforting food that always made Izuku feel a little at home, no matter how awkward things got.

The table buzzed with the clink of forks and knives, and Mitsuki's occasional grumble at Katsuki's messy eating. Masaru cleared his throat, his tone lightening. "So, have you two boys been thinking about what you want to do after high school?"

Izuku hesitated, then gathered what little courage he had. "I... I think I'd like to do something with film. Directing, maybe. Or editing. I-I know it sounds silly, but I like storytelling."

Masaru smiled warmly. " That doesn't sound silly at all.. You've always had a good eye for details, Izuku.

Izuku's face flushed with silent pride- until Mitsuku leaned in, smirking at her son. "Well, Katsuki doesn't have to think that hard. He's already got a career lined up, don't you?"

Izuku blinked. "A career?"

Masaru chuckled. "You know, Katsuki's modeling. Agencies already notice him- he'll be set if he keeps at it. Isn't that right, Katsuki?"

The weight of expectations fell hard. Katsuki stiffened, his fork pausing midair. His fiery eyes darted between his parents, then down at his plate. "...Maybe. I dunno yet."

The air turned sharp instantly.

"What do you mean you don't know?!" Mitsuki's voice cracked like a whip, her expression darkening. "Do you realize how many kids would kill for the chances you've been handed?"

"Katsuki", Masaru added, his voice low, firmer now, "you can't just throw opportunities away. This is your future. You need to be serious."

Izuku shrank in his seat as Katsuki's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. The familiar fire in his eyes wasn't anger-it was frustration, a helpless kind that Izuku rarely saw.

Breakfast ended tense and quiet. When they escaped upstairs, Katsuki slammed his bedroom door shut, pacing like a caged animal. IZuku hovered by the desk in the corner, twisting his hands together.

"...Kacchan?" Izuku said softly.

Katsuku collapsed onto his bed, throwing an arm over his face. His voice came muffled. "Damn idiots. They think I'm just gonna be their perfect little model forever. Like, I don't get a choice."

Izuku hesitated, then sat down carefully at the edge of the bed. "It's not fair. You should be able to decide. It's your life."

 

 

 

Chapter 3: Let Them Hate Me, Not You

Notes:

Oof uh who.. did that!!!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1hFzVqcvgXRX8Jo08gJrIg?si=WGmCB2nyQIGfZm8_IE8KRw&pi=t-7H0a93Rkm8m

Midoriya sat at his desk, his fingers clenched tightly around the edges of his notebook. That was the same one he used to draw, write strategy notes, and fill with dreams he’d never live. The class buzzed around him, but all he could hear was the echo of Bakugo’s laugh from the night before. The way they’d screamed at each other during Fortnite, the way Kacchan had blinked back tears during The Notebook—and how normal it had all felt.

Too normal.

He couldn’t afford normal. Not when rumors were already spreading again.

He glanced sideways—Katsuki was leaning back in his seat, half-asleep, earbuds in. Relaxed. Confident. Untouchable.

Midoriya wasn’t.

The decision burned at the back of his throat like acid, but he had to say it. Before things got worse. Before he became the weak spot in Bakugo’s armor.

Lunch came faster than he expected. They walked side by side like always, Katsuki tossing jokes, nudging his shoulder with casual ease. Midoriya smiled—small, forced—but he knew it was time.

“Kacchan,” he said, his voice catching.

Bakugo slowed. “Yeah?”

“I think… we should stop hanging out so much.” The words came out in one painful breath. “At school, I mean. Just for now.”

Katsuki froze mid-step, a laugh halfway out of his chest. “The hell are you talking about?”

“I just…” Midoriya’s hands trembled. “People are saying things again. And I don’t want you to—I don’t want it to mess things up for you.”

Katsuki stared at him, eyes narrowing. “You think I care about some extras whispering crap behind my back?”

“I do,” Midoriya said quietly. “Even if you don’t.”

A pause. Then another.

Bakugo didn’t yell. Didn’t explode. Just turned his head slightly to the side. “Fine,” he muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Do what you want.” He walked off, sharp and silent, without looking back.

Midoriya watched him go, heart breaking with every step.

A few weeks later...

Deku was alone walking into the classroom. Just outside is the hallway where they used to race each other after class.

Bakugo passes him out of the class without a word.

The boy who once swore they would take the world on together now walks past him like a stranger. Deku doesn't turn back. He already knows—Bakugo won't be looking, anyway. Deku's eyes are tired after all these years of watching Bakugo, waiting for even the smallest sign, but today Deku doesn't look back.

For the first time, Bakugo's steps falter, his gaze immediately over his shoulder, sharp and searching, right at Deku.

No smirk, no name spat through gritted teeth, nothing.

The classroom was mostly empty when the shoving started.

Midoriya didn’t bother defending himself—not really. It wasn’t worth it. He kept his head down, arms over his face, as one of the bigger kids called him a “disturbing leech” and shoved him into the lockers.

“Why don’t you just disappear already, Deku?”

Then the shouting stopped.

Silence.

Midoriya peeked up through his arms—just in time to see the guy stumble back, clutching his stomach, and Bakugo stepping between them, eyes blazing with fury.

Bakugo growled, “Say that again.”

The bully paled, muttered something, and ran.

Midoriya stared, speechless. “Kacchan…”

Bakugo didn’t look at him. Didn’t say a word.

He just stood there for a second, fists still clenched—then walked away like nothing had happened.

From a distance.

Midoriya stood frozen as the footsteps faded, the hallway ringing hollow around him. He blinked hard, willing the sting behind his eyes to disappear.

Kacchan still cares.

But it didn’t matter. That was the whole point.

He bent down to pick up his notebook, hands shaking. The pages were creased and dirty, the cover half-torn. A page he'd drawn on as a kid fluttered loose—a hero sketch, goofy and hopeful, with “Deku: The Hero” scrawled in bright green ink.

He stared at it, then stuffed it into his bag like it burned to touch.

He walked on autopilot, barely hearing his own footsteps until he was inside the bathroom, locking himself in the farthest stall. His legs gave out before he could think. He sat on the toilet lid, curled into himself, forehead resting on his knees.

The silence screamed around him.

His chest ached. Not from the punch.

From everything else.

He didn’t cry, not all at once. Just small, silent trembles that started in his hands and moved into his ribs until he was shaking. Then the tears came—hot and angry and endless.

I’m so tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t hurt. Tired of acting like being alone was fine. Tired of making the same choice every day: Bakugo’s future, or his own heart.

And every day, he chose Kacchan. future or

He covered his mouth with his sleeve and tried to stop the sobs from echoing off the tiled walls. But they came anyway—messy and ugly and filled with everything he never said out loud.

I miss him. I miss my best friend.

He’d spent years dreaming of being a hero. Now all he wanted was to feel less... empty.

He hated the way people looked at him.

He hated how hard he had to try to smile.

He hated that the only person who ever made him feel like he mattered—like he could be something—was the one person he had to push away.

And it hurt so much worse than any bruise ever could.

He stayed there until the bell rang, and long after.

Midoriya didn’t go back to class. He waited until the halls emptied again, then drifted down the corridors like a ghost. The bell rang for the end of the day, and still he didn’t move fast or care.

At his locker, he grabbed his things, trying not to look like he’d been crying. He ran cold water over his face in the nearest sink, but it didn’t hide the puffiness around his eyes. He hoped no one would notice.

He knew better.

“Oi.”

The voice came from behind him—quiet, but unmistakable.

Midoriya stiffened, slowly turning to find Bakugo leaning against the wall just a few feet away. His arms were crossed, but there was a tightness in his shoulders that didn’t match his usual swagger.

Bakugo studied him. Not with the sharp edge of frustration, but with something heavier. Concern. Like he was trying to figure out a problem he didn’t have the tools to solve.

“You didn’t come back after lunch,” Bakugo said, not unkindly. “Thought you were ditching.”

Midoriya shook his head. “Just needed some air.”

“You look like shit.”

Midoriya flinched. Not at the words—but at the way they were said. No heat. No teasing.

Just worry.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine, Kacchan,” Midoriya snapped, his voice cracking halfway through. “Please just—don’t.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Bakugo took a step forward. “You’re not talking to me, you’re barely eating, and I know something’s going on.”

Midoriya took a step back to match him. “You shouldn’t be around me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” He swallowed hard. “You’re finally starting to get the respect you deserve, and the second people see us together, they start talking again—saying things. I’m ruining it for you.”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. “You think I care about that—”

“Well, I do!” Midoriya’s voice broke completely now. “I care, okay? I care that people look at you like you’re weak for protecting me. I care that they call you names just for sitting next to me! I care that I’m always the one people think doesn’t belong.”

He was now breathing with ragged breaths.

Bakugo didn’t say anything.

Midoriya’s shoulders sagged. “You’ll be a great hero someday, Kacchan. But you won’t if you’re dragging me behind you like dead weight.”

He turned away before Bakugo could answer.

Bakugo’s voice was quiet when it finally came. “You’re not deadweight.”

Midoriya didn’t stop walking

The sun had dipped behind the buildings by the time Midoriya found himself near the park. He hadn’t meant to come this way. His legs just carried him forward, and he didn’t have the strength to argue.

He sat on the swings, bag at his feet, head hanging low.

He didn’t cry this time. Just stared at the ground like it might open up and swallow him.

“Midoriya?”

He looked up and saw Uraraka standing nearby, holding her phone loosely in one hand, her face soft with concern. “Are you okay? I saw you leave school early…”

Midoriya opened his mouth. Closed it again.

And then something in him cracked.

Not like before—not with sobs and shaking and pain pouring out in a flood—but quietly. Like a candle burning too low, flickering until it finally just… went out.

“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know if I’m okay.”

Uraraka didn’t say anything right away. She just sat down beside him on the swing, not too close, not asking questions.

“I don’t think I’m strong enough,” he whispered. “Not like everyone else.”

“You’re stronger than you think,” she said gently. “But… even strong people break sometimes.”

She didn’t ask what happened.

She didn’t need to.

For the first time that day, Midoriya didn’t feel like he had to pretend.

The swing creaked softly beneath them, swaying with the wind and the weight of words unspoken. Uraraka stayed quiet, eyes on the horizon where the sky had faded into deep purples and grays. A few stars blinked through the city haze.

Midoriya pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the sting.

“I keep telling myself it’s for the best,” he said eventually. “Putting distance between me and Kacchan is the right thing to do. That I’m protecting him.”

“Is that really what you’re doing?” Uraraka asked softly. “Or are you just afraid?”

Midoriya blinked. “Afraid?”

She nodded. “You care about him. A lot. And that’s scary. Especially when people talk. When it feels like the world’s always watching.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was answer enough.

Uraraka shifted slightly, nudging the swing with her foot. “People say stuff about me too, you know. About the way I look at you.” She smiled, sad and small. “They’re not wrong. But they don’t get to decide what matters.”

Midoriya turned to her, surprised.

“I’m just saying…” She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. “You’re not the only one fighting for something you think you’re not allowed to want.”

Midoriya looked down at his hands.

She hesitated, then added, “But running from it doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it hurt more.”

Then she gave him a soft nod and walked away, her footsteps light against the pavement.

It was nearly dark when he got home.

The lights were off. His room felt colder than usual.

He sat at his desk, pulled out the old notebook, and flipped through it slowly. Page after page of dreams—some childish, some brilliant, all written with that same flickering hope.

His fingers found the drawing again—“Deku: The Hero”—creased and smudged, but still there. Still surviving.

Like him.

With a quiet breath, he picked up a pen.

And started a new page.

 

 

 

The next morning, Midoriya walked into class a little earlier than usual. Eyes still tired, but focused. Determined.

He sat in his usual seat.

Bakugo came in late, as always. Hair tousled. Hoodie pulled over his head like a warning sign.

He paused at the door. Looked around.

Saw Midoriya.

Their eyes met—just for a second. Long enough.

Bakugo didn’t look angry.

Just tired.

And something else. Something close to hurt.

Midoriya didn’t look away.

Not this time.

It was two days before either of them said anything. Two days of long silences, of half-finished glances, of people whispering and wondering.

Then, on the third day, after class, Bakugo cornered him by the stairwell.

No yelling. No explosions. Just the same furious quiet that always came when Bakugo didn’t know how to feel.

“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me,” he said.

Midoriya opened his mouth.

Bakugo cut him off. “You think this is just about what people say? About image?”

He stepped closer, voice low and tight. “I don’t give a damn about what extras think. But I do give a damn about you.”

Midoriya’s breath caught.

“I’ve spent my whole damn life fighting to prove something,” Bakugo said. “And the only time I ever felt like I wasn’t alone in that fight was with you.”

Midoriya’s throat closed.

“You think protecting me means leaving me behind?” Bakugo’s voice cracked, raw now. “Well, screw that.”

Silence.

And then, finally, Midoriya stepped forward. “I miss you,” he said, voice small but sure. “Every day.”

Bakugo’s expression flickered—pain, relief, anger, all tangled together. He looked away, jaw tight. “Then stop pretending like I don’t matter to you.”

Midoriya’s voice shook. “You matter more than anything.”

That did it.

Bakugo turned back, and for the first time in what felt like forever, really looked at him. No distance. No mask.

Just two boys who grew up side by side, still trying to figure out how to stand on their own without losing each other.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bakugo said, quiet and fierce. “So don’t you dare give up on us.”

Midoriya didn’t trust himself to speak.

He just nodded, fast and grateful and on the verge of tears.

And then, slowly, the space between them started to close.

Maybe the world would always whisper.

Maybe people would never stop talking.

But maybe—for the first time—it didn’t have to matter.

They were still standing.

And for now, that was enough

Midoriya stood there, trembling—not from fear, but from the overwhelming pressure of finally being seen. Being heard. Every word Bakugo had said rattled around in his chest like thunder.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bakugo had said.

And Midoriya—God, he wanted to believe that.

But his hands were still shaking.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Midoriya whispered, barely audible. “How to be near you and not feel like I’m falling apart.”

Bakugo stepped in close, too close. The hallway around them was dim, golden light from the setting sun streaking in through the tall windows. Dust floated between them like stardust, suspended in the air.

“You don’t have to hold it together for me,” Bakugo said, voice low, words heavy with something that had been building for years. “I never asked you to be perfect.”

Midoriya looked up, tears brimming in his eyes. “You never had to. I just… I’ve always wanted to be enough. For you. For everyone.”

“You are.” Bakugo’s voice cracked. For once, he didn’t try to hide it.

“I know I made fun of you for not having a dad when we wme.  kids. I know I made you feel like you were nothing. But you were the one chasing me.You were the one who never gave up on me.”

He reached out, his hand hovering, uncertain, before it landed lightly on Midoriya’s shoulder. “And now you think the best way to protect me is to leave? To walk away like it doesn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Midoriya confessed, voice raw. “I couldn’t breathe anymore. Every time someone looked at us, I felt like I was dragging you down, like I was the reason they didn’t take you seriously.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Bakugo said, the words coming faster now, more desperate. “You—Deku, Izuku—you’re the reason I am where I am. You made me better. Stronger. You’re the reason I didn’t fall apart after my mom convinced me that I wasn't enough. After everything.”

Midoriya’s bottom lip trembled. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t know how!” Bakugo’s voice broke into a shout before softening again. “I still don’t.”

Their eyes locked—too close now, every emotion laid bare.

Hurt. Fear.

Longing.

“I missed you every damn day,” Bakugo said. “And I was pissed—so pissed—because you were gone and I couldn’t fix it, and it felt like the one person who ever really got me didn’t want me anymore.”

Midoriya’s tears finally spilled over. He grabbed fistfuls of Bakugo’s shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him to the ground. “You idiot,” he choked out. “I never stopped wanting you around.”

Bakugo’s breath hitched. His hands came up, hesitant for a moment—then wrapped around Midoriya’s shoulders and pulled him in.

Hard.

The hug wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.

It was fierce. Shaking. Arms clinging like they were afraid the other would vanish again.

Midoriya sobbed into Bakugo’s chest, quiet at first, then loud, ugly, cathartic cries that echoed through the empty stairwell. And Bakugo didn’t let go. He didn’t flinch. He just held on tighter, burying his face in Midoriya’s hair.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

They didn’t have to.

Because for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—they weren’t alone in their pain.

Eventually, Midoriya’s sobs slowed, reduced to sniffles and hiccups. His face was blotchy and red, pressed into Bakugo’s hoodie.

“You smell like spice,” he mumbled.

Bakugo snorted, not letting go. “And you smell like sadness and nerd.”

Midoriya laughed—just a little—and Bakugo felt it against his chest.

They stood there a moment longer, still locked in each other, until finally Bakugo pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

“You’re not dragging me down,” he said, voice steady now. “You’re the reason I fight like hell to get back up.”

Midoriya blinked up at him, eyes wide and still wet.

“You’re not just my rival,” Bakugo said. “You’re… you’re my person. You always were.”

The words landed heavy. Holy. Like a confession and a promise rolled into one.

Midoriya’s heart stuttered.

And then—softly, almost shy—he leaned his forehead against Bakugo’s.

They stood like that, breathing the same air.

Healing. Slowly.

Together.

No whispers. No masks.

Just them.

It wasn’t perfect after that.

The world didn’t stop watching. The rumors didn’t disappear overnight.

But they didn’t flinch anymore when people stared.

Because they had each other’s backs. In the battlefield. In the quiet. In every hallway and every fight worth having.

And when things got hard—and they always would—they held on.

Not out of fear.

But out of choice.

And that made all the difference.

The next morning was… normal.

Or close enough.

Midoriya waited for Bakugo by the front gates like he always did. His bag hung off one shoulder, the same one patched up with frog stickers and scrawled notebook pen marks. The breeze was cool. His thoughts were loud, but not screaming — more like static on a radio.

He saw Bakugo from down the street. Hoodie half-zipped, expression unreadable, like always. His gait was casual. Normal. But when their eyes met, something shifted.

Bakugo gave a small nod.

Midoriya nodded back.

No words.

But it was enough.

They walked together, side by side. Still quiet, still awkward, but not with tension — not anymore. Just… softness. Like they were learning each other again.

Trying not to break the fragile thing they’d rebuilt.

In class, Bakugo still sat behind him. Still kicked his chair lightly when he was zoning out. Still leaned over his shoulder to make fun of his notebook margins filled with doodles and strategy notes for fights that would never happen.

But now when he did, Midoriya smiled for real.

Sometimes small.

Sometimes barely there.

But real.

 

 

 

“You okay?”

The question came after lunch, when Midoriya had gone quiet again. He sat on the edge of the stairs outside, poking at his rice with chopsticks like it might say something important. His mood had slipped again—he could feel it. The weight returning to his limbs, slow and invisible.

Bakugo dropped beside him, back against the wall, chewing on a Pocky stick.

“I don’t know,” Midoriya answered honestly.

Bakugo didn’t move. Just said, “That’s okay.”

Silence again.

It was easier now, though. Comfortable.

“I hate when it comes out of nowhere,” Midoriya said, voice soft. “Like, this morning I was fine. I was… good, even. And now it’s like my brain just flipped a switch.”

Bakugo didn’t look at him, but the tension in his shoulders was different now. Less sharp.

More like listening.

“I never know if it’s the real me,” Midoriya added. “The sad version or the happy one. Or if I’m just making it all up.”

“You’re not,” Bakugo said simply. “You’re not making anything up.”

Midoriya looked at him then. “How do you know?”

Bakugo finally glanced over. “Because I know you. I’ve always known you.”

Something in Midoriya’s chest tightened, but it didn’t hurt this time.

He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Don’t thank me, nerd,” Bakugo muttered, ears faintly pink.

 

 

 

That night, Midoriya’s mood tanked completely.

He didn’t tell Bakugo.

Didn’t text. Didn’t answer messages. Didn’t even turn on his lamp.

He just curled up on the floor beside his bed, knees to chest, arms around his head like he could hold his skull together.

Everything felt too loud. Every thought came back to the same question:

What’s the point?

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t move.

Just laid there for what could’ve been minutes. Or hours.

Bakugo didn’t get a reply all evening.

And that wasn’t normal.

He stomped down the hallway of his house and slammed his door shut behind him — loud enough for his mother to yell something from the kitchen. He ignored her.

His room was a mess. His phone buzzed in his hand again. Still no response from Midoriya.

He called twice. Nothing.

By the third time, he was pacing.

By the fourth, he had his shoes on.

“Where the hell are you going?” Mitsuki Bakugo snapped from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, her voice razor-sharp.

Bakugo didn’t even slow down. “Out.”

“It’s almost 10. What the hell is wrong with you?!” she barked. “You’ve been moody all day. You better not be going to see that damn quirkless—”

“Don’t talk about him like that!”

It came out louder than he meant.

Louder than he’d ever yelled at her.

The silence that followed was thick.

Bakugo’s jaw was locked, chest heaving. His mother’s mouth hung open, words caught somewhere between disbelief and fury.

He turned before she could throw the next knife.

Slammed the door behind him and ran.

He knocked on Midoriya’s door until his knuckles ached.

When no one answered, he texted.

Then knocked again.

Finally, the door creaked open. Midoriya’s mom blinked at him, small and confused.

“Katsuki?”

“I need to see him.”

“Izuku’s not feeling well—he said he was—”

“I need to see him,” Bakugo said again, the urgency in his voice sharp and trembling.

Inko hesitated. Then stepped back.

Bakugo climbed the stairs two at a time and pushed open Midoriya’s door.

It was dark inside. The air felt heavy.

Midoriya was curled up on the floor.

Not crying.

Just... still.

Bakugo didn’t say anything at first. He just crossed the room, dropped to the floor beside him, and sat.

Back against the wall. Legs stretched out.

They didn’t speak.

Eventually, Midoriya shifted. Just a little. His head rested against Bakugo’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to be like this forever,” he said quietly.

Bakugo’s voice was hoarse. “Then don’t be.”

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to. Not alone.”

Another pause.

Midoriya’s fingers twitched, then curled into the sleeve of Bakugo’s hoodie like a lifeline.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

Bakugo didn’t pretend to have the answer.

He just let his head rest against Midoriya’s.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m not going anywhere.

The weight of the day settled between them like dust in the quiet. Neither moved for a long time.

Eventually, Midoriya’s breathing evened out, the panic edging away with every silent minute Bakugo stayed.

There was no sudden fix. No miracle cure.

Just... presence.

Warmth.

A shared silence that didn’t demand anything.

Bakugo leaned his head back against the wall. The tension behind his eyes had dulled, replaced with a heavy kind of exhaustion. His hoodie was damp near the shoulder where Midoriya had pressed his face, but he didn’t care.

He shifted slightly, just enough to angle his body so Midoriya didn’t slump completely sideways. He felt Midoriya’s hand tighten a little in the fabric of his sleeve, holding on.

Bakugo closed his eyes.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

Eventually, Midoriya whispered, “You can go, if you want.”

Bakugo didn’t open his eyes. “Shut up.”

Midoriya gave a breath of a laugh — small, but real.

Time ticked by. The room stayed dark.

The sounds of the house quieted as the night deepened: distant pipes groaning, a floorboard creaking above them, the hum of the fridge downstairs. Midoriya hadn’t moved, and Bakugo hadn’t tried to make him.

And then, slowly — maybe because the floor was too warm, or the exhaustion finally hit — Bakugo’s head dipped.

Midoriya felt it first, a weight against the side of his own.

He glanced sideways and blinked, adjusting to the dimness.

Bakugo’s mouth was slightly parted, breath slow and even. His face had softened in sleep, brow relaxed, hands limp in his lap. His legs were still stretched out, boots unlaced and askew, one arm curled protectively near Midoriya's back.

Midoriya didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

Didn’t need to.

His heart ached in a new way now, not the hollow, aching emptiness from earlier, but something fuller. Something that whispered, You’re not alone.

Not tonight.

His body still felt heavy. The storm hadn’t passed. But he wasn’t drowning in it either. Not now.

Not with Bakugo here.

Carefully, slowly, Midoriya adjusted just enough to rest his head more securely on Bakugo’s shoulder. The contact was grounding. Steady.

And for the first time that day, maybe even that week, Midoriya let his eyes close.

He didn’t sleep. But he rested.

And that was enough.