Chapter Text
June 16, 2025. The return of classes.
The campus was already alive with the morning rush — uniforms moving in restless lines, the faint smell of new notebooks mixing with sweat and funky-smelling perfume. CAT officers barked out instructions, herding students with the practiced ease of people who knew every crack in the pavement by heart. Overhead, the sun felt sharp and unyielding, warm enough to sting but not cruel, casting everything in a light that made the day feel too real to ignore. Out on the field, the air carried the damp scent of grass and chalk, threaded with that heavy, breathless kind of expectation that only comes with first days.
The sun is still low and warm on Izuku’s shoulders when the principal’s voice booms over the speakers and the whole school folds into a neat, humming grid of uniforms and backpacks. He stands at the edge of the field with his chest tight and a crumpled schedule in his hand—“Grade 10 — MIGHT” printed in trembling letters—and every step toward the assembly feels like walking through an ice sheet.
Heads bob like a sea of white as teachers call out section names. Each announcement is a small earthquake in Izuku’s chest: students shift, form lines, disappear into orderly islands. He scans frantically—eyes flicking from signboards to groups of laughing classmates, from stern homeroom advisers to the long row of benches where older students whisper.
If he'd remembered correctly, a faculty member had said that Grades 10 through 12 would be lined up behind the lower years. He forces his way through the tide of students spilling into the gym—backpacks bumping, voices overlapping—until the promised rows appear, messy and broken where they should be neat. He bounces up and down, craning to see over shoulders, eyes hunting for a hand-held sign: “10 — MIGHT” drafted across the surface.
After pacing back and forth, side to side, and earning a few weird glances from other students, his eyes finally lands on a cluster of students who seemed to stand out from the rest.
Grade 10 — Might.
Compared to the other sections, 10-Might looked almost larger-than-life—students taller, postures straighter, their appearances distinct enough to mark them out even in the sea of uniforms.
He shuffled forward, legs unsteady, until he reached the first student who caught his eye. His smile felt sheepish, stretched a little too wide across his face as if to mask the nerves humming under his skin. The boy standing there was—Izuku had to admit—unexpectedly quite handsome. All long lines and easy posture, lanky silhouette that looked completely unbothered by the CAT officers’ attempts to herd students back into neat, perfectly straight rows, a carefree grin plastered across his face as he had a conversation with a guy with dark red hair and black roots, messy and curled hair which left Izuku wondering how many warnings he's gotten to chop his hair off or classroom officers resort to charging 5 pesos everyday, and a slight stache paired with a small stubble on his chin.
His feet felt light and ridiculous as he hurried over. He tapped the boy's shoulder with shaky fingers, words clogged at the back of his throat; he hadn’t rehearsed anything beyond the single, blinking point on his schedule.
“Ano—” he started, which turned into a small, hopeful rush of syllables. “Uh- STEM ba ni..? Section- ah, section Might? (Uh- is this STEM? Section- ah, section Might?)”
The boy turned at the light tap, his gaze dropped, and he found himself looking down at a smaller boy with wide, nervous green eyes and a smile that looked like it was fighting for its life. For a moment, he just blinked—curious, not unkind—before his grin surfaced, easy and open, like sunshine breaking through a cloud. He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes glinting with good-natured amusement, as though he was already ready to listen.
"Mhm. Nganu diay? (Mhm. Why, what's up?)"
Holy fucking shit. He’d never once folded over someone’s looks—much less their voice—until now.
His tone carried that effortless friendliness, like he wasn’t bothered in the slightest—just genuinely amused at being asked, as if it wasn't already obvious enough.
He went tomato-red so fast it felt like a physical blow to his chest. Words jammed in his mouth—stutters, half-phrases, and one very squeaky “Bag-o ko! (I'm new!)” that came out like a hiccup. “Ano- uh, um.. Ano, ako man gud- uhm.. (Uhm- uh, um.. Uhh, I'm- uhm..)” He tripped over the rest of it, cheeks burning, hands pawing at the corner of his schedule until the paper crumpled in a nervous little fist. "Kasi—ano— uh, bag-o ra ko ni transfer, sa STEM program, uhm—aghh!.. (Cause— um— uh, I just transferred to STEM, uhm— aghh!)” The words tumbled out in a rush, each “ano” tripping over the next like he was grabbing them just to stay afloat. His hands twisted his schedule into a wrinkled ball, and he ducked his head, mortified at how much noise he was making just trying to introduce himself.
It was ridiculous and small and totally him: an apology for being alive, an embarrassed laugh that sounded too high, and a string of explanations stapled together because he couldn’t sit still long enough to finish a single sentence. When he finally dared to meet the tall moreno’s eyes, the panic melted into mortified hope—because his grin was patient, a soft, amused tilt of the head that made Izuku’s knees feel like jelly and somehow, impossibly, calmed him.
"Ay, mao diay. Tingala ko ngano ni kalit ra kag pangutana. (Ah, so that's why. I was wondering why you suddenly asked me that.)" The words rolled out light, almost playful, like he was just letting Izuku know he wasn’t bothered at all—more amused than anything. "Unsay pangalan nimo? (What's your name?) The moreno asked, shifting his body to the right to fully face Izuku, tilting his head as he looked down at the boy still clutching his crumpled schedule like a lifeline. The grin on his face softened into something a little more curious than teasing, his tone easy and unhurried.
Izuku froze, throat suddenly desert-dry. His fingers worried at the edges of his schedule until the paper crumpled in his grip.
“Ah-ano—uh, I-Izuku! Izuku Midoriya!” The words tumbled out in a rush, too fast, like he’d rehearsed them a hundred times in his head only to trip right at the starting line. He winced, heat crawling up his cheeks, and scrambled to fix it with a flail of his hands. “Just- just Izuku is fine!" His voice cracked on the last word, and he ducked his head, mortified. Saying his own name shouldn’t feel like this, but around the tall, grinning boy holding the sign, it felt like a confession he wasn’t ready to make.
Sero gave a small nod, the kind that said "got it" without making a big deal out of Izuku’s flustered mess. He offered his free hand, grin still easy and open.
"Sero Hanta. Pinakapogi na moreno diria sa STEM. (Most handsome moreno here in STEM.)" The words came out smooth, almost lazy.
“M-Midoriya,” Izuku stammered again and shook his hand, as if he hadn’t just blurted his name a minute ago. “B-but—ano—Izuku is fine!” His voice squeaked at the end, and he bowed his head instinctively, mortified.
Sero only chuckled, the sound light and unbothered. “Nice to meet you, Izuku,” he said, as if nothing about the boy’s stuttering introduction was strange at all. With a friendly pat on the shoulder, he added, “Ali na, basin kasab-an ka sa CAT. (Come on, you'll probably get scolded by CAT.)” and pulled him to the front of the line. Then, without warning, Sero wrapped his arms around him from behind, the gesture easy and familiar, like they’d been best friends since forever.
Izuku jumped at the sudden contact, heat flaring across his cheeks and the back of his neck, yet he didn't dare make a move to push Sero off. If this was his chance to make a new friend, then he's taking it.
Seems like Izuku's going to have one hell of a time here in STEM.
"Tumayo nang tuwid! (Stand straight!) National anthem, hand salute!"
Right hands press to brows, some sloppy, some sharp. Others fumble awkwardly—freshmen unused to the routine. The anthem begins, its melody carried by weak speakers that buzz slightly with static.
Voices rise—some loud, some half-hearted. The anthem drifts through the air, a mixture of sincerity and monotony. Teachers mouth the words, watching carefully for anyone not singing.
Izuku stands stiff, his chest tight. The song fills his ears, but his mind isn’t on the lyrics—it’s on whether he’ll see Kacchan (and maybe a bit of how handsome Sero is, if he's going to be honest). His eyes flicker sideways, scanning the ranks, searching desperately even as he mumbles the words.
Around him, students sway faintly under the heat. A boy faints in one line, caught quickly by a classmate; the ceremony presses on.
The flag reaches the top of the pole, fluttering in the faint morning wind.
.
.
.
"Handa—pahinga! (Ready—rest!)"
Arms drop to sides. The anthem ends.
A moment of silence stretches, then the Panunumpa sa Watawat begins. Voices rise together, right hands pressed over chests, the pledge spilling out with varying levels of conviction. Izuku’s lips move automatically, but his mind races, tripping over every word and every memory the ritual drags along with it.
A short reading or quick announcement follows—housekeeping, reminders, the schedule for the month. A principal or CAT officer’s voice booms once, crisp and businesslike, then vanishes, leaving a ringing quiet in its wake.
Names are called. A teacher shushes someone from the back row. Then the world exhales: students break ranks in waves. Laughter spills like a jar of marbles onto the concrete. Conversations snap back to life. Pockets of friends cluster, stray papers rustle, shoes squeak. The flag snaps softly in its high place, a steady heartbeat over the buzzing campus.
Through it all—orders barked, the anthem’s final note fading, private rituals of salutes and bowed heads—the ceremony holds its double nature: official and profoundly intimate. It’s stage, ritual, backdrop: a public thing meant to call everyone to order, but also a quiet scaffold where private feelings can twist and rearrange themselves unnoticed.
The CAT officers shepherd students away while staff drift into their daily roles. The field empties slowly, heat clinging to uniforms, the echo of voices lingering. As for Izuku, he had excused himself from Sero's company to look for Katsuki. Standing at the edge of the crowd, every second of that ceremony feels like it’s waiting for one single turn of a head.
He scanned the field even as the last chords faded. Faces blurred into a tide of collars and backpacks, mocking Izuku with the cruel promise that finding Katsuki in this sea of students was going to be nearly impossible.
His chest turned into a metronome gone insane, ticking too fast to be trusted. He kept expecting to find him in the places that made sense — by the principal's office, by the canteen, leaning against the far wall with his mouth in a half-sneer that made Izuku’s stomach both sink and fly. The separation had taught his eyes new tricks; he hunted for the angles of a jaw, the way someone carried a shoulder, the particular impatience of a posture. Kacchan’s hair is still the same—spiky, wild, like it’s daring the world to touch it. The sun hits it and makes it look almost too bright to be real. I don’t think I ever realized how much I missed seeing it until now.
His heart thumped faster with every step, chest tightening like it might collapse under the weight of the search. Panic prickled at the edges of his mind, but beneath it was a stubborn spark—he would find him. He had to.
After a long sweep through the crowd and a few too many near-misses—someone with a familiar scowl, a flash of spiky hair that turned out to be a trick of perspective—Izuku admitted defeat. He gave one last, futile look over the shrinking field and headed toward his new classroom, shoulders tight with the small, sour disappointment of not finding the face he’d come looking for.
BUT—.. He shoved the search for Katsuki to the back of his head for a quick moment, like sliding a photo into a pocket so it wouldn't flutter in the wind. Okay. Focus. The words repeated like a mantra, small and fierce. I’m going to be a STEM student now.
The idea settled in his chest with a peculiar, electric weight — part pride, part giddy panic. Images flickered: lab coats, neat rows of equipment, his name on a roster that actually said STEM. He pictured himself in the long term, a version of Midoriya who could hold his own in class, who knew what to say in labs, who wasn’t always the kid asking a hundred questions in a row.
It felt like a tiny victory: official, pinned to his chest. He straightened his shoulders without thinking, smiling at the thought as if it were a friend greeting him. For one bright, stubborn second he let himself believe in it fully — that he belonged here, that this title fit him like a badly tailored but hopeful uniform.
"I'm actually going to be a STEM student!"
-The thought landed in his chest like a stubborn little drumbeat — proud, ridiculous, totally believable. He pictured lab coats and messy notebooks, problem sets that would make him stretch his brain in new directions, the strange comfort of working with equations instead of memories.
.
.
.
"..Or I'll just die."
For a heartbeat he saw asphalt and panic in panel-clear detail: his palms, the surprised gasp that escaped him, the absolute humiliation of a face-plant in front of a hundred strangers.
That was until chubby fingers closed around the handle of his yellow bag and yanked him back upright like someone had gripped the last life preserver on a sinking ship.
The girl let out a soft, airy laugh, the kind that made the sound feel like sunlight slipping through leaves. She smiled at him, gentle and reassuring, as she helped him to his feet, her hands lingering just a moment to make sure he was steady. "Be careful, there. Can't have people falling face-flat onto the dirty ground." she said lightly, tugging him upright. The smile lingered, easy and genuine, like a sunbeam threading through the chaos of the crowded campus.
Oh my God. She's- Cute! So cute!
Izuku swallowed, nerves jangling, and managed a small, flustered nod, still clutching his schedule like a lifeline. Somehow, the embarrassment of tripping felt just a little more bearable. “T-thank you,” he stammered, voice small and jittery, utterly caught between embarrassment and gratitude (And probably a bit of affection).
Her smile didn’t waver. “No problem,” she said, brushing off the moment as if it were nothing, though the sincerity in her eyes made it feel like everything.
He swallowed, cheeks blazing, and managed a tiny nod, clutching his crumpled schedule like it might somehow anchor him to the earth.
The chubby girl straightened and gave him one last bright smile, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I’ve got to head to my class now," she said, voice cheerful, "My classes start a bit earlier than others. Don't get lost, okay?" she said lightly, patting his shoulder before stepping back and sprinting to her room like a hornet looking for it's next victim.
Izuku blinked after her, cheeks still burning from the earlier tumble and her warm laugh, hands gripping his schedule like it might vanish if he let go.
He frowned slightly. "Wait… she’s heading to the STEM building?" It hadn’t occurred to him before—he’d just assumed she was in one of the regular sections. The thought nudged at the edge of his mind, small but insistent. "So she’s… a STEM student too?"
He shook it off quickly, mentally adjusting his posture and tugging his schedule closer. Focus, Midoriya. You’re a STEM student now. The mantra steadied him, and with one last glance toward the disappearing figure of cute, chubby girl, he started walking again toward his own classroom, determined not to get lost this time.
The walk to the STEM building felt longer than it should have, each step measured like a countdown. By the time he reached the base of the stairs, Izuku’s shoulders were humming with the effort of pretending not to look around.
Then—there, halfway up the flight—someone with that ridiculous, fireworks-of-hair silhouette paused on the landing. Spiky, unmistakable, like a comic panel come to life. Izuku stopped dead. For a second, the world went soft around the edges; he squinted until the sunlight pooled and cleared into hard lines. Izuku’s brain refused to cooperate; his eyes narrowed into a squint until the world sharpened and blurred all at once.
He held his breath as if inhaling might break whatever fragile, impossible hope had flared to life.
No. It can’t be.
— The thought stalled, ridiculous and hopeful, because the angle of the jaw, the way one shoulder was set slightly higher than the other, the exact tilt of the head, the unbuttoned collar, — it all slid into place like pieces of a map.
But his chest had already started to pound in a way that made denial impossible. Memories skittered forward: small hands, a voice that had been thunder and home all at once, a laugh that used to mean we’re together He felt ridiculous for wanting it so badly and even more ridiculous for being afraid.
He let the stairs swallow the rest of the world until there was nothing left but that spiky silhouette and the line of a familiar jaw. Every step Katsuki took forward felt like a panel flipping slower than it should have, like someone had stretched the moment to see if it would hold together.
He watched the face as if he could read through years into a single trait, and there it was — the small, ridiculous proof he’d been clinging to in his head: those eyes. Crimson, sharp, the same dangerous spark tucked into the irises like an old nickname. Not hair, not posture, not the way he set his shoulders — the eyes. If those were his eyes, then everything else might actually be real.
They were his. Izuku’s chest hitched, the sound a half-gasp that he swallowed back. Memory crowded in: scraped knees, shared lunch boxes, a thousand afternoons where the world had been narrower because they had each other. The distance folded in on itself until it was just him, just now.
While drowning in his own whirlwind of thoughts, Izuku barely registered the movement beside him — the familiar, sharp silhouette that had once been constant in his world. And then, just like that, Katsuki was gone. The stairwell felt impossibly empty, the echo of footsteps swallowed by silence, leaving Izuku clutching air and memories.
A jolt of panic snapped him back to the present. His heart hammered like a drum in his chest. “Kacchan!” he shouted, voice cracking as it collided with the walls of the stairwell. His feet pounded the stairs two at a time, reckless and desperate, each step carrying eight years of longing and a thousand small regrets.
The world narrowed to the blur of steps and the single goal in front of him: to finally, finally reach the person he’d been waiting for like a pulse beneath his ribs, like a breath he hadn’t dared to take. And there — there was Katsuki, just a few stairs ahead, oblivious, impossible, perfect.
Izuku surged forward, arms aching to close the gap, mind screaming that this was the moment it all came back.
“Kacchan!” The name tore itself out again, louder, urgent, undeniable — and he lunged.
They both fell to the cold flooring of the hallway, which elicited a startled grunt from Katsuki. The grip was fierce and immediate; he buried his face into the front of Katsuki’s uniform, fingers clutching at fabric as if he could physically remap eight years into each stitch.
There was a sharp, grunt from Katsuki -annoyed, half-uncomprehending — and then the world contracted to the press of another body against his. For a heartbeat Izuku waited for rejection: the shove, the cold shove he’d feared for so long. Instead, fingers landed on his back, hesitant at first, then settling into a steadier hold.
"Kacchan.." Izuku murmured over and over like he was reciting a prayer.
Katsuki’s breath hitched. He didn’t say anything right away; his eyes narrowed, scanning Izuku like he was testing the edges of a dream. Then, very slowly, recognition cracked a hard line into something like an exhale. “Izuku,” he said — not quite a question, not quite a name, but the sound of the whole past folding itself into the present.
Izuku clung tighter, laughter and tears tangling together in a mess that felt exactly like coming home. Around them the hallway resumed its noise — lockers slamming, students murmuring — but inside that clinging, the years were simply gone.
He barely had a chance to catch his breath before Katsuki grabbed him back, arms looping around his torso with a force that made his ribs groan. The tightness was suffocating in the best possible way — a grip that screamed- "I’m here. I’m real. I’m not letting go."
And then Katsuki laughed. Deep, unrestrained, the kind of laugh that had always been equal parts scold and affection, the sound vibrating through Izuku’s chest like it had never left.
“Izuku,” Katsuki gasped between breaths, tightening the hold even more, muscles coiling against him — muscles that hadn’t existed eight years ago, grown through travel, work, and everything in between — “you dumbass… I thought I lost you!”
Izuku noticed something… different. Katsuki’s voice, usually sharp and clipped in the way he remembered, carried a subtle lilt now — a softness, a rhythm that hinted at years spent abroad. But that didn't really matter to him at the moment. What mattered was Kacchan. His Kacchan.
Izuku’s hands scrabbled at Katsuki’s uniform helplessly, face pressed into the crook of his neck, eyes wide and sparkling. “Kacchan! I-I didn’t think I’d find you either!”
Katsuki’s laugh hit again, vibrating against him, almost painful in its intensity, before he crushed him tighter. The hug was unbearable, overwhelming, but it was perfect. Every ounce of tension, every year of waiting and worry, seemed to collapse into the simple, undeniable fact that they were finally here — together.
Izuku gasped, a strangled laugh of his own escaping despite the weight of Katsuki’s arms. “Y-You’ve… grown so much!” he managed, voice muffled but awash with relief and joy.
Katsuki pulled back just enough to smirk, forehead pressed to his, wild hair tangling with his own. “Tch. Took me long enough, didn’t it?” Katsuki scoffed through his laughter, smacking Izuku lightly on the shoulder, though the hug never slackened.
His crimson eyes softened just enough to betray how relieved he actually was, how terrified he had been that this reunion and promise might never happen.
Izuku’s fingers fumbled at Katsuki’s uniform, gripping at the fabric like he could tether himself to the moment. “I-I missed you so much, Kacchan,” he admitted, voice low and urgent, nearly drowned by Katsuki’s heartbeat against his ear.
The spiky-haired boy let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head against him. “Tch… damn it, 'Zuku… I missed you too,” he confessed, voice rough, almost desperate. Then, just to prove a point, he crushed Izuku tighter, the hug suddenly impossibly snug. “Don’t think I’m letting go, got it?”
Izuku gasped, laughter and tears mingling as he nodded frantically. “Y-Yes! I… I don’t want you to either!” His words were small against the press of Katsuki’s chest, but in that hug, in that suffocating, overpowering warmth, they carried everything he’d been holding in for years.
Time stretched. Footsteps in the hallway became background noise; other students blurred past like shadows. There was only the two of them — a long-lost constant pressed together, catching up in silence as much as in words. The hug shifted subtly, Katsuki adjusting his hold to support Izuku more gently now, though still impossibly close, letting him breathe just a little, enough to keep the laughter and sobbing from turning into panic.
Finally, after what felt like both a second and an eternity, Katsuki pulled back just enough to press his forehead against Izuku’s, eyes scanning every inch of the familiar face. "You’re… really here," he said softly, voice low, awe threading through the usual sharpness.
"I am," Izuku breathed, gripping the front of Katsuki’s uniform again, still trembling from relief and joy. "And… I’m not going anywhere."
Katsuki’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile, one that held both pride and affection. "Good," he said simply. "Cause I’ve been waiting a long time too, idiot."
And for the first time in forever, Izuku couldn’t stop laughing — a raw, relieved sound that matched the beating of his heart, loud enough to fill the stairwell and every empty space in between them.
Eventually, Katsuki loosened his grip, just enough for Izuku to pull back, gasping and still flushed from the intensity of the hug. His hands hovered awkwardly near Katsuki’s shoulders, unsure whether to let go completely or cling just a little longer.
They fell into step together, shoulders brushing occasionally as they navigated the crowded hallways.
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed slightly, catching sight of Izuku’s name tag and the patch on his uniform. His lips twitched, a mixture of curiosity and mild suspicion.
"Tch… wait a sec," he said, voice still carrying that faint lilt from Japan, just enough to sound unfamiliar yet still entirely Katsuki. "You… you’re in STEM?" His crimson gaze sharpened, scanning Izuku like he was trying to reconcile a puzzle. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were in the regular sections.”
Izuku froze for a moment, cheeks flushing. He hadn’t expected Katsuki to notice so quickly. "I… uh…" He stumbled over his words, heart hammering, hands fidgeting with the edge of his schedule. “I… I transferred! Just recently… to STEM.”
Katsuki blinked, the crimson of his eyes practically glowing as his expression flickered between surprise, disbelief, and something dangerously close to excitement. His usual sharpness softened, replaced by a giddy energy Izuku hadn’t seen in years.
Before Izuku could react, Katsuki leaned in—way too close—so their foreheads were almost touching, breath warm and fast. "Does that mean we’re classmates?!" His voice was sharp but carried an undercurrent of joy, the kind of voice that could only come from someone who had been waiting for this exact moment without realizing it.
Izuku’s ears burned and his heart stuttered, throat suddenly dry. "W-whu- Well, I'm, um not exactly sure yet! I'm in section Might! What about you?" he stammered, stumbling over his words as his hands twitched nervously. The proximity was overwhelming, and yet, somehow, exactly right.
Katsuki’s jumped in, preventing Izuku from speaking any further, "MIGHT!", his grin widened, wild and triumphant. His fists pumped the air in victory before he jabbed Izuku lightly on the shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Izuku blinked, still dazed by both the proximity and the sheer volume of Katsuki’s excitement. “I… I can’t believe it…” he murmured, a small, awed smile forming on his face.
Katsuki smirked, leaning back just a fraction, still practically bouncing on his heels.
.
.
.
Katsuki didn’t waste a single second. The spiky-haired boy had thrown an arm over his shoulder, dragging him into a staggered, unsteady rhythm that somehow felt completely natural.
“C’mon, 'Zuku,” Katsuki said, voice low and full of mischief, the teasing edge softened by the warmth in his crimson eyes. “We’ve got a class to survive. Don’t lag behind.”
Izuku stumbled slightly under the weight of both Katsuki’s arm and the flood of emotions surging through him, but he let himself be guided, letting that familiar pull of friendship, trust, and something deeper carry him forward. Their steps echoed softly against the polished floors, mixing with the distant chatter of other students, yet to Izuku it felt like the world had been condensed into the narrow hallway, the two of them walking side by side and no one else mattered.
Katsuki’s arm stayed firm around him, pressure steady, reassuring, almost protective, like he was physically carving out a space where Izuku belonged. It was absurd, and it was familiar — the same way he had clung to Izuku during their childhood misadventures, only now stronger, broader, more… grown. Izuku could feel the muscles beneath the uniform, solid and unyielding, a stark reminder of the years that had passed and the distance Katsuki had traversed both literally and emotionally.
“Let's sit together.” Katsuki muttered, leaning a little closer, his breath brushing against Izuku’s ear. “Just hope that there aren't any seating arrangements.”
Izuku swallowed, cheeks warming, and gave a small laugh. “I… I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he admitted, voice quiet enough that only Katsuki could hear, even in the bustling hall.
They moved in sync, side by side, shoulder brushing against shoulder, and for the first time in years the rhythm of their steps felt like a conversation of its own — unspoken words, shared memories, a promise that neither of them had to articulate. The hallway stretched ahead, classrooms and lockers fading into the blur of motion, but it didn’t matter. Here, in this small bubble of proximity and familiarity, everything else could wait.
By the time they reached their new classroom, Izuku felt lighter than he had in years, heart pounding not just from the sprint up the stairwell earlier, but from the simple, grounding knowledge that Katsuki — his Kacchan — was here, now, by his side. And Katsuki’s arm? Still slung around him, tight enough to remind him that no amount of time or distance could erase what they’d always been.