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The snow is starting to pick up, flakes fat and heavy as they fall to the ground and land in Katsuki’s hair and on his shoulders. Beside him he can see them begin to adorn Izuku, too, the white plainly evident against the green of his hair and the black of his cloak. The clouds are thick above their heads, and Katsuki eyes them warily, concern taking root in his chest.
They’ve just left Yuuei, a small village in the north. It had been nice there; the community had accepted them, and Izuku especially had fit in well, making friends easily and quickly. The chief was a brusque man named Aizawa who had set them up with everything they needed, and although Katsuki was slow to trust, he had found himself rather taken with the chief and his husband, a loud man who had welcomed them just as loudly. Katsuki normally envied Izuku for being able to trust so easily, due to his own untrusting nature, which in turn made others slow to trust him. He had his reasons, of course.
Katsuki is dragonborn, a descendent of a tribe that has lived in hiding for hundreds of years after being hunted nearly to extinction by humans. It was easy to hide in plain sight, as dragonborn didn’t look any different from the humans who hated them—the only difference was the power of fire each one possessed, an ability to create flame with their hands that marked them as other. Despite this, most dragonborn lived a life as nomads, always on the go, going from place to place and never settling down. A dragonborn is only safe on the move, something his parents had instilled in him over and over until the day they died.
Katsuki had been on the move since he was a child, never staying in one place for very long. His parents taught him the importance of secrecy at a young age, emphasizing how important it was to not trust anyone with his secret. Dragonborn weren’t trusted, and were often hunted still. They lived in small clans all over the country, never joining forces to avoid being wiped out. And it was easy to keep the secret; he never met anyone he wanted to tell.
Until Izuku.
As a child, his parents had settled in the village of Musutafu for a time. It was there that he met Izuku; a boy his age with wild green curls and a dimpled smile that Katsuki would dream about for the rest of his life. Katsuki and he had hit it off immediately, clinging tight to each other in the way that children do, Katsuki’s unstoppable force meeting Izuku’s immovable object. They clashed and fit back together again. They held hands and shyly kissed each other on the cheek. They were inseparable.
And then it was time to move on.
Katsuki had cried. He had begged. He had done everything he could, but it was to no avail. A dragonborn is only safe on the move.
“We will meet up with others like us,” his father had said, trying to comfort. “You’ll meet someone else, and you’ll forget all about him.”
Impossible, Katsuki thought. Izuku was branded onto his soul.
The night they left, Izuku hadn’t cried. This stood out to Katsuki, because Izuku cried at everything. But his eyes stayed stubbornly dry even as Katsuki’s teared up, and he reached out with a steady hand to wipe at Katsuki’s cheeks as the wetness spilled.
“I’ll wait for you, Kacchan,” he said. Katsuki had shaken his head, because Izuku wasn’t getting it.
“I can’t come back, Izuku.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Izuku said, more stubborn than Katsuki when he wanted to be. “I’ll wait for you.”
And then they were gone.
Katsuki was a shell of himself for weeks. His parents kept their word; they sought out other clans, other dragonborn with children around Katsuki’s age, but none of them were Izuku, and none of them stuck. For years they continued what they’d been doing, but Katsuki never forgot him, or the small little village of Musutafu. It called to him like home, something dangerous he could never have. The only home he knew was with his parents.
And then the sickness hit.
He’s not sure why it spared him but took the two people closest to him, if it was a blessing or a curse that he survived. Either way he came out of it unscathed (physically, at least) but alone, something he had never been. He was nineteen; he’d been with his parents his whole life. They’d always cared for him, provided for him. Now he was thrust into a world without them, and he didn’t know how to cope.
He burned the bodies, the traditional funeral for a dragonborn. He burned them with the sparks from his own hands, putting them to rest forever with the power they’d passed down to him, before he did the only thing he could think of to do—he went back to Musutafu.
It called to him, the closest thing to home he’d ever known. In his grief he didn’t know what else to do, where else to go. And though it all, in the back of his mind was the boy he’d left behind; Izuku. Katsuki wondered about him, about who he’d grown into, if he’d been waiting for Katsuki like he said he would.
He met with the chief when he arrived, who remembered him and his parents and offered his condolences before setting Katsuki up in an empty cottage. He’d been there barely two hours, trying to get comfortable and seeing the ghosts of his parents everywhere, when the door flew open.
Izuku, at nineteen, was taller and fitter than he’d been when Katsuki had left. His hair was just as wild as before, those green eyes wide and filled with tears when he caught sight of Katsuki standing in the middle of the room. He gasped, a sudden intake of breath, and both of them paused, unsure what to do next.
“You’re back,” Izuku finally said. “Toshinori—he said you were back.”
Katsuki opened his arms, as if to say—here I am. But Izuku read it as something else, staggering forward to envelop him in a hug that left Katsuki breathless with the smell of his soap. Katsuki tightened his arms around the man in them and breathed him in.
“Kacchan,” Izuku said happily, and for the first time since his parents died, Katsuki felt like he could breathe again.
He was happy in Musutafu. Izuku’s mother took him under her wing, and it was nice to have a parental figure again. The chief, Toshinori, did the same. Katuski had a family again, had friends, had Izuku. Had a home.
It couldn’t last.
Izuku was over; they were curled up together. Katsuki wasn’t entirely sure what they were, only that they could not be apart. They hadn’t kissed or anything, but they acted like a couple in every way but that. It was confusing, but Katsuki was too messed up in the head to figure it out right now.
Izuku’s head was on his shoulder, scarred fingers tracing shapes on the back of Katsuki’s hand, when he said, impossibly sad, “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you.”
It wasn’t a question. Katsuki stiffened, and Izuku lifted his head.
Katsuki said, “I have to,” and his heart broke inside his chest one more time.
“You could stay, you know. You belong here. You belong—” with me, was the unspoken end to that sentence. Izuku didn’t finish it, but he didn’t need to. Katsuki could hear it all the same.
“I can’t, Izuku.” He wished he could explain why, wished Izuku could know, but every warning his parents had ever given him rings in his head.
“Okay,” Izuku said, and if Katsuki were surprised by his easy acquiescence he was even more surprised when Izuku said, “Then I’m coming with you.”
Katsuki sat up straight, looking down at Izuku. “Izuku—”
“I don’t want to hear an argument,” Izuku said fiercely. “I’ve thought it over. I’ve talked it through with my mother and the chief. I want to come with you.”
“Izuku—” he said again. Part of him, a large part, wanted to just accept, to have Izuku beside him, to embark on the next stage of his journey with a companion. But he couldn’t in good conscience bring Izuku into his life on the run. Not when he had a family, a community here. He’d lived his whole life in this wonderful village, and Katsuki didn’t want him throwing that away just for him.
“No, Kacchan, I know all that you’re going to say, and it’s useless. I’ve already made up my mind. I’m coming with you. I’m not—I refuse to lose you again.”
Something warm spread through Katsuki’s chest. “You’d be leaving behind everything you know,” he warned. “A comfortable life exchanged for one on the road. That’s not something you want.”
“But you are,” Izuku said easily. “I’m coming with you.”
No matter what Katsuki argued, Izuku fought back, until Katsuki grew weary of fighting. And why was he fighting, anyway? He wanted Izuku to join him, more than he’d ever wanted anything. He didn’t want to say goodbye to him again. He needed him, at a level he didn’t quite understand, a bone deep desire that kept him awake at night.
So when Katsuki left Musutafu, Izuku was by his side.
They’ve been together since then. Well, not… together. Together in all ways but the way that really matters. They hold hands and sleep in the same bed, curled together, and Katsuki will touch freely, a lock of hair brushed out of Izuku’s face or a pinch to his chubby, freckled cheek, but they’ve never talked about it. They’ve never kissed, never progressed past that line. Katsuki knows what’s holding him back, the secret that sits between them. It doesn’t feel right to progress things when he’s not being completely honest.
He could tell him. Izuku would never harm him, Katsuki is sure of that. But how he would react is a variable Katsuki can’t risk, both to the fact that Katsuki is dragonborn and to the fact that he’s been lying to him. Izuku has been nothing but truthful with him from the time they met; would he understand the need for secrecy that had been drilled into Katsuki from before he knew how to talk, or would he be hurt that Katsuki had kept it from him?
Katsuki doesn’t want to hurt him, so he keeps quiet. What Izuku doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and couldn’t be used to hurt Katsuki. He can’t risk losing him. Not now that he has him, in whatever way that is.
The snow is getting worse.
The night is almost white, the snow is so vicious. It isn’t really a problem for him; he runs hot, always has, a side effect of the fire that simmers in his veins, but he’s worried about Izuku. Izuku is shivering violently, huddled close to Katsuki to leech some of his body heat. His movements are slow and lethargic. Katsuki is close to panicking. They’re too far to turn back to Yuuei, and he has no idea where the next closest village would be.
His keen senses are able to locate a small, shallow cave, and he hustles Izuku into it and out of the snow. He hauls him close to Katsuki, an arm around him and Izuku’s face pressed into Katsuki’s warm neck. It’s a compromising position, but that’s the last thing on Katsuki’s mind right now. All he cares about is getting Izuku warm.
But this—sharing body heat—is not going to work. Izuku’s clothes are too wet, no amount of body heat is going to help. They need more. They need fire.
Never share our secret with anyone who isn’t a dragonborn, his parents' warning echoes in his head. It’s too dangerous. You cannot trust humankind.
But what is the other option? He lets Izuku die in his arms? That’s not a possibility. Katsuki refuses.
And besides—who can he trust, if he can’t trust Izuku?
Katsuki raises his hands and summons fire.
It still comes easily, like breathing or singing, a natural part of him that cannot be forgotten. His palms come blazing to life, fire bright and warm in the darkness of the cave, and he brings them close enough to Izuku that he can feel the warmth without burning himself. The fire flickers across his face, eyes closed, eyelashes spread out on his red, red cheeks, jaw shivering in the cold as he huddles closer to Katsuki’s warmth. Katsuki watches him sharply, keen eyes firm on Izuku’s face, watching for any signs of life or signs that he’s getting worse.
And slowly, Izuku’s clothes begin to dry. Slowly, the shivering starts to calm down. And oh so slowly, Izuku’s eyes open.
They stare at Katsuki in awe and wonder. The light from the flame lights up the green of his eyes as he stares starstruck at Katsuki. He doesn’t say anything, eyes flickering from Katsuki’s face to his lit up palms. He doesn’t say anything still as Katsuki continues to warm him, but his eyes never leave Katsuki.
When Katsuki has assessed Izuku to be mostly dry and warm he lets his flame go out. He’ll have to find something to start a fire with later, but right now he needs to escape from Izuku’s steady gaze. Katsuki isn’t sure what his reaction is going to be, and it is easier to face in the quiet darkness of the cave, with only the wind outside for company.
He doesn’t speak. He can’t. He can only stare at the dark outline of Izuku and pray he doesn’t hate him, that he doesn’t hightail it back to Yuuei with stories of the dragonborn on his lips, ready to get a group together to come and hunt Katsuki down.
But no, that’s his parents' paranoia speaking. Izuku wouldn’t do that. But he has no idea how Izuku is going to act, if he’s going to resent Katsuki for keeping quiet, for keeping this huge secret from him for so long. Will he understand Katsuki’s dilemma, understand that the only thing his parents had ever asked from him was his secrecy? Will it matter to Izuku that he wanted to tell him, that he agonized over it, that he went over the conversation over and over in his head a thousand and one times? Will any of it matter, or will Izuku leave him all alone?
Katsuki still can’t speak. It’s Izuku who finally breaks the silence, his voice quiet—and he proves just how good he is, just how right Katsuki had been about him, because the very first thing he says is, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
Warmth bursts in Katsuki’s chest, because of course. Of course Izuku wouldn’t push him. Izuku was worthy of every bit of trust Katsuki gave him, every drop of love Katsuki held in his heart. Izuku understood that Katsuki was bound to secrecy, and he didn’t hate him for it. He wouldn’t push Katsuki. He’d let him keep this soul crushing secret if Katsuki needed to.
So Katsuki tells him. The secret he’d kept for so long comes spilling out of him, and he tells Izuku everything. He tells him about his power and his family, about the cruelty of humans that had forced them into hiding and a life constantly on the move. He tells him about how hard it had been to leave Izuku the first time, how he’d met other dragonborn but none had come close. He tells him about the one rule his parents had drilled into him, and how he’d broken it to save Izuku’s life. He doesn’t ask forgiveness for keeping the information from Izuku, but he trusts Izuku can hear it in his voice and the way he keeps his head bowed, how rough it has been to keep this information from him, how guilty he’s felt hiding it.
When he’s done Izuku is quiet, no doubt absorbing all the information. Katsuki sits and waits for judgement.
Finally, Izuku makes a move. He takes one of Katsuki’s hands and lifts it to his face, turning it over so he can place a kiss on the palm, before he does it for the other hand too. He holds Katsuki’s hands between his and says simply, “Kacchan is amazing.”
Katsuki feels like he’s having an out of body experience; he sees it from very far away as he leans forward and captures Izuku’s lips with his own.
Izuku gasps into it before he kisses back enthusiastically. Now that his secret is out there’s nothing holding him back, and as Izuku’s mouth opens beneath his, Katsuki wonders why on earth it took him so long. Izuku’s lips are soft despite the weather, and they move against Katsuki’s in the most wonderful dance.
Eventually they pull away, but they don’t go far. They lean their foreheads against each other, sharing air as they catch their breaths.
“Thank you for telling me,” Izuku says.
“I’m sorry it took me so long.”
Izuku just smiles and shakes his head. He moves in close to Katsuki, leaning his head on his shoulder, and Katsuki wraps an arm around him as they cuddle, waiting out the end of the storm. Whenever it starts getting cold, Katsuki creates fire to warm them up.
Eventually they catch sight of the first glimpse of the sun outside the cave, lighting up the sky. They watch it as it rises.
“I love you Kacchan,” Izuku says. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”
Katsuki kisses him again. He hopes Izuku can hear what he cannot say—I love you. I’ll always keep you warm. He thinks he can. Izuku has always been good at reading him.
The sun comes up; they set off again.