lily

In those moments, his mind is always levelled. Quiet in a way that feels almost weird, focused on the now, on the plans he’s pushing through for the League, but mostly for himself. He knows he can’t allow himself a single misstep, so every thought is pushed back, left to be dealt with in the stillness of another sleepless night and through the first rays of dawn. 

Except, it doesn’t work this time. Not even with the flames getting higher and hotter, caging him from all sides, and with the smoke coming off his skin, letting him know that he’s overdoing it again. It doesn’t make sense why: the bunch of thugs he’s up against aren’t anything special, a normal swept of his blue flames would have been enough to do the job. He didn’t need to overdo it, but he did it anyway. 

He knows exactly why— you can’t succeed in pushing away your emotions all the time if you’re not aware of them, of the ones that can stay and those that needs to be swept under the rug. The thoughts replaying in loop in his head, hammering into his brain like fighting a nail that refuses to stick, are the the reason why. They push him to deal with a box that was never really closed, bringing him back to a time when overdoing it was the only thing he knew. When burning himself, making that fire burn hotter, was the only way to prove himself. 

“Touya is… not an easy person to forget.”

Dabi scoffs, but it comes out like something closer to a wince. The fire dies down and the sizzling stops, casting a heavy silence in the dark alley. He shakes his hand once, willing the sting in his wrist to disappear, along with the memories that burning himself up always brings back to the surface.

He walks past the incinerated corpses lying at his feet, not even sparing them a glance as he starts climbing the fire escape. Something settles at the pit of his stomach, heavy and meaningful and familiar. He thinks he should call it guilt, but it’s probably not. If he was really guilty, he’d stop killing people. If he was feeling guilty, that would mean that there was still some good left in his heart and he knows for sure that’s not the case. 

“I just- I miss him, you know?”

No, he doesn’t. Not in the slightest. 

He’s thought about you before. Not constantly, not obsessing over it, but like a fleeting image that sometimes pops up in his head unannounced. He thought about you when he first woke up in a place he didn’t know and in body that didn’t feel like his own. He went to your house after the fiasco with his family, desperate for something that might anchor him to reality again, for an evidence that there was at least someone who had been waiting for him to come back. When he arrived, a family he didn't recognise was in your porch, a mother laughing with her children as she opened the front door. 

“I think my parents want me to go to Shiketsu,” you say, twirling the flower in between your fingers. “Mom has been preaching about the school for the whole weekend, showing me pictures and books from when she was attending. I mean, it’s still a few years away anyway, I don’t know why she’s pushing for it already.”

“I don’t know, Tou. It sounds like a good school. Mom had lots of fun and she’s a badass, so the teaching clearly works,” you muse, pursuing your lips in thought. Your eyes slide over to him and the little smile you give him makes his chest feel inexplicably tight— it’s happening more and more lately, but he doesn’t completely understand why. “But I told her I can’t. I’m not breaking our promise. If you go to UA, that’s where I’m going too. Heroes together, right?”

Of course, there were no more reasons for you not to attend Shiketsu after his death. It only made sense that you moved, looking for a fresh start somewhere new, but it still stung a little. Mostly, because that gave him no way of knowing whether you were mourning him or not. If his death had affected you somehow or if it didn’t change anything, much like it hadn’t for his family. What he really meant to you— if he did mean anything at all— would remain a secret he had no access to. He filed the thought away, stored it somewhere in his mind where he wouldn’t look for it.

The cold air hits him out of nowhere as he steps on the rooftop. The wind blows on his face as he jumps onto the next building, then to another. The sun set a while ago and the pink sky is slowly starting to turn black. In the darkness, he doesn’t have to worry about hiding or sneaking around. It’s the only time of the day when he can exist somehow peacefully.

Dabi lands swiftly on the roof of a tall building a few blocks over. He’s not sure what kind of building it is, but he doesn’t deem it important— at least, not as much as the one across the street. He crouches by the ledge, waiting patiently for the same sight he’s been a witness to for the past weeks. 

Like clockwork, there you are. He sees you rounding the corner of the street, hands linked behind your back as you stroll towards your agency. From up there, he can see the signs of an eventful patrol— the dirt on your costume, the outline of a bruise near your shoulder and the mess of hair sitting on your head. You look tired, but you’re still smiling at the hero walking beside you. You laugh at something they say and the sounds ring in Dabi’s ears for seconds— familiar in a way that makes him uncomfortable, like something is trying to crawl out of him. 

After seeing you knelt in front of his stone a few months ago, it became impossible to avoid the thought of you anymore— tho not for lack of trying on his side. 

It was the first time seeing you again after his death— at least, in person. The first real time was through a television screen years ago, when you made your debut in the hero world. He hadn’t even needed to hear your name to know it was you. One look at your face had been enough for him to recognise you, to spark the memories he had fought so hard against. 

You looked… happy, but quieter. You smiled for the camera and talked in the same sweet tone you mastered sometime in elementary school to get out of trouble, but Dabi grew up with you. He caught the way your smile wasn’t as wide as he remembered, the way you spoke carefully, as if measuring your words instead of rambling like you used to. He supposed it was only fair you’d matured, but there was a tiny, pathetic flicker of hope inside him that wanted to believe it had something to do with him. 

“I might have gotten used to him not being here anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still wish he was. I don’t think that’ll ever change, no matter how much time passes.”        

A loud explosion disrupt the peace, seemingly coming out of nowhere. Dabi sees the smile fading away from your face as you whip around, body tense as you look for the origin of the noise. The moment your eyes catch onto distant smoke, your features school into a look of determination. You bark something at the other hero before sprinting down the street, towards the source of the explosion. 

On your own. 

“Fucking idiot,” Dabi mutters under his breath, even when the edge of his lip curls slightly. You’re still as impulsive and self sacrificing as always, it appears. No wonder you’re that loved of a hero— never had any doubt about that. Before he can talk himself out of it, he finds himself leaping from one roof to another, heading for the same direction as you. 

He arrives a few seconds later than you, but those were more than enough for the fight to break out. The three criminals— thieves, if the heavy bags slung over their shoulders are of any relevance— have no time to react to your attacks. Cornered in a desert alley, you don't have any civilians to worry about, nothing that keeps you from using your full strength.

Dabi observes from above, unable to take your eyes off your figure. You move through the scene with the grace of a dancer, light on your feet as you flutter from place to place, almost as if appearing out of thin air. The criminals don’t stand a chance against you— you dodge every attack and return it with more precision than ever, sending the three scumbags tumbling to the floor.

His attention is solely on you, but he catches it with the corner of his eye. One of the criminals— the one you have your back turned to— struggles to sit up, his back pressed against the wall for support. When he raises his head, Dabi instantly recognises the glint in his eyes, having seen it reflected in a mirror far too many times to even count. Ashamed, furious— murderous. All directed at you.

Before he even realises, his body moves on its own. He doesn’t register the moment his feet move, jumping off the roof and bringing him at the end of the alley. He doesn’t think as he raises his left hand and blue flames sprout from his palm. The fire rises and shoots towards the criminal, the sound of its sizzling covering his cry of anguish. It travels forwards, heading for you, but it takes a curve right before reaching you.

It only takes a few seconds for a wall of fire to surround you whole, without touching you or causing you any harm. The first criminal thuds to the ground lifeless and the other two follow quick, their bodies already burned and unrecognisable.

Dabi sees the confusion in your face, the wary way you look at the fire around you as if scared it’s going to hurt you. Then, you turn around, and, for a moment, your eyes meet through the dimming flames. A heavy silence descends upon you— a charged tension stretches between the two of you, but Dabi doesn’t let the moment linger.

He doesn’t stay long enough to see if recognition sparks in your gaze or if disgust twists your features. He doesn’t stay long enough to hear your voice again, to check whether your hair changed colour or if you grew taller from the last time he saw you.

He doesn’t let himself store more information about you, not when that will only allow you to occupy his brain more than you already do.

When the fire dies down, he’s gone and no one is in the alley expect for you and the three corpses, almost reduced to ashes.

This means that, for the sake of reaching his top form as fast as he can, he begrudgingly accepts your help— although, of course, not without a normal dose of complaining. After all, it wouldn't be Katsuki otherwise.

"It's been six hours, you should take your medicine again," you say quietly as you step into the dark bedroom. Katsuki has been cooped up in here since morning, claiming that lights and loud noises were making the pounding in his head worse and accentuated the nauseous sensation in the back of his throat.

"Don't tell me what to do," he grumbles from under the covers, only blonde spikes peeking out from the cocoon of blankets he's wrapped in. You snort and shake your head, making your way towards him. The mattress dip under your weight and Katsuki pulls his head out to look at you— and it really is a sight to behold.

His cheeks are flushed, a pretty pink adorning his pale skin. His usually vibrant eyes look hazy, gaze unfocused as he blinks blearily at you, as if trying to focus his sight. His eyebrows are furrowed, lips tugged into a frown and face settled into a scowl that doesn't look nearly as intimidating as he probably wishes.

You have to admit, he actually looks kind of cute— but, for obvious reasons, you’ll keep the thought to yourself for now.

"How are you feeling?" you ask, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead to check his temperature. Katsuki grunts softly, but you catch the way he subtly leans into your touch, seeking the coolness it provides.

"Like shit," he responds gruffly, his voice low and husky.

You hum in understanding and cast him a sympathetic look, moving your hand to cup his face and stroke his cheek with your thumb. A soft exhale slips past his lips and his eyes fall closed as he tilts his face to the side, pressing more firmly against your palm.

"Stop looking at me like that," he murmurs.

"Like what?" you ask, confused. "You can't even see me."

"I don't have to, I know you," Katsuki responds promptly, not bothering to open his eyes yet. "You're probably looking all worried and shit, I can tell. Don't you dare start patronising me now."

You roll your eyes and shake your head. "I'm not patronising you, I'm just taking care of you," you correct him. "And on that note, you should really take your medicine again."

"I'll take it later," he replies, dismissively waving his hand around.

Before you can protest, he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you to lie down beside him. His body is hot against your side, legs immediately tangling loosely together underneath the sheets. His hand curls around the dip of your waist, keeping you close as he rests his head on your shoulder.

"Katsuki?"

"Mh," he hums softly, nuzzling into your collarbone. His hand slips underneath your shirt, making contact with the bare skin of your stomach. "Shut up or you'll make my headache worse."

"You know, there's an easier way to stop your headache," you remind him sarcastically— tho you don't try to push him off you. You shift underneath him to make yourself more comfortable and raise your hand to the back of his head, gently carding your fingers through his hair.

"Yeah, yeah. I hear ya," he sighs, moving until he’s almost completely draped over you, with his head pillowed on your chest. A pleased sound rumbles in his throat as your nails sweetly scratch his scalp, making him melt into you.

“Just… give me a few minutes here, then I'll take that damn pill."

𝜗ৎ MIDORIYA IZUKU

When it comes to Izuku, the hard part isn't taking care of him—it's getting him to admit he's sick in the first place. His self sacrificing and people pleasing tendencies have been a part of him since he was a kid, so it's no surprise that his own health comes last in his list of priorities, far behind teaching, hero work and, obviously, you.

The main reason why he won't admit he's under the weather is because he feels like he can't take a step back without disappointing someone. If he's sick, he's forcing you to take care of the house— and him— all by yourself, he's leaving his students unattended and he's not out there to help out if something happens. He'd gladly kneel over before letting any of those things happen.

"Sweetheart, I already told you I'm fine," Izuku sighs, repeating himself for the umpteenth time— although, it's still not enough for you to believe him. After years of dating, you pride yourself in knowing how your boyfriend's feeling with just a look and what you're seeing clearly doesn't scream "fine". He's been sitting at the kitchen table for about half an hour, eyes fixed on the report on his computer. Every now and then, you catch him grimacing and rubbing his temples or his forehead, which lets you know that the "little headache" he insist he has is probably not as insignificant as he made it sound.

"You don't look fine to me, baby," you respond, eyeing him from the seat across from him. Despite never straying away from the screen, his eyes look unfocused and glassy, with that typical shine of illness in them. You get up to check on him, but as you do, your chair scrapes across the floor and you see Izuku wincing and holding the side of his head, then quickly scrambling to act like nothing happened.

"I promise I'm fine, I'm just tired."

Again, you don't buy it for a second. You ignore his excuse and reach for the thermometer to check his temperature. As he clocks what you're about to do, Izuku visibly grows more agitated.

"Ah, baby, there's no need for that," Izuku laughs nervously, plastering a smile on his face— tho it looks far too tight for it to seem genuine. "I'm-"

"Fine, yes. So you've told me," you interrupt him, cocking your head to the side. "Which means you have nothing to worry about. I'm sure your temperature will be fine, but better safe than sorry, right?"

You grin in satisfaction as you see him worrying his lower lip, clearly looking for an excuse not to let you take his temperature but coming up short. He battles with himself for a few moments, before his shoulders deflate and he sighs in defeat. He leans back in his chair and parts his lips, just enough for you to slide the thermometer under his tongue.

You wait for a few seconds before pulling it out and reading the result. "Alright, you definitely have a fever," you comment, shaking your head. Of course you knew he had a fever, you're just shocked he was willing to suffer from it rather than just admitting it.

You glare at him and Izuku has at least the decency to look sheepish. "I swear it isn't that bad..." You raise an eyebrow at him and he sighs. "Okay, fine. It is bad, my head is pounding, but I wanted to finish this report. And I'm almost done, I only need-"

"What you need is medicine and some sleep," you interject firmly, but with a touch of gentleness in your tone. You reach over to close the report page on his computer, earning an halfhearted whine of protest from Izuku— tho he doesn't try to stop you. He doesn't fight you when you brush his curl away from his forehead— he lets out a sigh of relief that you assume is from the contrast between your cold fingers and his scorching hot skin and melts into you, until his face is buried into your stomach.

“Fine, fine," he relents, voice weak. His arms come to wrap around the top of your thighs in a loose embrace— probably because he doesn't have enough strength for a tighter one. "You coming with me?”

“If you want me to," you murmur, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Of course I do. I can't sleep without my favourite pillow," he says softly, nuzzling into your stomach like a cat.

“Very romantic," you reply sarcastically, earning a chuckle and a light squeeze from your boyfriend. “Come on, let’s get you rested up.”

𝜗ৎ TODOROKI SHOTO

Everyone in your inner circle knows that Shoto is touch starved. His clinginess towards you has always been the object of undeterred teasing whenever the two of you went out— his attention never wanders far from you for too long and there's always a point of touch between you, let it be a hand on your thigh underneath the table or his arm resting on the back of your chair.

What most people don't know, however, is that his clinginess gets ten times worse when he's sick— maybe even more. All of a sudden, you can’t move to another room without hearing a pair of extra steps immediately trailing after you.

“Sho, baby, I told you to stay in bed,” you sigh softly, feeling a familiar weight draped over your back. Shoto’s arms wrap around your waist from behind like vines, holding you close to his chest as if to merge your bodies together.

He whines softly against your neck, aggressively nuzzling his face into your shoulder. “You abandoned me,” he murmurs, and you can clearly hear the pout in his voice.

You chuckle softly and shake your head at the accusations. “I didn’t abandon you. I told you to wait for me while I made you some soup,” you reply, nodding at the simmering pot on the stove— the one that’s been heating up for barely five minutes before Shoto came looking for you.

Shoto spares it nothing but a fleeting glance before burying his face back in the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. “Still left me alone,” he protests. “I don’t need soup, I only need you.”

You’re thankful he can’t see the blush adorning your cheeks or the way your lips curl into a little grin at his words. Despite the years spent together, Shoto’s bluntness still catches you off guard at times— in the best way possible, of course.

“As sweet as that is, you need to get some food in your stomach,” you remind him softly, raising your hand to lightly caress his knuckles. Shoto lets you at first, then flexes his fingers to intertwine them through yours, holding your hand over your stomach.

“Okay,” he says softly, his voice raspy as a result of the cold he’s still suffering from. “But can we go back to bed later? I felt better when we were cuddling.”

“Sure we can,” you reassure him. “I just need to quickly swing by the pharmacy-“

“No.”

You knew this was going to happen. You sigh and shake your head. “Shoto, we’re out of cough syrup and medicine for your cold. I need to go buy some.”

“Why are you so eager to leave me?” Shoto whines softly, letting you know he’s beginning to sulk again— if he ever stopped in the first place, that is. “Just get it delivered or call someone to bring it here.”

“Shoto-“

“I’m sick,” he interrupts you. “You shouldn’t leave a sick person alone. What if something happens?”

“Baby, you have a cold. You’re not dying.” As you speak, Shoto raises his head from your shoulder to give you a look— and it’d be a lie to say your heart doesn’t skips a beat at the cute sight he makes. The tip of his nose is red and his cheeks are flushed, while his eyes are wide and pleading as he looks up at you.

"Please?" he whispers, in a voice so soft it tugs at your heartstrings— you know he's doing it on purpose, the damn manipulator. "Stay with me..."

Your resolve crumbles and you can only exhale and nod your head. Pleased with your acceptance, Shoto buries his head back in your neck and you feel a smile pressed against your skin. "Thank you. You're the best."

"Come on, baby. I need you to wake up," the annoying voice whispers again, sounding urgent. This time, you manage to recognise it as your boyfriend's annoying voice— and you also realise that the house is far too quiet for it to be morning already.

You groan and bury your face in your pillow, as if shielding yourself from waking. "What."

You hear the rustling of sheets before you feel a pleasant warmth enveloping you whole. Toned arms wraps around your waist, Denki's hands slipping under your shirt to rest on the bare skin of your midriff. The hard lines of his chest press up against your back— familiar and comforting— and, for a moment, you feel yourself drifting off again.

"Baby?"

"Denki, I swear to God, if you don't go back to sleep right this moment-"

“I can’t!”

“Why the fuck not?”

Silence follow your question and you’re vaguely aware of Denki squirming behind you, as if unsure of his answer. His fingers drum gently against your side, a nervous habit of his you clocked back when you first started dating.

“…I need to go to the bathroom,” he admits in a whisper.

“Then fucking go,” you sigh, your tone a mix of tiredness and exasperation. “Why the fuck did you wake me up? Do you need me to hold your hand or what.”

Your words are clearly sarcastic but, as seconds pass by, you don’t hear Denki denying them. You groan and turn around to face him, blinking your eyes to get accustomed to the darkness in the room. It takes a few seconds before you’re finally able to make out his face.

The first thing you notice is how he's avoiding your gaze, eyes flickering anywhere but your face. Despite being lying down, there's a certain stiffness to his posture, a nervous energy that manifests itself in the way his fingers absentmindedly fiddle with the fabric of your shirt, repeatedly bunching it up and pulling it down a moment later.

You look at him for a moment, curious about the reason behind his strange behaviour, until it seems to click in your head. Any hint of annoyance evaporates from your body and a wry grin makes its way on your face. "No way...," you murmur, amusement lacing your tone. "It's the movie, isn't it?"

Denki makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and it's now his time to bury his face in the pillow— tho not before giving you a view of his adorably flushed cheeks. "Don't laugh at me!"

"I'm not!” you reply, right before breaking into giggles. "Okay, maybe I am. Just a little bit tho, promise."

"You're terrible," Denki grumbles, his voice muffled against the pillow.

"You're the one who insisted on watching that movie in the first place," you point out.

"Because I know you like horror movies and I heard this one was good," Denki protests, a little whine creeping into his tone. "I think it might have been a little too good..."

You laugh softly, before reaching out to gently card your fingers through his hair. You feel his body relax under your ministrations and he turns his head slightly to the side, enough for him to peek at you with one eye. The sight is so cute it stops whatever teasing was sitting on the tip of your tongue, giving way to a feeling of pure fondness that only makes you want to hold him in your arms and never let go.

"Can you just come with me?" he asks, shy and hopeful. "I don't want to walk in the dark on my own."

"You do realise you're pretty much a human flashlight, right?" you retort, laughing under your breath as it earns you an offended pout from your boyfriend. You gently brush his hair back, then lean in to press a light kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Tell you what. We go the bathroom and then we can head downstairs and watch whatever dumb cartoon they're playing at this hour. How does that sound?”

You watch as a wave of excitement flashes across Denki’s face, his features softening and his lips curling into a beaming smile. “Sounds perfect. Just like you,” he replies, turning his head to plant a sweet kiss on your palm.

“Now, can we go? I’ve been holding it in for an hour.”

The tiniest sob was to be met with eye rolls and deep sighs. The first running tear was to be awarded with barely concealed scoffs. Murmurs of "there she goes again" would reach your ears, louder than the buzzing in your head— purposely loud enough for you to hear.

There was no comfort— no arms wrapping securely around your shaking frame, no reassurances whispered in your ears. Everything would go on like nothing happened, like your crying was only a pebble in the way, already overcome. The only proof they even noticed the state you were in were the annoyed glances headed your way, along with the usual comments.

"You're too grown for these tantrums."

"What are you, a baby? Not even they whine so much."

"You're too sensitive, you're going to scare everyone away at this rate."

"No one is going to put up with you if you don't fix yourself."

Each comment landed like a blade in your heart. Blow after blow, the shame burned hotter inside you. As time passed by, you couldn't help but start believing their words. After all, weren't they right? No one would take you seriously if you kept up the waterworks for the tiniest things. Not as a person, and surely not as a hero.

Who would trust someone so weak to save them?

Someone so pathetic?

Crying was sworn off then. You never shed a tear in front of another person again, allowing yourself to break down only in the solitude of your room at night, where no one would hear your sobs. It wasn't always easy: sometimes you wanted nothing more than to collapse in front of someone who cared, to let someone else handle the burden of your feelings and lessen the weight on your shoulders.

Unfortunately, it was only wishful thinking. All the memories from your childhood made it impossible for you to even consider it a possibility. As far as you knew, crying would only lead to annoyance and judgement. It wasn't something you could let people see, especially not people you wanted to keep in your life.

You repeat a calming mantra as you climb the stairs to your apartment— a lump in your throat and the promise of tears prickling your eyes. The day was a shitshow, from start to finish. It started on a wrong foot when you went to take a shower that morning, only for the water to turn freezing while you were still washing yourself. It went downhill when you walked into the kitchen for breakfast and found out you had ran out of coffee.

The real tragedy, however, was patrol. Everything that could've gone wrong went insanely wrong. An old apartment complex collapsed and you spent all morning rushing in and out of the rubble to get every civilian to safety. Most of them were fine in the end, but a few had to be rushed to the hospital with blaring sirens.

There were two casualties.

From the report, the young couple living on the first floor died right after the building went down, crushed under the rubble. There was no time, nothing you or any other hero could have done to save them, but that knowledge wasn't enough to quench the guilt gnawing at your heart when you saw the two lifeless bodies laid on the ground.

It's not the first time you lose someone on the job. People say it gets easier, that you learn how to harden your heart overtime, but that's a lie. Every name and every face of those you couldn't save never truly leaves, but they settle somewhere in the back of your mind and come back to haunt you from time to time.

You managed to keep your cool on the way back to the agency. You managed not to let your feelings show when you took off your costume and washed the blood and grim off your body. Now, however, as only a few steps separate you from the privacy of your apartment, it's getting difficult to keep everything bottled up.

You're thankful Izuku has a late meeting today, which gives you just enough time to cry your heart out before he comes home.

Or at least, that was the plan, up until you stepped inside your apartment and found your husband sitting on the couch— clearly not at work like he was supposed to. Izuku raises his eyes from his phone when he hears the door clicking shut and beams at you.

"Welcome home, honey!" He jumps off the couch, making a beeline for you. "I'm so glad you're back, I missed you so much today. I was actually thinking we should-"

He trails off as he sees the look on your face, the smile slipping away from his lips. You try to school back your features into a relaxed expression, but the damage is already done. Izuku's eyes are wide with concern, his hands hovering above your arms like he's not sure whether his touch would make things worse.

"Hey, are you okay? Did something happen? Did you get hurt?"

You try to speak, but your breath catches, making you choke on your words. The genuine care in his voice seems to pull at your heartstrings, until you feel your chest tight with emotions ready to spill over. It's so tempting— the idea of letting yourself crumble in his arms, to let someone else hold you up for once instead of bearing it all on your own, but there's still something stopping you from letting go just yet.

You shake your head, not trusting your voice not to break at the moment. You feel the tears coming to the surface and quickly blink them away before they can fall, but it's still not enough to convince Izuku. The worry is evident on his face, his eyebrows pulled together and wrinkling the skin in between.

"Sweetheart..." he starts slowly, as if speaking to a wounded animal. "I- you don't have to tell me anything, but I can tell you're not okay."

You don't have it in you to deny his words— not when it feels like even attempting to speak will just end up in sobs— so you say nothing. Izuku reaches for your hands, interlacing his fingers through yours— and if he notices the way you cling tightly onto him, he doesn't show it.

"Let's just sit down for a moment, yeah?" he says softly, gently guiding you towards the couch, where you take a seat beside one another. You keep your gaze fixed on your lap, refusing to meet his eyes, but you can feel him watching you keenly. Even without facing him, you know the way he's looking at you: worried, but patient.

Because Izuku knows you better than anybody else. He won't push, won't ask you to tell him what happened even when you know he's dying to know. He'll wait for you to speak first, giving you all the time to talk about it on your own terms— but, in the meantime, he won't leave your side.

His presence hits you harder than it probably should. You should be used to Izuku's caring nature, but you still find yourself surprised to see how natural it comes to him to be there for you, in a way no one else ever was— quiet and supportive, without judgment. You cast him a tentative glance, looking up at him through your eyelashes. Izuku meets your eyes and flashes you a reassuring smile. The sight loosen the tight knot in your chest and the tears starts flowing before you can stop them.

Izuku is ready to catch you when you launch yourself at him, his arms wrapping protectively around you as you bury your face into his chest. Broken sobs spill out of your mouth, interrupted by tiny gasps for air. Your fingers curl around the fabric of Izuku's shirt, holding onto dear life, until your knuckles turn white.

Through it all, Izuku doesn't show the tiniest sign of annoyance. One of his hands is steady on your back, while the other slowly strokes your head and tucks your hair behind your ears. You feel his lips on your temple— not kissing, just pressing against your skin like a comforting weight.

"It's okay, let it out," he murmurs. "I'm here."

"I'm sorry," you gasp in between the sobs, your voice shaking. Despite the comfort in his voice and his touch, you can't help the shame that burns inside of you. “I-I didn’t want you to see me like this…”

“Crying?” Izuku asks, ever so sweetly. When you nod, a soft chuckle escapes his lips. “Sweetheart, I think it would be pretty hypocritical of me to judge someone for crying.”

You let out a weak laugh and your body relaxes a little in his arms. Your chest doesn't feel as tight anymore, just a little uncomfortable from the force of your sobs, but breathing is slowly becoming easier the more time you spend in his embrace. You focus on the warmth seeping from his body, on the tenderness in his hands as they rake through your hair and run up and down your spine, on the steady beating of his heart underneath your ear.

"You don't ever have to feel bad about crying in front of me, honey. Or anybody else, for what it matters," Izuku says, his voice gentle and soothing. "Don't feel embarrassed because you have a big heart. That's what I love the most about you."

"You mean that?" you ask hesitantly.

"Of course I do," Izuku replies, like the answer is obvious. "You're one of the best people I know. You're so kind and empathetic, sweetheart, but I know how taxing it is on you. You can't absorb all those feelings from everyone around you and bottle them up, that's not healthy."

He gently takes your face in his hands, carefully guiding you to meet his gaze.

"You're more than allowed to cry when things get too much, but please don't think you need to hide it from me. I don't want you to deal with this on your own, I want to help you out. We don't have to talk if you don't want to, but let me be there for you, okay? Let me dry your tears, let me hold you through the pain, let me be the one who can put a smile back on your face when the moment’s over. I want to be by your side, sweetheart, but you have to let me.”

The thought in itself is scary. There’s a small part of you that thinks it must be some sort of trick— you can’t believe there’s someone actually willing to handle your crying, not when you’ve been told otherwise all your life. And yet, as you stare into Izuku’s wide eyes and see the pure affection shining in those emerald pools, you can’t find any reason not to trust him with this fragile part of your soul— not when he already owns most of it anyway.

You nod your head and fall back into his arms, letting yourself be comforted for once. “Then… can we stay like this for a little while?” you ask softly.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Izuku replied just as quietly, pressing a long kiss to the top of your head. “For as long as you need.”

You lean back in your chair with a groan, running your hands down your face. Your eyes thank you when you let the heavy lids flutter closed, giving them a few moments of much needed rest. Exhaustion washes over you, but it's not enough to convince you to call it a day yet— not when your exam is only a week away and you still have stuff to look over. The most you can allow yourself is this small breather, and that’s already pushing it.

"You're fucking kidding me."

Your heartbeat pick up as the familiar low timbre reaches your ears. You can already feel some of the tension leaving your body when you open your eyes and see your boyfriend's figure in the doorway, looking fresh out of the shower— dressed in comfortable clothes and with his hair still damp.

"Hi, babe," you greet him warmly, managing a tired smile. "How was your day?"

"Surely more eventful than yours," Katsuki grumbles, frowning at you. "Have you moved at all today? You were already sitting there when I left this morning."

"Of course I did," you lie promptly.

In all response, Katsuki raises a questioning eyebrow at you. "Yeah? When?"

"Uh..." you stammer. "To go to the bathroom?"

“So you got up for five minutes every two hours?”

Unable to defend yourself, you just smile sheepishly at him. Katsuki scoffs and pushes himself away from the doorway, making his way towards you. He moves to stand behind you and rests his hands on your shoulders, activating his quirk to work the tension in your muscles with his warmth. You sigh in contentment, instinctively leaning into his touch.

“Fucking idiot,” he murmurs. “You need to take breaks.”

“I don’t have time for breaks,” you protest, your voice weak with exhaustion. “I need to study.”

“You can’t study if you’re too fucking tired to function, dumbass,” Katsuki retorts gruffly, gently flicking your temple. You whine in annoyance, but he ignores you.

“Tell me you at least ate something.”

"Do coffee and cup noodles count?"

"Geez, you're a mess," Katsuki grimaces, shaking his head. He pats your shoulder and nods towards the door. "Come on, I'll cook us something."

Your mouth waters at the image that pops up in your head. You've always been a sucker for Katsuki's cooking, more so when you had nothing but store bought crap for the whole day. Everything inside you is begging for some real food.

"Sure," you reply, returning your attention to the notes on your screen. "You should get started, I'll join you in-"

Before you can even finish your sentence, strong arms wrap around your waist and lift you from your chair. You squeal as you find yourself thrown over your boyfriend’s shoulder, your fingers curling around the back of his shirt to have something to cling on.

"Katsuki-"

"Nope. Not listening to you," Katsuki interrupts you, adjusting his grip on you so that you have no room for squirming— not like you'd even try to compete against him in terms of physical strength. Even if you struggled, he wouldn't budge, so you might as well give in without exhausting yourself further. “You’re done for today. No more studying.”

You sigh in defeat, letting your head hung down. You feel yourself bounce slightly as Katsuki makes his way out of the room and heads for the kitchen, tho you can tell he's trying to keep you from being jostled too much. A few moments later, he places you down on the counter. You think he'll go for the fridge next, but, instead, he steps in between your parted legs, resting his hands on either side of you. You wait for him to speak or do something, but Katsuki just stares back at you, with raised eyebrows and an expectant look in his eyes. 

“What?” You ask.

Katsuki clicks his tongue in annoyance, but you also see the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He lifts his hand from the counter to pinch your chin in between his fingers, giving your head a light shake. “All that studying really fried your last braincells, huh?” He murmurs tauntingly, the corner of his lips curling in a half smirk. “Aren’t you forgetting something, baby?”

You furrow your eyebrows and think. You don’t feel like you’ve forgotten something, but you wouldn’t be surprised to find out that is the case with how occupied your mind has been lately. Before you can even try to guess what he’s talking about, however, you feel Katsuki’s thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth and it instantly clicks. 

You grin up at him, cocking your head to the side as you meet his gaze. “Aw, baby. Are you asking for a kiss?”

You don’t expect the sincere smile that takes its place on his face, nor the gentleness of his hand as it moves to properly cup your cheek. “After not seeing you for ten hours? You fucking bet I am.”

When he moves to lean in, you’re ready to meet him in the middle, hand already at his nape to tug him closer. It starts slow, as nothing more than soft lips caressing each other, but it soon evolves into something deeper. Katsuki's thumb presses gently underneath your mouth, willing your lips to part and allow entrance to his tongue, quick to find yours and entangle it in the intimate dance you both know so well. His free arm slips around your waist, pulling you tight against his front and letting your legs wrap around his waist to mould you two together on the counter.

You can feel your limbs growing heavier in his hold, finally letting go of all the tension coiled in your muscles. You let yourself sink into him, allowing him to be the only thing holding you up. With the warmth of his mouth on yours and the weight of his arm around you, it's easy to let go of the stress, to forget about exams and notes and anything that doesn't involve kissing your boyfriend stupid in the middle of your kitchen.

Katsuki lingers in your space when you pull back, his hand slowly caressing your side while the tip of your noses are still pressed together. “That’s better,” he murmurs, smiling at you. He presses one last kiss to your lips— chaste but purposeful, in a way that makes your chest feel warm— before finally pulling away from you.

“So, what do you want for dinner?”

You rub the sleep out of your eyes as you start to get up, a shiver running down your spine when your bare feet collide with the cold parquet floor. Every movement of yours seem to echo in the quiet of the house, still asleep despite all its inhabitants being wide awake.

Out of the bedroom, you see a faint light at the end of the hallway and decide to follow it. You stop just before rounding the corner to the living room and smile at the sight presented in front of you. Shoto is sitting on the armchair by the window, with your son cradled in one arm and curled into his chest, while an open book rest open in his lap. The light from the reading lamp casts a warm halo around the two of them, making them look like a vision from a dream.

You quietly slip into the room, not wanting to disturb the soft sound of Shoto’s reading voice. It’s so low you can barely make out the words, but the warmth in his tone is enough to pull you in anyway. Shoto, for his part, is too focused on his task and only notices you when you take a seat on the armrest. His eyes lift from the colourful page and settle on your face instead, blinking slowly in confusion.

“Why are you up, love? Did I wake you?” He asks softly, resting his free hand on your thigh. His palm is almost scorching hot on your bare skin— courtesy of the constant warmth Shoto seems to ooze off his left side.

You smile at him and shake your head. “No, you didn’t,” you reassure him, before sliding your gaze to his arms. Your son is resting peacefully, his eyelids closed and his small lips slightly parted as he sleeps to his heart’s content. You reach out a hand, gently brushing some hair away from his forehead.

“He was getting fussy, so I brought him here before he could wake you up,” Shoto supplies as explanation for their whereabouts, without needing you to ask.

“And so you started reading to him?” You muse quietly, fond amusement lacing your tone. “I think he’s a little too young to appreciate your storytelling yet.”

“Probably,” Shoto replies, his lips twitching into a faint smile. He closes the book and hands it to you so you can put it back, then his hand returns to its rightful place on your leg. “Fuyumi told me that it’s important for babies to hear their parents’ voice, so… I gave it a try.”

You hum softly and lean in to rest your head on his shoulder, hugging his arm close to your chest. For a few minutes, neither of you speak. Both your gazes are set on your son’s sleeping face, on the way his nose twitches a little before he buries his face into his father’s shirt. You feel Shoto leaning into you, resting his head on top of yours. So close, you can feel his shoulders rising as he takes a deep breath, before he interrupts the silence.

“Do you think… I’m doing a good job?” His voice is soft and hesitant, like he’s not sure he actually wants you to answer that. “With him, I mean.”

You try to take a look at him, but Shoto pointedly avoid your gaze, keeping all his attention on your son. The look on his face, however, suggests you his mind is already miles away from here— and you can easily guess where. It breaks your heart to see the somber expression on his face, the hard set of his jaw where he should be relaxed instead.

“I think you’ve been doing great so far,” you reassure him softly, propping your chin on his shoulder. Your hand rest on top of his own, giving it a light squeeze of comfort. “Three months and we haven’t gone one trip to the emergency room, that should count for something, right?”

His lips curl slightly at your joke, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, nor does it take away the tension in his limbs. You sigh softly and gently bump your head against his to get his attention. “What’s gotten you so worried all of a sudden?”

A long pause follows, to the point where you’re not sure he’s going to answer you. Then, Shoto release a deep exhale. “I’m scared of doing this wrong,” he admits quietly. “I’m worried one day I’ll make a mistake and ruin everything.”

The confession hangs heavy between you, even if it’s what you were already expecting to hear. You weren’t a stranger to Shoto’s insecurities, especially those regarding family. The lingering doubts and fears had made various appearances ever since you first brought up the idea of having kids. Shoto wanted them too, but you could see that, in his heart, he was never sure if he was truly allowed to.

“I don’t want to mess him up,” he adds a moment later. “I don’t want to be a bad father, but…”

He trails off, clamping his mouth shut. His grip on your leg tightens and you feel his fingers digging into your flesh, but you don’t think he realises it. His entire body is rigid, coiled with a tension that has been slowly building up in the past weeks. You rub your thumb over his knuckles, hoping to be of some comfort.

“But… you think you’ll be?” You suffice when it doesn’t look like he’s going to end his sentence.

Shoto finally turns to you, but the pained look in his eyes almost makes you wish he didn’t. “I’m worried it’s inevitable,” he murmurs. “I think even if I’ll try my best, something is bound to happen at some point. I don’t know the first thing about what a normal childhood is supposed to look like, or how a good father should be. I fear I’m going to slip up without even noticing it until it’s too late to clean it up.”

A familiar fire burns in your chest, the same mix of anger and sorrow that rises up every time you think about his past— about the horror he’s been put through from the one person who should have taken care of him. And now, the roles changed. He’s not a clueless kid anymore, he’s a father— and you can understand why that freaks him out so much. He’s got no guidance, no prior knowledge to acquire from. He’s improvising every single step, probably second guessing everything he does.

“Why haven’t you told me you felt like this?” You ask softly, not looking away from him.

Shoto shrugs and doesn’t answer you— not like he really needs to. You know him too well by now, you already know why he didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t want to burden you. Because he thinks he should be dealing with this on his own, without someone else’s help.

You sigh softly and drop your gaze on your son’s sleeping figure once again. He looks so calm, blissfully unaware of the heavy atmosphere in the room. “I’m terrified too, you know?”

That seems to get his attention. You see his eyes flickering to yours, widening with something you can't quite place. “You are?”

“Of course I am,” you respond. “There are times I feel like there’s still so much I don’t know about life and suddenly I have a whole kid that depends on me for everything, even dumb stuff like eating or sleeping. This kind of responsibility… it’s nerve wracking, everyone with common sense would be scared.”

“But you know what makes it less scary?” He shakes his head and you smile at him, interlacing your fingers through his own. “You. Knowing I’m not doing this alone— that I have you beside him— is the greatest comfort I could have. You’re so attentive, so careful with everything you do, that I can’t help but trust you more than I trust myself sometimes. I can be at ease because I know that, even if I do mess up at some point, you’ll be there to help me out."

"You..." Shoto trails off, at loss for words after your confession. "Really?"

You chuckle softly, leaning in to nuzzle his nose. "There’s no one I’d trust with this more than you," you murmur slowly, hoping he can feel the sincerity in your voice. "And it looks like I’m not the only one.” As you say this, you nod at your son. The infant hasn’t stirred once since you arrived, cuddled up into Shoto’s embrace as if it’s the safest place in the world. His little fist is curled up in Shoto’s shirt and half of his face is buried against the soft fabric, making it look as if he’s trying to merge into his father’s front.

“Look at him. You think he would trust you this much if you were doing a terrible job?“

From the corner of your eye, you see the little smile that forms on Shoto’s lips. He shifts his arm to get a better grip on your son, bringing him closer to his chest at the same time. “I guess not,” he mumbles, his voice less strained than before.

You mentally release a sigh of relief, finally seeing the tension easing off his body. "I get why you're scared," you say softly, giving his hand another squeeze. "I don't think there are parents who aren't scared of messing it up. But I believe in you, Shoto. I know how much of a good person you are, there's no doubt in my heart you'll be anything short than a great father. And if things get hard, you have me in your corner. Always."

Silence follows your words. Shoto is looking at you, his expression so open and unguarded that it makes your heart flutter. The lines of his face are finally relaxed, but what really gets you is the tender look in his eyes, almost glistening in the dim light.

"What?" you ask, to which he just smiles and shakes his head.

"Nothing," he replies. "Just thinking of how lucky I am to have you."

"Sap," you murmur, even tho you feel your cheeks flush. Shoto lets out a quiet chuckle at your sudden display of shyness and he leans in to plant a brief kiss on your cheek.

You sigh softly, resting your head back on his shoulder. "You wanna go back to bed?"

Shoto thinks about it for a moment, before shaking his head. "Let's stay here for a little longer," he says, lightly rocking your son. "He hasn't been asleep for long, I don't want to wake him up."

You hum and make yourself comfortable at his side. You don't say anything as you watch him fuss over your son, smoothening his shirt and rubbing his back whenever he makes the smallest movement in his sleep. Those little actions come easy to him, natural in a way that doesn't need pondering.

The realisation makes you smile a little. Shoto may not see it yet, but you don't doubt it for a second: he already knows how to be a good dad and, thankfully for him, that's just being his usual self.

Of course, he knew it was annoying to those around him. Kacchan had made it his mission to get it into his head when they were younger, but he wasn’t the only one. Even those who didn’t say it directly to his face showed how little they cared about what he was saying by ignoring him or simply moving along. It was a little disheartening, but he understood their motives.

So, growing up, he tried to keep it at bay. It wasn’t easy to stop something he’d been doing practically his whole life without even meaning to, but he tried, for everyone's sake. It was manageable most of the times, unless he was particularly excited or invested in a topic.

So, when, during a completely ordinary 3A class’ movie night, they decided to watch an All Might movie...

"-and it doesn't make sense of them to show Slingshot after the fight with Freezer when it actually happened first. Slingshot was in July and Freezer... was it August? No, he went on the island to get the new costume first, so Freezer must have been later, probably in October or something, which makes even less sense since he's been wearing the same costume all this time and it's only because of the new technology that he had no problems beating Freezer, so-"

He hadn't even noticed he was saying those things out loud until a pillow hit him right in the face— courtesy of Kacchan, of course. He supposes he should consider himself lucky it wasn’t one of his explosions.

He yelps in surprise, putting an abrupt stop to his muttering. When the pillow falls in his lap, he blinks, as if snapped out of a daze. He sees the movie paused on the tv screen and all eyes of his classmates on him— some amused, others annoyed. It’s enough to make his face flush in embarrassment.

“Ah, sorry everyone,” Izuku laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got a little carried away.”

Instinctively, his eyes dart to the side, to the beanbag you’re sharing with Mina. His breath catches when he finds you already looking at him, but with a different expression from the rest of the class— eyebrows furrowed and a small frown on your lips, as if you're confused about something. He almost thinks you look cute, until it hits him why you’re looking at him like that.

Because he’s being weird. What kind of eighteen years old and soon to be pro hero would ramble in front of a tv screen like a child? God, did he just ruin all the progress he made with you those past months?

The thought makes his stomach revolt and he feels a sharp pain jabbing at his chest.

The two of you are friends and, sure, you've been in the same class for two years now, so you're already accustomed to his little quirks, but that doesn't mean he still doesn't want to impress you. He wants you to think he's cool, not a rambling idiot— which is probably the image he’s giving now.

“Sorry guys,” he repeats, his voice strained with the effort of not letting his true feelings show. He curls up to the edge of the couch, making himself appear smaller. “You can start again, promise I’ll be quiet."

He's ready to spend the following hour shallowing in his own shame, but, before anyone can press play-

"What's up with the new costume?"

Izuku heads snap, his eyes finding you again. For a moment, he thinks he heard you wrong. “What?"

"The new costume," you repeat, "You said it helped him win, so what was so special about it?"

"You understood all that?!" someone— probably Kaminari— screeches from the other side of the room, but Izuku doesn't pay it any mind. All he can focus on is you— the way you’re looking at him, the focus in your gaze and the curiosity lacing your voice.

You were listening to him. You were actually interested in what he was rambling about and tried to understand what he was saying instead of just brushing him off.

The realisation makes his chest feel warm.

If he wasn't already so smitten, he was sure he would have fallen for you right this moment.

His focus returns to the conversation at hand just in time to hear your response. "Yeah? It's not that hard.” You say, shrugging. “Besides, Izuku always makes good points, of course I'll listen to him."

Oh, okay. There goes his heart, apparently. It’s definitely not supposed to beat this quickly.

You turn back to him with a gentle smile on your face, clueless of the fireworks you set off in his heart. "So, the costume."

"Uh, yeah." He clears his throat. "Basically, since the fight with Slingshot reduced the old costume to shreds, they made the new one with thicker fabric, but they were scared it could overheat in the summer, so they added a thermoregulating system that ended up helping fight off Freezer's ice."

You hum in understanding, nodding your head. "I'm just glad they got rid of the old design. It was tacky as fuck."

Izuku chuckles, surprised but also amused by your bluntness— just one of the many traits of yours he absolutely adores. He feels himself relaxing again, the tension easing off his body the more he talks to you— the more he realises you want to talk to him. “I don’t know, I’m pretty attached to the first costume. It’s nostalgic.”

“Of course you’d say that," you snort quietly, shaking your head in a display of exasperated fondness— fondness for him, can you believe it? He certainly doesn't, just like he doesn’t expect the smile you send his way— soft in a way that feels almost too raw. Too open for two friends.

"Are you two done flirting or...?" Sero asks, a teasing smirk plastered on his face as he lets his eyes travel between the two of you. However, it quickly slips off his face when your foot connects with his back, sending him toppling to the floor.

"Mind your own business," you grumble, and Izuku can't help but notice how your cheeks look more flushed than before.

And that, added to the realisation that you didn't deny the flirting, is more than enough to make him feel giddy for the rest of the night.

The two of them are on the playing mat in your living room, while you supervise from the couch. Kazue is sitting down cross legged, her blonde hair— the exact same shade as her father’s— put up in two pigtails as she fiddles with the toys sprawled all around her. Katsuki is lying on his stomach beside her, only wearing a pair of sweatpants to fight the summer heat— you told him multiple times to turn the AC on, but he refuses to do so when Kazue’s in the room.

He’s not doing much, simply watching over her as she plays on her own, with his cheek resting on his arm. Sometimes she looks at him or hands him a toy and he’s quick to participate in her play pretend. Even if he’ll huff and complain about it, there’s no mistaking the uplifting of his lips every time he realises his daughter is looking for him. Affection mixed with pride twirl in his eyes, making him look more like a regular father rather than the fierce hero kicking villains’ asses for a living.

You raise your head from your book just in time to see him prying a doll from Kazue’s little fist, which earns him a disappointed whine in return and an undecipherable babble that oddly sounds like some sort of scolding. Kazue’s still too little to articulate properly— as of now, her dictionary only consists of Mama, Dada and another bunch of simple words to express her immediate needs— but with the way her nose turns up and her small lips tug into a frown, it’s easy to sense her disapproval.

“Foo!”

“Nice try. You ate an hour ago, brat,” Katsuki snorts, lightly poking her forehead with his finger. It makes Kazue babble some more, but now there’s a gummy smile on her face as she throws herself at him. Katsuki groans at the impact, but brings his arm around her regardless, steadying her as she lies down on his bare chest.

You shake your head in fond exasperation, barely resisting the urge to smile at the adorable sight. “You have to stop calling her a shithead,” you reprimand him softly. “She’ll latch onto it eventually.”

“But she is a shithead.” Katsuki smirks and casts you a look from over Kazue’s head. “Just like her mother.”

You flip him off, which only makes him laugh in response. Your annoyance, however, dies down the moment Katsuki turns his attention back towards your daughter, now all up in his face and patting his cheek with her tiny hand. You see his eyes soften and his smirk fading into a gentler smile, one you had only seen reserved for you before. He leans his head up, pretending to bite at Kazue’s fingers and making her shriek.

This time, there’s nothing stopping the smile from blooming on your lips. Seeing the two of them together like this always makes your heart feel so full and so grateful for what you have.

Without realising, your eyes drift to Katsuki’s ribs, where black ink swirls on ivory skin in the form of your daughter’s name. He had always been iffy about tattoos (“Why would I purposely stain my body? You know how hard I worked for it?”), but there had been no hesitation when he booked the appointment, barely a month after Kazue was born.

(He was also the one who chose the name. After months of researches, of testing names that, for one reason or another, never seemed to stick, it all fell into place one night, as you were lying in bed next to each other. You were on the verge of falling asleep when you felt him shift, his arm draping over your waist and his palm resting on your bump. “What about Kazue?” He had asked, his voice low against your ear. At your questioning hum, he went on. “For the kid. It means blessing or some shit like that. Corny as fuck, but it seems fitting.”

Despite him trying to brush it off, you heard it in his tone— just how much he meant those words. It would still take months for you to meet your daughter, but there was no doubt he was already in love with her.)

“Dada, no!” Kazue protests, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. She narrows her eyes at her father— not looking intimidating in the slightest with her chubby cheeks all puffed out and rosy.

“You’re the one slapping my face, brat. I can’t even defend myself now?” Katsuki retorts, in a feigned offended tone.

You breathe out a laugh, placing a bookmark in between the pages of your book before pushing it aside. The sound seems to catch Kazue’s attention, because it only takes her a second to turn around and make grabby hands at you. “Mama…”

You hum softly. “What, sweetie? Is Dada being mean again?”

“Oi, who the fuck are you calling mean?” Katsuki scoffs, while Kazue nods her head, smiling at her father’s expense. Katsuki sighs in defeat, but when his eyes meet yours, he flashes you one real, genuine smile. His free hand pats the spot beside him, urging you to get up and join them on the floor.

If this is not a blessing, you’re not sure what else it could be.

Silence is your only company. Your steps don’t make a single sound in the snow, if not for the occasional sticks crashed under your boots. There’s no one in sight yet, but that doesn’t surprise you: you suppose most people prefer not going out in this weather, unless strictly necessary.

You have to walk a few more metres before you see the first stone. It’s a familiar one at this point, even tho you still have no idea whose family it belongs to. You lower your head— a subtle nod of respect to the souls resting underneath— and keep walking.

You don’t look at any of the tombstones you pass by. If you did, you’d feel the weight already pressing down on your stomach growing heavier. Somehow, it feels like the air gets colder with each stone you pass by. At the age of twenty-three, you’d think you would have gotten over whatever problems you had with cemeteries.

Clearly, that is not the case. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t visited once those past three years.

You fingers tighten around the flowers, tense. You count the gravestones in your head as you walk past them, head still bowed in respect. Your feet know where to take you and they halt once you hit ten in your head. You inhale, before raising your eyes from the ground.

There, in front of you, a familiar sight. The Todoroki family’s tombstone stands tall, a little distant from the others. It’s exactly as you remembered it, and you’re not sure whether that brings you comfort or unease. Because death stops the flowing of time. It doesn’t allow changes or growth, it only shows something already set, in time and in stone.

You lower your scarf to your neck and exhale, a puff of smoke escaping your lips and disappearing into the air. Your heart beats fast in your ears, filling the silence before your words can. For a moment, you just stare at the stone. Then, you lower yourself to your knees.

“Hi, Tou,” you say softly, your voice barely louder than a whisper, “I-I know it’s been a while, I’m sorry.” You lower your head again, taking a deep breath. Words swirl in your head, but your lips don’t move. It’s the first time in three years you’re even attempting to talk to him and you find yourself at loss for words.

It is painfully ironic. Talking with Touya had always came as easy as breathing to you, for as long as you can remember it. Even back when you were kids and you had a prominent lisp, he was one of the few people other than your parents who could actually understand you and that you felt comfortable talking to. And now? Now you can’t even string two words together for him.

You inhale through your nose and keep your eyes on the stone. It’s so… plain. You shouldn’t expect anything else from a gravestone, but it still feels wrong. Touya, so full of life, reduced to this. A piece of stone with no identity. Your eyes fall on the flowers and offerings on the bottom and your lips curl melancholically. That has Fuyumi’s doing written all over it.

You glance down at your own flowers, sighing. Your fingertips brush against the pink petals, feeling the softness of it against your skin. You had never gave too much thought to what flowers you brought him— maybe because you were younger then. You always brought what you thought looked good that day, as long as it was colourful.

“Flowers are a powerful language, my dear,” the old lady says, her hands gesturing at all the flowers around her, “beautiful things, sure, but they can say so much more, if you know how to listen. Tell me, darling, is there something you wish to communicate to this person? Something you want them to know?”

Your eyes clouds as you remember the conversation with the florist, barely an hour ago.

“Well, if you miss someone…” she trails off, wandering towards the back, “There are plenty of flowers for that. Forget-Me-Nots are a very common choice when it comes to show remembrance. Zinnias too, but…

Can I be honest, dear? I think for your case… these might be more fitting.” As she says that, she moves in front of a wall of pink flowers you don’t immediately recognise and plucks one from an already made bouquet, handing it to you. “Those are pink camellias. They’re also used to express longing for someone, but here’s the thing about camellias… when the flower starts to whiter and the petals fall, the calico falls with them, as if it can’t imagine staying up without them around. It seems silly to you, I understand, but many cultures see it as a sign of eternal love. An expression of desire to always be together, in life or death.”

The words sit heavy on your chest, but you don’t find it in yourself to deny them. After all, it is nothing but a truth you had acknowledged a long time ago— one you’d probably need to live with all your life. If your love for Touya hadn’t diminished almost a decade after his death, you doubted it ever would. It would always live within you, in the little spot it had carved inside your heart and called its home, long before either of you knew what love even was.

“So, how much for a bouquet of those?”

“I’ve been a little busy,” you continue, your voice soft. You slip one flower into the stone vase, careful not to ruin Fuyumi’s own composition. “Hero life is a real pain in the ass, let me tell you that. Always hopping from one place to another. But, well… I thought I’d stop by today. Wish you happy birthday properly.”

Silence falls as you arrange the flowers. The combination of pink and white brings some colour to the dull grey of the stone. You pull back to look at your work and your chest tightens. You really hate looking at this tombstone. It’s like a constant reminder of the wall that separates the two of you, one that you can’t get over.

It doesn’t matter how much you talk to him, you’ll never get an answer.

And yet, you do anyway. Just to keep that flickering hope alive that maybe he can still hear you. And that your voice, maybe, brings him the peace you find yourself still chasing.

“I guess some things changed since the last time I stopped by,” you murmur, feeling your stomach twist with guilt. It’s really been too long since you’ve visited him. It is incredibly stupid, but you can almost picture him frowning at you like he used to. Like he did when you first told him your parents wanted you to attend Shiketsu instead of UA.

“So you’re leaving me? But we said we’d be heroes together!”

“We promised!”

“You don’t want to come with me?”

You shake your head as if physically pushing those memories away, forcing yourself to smile. “The rankings for this year aren’t technically out yet, but… guess who’s finally in the Top 20? About time, right?” You laugh softly, pushing away the bitterness rising in your throat.

You know exactly why it took you these many years to get so high. Every time you got even a little near the top, the familiar sense of insecurity and guilt came crushing down on you. Before you knew it, you were slacking off again, purposely taking less jobs and interacting less with the people. As soon as your ranking dropped, you relaxed and went back to normal.

It had taken you years of therapy to understand the root of this problem, and even more to eradicate it. In your eyes, Touya had been your first failure. Before you even started training to be a hero, you had already failed to save someone dear to you. You had been close to someone who desperately needed a hand and you couldn’t give it to him in time.

How could you be a hero when you couldn’t even save your best friend? How could you deserve to be loved and praised when blame clawed at your heart every single day?

Your therapist had to tell you multiple times you weren’t at fault, but it hasn’t been long since you actually started believing it. Hence, why you were finally able to rank higher in the charts without self sabotage holding you back anymore. You still weren’t convinced you deserved it, but you’d take it. Maybe this was your form of atonement, to finally make things right.

You’re still lost in thoughts when you start to feel it, like a ping in the back of your head. Your back straightens and your ears perk up before your brain can even catch up— hero reflexes, probably.

Someone’s there. You don’t know why it bothers you so much— it’s a public graveyard, it is completely normal for people to come and go. And yet, this presence feels different.

Heavier, somehow.

You slowly turn your head and glance over your shoulder. Like you expected, there’s a figure standing a few feet away. The body structure tells you it’s a man, but that’s all the info you can get: with the hood pulled down and the scarf around his neck, only his eyes are left uncovered.

Uncovered and already set on you.

Your body jolts when your gazes meet, the blue in his eyes making your stomach churn. It’s so painfully familiar. Why did you have to go and see someone with blue eyes today of all times?

“Um, can I help you?” You ask, trying a polite approach— even if your guts are twisting right now.

The stranger doesn’t answer you, nor does he move. He remains standing still, his hands in his pockets and his eyes latched onto your figure. You try to gauge any emotion in them, but it’s a lost battle: they look as blank as ever, just silently observing you.

Weird.

Not wanting to start a fight in a graveyard, you decide to ignore him and return your attention to the tombstone. It’s the first time in years you visit Touya, you’re not getting your time cut short by some random weirdo.

You sigh softly and reach out a hand, your fingertips brushing against the etched writing in reverence. You find yourself wondering how different it would be if you could touch him instead, if your hand was touching warm flesh instead of this cold stone.

“Family?” You get startled by the low voice interrupting your thoughts. As distracted as you were, you hadn’t noticed the man from before stepping closer to you. You look to the side to face him, but he’s not looking at you anymore. His eyes are trained on the grave, still as emotionless as they were a moment ago. And yet, you notice the slight furrowing of his eyebrows.

“A friend,” you respond softly, dropping your hand to your knee. You don’t question why he’s talking to you. Graveyards are strange places: you remember how suffocating the eerie silence felt the first times, how you had to run away as fast as you could to finally be able to breath. “You? Who are you here for?”

The man shrugs, without taking his eyes off the stone. “Someone from my past.”

“That sounds… ominous,” you murmur to yourself. Unfortunately, the stranger hears you and lets out a low scoff of amusement.

“Good, that was the intention.”

You find yourself tempted to ask him more questions, but ultimately decide to keep your mouth shut. Surely it’s not your place to pry into a stranger’s life— or on their weird relationship to whoever they’re visiting in a graveyard. That sounds like an activity for acquaintances, at least.

He doesn’t seem to think the same.

“How old?” You understand he’s asking about Touya.

“He was thirteen when he died.” You reply, “He would have turned twenty three today.”

A slow hum reaches your ears. “Ten years and you’re still grieving him?” It doesn’t sound like an accusation. It’s more of an actual question. If you listen hard enough, he almost sounds… surprised. You look up at him and, this time, your gazes meet.

Once again, you feel your stomach fold in half, but you don't understand why. He's not sporting any particular expression, but the depth in his eyes is threatening to pull you in anyway. And somehow, it doesn't nearly sound as dangerous as it probably should.

You offer him a small smile. “I mean, not like before maybe, but..” you trail off, your voice soft, “I just- I miss him, you know? I might have gotten used to him not being here anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still wish he was. I don’t think that’ll ever change, no matter how much time passes.”

“Why?”

You blink at him in confusion. “Why what?”

“Why do you still miss him?” The man asks, like it’s obvious, “I’m sure most people would have forgotten about him after ten years.”

His words make your frown, mostly because of how sure he sounds when he says them. He’s not judging you, but he doesn’t understand you either. It’s like he never thought possible someone’s memory could be so cherished despite the passing of time. It makes you wonder how this man was raised and what kind of things he’s been told all his life.

“Touya is… not an easy person to forget,” you sigh softly, looking back at the stone in front of you. For the first time today, your lips curl into a genuine smile. Memories of laughters, of scraped knees and silly games are all you can think of. For a moment there, it doesn’t feel like January anymore— not with the warmth blooming inside your chest.

When you don’t get a response, you glance up at the stranger, only to find the spot beside you empty again. Confused, you look around you for any sign of him, but it’s no use. He’s nowhere near, gone as if the whole interaction didn’t happen in the first place.

Yeah, definitely a weirdo.

“Just stop squirming,” you sigh softly. Your fingers curl under his chin, gently tilting his head back. The warm light from above hits his face better now, red irises seemingly shining through half lidded eyes. You feel the weight of his gaze on your face as you move closer, but you don’t return it, attention focused on the patch of scraped skin at the end of his eyebrow.

It looked worse when he first got home. The blood had dried on his skin, dark and mixed with dirt. Seeing it now, clean after he took a shower, you can tell the cut isn’t actually that deep. Your main concern was getting it clean to avoid the risk of infection, which essentially meant making sure all debris were taken out of the wound. It wasn’t supposed to be a difficult task, but Katsuki was a terrible patient.

Which explains why you’ve been standing over him with tweezers in your hand for almost five minutes now, trying not to stab your boyfriend’s eye since he refuses to stay still.

“You should have gone to the paramedics,” you sigh, repeating those words for the umpteenth time. You can hear his answer in your head before he evens speak.

“What, for a fucking cut?”

“Katsuki, you hit your head against a window.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes and waves a hand around. “Same thing. I was feeling fine and other people needed it more than me.” Then, his face splits into a teasing smirk. He leans back into his chair— moving again, for your happiness— and his hands reach for your hips, pulling you to stand between his legs. “Besides, why would I do that when I got a great nurse at home already?”

He says it sarcastically, but you know him well enough to know there’s something sincere underneath. You feel it in the way his thumbs sneak under your shirt to touch your bare skin, as if needing the contact between your bodies. You feel it in the way his head tilts easily into your hands, letting you fuss over him with nothing more than grumbled protests and no real attempts at pushing you away.

He’s not saying it, but he’s showing it well enough. In this moment, there’s no one else he trusts more than you to take care of him, even if it’s for something as small as a cut on his temple. You know damn well he could have handled it on his own, but he’s letting you do it anyways.

Perhaps he enjoys the feeling of you fretting over him, of being helped instead of doing the saving for once. Perhaps he knows how much you need to see for yourself if he’s actually okay whenever he gets hurt at work.

Or maybe, this is simply something you both need to ease your mind after a long day apart. Remind yourselves of the connection you have until your hearts finally settle.

You dab a clean towel on the area around the cut, gentle and careful to avoid the open wound. You reach for the ointment on the table and unscrew the cap. “How’s your head?” you ask softly.

Katsuki sighs again, but doesn’t try to evade your question this time. “S’fine,” he responds quietly, closing his eyes as your fingers rub the ointment on his temple. His hands slide down your hips to reach the back of your thighs, his palms absentmindedly rubbing against your bare skin.

“Does it hurt at all?”

“Barely. It’s just a light buzz,” he answers curtly, but not aggressively. You can see the signs of exhaustion on him, from the breathy quality of his voice to the way his hands haven’t stopped touching you once. He blinks his eyes open, peering up at you through his lashes, and your heart squeezes at the unusual softness in his gaze, dazed and unguarded.

For someone so explosive, he looks oddly tame when he’s tired.

“Done,” you murmur, receiving only a hum of acknowledgement in response. Your lips curl into a faint smile and you don’t resist the urge to run your fingers through his hair, soft and slightly damp from the shower. You see Katsuki’s shoulders sag as he sighs, as if finally free of the heaviest of burdens.

Your digits weave through blonde strands for a few moments, before his fingers curl around your wrist, stopping your motions. You raise an eyebrow at him, questioning, but Katsuki only looks at you. Without uttering a word or taking his eyes away from yours, he pulls your hand closer to his face. His lips press gently against the centre of your palm, before drifting to the inside of your wrist, where they linger for a few seconds longer on your pulse point.

Then, as if nothing happened, he lets go of your hand and gets up on his feet. "Let's go to bed, I'm fucking beat," he murmurs gruffly as he walks past you, heading for the bed.

You allow yourself a private smile before following him.

What had started as a normal study session in your room had soon escalated. Your girlfriend came by in the afternoon and you laid in bed beside one another, with your books and your notes open right in front of you as you prepared for an upcoming test. At first, you just went back and forth questioning each other, occasionally stopping to explain something the other hadn’t understood. It was going well… for the first twenty minutes or so.

Boredom was quick to find you. Your questions had gotten sloppier and your answers shorter. Neither of you seemed to be focused on what needed to be done anymore. When you suggested it, you hadn’t thought much of it.

A kiss for every right answer. It was supposed to be a light and funny incentive to keep you both motivated— and maybe get some kisses from your girlfriend while you were at it.

Except it worked too well. That’s how you ended up in this predicament.

Small pecks turned into deeper kisses, brief caresses turned into hands grasping at whatever they could reach. You got closer and closer to each other like two magnets and at some point Ochako ended up draping herself on top of you, moulding your bodies together. Your hands found her waist, hers tangled into your hair— holding on, clinging.

Her mouth pressed against yours is a high you’ll never get used to. Ochako approaches love like she does with everything else in her life: warm and gentle like the sun, but with an underline passion that runs hot in her veins. You feel it in the way her hands angle your head to pull you in deeper, while her thumbs caress your jaw as if you were made of glass. You feel it in the way her tongue coaxes your mouth open, while little pecks are pressed upon your lower lip.

Being loved by Ochako means being basked in sunlight even in the colder days. It means feeling so light you wonder how can your feet still touch the ground.

Your hands slide underneath her shirt, your fingertips skimming tentatively over the soft flesh of her lower back. You feel her pushing herself closer to you in response, her hips slotting against yours in a way that makes you whine against her lips, and that’s all the confirmation you need to keep going. You slowly trail your fingers up her spine, pleased at the little shivers that go through her body and that tiny gasp that falls straight into your mouth.

Her own hands start to wander. She keeps one of them on your face, cupping your cheek so tenderly you almost don’t notice when the other starts to move. Her fingertips trail down your neck, touching your skin with the delicacy of a feather. They touch the exposed skin of your collarbone and trace the curve of your breast through your shirt before they curl around your waist, digging gently into your flesh.

You raise your head to chase after her lips when she breaks out for a breather, pulling her back in another kiss before another second can pass. Ochako smiles a little at your impatience, but she’s quick to let her tongue tangle with yours again. You think you’ve never understood addiction until the first time you kissed her a few months ago and decided that was what you were meant to be doing for the rest of your life.

You drop your hands to her waist again, trailing them up her sides to lift her shirt. When you reach a certain spot, however, you feel her squirm out of your grasp and giggle into your mouth.

“Tickles,” she murmurs against your lips, causing you to laugh too.

“Sorry, baby,” you respond softly, bringing your hands back to her waist. You open your eyes to look at her and your chest warms at the sight. There’s a pink flush on her cheeks and her lips are red and swollen from all the kissing, but it’s the look in her eyes that gets you. Half-lidded, pupils so wide her eyes almost look pitch black.

When she notices you staring, she smiles down at you.

“Hi,” she whispers, nudging your nose with hers.

You chuckle quietly and return the gesture. “Hi,” you murmur, stealing a quick kiss from her lips. “We should get back to studying.”

Ochako groans against your lips, pulling back to look at your face. “Do we have to?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” you respond. You smile fondly as a frown adorns her lips and raise your hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. She sighs and leans into your touch, cocking her head to the side— which is unfairly adorable.

“Five more minutes?”

“Sweetheart-“

You don’t even have the time to answer before her lips are back on yours. Unlike before, her kisses are slow and gentle this time, barely anything more than a fleeting brushing of lips against one another.

You know exactly what she’s playing at. Her patterns of manipulation are easy to recognise by now.

Which, unfortunately, doesn’t mean they’re also ineffective.

“Two more minutes?”

“Two more minutes it is.”