be loved

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/14851355.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero
Academia
Relationship: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku
Character: Bakugou Katsuki, Midoriya Izuku, Class 1-A (My Hero Academia)
Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Panic Attacks
Stats: Published: 2018-06-06 Words: 5403

be loved
by bonnia

Summary

They sit there, in the darkness of the common room, about a few centimeters between them,
but miles apart. Somehow, the quiet is companionable. More than it has been in many
years. Katsuki knows he’s responsible for the rift between them, and he knows even more
that it can’t only be Deku who attempts to mend it.

“Hey,” he says, after a while, and Deku turns to him in question, but Katsuki refuses to look
his way. “Touch me again.”

(or: the kidnapping incident leaves bakugou traumatised about being touched on the back
of his neck, and midoriya decides to take matters into his own hands)

Notes

unfortunately todoroki doesnt get to Ice That Bad Boy in this but i hope you like! ily >_<

As always, it starts with a villain attack.

They’d been out on field, and there hadn’t seemed to be much thought behind the action — nothing
but adrenaline, instinct, driving his every move, when Deku had dropped a heavy hand to the back
of Katsuki’s neck, urging him to get down, Kacchan! sending Katsuki to the ground with nothing
but raw strength.

And he’d gone down, beneath the protective cover of Deku’s body, too surprised to fight back. At
first.
But then, the panic settled in.

He remembers it, all too clearly, even after all this time, the feeling of the villain with the
patchwork skin and his scalding touch. The hand that had gripped the back of his neck, tight, right
next to the low, threatening whisper of, no problem.

He remembers cold. Darkness. The feeling of being pulled backwards into the black abyss of the
portal, and —

All Might, emaciated, feeble.

The symbol of peace, fallen.

“Kacchan — Kacchan!” he hears. Back then, and now.

Blinking to, gasping for breath, he sees nothing but the ground beneath him. The next instant, he
registers Deku’s voice — the hand curled around the back of his neck. His vision goes white, fear
gripping his chest, and he doesn’t think.

He can't breathe.

“Kacchan, what’s wrong? Are you hurt — ”

Pushing himself off the ground, Katsuki dislodges Deku’s weight, sending an explosion crackling
through the air.

He doesn’t know if it hits the mark. Because the next moment, all he registers is — darkness. This,
too, is all too similar to the warp villain’s quirk to be any sort of comfort.

He wakes up in the infirmary.

When he sits up, Deku is, unsurprisingly, seated at his bedside, having dozed off in the discomfort
of the visitor’s chair.

Katsuki tries for a scowl. A glance to the clock tells him classes are over by now. He’s been
unconscious for a good couple of hours — what a waste of goddamn time.

He reaches out to shake Deku’s shoulder.

“Go back to the dorms, dumbass,” he says, as Deku blinks into awareness.

Immediately, his eyes water at the sight of Katsuki sitting up, hands hovering out uselessly, too
afraid to touch. “Kacchan,” he babbles, and Katsuki can hear the stream of apologies even before
the idiot speaks them. “Kacchan, are you okay? I don’t know what happened, Recovery Girl says
you’re not injured, but it was something I did, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry, I don’t know what it was,
but I’ll never do it again — ”

“Shut up,” Katsuki grinds out, exasperated. “You didn’t do anything.”

“But I did,” Deku protests. “Or you wouldn’t have passed out like that.”

“It was the villain’s quirk, dumbass. Quit taking responsibility for everything when it has nothing
to do with you.”
“But… the villain didn’t touch you,” Deku whispers, eyes sharp and scrutinizing in that infuriating
way of his. Katsuki’s scowl deepens. “I made sure of it.”

“And you were watching me the whole fucking time we were fighting?” Without waiting for a
response, Katsuki powers on. “The villain made me pass out, not you. Quit being full of yourself.”

Deku purses his lips and hands Katsuki the glass of water at his bedside before he can even reach
for it. He doesn’t say anything more, even though he clearly wants to — the damn nerd.

He’ll have to be more careful, if he doesn’t want him to find out.

That the damage the villains had left on him had been more than surface-deep, and that Katsuki is
so fucking weak that it still eats him alive.

He’ll have to deal with this on his own, and fast.

He notices the way Deku watches him. He’s known the guy for too long not to. He pretends he
doesn’t.

The others notice soon enough. Deku isn’t at all subtle, about any damn thing, least of all about
anything to do with Katsuki.

“Hey, did you and Midoriya get into a fight again?” Sero asks under his breath.

Katsuki looks over his shoulder, and sure enough, Deku is gazing between Katsuki and his lunch,
looking like he can’t decide which he’d like to deal with first. “Mind your own business, Elbows.”

“It’s Sero,” he complains, but Katsuki isn’t listening.

Deku keeps watching him.

Katsuki finds that, lately, despite himself, he’s been watching Deku just as often.

He should’ve fucking known. All the signs have been there — blaring, red and vibrant — right in
his fucking face, pointing to the fact that Deku has been planning something. Something to do with
Katsuki. He’s become too complacent as of late, to leave it unchecked.

Because the fucker has gotten Kirishima involved now, of all people.

“Bakugou!” the redhead yells, barreling over across the training field.

Katsuki glares at his approach, bracing himself for the heavy weight of an arm over his shoulders,
but nothing — no amount of warning signs at all could have prepared him for the clasp of a hand
over the back of his neck.

His reflexes are quick, but they aren’t quick enough. The moment the appendage meets his nape,
Katsuki sends an explosion in the fucker’s face, seething with some horrifying mixture of terror
and rage.

Kirishima hardens in time to avoid any damage, but it’s already been done. There’s no way he
could've miss the way Katsuki’s breath hitches with fear — the instinctive way he
flinches and shies away from the touch. As much as Kirishima can pretend otherwise, he’s
annoyingly perceptive.

Ignoring the surprised calls of his name, Katsuki storms away, as fast as his shaking legs will take
him, before the questions can come.

And out of corner of his eyes, he sees — him.

Deku, watching, gaze sharp and stinging.

Fucking —

Nosy goddamn asshole.

He should've fucking known. It's impossible to hide anything from Deku.

Katsuki, feeling the pin-prickle of tears budding at the corners of his eyes, grits his teeth and
beckons with a jerk of his head for him to follow.

Deku does, after a moment, eyes downcast in shame at being found out. But Katsuki is beyond
feeling remorse at this point.

As soon as they’re alone, away from prying eyes in the confines of the locker room, Katsuki folds
his arms across his chest, willing them not to shake. Forces his thoughts away from the feeling of
fingers creeping around his neck —

“I’m sorry, Kacchan,” Deku murmurs, not meeting his eyes. “But I had to make sure.”

“Alright, so now you know,” Katsuki spits. “What’ll it take for you to keep your mouth shut?
Money? Should I grovel on my fucking knees?”

“Wh — I’m not going to tell anyone!” Deku exclaims, eyes wide as saucers. It looks like remorse.
But it also looks like pity. Katsuki clenches his fists, tight, digging his nails into his palms to
ground himself. “That’s not — I’m not going to tell anyone if you don’t want me to, Kacchan. But
this isn’t — ”

“What the hell is this, Deku? You snuck around behind my back, dragging Kirishima into this, too,
for what? I don’t need your pity, shithead, and I sure as fuck don’t need his, either.”

“This isn’t pity!” Deku shouts, voice reverberating into the empty space around them. “I just… I
had to make sure. So I didn’t do that again and hurt you by accident!”

“That’s fucking pity, asshole! I don’t need you to walk on goddamn eggshells around me!”

“It’s not pity! How many times do I have to tell you that I care about you? This isn’t something I
can just look away from and ignore!”

“Why the hell not, huh?” Katsuki asks scathingly. “You’re always sticking your nose into business
that has nothing to do with you — ”

“I care about you, and this has everything to do with me! I did that to you, the other day. You
could’ve gotten hurt.” Deku’s eyes are tremulous and wide and so fucking familiar, it makes
Katsuki sick to his stomach. “I shouldn’t have asked Kirishima to do that, and I’m sorry, but I had
to know if it was just me, or if it was — ”
“And now you know,” Katsuki interjects, voice breaking around the syllables. “Now you know
that I’m a fucking mess, and it’s not just you, it’s everything. I can’t fucking stand having anyone
touch me there. Are you happy now, you piece of shit?”

“I don’t get how this can still be a surprise to you, but seeing you hurt doesn’t make me happy at
all,” Deku says, voice sounding abruptly tired. “Kacchan, I didn’t do this so I could laugh at you,
or make fun of you, or — or anything like that. I just want to help.”

Katsuki sits down heavily on one of the benches, resting his forehead in his hands. It’s incredibly
draining — exhausting — arguing with Deku. It always is. “You’ve done enough.”

He can hear Deku approach him carefully. Slowly. He stops just within arm’s reach. “Is it just the
back of your neck, or…?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki says shortly. It doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Even if Deku knows his
debilitating weakness, as aggravating as he can be, he knows the fucker won’t use it to his
advantage. He won't write it in his notebook, like he does with every other damn thing, and he
won’t use it. Not something like this.

“It’s only when someone touches you there with their hand, right? If it were something else…” He
trails off, into a stream of incoherent murmurs.

Katsuki raises his head abruptly, meeting Deku’s gaze with a burning glare. “Quit treating this like
some fucking science experiment. I’m not going to sit here and answer your twenty damn
questions.”

“I’m not,” Deku protests. He looks like he wants to say more, but ultimately decides against it,
opting instead to sit on the bench next to Katsuki, leaving enough space between them that it’s not
too oppressing. Nonetheless, Katsuki feels the urge to shift away and increase that little distance
between them. “Can I…?”

Katsuki catches his wrist as it creeps forward. “No,” he grits out through the rising panic.

“But I’m in front of you,” Deku says, all-too logically, given the situation. “If you can see it’s me
doing it, and not — not that villain, it should be okay, right?”

“It’s not okay, because I don’t want you to fucking touch me,” Katsuki spits, releasing Deku’s arm
aside, gaze lingering on the scars, searching for any sort of distraction. Absently, he wonders if
they were the price of containing the power of One For All, or if Deku’s just stupidly reckless like
that. All Might doesn’t have scars like these.

He only has one. A deep one, a wretched scarring in his side that had left him weakened.
Vulnerable. Skeletal.

A ghost of his former self.

Fuck. He wants to stop thinking.

“This isn’t okay,” Deku whispers, wrenching him back to the present. “You have to tell someone.
If you won’t let me help, at least tell Kirishima, or Aizawa-sensei — ”

The panic surges again, and Katsuki stifles it by sheer force of will. “If you tell anyone, I’ll
fucking kill you.”

“But — ”
“I can deal with it on my own,” Katsuki snarls. And he’s been doing spectacularly, so far. “It’s
fucking nothing. I’ll get over it, because that’s what heroes do.”

“Kacchan,” Deku says, softly, disapproving. “Heroes can get PTSD, too. Anyone can.”

“Who said this was PTSD?” Katsuki snaps.

“Then what is it? What would you call this?” Deku challenges in return.

“What are you, my goddamn therapist?” When Deku merely levels him a long, measured look,
Katsuki makes a noise of frustration and turns away. He can’t stand this condescending fuckwad.
That much hasn’t changed. “I said I’ll get over it.” And he doesn’t know if he says it for himself,
or Deku.

All he knows is that no one is convinced, least of all him.

“Let me help you,” Deku murmurs, gentle. Coaxing. “Please.”

“What can you fucking do about this?” Katsuki demands. “This isn’t something you can just smash
through with your fists, dumbass.”

“I know, but… just let me try something, okay? Please?” Deku makes an effort to meet his gaze
again, but Katsuki stubbornly keeps his own locked on his shoes. “If you don’t like it, you can tell
me to stop. Push me away, if you need to.”

“What…” Katsuki falters, when Deku raises himself up on one knee, hand outstretched again, and
he swallows. He forces back the nervousness, because this is Deku. The guy he’s known since he
was in diapers. The guy who’d ran after him, with both arms broken — the one who’d tried the
hardest to reach him despite that. There’s nothing to fear from him, and yet — “Stop. T… Tell me
what you’re going to do, or I’ll blow your fucking face off.”

Deku pauses, retracting his hand, and Katsuki tries not to feel relieved. Tries not to follow the
movement with his eyes. “I read up on it, once. Something called exposure therapy.”

“You’re not my fucking therapist, Deku,” Katsuki says again, growing irritated.

“Just listen for a second,” Deku insists. “If you get used to the feeling again and associate it with
good things, it could negate all the bad memories. It wouldn’t bother you anymore if you got used
to it. At least, that’s my theory…” He seems to lose confidence the more he speaks.

Katsuki’s brow ticks. “You’re telling me to get used to you touching my neck?”

“It might work,” Deku mutters. “We don’t have to do this, I can think of something else — ”

“No,” Katsuki cuts in, sighing loudly. He hasn’t been dealing with it. He hasn’t been trying. If
Deku thinks this might work, chances are it really fucking might. He doesn’t have much to lose, at
this point. Any and all of his dignity has been crushed a thousand times over in front of Deku,
who’s seen him at both his highest and his lowest. “Just do it.”

“A… Are you sure?”

“Fuck — You’re the one who suggested it and now you’re the one second-guessing things?”

“It’s just, I don’t want this to be uncomfortable for you. I can think of something else, this was
probably a bad idea to start with, I don’t know if this will actually make things worse, or — ”
“God,” Katsuki groans, exasperated. “Stop fucking mumbling and just touch me, you idiot. It’s
fine, alright?” Then, under his breath, he adds, “You’re a shithead, but it's not like I can't trust you.”

Katsuki looks away when Deku’s stupid fucking eyes go all watery. Like the admission had been
something monumental — something groundbreaking. All Katsuki had said was something they
both already know. As much as they can get on each other’s last nerve, that foundation of trust is…
it’s not something that breaks easily. It’s always been there, and it’ll probably always be there.
They'll always be on the same side.

Deku’s an idiot if he doesn’t know that much.

“Kacchan,” Deku says, and when Katsuki looks up, he’s squaring his shoulders. Like he’s
psyching himself up, just for something as mundane as a touch. The guy breaks his own arms in
battle without batting an eye, but a simple touch has him cowed. It could almost be laughable, if
Katsuki weren’t equally, if not more, terrified. “You should keep your eyes on me.”

“I know that. Just hurry up,” Katsuki says, even though he kind of wishes Deku would do the
opposite.

That scarred hand comes up once more, hesitantly coming to a rest at Katsuki’s shoulder, who jolts
beneath the touch, before the weight lifts.

And Katsuki fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Breathes through the tightening in his throat,
the panic that has his heart hammering in his chest, so loud he’s sure Deku can feel it, as his
fingers brush over the back of his neck before wrapping right around.

Katsuki lowers his head, breathing through his nose, and for a moment, it’s fine. It’s okay. It’s just
Deku, and himself, sitting in their shitty school change room. It’s just Deku’s hand, light and
unassuming against his skin.

Then the breath leaves him in a rush, and it feels like he’s suffocating again. And it’s not him and
Deku, not anymore. He’s back at the training camp, and that hand — he hadn’t asked for it. He
can’t fight it.

“Let go,” he gasps out, clutching at the front of his shirt.

Deku releases him quickly, frantic questions of are you okay’s and I’m sorry’s babbling from his
lips.

Katsuki can’t answer, even if he’d wanted to.

But soon enough, the hand comes back to the nape of his neck, though this time, instead of leaving
it there, Deku pets at him in what appears to be an attempt at reassurance.

He feels the urge to brush it aside. Demand for his space. But for one reason another, a reason that
has nothing to do with the black spots dancing in his vision, he does neither. The touch, while it
hadn’t been welcome initially, is somehow becoming grounding.

Comforting.

Katsuki lets it happen as he catches his breath.

“Is this okay?” Deku asks quietly.

“Shut up,” Katsuki says, and he does. But his hand doesn’t stop petting at Katsuki’s neck, like he’s
a damn cat or something, and Katsuki doesn’t do a thing about this either.

He doesn’t think too hard about why.

Doesn't think too much about anything, besides the soft caress of Deku's scarred fingers against his
skin, careful and soothing.

“Hey, Shitty Nerd,” Katsuki says, cornering Deku on their way to class the next day. “Yesterday
never happened. Got it?”

Deku smiles, playing at oblivious. “What never happened?”

Katsuki rolls his eyes, mildly appeased, and storms off.

They end up walking to class together, Deku, infuriatingly, falling into step next to him.

But before they head inside, Deku slows his pace and glances at him in askance — a silence
question for permission — and Katsuki doesn’t permit him. But he doesn't deny him either.

Deku rests his hand at the back of Katsuki’s neck, the weight still unfamiliar but somehow not as
daunting as it could be, and Katsuki swallows. Goes still all over. The hand pets him there once,
twice, before letting go entirely.

Deku’s smiling again, that goddamn disarming smile, and Katsuki pushes past him into their
classroom with a scowl.

He can’t fucking sleep. Kicking away his blankets, Katsuki glares up at the ceiling.

It’s not fucking fair. It’s not fucking fair, that the villains could take away Katsuki’s one escape
from them, even to this day. Sleep never used to be a challenge for Katsuki, but nowadays, on bad
nights, the nightmares make closing his eyes a chore.

Katsuki slips out of bed and makes his way downstairs, in search of a glass of water. He’s in the
midst of scratching absently at his stomach, distracted by the dryness in his mouth that he only
notices Deku’s presence sitting in the darkness of the common room, his face lit up by only his
phone screen, when the idiot glances up first.

“Kacchan,” he whispers. He glances to his screen, then back up to Katsuki’s glare. “It’s really late.
Why are you awake?”

“None of your business, you damn hypocrite,” Katsuki says. But after a moment, he forgoes the
water to tread closer. Deku watches him, but doesn’t make any move to comment, even when
Katsuki stops before him with his hands at his hips. “What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark
like a fucking creep?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Deku admits, locking his phone. “I thought I’d come down here and clear my
head.”

Katsuki stews on this for a while, pursing his lips. Then, he throws himself bodily onto the space
next to him on the couch. Deku doesn’t seem to notice the way their elbows brush. “I knew
something shitty woke me up. You think so damn loud, Deku.”

Deku laughs lightly. “You’re on the fourth floor.”

“Yeah. That’s how fucking loud you are,” Katsuki says.

And they sit there, in the darkness of the common room, about a few centimeters between them,
but miles apart. Somehow, the quiet is companionable. More than it has been in many years.
Katsuki knows he’s responsible for the rift between them, and he knows even more that it can’t
only be Deku who attempts to mend it.

“Hey,” he says, after a while, and Deku turns to him in question, but Katsuki refuses to look his
way. “Touch me again.”

“I… What? Kacchan, d-did you just — ”

Katsuki feels hot, all the way up to his ears. Even so, he forces the words out. “You heard me.”

“Yes, but um — right now? Are you sure? Didn’t you have a nightmare…?”

Katsuki narrows his eyes. “How did you know about that?”

When he deigns to look up from beneath his bangs, Deku looks mildly ashamed, scratching idly at
his cheek. “Lucky guess?”

“Fucking weirdo,” Katsuki grumbles, but decides to leave it be. Deku knows everything about him,
more than he knows about himself. Sometimes, it’s perturbing — sometimes, it’s impressive. Most
times, it’s irritating. “I can’t stop thinking about it. That day," he confesses. "It’s always that
fucking guy with the stitches. Fucking hate it.”

Deku presses his lips together, tight. Like he’s pissed. At what, Katsuki can’t fathom. “Will it help
if I touch you?”

Katsuki presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in exhaustion. “Hell if I know. Do it if you want,
or don’t. If you don’t want to. I don’t care.”

And nothing happens, for several moments, but Katsuki hadn’t been lying — Deku thinks loud. He
knows the guy’s head is running a mile a minute. He gives him about another two, before he looks
up with a glare.

Deku is staring back, hand outstretched, guilt on his face like he’d been caught doing something he
shouldn’t have.

“Can I…” he starts.

Katsuki tugs him in by the wrist, closer, in answer. Beyond that, he simply holds still.

Deku swallows, and, showing more hesitation than he has the previous times, he touches his
fingers to Katsuki’s neck.

Katsuki fights back the initial response to jerk away — the way his hands itch with the urge to
explode. To do something, anything other than lean into the touch like he wants it.

Except, that’s exactly what he does.

Katsuki pushes just slightly, into Deku’s hand, urging him silently that if he’s going to touch him,
he should do it fucking properly. Eventually, Deku obliges, curling his fingers into the soft hairs at
Katsuki’s nape, and rubbing his thumb into his skin.

In the dark, Katsuki feels every bump of the scars on Deku’s hand, so different yet so alike, to the
hand that had held onto him that day. In the dark, everything feels so much more — heightened.
His nerves are like live wires. Electric.

Katsuki must feel incredibly tense, but Deku isn’t one to give up. He keeps up his ministrations,
and Katsuki hears the silent urge as well — the one telling him to relax. To trust.

His breathing is uneven. Surely Deku must hear it. It’s too fucking quiet.

Deku lets go abruptly, and Katsuki freezes up in alarm. The lack of touch is as shocking as the
touch itself.

“Ah, sorry,” he says, with a wobbly smile. “I was just thinking, we could make this more
comfortable for you. If you, um, lie on me…?” When Katsuki merely stares him down, he’s quick
to rectify with frantic waves of his hands, “Y-You don’t have to! Um, actually, just forget I said
anything!”

Katsuki squints.

Deku squirms, unable to meet his eyes. “U-Um…”

“What? Like this?” Katsuki asks, flopping sideways so that his weight rests heavily onto Deku’s
side, head tilted onto his shoulder. Despite it all, he smirks to himself when he feels Deku flail a bit
under the proximity.

“Err, I was thinking more along the lines of lying down…”

“Hm,” Katsuki says, and it’s not much of an answer, he knows. Instead, in demonstration of his
understanding, he pushes Deku down by the shoulders until he’s flat on his back on the couch.
Deku’s phone falls to the carpet with a thud, but neither of them pay it any mind.

Gazing down at Deku’s red face, hearing the cautious whispered exclamation of, “Kacchan! What
are you doing?” wash over him, Katsuki wonders if the lack of sleep is getting to him, that he
thinks Deku looks almost-attractive like this. Exhilarating, when he considers that Deku could fight
this, easily, if he really wanted to. But he doesn't.

He crawls over him, taking Deku’s wrist and guiding it over to the back of his neck. “This what
you were thinking about, you pervert?” he asks, gloating.

But he’d forgotten that this isn’t middle school Deku anymore. This Deku, who has the power of
All Might, who isn’t about to take anything lying down, pulls Katsuki in closer, in a way that could
almost be described as rough.

Katsuki, too surprised to do anything else, can only stare, as Deku — the little shit — smile and
everything, holds him in place and says, “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’s a bit
more convenient.”

Katsuki scowls, and he has half a mind to shove off of him, having lost his footing in the situation
all too quickly, but Deku is pushing himself up into a sitting position, leaving Katsuki with nothing
to do but follow suit. He scoots backwards a little, resting his back against the cushions, tugging
Katsuki with him.
The hand, he only notices after they’re upright, remains steadfastly cradling the back of his neck.

Heat rushes up to his face, and he wonders just how the hell things had turned around so quickly,
leaving him the one flustered and confused.

“This is a lot more comfortable. I could probably fall asleep like this,” Deku remarks, and Katsuki
stills. Shudders. Deku's gaze is uncharacteristically heavy-lidded, entirely contradictory to his
lighthearted tone. The hand around his neck gives a gentle squeeze — a minuscule tightening of
his grip that makes Katsuki lose his breath all over again. “Is this okay for you, Kacchan?”

It’s now that Katsuki’s conviction resurfaces, and the anger returns with a vengeance. He becomes
abruptly, incredibly aware of their positions — of how he’s practically straddling Deku’s lap, and
how Deku’s stupid hand feels hot and scalding against his skin, in none of the bad ways and all of
the good —

'Okay'? This is everything but fucking 'okay' — cocky piece of shit.

The mortified explosion that punctuates the thought, in Katsuki's opinion, for once is incredibly
warranted.

No one else seems to think so.

“Our precious school budget is always being spent on getting us new furniture,” Kaminari
bemoans. “Think about the arcades, the awesome upgrades to the training field we could’ve gotten
instead, you idiot!”

Katsuki throws a pillow at him in response, which, only incidentally, catches on fire.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Kaminari screeches as he dodges the projectile.

It becomes a little like a habit, Deku’s lingering touches and Katsuki, absentmindedly,
unthinkingly, leaning into them a little too much.

It becomes a problem.

Sometimes, it happens in passing. They’re sitting in the common room on movie night, with Deku
pressed up close to him, and halfway through, Deku brings his arm to the back of the couch. Five
minutes later, hyperaware of Deku’s presence, Katsuki feels the briefest skim of Deku’s fingers at
his neck. He doesn’t move a muscle — forces himself to focus on the movie. Writes it off as an
practised accident. Only, it lingers a fraction too long to be convincing.

Other times, it lasts longer. A little too long. They’re going through a math problem during break,
and really, Deku should have more fucking awareness of where they are and who could be
watching, because it’s broad daylight. He should have more goddamn tact than to hold onto the
back of Katsuki’s neck as he’s talking through the steps to solving question thirteen, too distracted
to protest the action until it’s too late.

Naturally, people start to notice.

“Why does Midoriya do that?” he hears Jirou mutter one day.

“Do what?” Todoroki asks.

“You know.” The asshole makes a vague gesture with her hands, entirely unaware that Katsuki is
watching the exchange from across the room. “The neck thing. He’s always touching Bakugou’s
neck.”

“Oh,” Todoroki says, and when he looks up, glances over to Katsuki’s seat, their gazes meet.
Katsuki mentally wills him through a vicious glare not to say anything stupid, but it’s futile.
Todoroki blocks out whatever telepathic connection Katsuki is attempting to establish and states,
“Maybe because Bakugou likes it.”

This utter blockhead. Katsuki is going to kill him.

He doesn't like Deku's touches. On a good day, Katsuki might admit that he tolerates it at a bare
minimum, but liking the warmth of Deku's palm against his skin — liking the grounding feeling of
just being in his presence? Preposterous. Unthinkable.

Yet, after some thorough introspection... not entirely untrue.

Fuck.

So, yeah. Katsuki might have a fucking problem.

Theoretically, the clearest, most rational solution to the growing dilemma at hand is to tell Deku to
stop.

But part of the problem lies in the fact that maybe, just maybe, Katsuki really doesn't want him to.

That he craves the unconventional intimacy, in the same way he craves victory. And more than
occasionally, spicy food.

That going back to spitting curses at Deku every time he came too close only seems more and more
unappealing.

Fuck it. Why stop now?

They’ve gotten this far. The touches don’t scare him anymore, and Deku hasn’t shown one way or
another that he wants this to end, either.

“Kacchan, what — ” Deku says, not even looking up from his novel as he approaches. “Oh.”

Deku looks lost, with an armful of Katsuki, his book discarded aside.

“I lost my page.” And the protest is half-hearted, adorned with a mournful pout.

“Shut up,” Katsuki says. “Touch me.”

“So needy, Kacchan,” Deku chides, and Katsuki doesn’t bother refuting. He's always thrived under
attention — Deku's attention, especially. Besides, they both know Deku is just as bad, aching to
get his hands on Katsuki at every opportunity.
 The hand curls around the back of his neck, solid, warm, safe. Katsuki ducks his head and
welcomes it.

“What is this?” Deku murmurs, the third time Katsuki forces his way into Deku’s room, into his
arms and his embrace. “Kacchan, please tell me if I’m reading too much into it, but — ”

“Idiot,” Katsuki berates, voice muffled as he buries his face into Deku’s throat. “You think I’d let
just anyone do this to me?”

“You make it sound like I’m doing something bad,” Deku says mildly, arm coming up to hold him
closer, leaning into Katsuki's hair.

“I’m letting you touch me. Isn’t that answer enough?”

“I’d like if you said it. So I can make sure. I know you’ll hate it if I have to try and figure it out
myself — ”

“I like you.” The hand on his neck stills briefly. Katsuki lifts his head to meet his gaze, willing
himself not to back down. Wills the blush away from his cheeks. “You dense fuck.”

Deku cups Katsuki's cheek with his free hand, a pleased hum under his breath even as he remarks,
“That's not very romantic.”

Ignoring the comment, Katsuki demands, “Tell me you like me too, stupid Deku.”

“So needy.” Deku laughs when Katsuki gives him a glare. Then his voice goes all gentle in ways
that makes Katsuki’s insides turn to mush. “I think this was obvious, but I like you too, Kacchan. I
have for a long time. Forever, really.”

“Stu-pid,” Katsuki reiterates. “Liking someone like me. Do you have no self-preservation
instincts?”

“I’ve been told I can be pretty reckless,” Deku admits cheerfully.

“Stupid, brave idiot.”

“… Kacchan, can I kiss you?”

“Really fucking brave,” Katsuki breathes. “Check your damn notebook if you can't figure out if
that was a yes or no — ”

Deku catches on, to no one's surprise. Quickly, much to Katsuki's pleasure.

Their lips meet, and this, just like Deku’s gentle smiles and his fond calls of Kacchan, makes
Katsuki feel at home — safe. Loved.

He wonders if it had ever truly been about the touches at all.

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