Chapter Text
The door clicks shut behind Kacchan with a weird sort of finality, and Izuku hears his counterpart exhale a sigh. He doesn’t immediately turn around; instead seems to linger at the exit with all the dejection of a lovesick teenager - or an abandoned puppy - for longer than could be explained by regular platonic disappointment.
But that’s no surprise.
Izuku steps in close behind him and dares to slip arms around his waist. He feels a flutter of relief when the man doesn’t shy away, and instead relaxes into him, warm against his chest.
“How do you do it?” He noses behind his ear, settles himself easily against the other in a way that’s becoming far too comfortable. It’s not even sexual, but it’s intimate, and Deku hums a quietly happy noise with the contact that he chooses not to think too carefully about.
It shouldn’t be this easy. He shouldn’t be this content, this glad to feel his other self nestle so readily into his embrace.
He shouldn’t be so afraid he’ll miss it.
“Do what?” Comes a curious hum.
“Spend every day around him.”
Deku tenses in his arms. He senses the argument coming before the hero even opens his mouth.
“He’s my friend. You seemed to be getting along fine with him too-”
“Not what I meant.”
He thinks of smoky laughter on the porch. Of crimson deepening to wine-red and the edges of fingers brushing his own. Of wanting. Of not yours, but gods, don’t you wish-
He’s yours , though.
Deku goes quiet. He senses an exhale, shiver of motion in the body pressed flush against his own.
“He’s my friend.” He repeats eventually, just a fraction too much emphasis on the last word.
And he understands. Because if he’d ever wound up fortunate enough to land in a place where he could call Kacchan a friend, he isn’t sure he’d dare risk that, either.
It’s Izuku’s turn to sigh. He rests his head against the nape of Deku’s neck and laments his own cowardice.
“We’re hopeless.” He murmurs.
Deku turns in his arms, then; coaxes him up until he can rest their foreheads together, and for a moment they just breathe.
He thinks he can hear the sound of his soul settling back into place.
“Not mad at me?” Izuku confirms after a beat.
“Why would I-” Deku starts, the beginnings of a frown pulling at his brows - then stops. Understanding settles into the bones of him as he breathes out. “No. I’m not mad at you.”
A knot of anxiety he hadn’t even realised he was carrying dissolves in his stomach, suddenly lighter without the weight of it. He believes him - trusts him to know their own mind - but he’d poured his bloody history out to the hero last night, and Deku’s reaction had been far from a positive one.
But what else had he expected, really?
It would be a lie to say he’d never wondered. Never considered what another version of himself - his childhood self, in his imagination, but Deku is the closest he’s ever going to get - might have thought of the way he’d turned out. He’s not deluded enough to think that he’d have been happy about it, but he’d hoped that maybe that version of him might be glad that he was strong, now. Grateful that he’d found a way to be powerful despite everything.
But Deku is already strong. And so much more of the kid they had been, bright and brave and hopeful for the future.
Izuku wonders, if he ever did meet that boy again, if they’d even recognise eachother.
“I missed you.” He chirps instead of voicing his thoughts. It’s intended to be quietly teasing, a diversion from that topic; but maybe it’s the bubble of melancholy in his chest which paints it a little more honest than he’d expected. A little too true to laying alone in a bed, replaying the memory of his other self being swarmed by EMTs and doing his best to stamp down the worry while his fingers skim over the empty sheets beside him.
“Did you?” Deku hears it too, because there’s a smile in his voice.
He decides to distract, rather than answer.
He pushes closer, tilts his head to capture lips which go along eagerly with his own. Deku sinks into him, pliant and sweet and so, so willing. It’s none of the panicky, frantic desperation of last night - but a gentle kind of surrender. He sweeps back wild hair from his face, guides him backward until his shoulders press against the door on a soft sigh.
“He could still be outside.” It’s a breath against Deku’s lips, and there’s the reaction he’d wanted - a flicker of victory when he feels the hero shudder under him at the idea. Stirred by the mere suggestion of Kacchan still there beyond the entry, completely oblivious; or better still, entirely aware, hearing the sounds he’d make-
“He’s not.” He responds - but whether consciously or not, he’s lowered his voice to a whisper.
“What would he do if he saw you like this?” He pushes a hand forward to grope at Deku’s hardening dick through his shorts, revels in the little squeak it gets him.
“Run far away.” Is the breathless, too honest answer. Izuku bites back a sigh, but it’s not as though he can argue. He can picture that outcome all too clearly.
But what if he didn’t?
He flexes his fingers to something more gentle, slow circles which make his other self exhale and relax back against the door, submitting himself to his touch. His head knocks against the wood as he tips it back, and Izuku occupies himself with biting kisses against his newly exposed throat (the healing quirks have stolen away remnants of the marks he’d left on his skin, which he quickly decides is unacceptable).
“I missed you too.” The hero whispers on a shaky little exhale, and it sounds sincere enough that he can’t bring himself to care if it’s a lie.
“Sure you did.” He indulges quietly. There’s a soft little noise of protest which vibrates the throat beneath his lips - like Deku can tell he doesn’t believe the words - but another calculated press of his palm dissolves it into a groan.
Fingers find purchase at his hips, pull him forward a step to rock them together until he’s breathing hard against the hero’s skin.
“Bedroom.” Deku whispers.
“Eager.” Izuku croons into the downy curls at his temple.
“Mm, but there’s lube in my nightstand.”
Well.
He can’t argue with that.
“You can think of him, if you want.” He murmurs against Deku’s mouth when he’s spread out and wanting on the sheets, clothing discarded somewhere between the door and the bed.
A rough breath out, a forced swallow. Familiar irises refuse to meet his.
“I- I don’t- I shouldn’t-”
“I don’t mind.” He croons. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”
If you won’t take what’s yours, you’re at least allowed this. Let me give you this.
Deku’s gaze flickers. Indecision twists his lips into a guilty frown, but there’s no denying that he does want. Not to Izuku.
He pulls back far enough to raise a hand - places it over his eyes, fingertips brushing his cheek like an offering - and when he pulls it away, those lids remain closed.
“I’ve got you.” He promises on a breath. Presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth when his lips quiver.
A moment of quiet. Then;
“Okay.” Deku whispers. Quiet, like he might break with the slightest vibration.
So he does.
He isn’t cruel, because this Kacchan isn’t cruel- wouldn’t break him down just to watch the pieces shatter. Because he cares. And fuck, that’s all too easy to replicate, because so does Izuku . Gnawing jealousy and frustration at his naivety aside, this sweet, kind version of himself has won him over like he has so many others; burrowed into his heart and left an aching crater there.
So he’s gentle.
He still fucks him into the sheets - still folds him into himself and pushes hard enough to make him gasp and whimper, still presses marks into his skin they’ll both see for days. But he’s soft where he’d want it; in the press of kisses to the arch of his spine, the glide of fingers through his hair and slow strokes when his cries hitch too much. In the way he waits for him, lets him breathe until they can chase that high together, takes him apart brick by trembling brick until he’s shuddering.
“Ka-” The sound stumbles out of his lips like it’s a mistake - and he bites it back and swallows hard; Izuku feels the motion under his fingers where they rest reverently at his neck, adam’s apple bobbing against the grip.
He tightens it. Pulls back to force Deku to arch his spine, to graze teeth and breathe hot against his ear.
“Yeah?” He pitches his voice lower on a growl - and it’s not perfect, not quite right, but it must be enough because Deku keens and whimpers. “Say it. Say my fuckin’ name, Deku.”
“I-”
“ Say it.”
“K-Kacchan!” He cries, and his voice cracks on the word.
That’s all it takes, though. He finishes almost silently, choking on the final syllable of that name, and it’s soon after that Izuku is following suit, burying his face into emerald curls and squeezing his eyes shut to ride out the wave of sensation.
Unsurprisingly, he comes back to himself before Deku. By the time he recovers his wits, the hero is still shivering and overwhelmed, and when he looks to his face Izuku isn’t even surprised to see the sheen in his eyes.
He tugs him close - pulls him into his chest and doesn’t comment on the tear tracks glistening on his cheeks. He isn’t right, he knows that - proportions wrong, too short with less thick muscle; he doesn’t smell of burned sugar and ash and smoke, and the hands which cradle the nape of his double’s neck and nudge knuckles against the small of his back aren’t big enough, aren’t rough with callouses and old burns - but Deku burrows into him all the same, taking whatever comfort he needs while he cries.
And Izuku aches .
I’d give you the whole fucking world, if you didn’t already have it.
Maybe it really is this foreign reality making him soft. Maybe it’s just the sex dumping chemicals into his brain, intimacy and closeness with a person he can trust not to stab him in the back at the first opportunity, someone he can actually relax around. Somewhere he can - ha - be himself.
Maybe it’s something else. Some complicated psychological reason that Shouto would tell him to go to therapy for, if he was here.
Or maybe it’s just Deku. Sweet, genuine, yearning Deku, cumulation of every good part of himself he’d cut away and left to rot. A far better version of the man he could have been.
He doesn’t cry as long as last night. He doesn’t sob himself raw and fall asleep in his arms. It’s barely a handful of minutes before he composes himself; shifting awkwardly out of the embrace to scrub at his eyes and blink himself back to reality (Izuku resists the urge to catch his wrists and kiss his pretty tear-stained cheeks, because that feels like too much).
“Sorry.” Deku mumbles into the space between them. He doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Don’t be.”
The silence that falls then isn’t uncomfortable, but it remains charged. A hand rests flat against his chest, his own remains curled at Deku’s waist, and he doesn’t dare move for fear of shattering the moment; doing damage to the other while he’s bare and vulnerable. Seconds tick past marked by their slowing breaths.
“I can’t tell if that’s the most or the least fucked up thing we’ve done so far.” Deku finally speaks up with a weak, watery chuckle.
He can’t help but laugh - partly because of the words, partly relief for the break in the tension.
“You’ve got it bad.”
“Don’t.” The feeble mirth crumbles into a sigh that could almost be another sob. His voice catches. “Don’t tease me about that.”
He looks so small and so sad , and Izuku relents immediately.
“It’s okay. Kacchan’s pretty-”
“Amazing.” He finishes softly.
“Yeah.”
Deku shifts where he lays, twists to at last meet his gaze. Those searching eyes study far too closely for someone who’s just pulled himself back from the edge of a pining-fuelled breakdown; they watch like a man who knows far too much, who understands more than Izuku really wants him to.
But knowing too much has always been his curse.
“You-”
“Complicated.” Izuku reminds him before he can ask.
Except not only is Deku as perceptive as he is - he’s also exactly as stubborn.
“But you love him too.”
His heart clenches to hear it aloud. He can’t . There’s a difference between attraction and love , and that isn’t a distinction he’s ready to make, even to himself - to either of himself.
Kacchan is… more than he wants to admit to. Weakness, in either of their worlds. Vastly different in some ways, devastatingly similar in others. Namely in the ability to carve him open despite every defence he has against it.
Not unlike Deku himself.
“I thought we weren’t teasing?” He diverts instead. He takes worthless pride in the fact that his voice remains level.
“I wasn’t.” Deku promises.
With that, Izuku fixes his eyes on the ceiling. Determined to keep from having to see the pity, the empathy in Deku’s stare. Knowing him far more closely than he’d ever usually allow.
But it doesn’t stop him from feeling that gaze on him, heavier against his skin than the blankets they’re tangled in.
“Which one?” Comes a soft query. It’s gentle enough to set his teeth on edge, and it settles like a leaden weight on his chest.
“Don’t.” He murmurs. It isn’t an answer either of them wants to hear.
“Both.” It’s even softer than before, and Izuku can’t even tell if it’s a statement or a question. Either way, he doesn’t want it.
“Deku.” He calls. Warning, this time. Warning of what, exactly, he isn’t quite sure. The mental break that pondering this question is going to cause him, maybe.
“So yes.” He sighs, and Izuku wants to hit him (he doesn’t).
Instead, he growls an unhappy sound, rumbling in his chest, and chooses not to comment on the fact that Deku’s body shivers beside him in answer.
“You suck.”
The hero hums agreement.
“We both do.” He counters, and Izuku can’t even argue with him.
A moment of quiet, while they both bask in the knowledge of their mutual despair. Somewhere in the apartment, an AC unit clicks off, steady background hum cutting out and making the resulting silence feel even heavier by comparison. The hand resting on his chest sweeps a thumb gently over their shared starburst burn scar, and his throat goes tight.
Then Deku huffs, and rolls away onto his back.
“I need a shower.” He decides. It breaks the tension, settles some of the ache in his heart. Like permission (or a plea) to return to normality. “ And I have painkillers to take.”
Izuku wrinkles his nose, and dutifully accepts the subject change.
“They have you on painkillers?”
“Doctor’s orders.” Deku sighs.
“You’re telling me you’re drugged up and lovesick?”
It’s a gamble - a gentle nudge at the topic, rather than an actual acknowledgment- but it still earns a smile.
“Shut up.” His double shoves at him without any real force. He matches the expression; turns back towards him with a grin and leans in close to tease.
“Now I just feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
Deku pauses. The air falls still, and he quickly wonders if he’s said something wrong. (Again.)
For a moment, he seems to study Izuku yet again, mirth gone in favour of something else. Caution , maybe. There’s a tiny little crease between his brows, little worried downturn of his lips - and Izuku is abruptly reminded of his early days with the League. Of tiptoeing around questions lest they start an argument, picking his words too carefully against these unfamiliar villains, afraid of setting off a landmine he wasn’t prepared for.
He wonders what could possibly be provoking that same apprehension from his counterpart now .
“You’re not.” Deku murmurs eventually. It sounds more like the hero is trying to convince himself, and suddenly it feels very important to affirm that conclusion.
“I’m not.” He agrees quickly. “I’m a bastard, but I’m not that kind of bastard.”
It seems to help. Whatever the cause of his sudden unease, Deku relaxes, dipping his chin in a slight nod - and Izuku exhales with him.
What the hell was that about?
He doesn’t get an answer, and he doesn’t dare ask. But Deku just pushes himself upright, stretching arms above his head until his shoulders pop - then holds out a hand in offer.
“Shower first. You coming?”