Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Katsuki writes a self-help book someday, on how to be the most bad-ass MMA fighter turned lead designer ever—obviously—remind him to include a chapter on how you definitely should not become roommates with your long-time training partner slash fellow fighter at the gym. Especially if you spend extensive amounts of time at said gym and it’s been like a second home to you for half your life.

Also, this would be an especially bad idea if this particular gymmate happened to drop to the same weight class as you the year before and has since become your biggest competition.

Whether or not you’ve had sexual tension crackling between the two of you for the last ten minutes or the last ten years, and whether or not you've been trading heated barbs and flirtatious smirks back and forth with each punch thrown ever since, don’t do it.

Even if this fellow fighter did, for instance, have a second bedroom become available with its own balcony and en suite in a building just a few blocks from Aizawa and Mic’s place just as you also happened to be searching for a new place to get you out from under the roof of the two lovebirds-

It doesn’t matter if Deku and Uraraka as a married couple were, at the time, growing continually more patronizing by the day, pitying you and staying home all the time and treating you like a lonely little broken bird with a fucked up wing that they were responsible for.

Even so, there’d still be no excuse to move in with this particular guy.

It’s a situation that’s got caution tape all over it.

There should also probably be a part in there about how if you, for some godforsaken reason, didn’t heed any of Katsuki’s earlier advice, and you were still a total idiot and you did still move in with the guy, then, at the very least, you absolutely should not, under any circumstances, start sleeping with him.

And, no, it does not matter how soft his sheets are or how much they smell like him.

So what if he’s filled out. A lot. Overtaken you in his wingspan and in the bulk of his shoulders. Cut his lavender hair. Maybe even gotten a piercing, or two, or a few more. Ears, eyebrow, tongue, and lip. Two arms sleeved with tattoos not unlike your own. So what. So fucking what. You still don’t do it. Not even then.

And if you were to develop feelings for this roommate/co-fighter/opponent/rival? Going beyond casual, crossing the line, and getting attached?

Well, then Katsuki would have warned you from the start, right?

So… Katsuki might know some of this from experience. He might have done the first thing you’re not supposed to do. He may have even done the second. Katsuki is definitely, definitely not stupid enough to go and do that last thing with the feelings though.

5 months before the fight

Katsuki moved in with Shinsou Hitoshi a couple of months ago.

If pressed, he would admit that the private bathroom got him through the door and the gas range made him stay.

And, when he agreed to take the room, he’d found it maybe a little ironic or lightly amusing that he and Shinsou happened to already have a fight scheduled against each other for some months out.

It was going to be a regional title fight for the lightweight belt, which Bakugou currently held.

But it also didn’t really seem like living together would be too too awkward, or too weird. It didn't have to be a big deal. They were both professionals after all, and Katsuki figured that he could at least make an effort not to gloat too loudly when he ultimately won the fight anyway.

Sure, Bakugou and Shinsou had never fought each other in an official match-up before, but they’d each had multiple high profile fights every year for the past handful of years, so this—fighting someone you knew—it was just another aspect of the sport. Now that Shinsou was fighting lightweight too, it had only been a matter of time.

They were both well used to the intense regimens of training and the stressful months leading up to a fight day. The only difference was, rather than fighting someone whose official fight tapes they had studied, trying to understand the fighter’s patterns and their favorite moves and tricks, they’d instead be going up against someone whose strengths and weaknesses they already knew intimately from their years spent side-by-side at Aizawa and Mic’s gym.

Katsuki had to admit that he and Hitoshi were actually a good match in that way, in training together. They each had different styles with Katsuki being primarily a striker and Hitoshi primarily a submission artist, but that contrast was all the better for keeping each of their individual skills sharp. Staying forever on their toes.

It would be annoying to ever tell Aizawa-sensei that he’d been right to pair them up so often over the years in practice, but Katsuki could see how the old man had a point with the two of them.

He wouldn’t say that they got along per se, but he and Hitoshi still tended to mesh surprisingly well in their personalities (most of the time) with both of them determined and serious and all-out focused when it came to everything to do with fighting.

Neither of them were fighters likely to stray from their routines or diets and both were nearly obsessive when it came to perfecting their techniques and in their commitment to physical training.

It had caught Katsuki off guard at first, how much he found that he liked living with Shinsou. Training together all those years, sharing Aizawa as their coach, Katsuki had always watched Shinsou, of course. But had he ever really noticed him?

The watching him had always been in more of a technical way, sizing Shinsou up as his competition in the fighting world. Either that or planning his approach and how he would strike the next time they had a practice match come up in the rotation.

Katsuki’d think about how he could avoid Shinsou’s clever takedowns and make sure the fight stayed standing up, because stand-up game was his forte.

He’d think about his footwork and his sprawl and how to play up his strengths at all costs because, if Shinsou got the better of someone, then the fight was over over.

If Hitoshi had a hold locked in, escape was nearly impossible. (And thankfully Katsuki rarely found himself in that position.)

So, suffice to say, Katsuki may have known Shinsou the fighter, but he had never really known Shinsou the person all that well, and he realized this fairly soon after they started living together.

Hitoshi was a man of few words in practice. He was always known for a cool and collected demeanor. He could come off as uninterested, detached even.

He was far from a hot head, intelligent to the nth degree, and very, very skilled. The look on his face during a fight when he knew he had successfully tricked his opponent into falling for his trap and there was no going back for them? It was chilling.

Hitoshi in his own home, though? He was still quiet, yeah, but it was like Katsuki was meeting a whole new person.

The lavender haired man read his kindle by lamplight in the evening, curled up with his cat. He watered the plants on the windowsill with his earbuds in in the morning, singing idly along to whatever song he had on or looking serious while listening to a podcast.

And he drank endless cups of herbal tea all day long.

He got a private smile on his face whenever he thought something was funny. He was late to sleep and early to rise. He did laundry at 1:00 am three hours after Bakugou had gone to bed and then left extra towels out in front of the blond’s door in the morning.

He was gentle and kind in his life outside the gym—or so it seemed—but he was also hard as shit to read. It was like something didn’t add up.

When Hitoshi offered to do the grocery shopping and even went to two different stores because the exact brand of tofu on Katsuki’s list was out of stock at the first, Katsuki didn’t understand it. Was he that generous on purpose? Or was there some type of ulterior motive he was playing at?

Katsuki, to tell the truth, had always assumed that Shinsou didn’t like him.

Shinsou had hinted as much. Or at least that’s what Katsuki had thought.

Shinsou had always been prone to rolling his eyes, putting his earbuds in, and turning away with a heavy sigh if ever Bakugou was losing his temper during practice.

He acted like he was over it, like Katsuki’s emotions and sense of injustice over something were beneath him. And being so casually looked down on was hurtful infuriating. (For the record, Aizawa called these outbursts temper tantrums while Bakugou called them being right.)

So, regardless, with what Bakugou consistently saw as a dismissive attitude towards him, he had kind of believed that Shinsou Hitoshi was nothing more than a pompous dick. And it seemed like, in turn, Shinsou thought the exact same thing right back at Katsuki but with maybe a side of whiny brat thrown in.

So why would Shinsou be treating him so nicely now?

Needless to say, Katsuki didn’t trust it.

And he was very slow to warm up to the subtle things that Shinsou did for him around the apartment.

It didn’t seem possible that they could transition to living together so seamlessly, and, because of that, Katsuki had mostly stayed cordoned off in his own room for the first couple of weeks rather than venture out into the living area and possibly encounter this more sensitive, less guarded version of Shinsou that he just didn’t know how to make sense of. How was he to reconcile at-home Shinsou with the fighter the same man was in the cage?

It was a few weeks in that Katsuki actually began to notice how truly comfortable silences between the two of them could feel and how nice it could be for each of them to do their own thing separately—be it reading or exercising or working on their laptops—while still sharing the same space.

It was a little while after that that Katsuki realized he was finally relaxing and breathing more easily all the time, and he no longer felt like there was some big scary shadow lurking around every corner.

It was also a welcome relief to have Cheeks and the nerd now mother-henning him through texts (which he could ignore) rather than from one bedroom over.

Gradually, he started leaving his room more often to spend time in the living area.

And, over a little more time, he claimed the kitchen as his rightful domain and began to cook, finding it a nice change from Deku and Cheeks’s always cluttered kitchen with a million dishes in the sink.

He got acquainted with the tiny sleek black cat, Nori. (Unoriginal yes, but she was a rescue and Shinsou, the apparent softie, hadn’t wanted to change her name.) He liked getting to see her throughout his day. He liked how she’d sometimes be investigating his shoes and duffle bag as he got dressed in the mornings or mewling for possible handouts while he cooked in the evenings.

Sometimes, she found a perfect spot to curl up in at the end of his bed. When that was the case, Katsuki had to lay down on one side of his bed very gingerly and not make any sudden movements or else he’d startle her.

So, it seemed like Katsuki had more or less settled in to the apartment.

Then, somewhat later on was a day that Katsuki had a really, really shitty day at practice.

Shinsou hadn’t been in that day, having to do something or other for his day job, so after running a five mile loop in the pitch dark and pouring rain as a way to punish himself for his stupid, stupid mistakes that day, Katsuki finally dragged himself back through the threshold of their shared apartment at nearly midnight.

It was hours past his usual time, and he was shivering fiercely, still in only shorts and a tank top despite the cold night and chilling rain.

Katsuki was soaked to the bone as he made his way inside. He slammed the door and ripped off his shoes, unable to control his anger and stop himself from throwing both shoes roughly against the wall as he did, like he was ten fucking years old and pouting after a lost sparring match. He ran his hands through his hair aggressively while still breathing hard, knowing it was moreso from his emotions than the run and feeling so out of control because of it.

He was looking much worse for wear, and he glanced up dejectedly when Hitoshi gave him an appraising—if not concerned—look from the couch as he trudged through. He was dripping water everywhere from his sopping wet clothes and his skin and hair.

If it hadn't been clear enough that he was having a hard night, his ragged, hiccuping breaths and the water droplets doing little to hide the tear tracks on his face would've been a dead giveaway.

Hitoshi didn’t comment. But, then, when Katsuki eventually emerged from his bathroom forty minutes later, clad in only a towel and having calmed himself down enough during his bath that the tears no longer felt imminent and his head was clear enough to reflect a little more constructively on the disaster of a practice match he’d had in training, he found a thick blanket on his bed and a mug of hot tea on his nightstand.

That was when Katsuki started to feel safe.

3 months before the fight

Katsuki hoped someone could please, please explain to him how he ended up liplocked with his roommate, of all the men in the world, on this perfectly fine day. Because he certainly had no idea.

Hitoshi’s lips had always fascinated him, that was true. Katsuki had always seemed to notice, for some reason, that Shinsou had a very crooked smile. A grin that was an intoxicating mix of both modest and smug.

Katsuki had wondered possibly once or twice what it would be like to steal a kiss right off those lips. Then he’d ask himself what the fuck he was thinking.

Just a couple hours ago, Katsuki had been chopping vegetables for their dinner while Shinsou was in the next room, when, out of nowhere, a cramp seized up his right hand. He'd tried to stop what he was doing immediately to shake it out, but he wasn’t quick enough and the knife went down, slipping and cutting right into his left thumb.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” All Katsuki saw for the next few moments was the white hot light of pain.

When he finally fully opened his eyes, trying to slow the flow of blood by wrapping his thumb in the nearest dish towel and squeezing it tight, he saw that Hitoshi had somehow materialized right there in front of him, probably while he was still in shock from the initial pain.

“Deep breaths,” Hitoshi said.

Katsuki stared at him. Was he not already breathing deeply enough?

He didn’t feel it in him to argue right then, though, so he simply followed the instructions, letting himself breathe to ease some of the tension out of his body. He was still acknowledging the pain, but he wasn’t going to let it make him panic again.

His thumb obviously still hurt like hell, not to mention the cramp aching in his dominant hand and wrist, but he focused on Hitoshi’s eyes and each breath as it came.

He’d never really looked at the angles of Shinsou’s face before, had never really closely considered the attractive slope of his nose, or the sharpness of his eyes, or the shape of his jaw as he did just then. Shinsou having his hair buzzed along the back and sides but longer on top really made his cheekbones stand out. Could cut goddamn glass on those things.

“Let’s run that under some water.”

“Huh?”

Shinsou looked at him like a stray kitten he’d recently picked up from the shelter and didn’t want to spook. “Your hand,” he intoned softly. “Let’s clean it, yeah?”

Bakugou made a displeased face at the gentle tone, clearing his throat to respond. “Well, yeah. Um, obviously.” He’d tried to snarl, but his voice broke a little, coming out unsteady instead, so he added on—defensiveness on full display—“I got it, though. Let go.”

He tried to yank his hand away from where Shinsou had been holding it in a light grip, and he regretted doing that almost immediately. He winced at the sharp pain the movement brought, swearing under his breath.

Hitoshi let go of his hand and didn’t protest to Bakugou rinsing it on his own, allowing him to walk the few steps to the sink. And when Bakugou turned back around after running the water and clearing most of the blood away to expose a deep cut, he saw Hitoshi setting up the first aid kit on the kitchen table.

Katsuki rolled his eyes as he made his way over, still holding his thumb in some towels. He thunked down in the chair closest to where Shinsou was unraveling the bandages.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Katsuki informed him. “The blood will clot. I’m fine.”

Hitoshi ignored him, looking bored. “Just let me see.” He reached out a hand calmly, waiting. His eyes were expectant, and Katsuki got a squirmy feeling in his gut.

It was weird, like he was being scolded for bad behavior. When Shinsou turned his eyes on him like that, he, for some reason, wanted to cooperate and be… ‘good’?

So, with another eyeroll and a tch, Bakugou thrust his hand forward, resigning himself to the situation. He looked away as much as he could while Shinsou worked. He sucked in a sharp breath when Shinsou swiped alcohol over the wound, disinfecting it. Then, he could feel Shinsou securing the cut closed expertly and wrapping it with gauze.

“How’s that feel?” he asked when he was done.

“Fine,” Bakugou growled, pushing his chair back roughly. Standing up, he said, “Dinner will be ready in ten.”

Shinsou nodded. Then, “You’re welcome,” he deadpanned to Katsuki with the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. Maybe he was a little amused—or a little exasperated—by Katsuki’s childish behavior.

Katsuki only rolled his eyes for like the fiftieth time.

On most days, Bakugou would cook enough for them both, but they’d still usually eat at separate times or in different rooms of the apartment. Today, though, Shinsou packed the first aid supplies away but stayed seated at the table, watching Bakugou work.

Bakugou was slowed down a bit by his bandage, and he was a little self-conscious with Shinsou still in the room, but he eventually finished with everything and brought over two steaming bowls of soup followed by two plates of teriyaki beef.

Eating together was fine. Would be fine. It's not like they’d never shared a meal before.

Jesus Christ, Katsuki needed to get a fucking grip.

While they were eating, Katsuki tried to appear about a hundred times less tense than he was, and Shinsou tried his hand at casual conversation. “Did you cook this often for Izuku and Ochaco?” he asked.

Katsuki shrugged, thinking on it. “I guess,” he said but then he pursed his lips and amended it to, “Maybe not as much. Neither one of them is as good at sticking to a diet as they make it look like they are.”

Hitoshi exhaled a quiet laugh at that.

“They’d also try to get me to eat takeout with them and stuff. Or drink full-calorie beer,“ Katsuki went on, complaining, possibly complaining fondly. He was surprising himself with how much he was talking, but he guessed maybe he did actually kind of miss Deku and Cheeks, if only a little. After a pause, he added with a rueful grin, “God, they’re so fucking annoying.”

“Is that why you moved out of their place?”

Katsuki shrugged. Nodded. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I guess it was fine at first, after y’know… but then, after they got married, I felt weird being there. They’re also so goddamn happy. It’s gross.”

Shinsou nodded, eating.

“I mean, I want them to be happy,” Katsuki sighed. “I guess it just felt like me being there was bringing them down… sometimes, I guess… I don’t know.” He trailed off because he hadn’t meant to be acting so transparent and sharing so much, and he honestly didn’t even know why he was. It wasn’t as if Hitoshi was pressing him for information or anything like that.

Just when Katsuki was beginning to feel stupid for opening up, Hitoshi responded, “So that's when you thought you'd try bringing me down for a change?” The teasing was evident in his tone.

Katsuki looked up to see the little smirk on Shinsou’s face. He tched and said “shut up," but there was no bite to it. Eating dinner with Shinsou was… going really well actually. It felt warm in a way to share the food he’d made with someone else in real time. With Hitoshi.

“Also,” Katsuki added after a minute, “they were sort of suffocating me? Always acting like my keepers or some shit. Always wanting to know where I was or asking me if I wanted to talk about my feelings. It was fucking awful.”

Shinsou hummed in agreement. “Ah, so that’s really why you came here, then. Because I don’t care how you feel.”

Bakugou snorted and found himself smirking right back at Shinsou. That had almost gotten a genuine laugh out of him. “Yeah,” he agreed, taking a bite. “Exactly.”

A little while later, they were still hanging out. Aizawa had assigned some tape for them to watch, so that led them both to sitting on the living room couch for the evening.

Katsuki held his mug of tea close to his chest while Aizawa’s disinterested monotone began narrating over the footage of his own striking practice from a few days ago. He could see Shinsou in his periphery occasionally jotting down notes in a neatly organized booklet meant for this purpose.

Next, the tape had a rough cut before transitioning to Todoroki’s successful Kimura win over Deku in a practice match. Katsuki kind of enjoyed watching that fight.

After that was over, the tape cut to black, leaving Katsuki and Hitoshi in silence save for a clock ticking somewhere in the apartment and the buzzing sound made by the fridge.

Hitoshi happened to be writing a new note down in his notebook when Katsuki looked over to him. Katsuki studied his profile for the briefest second before he turned to set his tea down, but, in that second, Hitoshi had felt Katsuki’s gaze on him and looked up.

Katsuki met his eyes.

All the lavender haired man did was offer Katsuki a simple relaxed smile—a tired, crooked grin—and for some reason that Katsuki didn’t, or refused to, understand, that was all it took to propel him forward on the couch and make him softly press his lips against Hitoshi’s.

Hitoshi hadn’t said he could kiss him. In fact, Hitoshi was probably weirded the fuck out by Katsuki right now, with this kiss, and how the blond in this instant had apparently lost his grip on reality.

Why on earth would it make any sense to Hitoshi—or to anyone—that Katsuki was kissing him.

Katsuki didn’t kiss people. Everyone knew that.

Except apparently he did kiss people when they were Shinsou Hitoshi and Katsuki had been maybe a little bit into them for a year (or possibly ten) and was now watching them smile at him from across the couch at 11 pm over chamomile tea and fight tape.

Hitoshi had gone frozen at first, when Katsuki’s lips touched his. Understandably.

Katsuki’s soul had just about landed back in his body after a few moments, and right when he was about to shove himself away, feeling mortified— Remarkably, that’s when Shinsou gently lifted a hand to the back of his hair, just in time to stop him from pulling away.

And then Shinsou deepened the kiss on his own. He began to explore Katsuki’s mouth at a relaxed pace with his tongue, and that goddamn tongue ring was driving Katsuki crazy.

Shinsou carded his hand through Katsuki’s hair as they kissed, making him melt into it.

A minute later, after sinking into this kissing thing a little more and acknowledging that, yes, this was freaking happening, Katsuki dared to tentatively place his hands on Hitoshi’s shoulders, and he didn’t stop when Hitoshi responded by pulling Katsuki into him, closing any distance that had previously been between them on the couch.

Soon, Hitoshi’s hands, rough from endless workouts and with strong, capable fingers, found their way to Katsuki’s back, underneath his t-shirt. Hitoshi began massaging up and down Katsuki’s torso, rucking the blond’s shirt further and further up on each pass.

It was stupid. So stupid how Shinsou’s smug, condescending expressions turned him on like this. How maybe they always had. Stupid how Shinsou being thoughtful and nice and giving him as simple of a fucking courtesy as a tired smile had given Katsuki the crazy urge to kiss him.

When this all started, Katsuki didn’t anticipate how much they would each understand each other’s body language, how they would always seem to read each other’s energy, but here, in their kiss, it was like Katsuki’s preferences were being acknowledged without him having to say anything.

Every swipe of Shinsou’s tongue (and tongue ring) against Katsuki's own tongue made his gut drop pleasantly, made his nerves buzz and tingle to the tips of his toes.

Katsuki felt rather than saw Shinsou change their position to laying down across the couch since his eyes remained closed and his lips remained intent on seeking out Shinsou’s, but it was fine because Katsuki wasn’t opposed to this new position or interested in ending their kiss any time soon.

Minutes later, and far too soon, Shinsou pulled away, and Katsuki blinked bleary eyes up at him.

Shinsou searched Katsuki’s face for the first time since they’d started kissing, and Katsuki noticed how Shinsou’s eyes kept catching on his swollen lips.

Shinsou watched him, and then he telegraphed his movements to Katsuki every step of the way as he slowly sank his hips down over the blond’s waiting erection, grinding casually and barely exerting any meaningful pressure in the sinful downward movement of his hips.

Katsuki let out a needy moan he was embarrassed by the sound of. He was feeling the need for a lot more pressure and a lot more friction than was provided in that simple tease. He was fucking desperate now, desperate to thrust his own hips up. He could practically combust from how this man was driving him crazy.

Rather than grind on him again, though, Shinsou paused what he was doing, taking a breath, ever careful.

He held himself up on his elbows to look down and make sure Katsuki was with him as he asked, “Is this okay?”

Katsuki simply grabbed Shinsou’s jaw firmly between calloused hands of his own and yanked the other down to kiss him again.

Chapter Text

25 days before the fight

Hitoshi groaned, leaning back further against his pillows and headboard. “There it is.” He gasped as Bakugou swallowed his dick impossibly further, his blond head bobbing up and down. “Holy shit!”

Hitoshi felt himself seconds from coming and rushed to stop it. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said quietly, grabbing himself at his base. “Ahhh, ease up a little.”

Bakugou released his cock with a ‘pop’ and looked up at him. His tear-filled eyes showed a tinge of hurt before he looked away with a glower. Hitoshi had learned that he hated feeling reprimanded (if he thought the person meant it).

“Hey, no, no, no,” Hitoshi was quick to comfort. He wanted to nip that notion in the bud. “You were doing great. Fucking incredible, actually. I just don’t want to come yet.”

Bakugou was close enough that Hitoshi was able to reach out and pet his hair, smooth some of his thick bangs away from his forehead. Hitoshi then stroked a thumb across Katsuki’s cheek and moved his hand down to clasp his chin between his thumb and forefinger, directing the blond’s gaze to come back up and meet his eyes again. “Everything you’re doing is just getting me so riled up, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

Bakugou scoffed at the praise and tore his eyes away, but his increasingly deep blush and the heat of his face against Hitoshi’s thigh were telling. Looking down, Bakugou was nearly burying himself in Hitoshi’s balls due to how close they were to his face, like he was trying to hide in them or something.

The blond breathed against the sensitive skin there, and a completely different kind of pleasurable torture enveloped Hitoshi. He had to swallow his tongue to keep from crying out. And keeping quiet worked in his favor in the end because it meant he was able to hear Bakugou’s huffy, subdued, “Shut up, asshole.”

Hitoshi grinned, amused and fond. “No, really, you have no idea how cute you are.”

Hitoshi considered the flushed, thick-eyelashed face of his bed partner as he coaxed him to lift his head back up.

Hitoshi’s bedroom was shadowy from the dusk outside, but he could still see that Katsuki currently had a healing black eye from practice, a fresh cut on his temple that was still trickling blood every now and again, and a swollen, split lip. He was perfect.

And he was still getting his footing with all this—with figuring out what kind of play he liked and what subspace was and could be for him—which was why Hitoshi had to be extra aware of his every action and careful to ensure that Katsuki’s needs were being met. Katsuki’s needs that he was infuriatingly terrible at communicating (or unwilling to communicate) with words.

Hitoshi had to keep being patient with him, though. Frustration—and especially showing frustration outwardly, making Katsuki feel like he was doing something wrong—would only lead to negative progress.

“Hey, look at me,” Hitoshi said to him, seeing that Bakugou had looked down in shyness once again.

Bakugou reluctantly did.

“You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. I think if your lips go anywhere near my dick again I’m going to blow my load before I even get a chance to fuck you. And I know we both don’t want that, sweetheart,” Hitoshi teased.

Bakugou smirked with some genuine confidence showing through. A win for Hitoshi. “Psh. I’m not your sweetheart,” he said in his characteristic rough voice. “And you don’t know shit, eyebags.”

“Oh no?”

Bakugou sat up on his knees, scowling and crossing his arms in front of his chest. He was putting on a good front, but this was all part of the little game they’d created between themselves in the last several weeks.

“No.” Bakugou jutted his chin out.

Shinsou dragged his fingers down the column of Bakugou’s neck, continuing over his white t-shirt and the fabric between his pecs. He watched Bakugou’s throat work as he felt it all, giving in to the sensations like he liked to do. Getting out of his head. The simple touches made Bakugou’s breath catch.

Shinsou’s hand continued down over Katsuki’s toned stomach, and then he was teasing the waistband of his shorts.

“Let’s see…,” Hitoshi dragged the word out, “do you want me to undress you?”

Bakugou had closed his eyes, breathing. He nodded.

Shinsou nodded in affirmation even though Bakugou couldn’t see him.

He got up on his knees as well in front of Bakugou. “Then lift up your arms for me, baby.”

Bakugou did as he was told, and Shinsou lifted the shirt over his head.

Next he said, “Do you want to be on your back?”

A hesitation, Katsuki shyly looking off to the side, then another nod.

“Okay, are you sure?”

“Y- yeah,” Katsuki choked.

Shinsou smiled and kissed his forehead. “Good boy.”

Bakugou flushed all over, and he swallowed. “Fuck.”

“Mm, you like that, don’t you?” Hitoshi observed. He chuckled a little.

Bakugou grumbled something akin to “fuck off.”

Hitoshi helped Katsuki get settled on his back and then pulled his shorts and boxers down, the blond lifting his hips up at the right moment to help Hitoshi get them all the way off. Katsuki’s reddened cock then sprang forward, hard and leaking, and he looked away from his own absolutely gorgeous body, presumably in self-consciousness at being laid bare, so open and vulnerable for Hitoshi like that.

Then he reached back to grip onto the pillow behind his head, like he was prepared to hold on for dear life.

Katsuki may have been being a little dramatic, but, hey, if he felt like he was going to need to hold on for the ride then Hitoshi was more than happy to oblige. Hitoshi gave Katsuki’s neck a long kiss. He took his time tasting the salt on Katsuki’s skin and feeling the blond’s pulse quicken while he made breathy noises underneath him.

Next, Hitoshi slicked his fingers up with the lube. He’d set the bottle in hot water earlier to help it warm up a bit, and that was usually pretty effective.

He spread extra lube around Katsuki’s hole and perineum, distracting him for a second before he slipped his first finger inside and watched Katsuki jolt above him. The longer he kept at it, making deep, round motions, the more Katsuki’s sharp, breathy exhales turned into true moans of pleasure.

“There, that’s it. Let me hear you, baby.”

“Ngghh,” Bakugou groaned.

“Just a little bit more. You’re doing so well for me, angel,” Hitoshi encouraged, stretching him further, and he could see how responsive his words made Bakugou, watching him swallow thickly and noticing his dick twitch where it was going untouched against his happy trail.

Just the littlest bit of praise, and Katsuki would always melt just that easy. “You open up so well for me,” Hitoshi remarked again. “So beautiful.” He leaned up between Katsuki’s parted legs to kiss him softly on the lips.

It actually made so much sense to him now, how much Katsuki loved to be sweet talked and told he was doing a good job in bed (as well as all the time), how that made him all soft and pliant and sweetly cooperative no matter the setting. If only Shinsou had ever taken the time before to really think about it.

The way to get Bakugou to get along and not throw a tantrum wasn’t to yell back at him. Or to get frustrated with him and match his surly demeanor—it was to be patient, to be calm, to babytalk him and show him understanding. He got overwhelmed by his emotions sometimes—often, actually—and he wanted somebody to hold his hand and reassure him that it would all be okay.

Now that he knew—knew so much more about the blond boy in front of him—Hitoshi was determined to make up for lost time.

The resistance from Bakugou’s needy hole was fading to close to nothing as he relaxed and enjoyed himself more. “So easy,” Hitoshi remarked.

“The fuck?” Bakugou said weakly before groaning deeply as Hitoshi massaged his inner walls. “I’m not easy,” he tried to argue, although his words were a little undermined by his current position arched against the pillows with his head thrown back, moaning sensually for each thrust of Hitoshi’s fingers inside him.

“I don’t know, I think you’re pretty easy. Falling into bed with the enemy like this?”

“You’re not my enemy. You’re not even my competition,” Bakugou threw out. He still didn’t open his eyes, letting out a particularly high pitched keen just then at the sensation of Hitoshi finally beginning to tease his prostate with talented precision.

Hitoshi was holding back on the pressure just enough to start driving him to the brink, and Katsuki’s hips began to move upwards as though he couldn’t help it, like he was desperately chasing more and more feeling.

Not even competition? Hitoshi wouldn’t be the person or the fighter he was today if he let something as meaningless as a little trash talk like that faze him, and trash talk before a fight was Bakugou’s specialty.

It was a good thing that being underestimated was where Hitoshi thrived. “Okay,” Shinsou hummed casually, two fingers now pressing into Katsuki’s prostate sadistically and rubbing. “I guess we’ll see about that during the fight, pretty boy.”

Bakugou could barely get any words out with the way Hitoshi was dismantling him, but he was nothing if not a fighter—and he always had to be contrary—so he managed to grind out, “ ‘M not pretty.”

Hitoshi smiled. “You look pretty to me,” he said, enjoying the view of Katsuki’s naked body laid out in front of him.

He’d fucked a lot of guys and girls in his life, his number standing at a healthy fifteen or so, and no one came close to fucking the Bakugou Katsuki. He’d told Katsuki as much, several times, but he didn’t know if Katsuki realized it was one hundred percent the truth. Shinsou ran his mouth a lot in bed, but he never lied.

“Now this,” he said, taking Bakugou’s cock in his hand. Bakugou gasped. “This dick is pretty.”

“You’re- ahh, you’re-”

“I’m what, baby?”

Bakugou hissed as Shinsou’s hands both in his ass and on his dick worked in tandem.

“You gonna finish that sentence for me, kitten?”

Bakugou only panted, so Shinsou wiped his hands on some wipes they’d set up nearby and slid the condom on himself, giving himself a few strokes with added lube.

He had to press in slowly, slowly, slowly. Katsuki was tight as hell, despite the appearance of his slick and gaping hole.

“Remember to breathe for me, princess,” Shinsou instructed in a soothing voice. “Okay? Can you do that?”

Bakugou gave no response, though it looked like he wanted to tell Hitoshi to shut up (even though he liked being talked to like that), so, instead, not being able to find the words, he just laid there and pointedly began to breathe just that much slower and more intentionally to show Hitoshi he could do it.

Hitoshi leaned up, stretching forward to kiss Bakugou’s cheek and whisper in his ear, “Great job, sweetheart.” Hitoshi wrapped Bakugou’s legs around his middle a little tighter and thrust himself in past the tip, hearing Katsuki grunt beneath him.

And oh, oh man, it was a miracle Hitoshi didn’t come right on the spot.

A silver chain Hitoshi wore dangled in between them as Hitoshi leaned even further over Katsuki’s body, nearly pressing Katsuki in half in order to get closer and causing their bare chests to brush while Hitoshi exhaled against Katsuki’s neck.

He paused there, making sure he wouldn’t come too soon and giving them both time to adjust.

Then, a minute later, Hitoshi pushed all the way inside, making Bakugou whimper what sounded like “goddamn fucking fuck” at a pitch only dogs could hear.

Hitoshi smirked against Katsuki’s neck, lifting his head to give a quick, affectionate peck to Katsuki’s jawline.

Hitoshi really was in awe of this beautiful man, all his pouting and brattiness aside. Or maybe that only added to his attraction, being that he was an absolute sucker for a smart mouth. The jury was still out.

At first, Shinsou had been a little unsure of how to dom Katsuki. Katsuki didn’t know a lot about the communication aspect of BDSM yet (because getting him to open up was like trying to pry open the jaws of an angry lion), but domming was what Hitoshi was doing, whether Katsuki liked it or not—and going by his many intense orgasms over the last several weeks, Hitoshi had to say that Katsuki did seem to like it. A lot.

But Katsuki was a hard one to figure out because he’d often start asking Shinsou for foreplay by being a dick, by trying to push Hitoshi’s buttons. It was like he thought that if he acted like a brat whenever he had a bad day outside of the bedroom, he could get himself punished through sex. Roughed up and dicked down.

But it didn’t work like that. It couldn’t.

Not with Hitoshi, anyway.

And Hitoshi didn’t want to be used in that way.

Hitoshi had seen Katsuki do things like overtrain himself or restrict his food intake to “make up” for losing a practice match or being reprimanded by Sensei.

He’d seen him lash out, trying to get others angry at him, when he didn’t meet his training targets or when he got scolded by Midoriya for not going to his therapy appointments, or any other time he’d been “bad” in some way.

He sometimes acted like he wanted sex to be a release like that, too.

And Hitoshi knew the blond was inexperienced and everything, but he wasn’t willing to compromise his integrity to give in to Katsuki’s whims. He wasn’t willing to be rough just because Katsuki wanted to take something out on himself.

It was definitely a fine line to walk, though, because Hitoshi actually quite liked bringing a little roughness into the bedroom.

He knew, though, that if Bakugou wanted to relinquish control in a safe environment like this, then he was going to have to learn the hard way that he actually was going to be safe. Hitoshi would show him again and again if he had to.

Katsuki’d hinted at wanting things like shoving and put-downs, but if Shinsou was going to get on board, Katsuki needed to actually agree he’d use the traffic light system to check in and not just go rogue mid-scene.

It was something they hadn’t really had a chance to sort through yet. Mostly because a certain hot headed blond seemed to want to avoid conversations about what he did or didn’t like during sex at all costs. Therefore, he’d initiate when it suited him—when he was itching for some roughhousing and to be put in his place—but then he’d close himself off again anytime Shinsou tried to open the lines of communication at a different time, like over dinner or on their drive home from practice.

As frustrating as that was, Hitoshi did have a guess as to why.

He admittedly didn’t know much about the relationship Katsuki’d had previously that led to him leaving that guy and his whole apartment and most of his things behind, moving in with Midoriya and Uraraka in the process. But he did, at the very least, understand that it had been toxic.

It had had Katsuki coming into the gym every day restless, and angry, and upset. And Hitoshi remembered how difficult Katsuki was to keep a cool head around back when he was going through all that shit, how absolutely infuriating he would be in the way that he would snap and jaw at everyone and everything he thought was in his way, including all the people trying to help.

It was really only Sensei at that time who’d been able to get through to him, to knock some sense into him and get him to leave his personal issues at the door long enough to have a meaningful training session and get into a healthier mindset, if only for some short stretches of time.

Hitoshi remembered Katsuki relying on Aizawa a lot through those months, and it had rankled him a bit—not only because he was a fighter who’d needed the coach’s attention too, but also as Shouta’s son.

He hated to admit it to himself, even now, but he had been hardcore jealous.

Now, though, knowing Katsuki the way he did and seeing how far they’d come in only six months of living together, he kind of wanted to roundhouse kick his former self in his thick skull for being so goddamn selfish.

Aizawa had said as much to Hitoshi then, that he wasn’t seeing the situation clearly. And Hitoshi now knew that he’d been right.

Hitoshi hadn’t understood what Bakugou had been going through and why Aizawa had had to stretch himself so thin and go above and beyond the role of a normal coach to be there for him.

Some guy was bullying Katsuki, hurting him if the way Izuku talked about it was anything to go by, and Hitoshi had been too wrapped up in his own self and not getting enough of his daddy’s attention to see the bigger picture, only getting annoyed when Katsuki was being more of a prick than usual for months on end.

He felt so stupid now. Because now, now he understood, and he wasn’t just saying that because he was balls deep inside Katsuki at the moment with the latter looking like a blond angel in his bed with his lips parted and his brows furrowed in a concentrated frown of pleasure. Katsuki’s legs were wrapped tightly around Hitoshi’s waist, and he was clinging to him in a way that communicated absolute trust in him, even if it was only for this moment and would disappear in the morning.

Shinsou had always felt like he could see right through Katsuki—he had ever since they were teens.

He could easily pick up that Katsuki’s armor of bravado was nothing more than a thin shield for his underlying insecurity. And he knew without ever even trying that it would be so easy to break.

But being with Katsuki, impossibly, made him want to worship him. Like Katsuki had always been right about being so special all along. Because he was.

Now, Shinsou didn’t just want to break through Katsuki’s armor for sport or anything like that, or just to show him that he could. He wanted to be the one that held him when he fell apart.

He wanted to be there because he didn’t think anyone else but him could do as good of a job at dismantling Bakugou Katsuki’s fragile armor and then putting it back together piece by piece.

Shinsou kissed Katsuki’s collarbone as he began to thrust into him harder. Faster.

Katsuki’s moans were turning him on even more than he thought possible.

“God, fuck yes,” Shinsou breathed. He was getting close.

Katsuki groaned, his body being used, and when Shinsou’s hips picked up the pace even more, fucking him hard and fast, Katsuki moved his hands to bring Shinsou’s face down towards his own, tilting his lips up for a kiss.

Shinsou melted at that. “Sure, sweetheart, yeah. Do you want kisses?” he cooed. When Bakugou nodded jerkily, Shinsou responded by kissing him deeply, open mouthed, wet and sloppy, dragging his tongue against Bakugou’s and feeling the other moan with it.

Shinsou held Bakugou as he fucked him faster and faster, until skin slapped against skin rapidly and Hitoshi had to move to brace himself on the bed for purchase.

“Just like that. Just like that. Fuck. You’re so hot, baby. Fuck, god, you’re so perfect for me.”

Katsuki whimpered.

Hitoshi felt himself falling, his mind drifting to the scent of the warm skin of Katsuki’s neck, the barest hint of his masculine body wash along with fabric softener and sweat.

Hitoshi was moments away from his climax, but he reached between their bodies to jerk Katsuki off as he fucked him.

He whispered, “I could see fucking you like this all the time, princess. Anytime I wanted. I’d just fuck you open for days at a time, keeping you naked, bending you over anywhere and using you however I felt like it. You wouldn’t even need to have a thought in your pretty little head, sweetheart. Do you like the sound of that?”

Katsuki came with a loud cry, making a mess of them both.

And that was Shinsou’s cue to come too. He thrust in sharply, then he fell over the edge, falling and falling for Bakugou Katsuki.

Chapter Text

18 days before the fight

When Hitoshi fell asleep, he distinctly remembered it being to the sound of soft snores and the feeling of a downy soft blond head tucked beneath his chin.

Waking up, things in his bedroom felt—different. Off. Disjointed and kind of blurry. It was still pitch dark, and, as he blinked his eyes open, he saw that Katsuki had gotten up—in a hurry it seemed like, leaving his spot beside Hitoshi on the bed empty with the blanket all screwed up haphazardly behind him.

“Wha-” Hitoshi almost croaked, but the word didn’t quite make it out of his throat with any actual sound behind it. It was more like he’d maybe only said it in his head. That was probably it actually, now that he thought about it. Was he still dreaming?

He lifted his head up slightly, and he could just barely make out the form of Katsuki as his eyes adjusted. He was fumbling around on the floor in the dark, collecting items like his shirt and leggings and stuffing them under a well-muscled arm while also holding his phone up to his ear. He didn’t seem to notice that Hitoshi was awake.

“Why are you calling me?” the blond whispered fervently into the phone. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” He sounded pissed.

Half of Hitoshi’s brain told his body to move. The other half kept him flat against the mattress, weighed down by sleep and the knowledge that he probably wasn’t supposed to be overhearing this.

He listened as Bakugou’s words seemed to become more hoarse and hysterical the longer he responded to whoever it was on the other end of the phone. “No- I’m not- No, I fucking didn’t! I never said-” He cut himself off. It seemed like the other person was talking now, and Shinsou knew that expression Katsuki was wearing. He felt strangely fond of it, honestly, even though it was one of the brattiest faces Bakugou could make.

It was one of his annoyed pouts—the one specifically where he was waiting very impatiently for someone else to be done talking so that he could relish in telling them to fuck the hell off in creative ways that only Katsuki Bakugou could manage.

He didn’t get the chance, though.

From his weird vantage point across the room and lying down, Hitoshi watched, and he could see the moment the caller said something to make Katsuki’s face screw up in pain. It made Hitoshi’s heart lurch. He stopped breathing. It seemed like it would be a bad time to make a sudden move and show that he was awake despite how much he longed to go comfort Bakugou in that moment and figure out what the hell was going on.

Dramatic as it was, his half-asleep self kind of felt like a literal angel had been ripped away from his bed in the middle of the night without explanation, and now he was cold and lonely without him.

“I- I never meant it like that,” Katsuki finally whispered to whoever it was after a long pause. He screwed his eyes shut and touched a hand to his temple, looking distressed. “Please, you have to believe me,” he begged. His voice broke, scratching the edges of his throat as it came out like it was made of sandpaper, and Hitoshi felt an ache in his heart.

Before he could actually sit his ass up to go see what was the matter, though, Bakugou stood up, heaving a ragged sigh into the receiver and saying something Hitoshi couldn’t parse out. Then, he snatched his pair of boxer briefs up off the floor, adding them to the heap of clothes already under his arm, and walked out.

Hitoshi could only watch through heavy-lidded eyes as the blond’s tight ass walked through the doorway. Katsuki turned briefly to grab the knob and close the door softly behind himself, and the gentle motion was at odds with the way he was still talking in fast, pressured, and almost desperate whispers into the phone.

There was a certain wrongness about it all. Hitoshi couldn’t help but think that the only time the blond was meant to sound so pleading and unsure was when he was in Hitoshi’s bed and feeling so good he was positive he couldn’t last another second except for the fact that Hitoshi had asked him to.

Hitoshi only realized then, as he turned over to get readjusted in bed, that they hardly spent the nights apart anymore. And it was difficult now to get back to sleep without the familiar weight of Katsuki beside him, without the tickle of his hair or the way his sleeping breaths sounded or how he always inched closer and closer to Hitoshi without realizing it and eventually ended up curled into Hitoshi’s chest, nuzzling his face against Hitoshi’s pecs in his sleep.

Hitoshi had to keep the air conditioner blasting even at night now because Bakugou ran hot and it was the height of the summer heat and humidity, but he truly couldn’t care less about the electric bill.

Katsuki could also be a restless sleeper at times, and, some nights, he tended to shove and thrash about a lot. The times that Hitoshi would get woken up at 3 am due to an uncoordinated fist slapping his face or because Bakugou was kicking the blankets off of the both of them and sending them halfway across the room with force didn’t irritate him probably half as much as they should have. In fact, he usually found Katsuki’s “sleep boxing” antics grossly adorable.

He thought a lot of things about Katsuki were cute, actually.

Hitoshi knew, obviously, that their fight was only about two and a half weeks away. Of course he did.

They’d been training for it for the better part of a year. They’d each probably gone through a thousand grueling workouts and hundreds of cool-down meditations. They’d had practice bouts, and nutritionist consultations, near daily strength training, and hours of watching tape and discussing strategy. And all of it was for the purpose of leading them up to that exact moment they would touch gloves in the center of the octagon and the official would tell them, “Fight!”

The crowd wouldn’t be small. Hell, a fucking belt was on the line, not to mention bragging rights and their pride.

The fight was being promoted, somewhat aggressively now as it got closer. Tickets were being sold, and a narrative setting the two of them up as these supposed angry, bitter rivals out for blood was being spun by the sports media.

Clickbait articles worth two cents a piece with headlines like Why Katsuki ‘Ground Zero’ Bakugou is Aiming for a First-Round Knockout to Defend his Title, Check Out the Top Five Submission Finishes by Hitoshi ‘The Zombie’ Shinsou: Has GZ’s Reign Come to an End?, and The Real Reason Ground Zero Hates his Lightweight Title Challenger were popping up and being spread around on every online fighting publication. The commenters who frequented those same MMA sites were having a field day.

It was always like that. Buzz had to be created in order to stir up energy and attention (and sales) for the fight of the moment. A lot of their gymmates had once thought Katsuki would never recover when, five years ago, all of the same forums were going nuts about his loss—recent at the time—where he was KO’ed by Midoriya before Midoriya eventually moved up a weight class, and then another.

But the talk did die down. It always did. It followed predictable patterns. The fans moved on to the next fight in a month, and Katsuki, for his part, did eventually work his way to getting over it. He loved Midoriya like a brother, and Midoriya could be seen fussing over Katsuki constantly ever since Shinsou met the two of them when they were all teenagers.

Now, some fans and fight analysts were predicting that Hitoshi would get pummeled by Katsuki in a completely one-sided fight as if Hitoshi couldn’t hold his own. But, of course, these takes were only met with others chiming in that actually it was Katsuki who was likely to fall to Hitoshi’s guillotine, probably some time in the second round.

None of the talk mattered. Not a bit. But the fight? It was happening.

Meanwhile, Hitoshi and Katsuki had also been sleeping together since June.

He should probably see more of a problem with that.

When he woke up in the morning, the only problem Hitoshi could see was that Katsuki wasn’t in his bed with him.

He wouldn’t have even been up for morning sex; he just wanted to cuddle.

But then the events of the night before came back to him, and he remembered the mysterious phone call that had quite clearly made Katsuki upset. He knew he shouldn’t pry, but Hitoshi felt genuinely concerned.

He was sure to get nowhere by outright asking Bakugou whether or not he was ‘fine,’ though, which was frustrating. He sighed at the thought. Katsuki still wouldn’t open up to him about anything, even on the nights that there was clearly something eating away at him inside.

And maybe I’m selfish for wanting him to? Hitoshi thought suddenly.

Fuck. They’d never agreed for feelings to be a part of their arrangement. They’d never agreed on anything at all.

They needed to get inside a cage and beat the shit out of each other in front of several thousand people in two weeks, and here Hitoshi was imagining that he should be the one Bakugou would want to turn to when he was upset.

Like Hitoshi could make him some tea and wrap him in a blanket and they’d watch Warrior all cuddled up on the couch together or something.

Was this Hitoshi admitting that that scenario didn’t seem completely awful? Of all the nice people he could take on a date or Netflix and chill with, he wanted Katsuki. He was prickly and rude, a terror and a brat, and also way deeper and more sensitive than he seemed on the surface. And also fucking hot. So hot that Hitoshi could get turned on just from seeing the blond’s shirt ride up an inch while he was reaching up to grab something off the spice rack. Or, he could even feel his blood rushing south just from hearing Katsuki grunt as he obliterated a punching bag somewhere across the gym because Shinsou often heard that same grunt—not unlike someone getting nailed with a body shot—right when he pushed inside, and-

Okay. That was… a lot for him to think on.

(He was so fucked.)

And he was so fucked not least of all because he knew that, when it came to the fight, neither one of them was planning to lose.

Luckily for his peace of mind (and his morning wood), Hitoshi didn't see Katsuki at all when he got up with his alarm and then went about his usual routine of having breakfast and watering the plants before changing into his gear for the day and heading into the living room to stretch.

With the fight so close, Hitoshi had taken some time off work. Where he typically spent his days (or nights, it didn’t really matter which) doing freelance web design remotely, for the past couple weeks he’d taken a break from that and devoted each day solely to his training schedule while making an effort to sleep better at night, even when he wasn’t sleeping alone. He’d keep it up all the way until the weigh-in and fight day. As would Bakugou with his own routine.

They both spent their days now somewhere in an endless loop of protein shake, stretch, workout, fight practice, and protein shake again.

And that’s actually where he finally ran into Bakugou, in the kitchen in front of the blender with Katsuki glaring at the appliance as he leaned over the counter, his head propped up in a hand. He watched the liquid swirl inside with a grumpy sigh, and Hitoshi cleared his throat from behind him to get his attention.

Bakugou turned around. His expression was still blank and closed off, but he at least nodded at Hitoshi in what passed for a polite greeting before turning back around to pour his shake into his water bottle and rinse out the blender jar.

Hitoshi watched his back as he worked. Katsuki’s tattoos, a hodgepodge of things compared to Hitoshi’s lotus horimono style, stopped on the tops of his shoulders, leaving the nape of his neck and the rest of his back clear and unmarked, kind of similar to the way Hitoshi’s own did.

He was wearing a black tank top with a big orange X across it that was essentially his logo as well as stirrup compression tights with the word DYNAMITE embossed down the outer sides in orange letters. Hitoshi was pretty sure that was the name of some frou-frou athleisure brand his parents owned.

Hitoshi, not needing anything fancy to workout in, just had a ratty old pair of black basketball shorts and a short sleeve purple Under Armour shirt on.

Shinsou studied him as well as he could. The blond looked sullen and tired. Hitoshi, of course, got shit for his eye bags daily from his ever-so-tactful roommate, but this morning Katsuki’s darkened undereye circles could rival even his own.

Who called you? Hitoshi wanted to ask. Did they make you stay on the phone with them all night?

Before Katsuki could put his earbuds back in and escape the kitchen to wherever it was he was going to next, Hitoshi leaned up against the counter next to where Bakugou was messing with something on his phone and nudged his shoulder. “Hey,” he said softly.

Bakugou flinched away from the touch like he’d been burned.

Okay. Ouch.

Hitoshi frowned, bending forward to try and catch Katsuki’s eyes if he’d let him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Bakugou narrowed his eyes at him while stuffing his phone back into the pocket of his leggings. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hitoshi’s eyebrows rose. He looked back at Katsuki like, Are you really gonna make me say it?

And apparently Katsuki was. Because he just leaned on one hip and crossed his arms over his chest, like this conversation was wasting his time.

Hitoshi rolled his eyes. This was so typically Bakugou.

“Last night,” he said. Straightforward. He didn’t need to elaborate further.

Bakugou swallowed hard, but he schooled his facial expression back to the disinterested mask he’d been fond of lately in record time. “It was nothing. I’m fine.”

Hitoshi blew out a breath. “Okay. Guess you were just crying naked on my floor for funsies then.”

“Just leave it, Eyebags. Not your business and not your problem.”

He could almost laugh, the way Bakugou made this type of thing so difficult. It was like impossible was built right into his fucking DNA. Why didn’t Katsuki know that he already was Hitoshi’s problem? Had been for months. And to top it all off, now he was being demoted back to “Eyebags,” so that was just great.

His intent in reaching out to Katsuki in the first place was to smooth out the scowl on his face, touch his hand, maybe give him a vote of confidence—let him know that Hitoshi would be in his corner, even if he didn’t want to share what it was about that phone call that had him so shaken up.

But he should’ve known better. Katsuki didn’t want his comfort. Not during the daylight.

Apparently, Hitoshi wasn’t quite done kicking himself while he was down yet, though. He still said, “Okay. Well, if you ever need me to-”

“Look.” Katsuki cut him off. There was tension in every furious quiver of his jaw. “Can we just- Not talk about this?”

“If not now then when?”

“Fucking- Never, Shinsou! Damn it, it’s like you’re fucking inside of my asshole even when you’re not!”

Now that one stung. And Hitoshi was pretty sure it was meant to.

And the thing he did next fed right into it, his baser instincts getting the better of him even though he knew somewhere in his mind that Bakugou spitting on his good will like this was on purpose—a tactic for getting Hitoshi to back off, to stop caring. And it- It fucking worked.

Not that Hitoshi had stopped caring. He did still want to help. Desperately. But in the moment he was so frustrated that he did exactly what he was expected to do. He fixed Bakugou with a steely glare, stood up straight, and rocked the other’s shoulder hard on his way out of the kitchen.

He turned halfway around before he got to the doorway and said, “You know, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. It’s not like I need any of your bullshit this close to fight week anyway.” Then he walked out, not watching to see if his words hurt Katsuki or not.

And a part of it was true. At least he told himself it was. Getting distracted with the fight looming so close on the horizon wasn’t bound to do him any favors.

He just wished he didn’t also feel like he’d just lost the magic of whatever it was they had.

What was there going to be to put a little extra finesse into his takedowns or a little extra snap into his punches if not the thought of something bitchy and clever Bakugou had said the night before? Or being able to picture the blond's feral, razor sharp grin the way he knew he’d see it when he eventually got home and tackled him into bed.

It was like his good luck charm had just become a millstone around his neck, the reason for the heaviness in his heart and the tightness in his lungs. It felt constricting and leaden like an extra weight vest around his chest.

Chapter Text

Still 18 days before the fight

It’s not like I need any of your bullshit this close to fight week anyway.

The words echoed in Katsuki’s head.

He also remembered the image of Shinsou curling his lip and turning away, like Katsuki was too irritating to even look at.

His bullshit.

His bullshit.

His bullshit.

And it was fucking bullshit, wasn’t it? Him always dragging the people around him into the mess caused by his miserable, fucked up head?

Katsuki felt a sinking feeling in his gut, like he was falling, falling, falling. His anxiety could be bad on a normal day, but put him this close to a fight and he was screwed.

He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up, and Hitoshi wasn’t going to want him anymore.

And could Katsuki blame him? Hell, Shinsou was probably close to fed up even before their little argument.

And why? Why did he want Shinsou to want him? Hitoshi would be better off if they ended things now, before it went too far.

Like, was Katsuki not out of his fucking mind for getting involved with the literal last person on earth he should be getting involved with? Given the fight, given they were roommates, given their shared teammates and circle of friends. Given who Shinsou’s dad was.

It wasn’t fair to Shinsou, probably, how Katsuki had started this whole physical thing between them. Had started everything with a kiss that was stupid and reckless.

He’d been around Shinsou for years without jumping his bones, had moved around him, made space for him on the mats, changed next to him in the locker room, talked to mutual friends in his vicinity—all way before they had ever started talking to each other. But then Shinsou had to go and be all nice to him and shit—had to treat him gently, treat him sweetly like he was some fucking, fucking- good thing or something, like he was special or valuable, and Katsuki hadn’t felt like that in a long time, and then– he didn’t know. Is that why he felt the need to get under him?

Is that all I know how to do?

He wondered about it sometimes, his mind going in circles until he made himself throw up from the anxiety.

Someone had said that to Katsuki before. That he used his body like a weapon, that he was manipulative. That he would probably always be that way and he couldn’t help himself.

And he was trying to unpack that shit in therapy, he really was.

He was trying to see where the lies ended and the real him began. But still. A year later, and he still didn’t know. And, truthfully, he didn’t feel any closer to knowing either, or really any closer to any sort of improvement or self-help or whatever-the-fuck.

Even right now, after all but ensuring that Shinsou would never touch him again, he still wanted it. He was desperate to go back to it. Desperate to hear the ‘good boy’s and the ‘that’s it, sweetheart’s in Shinsou’s deep, raspy bedroom voice, a voice that always seemed to let notes of true admiration purposely bleed in through the condescension… even though he knew ending up in Shinsou’s bed again would be a bad, bad plan.

Katsuki slumped forward in the front seat of his car. His protein shake wanted to come back up, and that couldn’t happen because he’d meticulously timed those calories.

Thankfully, he managed to stop his hands’ shaking long enough to pop an Ativan and do some of the deep breathing exercises his therapist had gotten him started on more than a year ago.

It hadn’t even been too much of a stretch when she’d first suggested them since Aizawa was big on yoga and already had all his fighters doing that ‘find your zen’ shit from the beginning of their first training sessions as it was.

He took another long, deep breath. The sweat shining on his brow wouldn’t be noticed once he started running and lifting anyway, so with one final slap to his own cheek he grabbed his duffle bag and headed inside.

Katsuki happened to be about an hour early for his scheduled training when he shoved through the doors of The Underground, their MMA club.

Fortunately, as long as he wasn’t in danger of overworking himself, Aizawa-sensei didn’t give a crap how many hours Katsuki put in. The coach simply raised his eyebrows as the blond stomped past and then promptly went back to working with ‘Raka.

Katsuki ignored him, and he ignored Cheeks’s curious gaze on him as well. He’d replied to her texts this morning, so she didn’t have shit to complain about.

After stashing his bag in his locker, Bakugou stretched, loosened up with some shadow boxing, and then set his pace on the treadmill to clear his head.

He realized sometime later that Deku and Coach Yagi had moved to the cage just a few meters away from him. He could hear the bass of All Might’s voice and the repetitive thump thumpthumpthumpthump of Deku’s gloves against the pads All Might wore on his hands. The punches almost sounded like whips being cracked, echoing into the industrial ceiling of the gym.

Katsuki took a minute to study him (it wasn’t just the other way around anymore). Deku could’ve had explosions going off in the background and it wouldn’t have broken his concentration with how locked into the zone he was. Sweat dripped off his face and down his chest while his delts and triceps flexed with every viper-fast strike.

He was giving all he had while All Might presumably told him he needed to hit even harder. Aizawa-sensei added in a tired voice from the sidelines, looking up from Uraraka’s triangle choke on an unlucky Kirishima, that he also needed to be faster and lighter on his feet.

With the continued badgering from their coaches, Deku’s determined expression reached another level, and he hit right back to All Might’s remarks, knocking the coach’s thin body off balance with a barrage of strikes. The coaches both gave a hum of approval, and then Deku seamlessly transitioned into kicks, aiming them high to All Might’s temples.

Deku continued his practice, working to keep his hits equal in force the longer he went on since stamina was everything in MMA. If you could wear the other guy (or girl) down until they were tired, until they gave up, then they’d leave themselves open and vulnerable to knock-out hits, takedowns, or submissions.

Sensei must have sent Ochaco on her way at some point because, leaning with one shoulder against the side of the fence, he called out for Deku to finally take a rest. Katsuki continued to stare with a furrowed brow, slowing his run and trying (and failing) to hear the corrections All Might was giving to Deku in the center of the cage while the freckled man drank from his water bottle and toweled off.

All Might had just squeezed Deku’s shoulder as a send off for the day when Deku turned and noticed Bakugou. All Might gave a kind smile and a wave before walking off, and Deku, as usual, looked way more excited to see his bitchy ass than Bakugou thought was probably warranted.

“Hey, Kacchan.” Deku walked over to him and made a motion for Katsuki to take out his earbuds, even though Katsuki realized belatedly that he’d never put any music on.

He removed them and turned down the treadmill before stepping off. He gave Deku a nod in greeting and then let the nerd talk a bit to himself, reflecting on his training for that day.

Katsuki’s attention only began to wander from Deku’s analysis of punch combinations (which he’d heard many times before with some slight variations) when the front doors of the gym creaked open to reveal none other than Shinsou himself, walking in and sinking right down into a stretch with his hands spreading his knees apart. He groaned as he leaned side to side, rolling his neck and sending rivulets of sweat dripping down his body and onto the welcome mat below.

He twisted this way and that, stretching and shaking out his lanky limbs. He’d pretty obviously just come in from a long run outside.

Katsuki’s eyes took in his shirtless torso while Shinsou was still preoccupied with stretching and checking his heart rate in the entryway.

Just leave it to Shinsou, though, to feel the eyes on him and look up at the exact worst time. Katsuki forced himself to drag his eyes up past Hitoshi’s abs, past his pecs that were rising and falling with each quick breath, across his tattoos and collar bones and finally up to his face.

Normally, Shinsou would smirk or blow a kiss when it was obvious Katsuki had been checking him out like that, but today he only looked at Katsuki with an unsettling emptiness in his eyes. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge the blond at all as he drank from his water bottle and then unceremoniously poured some of it out over his face to flow down his neck. He pushed his wet hair back, and then he took a few more greedy swallows until the water bottle was drained.

Katsuki’s eyes burned into him, and Shinsou met his gaze again one more time, but only briefly.

It fucking hurt to see the other look at him with an expression so devoid of emotion, Katsuki realized. Not even a spark of recognition or intimacy showed in those violet eyes.

Then, Shinsou simply flicked his gaze away like he’d never had anything to do with Katsuki in the first place, and he started walking towards the back of the gym and the showers.

It stung. It fucking killed. And Good, Katsuki thought bitterly like he definitely was not breaking into a million little jagged pieces inside. Fucking great. Fantastic. Let him fucking forget about me then. He should forget about all of it. He did not care, he reminded himself. The only thing that mattered was beating the bastard and fucking winning.

“Uh, hello?” Izuku gave a little wave to Katsuki’s periphery. “Kacchan…? You alright?”

Deku followed Katsuki’s eyes to Hitoshi’s retreating back, incorrectly guessing what Katsuki was thinking about—which was probably a good thing because instead of asking, 'Are you sad you completely lost the chance to get dicked down by your rival in broad daylight in the middle of the gym?', he asked, “Are you feeling ready for the fight?”

He knew not to ask whether or not Katsuki was nervous for it.

“What?” Katsuki said, although he’d heard him fine. He didn’t take his eyes off Hitoshi until the other man disappeared behind the locker room door. “Yeah. Whatever. I’ll be ready.”

When Katsuki looked back over, Deku seemed to be assessing him. Then, before even two seconds had gone by, he was already wearing his Deku-signature sympathetic, frowny, are-you-okay-do-you-want-to-talk? face, and Deku feeling sorry for him all over again was the last thing Katsuki needed on this already shit day.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” he groused.

Deku trying to wipe the look off his face and go back to seeming neutral didn’t really work, and it only served to make him look stupider, actually.

“What?” Katsuki sighed. “What do you want to fuckin’ say?”

Izuku put his hands out placatingly. “Nothing. Nothing, Kacchan. Uh. Just- are you still coming over for dinner tonight?”

Katsuki sighed again. He wished he could say no but he’d already agreed to it days ago and confirmed it with Cheeks this morning. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, good. See you at six then.”

If you were to make a short list of people who could squeeze Katsuki’s hand supportively before walking away and probably not get beaten to a pulp over it, Deku wouldn’t actually be on it. But Deku was a ballsy motherfucker, that’s for sure, so he did it anyway.

Katsuki nodded. He shook his hand free and went to go gear up for his actual training session with Aizawa. He took all his shit out into the main gym area, though, not willing to take the risk of Hitoshi leaving the showers while Katsuki was still in the locker room and trapped in the middle of taping up his hands.

-

Katsuki knocked on Deku and Cheeks’s door with too much force because he was himself.

It was a relief to knock, though, to be honest, because even when he’d lived here it still didn’t feel like he belonged. It had been a long six months that he’d spent with Deku and Uraraka, and he loved the two of them, sure, but it certainly hadn’t felt right.

Not like anything ever did.

Except maybe one thing…

He waited in the hallway, staring at the cutesy ‘Welcome Back’ sign on the door, and when it opened, he was surprised to see not Deku or Uraraka but IcyHot letting him in.

Katsuki grunted a ‘the fuck?’ and rolled his eyes as he pushed past Shouto and took his shoes off.

“Hello, Bakugou.”

Bakugou grunted again. “You didn’t tell me IcyHot was eating with us,” he shouted into the apartment instead of responding to Shouto more politely.

Ochaco peeked out from around the corner. “He’s not!” she smiled. “He was just dropping by.”

“I already have dinner plans tonight,” Todoroki informed him, though Bakugou hadn’t asked.

Bakugou made his way into the main living space which connected to the kitchen where Deku was currently cooking something that smelled spicy while wearing a teal green apron.

Todoroki took the first seat at the breakfast bar where there was a bottle of beer already half finished in front of him, so Katsuki took the third seat and slumped down to lay his head in his arms on the bartop.

Ochaco, predictably, came over and leaned against his back, giving him a gentle hug from behind before she was up and moving away to help Deku with the cooking.

With the two of them preoccupied, Todoroki turned to Bakugou curiously.

Bakugou side-eyed him. “Spit it out,” he mumbled eventually, taking notice.

“Is it strange to be living with your opponent?” he finally asked.

Bakugou made a face like he’d tasted something sour.

Deku caught his expression as he turned down the stove and looked back over to his guests. “It’s going that well, huh?” he joked.

“What?” Katsuki scowled. “No. That’s not- it’s fucking whatever. It’s fine, Deku.”

“Do you think you’re still gonna live together after the fight?” Ochaco asked casually, popping a discarded pea into her mouth.

“Well, yeah.” Katsuki shrugged. “Not like either of us can really get out of the lease.”

“Well, you know your parents could pay-”

Katsuki glared at her.

She wisely didn’t finish that sentence. “Yeah, okay, okay. I know,” she said.

“I don’t think I could fight a friend,” Shouto mused, taking a drink.

Good thing he’s not my fucking friend then, Bakugou wanted to snarl out loud. But he couldn’t get the words out for some reason. Probably because he knew they weren’t true. And remembering where he and Hitoshi currently stood with each other kind of felt like a gut punch.

Not to mention he was running on no sleep, and, oh yeah, his ex wanted back into his life, and that was an entire separate can of worms, and suddenly his breathing felt labored, and-

“Why not?” Ochaco asked.

Katsuki’s awareness was brought back to the present moment. He took a breath and he looked at his friend again. He wanted to turn off the damn bright overhead lights in here. He and Hitoshi had windows in their kitchen, so they could take advantage of the sunlight. And these barstools were also uncomfortable as hell.

Ochaco continued. “Mina and I had a fight last year, and there’s obviously no hard feelings,” she was saying.

Deku did a double take to his wife that said there definitely were hard feelings, but Ochaco didn’t notice, so he looked back to the pot he was stirring and didn’t comment.

“I just think I’d feel guilty if I won or resentful if I lost,” Todoroki said mildly.

“Yeah, well, there’s no point in feeling fucking guilty when it’s a fight,” Katsuki said. “You should have your head examined.”

“Okay, I’ll make an appointment with your shrink, then.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Katsuki whirled on Todoroki, knocking his barstool down in the process.

“Hey!” Deku put his spoon down and rushed in between his two friends. “He was just joking, Kacchan. Please.” He put a hand lightly on Katsuki’s chest. “And Todoroki goes to therapy, too,” he added quietly.

“Me too,” Ochaco threw in.

Katsuki seethed at Shouto from behind Deku as Shouto innocently stood up from his chair. “It wasn’t a good thing to joke about. I’m sorry,” he said.

“Nah, I… ” Katsuki suddenly felt embarrassed by his aggressive reaction, deflating. Deku dropped his hand. “I… overreacted.” He cleared his throat, feeling lost standing in his closest friends’ apartment.

Shouto nodded. He promptly thanked Deku and Uraraka for drinks and then made his way to the door amidst a somewhat awkward silence, and Deku followed him while Katsuki zoned out.

“He’s your friend, you know,” Deku murmured when he returned to the kitchen once Todoroki was gone. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I think he just thought, you know, that you guys are usually cool with, like, the verbal sparring thing, or making digs at each other and stuff,” Ochaco added in.

Katsuki grumbled his agreement.

He knew that, and he didn’t have a problem with Todoroki, but that was— fuck, breathing suddenly felt like he was swallowing rocks again.

He knew, below the surface, that the real reason he’d been so hair trigger had nothing to do with Todoroki and everything to do with why he was sure he was here tonight. If Deku and Cheeks got him here because, now that they were alone, they wanted to hear all about his- his- fucking progress or whatever, then-

Katsuki swallowed hard, almost feeling a building urge to cry that he tamped down on harshly.

If that’s what they wanted to know about, then they were going to be fucking disappointed in him, he thought. Or worried. Worried that he wasn’t like- fixable or whatever, because Katsuki didn’t think his ‘getting better’ was actually going very well.

Deku leaned down to search his eyes, which probably looked distant and closed off and not at all like Katsuki was panicking inside.

Katsuki turned away, heaving a sigh. He picked up his barstool from the floor, and sank back into it, defeated. He wiped a hand down his face in exhaustion and then kept his eyes closed.

He was just waiting for the inevitable now, for the other shoe to drop, for the, 'No, but how are you really doing, Katsuki?' or the 'How often are the panic attacks these days? You still taking your medication every night?'

But they gave him a little bit of a break from that, and the questions didn’t come. Thank god. Ochaco just patted his shoulder a little bit and said, “We got some sweets from the bakery across the street, so save room for dessert, okay?”

Fuck. He actually loved those.

“Ugh. I hate you, Cheeks,” he groaned.

“I know,” she laughed.

-

Katsuki had known it was probably too good to be true that he’d be able to get out of there before the night was over without facing the exact lines of questioning he’d been worried about, and he was right.

The other two had only lulled him into a false sense of security with the curry and the sweets.

Once all the dishes were done and the three of them were drinking cups of green tea with little pink pastries on napkins on the side, Deku started in first.

Thankfully, Ochaco had since turned off the fluorescent lights in the kitchen in favor of putting on some lamps in the other room that illuminated the breakfast nook enough so they could see each other but still kept it set in a soft glow.

“So,” Deku cleared his throat, “how has everything been going with your training?”

And Katsuki saw right through him with that weak attempt at sounding casual. He saw the tension that underlied Deku’s shaky hand on his teacup, and that meant the green-haired nerd was really just gearing up to ask him a more serious question.

Katsuki rolled his eyes, ignoring the actual question Deku had asked. “You know I’m fine, right?” He tsked.

Deku and Uraraka each shared a look with each other.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Uh, nothing,” Uraraka tried to placate in a kind voice. “Your fight’s just coming up really soon.” She took a sip of tea. “That could be stressful.”

Katsuki was about to get angry. At Uraraka. At them both. She was usually the straight shooter between the two of them, so why was she beating around the bush right now?

Katsuki swallowed his anger back and replied, “Yeah, we all have fucking fights. And some of us have work or school, too. Bills to pay, whatever. What makes you think I’m stressed about it?”

“Well, if you don’t win…” Deku started.

Katsuki raised his eyebrows at Deku, drinking his tea and daring him to continue that sentence.

So he pivoted. “Look, you have a lot on your plate, and-”

“You keep saying that,” Katsuki snapped, interrupting him. “And I don’t understand-”

“Just tell him, Deku,” Uraraka urged.

“Tell me what?”

“Um…”

“I’m waiting,” he scoffed. “What?”

“Shindo Yo texted me a few nights ago,” Deku blurted out, and he immediately started word vomiting after that. “I blocked his number forever ago, and I didn’t reply this time. He must have used some other phone or gotten a new number, but it was definitely him.”

The blood drained from Katsuki’s face.

“He was talking about going to see you, or wanting to apologize. He tried to say it was part of some AA thing, but I don’t think that’s true. I think he was just making it all up, like, well, you know how he is. And it seemed like he could be thinking about making contact, and-”

“Deku. Shit.” Katsuki sounded serious now. This day just kept getting worse. “I’m- I’m sorry he did that. He never should have, and whatever he said is-”

They were talking over each other now.

Katsuki nearly knocked his tea over as he got up in a rush like he had somewhere to be. He didn’t know where he had to go or why, but he felt a surge of panic like he needed to take action and do something. Or like he just had to get out of there fast because this situation wasn’t safe, and-

“Kacchan, no, wait! Sit. Please. Please just relax for a second, okay? Sorry, I probably got too worked up just now,” Deku said.

Katsuki stopped in his tracks and leaned against the counter. He held a cramp in his side, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Ochaco pushed her husband out of the way for a second to get closer to Katsuki and take his hand in hers. She didn’t say anything, she just held it, and she waited until Katsuki settled down.

“Take a breath,” she said after a bit. Her eyes were serious, and she looked confident and in control. This was the Ochaco Katsuki needed.

He swallowed and nodded, taking a forced breath and eventually sitting back down.

“So... So, what exactly did he say?” Katsuki asked. He was a little more present this time around, although it still felt like static was buzzing vaguely in his ears and his mouth had gone dry. He tried not to focus on it and listen to the words Deku was saying instead.

“Nothing, really,” Izuku said. “He just said he saw some news about your fight and ‘hey, did I know your number now?’ Which obviously I wasn’t going to give to him because-”

“He called me,” Katsuki choked out.

Izuku abruptly stopped and he and Ochaco stared at him.

“Last night.”

“Are you okay?” Ochaco asked the same moment Deku said, “You should have told us.”

“It was fine…”

Deku shook his head at him, which felt judgy and set Katsuki more on edge.

“He just called me. What? We, we talked through some of our shit, I guess? I don’t know, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Look, he’s probably doing it on purpose!” Deku yelled much more aggressively than Katsuki was expecting, and that startled him, making him jump in his seat.

“I bet you he’s just trying to get into your head right when you have an important fight coming up,” Deku continued angrily.

“Maybe,” Katsuki said. “I- I dont know. He seemed like he really wanted to talk, or to see me.”

“No.” Deku said darkly.

And that set Katsuki shaking and he didn’t even know why.

“Izuku!” Ochaco admonished in a harsh whisper. “If you can’t do this calmly, you shouldn’t even be here! Can’t you even tell you’re scaring him?”

She turned to Katsuki and put a hand on his knee, reassuring him, “He’s not mad at you, hon, it’s just that he…” Katsuki stopped being able to hear her.

Was he scared?

Katsuki didn’t know if he was scared or angry or a gross, sweaty mix of them both with his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest while his head felt light and dizzy. He was gonna be sick, and he’d already spent enough nights vomiting in Izuku and Ochaco’s bathroom over the same fucking guy. And that thought also made him pissed. That he was like this—could be leveled just from a few fucking bad memories or a conversation.

He clenched his hands into fists and screamed back at Deku, ignoring Ochaco’s soft words. “Of course I fucking told him no, you asshole!” he raged, “I’m not a fucking idiot!”

“I don’t want you talking to him.”

“You’re not my babysitter!”

Katsuki did knock his mug of tea over that time, and he stormed out of the kitchen and towards the door.

“I know that!” Deku shouted back, following him, and gesticulating wildly, adding to the cacophony of unidentified awful emotions surging through Katsuki’s system. “He just- It’s messed up, Kacchan. You can’t trust anything he says. He’ll try to make it seem like he’s the victim, and-”

Katsuki roared over him, “Messed up?!” he asked. He was teetering on the edge of hysteria. “Like I’m not fucking messed up, too?!” He could laugh. “Not manipulative? Not a prick? Maybe there was a reason we lasted three years together! Did you ever think of that?”

“You’re none of those things!” Deku threw back immediately, like he was so sure. “The only reason you guys ‘lasted,’” Deku spit, using air quotes derisively, “was because he wouldn't let you go!”

“Please stop,” a voice cut in. Katsuki looked over and caught sight of Ochaco’s lower lip quivering from where she stood behind Deku. He hated seeing her cry, and he hated being the reason for it—which it felt like he always was.

Katsuki faced Izuku with a stony look. Izuku was breathing hard, his chest heaving. They were the same height, and Izuku had stepped in close, standing toe to toe with him.

“I was always free to leave, Deku,” Katsuki said, his voice low. “And that’s what I did. You don’t give me any fucking credit.” Or trust, Katsuki thought bitterly.

Deku nodded. He stepped back. He still held his hands in fists at his sides, and he was still making eye contact, standing up tall, but he let up on his fighting posture and from being in Katsuki’s personal space, which was greatly appreciated.

After several beats of silence, Katsuki finally spoke again, “You’re overprotective because you expect me to crumble,” he said, emotions getting the better of him and making his voice wet. “You don’t expect me to be strong enough.”

“Hey, no-” Deku’s shoulders finally dipped, and he backed off fully, standing down. He reached out a hand that Katsuki didn’t take. “Katsuki, no, that’s not it...” Deku trailed off.

Bakugou set his jaw, making his teeth clack together, and he didn’t say anything more or move a muscle. He was still holding his shoes in his hand, poised to run out of there.

“What he means,” Ochaco said, composed now and walking up behind Deku, taking over for him. “Is that being weak and being triggered are different things.” She took a steadying breath. “Being triggered doesn’t mean you’re not strong, Katsuki. It just means your past affects you. And that’s only human.”

Katsuki regarded her. He swallowed and cursed the damn overwhelmed tears that were leaking from his eyes and giving a scratchy feeling to his throat. This shit was draining.

He nodded the slightest bit. That could’ve been true, he supposed, but right now he just needed a break from thinking about it.

He walked out into the hallway and clicked the door shut behind himself, sinking down to the floor to rub his face with his hands and pull at his hair for the umpteenth time, until he was sure his knuckles turned white, until it hurt.

He heard some shuffling behind the door followed by the two nerds sitting down on the other side. After a few moments, Ochaco said, “We’re just saying please don’t do this alone, okay?”

He nodded to no one.

It took fifteen minutes, but Katsuki finally composed himself, and, once he had, he came back inside.

He found Deku and Uraraka on the couch in their living room, so he joined them. He laid his head in Ochaco’s lap and his feet in Deku’s.

“Put on Top Chef or some shit,” he mumbled, letting his body sink into being held by them.

His friends' slight movements and jostles, their chatter about mundane things, and their easy, light laughter exchanged while teasing each other- That, along with the hand intermittently passing through his hair while another, rougher one, gripped onto his ankle—all of it. The comfort surrounding him quickly lulled Katsuki into some much-needed sleep.