Work Text:
Izuku Midoriya is running late. Again.
He leaps off the bus and immediately breaks into a jog, yelling a belated "Thank you!" over his shoulder to the sour-faced driver and very nearly crashing into a little old lady shuffling in the opposite direction.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” he says as he spins out of her way, instantly feeling bad that he doesn’t have time to stop and apologise properly. Thankfully, she remains on her feet, only throwing him a disapproving look as he backs away with both hands raised and guiltily bolts off down the street again.
What time is it anyway?
He sneaks a look at his phone. Okay, so it’s just gone eight p.m. and the gig started at seven. But that’s fine, it’s totally fine, there'll be at least one or two support acts to get the crowd going and The Nitros definitely won't be on stage before nine. He’s got time!
No, what's eminently more concerning than his lateness is the fact that his screen lights up with a message from Kacchan.
KB: You still coming tonight?
Crap. Izuku narrowly avoids tripping over a crack in the sidewalk and picks up the pace, shooting off a reply as he goes.
Izuku: Of course!
Izuku: Wouldn't miss it for the world!
Izuku: I'm just arriving now!
It's only a white lie really, because Izuku can already see the venue up ahead; an old former theatre, renovated at some point in the 80s to turn it into a concert space. Pale stone columns and a domed roof stand in contrast with the red and black awning at the lower level, all lit up with spotlights, standing grand and proud against the fading sky. The perfect location for the final night of the tour.
Practically sprinting the final few feet, Izuku springs up onto the front steps and takes them two at a time.
It’s not like Kacchan will even notice his absence, right? He’ll be way too busy warming up backstage to worry about Izuku’s arrival, and it’s not like Izuku’s the last one through the doors anyway. There are several other stragglers still making their way in too - most of them hipster-looking types flicking their cigarette butts to the floor and grinding out any sparks beneath heavy Doc Martens.
“Sorry, excuse me, coming through!”
Aiming a smile at a tall, waif-like goth girl as he hurries past, Izuku finally slows when he reaches the plush-carpeted lobby, smoothing down the front of his shirt and trying not to feel self-conscious.
Breathless and sweaty, he slams a moist palm up against the box office window.
“Hi!”
The bored-looking girl behind the counter peers up at him from beneath violet bangs. She leans back in her chair, nail file poised above her fingertips. “Yeah?”
“Um, I think I need to pick up my ticket? There should be one set aside for me.”
Sighing and rolling her eyes as if he’s just told a particularly bad joke, the girl tosses the nail file onto the counter and picks up a clipboard.
“Name?”
“Izuku Midoriya.”
As he says it, the raucous thrum of guitars hums from the next room, a deep bass rumble so loud the entryway doors buzz on their hinges. Izuku fidgets his fingers as he catches his breath, a flutter of excitement building in his stomach.
The girl runs a pen down the list of names.
“It should definitely be on there,” Izuku says quickly, leaning forward, trying to get a peek of the paper through the glass. “I’m, uh, I’m kind of with the band.”
The girl raises a thin eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, just carries on chewing her gum with a sceptical look on her face.
“I’ve known one of them since we were kids,” Izuku blurts out in lieu of a response, even though it’s clear the girl has zero interest. Sub-zero interest, even. “We grew up together! We actually started piano lessons at the same time and everything. Kacchan only agreed to them in the first place because he said he’d be better at it than me. He’s very competitive.”
“Uh huh.” The girl taps the pen against the clipboard and shrugs. “Sorry, dude. No Izuku Midoriya.”
Frowning, Izuku tips even further forward until his forehead bumps the fingerprint-smeared window.
“Are you sure? Kacchan definitely said he’d put my name on the list and I - oh.” Realisation dawns and heat spills into Izuku’s cheeks. God, it's just like Kacchan to embarrass him at every given opportunity. “Um… what about Deku?”
The girl scans the list again and this time, her pen stops halfway down.
“Yup,” she says, “you’re good to -” Her gaze flicks up to Izuku. “Wait… this says that you’re a guest of Katsuki Bakugou?”
Izuku instantly recognises the look in her eye. It’s the look that most people get when they find out about him and Kacchan: disbelief, usually followed by some kind of catty comment.
“Yep! That’s right!”
Heavily lined eyes rake him up and down, taking an assessment of his undoubtedly ruffled hair and dishevelled appearance.
“You?” she says, and yep, there it is, the anticipated disbelief. “You’re his friend?”
Izuku stands up straight and tries not to look too disgruntled.
Sure, he’s never really fitted in with the Nitros’ typical fanbase, but he looks fine, right? Cargo shorts are useful - lots of pockets - and his hoodie is clean, no toothpaste on it or anything!
“I'm his best friend,” he corrects, even though that’s probably up for debate. “Can I have my ticket now, please?”
Blinking a couple of times, the girl flicks through a small stack of ticket stubs and slides one under the partition, still eyeing Izuku like he’s some kind of alien creature in a government facility.
“Thanks!”
Snatching it up, Izuku spins on his heel and heads for the doors, not giving her the satisfaction of looking back. He’s used to this kind of thing by now, and it doesn’t bother him anymore. Not really.
Besides, it’s all about the music for him anyway. Well… and Kacchan. Obviously.
The atmosphere hits as soon as he bursts through the doors. A mass of bodies and the smell of spilled beer, bright lights blaring from the stage, throwing the crowd into a pulsing silhouette. Groups of friends shout to each other to be heard over twanging chords and a kick snare rhythm, expectation buzzing bright in the air.
Izuku takes a deep, steadying breath and finally lets himself relax.
He’s always loved the atmosphere at Kacchan’s shows. Something about the anticipation makes his chest expand, makes his eyes feel extra wide and laser-focused somehow. There’s something about the thrill, something about the cacophony of noise and people and energy that just makes him feel alive. Like the whole world has suddenly shifted into high definition.
Skirting the crowd, he makes for the bar, ordering an orange juice and turning to watch the support act play out the last of their set. They’re not bad, and the lead singer is certainly charismatic - an energetic blonde guy with a streak of jet black through the front of his hair. Izuku smiles as he watches the guy throw himself around like he’s hooked straight up to the mains, a bundle of electricity in spray-on skinny jeans.
“What’re these guys called?” Izuku shouts to the bartender - a man with eyebags almost as purple as the mass of lavender frizz on top of his head.
“The Chargebolts,” purple dude drawls back, voice deep and hypnotic in a way that makes Izuku think he’s probably a musician of some kind too. “They’re pretty new on the scene.”
“Mmm,” Izuku hums as the frontman descends into an electric guitar solo that goes on for at least a minute too long. “That makes sense.”
Eventually, the last notes end with a flourish, the blonde guy thanking the audience profusely before the band traipses off-stage. As they go, the crowd seems to swell all at once, more bodies joining the mass and adding to the buzz.
Everyone knows that The Nitros are up next - the ones they've forked out their hard-earned dollar for - and they all start pressing in, an amorphous blob that surges forward as one.
Downing his drink, Izuku takes a deep breath before diving in to join them, pushing through the throng of people in an attempt to secure a spot where he’ll actually be able to see.
“Ooh, erm, excuse me - just on your left - sorry!”
He always tries to get as close to the front as he can, because yeah okay he's not the tallest of people, but also because he wants to get close enough to be able to make out Kacchan’s face behind the drum kit. Close enough to watch the way he lays down the beat, leading each song to its climax with every smack of those assertive hands.
Squeezing past several already sweaty, shirtless men, Izuku actively doesn’t think about any bodily fluids that might rub off on him as he weaves his way to the centre of the crowd. It’s hot and sticky and it stinks of B.O., but when the lights go down and the music strikes up, Izuku knows he’ll forget all about his surroundings anyway. Everything else will melt right away and it’ll just be him and the music for a solid sixty minutes.
“I heard they just signed a new record deal,” he hears someone speculate from a few feet behind. “Means they’ll probably end up doing a tour out of the country.”
Izuku actively doesn’t think about that either as he shuffles into position, instead keeping his attention trained in front of him.
A greasy-haired roadie wanders on stage, setting up various pieces of equipment, readjusting the microphone and arranging instruments Izuku would recognise anywhere: Kyouka’s mulberry-coloured guitar, Eijirou’s bass - replete with all the old, peeling stickers he’s collected over the years and refuses to throw away - plus Hanta’s more recently acquired Fender.
Then, all at once, the lights cut out, drenching the room in pitch black. A hush falls over the crowd; a moment where everything feels suspended in time and space, completely frozen…
And then the spotlights blare.
The crowd goes as wild as a room full of howler monkeys when the band appears on stage, all dressed in black but for Kyouka’s purple lipstick and Eijrou’s flash of neon red hair. They look as cool and collected as ever, the epitome of cool in the eyes of their fans, looking like they don't give a single fuck when Izuku knows that they absolutely do.
Several notably feral screams pierce the air when Kacchan makes an appearance a few seconds later than the rest.
“Katsuki! Oh my God, Katsuki, over here!”
He looks gorgeous and deadly, and Izuku can’t stop his heart from leaping up into his throat even after all these years.
Climbing behind the drum kit, Kacchan's outfit is simple: a pair of black jeans with a slash across each knee and an old t-shirt with the sleeves artfully torn off to expose toned obliques on each side.
With bare arms on full display, his collection of tattoos are visible too; traditional dragon and koi fish designs weaving over each flexed bicep, a vein standing out in his forearm as he spins a drumstick between deft fingers and pointedly ignores all the screaming.
Kacchan’s always exuded the most don’t give a fuck energy of them all, and as a result earned himself the title of the band's resident bad-boy.
…And heart throb.
“Oh my God, I’m gonna die,” a girl with a ladder of piercings up her ear practically squeals from beside Izuku. “He’s so hot I’d let him spit in my mouth and literally thank him for it.”
Relatable, Izuku thinks.
He tries to ignore all the various other things the girl loudly announces she’d let Kacchan do to her, instead smiling wide and allowing his chest to swell with pride like an over-filled balloon. Although the whole thing seems effortless, he knows it’s only through years of hard work that The Nitros have reached this point, every ounce of their success hard-won and well-deserved.
Cheered on by Izuku at every step of the way.
Looking around at the band, exchanging nods, Kyouka leans forward and speaks into the microphone.
“Hi. We’re The Nitros. Sing along with this one if you know the words.”
A deep note thrums out across the room and Kacchan kicks into gear with a smack of sticks against snare.
The fangirl next to Izuku screeches with excitement.
The first song the band plays is their most well known tune, and the gyrating mass of bodies responds like a charmed snake, writhing and pulsating as Hanta picks out a complicated pattern across the strings, Kyouka’s voice rich and mesmerising.
I got a lot to say to you. Yeah, I got a lot to say -
Izuku knows every word, and as the band plays on, he feels his brain go smooth as a pebble and his body takes over control. Bopping from side to side, he closes his eyes and tips his head back, giving in to the music’s ebb and flow and letting it carry him along like he’s nothing but driftwood. When the bridge hits, he sings until his throat goes hoarse, safe in the knowledge that it’s so loud no-one will be able to hear him anyway. He’s always loved the anonymity in that.
I noticed your eyes are always glued to me. Keeping them here and it makes no sense at all -
The song reaches its pinnacle with a crashing riff and Izuku’s eyes spring open at just the moment Kacchan cuts in again. He looks beautiful under the lights - skin gleaming with sweat, hair golden, each movement of those skilful hands filled with purpose and precision.
(Yeah, okay. Izuku can admit he's always been a little bit entranced by those hands.)
They taped over your mouth, scribbled out the truth with their lies, your little spies.
With a final long note, the song ends and then it’s onto the next, the order of the set list mixed up a little since Izuku saw the band last. It’s been a while since he’s been able to come to one of their gigs, unable to follow them across the country when he’s had college to focus on.
It’s only now he realises how much he’s missed it, watching them play. Missed the atmosphere, the vibe. Missed that look of deep concentration on Kacchan’s face.
Exhilaration bubbles in his chest, fills Izuku right to the brim, and he fully lets every anxiety seep away in favour of dancing with arms in the air as the band plays through their repertoire, accompanied by a riotous chorus of voices.
Time slides by like water through Izuku's fingers, and a pang of sadness rings through his chest when he recognises the song the band normally always saves for last. Murder in a Darkened Room is one of his favourites, but it also signals that the gig is drawing to an end.
At least that means it’s almost time to slip backstage, though, almost time to see Kacchan for the first time in just over six months. The longest period of time they’ve ever really spent apart.
Izuku’s stomach flips right over at the thought.
But weirdly, when the song clamours to a halt, the band don’t make their usual exit ahead of the encore. Instead, Kyouka whispers something in Eijirou’s ear and the two of them nod and then turn to look behind them.
Another roadie scurries on stage carrying an acoustic guitar of sleek, black wood… Kacchan’s guitar.
Izuku frowns.
Kacchan never plays the guitar in front of people. It’s something he holds distinctly private for some reason, something reserved for the early hours of the morning when the party’s long over and almost everyone’s gone home. He’s always acted kind of protective over it, as if letting too many people hear him play would be giving away too much of himself.
Is he really going to play something now, in front of, like, 500 people?
“We’re gonna do something a little different tonight,” Kyouka says into the microphone, her voice coarse from going all out over the rest of the set. “We’re gonna play you something from our upcoming album, a new song written by our drummer.”
At the mention of Katsuki, several high pitched shrieks sound from a cluster of groupies draped over the front railing, and Izuku can’t help but feel a little smug at the disgusted expression on Kacchan’s face as he climbs from behind the drum kit.
A stool appears centre stage and the lights dim, replaced with a soft, amber glow. Kyouka produces a tambourine and moves to one side, leaning against one of the larger speakers to allow Kacchan to get into position, face serious as he plucks the strings a few times to check that the guitar’s in tune. Eijirou and Hanta edge into the shadows too, until all attention is on Kacchan alone.
He clears his throat into the microphone.
“Alright, shit heads, pipe the fuck down,” he says, and the crowd immediately quietens to a throbbing buzz. His eyes scan the swarm of people in front of him, looking almost red with the way they’re reflected under the lights. “Just - just fuckin’ listen, okay?”
With a lengthy huff, Kacchan adjusts himself on the stool, pausing for a moment, his hand hovering above the strings.
And then, with a deep breath, he finally begins to play.
The first melodic twang of Kacchan's guitar vibrates all the way through to Izuku’s soul. He strums the strings softly, gentler than seemed possible for someone who frequently treated his drum kit like an opponent in a bar fight.
And when he leans into the microphone, voice weaving out gritty and deep and rough, the whole room seems to collectively hold their breath.
“Could’ve been the way the moonlight hit the dashboard, passenger window rolled down,” Kacchan sings, gaze cast downward. “That got me thinking there’s something we should talk about.”
Izuku’s heart stirs, the prickle of tears threatening his eyes at the sound. He’s always known Kacchan had a beautiful voice, but there’s something different about hearing it now, surrounded by all these people. Something vulnerable and darkly beautiful about it.
“I can give you space if you need it, you can walk away, I’m not leaving.”
The song is different from the band’s usual sound, too; softer, breathier, without all the hard edges. And as Katsuki sings, it’s as if he’s cradling the guitar in his hands, crooning low and quiet, unlike anything Izuku’s heard from him before.
“There’s pride in my mouth, I got used to the taste, but I’ll swallow it now and I’ll be the first to say…”
All around, the rest of the world slowly dissolves into nothing, fizzling out until all that’s left is the sound of Kacchan’s voice.
Somehow, the experience feels intimate, as if they’re not surrounded by hundreds of other people. As if Izuku’s not sharing this moment with anyone else.
Then, still half bent over his guitar, Kacchan’s eyes snap up.
“Those green eyes are my green light, I’m giving up on control. If we’re headed for the cliffside, I’m ready for the fall.”
A breath catches in Izuku’s lungs, just as Katsuki’s searching eyes find him. A lethal fire sizzles in the line of his gaze, and Izuku at once feels like he’s burning, captured, unable to look away.
“You know I don’t need lights to decide,” Kacchan sings, directly to Izuku, almost defiant as his strong fingers glance over the strings. “I’m not changing my mind.”
The eye contact feels like it’s melting Izuku right down to the bone, Katsuki staring fiercely into his widened eyes for what feels like an age. They stay like that, frozen in time, until at last Kacchan’s head bows back down, releasing Izuku so suddenly his knees almost buckle beneath him.
The weight of the world hits all at once and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.
What is going on? Did he - did he just imagine that Kacchan had been looking for him, seeking him out, then found him? Held him with those gorgeous, terrifying eyes and sung to him like a long lost lover?
Sung to him about green eyes…
Izuku’s heart pounds like the pistons of a steam train.
“Thought I could read you, but I lost my place,” Katsuki sings on in that low, smoky voice, slower now. “Now we’re on different pages, I need you.”
The rest of the song plays on, soulful and bluesy, but Katsuki doesn’t look up again, only keeps his eyes firmly trained on his fingers. His voice continues to carry the same quality, though: wistful, heartfelt… longing.
It’s… Izuku doesn’t know what it is.
At long last, he strums the final few chords, words hanging in the air, echoing around Izuku’s skull.
“Wow,” the girl with the piercings whispers from beside him as the last note dims, and when Izuku flicks a glance at her, he notices tears spilling down her cheeks. “He’s really in love with someone, isn’t he?”
In love with someone. Kacchan’s in love with someone? Kacchan’s in love with - no.
All of this is wrong, it can’t… it’s just a song. It’s all… it’s all just wishful thinking to believe it’s anything more… right? Izuku would be an idiot to think so, to let his heart run away from him without thinking logically.
No matter what carefully ignored feelings he holds in his own heart, locked away behind a heavy door and bolted firmly shut, he can’t let his emotions get the better of him. Can’t let a glimmer of hope talk him into doing something stupid.
Kacchan is his friend. His best friend.
But… oh, the way those firelight eyes had pinned him in place, that look on his face…
Up on stage, Katsuki slides from the stool and turns his back to the shrieking crowd. Even from far away, the muscles in his back look tense, his shoulders high and hunched as he stalks to the wings and hands his guitar to someone out of sight. Wordlessly, he heads back to the drum kit, brows low on his forehead while the rest of the band share glances with one another.
Visibly swallowing, Kyouka once again takes up the mantle behind the mic.
“Well, uh… this is our last song,” she says, still half looking over her shoulder to her bandmates. “You’ve all been great. Um… thank you.”
They begin to play the final track, but Izuku doesn’t listen. He can’t hear anything beyond a high-pitched buzz in his ears, can’t take anything in as he plays through every second of Kacchan’s song over and over again in his mind.
Heart leaping, jostled from side to side by the bodies surrounding him, all Izuku can do is stare up at Katsuki. Stare up at the man he’s loved for as long as he can remember.
And as he does, from amongst the frantic thoughts battling for attention in his mind, one finally catches hold: they’ve got to talk. They have to. Because Izuku has to know, once and for all .
So, filled with an impending sense of doom at the car-crash that no doubt lies in wait for him, Izuku takes a final, life-changing breath, steadies himself on his feet, and begins to worm his way through the crushing crowd.
***
The backstage area is eerily quiet - all drab, white corridors absorbing the sound from the main hall and stark white lights that make Izuku squint, his eyes struggling to adjust.
Thank God the beast of a bouncer had let him through the stage door, had taken one look at Izuku’s stricken, probably slightly green face, and waved him on with only a quick scan of the approved guest list in his hands.
Yeah, it’s probably a gigantic security risk, but one Izuku’s extremely thankful for right now.
His sneakers squeak against the rubber floor, the roar from the next room muffled but still audible, the crowd clearly absolutely rabid. The band must be making their way off stage by now, saying their final goodbyes and wrapping things up, making their way to the back rooms…
Fingers flexing at his sides, Izuku brings one hand up to his mouth and begins wobbling his lip between forefinger and thumb - an old childhood habit that Kacchan would always scold him for. Up ahead, the corridor splits into two, a metal sign on the wall indicating that the Green Room is somewhere down on the left.
He pauses at the sign for a second, staring at the large, black arrow potentially sending him to his death, before squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to continue.
He can do this. He can do this. It’s only talking. It’s only… it’s only asking Kacchan what that song had meant. Clarifying what Izuku already knows: that this is all just one big misunderstanding.
Those green eyes are my green light, I’m giving up on control -
Shit, stop thinking about it! It’s nothing, it means nothing! Kacchan’s going to make that immediately clear, Izuku’s sure of it. One sneer of that mouth - that soft, devastating mouth - and Izuku will have his answer.
From along the corridor, the sound of giddy laughter carries, voices loudly talking over each other on a shared wave of excitement.
“Did you hear them? They were so loud tonight, I swear they were practically getting down on their knees and worshipping us, Jesus -”
“I know, man! And your solo was killer! Even that hard part you’ve been struggling with -”
“I haven’t been struggling -”
“This is it, guys! I think we’ve really made it!”
Kyouka, Hanta and Eijirou lumber down the hall toward Izuku, arms wrapped over each other’s shoulders and faces beaming with post-show elation. Their footsteps slow when they notice him, three sets of eyes widening at once.
“Izuku!” Eijirou says, eyebrows shooting up his forehead so high they almost reach his hairline. “Oh my God, you’re here!”
“Hey guys!” Izuku manages a wobbly smile and tries his best not to look like he’s halfway to puking his guts up over the floor. “You were amazing tonight, everyone loved you!”
“Thanks, dude,” Hanta says, face splitting into one of those broad, easy-going grins so far removed from his cool-guy stage persona. “It’s good to see you, it’s been a while.”
“Yeah, it has,” Izuku agrees, scratching at his neck. “Um, where’s -”
“He’s in the dressing room.” Kyouka untangles herself from the muscular arms draped around her neck, both her voice and expression soft. “You should go talk to him.”
Shifting on his feet, Izuku meets her dark, earnest eyes, gulps, and nods.
“Yeah, I… yeah…”
Kyouka’s mouth twists into a small smile.
“I think he’s waiting for you. We can catch up afterwards, don’t worry about it.”
Nodding again, a flutter of butterflies swarm to life in Izuku’s stomach as Hanta and Eijirou stand back to let him past, both of their faces now pasted over with matching face-splitting grins.
“Thank you,” Izuku says, setting off between them and twisting over his shoulder to call back: “You really were amazing tonight!”
Hanta gives him a last two-finger salute before the three of them descend into a flurry of whispers, the hiss of their voices chasing Izuku’s back as he follows the next sign to the dressing room. But he’s not going to read anything into the interaction, nope, nuh uh, definitely not - not until he’s spoken to Kacchan and set the record straight.
The dressing room door looms into view way too fast for Izuku’s liking and before he knows it, he’s faced with the piece of laminated paper printed with each of the band member’s names.
This is it. It’s time. After a lifetime of longing and wondering and watching from afar, it’s time for Izuku to take action for once.
Summoning every last drop of courage in his veins, he inhales deep and shoves the door open.
And is immediately confronted by Kacchan in all his bare-chested glory.
“Shit! Sorry!” Izuku whirls on the spot, covering his eyes with one hand and instantly feeling his cheeks scald. “I should have knocked!”
There’s an exaggerated tsk from the other side of the room.
“For fuck’s sake, nerd, you’re so overdramatic. Shut the fucking door.”
One hand still clamped over his eyes, Izuku steps inside and closes the door behind him, heart thumping breakneck speed right up in his throat. Seeing Kacchan shirtless right now is absolutely not what he needs, the sight of that taut, athletic body, skin still aglow from the show, a bead of sweat rolling down between the muscles of his abs -
“You were late.”
Izuku cracks two fingers into a vee and peeks through them. Kacchan has his back to him now, which is a blessed relief, flicking through a railing of clothes at the far end of the room and pulling a fresh t-shirt from a hanger.
“Oh, uh, you noticed… I was hoping I’d gotten away with it…”
Lifting his arms over his head and pulling on the shirt, Katsuki doesn’t respond.
“I, um… I enjoyed the show tonight,” Izuku says to fill the silence, finally letting his hands drop, only to begin picking at his fingernails in order to keep them occupied. “You, er… you played well!”
“I always play well.”
“Mmm, that’s true…”
Shit, is Izuku imagining it, or is this even more awkward than normal? It feels like there’s something hanging in the air between them, something thick and restless that Izuku can’t put a name to.
Kacchan remains turned away, fingers reaching out to grip at the clothes rail.
Izuku swallows hard and decides to test the waters.
“I, um… I liked the new song.”
Broad shoulders immediately tense, Katsuki’s knuckles going white around the railing as he tightens his grip. A long moment holds in which Izuku doesn’t breathe, only watches the slow rise and fall of Kacchan’s back.
“You liked it,” Katsuki says, voice flat and devoid of emotion, giving Izuku nothing to work with to determine what he’s thinking. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”
A wave of panic surges through Izuku’s brain and his mouth kicks into gear on automatic.
“No! I mean, it was, um, very impressive! Your voice is amazing, Kacchan, and I, um, I thought it had a very complex harmonic structure, and -”
“What about the words?” Finally turning with low brows and a tetchy expression, Kacchan takes a step toward Izuku. “Did you actually listen to the fuckin’ words, Deku?”
Izuku’s head feels hazy, heart aching in his chest.
“Yes,” he whispers, voice small. “I… I listened.”
It’s hard to say anything more, to ask the question tingling at the very tip of his tongue. Because the moment he asks it, no matter the outcome, he knows that everything will change. Years of friendship, arguments, and resolutions, all potentially thrown away.
Another step and Kacchan’s only a few feet from him, fingers fisted at his sides. When he speaks, his voice comes out slightly strained, jaw clenching tight.
“And…?”
Izuku swallows again.
“And… I…”
He feels his lip wobble as he looks into the eyes of his oldest friend, pressure building in his chest as he thinks of every smile, every laugh, every time he’d wanted to reach for Kacchan’s hand or wished - yearned - for something more. Every time he’d held it all back, all coming to a head now, the floodgates unable to contain it any longer.
“And I don’t know what to think!” he cries, almost shouting, Kacchan’s eyes flaring with surprise and his own filling with tears. “I don’t know what to think because I don’t want to have gotten it wrong, okay? I don’t want to start thinking about what those lyrics could’ve meant, wondering whether there’s even the smallest chance that you might have written them about -”
“Deku -”
“I don’t want to hope that after all these years, after all this time that you might, that you could -”
“Deku -”
“Because it would crush me, you know that, right? If I’ve gotten it wrong, d’you know what that would do to me? Do you even have the slightest idea how that would make me feel, Kacchan?”
“Deku, just let me -”
“I’ve spent years watching you, Kacchan, years! Years of standing in the crowd, looking up at you and thinking about how amazing you are, how proud I am of you, how you’re my favourite person in the entire world, my best friend -”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Frustration painted across his face, Katsuki takes the final step forward, closing the distance between them and grabbing either side of Izuku's face and -
Lips, soft and gentle, brush over Izuku’s. A quick, short peck, before Katsuki pulls back and looks at him with frantic, fiery eyes.
There’s a long pause when all Izuku can hear is his own heartbeat.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Kacchan says at last, hands giving his face a little, demonstrative shake from side to side. “Yeah, you’ve been out there watching me all these years, but did you ever stop and fuckin’ think that maybe I was watching you?”
Izuku’s lungs swell, fingertips lifting to brush over his lips where Kacchan had kissed him. Where Kacchan had kissed him.
“You…” Thoughts trip and stumble around his brain, desperately trying to catch up. “You just…”
“You’re the most fuckin’ oblivious person I’ve ever met in my whole damn life,” Kacchan says, and he sounds more than a little mad. “So fucking clueless I don’t know how I’ve still got the will to fucking live. I spell it out as clearly as I fucking can and you still don’t get it. How many signs do you need, Deku?”
“You mean…”
Kacchan sighs and releases his hold on Izuku’s cheeks, scrubbing a hand back and forth over his eyes.
“Who d’you think I’ve been playing for this whole damn time?”
Trembling, Izuku takes a long, shuddering breath, eyes flitting over every inch of Kacchan’s tensed up face. It takes a while for the words to sink in, but when they finally do, it’s like his entire being cracks open. A flower unfurling its petals for the very first time, twisting toward the sunlight and basking in its rays.
“Kacchan,” he says, awash with a sense of wonder and disbelief, this time reaching his own fingers out to brush over that gorgeous, angry face. “I… you… really?”
Katsuki doesn’t respond, hand still across his eyes so Izuku can’t see his face in full. So, with heart slamming against his ribcage, Izuku bravely and carefully prises it away.
“Kiss me again,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Kiss me again. Please.”
Katsuki’s irked expression drops, mouth and eyes going soft, so that for a second, he reminds Izuku of the young boy he once knew. But then, strong hands grab Izuku’s waist and haul him close and Izuku’s very much aware that nowadays, Kacchan is all man.
His lips capture Izuku’s again, this time confident and assured, hands snaking around the small of Izuku’s back to pull him closer. The second kiss is longer, deeper, and Izuku feels like he might dissolve right into it, melt beneath Kacchan’s molten touch until there’s nothing left of him.
Kacchan tilts his face to the side, and when Izuku lets out a little, delighted gasp, he uses the opportunity to slide his tongue into Izuku’s mouth.
Oh, God.
All the nights that Izuku had lain awake, imagining Kacchan’s hands on him, his lips on him - none of them could compare to this. None of them could compare to the very intense, very real feeling of Katsuki’s fingers drifting down Izuku’s back, slipping beneath his shirt and grazing over bare skin. None of them could compare to the taste of Katsuki’s mouth, to the leftover hint of cinnamon from the gum he chews every show.
Izuku groans when they pull apart again. Like, actually groans.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispers against Katsuki’s lips, whole body pressed against the firm line of Kacchan’s powerful form. Even quieter, he adds: “Wanted you for so long.”
And for an instant, panic slices through him in the wake of the admission because shit, it’s one thing finally admitting out loud that he has feelings for Kacchan, one thing admitting that he’s been pining after him near on everyday for the entirety of his life, but it’s a whole big something else to admit that he wants him. In that way.
But Katsuki’s throat only bobs in a swallow, eyes dark and voice hoarse when he croaks, “Fuck, Deku,” and lunges back in.
Hot palms skim up Izuku’s sides, their mouths clumsy as they learn each other anew, calloused fingers rough over Izuku’s skin so that he shudders into goosebumps from head to toe.
In turn, Izuku coils his arms around Katsuki’s neck, hauling him down so he can slide fingers from his nape up into golden hair, weaving through the fine strands and hanging on for dear life.
Somehow, they end up stumbling to one side, Izuku’s hip knocking sharp and hard against the edge of the vanity. With a grunt, Katsuki manoeuvres them around until Izuku’s ass is wedged up against it, mouth never breaking the kiss, one of his thighs asserting itself between Izuku’s legs and shit, shit, shit, Izuku can’t help but moan again.
“Christ, Deku,” Katsuki rumbles like he’s just been stabbed in the gut. “Stop making that noise, you’re driving me fucking crazy.”
And Izuku feels crazy himself; woozy and light-headed, feverish and wild and… turned on, oh God, he’s so turned on. Kacchan must be able to feel it through his pants, especially with the way he’s got his thigh pressing into Izuku’s crotch like that, applying just the right amount of friction to send him into a tailspin.
But - no, it’s too soon, way too soon. They’ve only just confessed after all these years, and they need time before their relationship can progress to the next level, time to adjust and assess what all this means, time to talk and work things out and -
“God I want to fuck you,” Kacchan murmurs.
“Oh my fucking God, yes.”
Hands pause on Izuku’s hips, Katsuki pulling back with mussed up hair and wild eyes, one side of his face illuminated by the bulb lights around the vanity mirror. Dragging his eyes over Izuku’s face, he swipes his tongue across that supple bottom lip, already swollen and plumped up from increasingly desperate kisses.
“You sure?” he asks, voice hoarse. “If we… if we do this there’s no going back. Things won’t be the same anymore.”
Izuku looks back at him, taking in every angular edge and line, every curve of Kacchan’s face that he knows perhaps even better than his own.
“I’m sure,” he says, with a quick nod. “I’m sure if you’re sure.”
Nodding in turn, decision made, Katsuki lunges forward to press his mouth to Izuku’s neck.
“Turn around,” he says, voice muffled, sucking a quick, hot seal into the skin that will definitely leave a bruise. “I’m taking these fuckin’ Adam-Sandler-ass shorts off of you.”
With a gasp, Izuku follows orders, spins and plants two hands down on the vanity and looks at the sight before him. Staring back at himself in the mirror, his hair corkscrews away from his head in haywire curls, eyes gone huge - pupils so big and dark they practically eclipse any green. He looks like he’s been struck by lightning, which kind of makes sense because Kacchan’s hands on him are electric, sending pulse after pulse through his skin and making his dick throb with every touch.
Hot breath whispers over the shell of his ear, adept fingers reaching around and undoing the zipper of his cargos. There’s a rustle as they slide down to Izuku’s knees, and then a clink as Katsuki undoes his own belt, Izuku’s eyes squeezing shut when sharp hips rock into him from behind and he feels the indisputably hard length of Kacchan’s cock against his ass.
Fuck. Izuku still can’t quite believe this is happening, brain sputtering out at the thought that Kacchan wants him. Desperately, it seems.
Rutting back and forth, Kacchan groans into his ear and then bites at the lobe, all of Izuku’s muscles going tense at the bright shock of pain that sizzles into pleasure.
“You like that?” Kacchan murmurs, low and dark. “Noted.”
Tracing a hand over the front of Izuku’s boxers, he grasps at his dick through the fabric.
“Ah!”
Kacchan squeezes, lips curving into a smile at his ear.
“Pretty fucking sensitive, Deku. What’re you gonna be like when I get my fingers inside you?”
“Oh fuck!”
Every brush of Kacchan’s palm makes Izuku shudder, mouth open as he watches their reflection, eyes tearing up to meet dark eyes that flash with something fiendish; that familiar look in Kacchan’s eye that signals he’s in the mood to tease.
“Take these ugly things off,” he says, yanking at Izuku’s limited edition All Might boxers until his ass is exposed, bare to the world, aching cock springing up to his stomach.
“Look at you,” Katsuki says, hooking his chin over Izuku’s shoulder and skimming the barest brush of fingertips over his dick. “If you wanted me this badly, you shoulda fuckin’ said something sooner, Deku.”
“I could - ah - I could say the same about you!” Izuku gasps, because it’s always been the push and pull that they thrive on and he’s not about to just roll over and take it now. Well, metaphorically, at least.
Face splitting into a sardonic grin, Katsuki pushes away, removing his hand entirely and trailing it between Izuku's asscheeks instead. When it drifts lower, softly dropping to toy a light circle over the intimate spot hidden between his legs, it’s like another lightning strike directly to every nerve.
“Shit,” Izuku hisses, biting down hard on his lip. “Shit, shit, I need you to - there’s, there’s lube in my wallet.”
Over his shoulder, one pale, blonde eyebrow shoots up.
“You - you know what they say!” Izuku adds quickly. “Always be prepared!”
“Well ain’t you a good boy scout.”
Stooping, Kacchan retrieves the wallet from where it lies stuffed in a back pocket of Izuku's shorts, plucking out the little metallic packet and tearing it open with his teeth.
Drizzling lube over his fingers, he once more meets Izuku’s eye in the mirror, and asks quietly, “You ready?”
“Yes,” Izuku whispers, even though he’s not really sure he could ever truly be prepared for this. For the way Kacchan’s eyes drop back down to his ass with a look as ravenous as a starved man stumbling from the desert. Ready to feast.
The first tentative stroke and push makes Izuku cry out, sharply inhaling as his fingers scrabble against the white paint of the vanity, nothing within reach to hold onto. One long, slim finger works him open, careful and slow, Kacchan taking his time and paying attention to every gasp and huff and moan.
As ever, he learns fast, one finger becoming two, playing Izuku just right as if he’s just another instrument that Katsuki’s determined to master. Gently curling his fingers up, Kacchan watches all the while as he slides in and out.
It should feel weird. It should feel strange and awkward and maybe a little embarrassing, but it doesn’t; all it feels is right as Izuku gives in to the pleasure, rocking back in a bid to catch on to more, to encourage Kacchan go deeper, to fill him up until that old, aching spot in his heart is finally smoothed over.
“Fuck me,” he pleads, delirious and lust-drunk. “Kacchan, fuck me.”
“Shit,” Kacchan curses, sounding just as intoxicated. “Shit, yeah, okay.”
Slipping his fingers out, he strips himself of his shirt, harried hands tearing at Izuku’s too, tugging it over messy curls and tossing it aside, shoving down jeans and boxers and then palming both asscheeks wide.
“I’m gonna - gonna -”
A flicker of first-time apprehension enters Katsuki’s voice, and Izuku extends one hand back to reach for him, grabbing Kacchan's thigh and dropping his elbows to the vanity to give him a better angle.
“Do it,” he says, their gazes meeting in the mirror and Izuku doing everything he can to communicate his eagerness with eyes alone. “I can take it, I want you to, want you so much - ”
“Fuck.”
With another one of those long, guttural groans, Kacchan grasps his cock in one hand, slicking it up with leftover lube, and finally begins to ease himself in.
Twin moans rise into the air, Izuku thanking God for the mirror because it means he can watch as Kacchan’s face twists with pleasure in a way that’s wholly unfamiliar, brows scrunching and cheeks blooming pink, slowly rocking forward and sliding into place.
Both of his hands clutch at Izuku’s hips on either side, those muscular, tattooed arms flexing as he looms over Izuku from behind.
“Fuck, you feel good.”
Izuku feels more than good - he feels high - a kite caught in the wind and content to be buffeted this way and that as Kacchan draws halfway out and then, slowly and deliberately, begins to fuck.
They pick up the new rhythm quickly, Katsuki laying down a regular beat of slapping skin and Izuku following his lead, the two of them perfectly harmonised and never slipping out of key.
“Oh God -”
Heat radiates between their bodies, between all the points of contact where their skin meets, and with each thrust comes a new wave of pleasure, a new surge of energy that weaves through Izuku’s veins until he’s tingling at the fingertips.
Like the music earlier in the night, he lets it carry him away, allows his mind to blank until it’s nothing but Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan, only the repeated chant of his childhood friend’s name on his lips and the building, swirling beginnings of an orgasm.
“I - fuck, Deku, I’m not gonna last,” Kacchan says with his forehead pressed hard between Izuku’s shoulder blades, one palm burning hot against freckled skin, the other working his cock with practised, syncopated strokes.
“That’s okay,” Izuku whispers, wondering distantly if this is the cliffside Katsuki had been singing about as he prepares himself for the fall. “I’m gonna come too.”
At that, Kacchan rises up and bands strong arms around Izuku’s waist, hauling him up and diving in for an insistent, sloppy kiss, a mess of tongue and teeth as he pumps Izuku’s cock harder and faster -
They come together, moaning into each other's mouths, Izuku shooting over Kacchan’s hand, the vanity, the mirror, pleasure soaring right through him, devouring each groan that sounds from Kacchan’s mouth and responding with one of his own.
Stuttering hips rock and grind against his ass, Katsuki apparently milking every last drop he can before he drags away and looks at Izuku with tempest eyes, dark and stormy.
“Fuck,” he says, gaze darting over Izuku’s face, arms wrapped tightly around his midriff. “We shoulda done that years ago.”
“Yeah,” Izuku agrees, voice cracking, totally wrecked. “I guess… I guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time.”
A slow smile spreads over Katsuki’s face, and Izuku thinks it’s the most beautiful sight on earth.
Kacchan ducks forward and kisses Izuku again, this time sweet, so soft it’s almost timid. And when he pulls away, he’s got that rare look to him, that mellow, gentle expression he only ever gets when he thinks no-one else is looking.
Unwinding an arm and reaching up to lace fingers through Izuku’s hair, he says with uncharacteristic softness: “Yeah. I guess we will.”
***
Six Months Later
Under the bright lights, Katsuki scans his eyes over the sea of darkness in front of him and waits. He can’t see the crowd, not yet, not with the spotlights glaring in his eyes and blinding him to pretty much everything but his own hands, fingers wrapped ready around the sticks.
The crowd’s screams are deafening, just as they have been every night of the European tour; crazy groupies screeching his name and chucking bras and panties up on stage as if that’ll make them seem enticing somehow. Pfft.
The band manager keeps telling Katsuki he should play up to it more, act like they might have a chance with him one of these days. But record deal or not, Katsuki’s not a sell out, and he’s not about to pretend that he’s interested in a bunch of dumb, bimbo extras.
They’re just not his type.
Up front, Kyouka leans into the microphone and deals with introductions, keeping it brief as she always does before giving Hanta the nod he needs to get things started. The first, clanging riff sounds out across the venue, so familiar by now that Katsuki practically hears it in his sleep.
He listens carefully, waiting for his cue, waiting for the moment he crashes in and gives the people what they want.
It’s almost time, almost the moment, and just as Katsuki raises his arms, the lights drop, reversing to illuminate the crowd for a fraction of a second.
And there, in the usual spot, at the very front of the crowd, Katsuki spies the pair of eyes he’s been looking for. The only pair of eyes he gives a shit about, the only eyes he needs to stay pinned on him for the entirety of the show.
Wide, green and always so goddamn sincere.
With a grin, Katsuki twirls a drumstick between his fingers - purely for show because Deku loves that kind of shit - and then finally brings his hands down for that first, satisfying smack.
Thinking what he always thinks at the start of every gig.
This one’s for you, nerd.