Chapter Text
The clean, impersonal announcement in Japanese echoed through the vast lobby of Japan's international airport, and Katsuki Bakugou felt his head throb in sync with every syllable. The fourteen-hour flight had been too long, even in the comfortable first class reserved exclusively for top-ranking heroes.
The seat reclined almost completely, the service was impeccable, and even the silence in the cabin was respectable, but none of that prevented the weariness weighing on his shoulders. The terminal air, when he finally disembarked, felt like a shock: too cold from the air conditioning, mixed with the greasy smell of nearby snack bars and an avalanche of different perfumes attacking his heightened senses.
He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, applying firm pressure against the fatigue that insisted on turning his peripheral vision into static. He took a deep breath, but the air brought no relief, only more of the same. Then, with a brusque movement, he pulled up the sleeve of his black athletic jacket to look at the sturdy, explosion-proof wristwatch. His expression, naturally inclined towards irritation, hardened into something close to murderous.
"Dammit, Kirishima..." he growled through his teeth, his voice low, laden with that venomous familiarity that existed only between them. His phone was pressed against his ear, the call still connected. "Five minutes late has turned into twenty-six. Twenty-six, you idiot. Can you count or did traffic fry your brain?"
On the other end of the line, a reply far too cheerful for someone who was almost half an hour late.
"Duuude, relax!" Kirishima's voice came through loud, muffled by some street noise. "Things went wrong here, there was a crazy traffic jam near the bridge, and-"
"I don't care. I said I didn't need you to come," Katsuki interrupted, curtly. "But now I'm standing here like an idiot in zone 3B, after a fourteen-hour flight. If you show up smiling, I'll blow your face off."
The hero known as Dynamight stood planted near the designated pickup exit, a monument to ill will. The hood of his jacket was thrown up in a futile attempt to contain the messy, spiky blond of his hair, still disheveled after hours compressed against the airplane seat.
A worn military backpack hung from one shoulder, while three sturdy black suitcases piled up beside him, two of them reserved solely for his hero costume and support gear. It was too much stuff. Too much weight. A constant reminder that he had overpacked, and irritation pulsed each time he had to dodge someone in the narrow corridor.
"Yeah, you said you didn't need me," Kirishima retorted, trying to keep his tone light. "But I said I was coming to get you anyway. It's your triumphant return!"
Katsuki let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Triumphant,huh?" he murmured, running a hand over his tired face. "I'm feeling like a real king here, waiting like a fool in the middle of this airport hell."
He took a deep breath, the terminal's recycled air burning his lungs. Too cold from the air conditioning, mixed with the greasy smell of the snack bars and an irritating blend of strong perfumes that attacked his heightened senses. People passed in waves: executives with deep dark circles, families with children crying from exhaustion, couples laughing, oblivious to the chaos around them.
"Look, I'm ten minutes away," Kirishima insisted. "I swear. For real this time."
"You said that fifteen minutes ago," Katsuki shot back. He crossed his arms tightly against his chest, muscles tensed.
"I told you I didn't need you to come, dammit. But no... 'The Spirit of Friendship' had to insist. 'No way, man, I'll be there!'"
"Hey, I missed you," his friend's voice came quieter now. "Everyone did."
Katsuki clenched his jaw.
He didn't want to be so irritated.He knew that. Somewhere tiny, buried under pride and years of emotional self-control, he understood the delay likely involved traffic, maybe even some heroic incident along the way. Something noble. Something typical of Kirishima.
But post-flight fatigue was eating away at his patience like acid. And it wasn't just physical tiredness.
It was a weariness of soul.
Months away from a place that, against all his logic, still smelled like home.
Musutafu. The city's specific chaos. The taste of cheap ramen near the old agency. The silence of his own empty apartment.
And other silences.
Deeper ones. More dangerous ones.
"Just get here," he murmured finally, his voice lower. "Before I change my mind and get back on the plane."
On the other end, Kirishima laughed.
"Hang in there,Bakubro. I'm coming."
The call dropped.
Katsuki lowered his phone slowly, his tired red eyes scanning the corridor, now bustling again. Every flight announcement, every loud laugh, every suitcase dragged across the shiny floor hit like a hammer against his temples.
He hated airports.
He hated transitions.
And he hated the fact that, even so... his heart was racing from being back.
He ended the call with an irritated tap on the screen, shoving his phone into his jacket pocket as if that could also silence the turmoil in his chest.
He took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together, but the constant airport noise seemed to conspire against any attempt at peace. Voices overlapped, luggage thumped on the floor, announcements echoed metallically-a familiar, suffocating chaos.
Then, after 20 minutes, a voice cut through all that background noise like an axe-an unmistakable voice, rough and charged with absurd solar energy tore through the environment.
"KATSUUUUKI!!"
The shout came from afar, echoing through the hall. It was followed by a glimpse of a red-headed figure, a head of spiky hair, moving fast through the crowd, dodging people with surprising agility for someone so solid. Kirishima's scarlet eyes shone like beacons.
"Hey, dammit, Kirishima, don't you dare make a scene," Katsuki began to warn, his posture growing even stiffer, bracing for impact.
Too late.
Eijiro Kirishima, his closest friend and possibly the most stubborn being on the planet when it came to physical affection, didn't slow down. He arrived like a friendly freight train, completely ignoring Katsuki's personal space, and pulled him into a crushing hug. His arms, muscular and hard as stone thanks to his Quirk, wrapped around Katsuki's torso with a force that made the blonde's ribs protest and nearly knocked the air from his lungs in an audible "oof."
Katsuki stood frozen for a second, his arms pinned at his sides, his face buried in Kirishima's familiar, broad shoulder. An old reflex, pure and instinctive, demanded he release a small warning explosion in his palm, which he had already begun to warm up. But he didn't.
Because, despite the embarrassment, the invasion, the smell of cheap hair gel and honest sweat from Kirishima... there was an underlying feeling. The feeling of a safe harbor. Something he hadn't found in months.
"Man, you're back! Finally!" Kirishima practically roared with happiness, still crushing Katsuki against him, his loud, open laugh reverberating in Bakugou's chest. "Missed you like crazy, dude! Everyone's been totally different without you around to yell at us!"
Katsuki, after a long, dramatic pause, sighed. A deep sigh that carried all the irritation of the last thirty minutes, of the last months. His arms, initially rigid as rods at his sides, moved. One, then the other, rose to give two quick, awkward, and somewhat embarrassed pats on Kirishima's broad back.
"...Yeah. Okay," he grumbled, his voice muffled by his friend's jacket. His face was warm, and he thanked the heavens for the hood hiding part of his expression. "Missed you too. A little. Just a little, you shitty-haired bastard. Now let go, you're gonna suffocate me."
Kirishima laughed even harder, a genuine guffaw that made a few nearby people look over and smile, touched by the scene. He finally pulled back but kept his hands on Katsuki's shoulders, examining him from head to toe with a critical and affectionate look.
"You look exactly the same. Like you're ready to blow up the first thing that moves wrong."
"I'm more patient, actually," Bakugou replied dryly, adjusting his jacket which had been misaligned by the hug. He avoided direct eye contact, focusing on straightening the backpack on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? Five months in the US and I didn't blow up a single diplomat. Almost."
"No fucking way," Kirishima retorted, his smile impossibly wide. "Patience is your new secret power? Been doing breathing exercises with Yaoyorozu over there?"
"Shut up." But there was no real ferocity in the retort. There was a tiredness that made the rough edges of his personality a bit softer. "And I see you're still an optimistic idiot."
"That's what keeps me manly!" Kirishima thumped his own chest with a dull sound, then, with the utmost naturalness, leaned over and grabbed the handle of Katsuki's wheeled suitcase. "Gimme that, c'mon. I'll carry it."
"I carry my own stuff, Spiky Hair," Katsuki complained automatically, making a vague move to reclaim the suitcase.
"Ah, cut it out! You just got off an intercontinental flight, your jet lag must be messed up. Let me take it. It's the law of the more rested man." Kirishima was already pulling the suitcase, his command over it absolute.
Katsuki hesitated for a fraction of a second. The proud part of him roared. The exhausted part, the one that felt every muscle and bone, whispered in gratitude. He huffed, a concession.
"Fine. But don't think this is gonna happen again."
"Of course not, boss," Kirishima agreed, in a tone that clearly indicated it would happen whenever possible.
Together, the two began walking towards the exits leading to the parking lot. The change was immediate. The terminal's artificial air conditioning gave way to the cutting, dry cold of a Japanese December evening. The wind hit Katsuki's face, bringing with it a distinct, unmistakable smell: a bit of pollution, a bit of salt (they were near the coast), and something indefinable that was simply Japan. It was a smell that didn't exist in any of the places he'd been. The air entered his lungs and, for the first time since he'd landed, felt real.
It was good to be back.
The admission popped into his mind before he could censor it. A simple, bare fact.
Even if it hurt a little to admit, even if it came with a tangled ball of complications and memories he'd rather keep locked away.
Kirishima led him to a sturdy, high-end jeep, modern and impeccably maintained-the kind of expensive vehicle that didn't draw attention at first glance but revealed investment and care in every detail.
He unlocked the trunk with a click of the key and, with a single fluid motion, lifted one of Katsuki's heavy suitcases, stowing it in the spacious interior, followed by the military backpack.
"So," Kirishima began, getting into the driver's side and starting the car. The engine rumbled to life, and welcome heat began to flow from the vents. He tuned the radio to a soft rock station, volume low, and flashed Katsuki one of those smiles that seemed to know no cynicism. "Let's go. Spill everything. How was it over there in the States? Give me the epic news. Get famous? Climb high on their charts? Cause some Bakugou-style chaos? Probably blew up half a building just to say 'hi'."
Katsuki settled into the passenger seat, his body sinking into the comfortable upholstery. He looked out the window as Kirishima maneuvered out of the parking spot. The sky above the lot was a deep gray, tinged with faint orange on the horizon where the sun had already set. The city lights were beginning to turn on, dotting the approaching darkness. His own red eyes, reflected in the glass, seemed darker, more contained.
"Nothing much," he said finally, his voice lower and flatter than usual. It wasn't the explosive tone of someone being modest out of arrogance; it was the speech of someone genuinely drained. "Did my job. Fulfilled their damn schedule. Trained with some heroes over there... some are strong, others just know how to pose for the camera. I'm on forced leave now. A month." He paused, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on his knee. "Came back to spend it here. Rest... and maybe work a bit after. See what the main agency has going on. If there's anything left."
"'Maybe,' huh?" Kirishima nudged, shooting him a sidelong glance while waiting to merge onto the main road. His smile was knowing. "Just like you always say before diving headfirst and doing a bunch of epic stuff. 'I'll just check.' Then the next day you're leading tactical training and overhauling security protocols."
"I don't 'overhaul protocols,' I fix the crap you guys let slip," Katsuki retorted, but without fire. It was a dialogue of familiar choreography, comfortable in its predictable rhythm. "Now shut up and drive before I blow us out of here myself."
Kirishima laughed, that easy, resilient laugh, and accelerated smoothly, blending into the flow of nighttime traffic leaving the airport.
The urban landscape of Japan, so familiar yet strangely new, paraded past Katsuki's window. The brightly lit convenience stores, the tall apartment buildings, the power lines crisscrossing the sky like a chaotic musical score. Everything seemed to have stayed exactly the same, and yet, he felt as if he were seeing it through a slight layer of haze, as if he were a spectator of a memory, not an active participant. Maybe it was the jet lag. Maybe not.
Kirishima, as perceptive as always beneath the layer of raw enthusiasm, allowed a comfortable silence for a few miles. Only the rumble of the engine and the soft rock from the radio filled the space. He knew forcing Bakugou was useless. Things would come in his own time, or they wouldn't.
When they stopped at a long traffic light, he looked at his friend. Katsuki was motionless, staring fixedly at the neon lights of a roadside restaurant, but his gaze was distant, far beyond that street.
"So, man..." Kirishima began, his voice a bit softer, losing a bit of the cheerleader tone. "You happy to be back? Really?"
The question hung in the warmed air of the car. It wasn't a taunt. It was an offer. A door left ajar.
Katsuki didn't answer immediately. His jaw tensed slightly, a thin white line appearing around his tight lips. He looked away from the window and stared straight ahead, at the red traffic lights, at the dark road stretching towards the heart of the city that was once his entire world.
He took a deep breath. The air inside the car was now warm and smelled of cheap upholstery cleaner and of Kirishima. It was a smell of home, of unconditional friendship.
And then he said. Without beating around the bush, without the usual sarcasm, with a strange, sincere calmness that only appeared in rare moments when all his defenses were simply too tired to stand:
"...Yeah."
One word. Clear, direct, incontestable.
But the expression on his face, intermittently illuminated by the passing streetlights, said something else. There was a shadow behind his red eyes, a deep stillness that wasn't peace, but rather the weariness of an internal war fought in silence, a few miles away.
Kirishima noticed. He saw the shadow, the complexity behind the simple word. And he didn't comment. He didn't poke, didn't joke, didn't try to pry anything else out.
Because he knew, with the solid certainty of years of friendship forged in battle, that there was only one person in this vast, noisy world capable of leaving Katsuki Bakugou with that specific kind of silence behind his eyes. A silence that was both a wound and a call.
And that person wasn't him.
Kirishima simply nodded, an almost imperceptible movement, and turned his eyes back to the road, giving his friend the space of his silence and the solidarity of his presence, as they drove towards the ghosts and possibilities awaiting Katsuki Bakugou at home.
Katsuki's apartment exuded the carefully organized emptiness of someone who spends long periods away. Everything was in place, but a fine dust danced in the rays of light coming through the windows, and the air had that stagnant smell of a closed-up space. Kirishima entered first, whistling softly.
"Man, you left this cleaner than I expected. Looks like a home decor magazine cover... kinda sterile, but a cover."
"It's because there's no one here to make a mess, you asshole," Katsuki growled, dragging his main suitcase down the narrow hallway. "Now get out of the way and help me with this crap before I decide it's easier to blow it all up and buy new stuff."
Kirishima laughed, grabbing the other bag. "Relax, boss. Take it easy. Your 'way too expensive and techy hero gear' is safe with me."
"Safe my ass, you stone-handed idiot! If you so much as tear a single thread of that heat-resistant fabric, I'll use you as a nail file!" Katsuki yelled, but his tone was more performative than truly furious. It was a ritual. Kirishima knew, and he knew Kirishima knew.
They were in the middle of unpacking the larger suitcase with Katsuki supervising with a hawk's eye, Kirishima trying not to fold anything the "wrong" way, when the doorbell rang.
Katsuki froze, a black t-shirt still in his hand.
"Who the hell is that at this hour?"
Kirishima gave a mysterious smile.
"Ah,yeah... might be the delivery guys for... stuff. I'll get it!"
Before Katsuki could protest, Kirishima vanished down the hallway.
"SURPRIIIIISE!" the sharp, strident voices of Denki Kaminari and Mina Ashido exploded together through the living room.
Denki was wearing his most electric smile ever; Mina, right beside him, threw her arms open in a theatrical gesture, her horns almost seeming to vibrate with excitement.
"Missed us, Bakuboooom?" Mina sang, already invading his personal space with a wide, bright smile.
Behind them came Kyoka Jiro, shaking her head with an affectionate half-smile of disapproval, followed by Hanta Sero, whose elongated face stretched into a wide, unabashed grin.
"Look who finally decided to honor the homeland with his explosive presence," said Sero, arms already open for a hug he knew he wouldn't receive.
Katsuki stood still, the t-shirt still dangling from his hand. His eyes moved from one face to the next: Dunce Face, the loud Alien, the punk artist, Tape Guy.
The Baku-squad. Reunited. In his living room. Without warning.
"What the..." he began, his voice coming out hoarser than intended. He cleared his throat, trying to reclaim his fury. "What are you all doing in my damn house? Who called you?"
"The Spirit of Friendship, dude!" Denki announced, throwing himself onto Katsuki's black leather couch as if he owned it.
"And me," Mina added, plopping down on the arm of the couch with total familiarity. "Because someone had to make sure you didn't pretend you don't miss us."
"And also Kirishima," Denki added. "But mostly the Spirit."
"I'm gonna kill you, Eijiro," Katsuki said, without turning to look at the redhead, who was returning from the kitchen with an ear-to-ear grin.
"You missed us, admit it," Jiro teased, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. Her dark eyes examined him attentively. "You look older. Did the US wrinkle you, Bakugou?"
"Wrinkle me?" he snorted, finally tossing the t-shirt onto a chair. "They tried. Didn't manage. Just tired me out a bit." He shot a quick glance at the group spread across the room-especially at Mina, who already looked too comfortable. "But not enough to put up with this privacy invasion."
But even as he complained, something inside him-something stubborn and hidden-warmed up. The living room, once silent and impersonal, was now full of life, of chaotic energy he knew intimately. The apartment seemed... less empty.
"We got pizza," Sero announced, pulling out his phone. "Extra bacon, extra spicy pepperoni, and a margherita for the weaklings. That right, oh Explosive Boss?"
"The extra spicy one's mine, no one touches it," Katsuki replied automatically, feeling the corners of his mouth tug against his will. "And bring beer. The cold kind. Not that piss-water Dunce Face likes."
The night followed in a familiar whirlwind. The pizza arrived, boxes were opened on the coffee table, beers were opened with the grenade-shaped bottle opener that Denki found "the most Bakugou thing ever." The apartment filled with the smell of melted cheese, tomato sauce, and the sound of overlapping voices.
They crowded onto the couch and floor cushions, and the questions started.
"So tell us, Bakugou!" Denki said with his mouth full. "Are the American heroines like... woah? Do they wear those rock band-style costumes?"
"Your mind is a pathetic place, Kaminari," Jiro elbowed him, before turning to Katsuki. "But seriously. How was the training there? Heard their system is pretty different."
"And that they're obsessed with marketing," Mina added, sitting cross-legged on the floor, spinning her bottle between her fingers. "Like, 'save the city, but pose for the camera first.' True or exaggerated?"
Katsuki, reclining in his favorite armchair-the only one no one else dared sit in-took a long sip of beer before answering.
And, to everyone's surprise, he answered. Not with monosyllables, but with precise descriptions, sharp critiques of tactics he considered inferior, and a summarized yet vivid account of a few fights.
"...so the guy thinks just because he can become giant, he's unbeatable. A charged blast right at his Achilles tendon, and the idiot came apart like a house of cards. Basic."
"Brutal," Sero laughed, shaking his head. "But did you learn anything? Something we don't know?"
"Like... something we can use here?" Mina finished, leaning forward, genuinely interested. "Or was it just punches, explosions, and inflated ego?"
Katsuki paused, his red eyes fixed on the beer bottle label.
"I learned they yell a lot.'Oh my God!' for everything. It's annoying." He took another sip. "But... the way some of them integrate tech support into the costumes... not totally stupid. Could steal an idea or two."
"Look at that," Mina smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Bakugou admitting someone outside Japan isn't completely useless. This is historic."
"Mark the date," Denki said, dramatic. "This moment deserves to be remembered."
It was a good night. A normal night. Denki's laughter, Jiro's sharp comments, Mina's lively teasing, Sero's funny stories about agency mix-ups, Kirishima's solid, constant presence.
Katsuki found himself relaxing, his shoulders losing some of the tension he'd carried since the plane. For hours, he didn't think about rankings, transfers, painful absences.
It was just him and his idiot friends.
Like old times.
And at no point did he check his phone. The device had been left in the backpack, uncharged, a forgotten artifact from the outside world.
Until the beer ran out.
"It's dry in here," Katsuki complained, shaking the empty bottle. "The kitchen stock is mine. Don't touch my stuff."
He got up, feeling a pleasant lightness from the drink, and headed to the small, immaculate kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, lit by a cold light, and grabbed a few more bottles. That's when his backpack, leaning against the counter, caught his attention. With a grunt, he pulled out the charger, plugged his phone into a nearby outlet, and pressed the power button.
While the black screen gave way to the manufacturer's logo, he opened another beer with his teeth, an old habit. The phone vibrated, and a series of endless notifications began to appear: emails from the American agency, messages from professional contacts, app updates... the digital noise of his life.
He was scrolling disinterestedly, planning to mute it all, when his eyes landed on a specific name in the messaging app's notification list.
Midoriya, Izuku.
Katsuki's heart gave a lurch, a strong, erratic ba-dump that echoed in his ears. His blood seemed to simultaneously heat up and cool down. The beer bottle stopped halfway to his lips.
With fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, he tapped the notification. The app opened, directly to the conversation. The last visible message was his own, curt and professional, from months ago. And below it, a new message. Received the previous night. Hours ago.
The world around him-the voices in the living room, the hum of the fridge, the very air-faded into meaningless background noise. Everything narrowed down to the bright screen in his hands.
He read.
"MARRY Christmas, Kacchan ❤💥 I miss you... way more than I should... come home soon..."
Katsuki stopped breathing.
His eyes scanned the message again. And again. "MARRY." The heart. The explosion. The declaration of missing. The plea. "Come home."
A storm of conflicting emotions exploded inside him, as violent as any of his explosions. It wasn't anger-he didn't have that right. The memory of their ugly fight came back whole, mercilessly: his harsh words, thrown like knives with no take-backs, the look in Izuku's eyes slowly dimming, his own cowardly decision to run away instead of fixing things.
What was there was confusion.
"MARRY"?
Autocorrect?
Drunk fingers?
Or a thought that slipped out unfiltered?
But beneath the confusion, sprouting like a stubborn weed through cracked concrete, was something else. An unexpected warmth. An overwhelming relief. A happiness so intense and sudden it hurt in his chest.
He misses me.
The realization hit him full force, knocking the air from his lungs.
He misses me way more than he should.
Even after everything.
Even after what I did.
And,perhaps the most frightening thing of all...
He still thought of him ashome.
The weight of guilt mixed with that almost indecent relief, creating a bittersweet sensation Katsuki didn't know how to name. He didn't deserve that feeling-but it was there, pulsing, alive, impossible to ignore.
And that, more than any anger, was what completely disoriented him.
The image of Izuku, drunk and emotional, typing this message with clumsy fingers, invaded his mind with devastating clarity. He could almost see it: the flushed face, the teary green eyes, the sad smile. And the sober Izuku in the morning, in total panic. The scene was so vivid it hurt.
"Kacchan". The childhood nickname Izuku had stopped using in public years ago, but which sometimes slipped out in moments of extreme vulnerability. That single word was a punch to the gut, loaded with an intimacy that years of distance hadn't managed to erase.
"Bakugou! Did you go to get beer or to fuse the Earth's core?" Denki's voice came from the living room.
The sound snapped him out of his trance. Katsuki blinked, returning to reality. His hands were trembling. His face was hot-way too hot. He glanced quickly at his reflection in the kitchen window's dark glass: eyes wide, pupils dilated, cheeks red. He looked scared. He looked... happy. A disconcerting combination.
He grabbed the forgotten beers from the counter and, moving like an automaton, returned to the living room.
Silence fell over the group almost immediately. His expression was so abnormal that even Denki shut up.
"Dude... you okay?" Kirishima asked, sitting on the edge of the couch. "You look like you saw a ghost. Or made one."
Katsuki didn't answer. He placed the bottles on the table with a dull thud and then, with an almost reverent movement, placed his phone next to them, the screen still lit and face up.
Jiro and Mina were the first to lean in to see. Their eyes scanned the message quickly, and their eyebrows practically disappeared into their bangs.
"Wow," Mina breathed.
"What is it? What's happening?" Denki twisted to see. Sero looked over Jiro's shoulder.
Kirishima, who already had a suspicion, stood motionless, watching Katsuki's face.
Denki read the message aloud, slowly, confused:
"'Marry Christmas, Kacchan heart explosion... I miss you... way more than I should... come home soon...'" He paused, processing. "MARRY? Like... marry? Bakugou, what..."
And then it clicked. The air left the room.
"Is that... from Midoriya?" Sero asked, incredulous.
Katsuki finally found his voice, but it came out hoarse, unrecognizable.
"Yeah."
"Holy shit," Jiro muttered, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed. "He was drunk. Had to be. No one in their right mind sends that after..." she stopped, conscious of the unspoken line.
After the fight. The fight no one in the room had witnessed, but whose shards they had all felt. The fight that changed everything. That made Katsuki accept the transfer with fierce, self-punishing determination. That left Izuku quieter, more closed off, more like a statue of sad smiles.
"But he sent it," Katsuki said, more to himself than to them. He was still looking at the phone, as if the message might disappear at any moment.
"He...misses me."
There was a tremor on the last word. A vulnerability so rare it made everyone present feel simultaneously privileged and uncomfortable.
"And the 'Marry'?" Denki asked, still stuck on the most absurd detail.
"It's autocorrect, you idiot," Mina flicked his forehead. "Obviously. The point isn't the 'Marry,' it's the rest."
"The point," Kirishima interjected, his voice calm and solid, "is that he broke the silence. After eight months, Deku sent a message. An emotional message."
Katsuki finally lifted his eyes from the phone and looked at his friends. The storm still raged in his red eyes, but now there was something else: an incipient determination, a confusion that demanded action.
"What are you gonna do?" Sero asked, straight to the point.
Katsuki didn't know. One part of him wanted to reply right then, with righteous fury: "You think you can send that after what you said?" Another, larger, and more frightening part wanted to simply type: "I am home."
But he knew none of it was simple. The fight wasn't about something small. It was about broken promises, unspoken expectations, an unconfessed love that became a monster between them. It was about Izuku wanting to protect him to the point of suffocation, and about Katsuki wanting to prove himself to the point of self-destruction.
There were words like "suffocating" and "stubborn" and "you don't trust me" and "you won't let yourself be cared for." Wounds that needed more than a drunk text to heal.
And yet... it was a message. It was a thread, tenuous and tangled, reconnecting two worlds that had been orbiting separately in agonizing silence.
"I don't know," he finally answered. His voice came out dry, scraped raw by disuse and contained emotion, but it wasn't harsh. There wasn't that usual sharp edge. It was just... flat. Lost. The admission itself was a greater shock to the group than the drunk text. Katsuki Bakugou didn't admit to not knowing. He improvised, invented, blasted a path, but he never didn't know.
Denki rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. He placed his own phone on the coffee table, the screen still open on the screenshot he'd taken (for "documentary purposes," he claimed).
"Let's break it down, then. 'Marry Christmas' with an A. Not an E. A as in... marriage. Dude... do you think Midoriya, in his boozy genius, confused you with Santa Claus or the registry office? Because those are two very different figures, okay? One gives presents, the other ties you into a lifelong contract."
Katsuki didn't react to the provocation. He just kept staring into space.
"He was drunk, Denki. Even a brain full of super-powered green synapses melts with enough vodka," Jiro retorted, rolling her eyes, but her voice was soft. She pulled out one of her jacks and began twisting it around her finger, a thoughtful gesture. "And it's not about the typo. It's about what came after. 'I miss you... way more than I should... come home soon...' That right there is pure longing dripping off the screen. You can see it, smell it, taste it. Can't pretend otherwise."
Katsuki took a deep breath, a rough sound that seemed to tear through the quiet air. The irritation that always drove him, that was his fuel and his armor, began to boil again. But it wasn't directed at them. It was directed at the world, at fate, at himself. It was a tired anger, frustrated with the persistent ache and with the treacherous relief-sweet and sharp as a knife-that Izuku's message had brought. The very existence of that message was a paradox his brain, trained for combat logic, couldn't process.
"This doesn't change anything," he said, his voice a bit stronger, but laden with a bitterness that made them all go quiet. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing the stubble on his chin. The action was weary, defeated. "It doesn't erase what came before. We... we had an ugly fight. It wasn't a hero disagreement, not some stupid argument about tactics. It was..." He closed his eyes for a second, as if seeing the scene projected on his eyelids. "It was ugly. I was exhausted, he was worried down to the last strand of hair, and we started firing words like grenades. And I..." his voice wavered, broke for an imperceptible fraction "...I said horrible things to him. Things he didn't deserve to hear in my worst nightmares. He... he looked destroyed. Stopped talking. Just looked at me with those huge green eyes, and it was like I'd turned the light off inside him. I saw it on his face. Saw the thing breaking. And I didn't stop. I kept going, because if I stopped, I'd have to face what I was doing."
A heavy silence, dense as lead, fell over the room. Denki lay still on the rug, his smile completely gone. Jiro stopped fiddling with her jack, fingers frozen in mid-air.
Sero sat absolutely still in the armchair. Kyoka watched Katsuki, her face a mix of pity and painful understanding. Kirishima just closed his eyes for a moment, as if feeling his friend's pain physically.
Sero was the first to recover, clearing his throat softly. He leaned forward on the sofa's armrests, his serious gaze fixed on Katsuki.
"Do you think... do you think because of that, he doesn't want to see you? That the message was just a drunk slip and that deep down he hates you?"
Katsuki finally looked up, but not at Sero. He stared at the beer can in his hand as if the aluminum contained all the answers to humanity's mistakes.
"I think that..." He swallowed dryly, his voice reduced to a raspy whisper. "I think I don't deserve for him to want me. I broke the whole thing in half. I gave him the perfect excuse to cut me out of his life. The transfer to Osaka... it wasn't just strategic. It was an escape. My escape. And I left him there, holding the pieces."
The admission echoed in the room, so raw and vulnerable it almost seemed like a physical object. Katsuki Bakugou didn't talk about feelings. Not like this. Not exposing his emotional guts. This was uncharted territory, and everyone present knew they were witnessing something rare and fragile.
Mina furrowed her brow, her pink lips forming a thin line of disapproval-not at him, but at his conclusion.
"Hey. Cut that out. None of this 'I don't deserve' talk." She leaned forward, her voice losing its usual melody and gaining a steel firmness. "Did you mess up? You did. Big, stinky, explosive mess. But you know that now. You carry it. You regret it. And that, Bakugou, matters a fucking lot. Most people who mess up don't even admit it to themselves. You not only admitted it, you're here almost coming apart with guilt. That's a start. It's not a period."
Jiro agreed with a slow nod, her dark eyes fixed on him with surprising empathy.
"She's right. Hurting someone you love is never pretty. It's ugly, it's dirty, it hurts everyone." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "But running away after the dust settles... letting the wound fester in silence... that's worse. It's cowardly. And you might be many things, Bakugou, but a coward isn't one of them."
Katsuki looked up at her, a spark of his usual defensiveness lighting in his gaze.
"I didn't run out of cowardice. I ran to... to give space. For him to breathe away from me."
"And did it work?" Sero asked, bluntly. "Did he breathe? Or did he just hold his breath waiting for you to come back?"
The question hit Katsuki like a physical blow. The image of Izuku holding his breath, waiting... was unbearable. He didn't have the answer.
Eight months of total silence suggested no, that Izuku had moved on, buried the whole thing. But the message... the message screamed the opposite.
Kirishima, who had been silent as a rock observing the emotional tide, took a deep breath. The sound, deliberate and loud, drew everyone's attention. He moved slowly, rising from the sofa and approaching Katsuki. It wasn't a confrontational move, but one of solidity. He crouched on the floor right in front of his friend, coming to eye level with his knees. His posture was open, firm, anchored.
"Katsuki," he said, using his first name with a serenity that contrasted with the turmoil in the air.
The blonde slowly raised his eyes, his blurry gaze meeting Kirishima's resolute scarlet. There was such profound exhaustion in his eyes that Kirishima almost flinched. Almost.
"Look at me," Kirishima ordered, his voice low but impossible to ignore. When Katsuki met his gaze, he continued. "You're hearing us, but are you really listening, or are you just letting the noise fill the room?"
Katsuki didn't answer, but his jaw tensed.
Kirishima then raised his hand and placed it on Katsuki's shoulder. Not a friendly pat. It was a firm, solid grip that conveyed weight and presence. It wasn't meant to comfort in the soft sense of the word; it was to anchor him, to pull him back to reality, to remind him he was made of flesh and bone and not guilt fog.
"Listen to what I'm going to tell you, because it's the only thing that matters now." Kirishima maintained eye contact, his expression serious, without a trace of his usual smile. "The one who messed up... has to make the first move."
The phrase, simple and direct, hung in the air. It seemed to echo off the empty walls. The one who messed up has to make the first move.
Katsuki held his breath. His fingers tightened around the beer can, crumpling the aluminum with a soft crunch.
Mina, sensing the seed had been planted, watered it with her pragmatic tenderness.
"He's Deku, Katsuki. His heart is the size of a stadium and it's made of forgiveness and stubborn hope. He'll listen. For sure. But he'll only hear," she emphasized the word, "if you show, with everything you are, that you're truly sorry. It's not about saying 'my bad.' It's about showing you understood what you did. That you saw the light go out in his eyes and you'd do anything to relight it."
Denki, feeling the heavy mood needed a bit of air, raised his hand as if in a condo meeting.
"And please... for the love of all that's holy and explosive... no yelling this time, okay? We know it's your default communication setting, but maybe, just maybe, it's not the best approach for an 'I'm sorry I was a complete asshole and ran away to another continent'."
Katsuki didn't even look at him. With a quick, fluid movement that demonstrated his Class A hero reflexes, he grabbed a small cushion next to him and threw it directly into Denki's face with enough force and precision to make him fall back with an "oof!"
"I don't yell anymore, idiot," Katsuki growled, but there was a tiny fragment of something that could almost be humor at the edge of his voice. It was minuscule, but it was there. A breath of normalcy.
"There you go!" Sero nudged, pointing at him with his chin, a smile reappearing on his face. "See? He grew! He's a different person. Bakugou 2.0: now with 20% less verbal explosions and 100% more painful self-criticism."
Kirishima didn't get distracted. His grip on Katsuki's shoulder didn't loosen. He was digging for the central truth, the bedrock upon which any attempt at reconciliation would have to be built.
"Bakugou," he said, switching back to the last name, bringing seriousness back. "Answer one thing for me, and answer honestly, for yourself if not for us. Do you still care for him?"
The question wasn't "do you love him?" It was more fundamental, more primal. "Care for." A verb that encompassed all the complexity between them: the rivalry, the camaraderie, the anger, the admiration, the attraction, the pain, the love. Everything.
Katsuki went still. The room stopped. Even Denki's breathing on the floor seemed to go silent. The seconds dragged on, each weighing a ton. They could see the war waged behind Katsuki's red eyes.
Pride fighting truth, pain fighting hope, fear fighting the deep, constant desire that never, at any moment in all those years and all that distance, had truly extinguished.
Finally, after an eternity, Katsuki's lips parted. The voice that came out was so low it was almost a breath, a secret whispered only to the air between him and Kirishima. But in the silent room, they all heard.
"I've always loved him."
Four words. A monumental confession. The admission that all the fury, all the distance, all the ugly fight, hadn't eradicated the fundamental feeling. It was still there, like a deep root under cracked concrete.
The others exchanged glances-some discreet and understanding, like Jiro and Sero's; others absolutely not discreet, like Denki's, who put his hands to his chest with a "my heart!" expression, and Mina's, whose smile returned in full force, lighting up her face like a sun.
Kirishima finally released Katsuki's shoulder. A slight smile touched his lips-a smile of approval, of camaraderie, of "finally, you admitted it."
"Then," he said, standing up, his voice regaining some of its usual strength but still laden with solemn seriousness. "There's nothing left to think about. No more analysis to do. You go after him. You look for him. Today, tomorrow, as soon as you can face it. Before he thinks you saw the message, laughed, and gave up for good. Before his drunk shame turns into certainty that you don't want anything. You go."
Mina jumped to her feet, her contagious energy filling the space again.
"YES! Thank you, Mr. Injured and Stubborn Ego, for finally making a decision that doesn't involve blowing something up or fleeing to another country! Let's celebrate!" She grabbed a beer from the table and raised it.
Jiro smiled from the corner, a genuine and somewhat relieved smile.
"Izuku deserves a decent apology. An honest one. The kind that comes from here," she pointed to her own chest.
"And you," Kirishima added, looking firmly at Katsuki, "you deserve to stop suffering and punishing yourself. You deserve a chance to fix things. You deserve... to be happy, damn it. That's what we want for you."
Katsuki looked at each of them: at Kirishima, the pillar; at Mina, the catalyst; at Jiro, the realist with a soft heart; at Sero, the quiet support; at Denki, the necessary comic relief. They were there. They always had been.
Even when he was unbearable. Especially when he was unbearable. They saw through him, saw the mess, and yet they were there, not to fix him, but to point him towards the toolbox.
A slow but solid determination began to replace the fog of confusion in his eyes. It wasn't the blind fury of before. It was something colder, deeper. A resolution.
He placed the crushed beer can on the table with a decisive click. He reached out, grabbed another still-sealed bottle from the case on the floor, opened it with a quick thumb flick (ignoring the opener), and took a long swallow. The cold liquid went down his throat, washing away some of the bitter taste of words and memories.
Then, he murmured, softly, more to himself than to them, but they all heard:
"I'll do it right this time."
It wasn't a bombastic promise. It wasn't a dramatic oath. It was a simple purpose. A declaration of intent. And coming from him, it was more powerful than any shout.
The room seemed to collectively breathe. The tension, which had been so dense it was almost tangible, dissolved into something lighter, more hopeful. As if a huge weight had been shared and, now that it was carried by many, had become lighter. They knew the path ahead would be hard, full of emotional pitfalls and unspoken words. But the next step, the first real step since the fight, was finally being taken.
Katsuki sat up a little straighter on the couch. His shoulders, which had been hunched under the weight of guilt, seemed a little less heavy. He picked up his phone from the cushion beside him, the same one that had displayed the message like a sacred and terrifying artifact. This time, he didn't look at it with panic or confusion. He held it against his chest, over his sternum, right where his heart beat with a now more decided rhythm.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air of his own apartment, the air that now seemed shared and less lonely.
And then, unwittingly, against all his conscious will, the corners of his mouth turned up. It was a very small smile, almost imperceptible, quick as a blink and as shy as the first flower after winter. But it was real. Not one of triumph or sarcasm. It was a pure, raw, and vulnerable smile of relief. Relief at having spoken the truth. Relief at having a direction. Relief at knowing that, somewhere in this same city, Izuku Midoriya had missed him "way more than he should."
For the first time in eight long, silent, painful months, Katsuki Bakugou felt something he thought he'd lost forever in relation to Izuku: hope.