The hotel room smells like Izuku’s shampoo and the crisp, expensive starch of the garment bags Katsuki had sent up. He unzips the first one, the sound loud in the quiet. Izuku is perched on the edge of the bed, chewing his lower lip raw, watching Katsuki’s hands.
“Stop that,” Katsuki says, not looking at him. He lifts a deep emerald silk shirt from the bag. “You’ll bleed.”
“Sorry, Kacchan.” Izuku’s voice is a mumble. “I just… what if it’s too much? Or not enough? What if she thinks I’m trying too hard to look like I’m over her by dressing up, which means I’m not over her, but if I dress down, she’ll think I’m too sad to try, which also means I’m not over her—”
“Deku.” Katsuki’s tone cuts through the spiral. He lays the shirt on the bed, smooths a nonexistent wrinkle. “Breathe. It’s a fucking shirt. I picked it because the color makes your eyes look like a storm over a forest. It has nothing to do with her.” The truth of that sentence sits like a stone in his throat. Every choice he makes for Izuku is about Izuku. It always has been.
Izuku blinks, his rapid-fire thoughts visibly stuttering. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Now stand up.” Katsuki’s own outfit is already laid out—a tailored black blazer, no shirt underneath, dark trousers that’ll hug his thighs. A statement. A shield. For Izuku, he’d chosen temptation. The silk shirt, black trousers that’ll make his ass look criminal, and a pair of shoes that cost more than Izuku’s monthly rent. “Arms up.”
Izuku obeys, raising his arms like a child. The worn t-shirt he slept in rides up, exposing the pale, flat plane of his stomach, the clean, faint lines of his top surgery scars. Katsuki’s gaze catches there for a half-second too long, a familiar, aching pull in his chest. He bunches the silk and guides it over Izuku’s head.
The fabric whispers as it settles. Katsuki’s knuckles brush the warm skin of Izuku’s neck as he straightens the collar. His fingers are steady. He’s spent a lifetime training them not to tremble around this. “Button it yourself,” he says, stepping back. His voice is rough gravel.
Izuku’s fingers fumble with the mother-of-pearl buttons. “It’s so soft.”
“It’s silk. It’s supposed to be.” Katsuki turns to his own clothes, shrugging into the blazer. The cool lining feels good against his skin. He doesn’t button it. He checks his reflection in the dark window—sharp angles, red eyes glaring back, a man playing a part. A man already in hell.
“Kacchan?” Izuku’s voice is small. He’s looking at his own reflection in the window beside Katsuki’s, the green silk making his freckles stand out, his curls a wild dark halo. “Do I look… convincing?”
Katsuki looks at him. Really looks. The shirt clings to the curve of his shoulders, the dip of his waist. The trousers are perfect, emphasizing the swell of his hips, the promise of his thighs. He looks edible. He looks like every secret fantasy Katsuki has ever choked down.
“Yeah,” Katsuki says, the word leaving him like a punch. “You look like someone’s boyfriend.”
Izuku’s reflection flushes, the pink blooming across his freckles. He looks from his own image to Katsuki’s in the dark glass. “Do I…” he starts, then swallows. “Do I look like I could be your boyfriend?”
Katsuki’s breath catches, a sharp, silent hitch behind his ribs. The question hangs there, a live wire between their reflections. He lets out a low, rough chuckle that feels like gravel in his throat. “Obviously.” The word is simple. Absolute. It burns his tongue on the way out.
He doesn’t think. He turns from the window, closes the two steps between them, and takes Izuku’s hand. His fingers slot between Izuku’s, palm to palm. The contact is electric, a jolt that travels straight up his arm. Izuku’s hand is warm, slightly damp with nerves. For a second, neither of them moves.
Then Izuku’s fingers tighten, lacing through his own, holding on. He doesn’t say a word, just looks down at their joined hands, the blush deepening to a scarlet that Katsuki can feel like heat in the air.
The elevator is a tomb of polished brass and silence. Katsuki keeps his grip, his thumb resting on the pulse point of Izuku’s wrist. He feels the rapid, rabbit-fast thrum under the skin. His own heart is a slow, heavy drum in contrast. He watches the numbers descend, each a countdown to the performance. Izuku stares at their hands, his lower lip caught between his teeth again. The silence isn’t empty. It’s full of everything they aren’t saying.
The Uber is a black sedan that smells of lemon disinfectant. Katsuki opens the door, ushers Izuku in, his hand a steady pressure on the small of Izuku’s back through the silk. He slides in after him, their thighs pressing together on the leather seat. The city lights smear past the window. Izuku is quiet, his gaze fixed outside, but his knee is bouncing, a tiny, frantic tremor.
Katsuki reaches over and puts his hand on Izuku’s leg. His palm is heavy, a solid weight on the muscle of Izuku’s thigh. The bouncing stops instantly.
A quiet sigh leaves Izuku, his body going slack against the seat. The tension bleeds out under Katsuki’s hand, replaced by a slow, spreading warmth. Katsuki feels his own pulse begin to settle, the live-wire hum in his chest softening to a manageable current. He doesn’t move his hand. The contact is a circuit, completing something. It feels like this is how they were meant to be—connected, a point of stillness in the moving dark.
“Nervous?” Katsuki asks, his voice low so the driver won’t hear.
“A little,” Izuku whispers back. He turns his head, his green eyes wide in the passing streetlights. “You?”
“I don’t get nervous.” It’s a lie. The entire inside of his body is a live wire. He’s never been more aware of another person’s heat, their scent, the inch of space between their shoulders.
The club is a pulse of bass and neon, a sleek black building with a velvet rope and a bored-looking bouncer who checks their names. Katsuki gets out, and rounds the car to open Izuku’s door. He offers his hand. A gentleman. A boyfriend. Izuku takes it, his grip firming as he steps onto the curb, the green silk shimmering under the club’s lurid pink sign.
They stand on the sidewalk, the thump of music vibrating up through the concrete. The air is warm, thick with the smell of spilled liquor and perfume. Katsuki turns to him. “Ready?”
Izuku takes a deep, shaky breath. His eyes dart toward the entrance, then back to Katsuki’s face. He nods, once. “Yeah.”
Katsuki offers his arm, elbow crooked. A formal, old-fashioned gesture. It feels absurd. It feels right. Izuku doesn’t hesitate. He slides his hand into the crook of Katsuki’s elbow, his fingers curling around the black wool of the blazer, holding on as if it’s the only solid thing in the world. The weight of him there, the trust in that grip, is a knife twist in Katsuki’s gut. He covers Izuku’s hand with his own, pins it in place. “Then let’s go.”
Inside is a wall of sound and sweat and glitter. Low crimson lighting, the gleam of gold fringe on dancers moving on stages behind sheer curtains, the clink of glasses. The air is hazy. Katsuki scans the crowd, his hand still over Izuku’s on his arm. He spots them first—a raised section with plush booths, a knot of familiar faces. Ochako’s brown bob, Himiko’s twin buns. Kirishima’s spiked red hair. They’re all there, laughing, a bubble of celebration in the sensory chaos. Izuku’s fingers tighten on his arm.
Katsuki doesn't look at Izuku. He looks at the booth, at the faces turned toward them, and feels the mask slide into place, cool and seamless. His hand is still over Izuku’s, pinning it to his arm. “Showtime,” he says, the word a low rumble only Izuku can hear over the bass.
He leads them through the crowd, a path clearing more from the intensity of his stare than any physical force. The distance to the booth stretches, a gauntlet. Izuku’s fingers are tight, his steps a half-beat behind. Katsuki feels the tremble in his grip, the fine vibration through the wool of his blazer. He presses down harder with his palm, a silent command: steady.
Ochako spots them first. Her round face, already flushed with champagne, brightens with a smile that is entirely genuine. It cuts Katsuki somewhere deep. Himiko is draped over her shoulder, golden eyes narrowing to pleased slits, a cat spotting two interesting mice.
“You made it!” Ochako calls, voice cutting through the music. She shifts, making space in the circular booth. “We were starting to think you’d gotten lost!”
“Traffic,” Katsuki lies smoothly, his voice adopting a bored, casual edge. He stops at the booth’s edge but doesn’t let go of Izuku. He turns to him instead, a deliberate pivot. His free hand comes up, brushes a curl from Izuku’s forehead. The gesture is intimate, proprietary. His thumb grazes Izuku’s temple. “You okay, Izu?” The nickname slips out, soft, meant for the audience. It burns his throat.
Izuku’s eyes are wide, glued to Katsuki’s face. He nods, a quick jerk of his chin. “Yeah. Yeah, Kacchan.”
“Get in here, lovebirds!” Kirishima booms, his spiky red hair almost brushing the low-hanging lamp. He’s grinning, arm around Mina, who is already sizing them up with a delighted, gossip-hungry gleam in her yellow eyes.
Katsuki guides Izuku into the booth first, his hand a firm press on the small of his back, feeling the silk and the warmth beneath. He slides in after him, their thighs pressing together on the plush velvet. The booth is a crush of bodies—Kirishima and Mina, Denki chattering to a tired-looking Hitoshi, Touya lounging with a sharp, assessing gaze, Shoto tucked quietly beside him. Ochako and Himiko are directly across.
“You both look amazing,” Ochako says, her brown eyes warm. She leans forward, chin in her hands. “That color is stunning on you, Izuku.”
Izuku flushes, his freckles disappearing under the pink. “Oh, thanks! Kacchan picked it.” The words tumble out, nervous. He immediately looks like he wants to swallow them back.
Himiko’s grin widens. She nuzzles into Ochako’s neck, but her amber eyes are fixed on Katsuki. “Of course he did. You have such… taste, Bakugo.” Her voice lilts. “Always dressing him up so pretty.”
Katsuki meets her gaze, doesn’t blink. He lets his arm stretch along the back of the booth behind Izuku’s shoulders. Not quite touching. A claim. “He’s easy to dress.”
“Is he?” Himiko purrs.
“Himi,” Ochako chides gently, but she’s smiling. She turns her attention back to Izuku. “I’m really glad you came. And that you brought someone.” Her gaze flicks to Katsuki, then back. “It’s good to see you happy.”
The words are a knife, expertly wielded with Ochako’s particular brand of kindness. Izuku’s breath hitches, just a tiny catch Katsuki feels through their pressed thighs. Katsuki acts before Izuku can formulate a word.
He lets the arm behind Izuku’s shoulders drop, curling it around him instead, pulling him a definitive inch closer. His hand lands on Izuku’s far shoulder, his fingers spreading wide, possessive over the green silk. He feels the solid reality of Izuku’s body, the lean muscle of his arm. “He is,” Katsuki says, voice leaving no room for argument. His thumb begins to move, a slow, absent stroke against the fabric. A lover’s habit. A performance. The heat of Izuku’s skin seeps through the silk. “Aren’t you, Izu?”
Izuku melts into the touch, his body going pliant against Katsuki’s side. He tips his head, resting it against Katsuki’s shoulder. It’s a move of such instinctive trust it steals the air from Katsuki’s lungs. “Yeah,” Izuku murmurs, the word breathed into the space between Katsuki’s neck and collarbone. “I am.”
Across the table, Ochako’s smile softens, becomes something real and relieved. The test, for now, is passed. But Himiko’s eyes are still on them, gleaming with a knowledge that feels dangerous. Touya takes a slow sip of his drink, his pierced eyebrow arched. Shoto is just… watching, his heterochromatic eyes missing nothing.
Kirishima lets out a happy sigh. “Man, it’s about time. I always said you two had the most domestic bickering I’ve ever seen.”
“We don’t bicker,” Katsuki grits out, even as his thumb continues its relentless, soothing stroke.
“You literally argued about the best brand of dish soap for twenty minutes at my apartment when you helped me move in,” Denki pipes up, grinning.
Izuku’s laugh is a startled, warm puff against Katsuki’s skin. The sound goes straight through him. Katsuki looks down at the crown of green curls pressed against him. His chest does something complicated and painful. He forces a scoff. “Because he was wrong. It’s a matter of efficiency, not scent.”
“See?” Kirishima laughs, raising his glass. “Domestic as hell. I’m happy for you guys. Seriously.”
The toast is picked up, glasses clinking. Katsuki reaches for a champagne flute from a passing tray with his free hand, brings it to Izuku’s lips first. Izuku’s eyes flick up, a question in them, but he parts his lips. Katsuki tips the glass, lets him drink. A bead of liquid escapes, trails down Izuku’s chin. Katsuki watches it. Then, without breaking eye contact with the table, he swipes it away with the pad of his thumb. He brings his thumb to his own mouth, sucks the champagne off.
The booth goes quiet for a half-second. Mina makes a soft, delighted sound. Izuku is staring at him, his forest-green eyes blown wide, his lips still glistening.
Ochako’s smile finally reaches her eyes, all traces of doubt gone. “Okay,” she says, laughing softly. “Now I’m convinced.”
Mina leans forward, her yellow eyes gleaming with conspiracy in the low crimson light. “Okay, confession time. We’ve all had bets going for years on when you two would finally stop being disgustingly obvious and get together.” She grins, sharp. “So. Spill. When did it happen?”
Katsuki feels the question land like a physical tap on the shoulder of his performance. He doesn’t look at Izuku. He keeps his gaze level on Mina, his thumb still stroking the silk over Izuku’s shoulder. The lie is right there, polished and ready. “A year ago.”
“During my recovery,” Izuku adds, his voice a little thin. He clears his throat. “From my top surgery.”
Kirishima’s smile is blinding. “I knew it! I said it’d be around a big life event!”
“Details, details!” Mina presses, waving a hand. “We need the story to settle the pot. Denki’s been keeping the ledger.”
Izuku shifts, a nervous rustle of silk. Katsuki feels the movement through his entire side. He speaks before Izuku can fumble. “He was hopped up on painkillers and bitchy. I was taking care of him.” The words come out flat, factual. Inside, his stomach is a cold, tight knot. He’s describing a fantasy he narrated on a plane, dressing it in the bland clothes of reality. “He couldn’t sleep. I helped.”
“Helped how?” Himiko asks, her chin still resting on Ochako’s shoulder, her amber eyes unblinking.
Katsuki lets a corner of his mouth tilt up, a performance of private memory. He looks down at the crown of Izuku’s head, forces his voice into a lower, rougher register. “Used my mouth. Got his mind off the pain.” He feels Izuku’s sharp inhale, the subtle clench of the muscle under his hand. “Worked better than the meds.”
Denki slaps the table, his drink sloshing. “Yes! That’s a year and two months! I won! Pay up, suckers!” He points a triumphant finger at Hitoshi, who just sighs deeply and pulls out his wallet.
A chorus of groans and good-natured curses circles the booth. Ochako is laughing, her hand over her mouth. Kirishima is chuckling, shaking his head as he digs for cash. Touya just watches, his pierced eyebrow arched, taking another slow sip.
Shoto’s quiet, dual-toned voice cuts through the noise. “I thought it would be now.” Everyone turns to look at him. He blinks, his heterochromatic gaze moving from Katsuki to Izuku and back. “This weekend. It seemed like the timing.”
The statement hangs in the hazy air, too accurate, too simple. Katsuki’s jaw tightens. Izuku stiffens against him.
“Well, you thought wrong, Half-n-Half,” Katsuki snarls, the defensiveness real and immediate. He pulls Izuku a fraction closer, a reflexive, possessive correction. “It was a year ago. End of story.”
“Obviously,” Shoto says, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s conceding or just stating a fact. He accepts a bill from a grumbling Mina and tucks it away.
The transaction of bets becomes a distraction, a bubble of movement and chatter. Katsuki uses it. He dips his head, his lips brushing the shell of Izuku’s ear, his voice a graveled whisper meant only for him. “Breathe, Deku. You’re locking up.”
Izuku lets out a shuddering breath, warm against Katsuki’s neck. His body sags back into the hold. “Sorry,” he whispers back. “They all… knew?”
“They’re nosy bastards,” Katsuki murmurs, his thumb resuming its stroke. He doesn’t say the other thing, the thing clawing behind his ribs: *They saw what you never did.*
Ochako reaches across the table, her hand patting Izuku’s forearm gently. “I’m really glad it was Kacchan,” she says, and her sincerity is a brand. “You deserve someone who’s known you forever. Who loves all of you.”
The word *loves* hits the center of Katsuki’s chest and radiates out, a silent, devastating shockwave. Izuku just nods, his eyes shining with something too bright. “Yeah,” he says, his voice thick. “Me too.”
Himiko disentangles herself from Ochako, leaning over the table. Her golden eyes are predatory in the dim light. “A year is a long time to keep it quiet. You two are good at secrets.” Her smile shows a hint of sharp canine. “What else are you hiding?”
The music swells, a brassy, pulsing wave. A server appears with a new bottle of champagne, and the moment fractures into the clink of fresh glasses. Katsuki doesn’t answer Himiko. He just holds her gaze until she finally leans back, a low, knowing hum in her throat. The performance isn’t over. It’s just deepened, and the water is far, far over his head.
Katsuki’s lips are still against Izuku’s ear, the ghost of his warning about breathing still hanging between them. The new champagne is poured, the music swells, and Himiko’s knowing hum vibrates in the air. Izuku is a warm, pliant line against him, trusting, oblivious. The word *loves* from Ochako’s mouth is a live wire under his skin. The performance is a cage. The lie is a stone in his throat. He turns his head, his mouth brushing Izuku’s temple. The words come out low, a graveled secret meant only for the shell of his ear. “Deku.” A pause, a heartbeat where the club noise fades. “I’m gonna kiss you.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of intent, a demolition of their one closed-mouth rule. Izuku goes still. Then he turns his head, just enough. His forest-green eyes are wide, glazed with alcohol and something else—a question, a permission. Katsuki doesn’t wait for an answer. He closes the distance.
The first touch is electric. Not a peck. Not performative. It’s a claiming. His mouth slots over Izuku’s, and it’s warm, wet, and tastes like stolen champagne and something uniquely, devastatingly Izuku. Izuku makes a soft, punched-out sound against his lips. And then he melts. His body sags into Katsuki’s, a complete surrender, and his mouth opens under Katsuki’s without hesitation.
Fireworks. Sparks behind the eyes. Clichés that become physics in the space between their mouths. Katsuki’s hand comes up, fingers tangling in those green curls, holding him there. Izuku’s hands fist in the black wool of Katsuki’s blazer. The kiss deepens. It’s messy. It’s hungry. It’s tongue and teeth and two decades of want crashing through the dam of pretense. Katsuki licks into his mouth, and Izuku meets him, a frantic, answering rhythm. This isn’t for the table. This isn’t for Ochako. This is the silent, screaming thing between them finally given a shape.
Somewhere, the stage lights come up. A brassy fanfare announces the start of the burlesque show. They don’t notice. The world narrows to the slick heat of Izuku’s mouth, the frantic beat of his own heart, the way Izuku is clawing him closer as if trying to climb inside his skin. Katsuki breaks for air, a ragged gasp, and Izuku chases his lips, whining high in his throat. Their foreheads press together. Their breaths mix, hot and frantic.
“Kacchan,” Izuku whispers, the name a prayer, a plea.
Katsuki kisses him again. Deeper. Slower. A deliberate, consuming drag of his mouth that has Izuku shuddering. He can feel the hard line of his own cock straining against his trousers, a painful throb of need. He can feel the answering heat radiating from Izuku’s body, the silk shirt damp with sweat under his palm. The alcohol in their empty stomachs is a low, buzzing truth serum, stripping away the last pretense of acting.
“Get a room!” Denki’s voice cuts through, laughing.
Katsuki doesn’t care. He nips at Izuku’s lower lip, sucks it into his mouth. Izuku moans, the sound swallowed between them. One of Katsuki’s hands slides down, grips Izuku’s hip through the black trousers, fingers digging in. Mine. The thought is primal, unbidden, a truth he can’t afford. Izuku grinds against the pressure, a small, desperate roll of his hips, and Katsuki sees stars.
Ochako’s laughter is warm, embarrassed. “Okay, you two, the show’s starting!”
They break apart, breathing like they’ve run a mile. Izuku’s lips are swollen, glistening. His eyes are unfocused, his freckles stark against the flush high on his cheeks. He’s staring at Katsuki as if he’s never seen him before. Katsuki feels raw, flayed open. He can’t look away. His thumb comes up, swipes roughly at the wetness at the corner of Izuku’s mouth.
Himiko is watching, her amber eyes glittering with pure, undiluted amusement. She leans into Ochako, whispers something that makes Ochako swat her arm, blushing. The first performer takes the stage to whoops and applause. The spotlight pushes the booth into deeper shadow.
Izuku’s voice is wrecked. “That… wasn’t in the rules.”
Katsuki’s own voice is barely recognizable. “Shut up.” He doesn’t let go. He pulls Izuku back against his side, tighter than before, his arm a steel band around his shoulders. His heart is a frantic drum against his ribs. The kiss hangs in the air between them, a new, terrifying fact. It wasn’t for the performance. It was for them. And they both know it.
Both didn’t want to stop.