The first bird called outside, a sharp, lonely sound in the grey dawn. Izuku felt it in Katsuki’s chest, the way his heartbeat changed against his ear, speeding from a slow, sated rhythm to something more alert. More final.

“We have to move,” Katsuki said, his voice a gravel-rough ruin.

“I know.”

But neither of them did. Izuku kept his face buried in the solid heat of Katsuki’s throat, breathing in the smell of him—sweat, sex, the faint evergreen scent of the greenhouse. His own body was a map of aches, a pleasant, deep-boned soreness that sang of everything they’d done. He never wanted to forget the feel of it.

Katsuki’s hand came up, blunt fingers sliding into his hair. Not pulling. Just holding. “Can you walk, nerd?”

“Yeah.” Izuku pushed himself up on trembling arms, the blanket falling to his waist. The cold air hit his skin, raising goosebumps. He looked down at himself, at the marks—the faint bruises on his hips, the red scrape of stubble on his inner thighs. Proof. Katsuki’s gaze followed his, and his jaw tightened.

“Fuck,” Katsuki muttered, the word torn between pride and shame. He sat up, the muscles in his back and shoulders corded with tension. “C’mon. Shower. We’re both a mess.”

They dressed in silence, pulling on clothes that were cold and carried the scent of the night. Every movement felt slow, syrupy, like wading through deep water. Katsuki gathered the blankets, his movements efficient, erasing the evidence of their nest. Izuku watched him, his chest aching.

The house was a tomb, silent and freezing as they slipped through the back door. The shower in the downstairs main hall bathroom was their best bet—biggest, noisier. Katsuki locked the door behind them and turned the water on full, steam quickly fogging the mirror.

He didn’t speak as he helped Izuku out of his clothes again, his hands practical but lingering. He tested the water temperature, then guided Izuku under the spray. The heat was a shock, a blissful burn on his cold skin. Katsuki followed him in, crowding him against the tile.

“This is it,” Katsuki said, his voice low under the drumming water. He took the soap, working up a lather in his palms. “Last time.”

Izuku just nodded, his throat too tight for words. He let Katsuki wash him, those strong, callused hands moving over his shoulders, down his back, over the curve of his ass. It wasn’t sexual. It was something more devastating. A consecration. A farewell. Katsuki’s touch was thorough, wiping away every trace of sweat and spend, rinsing him clean. When he turned Izuku around, his eyes were bloodshot and unbearably intense.

He washed Izuku’s chest, his thumbs brushing over his small, sensitive nipples, making him shiver. He went to his knees on the shower floor, washing Izuku’s thighs, between them, his touch firm and reverent as he cleaned the sticky evidence of their night from his skin. Izuku’s hand found Katsuki’s wet hair, fingers tangling in the spiky blond strands, not guiding, just holding on.

When Katsuki rose, water sluicing down the hard planes of his body, Izuku took the soap. “My turn.”

He returned the care, mapping the territory he’d memorized—the powerful swell of Katsuki’s chest, the defined cut of his abdomen, the thick thatch of blond hair at the base of his cock, which lay soft and heavy against his thigh. He washed it all, his touch saying what he couldn’t. *I love you. I’ll always want you. This is killing me.*

Finished, they stood under the pouring water, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same steam-thick air. The world outside this curtain didn’t exist. There was only the heat, the sound, and the agonizing proximity of an end.

“Kiss me,” Izuku whispered. “One last time.”

Katsuki’s mouth found his. It was slow. Deep. Tasting of water and despair and a love that had nowhere to live. Katsuki’s hands framed his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, and Izuku poured everything into the kiss—every secret thrill, every guilty pleasure, every shattered dream of a different life. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing raggedly.

“Go,” Katsuki rasped, dropping his hands. “I’ll wait. You go first.”

Izuku stepped out, the bathroom air chilling his wet skin. He toweled off with clumsy hands, pulled on fresh boxers and sweats, avoiding his own eyes in the fogged mirror. At the door, he paused, looked back. Katsuki stood under the spray, head bowed, water beating down on his neck and shoulders, a statue of regret.

Izuku slipped out into the silent hall. He passed the closed door to the room where Shoto still slept, his heart a frantic, painful drum in his chest. He made it to his childhood bedroom, opened the door, and closed it softly behind him. The darkness was familiar. The shape of Shoto under the covers was familiar. Nothing else was.

He slid into bed, his body cold. Shoto stirred, murmured something sleepy, and draped an arm over him, pulling him close. Izuku lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, smelling his own clean skin and feeling like the worst kind of liar in the world.

The sound was faint, but Izuku knew it by heart—the soft creak of the floorboard in the guest room, the heavy sigh of the mattress taking weight. Katsuki was back. He lay perfectly still, listening to the silence through the wall, Shoto’s warm arm a brand across his chest.

He closed his eyes, but the darkness was a movie reel. The feel of Katsuki’s hands. The taste of his kiss. The sore, well-used ache between his legs that flared with every slight shift. He tried to match his breathing to Shoto’s slow, even rhythm. He failed.

Time dissolved into a grey, guilt-soaked haze. He must have slept, because the next thing he knew, pale winter sun was striping the bedspread and Shoto was stirring beside him.

“Morning,” Shoto murmured, his voice rough with sleep. He nuzzled into the back of Izuku’s neck, his lips soft against his skin. “Merry Christmas.”

Izuku’s throat closed. “Merry Christmas,” he managed, the words sticking.

Shoto’s arm tightened around him. “You’re so tense. Did you sleep okay?” His hand slid down, smoothing over Izuku’s abdomen, and Izuku couldn’t stop the flinch.

“Yeah. Just… a lot of weird dreams.” Izuku rolled over to face him, forcing a smile. Shoto’s face was soft, his two-colored eyes full of a quiet, certain love. The sight was a physical blow.

“You feel a little warm,” Shoto said, pressing the back of his hand to Izuku’s forehead. “Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

“Maybe,” Izuku whispered, leaning into the touch. The lie was a stone in his gut.

Downstairs, the house was coming alive. The rich smell of coffee and frying bacon drifted up the stairs, mingled with the distant, cheerful chaos of multiple conversations and the rustle of wrapping paper. A child’s laugh—Eri’s—pealed like a bell.

“Sounds like the present vortex has already begun,” Shoto said, sitting up. He stretched, the muscles in his back shifting under his sleep shirt. “Your mom texted. She said to come down whenever we’re ready, but that Denki is already trying to shake every box under the tree.”

Izuku pushed himself up, his body protesting with a chorus of specific, secret aches. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dresser mirror as he stood—his hair a wild mess, a faint, purpling bruise visible just above the waistband of his sweats. He quickly yanked his sweater from the chair and pulled it on, hiding the mark.

When they entered the living room ten minutes later, it was a scene of comfortable chaos. The enormous tree glittered in the corner, a mountain of brightly wrapped gifts spilling out from its base. Inko was directing traffic with a spatula, her cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat. Toshinori, looking frail but beaming, was in his armchair, a stack of gift tags in his lap.

“Izuku! Shoto! Merry Christmas, my boys!” Inko hurried over, pulling them both into a hug that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. “We’re doing stockings first, then breakfast, then the main event. Go find a spot!”

Eri was kneeling by the hearth, carefully arranging miniature stockings. Hitoshi lounged on the sofa next to a hyper-energetic Denki, who was indeed holding a large, suspiciously rattly box to his ear. “I think it’s legos!” Denki announced.

“It’s for Eri, you heathen,” Hitoshi grumbled, but he was smiling, an arm slung over Denki’s shoulders.

Shota was slumped in a recliner, a massive mug of coffee in hand, looking profoundly aggrieved by the merriment. Hizashi, perched on the chair’s arm, was narrating the scene to him in an enthusiastic stage whisper.

And there, by the fireplace, stood Katsuki. He was already dressed in comfortable gray sweats and his famous black t-shirt with a skull, a mug of coffee clenched in his hand. Eijiro was beside him, talking animatedly, his red hair a bright splash against the muted tones of the room. Katsuki’s eyes flicked up as Izuku entered. They held for a fraction of a second—a bolt of raw, shared history—before Katsuki looked away, turning his head to say something gruff to his husband.

“You okay?” Shoto’s voice was low, close to his ear. His hand found the small of Izuku’s back, a steadying press.

“Yeah,” Izuku said, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. He watched as Eijiro laughed, throwing his head back, and slung a muscular arm around Katsuki’s shoulders. Katsuki allowed it, his posture rigid. “Just… taking it all in.”

Mitsuki bustled in from the kitchen with a tray of pastries. “Alright, everyone! Stockings! Find your name or fight for it, I don’t care!” Her sharp red eyes scanned the room and landed on Izuku. Her expression softened. “There’s my sweet grandson. Come give your Baba a proper hello.”

Izuku moved toward her, Shoto’s hand falling away from his back. As he passed the fireplace, he didn’t look at Katsuki. But he felt him. The awareness was a live wire in the air, humming beneath the Christmas carols and the wrapping paper’s tear.

The ache was a deep, throbbing heartbeat between his legs, flaring hot with every step toward the stockings. Izuku kept his smile fixed, accepting the fluffy green sock with his name stitched in silver thread from his grandmother. He knelt carefully on the rug, the simple movement pulling at muscles that remembered the greenhouse floor, Katsuki's hips, the desperate, sweaty climb of his own body.

"You look pale, sweetie," Inko said, pausing as she handed Shoto his stocking. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"I'm okay, Mom," Izuku said, his voice too bright. He busied himself pulling out a chocolate orange, a pair of warm socks, a tiny puzzle cube. His fingers trembled slightly.

"He was warm this morning," Shoto said, settling beside him, their thighs touching. Shoto's quiet, factual tone was a comfort and a curse. "Maybe a mild bug."

Across the hearth, Katsuki grunted as he pulled a bottle of high-end bourbon from his own stocking. Eijiro laughed, holding up a pair of novelty socks covered in cartoon sharks. "Babe, look! They've got little teeth!"

"Tch. Put those the hell away," Katsuki muttered, but there was no real heat in it. He took a long sip of his coffee, his crimson eyes cutting across the space between them. They landed on Izuku, just for a second. On the way his free hand was pressed against his own thigh, as if steadying himself. Izuku looked away first, his face burning.

"Found it!" Denki crowed, pulling a small, jewelry-sized box from the toe of Hitoshi's stocking. He shook it. "No rattle. This is the good stuff."

Hitoshi snatched it back with a long-suffering sigh. "It's a tie clip, you menace. For my interview next week."

"Boring," Denki sing-songed, then yelped when Hitoshi pinched his side.

The normalcy of it was a knife. Izuku focused on the weight of Shoto beside him, the clean, icy mint scent of his shampoo. He reached into his stocking again and his fingertips brushed something soft, silky. He pulled it out. A pair of boxer briefs, dark green, expensive cotton. The tag was from a boutique he'd mentioned liking months ago.

"Shoto," he whispered, the guilt a sudden, nauseating swell. "You didn't have to."

"I saw you looking at them online," Shoto said, his voice low and warm with pleasure. "You always chew your lip when you want something. I wanted you to have them."

Izuku’s throat tightened. He stared at the fabric, imagining wearing them, Shoto’s hands peeling them off later, and behind that thought came an unbidden, violent flash: Katsuki’s large hands hooking in the waistband of his sweats last night, yanking them down, his growl in Izuku’s ear. *Mine.*

"Thank you," he choked out, clutching the briefs like a lifeline. He leaned into Shoto, pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder, hiding his face. He could still feel Katsuki’s stare like a physical touch between his shoulder blades.

"Alright, scavengers!" Mitsuki clapped her hands. "Breakfast is served. Get it while it's hot or I'm feeding it to the dog."

The group began migrating toward the dining room, a noisy, cheerful procession. As Izuku stood, a sharp, familiar twinge made him stumble, a hand flying to the small of his back.

Katsuki’s voice, gruff and too close, came from just behind him. "Watch your step, nerd. Floor's uneven."

Izuku froze. Katsuki didn't touch him. He just stood there, a solid, radiating presence, his scent cutting through the aromas of breakfast—that cologne, and underneath it, the clean, male smell of the soap they’d shared in the shower. The soap Izuku had used to wash the come from Katsuki’s skin.

"I'm fine," Izuku breathed, not turning around.

"Yeah," Katsuki said, the word barely audible. It wasn't agreement. It was an acknowledgment of the lie. Then he was moving past, brushing against Izuku’s arm in the crowded space, a contact that sent a jolt of electricity straight to Izuku’s core. He walked away, following Eijiro into the dining room without a backward glance.

Shoto’s hand found his, lacing their fingers together. "You're shaking," he said, his heterochromatic eyes full of soft concern. "Let's get some food in you."

Izuku let himself be led, the phantom sensation of Katsuki’s arm against his own burning hotter than any fire in the hearth.

Izuku took his normal seat at the crowded dining table, the old wooden chair scraping against the floor. Katsuki was already seated to his left, methodically cutting into a stack of pancakes. Shoto settled on Izuku’s right, their knees bumping gently under the table.

As Izuku reached for the syrup, his hand dipped below the table’s edge. Katsuki’s hand was already there, waiting. Their pinkies brushed, then his whole palm. Katsuki’s fingers—rough, callused, warm—slid between his, lacing them together in a tight, hidden knot.

“You need to eat more than that, Izuku,” Inko said from across the table, passing a platter of bacon. “You’re too thin.”

“I’m eating, Mom,” Izuku said, his voice miraculously even. He speared a piece of fruit with his free hand, the other anchored to Katsuki’s, a secret tether in the chaos. Katsuki’s thumb stroked the back of his knuckle, a slow, deliberate pass that made Izuku’s breath catch.

“These pancakes are manly!” Eijiro announced, his knee bumping Katsuki’s other side. “You outdid yourself, babe.”

“They’re from a box, shitty hair,” Katsuki grunted, but his grip under the table tightened. His hand was a furnace, the pressure speaking a language only Izuku understood: *I’m here. This is real. This is the last time.*

Shoto leaned closer, his shoulder pressing into Izuku’s. “Is the fruit okay? You seem… distant.”

“It’s good,” Izuku whispered. He brought a strawberry to his mouth, the sweet burst of flavor a stark contrast to the salt of Katsuki’s skin he could still taste from memory. Under the table, Katsuki’s thumb found the sensitive skin of his wrist, right over his pulse. Izuku’s heart hammered against the press.

“So, Shoto,” Toshinori said, his voice warm and booming from the head of the table. “Izuku tells us you’re considering graduate programs in Cincinnati.”

“Yes, sir,” Shoto said, turning his attention politely. His movement shifted his thigh more firmly against Izuku’s. “The political science program there is the best fit for my thesis.”

As Shoto spoke, Katsuki’s finger traced the line of Izuku’s tendon, up to the soft inside of his forearm. The touch was excruciatingly slow, a brand being drawn on his skin. Izuku clenched his jaw, focusing on the pattern of the tablecloth. The ache between his legs, a sore, hollow throb from the night before, seemed to swell with every pass of Katsuki’s thumb.

“That’s wonderful,” Inko chimed in. “You two will be so close to home then.”

“Yeah, it’ll be great!” Eijiro beamed, leaning around Katsuki’s broad shoulders to smile at Shoto. “We live on the north side. You’ll have to come up for weekends. Katsuki’s been talking about building a deck. Could use the extra hands.”

The fork in Katsuki’s hand stilled against his plate. The slow, rhythmic stroke of his thumb against Izuku’s wrist stopped dead.

“Maybe,” Katsuki said, the word clipped and final. He didn’t look at anyone.

“We’d love that,” Shoto said, his voice warm with genuine pleasure. He squeezed Izuku’s knee under the table. “Wouldn’t we, Izuku?”

"Yeah," Izuku said, the word dragged out of him. He forced his eyes to meet Katsuki's next to him. Katsuki's gaze was a red-hot brand, unreadable to anyone else but screaming a silent warning, a plea, a good-bye. "We'd love that."

Shoto’s smile was a sunbeam, warming the side of Izuku’s face. "It's settled then."

Katsuki’s hand didn’t let go. Not when Toshinori asked for seconds on coffee. Not when Eri, giggling, dropped a fork with a clatter. The grip under the table was a silent, desperate anchor, his thumb resuming its slow, torturous sweep across Izuku’s knuckles.

“You two are awfully quiet over there,” Hizashi chirped, pointing his syrup-drenched fork between Katsuki and Izuku. “Cat got your tongues?”

Izuku’s breath hitched. Katsuki’s finger pressed hard into the divot between his knuckles, a warning or a plea.

“Just eating,” Katsuki grunted, not looking up from his plate. He cut another precise bite of pancake with his free hand. “Unlike some people who talk with their mouths full.”

“Hey!” Hizashi laughed, and the attention mercifully swung away.

Shoto’s knee pressed more firmly against Izuku’s. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” he murmured, his voice a private rumble. “You’re pale.”

“M’fine,” Izuku managed. The lie tasted like ash. Under the table, Katsuki’s pinky hooked around his, a tiny, intimate gesture that made his stomach swoop. “Just… a lot of rich food.”

“The presents won’t open themselves!” Mitsuki announced, pushing back from the table. “Everyone, clear your plates and meet in the living room in five. No dawdling!”

It was the signal. The room erupted into the clatter of cutlery and scraping chairs. Movement began all around them.

Katsuki’s hand tightened, a final, crushing squeeze that burned the bones of Izuku’s fingers. *This is it.* The pressure said everything. Then, as Eijiro stood up beside him, Katsuki let go.

The sudden absence was a physical shock, a cold void where solid heat had been. Izuku’s hand felt ghostly, naked. He stared at his own fingers, curled loosely on his thigh, as if they belonged to someone else.

“You coming, nerd?” Katsuki’s voice was rough, already moving away. He didn’t look back.

Izuku stood, his legs unsteady. The familiar, deep ache between his thighs pulsed with the motion, a stark reminder of why he was sore, a secret souvenir. He followed the crowd into the living room, where the tree glowed and wrapped packages formed a colorful mountain.

The gift exchange was a cheerful, noisy blur. Izuku sat on the floor beside Shoto, accepting sweaters and books and polite thanks with a smile that felt painted on. His entire being was tuned to one frequency: Katsuki, leaning against the far wall with Eijiro tucked against his side, watching the proceedings with a bored, brooding expression.

“This one’s for you,” Shoto said softly, placing a small, elegantly wrapped box in Izuku’s lap. “Open it last.”

Izuku’s heart dropped like a stone. The box was heavy. Velvet. He knew what it was without opening it. The promise, the future, the life he was supposed to want—it was here, in his hands, while the ghost of another man’s grip still throbbed on his skin.

Across the room, Katsuki’s red eyes locked onto the box. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking. He looked away first, down at his own husband, and said something that made Eijiro laugh brightly. The sound was a shard of glass in Izuku’s chest.

Izuku held the velvet box, the weight of it an anchor dragging him down into a cold, dark sea of his own making.

"Izuku." Katsuki's voice was a low rasp, cutting through the wrapping paper rustle. He stood before him, holding out a rectangular box wrapped in simple green paper. No bow. "Here, nerd."

Izuku stared at the box, then up at Katsuki's face. His uncle’s expression was unreadable, a careful mask of detached obligation. Slowly, Izuku took it. The weight was familiar, soft. He peeled the paper back, his fingers trembling.

Inside the cardboard was an old, vintage All Might plush bear. The fabric was faded, one stitch on the smile slightly frayed, but it was clean. It was identical to the one he’d lost at a park when he was six. He’d cried for weeks.

"Oh," Izuku breathed, the sound punched out of him. His vision blurred instantly. He clutched the bear to his chest, the soft, worn fabric against his palms a direct line to a childhood Katsuki had witnessed. "Kacchan. How did you…?"

"Found it," Katsuki muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. He wouldn't meet Izuku's watery gaze. "Online auction. Whatever."

A single tear tracked down Izuku's cheek, followed by another. He couldn't stop them. This wasn't just a gift. It was an apology, a memory, a confession of years of watching, of knowing him in a way no one else did. It was a goodbye.

"Wow, Kats, that's really thoughtful," Eijiro said, his voice warm and impressed. He squeezed Katsuki's shoulder. "You didn't tell me you tracked that down."

Shoto’s hand settled on Izuku's back, a steady, comforting pressure. "That's incredibly kind," he said to Katsuki, his tone respectful. He looked at Izuku, his heterochromatic eyes soft with concern. "You okay?"

Izuku nodded, unable to speak. He pressed his face into the bear’s head, hiding his crumbling expression. The scent was faintly of cedar, like Katsuki’s closet. He inhaled it like a lifeline.

"Aw, let the boy have his moment," Mitsuki chided, but her voice was thick. She swatted at Katsuki’s arm. "You softie. Pretending you're all rough."

Katsuki scowled, finally looking at Izuku. His crimson eyes held a storm—pride, pain, a possessive tenderness that made Izuku’s stomach clench. "It's just a stupid toy," he grumbled, but the usual bite wasn't there.

"Thank you," Izuku whispered, the words raw and only for Katsuki. He hugged the bear tighter, his knuckles white. The velvet box from Shoto sat heavy in his lap, a counterweight to the soft plush in his arms. Two futures. Two loves. Both impossible to hold.

Katsuki gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod. Then he turned, walking back to his spot by the wall, leaving Izuku holding the physical proof of every stolen, secret year between them.

Izuku’s gaze dragged across the room, a desperate, magnetic pull he couldn’t resist. It found Katsuki’s instantly. The man was leaning against the fireplace mantel, a half-drunk beer in hand, staring right back. Izuku’s lips parted, a silent, anguished question he couldn’t voice: *What do I do?*

Katsuki’s crimson eyes burned into his. He gave a single, sharp shake of his head, a command as clear as a shout: *Don’t.* Then he tipped his beer back, his throat working as he swallowed, breaking the contact.

“Izuku?” Shoto’s voice was close, too close. His cool fingers brushed the nape of Izuku’s neck. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m okay,” Izuku whispered, forcing a smile that felt like a crack in porcelain. He clutched the All Might bear in one arm, the velvet box a lead weight in his other hand. “Just… overwhelmed. It’s a lot.”

“Open it,” Shoto murmured, his heterochromatic eyes soft with anticipation. “Please.”

Izuku’s thumb found the seam of the velvet box. The room’s cheerful noise—the rustle of paper, Eri’s delighted gasp at a new book, Denki’s bright laughter—faded into a distant, tinny hum. He lifted the lid. It clicked, a soft, final sound.

Nestled inside, on a bed of black silk, was a ring. A simple, flawless platinum band, etched with a subtle, swirling pattern. It caught the tree lights and scattered them.

The world froze. The air solidified in his lungs. His vision tunneled, everything blurring except the ring and, across the room, Katsuki’s rigid form.

“Izuku Midoriya,” Shoto’s voice was quiet, reverent, cutting through the silence that only Izuku could hear. He was down on one knee. His heterochromatic eyes were wide, hopeful, unbearably beautiful. “Will you marry me?”

Izuku’s head snapped up, his gaze wrenching from the ring to Shoto’s face, then flying, desperate, to Katsuki. His uncle’s crimson eyes were locked on him, blazing. His beer bottle was clenched so tight his knuckles were white. He gave a minute, violent shake of his head. *Don’t you fucking dare.*

“No.”

The word fell from Izuku’s lips. Flat. Toneless. It wasn’t a refusal; it was a fact, pulled from a place deeper than thought.

The room’s real silence crashed in. Shoto’s face didn’t fall. It simply… emptied. The soft light in his eyes guttered out, replaced by a blank, chilling shock. “What?”

“I said no.” Izuku’s voice was a broken thing now. He shoved the box back at Shoto, the ring glinting like an accusation. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Izuku?” Inko’s voice was a bewildered whisper from the sofa.

“The hell is this?” Mitsuki barked, standing up.

Izuku couldn’t breathe. He staggered to his feet, holding the All Might bear close. He looked at Katsuki, a silent plea for… what? Rescue? Condemnation?

Katsuki shoved off the mantel, the beer bottle abandoned with a thud on the wood. He crossed the room in five long, ground-eating strides, his foot falls heavy on the floorboards. The shocked silence parted around him like water.

He didn’t stop at Izuku. He stepped between him and Shoto, his broad back blocking Izuku from view. “The fuck are you all staring at?” he barked at the room, his voice a whip-crack. “Show’s over.”

Shoto stared up at him, his face pale and utterly still. “This is between Izuku and me,” he said, his voice hollow but firm.

“It’s between him and whoever he says it is,” Katsuki snarled, not turning around. “And right now, he looks like he’s gonna pass the fuck out. Move.”

Katsuki’s hand closed around Izuku’s upper arm. His grip was iron, grounding and inescapable. “We’re leaving.” He didn’t ask. He stated it to the room, a low growl that cut through the rising murmur.

“Katsuki, what are you doing?” Inko’s voice trembled from the sofa.

“He needs air,” Katsuki snapped, not looking at her. He began steering Izuku, who moved like a sleepwalker, toward the archway that led to the hall. The All Might bear was a shield clutched to Izuku’s chest.

Shoto stood, a slow, unsteady motion. “Izuku. Talk to me. Please.” The ‘please’ was shattered glass.

Izuku opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked over his shoulder, his green eyes wide with panic and apology. Katsuki tightened his grip, pulling him forward. “He can’t. Not right now.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Shoto said, his voice gaining a sharp, cold edge. He took a step forward.

Katsuki stopped, turning just enough to fix Shoto with a look that could strip paint. “Watch me, pretty boy. He’s shaking apart. Your questions can wait.”

Eijiro moved then, placing a gentle hand on Katsuki’s other arm. “Babe, maybe let the family handle this—”

“Back off, Ei.” Katsuki’s voice dropped, deadly quiet. It wasn’t anger at his husband. It was a warning. “Not now.”

Eijiro’s red eyes widened, then softened with confusion and concern. He withdrew his hand, nodding slowly. “Okay. Okay, Kats.”

Katsuki shouldered through the archway, dragging Izuku into the dim, cool hallway. The cheerful noise of the living room became muffled, replaced by the frantic hammer of Izuku’s heart in his own ears. Katsuki didn’t stop until they were around the corner, near the closet under the stairs—a pocket of shadow and silence.

He released Izuku’s arm. “Breathe, nerd.” His voice was rough, but the command was softer now, meant only for him.

Izuku sagged against the wall, clutching the bear. A choked, wet sound escaped him. “I just… I said no. I said no to him.”

“I heard.” Katsuki stood close, his broad body blocking the view from the living room. His crimson eyes scanned Izuku’s face, reading every tremor. “You meant it?”

“Yes.” The word was a sob. “No. I don’t know. It just… came out.”

“It came out because it’s true.” Katsuki reached out, his thumb brushing a tear from Izuku’s cheek. The calloused pad of his finger was startlingly gentle. “You’re fucking terrified.”

“Everyone saw,” Izuku whispered, his gaze darting toward the living room light spilling into the hall. “My mom… your mom… Shoto…” His breath hitched. “His face.”

“Forget their faces.” Katsuki’s hand moved to the back of Izuku’s neck, a heavy, warm weight. “Look at me. Just me.”

Izuku dragged his eyes up. Katsuki’s expression was stripped raw—no smirk, no scowl. Just a fierce, terrifying focus. “What do I do now?” Izuku begged, his voice small.

“You survive the next five minutes,” Katsuki said. His thumb stroked the nape of Izuku’s neck. “Then the next five. You don’t think about tomorrow. You breathe.”

From the living room, Mitsuki’s voice carried, sharp and clear. “—need to go after him, that boy is clearly in shock!”

“He’s with Katsuki,” Eijiro’s voice answered, calm and reassuring. “He’s okay.”

“Like hell he’s okay!” That was Shoto, the calm finally cracking. “He just refused my proposal. He’s not okay, he’s— I need to see him.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. His hand stayed on Izuku’s neck, an anchor. “You want to go back in there?” he asked, his voice low.

Izuku shook his head violently, fresh tears spilling. “I can’t. I can’t see his face again. Not yet.”

“Then you stay here.” Katsuki dropped his hand. “I’ll handle it. You don’t move. You breathe.”

He turned, but Izuku’s free hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Katsuki’s black tee. “Don’t leave.” The words were a child’s plea, desperate and ashamed.

Katsuki looked down at the white-knuckled grip on his shirt. Something in his eyes fractured.

Katsuki kissed him.

Not gentle. Not asking. His mouth crashed down on Izuku’s, a hard, desperate press of lips that tasted like salt and panic. It was a dangerous comfort, a claiming in the shadowed hallway where anyone could round the corner. Izuku gasped against him, his fingers twisting tighter in Katsuki’s shirt, the stuffed bear crushed between their chests.

“Breathe through your nose, nerd,” Katsuki muttered against his mouth, his own breath hot and ragged. He didn’t pull back. He licked into Izuku’s mouth, deep and consuming, a tangible anchor in the freefall.

Izuku moaned, a broken, wet sound. He kissed back, all teeth and clashing lips, pouring every shred of his terror into it. The bear’s fuzzy ear scratched his chin.

From the living room, Shoto’s voice rose, strained and getting closer. “—just need a moment with him, please—”

Katsuki tore his mouth away, resting his forehead against Izuku’s. Their breaths mingled, shaky and syncopated. “Five minutes,” he repeated, his voice gravel. “You stay here. I’ll send them all to hell.”

“They’ll know,” Izuku whispered, his eyes screwed shut. “If you go out there like this… they’ll see it on you.”

“Let them see.” Katsuki’s thumb stroked his cheekbone, wiping away moisture. “They already saw you break that pretty boy’s heart while looking at me. The cat’s fucking out, Izuku.”

The use of his given name, not ‘nerd’, hit like a physical blow. Izuku’s eyes flew open. “Kacchan…”

“Don’t.” Katsuki’s jaw worked. “Don’t say my name like that. Not now.” He finally stepped back, peeling Izuku’s clutching fingers from his shirt. The cotton was damp with sweat. “Sit. Breathe. I’ll be back.”

He turned, and this time Izuku let him go, sliding down the wall until his knees hit the hardwood. He hugged the All Might bear to his face, inhaling the faint scent of old plush and, beneath it, the greenhouse and Katsuki’s skin.

Katsuki rounded the corner back into the living room archway. The festive light hit him, highlighting the flush on his neck, the swollen set of his lips. He planted himself in the center of the opening, a broad, unmovable barrier.

Shoto stood five feet away, his face pale, the platinum ring box still open in his hand. Inko was crying silently into Toshinori’s shoulder. Mitsuki looked furious. Eijiro just looked lost.

“Okay,” Katsuki said, his voice cutting through the thick silence. “Listen up. The kid is having a fucking panic attack. He’s not coming back in here. The holiday is over. For him.”

Shoto stared, the ring box trembling in his hand. “He’s my fiancé. I have a right—”

“He’s not your fiancé,” Katsuki snarled, the words a vicious, clean slice. “He just said no. In front of God and everyone. That makes him your ex-boyfriend. And right now, he’s my nephew, in his house, and you don’t get a goddamn thing.”

Inko gasped, fresh tears welling. “Katsuki, you can’t just—”

“I can. I am.” He didn’t look away from Shoto. “He’s staying in the guest room down the hall. Alone. No visitors. No conversations. Not until he’s breathing right and his hands aren’t shaking. Anyone tries to get past me, I’ll put them through the fucking wall.”

Eijiro stood, his gentle face strained. “Babe, maybe we should all just take a breath—”

“Not you either, Ei.” Katsuki’s voice lost none of its edge. “This isn’t a discussion. It’s a fact. The party’s over. Eat your ham. Open your presents. But you leave him the hell alone.”

Shoto took a step forward, his composure a thin, cracking veneer. “You don’t get to decide that. You’re not his father. You’re just his… uncle.” The word hung in the air, heavy with a new, sickening suspicion.

Katsuki’s smile was all teeth. “Yeah. I am. And in this family, when someone is breaking, the uncles handle it. You’re not family yet. You might never be. So back the fuck up.”

From his spot on the floor, Izuku could see the rigid line of Katsuki’s back, the way his fists were clenched at his sides. He was a fortress. A furious, terrible fortress built just for him.

Shoto’s heterochromatic eyes glistened. He looked past Katsuki, his voice dropping to a shattered whisper meant for Izuku alone. “Izuku? Please. Look at me.”

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the bear’s face into his own. He couldn’t. The shame was a physical acid, eating through his ribs.

“He’s not looking,” Katsuki stated, final as a coffin nail. “Hitoshi. Take Shoto into the kitchen. Get him a drink. Keep him there.”

From the couch, Hitoshi Shinso stood with a weary sigh, his indigo hair messy. He placed a hand on Shoto’s stiff shoulder. “Come on, man. You don’t want this fight right now.”

Shoto shook him off, but the movement was weak. The fight was draining out of him, replaced by a dawning, horrific understanding. His gaze flicked from Katsuki’s possessive stance to the hallway shadows where Izuku hid. The pieces clicked. His face went ashen.

“Oh,” Shoto breathed, the sound hollow. The ring box snapped shut in his hand.

“You,” Shoto said, the single syllable dropping into the silence like a stone into still water. He wasn’t looking at Katsuki’s face anymore. He was staring at his mouth—at the kiss-swollen lips, at the faint, telltale gleam of saliva. His heterochromatic eyes, wide with dawning horror, lifted to meet Katsuki’s defiant glare. “And him.”

Katsuki didn’t flinch. He didn’t deny it. He just stood there, a blockade of muscle and rage, and said nothing.

“Izuku,” Shoto called again, his voice cracking. It wasn’t a shout. It was a plea, stripped raw. “Is it true?”

From the hallway floor, Izuku curled tighter around the bear. The plush fabric scratched his cheek. He could smell Katsuki on it. He could taste him on his own lips. His throat locked, trapping the confession, the apology, the scream.

“He’s not answering you,” Katsuki growled, but the menace was thinner now, stretched over the skeleton of truth.

“I wasn’t asking you.” Shoto took another step, his movements jerky, like a marionette with cut strings. The closed ring box was a white-knuckled fist at his side. “I need to hear it from him. Izuku. Look at me. Tell me you didn’t… with him.” The word ‘uncle’ didn’t come out. It didn’t need to.

Inko was sobbing openly now, her face buried in Toshinori’s chest. Toshinori held her, his own skeletal frame rigid, his sunken eyes fixed on Katsuki with a look of profound, weary betrayal. “Katsuki,” he said, his voice a hollow rasp. “Tell me he’s wrong.”

Katsuki’s jaw worked. A muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn’t look at his brother-in-law. He kept his crimson eyes on Shoto. “Get back.”

“Oh my god,” Hizashi whispered, his hand flying to his mouth. Beside him, Shota just closed his eyes, his expression pained, as if he’d seen this wreck coming miles away.

Eijiro made a small, hurt sound. “Babe…?”

“Not now, Ei,” Katsuki bit out, but the command lacked its earlier heat. It sounded tired. Final.

Shoto ignored them all. He took another step, coming within arm’s reach of Katsuki. The air between them vibrated with unspeakable things. “You’re his uncle,” Shoto whispered, the words slicing clean through the festive air. “You’re forty. He’s twenty. You’ve known him since he was a child. You watched him grow up. And you… you put your hands on him?”

Katsuki’s control snapped. “You think I don’t know that?” he roared, the sound tearing from his throat. “You think I haven’t counted every fucking year, every birthday, every Christmas since he was a kid in All Might pajamas? You think this is easy?”

The admission hung in the air, toxic and undeniable. Inko wailed.

Shoto stared, his face a mask of revulsion and heartbreak. “You’re sick.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki agreed, a bitter, broken laugh escaping him. “I am. But he’s mine. He has been. And you don’t get to stand there in your perfect sweater with your perfect ring and judge what you don’t understand.”

“I understand betrayal,” Shoto shot back, his voice rising. “I understand the man I love looking at you while destroying me. I understand that the person I trusted most in this family is a predator.”

“Stop,” Izuku croaked from the floor.

Every head turned toward the hallway shadows.

He had pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the wall. The bear dangled from one hand. His face was pale, tear-streaked, his green eyes huge and shattered. He looked at Shoto, and the love and guilt there was so palpable it choked the room. “Don’t… don’t call him that. It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Izuku?” Shoto asked, his composure shattering into a thousand sharp pieces. “Explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like your uncle has been fucking you in my bed while I slept beside you.”

The vulgarity, coming from Shoto’s usually measured mouth, was more devastating than any of Katsuki’s shouts. Izuku flinched as if struck.

“It’s my fault,” Izuku whispered, the words barely audible. “I wanted it. I’ve always… I watched him first.”

Shoto recoiled. The last of the color drained from his face. The ring box slipped from his fingers and hit the hardwood with a dull, final thud.

Shoto stared at the fallen ring box for one more second, his expression completely blank. Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the living room. His steps were eerily silent on the hardwood. The front door opened, a blast of cold air slicing through the warm, pine-scented room, and then clicked shut with a soft, final sound.

The silence he left behind was thicker than the shouting. It was a vacuum, sucking the air out of the room.

“Shoto, wait!” Izuku cried, lurching away from the wall. He took two stumbling steps before his legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees on the floorboards, the bear tumbling from his grip.

Katsuki didn’t go after him. He stood, a statue of conflict, his chest heaving. His red eyes were fixed on Izuku’s crumpled form.

“Someone should go after him,” Hizashi whispered, his voice uncharacteristically small. “It’s freezing. He doesn’t have a coat.”

“Let him go,” Katsuki growled, the words rasping out of him. “Just… let him go.”

Inko pushed away from Toshinori, her face a mess of tears and fury. She pointed a trembling finger at her brother. “You. You did this. In my house. With my child.”

“He’s not a child, Inko,” Katsuki shot back, but the defiance was hollow, automatic.

“He is MY child!” she screamed, the sound raw and guttural. “You changed his diapers! You taught him to ride a bike! What is wrong with you?”

Toshinori placed a skeletal hand on her shoulder, his own face aged a decade in minutes. “Inko. Please.” His sunken eyes found Katsuki. “Is it true? All of it?”

Katsuki’s jaw worked. He looked at Izuku, who was shaking on the floor, silent tears streaming down his face. He looked at Eijiro, whose usually bright eyes were wide with a dawning, horrible hurt. He squared his shoulders. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Eijiro made a small, punched-out sound. “The… the nights you said you couldn’t sleep? The early mornings?”

“Ei,” Katsuki said, his voice dropping, pleading for the first time.

“No.” Eijiro shook his head, his spiky red hair trembling. “Don’t ‘Ei’ me. With Izuku? Your nephew? Katsuki, what the fuck?”

From the floor, Izuku wrapped his arms around himself, rocking slightly. “It’s my fault,” he choked out again, a broken record. “I let him. I wanted him to.”

“Stop saying that,” Katsuki snarled, turning on him. “You don’t get to take the blame for my sickness. You hear me, nerd? This is on me.”

Hitoshi let out a long, weary sigh and walked over to Izuku. He knelt, his movements tired but deliberate, and picked up the All Might bear. He pressed it back into Izuku’s arms. “Hold onto this,” he muttered, his violet eyes grim. “You’re gonna need it.”

Eijiro stared at Katsuki for one more second, his expression a crumpling landscape of hurt and disbelief. Then he turned, his broad shoulders slumping, and walked out of the living room without another word.

The sound of the front door opening and closing again, softer this time, was somehow worse than Shoto’s exit.

Katsuki flinched, a full-body tremor. He looked at the empty space where his husband had been, his red eyes wide and lost.

“He’ll come back,” Hizashi offered weakly, his voice stripped of its usual volume.

“Will he?” Mitsuki’s voice cut through, sharp and cold. She stood from her armchair, her posture rigid. She looked at her son, not with fury, but with a profound, weary disappointment that seemed to age her on the spot. “You threw away a good man. For what? A fantasy? A sickness?”

“It’s not a fantasy,” Katsuki growled, but it lacked heat. It was just sound.

“Then what is it, Katsuki?” Toshinori asked, his deep voice a quiet rumble. He still held Inko, who wept silently into his sweater. “You’ve destroyed two relationships in ten minutes. You’ve broken your nephew. Look at him.”

All eyes returned to Izuku. He hadn’t moved from his knees. He clutched the All Might bear to his chest like a lifeline, his face buried in its plush head. His shoulders shook with silent, violent sobs.

“Someone get him off the floor,” Shota said, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. He didn’t move himself.

Hitoshi sighed again and slid an arm around Izuku’s shoulders. “C’mon, Izu. Up.”

Izuku resisted, a feeble shake of his head. “I can’t. I broke everything.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not doing it alone from the look of it,” Hitoshi muttered, hauling him up with a grunt. Izuku’s legs buckled, and Hitoshi took his full weight, guiding him to the couch. Izuku collapsed into the cushions, curling in on himself.

Katsuki took a step toward him, but Inko moved, placing herself between her brother and her son. “Don’t you come near him,” she hissed, her tears dry now, replaced by a terrifying maternal ferocity. “You don’t get to touch him ever again.”

“He needs—”

“He needs you to disappear!” Inko shouted, her voice cracking. “He was happy! He had a future! What did you give him? Secrets and shame in the dark!”

“Mom, stop,” Izuku whispered from the couch, but the words were swallowed by the fabric of the bear.

“No, Izuku, I will not stop.” Inko turned her devastated gaze on her son. “Did he force you? Tell me the truth. Did he threaten you? Coerce you?”

“He didn’t force me!” Izuku’s voice tore from his throat, raw and loud. He pushed himself upright on the couch, his green eyes blazing through his tears. He clutched the bear so hard the seams strained. “It was all me. I wanted it. I wanted him.”

Inko stared, her hand falling from its point. “Izuku…”

“No, Mom.” He was shaking, his breath coming in ragged hitches. “You asked. So listen. He didn’t coerce me. He didn’t threaten me. I went to him. I… I love him.”

The word landed in the silent room like a physical object, heavy and grotesque and irrevocable.

Katsuki made a sound like he’d been gutted. “Don’t,” he rasped.

“It’s true,” Izuku insisted, his gaze locking on his uncle’s shattered face. “You asked me what it was. It’s that. I’m in love with him. I have been… I don’t even know how long.”

Inko took a stumbling step backward, collapsing against Toshinori’s chest. Her face had gone ashen. “You love him,” she repeated, the words hollow with disbelief. “Your uncle.”

“Yes.” Izuku’s defiance crumbled into a whisper. “And I know what that makes me. I know it’s sick. I know it ruined Shoto. It ruined everything. But it’s the truth.”

Mitsuki closed her eyes, a single tear tracking through her powder. “Oh, Katsuki. What have you done to this boy?”

“He didn’t *do* anything to me!” Izuku cried, his voice breaking. “I’m not a victim. I’m just… I’m just in love with the wrong person.”

Katsuki was staring at the floor, his broad shoulders slumped. The fight had drained out of him, leaving a hollow shell. “You shouldn’t be,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “You shouldn’t fucking be.”

“Well, I am!” Izuku shouted, a fresh wave of sobs wrenching free. “And now he’s leaving, and Shoto’s gone, and I have nothing. I chose nothing.”

Hitoshi, still standing by the couch, let out a low breath. “Damn, Izu.”

Toshinori gently guided Inko to a chair. His own hands were trembling. “Izuku, son… this… this isn’t love. This is a tragedy.”

“You don’t get to define it for me!” Izuku snapped, the anger sudden and fierce. It was the same fire he’d shown in the greenhouse, the same claiming. “You don’t know what it felt like. You don’t know how he looked at me like I was everything. No one has ever looked at me like that.”

Katsuki’s head jerked up, his crimson eyes meeting Izuku’s across the ruined living room. The pain in them was naked, unbearable.

Izuku shoved himself off the couch. He crossed the space in three stumbling steps and crashed into Katsuki, his arms locking around his uncle’s waist in a vise-like grip. He buried his face in the black fabric of Katsuki’s shirt, his entire body shaking. “I’m not letting go,” he sobbed, the words muffled. “They can all… they can all get used to this. I love you. That’s not changing.”

Katsuki stiffened, his arms hanging at his sides. He stared over Izuku’s head at his family’s horrified faces. “Izuku… let go.”

“No.” Izuku’s fingers clawed into the back of Katsuki’s shirt. “You’re not leaving. Not like this.”

“Kid, you have to,” Katsuki rasped, but his voice broke. He didn’t push him away.

Inko made a choked sound. “Izuku, please.”

“He’s my choice,” Izuku cried, lifting his tear-streaked face. He looked at his mother, his father, his grandmother. His green eyes were wide, desperate, shining with a truth that terrified them. “You asked for the truth. This is it. I’m choosing him.”

“You’re not choosing anything,” Mitsuki said, her voice flat with defeat. “You’re drowning. And he’s the anchor.”

Katsuki flinched. His hands came up, hovered over Izuku’s trembling back. He looked at his own mother, at the devastation he’d carved into her face. “She’s right,” he whispered, the words meant only for the curls under his chin. “Let me go, nerd. Before I ruin you worse.”

Izuku’s hold only tightened. He could feel the hard planes of Katsuki’s abdomen against his own softer stomach, the frantic beat of his uncle’s heart. “You already did. So stay. Ruin me with you.”

“God,” Hitoshi breathed from the couch, watching the wreckage. Denki had come to sit beside him, his sunny face pale with shock.

“Katsuki.” Toshinori’s voice was a low, trembling command. “End this. Now.”

Katsuki’s eyes screwed shut. A tremor ran through his powerful frame. For a long, silent moment, the only sounds were Izuku’s wet, ragged breaths against his chest and the faint crackle of the dying fire.

Then, slowly, his arms came down. They wrapped around Izuku, pulling him closer, one hand splaying wide between his shoulder blades, the other tangling in his green curls. He held him like something precious and stolen. He buried his face in Izuku’s hair and breathed him in. “Fuck,” he choked out, a raw, broken thing. “Fuck.”

Inko turned away, hiding her face in Toshinori’s chest. Mitsuki sank back into her chair, looking every one of her sixty-eight years.

“That’s it, then,” Shota said, his tone devoid of all emotion. He stood. “The show’s over. Hizashi, get Eri to our room. Now.”

Hizashi, uncharacteristically silent, nodded. He took Eri’s hand and guided the wide-eyed girl from the room without a word.

Izuku didn’t see them go. He was clinging, his tears soaking through Katsuki’s shirt. He could feel the solid reality of him, the heat, the scent of him that was home and sin all at once. “Don’t leave,” he whispered again, a mantra against Katsuki’s sternum.

Katsuki didn’t answer. He just held on, his own chest heaving in a silent storm. His fingers tightened in Izuku’s hair, not to pull him away, but to keep him there. To memorize the feel.

Hitoshi pushed himself off the couch. He didn’t look at his fathers or his aunt. He walked across the room until he stood directly in front of the tangled, shaking shape of his uncle and his cousin. He crossed his arms, his violet eyes heavy. “This feels more wrong.”

Katsuki’s head lifted slightly, his gaze wary. “What?”

“Taking them away from each other,” Hitoshi said, his voice a low monotone that cut through the thick silence. “Watching you try to peel him off. That feels more wrong than your relationship does. So it can’t be the right thing.”

Inko stared at her nephew. “Hitoshi, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m not saying it’s right,” Hitoshi clarified, his eyes never leaving the two men clinging together. “I’m saying forcing them apart right now, in front of everyone, after all that… it’s just cruelty for cruelty’s sake. Look at them.”

Izuku’s grip on Katsuki’s shirt was white-knuckled. Katsuki’s arms were locked around him, his face buried, his broad back heaving. They were a single, shattered unit.

“They need to be separated,” Toshinori insisted, but his voice lacked its earlier force.

Hitoshi didn’t flinch under the collective stare. “No, they don’t need to be separated. Not like this. They care about each other. They’re both adults. It’s cruel to tear them apart when they love each other this much.”

Denki, who had been clinging to Hitoshi’s sleeve, nodded, his sunny face earnest. “Yeah. I mean, it’s super unconventional and messy, but… who are they really hurting anymore? Shoto and Eijiro already left. Forcing them to let go now just feels like punishment.”

“It *is* punishment,” Mitsuki said, her voice hollow. “For breaking every rule in this family.”

Shota’s tired voice cut through the heavy silence, low and final. “He’s right.”

Every head in the room turned to him. He hadn’t moved from his spot by the fireplace, his dark eyes fixed on the two men clinging together. He looked, as always, profoundly exhausted. “What rule did they break, exactly? Don’t fall in love with each other? You don’t think they’ve been telling themselves that for years?”

Mitsuki stared at him. “Shota—”

“They’ve been the dark secret in this family,” Shota continued, his tone flat. “Now it’s just not a secret anymore. What’s the functional difference? The damage is done. Shoto’s gone. Eijiro’s gone. The Christmas is ruined. Tearing them apart in the middle of the floor doesn’t fix a goddamn thing. It just adds spectacle to the misery.”

Inko shook her head, fresh tears spilling. “It’s wrong. It’s sick.”

“Probably,” Shota agreed, shrugging one shoulder. “But my kid has a point. Look at them.” He gestured with a jerk of his chin. Katsuki had begun to shake, fine tremors running through the arms locked around Izuku. Izuku’s knuckles were bone-white where he fisted Katsuki’s shirt. “You think more pain is the correct prescription here? They’re already drowning in it.”

Hitoshi let out a slow breath, glancing at his father with something like gratitude. “They need to talk. Alone. Not with everyone staring at them like they’re zoo exhibits.”

“Absolutely not,” Toshinori said, but the fight was leaching from his voice, replaced by a deep, weary confusion.

“Then what’s your solution, Toshi?” Shota asked, his black eyes narrowing. “You gonna pry Izuku off him? You gonna carry Katsuki out of the house? They’re grown men. They made a choice. A fucked-up choice. But it’s theirs. You don’t have to bless it. You just have to stop making the aftermath worse.”

Katsuki’s face was still buried in Izuku’s hair. His breath hitched, a wet, ragged sound. Izuku tightened his hold, his own body trembling with the force of his silent sobs.

Denki nodded vigorously, his yellow eyes wide. “Hitoshi and Mr. Aizawa are right. This… this feels like we’re kicking them when they’re down. And they’re already down. Like, really down.”

Mitsuki looked from her broken son to her devastated daughter. Her shoulders slumped. The fight left her all at once, leaving a hollow-eyed woman in its place. “Fine,” she whispered. “Fine. Take them. Get them out of my sight.”

Hitoshi moved. He stepped forward and placed a hand lightly on Katsuki’s heaving shoulder. “Uncle. Come on. Izuku’s room. Just for a minute.”

Katsuki didn’t lift his head. His voice was a wrecked scrape. “Can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Hitoshi said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He looked at Izuku. “Both of you. Walk, or I’ll drag you. But you’re leaving this room.”

Slowly, as if moving through tar, Katsuki’s arms loosened. Izuku made a frantic noise and clung harder. “Izuku,” Katsuki breathed, the word a plea. “Let go. Just… just for a minute.”

The raw vulnerability in his uncle’s voice did what no command could. Izuku’s fingers unclenched, one by one. He pulled back just enough to look up into Katsuki’s face. Tear tracks cut through the faint stubble on his cheeks. His crimson eyes were bloodshot, shattered.

“Together,” Izuku whispered, his own voice raw.

Katsuki nodded, a tiny, broken movement. He kept one arm locked around Izuku’s shoulders as he turned them both, using his body to shield Izuku from the stares of their family. He didn’t look at anyone as Hitoshi guided them, a steady pressure on Katsuki’s back, out of the ruined living room and into the quiet, darkness of Izuku’s room.