Chapter Text
The benches were cluttered with half-zipped gym bags, towels slung carelessly over hooks, and the hum of flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like an anxious heartbeat. The locker room was alive with chatter and laughter, heroes unwinding after a long, grueling day.
Izuku didn’t mind the noise. In fact, he’d grown to find comfort in it. The bustle, the banter, the shared exhaustion, it grounded him. He sat toward the back, damp hair sticking to his forehead as he ruffled a towel through it, phone in his other hand, thumb lazily scrolling. His muscles ached, but in that satisfying way, like the warmth left behind after a hot shower at the end of a hard day.
His suit was folded neatly inside his locker, and he was halfway through pulling a clean compression shirt over his head when he heard it.
The voices dipped low, like secrets passed behind cupped hands, but they weren’t trying all that hard to keep him out.
“Seriously, I don’t get it,” someone muttered, the sound of a locker slamming behind them.
“How the hell is he number three? He looks like he’s one bad meal away from passing out.”
A louder scoff followed. “You mean one too many meals. Have you seen him lately? Looks like his suit’s doing overtime just to hold everything in.”
“Right?” another voice added, snickering. “He waddles more than he walks. Like a knock-off All Might who gave up halfway through training.”
The laughter that followed was too loud, too cruel.
“And that face, man. He always looks like he’s about to cry. If I looked like that, I’d be hiding behind my mask too. Or better yet—staying off the damn battlefield.”
Izuku’s hands paused, caught in the hem of his shirt.
It was brief. Two seconds, maybe three. Long enough to sting. Long enough to sear.
He finished pulling the shirt down, fingers fumbling over the stretch of fabric. His heart had dropped into his stomach so quickly it felt like vertigo.
He didn’t turn around. Didn’t say anything.
Instead, he reached into his locker for his hoodie, he hadn’t even meant to wear it, not when the heat outside was brutal and sticky, but suddenly, the idea of layering up felt right .
Protective.
The conversations around him didn’t pause. The others didn’t even notice.
He smiled, just a little, jaw tight.
It was fine.
They probably didn’t even mean anything by it. Just stupid talk. Locker room nonsense. It didn’t mean anything.
Except it did.
The words stuck to his skin more stubbornly than sweat. It wasn’t even what they said, it was the tone. The way they’d laughed. So casual. So careless.
Like it was obvious. Like everyone in the room must’ve thought the same.
He sat on the bench a little longer, head ducked, fingers tightening the hoodie around his waist. No one spoke to him. No one even really looked at him. He was grateful and sick about it all at once.
By the time he left the building, the sun was already sinking low, bleeding streaks of red, orange, and soft pink across the sky. It was beautiful in that way that almost felt cruel—like the world was too gentle for how heavy he felt inside.
He walked slowly, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, head down like the concrete had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the city. His damp hair clung to his forehead, already starting to curl in the cooling air.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Kacchan:
-Hey getting groceries, need anything?
Izuku thought about it a bit. He was craving those strawberry candies that always made him feel better on his bad days, the same exact ones Katsuki kept hidden somewhere in their apartment.
He hesitated.
He waddles more than he walks.
The words from the locker room replayed with perfect clarity, sharp and sour.
His stomach twisted.
All of a sudden, he wasn’t hungry anymore.
Izuku:
All good! Get home safe.
Even his text felt fake. He stared at it for a second too long, like the screen might blink back with something more honest.
With a soft sigh, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and headed for the station. His footsteps echoed off the sidewalk, just a little too loud in the evening quiet.
The air outside had cooled, brushing against his damp clothes and clinging to the sweat still drying on his back. He pulled his hood up, more out of habit than cold, head ducked like he was trying to make himself smaller.
Invisible.
By the time he reached the platform, the sun was nearly gone, swallowed by the skyline. The train lights glowed against the steel rails like tired eyes, and Izuku sank onto the nearest bench, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
The world moved around him—people chatting, footsteps rushing, the soft rumble of a train approaching—but it all felt distant. Like he was watching it from behind glass.
The train arrived with a low mechanical groan, brakes screeching against the tracks. Izuku stood when the doors slid open, letting the crowd spill out before he stepped in, head down, shoulders curled in like he was trying not to take up too much space.
He found an empty corner near the back, tucked between a fogged-up window and the cold metal pole. No one paid him much attention. They rarely did when he wasn’t in costume.
The train lurched forward, and he swayed slightly with the motion, hand gripping the pole even though his legs could've easily kept him balanced. The train rattled on, a low hum beneath his feet as the city blurred past the windows.
Izuku stared out, but not at the passing streets. His gaze had caught on something closer—his own reflection in the glass.
It was faint, blurred by smudges and city lights, but still there. Freckles scattered across pale skin like someone forgot to finish drawing the stars. Curls sticking to his forehead, damp and stubborn. A slightly too-long nose. Tired green eyes that didn’t quite shine like they used to.
He didn’t look bad.
Just… not good.
Average.
Forgettable.
Ugly.
It shouldn’t have mattered. He knew he wasn’t a model. He never had been. His arms were scarred, his hands rough. His freckles were so uneven it looked like a mistake. His thighs were thicker than his costume designer liked. His stomach curved out more than in.
But he was a hero. He saved lives. He smiled at civilians and carried kids out of rubble. He caught villains three times his size and still showed up the next day with bruises and a thank you note for the janitors.
So why did this—a whisper, a laugh—hit harder than any villain ever had?
His reflection blinked back at him, small and slouched and silent.
He looked away.
The lights in the apartment stayed off.
Izuku stepped inside and didn’t bother turning them on. He didn’t want brightness. Didn’t want to see too much of anything—not the living room, not the photos on the wall, not himself.
Especially not himself.
His hoodie stuck to his back like a second skin, damp with sweat from the train ride and the walk home. He hadn’t realized how hot it was. Or maybe he had. Maybe he just didn’t want to give his body any more attention than it already demanded.
The phone buzzed in his pocket again. He didn’t look at it.
He moved to the bedroom like a ghost, slow and unsteady, each step sinking instead of carrying him forward. The air felt heavier in here, too still. He stood there for a moment, in the middle of the room, unsure why he’d come in, unsure if he even wanted to be anywhere at all.
And then his eyes drifted to the mirror.
It sat in the far corner. Innocuous. Silent.
But something about it looked… dangerous.
He walked to it like it might bite. Each step felt too loud on the wooden floor. His breath was shallow. His heartbeat stuttering. Like he was about to face something monstrous.
And when he stopped in front of it, when his reflection came into view, he knew he had.
He looked like someone paused halfway through existing.
His hair was still damp from the earlier shower, curls frizzed and curling awkwardly at the ends.
His cheeks were blotchy. His eyes—his eyes looked like they’d been emptied out, hollow and glassy like a snow globe someone shook and never set down.
He stared.
“You’re fine,” he said, voice low and clipped.
It didn’t shake. Not yet.
“You’re fine,” he tried again, softer. “They were just being stupid. It was a joke. It wasn’t… it wasn’t about you.”
But the words snagged on something sharp in his throat.
Because it was .
It had been.
He closed his eyes. And still, the voices came.
Not the locker room. Worse. Older.
Middle school.
Laughter in hallways. Words spat like gum on the floor.
Freak.
Quirkless mutt.
You run weird.
What kind of guy has thighs like that?
Look at his freckles—he looks diseased.
He opened his eyes and yanked the hoodie up and off, like it burned. The sudden air against his skin made him flinch. He stood there in just his boxers, arms at his sides, staring.
The overhead fan stirred the air in slow, mocking circles.
He hated what he saw.
His arms looked soft in the wrong places. His stomach curved—not flat, not tight, just… there. His thighs stretched the fabric of his boxers a little too much.
He turned sideways, as if from that angle it might hurt less.
It didn’t.
He pinched at the skin on his hip, watching it fold, watching it push back. It wasn’t a lot. Not really. But right now, it looked like too much. It felt like too much.
“Gross,” he muttered.
“Why do I look like this?”
His voice cracked open.
“God, I look awful.”
He tugged a hand through his curls—hard—fingers snagging. He did it again, a little harder, like if he pulled hard enough, something inside him would click back into place. Something would stop spinning.
Nothing did.
His reflection wavered in the mirror, blurred not by the glass—but by his own tears.
And the memories came fast and sharp—flashbacks like fists:
Being shoved during gym.
The look of disgust on a classmate’s face.
That middle school festival insult— “You’re already ugly, Deku. Now your face matches your body.”
The tears came before he could stop them.
He blinked hard. No, no, no—stop, stop, stop.
He wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore. Not now. Not after everything.
But here he was again.
Twenty-four. Ranked number three. A professional hero. Married to the man of his dreams.
Still crying in front of a mirror.
He didn’t even hear the door open.
Not until,
“Babe?” Katsuki’s voice was low, tired, and warm.
Izuku flinched like he'd been electrocuted. He grabbed the hoodie off the floor and yanked it over his head with shaking hands, tugging it down fast like it might erase everything he'd just been.
He wiped at his face, too hard, and turned just as Katsuki stepped into the doorway.
“Hey,” he said quickly. Too quickly. Too bright.
Katsuki blinked. His eyes narrowed just slightly, instantly suspicious.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Izuku lied, voice too high. “Just… hot. Took the hoodie off for a sec.”
Katsuki didn’t respond right away. He just looked. His gaze lingered—sharp, observant, gentle , even when his brow furrowed.
“You look pale.”
Izuku laughed all soft, and forced, like it hurt. “Probably just hungry.”
Katsuki didn’t press. He rarely did, not at first. He gave Izuku space to open the door himself.
But his eyes stayed locked on him. He didn’t move.
Izuku couldn’t hold the stare. He brushed past him, heart pounding so loud it echoed in his ears. His footsteps felt hollow. Off-balance.
The hoodie clung to his back again—sticky, suffocating.
He tugged at it, but it didn’t sit right. Nothing did.
And all he could think, as he walked into the kitchen, pretending to be fine, pretending to be hungry, pretending to be okay, was:
How the hell could Katsuki stand to look at him at all?
Plastic rustled as the groceries were unloaded, and Katsuki took out the vegetables and placed them in the sink to wash them.
“Got the soba noodles you like,” Katsuki called, casually. “And those dumb strawberry candies. They were on sale.”
Izuku said nothing. He stood near the table, not really sitting, not really standing. Just hovering . Like he didn’t belong in the room.
Katsuki opened the fridge just to make noise. Just to give himself a second.
“You wanna cook or should I—?”
“I’m good,” Izuku interrupted, voice hollow. “You can do it. I’ll just...”
He gestured vaguely and finally sat down, elbows on the table, hands loosely folded.
He felt distant. Unmoored. Like he was watching himself from above.
Katsuki glanced over.
He hadn’t asked what they were having. He hadn’t made a joke. He hadn’t even come over to peek at the bags like usual.
Just sat there.
Still. Quiet. Small.
So Katsuki tried. Tried to make it normal. Safe.
“You see that report about the support gear update? The one with the new shock diffusers? That shit looks strong enough to break a villain’s ribs—might be good for you, since you're always getting—”
He stopped.
Because Izuku wasn’t listening.
He was staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused, like he was somewhere else entirely . His mouth was pressed into a tight line, his brows drawn in like he was trying not to cry again, like if he blinked too fast he’d shatter.
Katsuki’s stomach sank.
He set the knife down. Slowly. Quietly.
“Deku.”
Izuku didn’t flinch this time. Just blinked, like he hadn’t realized Katsuki was speaking.
“Huh?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said automatically, and smiled.
But it was the worst kind of smile—the kind that begged don’t ask me anything else.
Katsuki stared at him, at the trembling in his fingers, the way his hoodie clung damp to his back, the way he looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.
Something was wrong.
Something was really fucking wrong.
But Katsuki didn’t push. Not yet.
He turned back to the stove, fists clenched, chest tight. His mind raced while he stirred boiling noodles.
Behind him, Izuku sat still.
And his thoughts wouldn’t stop.
He knows.
Kacchan’s not stupid. He’s gonna figure it out eventually.
What if he looked at me in the mirror one morning and thought—God, what happened to him?
He’s gonna see what everyone else saw today. That I’m not enough. That I’m not worth it.
He’ll leave.
Not today. Not now. But eventually.
Because who wants to wake up next to this forever?
Izuku’s nails dug into his palm beneath the table. He stared down at them, at the little half-moons of pressure. His eyes burned.
He could have someone who looks like him.
Someone built better, someone smart and perfect and not—
Not broken.
Not ugly.
Not me.
Dinner was quiet.
The clink of chopsticks against ceramic was the only sound filling the space between them. Katsuki had plated their bowls like he always did—perfect portions, perfectly balanced. The noodles were just the right texture. The broth fragrant. Comforting.
Izuku stared at it.
His bowl sat in front of him, steam curling gently into the air, the scent of miso and scallions and something spicy he normally loved.
He picked up his chopsticks. Forced himself to smile. It twitched at the corners like it didn’t know how to stay.
“Looks good,” he mumbled.
Katsuki didn’t respond. Just nodded, watching him from across the table as he took a bite of his own.
Izuku raised the noodles to his mouth. Took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
It tasted fine.
But something twisted in his stomach anyway.
It settled there like a stone—hard, heavy, wrong.
He forced another bite. And another. Nodded when Katsuki asked, “It okay?” like he couldn’t taste the lies sticking to his tongue more than the food.
He wanted to eat. He wanted to want to eat.
But with every chew, his throat tightened. His stomach rolled. The back of his neck felt hot. Too hot.
He set the chopsticks down carefully. Like if he made a sudden move, he might break something— himself , probably.
Katsuki had barely touched his own bowl.
He was still watching.
Izuku cleared his throat. “Just… a little tired, I think.”
“Yeah?” Katsuki said, voice low. Controlled. “You’ve barely eaten.”
“I’m just… not really hungry. Sorry.”
A pause.
“Nothing to apologize for, babe.”
Izuku nodded. Pressed his palms into his thighs under the table. His fingers were trembling again. He focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
The steam from the bowl fogged his glasses. He took them off and set them beside the bowl, blinking fast.
His chest felt tight.
The hoodie stuck to his back again.
He waddles more than he walks.
The sentence echoed again—sharp, loud, as if someone had whispered it against his ear.
He stared down at the noodles. They looked... warped. Wrong. The colors too bright. The smell suddenly nauseating.
His heart started to beat faster.
He shifted in his seat. Swallowed. Tried to breathe slower, deeper.
It didn’t help.
Look at his freckles—he looks diseased.
His suit’s doing overtime just to hold everything in.
His chest tightened. Harder now. Painfully so. The room felt smaller. The walls closer. The lights too warm.
Katsuki said something, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater.
Izuku blinked. His vision swam.
His hands curled into fists.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
His lips parted. He tried to suck in air but it hit a wall. Like something was pressing down on his lungs from the inside.
Panic crawled up his throat—fast, choking.
He shoved his chair back suddenly, the legs scraping against the floor.
“I—I need a sec,” he gasped, already halfway out of the room.
“Izuku—?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
He barely made it down the hall before he sank to the floor, back pressed to the wall outside their bedroom. He dragged in a breath, but it came in shallow bursts, chest heaving, hands shaking.
His heart was racing . His vision tunneling. Fingers numb.
He buried his face in his hoodie sleeves and squeezed his eyes shut.
You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine—
He couldn’t even finish the thought.
Every breath came out shallow. His chest was locked up like it had forgotten how to move. His vision blurred again—whether from tears or the sheer pressure of everything crashing down at once, he didn’t know.
His heart wouldn’t slow down.
His skin felt wrong .
Too hot. Too exposed. Too much .
Then.
A sudden thud of footsteps.
“Izuku.”
Katsuki’s voice. Low. Controlled. Urgent.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead. Izuku didn’t look up. He couldn’t. His body refused to cooperate, locked in place by fear and shame.
Then warmth.
Katsuki knelt down in front of him, one knee pressing to the floor, his hands hovering before they gently landed on Izuku’s arms. His thumbs rubbed small circles over the fabric of his hoodie—steady, grounding.
“Izuku. Breathe for me.”
Izuku gasped again, but it wasn’t air he got—it was noise. A choked, broken sound like something fractured in his chest.
“I—I can’t—”
The words barely made it out.
“Yes, you can,” Katsuki said, soft but fierce. “You’ve done it before. Just do what I say, alright?”
He didn’t wait for a response.
“One hand,” Katsuki whispered, tugging gently at Izuku’s arm, “just give me one hand. You’re okay.”
Shaking, Izuku let his hand fall into Katsuki’s palm.
Katsuki wrapped his fingers around it and held it tight—firm, grounding, here .
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re doing good.”
Izuku’s whole body still trembled.
“In,” Katsuki coached, voice low, right by his ear now. “Nice and slow. Come on, babe. In.”
Izuku tried. His breath hitched, and he inhaled shakily.
“Now out. That’s it. Again. In.”
The rhythm was slow. Painful.
But eventually, Izuku started to follow it. Like a rope thrown down into deep water.
“In… and out. That’s it.”
Katsuki moved closer, sitting on the floor now, knees brushing Izuku’s. One arm curled protectively around his back, anchoring him.
Izuku clung to his hand like it was the only solid thing in the world.
Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. Time blurred the same way everything else had.
But his breaths began to even. The panic, sharp and stabbing, softened just slightly around the edges.
When Izuku finally lifted his head, eyes red and slightly puffy, his lip trembling, Katsuki was still there.
Still holding his hand.
Still steady.
Still here .
Their eyes met.
Izuku’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
Katsuki’s brow furrowed. “The hell are you apologizing for?”
“I don’t—I didn’t mean to freak out, I just—” He shook his head. “Dinner was fine. I just couldn’t—”
“You’re not apologizing for feeling like shit ,” Katsuki said firmly. “That’s not how this works.”
Izuku let out a strangled laugh, then bit his lip.
His voice was barely audible. “I think… I think something’s wrong with me.”
Katsuki leaned in, forehead pressing gently to Izuku’s.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he murmured, “except maybe your taste in shirts. And people who don’t see how fucking incredible you are.”
Izuku laughed again, wet and wobbly.
Katsuki pulled him in tighter.
“Hey, it's all right, okay? You’ll tell me if something bothers you right?”
Izuku nodded, shaky.
But his throat still felt tight. The kind of tight that came with words he didn’t know how to say yet.
Katsuki didn’t let go. He shifted a little, tugging Izuku against his chest fully, tucking him into the space between his shoulder and jaw like he was something precious that needed shielding. His hand rubbed slow circles along Izuku’s spine, grounding, gentle.
“Okay,” Katsuki murmured into his hair, soft and low. “You don’t have to talk right now. But when you can… I’ll listen. All of it. Whatever it is.”
Izuku clutched at the back of Katsuki’s shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him here. His breath stuttered, hitched. He was still trembling. Not violently anymore—just little shivers that came and went.
Katsuki didn’t say anything else for a while. Just held him.
The hallway was quiet.
Warm.
Safe.
And slowly, Izuku’s heartbeat started to settle. Still fluttering, still too fast—but not spiraling anymore.
“Do you…” he started, voice rasping and unsure, “…do you ever just… feel like if people saw you the way you see yourself, they’d hate you?”
Katsuki blinked. He pulled back just enough to look down at him.
“Deku.”
Izuku didn’t look up.
“I mean, I know it’s not rational. I know I’m not supposed to care what they say, I know I’m a hero and I save people and all that crap but—” he broke off, breath catching again. “But sometimes I look in the mirror and all I see is what they used to say.”
He swallowed.
“And I think… what if you start seeing it too?”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was heavy .
Like the moment the air leaves a room right before a storm hits.
Katsuki’s hands found Izuku’s cheeks, thumbs brushing just under his eyes, still damp. His touch was firm, but not rough. Not now.
“I already see you, Izuku,” he said, steady and clear. “I’ve always seen you. And I’m still fucking here, aren’t I?”
Izuku’s breath hitched again. His hands trembled harder now, because hearing it that plainly hurt more than anything else tonight.
“You’re not gonna lose me because of some asshole’s opinion. You’re not gonna scare me off with a panic attack or because your hoodie clings to your back or your thighs are thick or your stomach isn’t flat or whatever stupid shit you’ve been telling yourself tonight.”
He leaned in, forehead resting against Izuku’s again.
“You’re it for me. You hear me?”
Izuku nodded again. His chest ached—but not from panic this time. Just from feeling too much.
“I love you,” Katsuki said, barely above a whisper now. “Even when you don’t.”
And that?
That was what broke Izuku open again.
Not in a spiraling way.
Not this time.
Just… soft. Quiet. Relief-soaked tears leaking down his cheeks as he curled tighter into Katsuki’s arms and whispered, “I love you too.”
Katsuki didn’t let go. He held him even tighter, one arm around Izuku’s shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head like he was something fragile, something precious. And Izuku let himself fall into it. Let himself be held. No pretending. No smiling. Just breathing. Just being.
They stayed there on the floor, long after the sobs faded, long after the panic had loosened its grip. The hallway light hummed above them, the dinner on the table went cold, but none of it mattered.
Not when Katsuki pressed a kiss into his curls and whispered, “We’ll get through this.”
And for the first time all that day, Izuku believed it.