MIDORIYA IZUKU

The coffee shop was exactly as Izuku remembered-small, warm, with mismatched furniture that somehow made it feel more welcoming rather than chaotic. Soft jazz played from speakers tucked into corners, and the scent of fresh-ground coffee beans mixed with something sweet baking in the back. Only a handful of other customers occupied the space, most of them absorbed in laptops or quiet conversations.

Perfect. Private enough to actually talk without being mobbed by fans or reporters.

"This place is nice," Todoroki observed as they claimed a corner booth, his heterochromatic eyes scanning the space with what Izuku recognized as professional assessment. Always checking exits, sight lines, potential threats. Some habits from hero work never really turned off.

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since he'd seen them both in person-since that joint operation in Chiba that had ended with all three of them exhausted and covered in debris, promising to meet up soon. Life had gotten in the way, as it always did. Texts and video calls weren't the same as this: being in the same room, breathing the same air, close enough to touch.

"Found it last year during a conference," Izuku said, sliding into the booth. He'd aimed for the middle seat without thinking, and now Kacchan was on his left and Todoroki on his right, both of them close enough that their thighs pressed against his in the cramped space. The contact felt grounding after three weeks apart. "The owner's son wanted to be a hero. We talked for hours about-"

He was interrupted by a yawn he couldn't quite suppress his jaw cracking with the force of it.

"When did you say you woke up this morning?" Kacchan asked, his red eyes sharp with concern that he'd probably deny if called out.

"Um. Five? There was an early patrol, and then the warehouse fire started around seven, and-" Another yawn. "Sorry."

"You're dead on your feet," Todoroki said quietly. "We should have let you go home."

"No!" Izuku said, too quickly, too emphatically. He felt his face heat. "I mean-I wanted to do this. I've missed you guys. Both of you. Three weeks is too long."

"Way too long," Kacchan muttered, and something in his tone made Izuku's chest feel warm.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it work sooner," Izuku said, guilt twisting in his chest. They texted constantly, sure, and he video called with both of them regularly, but actually being in the same space-that was different. That mattered in a way he couldn't quite articulate. "The community center project has been taking up so much time, and then there was that villain attack in Saitama-"

"Deku." Kacchan's voice was firm. "You're the number one hero. You're running community programs that are changing how hero work functions in Japan. You're allowed to be busy."

"We're all busy," Todoroki added, his shoulder pressing more firmly against Izuku's. "That's not your fault. I've been in Osaka more than Tokyo lately."

"And I've been dealing with that trafficking ring in Shibuya," Kacchan said. "It's not like any of us have had free time."

The server appeared-a college-aged girl who did a visible double-take when she recognized them, her eyes going wide. "Oh my god. You're-all three of you-I'm sorry, I don't mean to freak out, but I'm a huge fan. Especially you, Deku! My little brother wants to be a hero because of you, and-" She caught herself, face flushing. "Sorry. That was super unprofessional. What can I get you?"

Izuku smiled, genuine despite his exhaustion. "It's okay! I'm glad your brother has big dreams. Tell him to work hard and never give up, okay?" He glanced at the menu, though he already knew what he wanted. "Can I get a caramel macchiato? And one of those curry pastries if you have any left?"

"We do! And for you two?"

"Black coffee," Kacchan said. "And bring him some water too. He's dehydrated."

"I'm fine-"

"You worked a fire rescue for six hours and haven't had water since this morning. You're dehydrated."

Izuku wanted to argue, but Kacchan was right. He was always right about this kind of thing, annoyingly observant about Izuku's physical state in a way that should have been embarrassing but mostly just felt... caring. Twenty-two years of friendship meant Kacchan could read him like a book, could spot the signs of exhaustion or dehydration before Izuku even registered them himself.

"Green tea," Todoroki said. "And the matcha cake, if you have it."

The server nodded enthusiastically, scribbling down their orders before hurrying away, still looking slightly starstruck.

"You're good with people," Todoroki observed, something soft in his expression. "She was nervous, and you put her at ease immediately."

"It's not hard," Izuku said, though he felt pleased by the compliment. "People just want to be seen, you know? Acknowledged. It doesn't cost anything to be kind."

"Most heroes don't bother," Kacchan said. "They treat fans like obstacles."

"That's sad. These are the people we're protecting. The least we can do is-" Another yawn interrupted him, this one making his eyes water. "Sorry."

Kacchan and Todoroki exchanged a look over his head-some unspoken communication that Izuku was too tired to decipher.

"Tell us about the warehouse fire," Todoroki said. "You mentioned it was complicated?"

Izuku latched onto the question gratefully, his analytical mind engaging despite his exhaustion. "Yeah, it was a chemical storage facility, so we couldn't just flood it with water. The owner had been cutting corners on safety regulations, storing incompatible materials too close together. When the fire started, we had to evacuate a three-block radius because of potential toxic smoke..."

He talked through the operation, his hands moving expressively as he described the tactical decisions, the coordination with the fire department, the moment when they'd realized there were still two workers trapped on the third floor. Kacchan and Todoroki listened with the focused attention of professionals, asking sharp questions about response times and quirk applications.

It felt good. Natural. Like they were back at UA, analyzing training exercises in the common room, pushing each other to think strategically. Eleven years of friendship with Todoroki had built this easy rapport, this shared language of hero work and tactical analysis. And with Kacchan-well, they'd been doing this since they were kids, since before either of them had even gotten their quirks.

The server returned with their drinks and food, and Izuku wrapped his hands around the warm mug gratefully, letting the heat seep into his palms. The first sip of coffee was perfect-sweet and strong, exactly what he needed.

"So the Osaka operation," Izuku said, turning to Todoroki. "You mentioned you got the leaders of the smuggling ring. What was the final count on arrests?"

"Fifteen arrests total," Todoroki said, his voice level and calm. Soothing, maybe. "Including two of the three leaders. The third is still at large, but we have enough evidence to issue a warrant."

"That's incredible," Izuku said, his smile warm and genuine. "I read some of the reports, but they didn't include all the details. How did you track them down?"

Todoroki explained the investigation, the weeks of surveillance and coordination with local agencies. Izuku listened with that intense focus he brought to everything, asking questions that showed he understood the tactical complexity, the risks involved.

His coffee was warm in his hands. The booth was comfortable. Kacchan's presence on his left was solid and familiar-twenty-two years of knowing each other meant Izuku could feel the subtle shifts in his mood, the way he was listening even when he seemed distracted. Todoroki's presence on his right was equally grounding, eleven years of friendship creating its own kind of intimacy. The exhaustion he'd been fighting all day was starting to win, pulling at his consciousness like a gentle tide.

"...coordinated with the harbor patrol," Todoroki was saying, his voice smooth and even. "The timing had to be precise, because if they'd gotten wind of the operation even an hour earlier..."

Izuku's eyes drifted closed. Just for a moment. Just to rest them.

"You listening, nerd?" Kacchan's voice, closer now.

"Mm-hmm," Izuku managed, forcing his eyes open. "Harbor patrol. Timing. Got it."

"Eat your pastry," Kacchan said, and there was something fond in his tone that made Izuku's chest feel warm.

He took a bite obediently, chewing slowly. The curry was good. Everything was good. Warm and safe and comfortable, surrounded by the two people who-

His head was getting heavy. The conversation continued around him, Kacchan and Todoroki discussing something about territory jurisdictions, their voices blending into a pleasant background hum.

"...your operations overlap more than you're admitting," Kacchan was saying.

"I coordinate extensively with Midoriya's agency. Our territories are adjacent."

"Yeah, I've noticed you've been spending a lot of time near Musutafu lately."

"My work requires it."

Izuku should probably pay attention to this. There was something in their tones-an edge he couldn't quite identify. But his body was so tired, and the booth was so comfortable, and he felt safe here in a way he rarely did anymore.

His head tilted, finding a comfortable resting place. Something solid and warm. Kacchan's shoulder, maybe? Or Todoroki's? He couldn't quite tell, couldn't quite care.

The voices continued, further away now, muffled like he was underwater.

"...pushing himself too hard..."

"...always does..."

"...someone's gotta..."

Izuku let himself drift, trusting that they'd wake him if anything important happened. Trusting them completely, the way he always had.

The last thing he registered was a hand in his hair-gentle, careful-and the murmur of voices above him, discussing something he couldn't quite hear.

Then sleep pulled him under completely, warm and dark and safe.

TODOROKI SHOTO

Shoto watched Midoriya's breathing even out, his face relaxing into sleep, and felt something complicated twist in his chest. He'd fallen asleep leaning against Bakugo, his green curls a mess against the other hero's shoulder, completely vulnerable in a way that Midoriya rarely allowed himself to be.

Bakugo had gone very still, his hand hovering near Midoriya's head before settling gently in his hair. The gesture was tender in a way that Shoto had rarely seen from him, and it made something hot and uncomfortable burn in Shoto's chest.

Professional concern, probably. Midoriya was clearly exhausted, and seeing him push himself this hard was... troubling. That was all.

"He's out," Bakugo said quietly, his voice lacking its usual sharp edge. His fingers moved gently through Midoriya's hair, careful not to wake him. "Fucking idiot, pushing himself this hard."

"He always does," Shoto said, trying to keep his tone neutral. "You'd think after eleven years I'd be used to it."

"Try twenty-two years," Bakugo muttered. "He's been like this since we were kids. Never knows when to stop."

The reminder of their history-that Bakugo had known Midoriya literally his entire life, had been there for every stage of his development-made that uncomfortable heat in Shoto's chest intensify. Eleven years was a long time. It was most of Shoto's adult life, the foundation of who he'd become as a hero and a person. But it wasn't twenty-two years. Wasn't a lifetime of shared memories and experiences.

"He's the number one hero," Shoto said, pushing the thought away. "Pacing himself isn't an option."

They sat in loaded silence, both of them watching Midoriya sleep. Shoto was acutely aware of how close they all were in the cramped booth, how Midoriya's knee was still pressed against his, how Bakugo's hand remained in Midoriya's hair with a possessiveness that seemed unconscious.

"We should get him home," Shoto said finally. "It's late, and he needs proper rest."

"Yeah." Bakugo's hand stilled in Midoriya's hair. "His apartment's in Musutafu. That's an hour from here."

"I'll call a car service," Shoto said, already reaching for his phone.

"I was about to do the same thing."

They looked at each other across Midoriya's sleeping form, and Shoto felt that same competitive edge from earlier in the evening resurface. It was ridiculous-they were discussing transportation, not a tactical operation. There was no reason for his jaw to tighten, for his left side to warm fractionally.

"I can arrange it," Shoto said evenly. "I have an account with a reliable service."

"So do I. And I know exactly where his apartment is. Been there hundreds of times."

"So have I."

The implication hung in the air-that they'd both been to Midoriya's apartment, both been part of his private life, both had claim to this particular responsibility. It was childish, Shoto knew. Territorial in a way that made no logical sense.

But he couldn't seem to back down.

"We could wake him," Shoto suggested. "Let him decide."

"He's exhausted. He needs the sleep more than he needs to make decisions about transportation."

"Then perhaps we should simply-"

"I'll handle it," Bakugo said firmly. "You've got that early meeting in Osaka tomorrow. I've got the day off."

Shoto's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about my meeting schedule?"

"Midoriya mentioned it. Last week, during our call."

Our call. The possessive pronoun grated against something in Shoto's chest. As if Bakugo had exclusive access to Midoriya's time, his attention, his trust. As if twenty-two years of history gave him some kind of superior claim.

"I can handle one late night," Shoto said coolly. "The meeting isn't until noon."

"Still doesn't make sense for you to go out of your way."

"It's not out of my way if I'm choosing to go there."

They stared at each other, the tension thick enough to cut. Midoriya slept on, oblivious, his breathing deep and even.

This was absurd. They were two professional heroes arguing about who got to arrange transportation for their mutual friend, as if it mattered, as if there was something at stake beyond simple logistics.

Except it felt like it mattered. Felt like Bakugo was trying to establish some kind of precedent, some claim to Midoriya's care and keeping that excluded Shoto entirely.

"We could both go," Shoto heard himself say.

Bakugo's eyebrows rose. "Both of us?"

"Unless you have an objection to my company."

"I don't give a shit about your company. Just seems inefficient."

"More efficient than arranging separate transportation."

Bakugo's jaw worked, clearly trying to find a logical argument against this and coming up empty. "Fine. Whatever. I'll call the car."

"Why your service?"

"Because I use them all the time. They're reliable."

Shoto wanted to argue, but the logic was sound enough. And more importantly, he wasn't willing to back down, wasn't willing to let Bakugo be the only one to see Midoriya home safely.

"Fine," Shoto said. "Call them."

Bakugo pulled out his phone, keeping his voice low as he arranged for a car to pick them up. Shoto watched Midoriya sleep, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the way his face had relaxed into something younger and more vulnerable.

Three weeks since they'd seen each other. Three weeks of texts and calls that weren't enough, that left Shoto checking his phone obsessively for updates, structuring his schedule around the possibility of joint operations near Musutafu.

That was just normal friendship. Normal professional collaboration.

Had to be.

They managed to extract themselves from the booth without waking Midoriya-Bakugo sliding out first, then carefully lifting Midoriya into his arms with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his usual explosive personality. Midoriya made a small sound of protest but didn't wake, his head lolling against Bakugo's shoulder.

Shoto paid for their drinks and food while Bakugo carried Midoriya outside, and tried not to think about how natural Bakugo looked holding him, how easily Midoriya had curled into his arms. Twenty-two years of friendship probably meant Bakugo had carried him before, had been trusted with this kind of physical intimacy countless times.

The thought made Shoto's chest feel tight.

Professional concern. That was all this was. Midoriya was their friend, their colleague, someone they both cared about. The fact that Shoto wanted to be the one carrying him, wanted to be the one Midoriya trusted enough to sleep on, wanted to smooth away the small furrow between his brows-

That was just normal friendship. Normal protectiveness toward someone important.

Had to be.

The car arrived within minutes-a sleek black sedan with a professional driver who barely blinked at the sight of three pro heroes, one of them unconscious. Bakugo settled Midoriya into the back seat with careful precision, adjusting the seat belt so it wouldn't dig into his neck, making sure his head was supported.

Shoto slid in on Midoriya's other side, hyperaware of the driver's presence in the front seat. They couldn't talk freely, couldn't say anything too personal or revealing. The partition between front and back was closed, but sound still carried. They'd have to be careful.

Bakugo gave the driver Midoriya's address in Musutafu, his voice clipped and professional. Then he settled into his seat, and the three of them sat in loaded silence as the car pulled into traffic.

Yokohama's streets were mostly empty at this hour, the city settling into its nighttime rhythm. Streetlights cast orange pools of illumination across the pavement, and the occasional pedestrian hurried past, collar turned up against the autumn chill.

Shoto glanced at Midoriya, who had shifted in his sleep, his head tilting toward Shoto's shoulder. The contact was warm, grounding, and Shoto found himself holding very still, not wanting to disturb him.

"He works too hard," Shoto said quietly, mindful of the driver.

"Always has." Bakugo's voice was equally low. "Even as a kid, he'd push himself until he collapsed. Someone's gotta look out for him."

The implication was clear-that Bakugo saw himself as that someone. That he'd appointed himself as Midoriya's keeper, his protector, the one who made sure he ate and slept and didn't work himself to death. Twenty-two years of history backing up that claim.

Shoto felt his jaw clench. "I'm sure he has plenty of people looking out for him."

"Not enough, clearly, or he wouldn't be passing out in coffee shops."

"He's not passing out. He's sleeping. There's a difference."

"Semantics."

They lapsed into tense silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle as Midoriya shifted in his seat. Shoto watched the city slide past, trying to identify the source of his irritation.

It was just competitive drive, probably. He and Bakugo had always pushed each other, always tried to be better, stronger, more capable. The fact that this competition had somehow extended to who could take better care of Midoriya was... odd, maybe, but not concerning.

Not something that required examination.

"You've been spending a lot of time near Musutafu," Bakugo said suddenly, his voice carefully neutral and low enough that the driver wouldn't hear. "More than your territory requires."

"I coordinate with Midoriya's agency frequently. Our work overlaps."

"Yeah, I've noticed. Funny how your work keeps overlapping right where Deku happens to be."

Shoto's left side flared with heat before he controlled it. "Are you implying something?"

"Just making an observation."

"My professional decisions are based on tactical necessity, not personal preference."

"Sure they are."

Shoto turned to look at Bakugo directly, studying his profile in the dim light from passing streetlights. His expression was carefully blank, but there was tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw.

"You're very protective of him," Shoto observed, keeping his voice low.

"Someone has to be."

"I'm protective of him too. He's, my friend."

"Yeah, well." Bakugo's hands clenched into fists on his thighs. "You've known him for eleven years. I've known him for twenty-two. Since we were kids. It's different."

There it was again-that implicit claim to superior understanding, deeper connection, more legitimate concern. As if Shoto's friendship with Midoriya was somehow less valid because it hadn't started in childhood, because it was only eleven years instead of a lifetime.

"The length of a friendship doesn't determine its value," Shoto said coolly, mindful of keeping his voice down.

"Didn't say it did."

"You implied it."

"You're reading into things."

"Am I?"

They glared at each other across Midoriya's sleeping form, the tension thick enough to cut. The driver remained focused on the road, giving no indication that he'd heard anything, but Shoto was acutely aware of the need for discretion.

This was ridiculous. They were arguing about nothing, about implications and subtext that probably didn't even exist. Midoriya was their friend. They both cared about him. That was normal. Natural.

The fact that Shoto had been structuring his entire schedule around maximizing time near Musutafu, that he checked his phone obsessively for Midoriya's messages, that the thought of Bakugo having some kind of superior claim to Midoriya's attention made him want to freeze something-

That was just normal friendship. Normal professional collaboration.

Had to be.

"He talks about you a lot," Bakugo said suddenly, his voice rough and quiet. "During our calls. Always going on about some joint operation you two ran, some tactical innovation you came up with."

Shoto felt something warm bloom in his chest despite himself. "He talks about you too. Your work in Shibuya, the community outreach programs you've developed."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. He's... proud of you. Of what you've accomplished."

Bakugo was quiet for a long moment. "He's proud of everyone. That's just how he is."

"Perhaps. But I think he's especially proud of you."

The words came out softer than Shoto intended, more genuine. It was true-Midoriya lit up when he talked about Bakugo's work, about how far he'd come from the angry, explosive teenager they'd known at UA. There was affection in every word, pride and warmth and something deeper that Shoto couldn't quite name.

Something that made Shoto's chest feel tight and uncomfortable.

"He's proud of you too," Bakugo muttered. "Won't shut up about your investigation work. How you've got the best arrest record in Osaka, how you've revolutionized inter-agency cooperation."

"He said that?"

"Yeah. Multiple times. It's annoying."

But Bakugo's voice lacked its usual sharp edge, and Shoto felt that warmth in his chest intensify. Midoriya was proud of him. Talked about him to Bakugo, thought about his work, cared about his accomplishments.

It shouldn't matter this much. Shouldn't make Shoto feel like something fundamental had shifted in his understanding of their relationship.

But it did.

They drove in silence for a while, the tension between them settling into something less sharp but no less present. Shoto found himself glancing at Midoriya every few minutes, checking that he was still sleeping peacefully, that he hadn't been disturbed by their low conversation.

Midoriya shifted slightly, his head pressing more firmly against Shoto's shoulder, and Shoto felt his breath catch. This close, he could smell Midoriya's shampoo, could feel the warmth of his body, could count the freckles scattered across his cheeks.

"He's fine," Bakugo said, noticing Shoto's attention. His voice was still low, still mindful of the driver. "He sleeps like the dead when he's this exhausted."

"You know that from experience?"

"Yeah. We've done joint operations before. Shared hotel rooms during conferences." Bakugo's voice was carefully neutral. "He always pushes himself too hard, then crashes completely."

Shoto felt that uncomfortable heat in his chest again. The casual intimacy of Bakugo's knowledge-that he'd seen Midoriya at his most vulnerable, had shared space with him, had been trusted with his care during those moments of complete exhaustion.

"I've noticed the same pattern," Shoto said, trying to match Bakugo's neutral tone. "During our operations together. He doesn't know when to stop."

"Someone's gotta make him stop."

"Yes. Someone does."

They looked at each other, and something passed between them-some unspoken acknowledgment of shared concern, shared frustration, shared... something. Shoto couldn't quite name it, couldn't quite grasp the shape of what was building between the three of them.

But it felt significant. Important in a way that made his chest tight and his thoughts scattered.

"We're both looking out for him," Bakugo said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's... good. He needs people who give a shit."

"He has plenty of people who care about him."

"Yeah, but most of them don't really see him. They see Deku, the number one hero, the Symbol of Hope. They don't see Midoriya Izuku, the kid who breaks his own bones because he doesn't know how to give up."

Shoto was quiet for a moment, absorbing that. It was true-Midoriya had a tendency to disappear behind his hero persona, to subsume his own needs and wants beneath the weight of everyone else's expectations.

But Shoto saw him. Saw the analytical mind that never stopped working, the genuine kindness that wasn't performance, the bone-deep determination that had nothing to do with quirks or power and everything to do with who Midoriya was as a person.

"I see him," Shoto said quietly. "The real him."

"Yeah," Bakugo said, his voice rough. "I know you do."

The admission hung in the air between them, loaded with something Shoto couldn't quite identify. It felt like a concession, like Bakugo was acknowledging that Shoto's connection to Midoriya was real, valid, important.

It shouldn't matter this much. Shouldn't make Shoto feel like he'd won something.

But it did.

BAKUGO KATSUKI

The drive to Musutafu took just over an hour, and Katsuki spent most of it hyperaware of four things:

One: Deku was asleep between them, his head resting on Half-and-Half's shoulder, his breathing deep and even.

Two: Half-and-Half was on Deku's other side, his presence a constant irritation that Katsuki couldn't quite rationalize away.

Three: There was a stranger driving them, which meant they had to keep their voices down, had to be careful about what they said. Couldn't have the kind of conversation they probably needed to have.

Four: Something about tonight felt different. Off-balance in a way that made Katsuki's instincts scream that he was missing something important.

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since he'd seen Deku in person, and the reunion had been... intense. More intense than Katsuki had expected, more charged with something he couldn't quite name. They'd texted constantly, called regularly, but it wasn't the same as being in the same space, close enough to touch.

He'd spent the drive trying to figure out what, exactly, was bothering him. The conversation with Todoroki had been... weird. Tense in a way that went beyond their usual competitive dynamic. They'd been circling around something, making implications and counter-implications, establishing territory in a way that felt more personal than professional.

It was just competitive drive, probably. They'd always pushed each other, always tried to be better, stronger, more capable. The fact that this competition had somehow extended to who knew Deku better, who spent more time with him, who had more claim to his attention-

That was just normal rivalry. Normal friendship dynamics.

Didn't mean anything else.

Couldn't mean anything else.

The car slowed as they entered Musutafu, the familiar streets of Deku's neighborhood sliding past. Katsuki had been here hundreds of times over the years- they'd spend hours analyzing hero fights and arguing about tactics.

Deku's apartment building appeared ahead, a modest mid-rise in a quiet residential area. The driver pulled into the parking lot smoothly, killing the engine with professional efficiency.

"We're here," the driver said, his voice neutral and professional.

"Thanks," Katsuki said, already moving to extract himself from the car. He had to be careful not to jostle Deku, who was still deeply asleep against Todoroki's shoulder.

Todoroki shifted, gently easing Deku away from his shoulder so Katsuki could lift him. For a moment, their hands brushed as they both reached for Deku, and Katsuki felt that same competitive heat flare in his chest.

"I've got him," Katsuki said quietly, mindful of the driver.

"I can help-"

"I've got him."

Todoroki's eyes narrowed, but he backed off, letting Katsuki lift Deku into his arms. Deku made a small sound of protest but didn't wake, his head lolling against Katsuki's shoulder with the kind of trust that made Katsuki's chest feel too tight.

They made their way to the building entrance, Todoroki hovering close enough that Katsuki could feel the heat from his left side. The driver remained in the car, giving them privacy, but Katsuki was still hyperaware of the need for discretion.

He punched in the code one-handed, balancing Deku carefully, and they made their way to the elevator. The ride up to the fourth floor was silent, tense, both of them watching Deku sleep.

Katsuki tried one more time as they reached Deku's door. "Deku. Come on, nerd. Wake up."

Nothing. Deku's breathing remained deep and even, his face relaxed in sleep, completely dead to the world.

"He's not waking up," Todoroki observed quietly.

"Yeah, I noticed," Katsuki muttered. He shifted Deku's weight, fishing in his pocket for his phone. "I've got his spare key. Hold him for a second."

Todoroki moved closer, his hands taking Deku while Katsuki pulled up the key and punched in, he could for the electronic lock. The door clicked open, and Katsuki reclaimed Deku, carrying him inside.

The apartment was dark and quiet, exactly as they'd left it that morning-or rather, as Deku had left it. Katsuki knew the layout by heart: he'd been here countless times, knew where every light switch was, which floorboards creaked, where Deku kept his emergency supplies.

"Bedroom's this way," Katsuki said quietly, heading down the short hallway.

Todoroki followed without comment, his presence a warm shadow at Katsuki's back.

Deku's bedroom was small but organized-hero merchandise on the shelves, analysis notebooks stacked neatly on the desk, a few framed photos on the nightstand. Katsuki laid him carefully on the bed, mindful of his head, and stepped back.

"We should get him out of these clothes," Todoroki said, already moving to remove Deku's shoes. "He'll be more comfortable."

Katsuki nodded, reaching for Deku's suit jacket. They worked in careful silence-Todoroki handling the shoes and belt while Katsuki dealt with the jacket and dress shirt. It felt oddly intimate, this quiet coordination, both of them focused on making Deku comfortable without waking him.

Katsuki unbuttoned the dress shirt carefully, easing it off Deku's shoulders, and froze.

Scars. Pale lines crisscrossing Deku's arms, some old and faded, others newer and still slightly pink. The remnants of a thousand battles, a thousand times Deku had pushed himself beyond his limits.

But it was the ones on his forearms that made Katsuki's breath catch-the distinctive pattern he recognized immediately. Shigaraki. The final battle. The fight that had nearly killed them all.

The fight that had nearly killed Deku.

Katsuki's hands stilled, his fingers hovering over the scars. He'd been there. He'd seen Deku take those hits, had watched him push himself past every reasonable limit, had felt his own heart stop when Deku had collapsed-

"Bakugo?" Todoroki's voice was quiet, concerned.

Katsuki swallowed hard, forcing himself to finish removing the shirt. Deku stirred slightly but didn't wake, his face peaceful in sleep, completely unaware of the memories his scars had triggered.

How many times had Katsuki almost lost him? How many times had Deku thrown himself into danger without hesitation, without thought for his own safety?

Too many. Way too many.

They finished undressing him in silence-leaving him in his undershirt, pants, and socks-and Todoroki pulled the blanket up carefully, tucking it around Deku's shoulders. Katsuki adjusted the pillows, making sure Deku's head was properly supported, his movements automatic and gentle.

For a moment, they both just stood there, looking down at Deku's sleeping form. In the dim light from the hallway, he looked younger somehow. Vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be when awake.

Katsuki glanced at Todoroki and found him staring at Deku with an expression that was hard to read-something soft and concerned and fiercely protective all at once.

Their eyes met across the bed, and something passed between them. An understanding, maybe. A shared recognition of how much this person meant to both of them, how terrifying it was to care this much about someone who threw himself into danger as casually as breathing.

"He pushes too hard," Todoroki said quietly.

"Always has," Katsuki replied, his voice rough. "Doesn't know how to do anything halfway."

"Someone needs to make him slow down."

"Yeah. Someone does."

They stood there a moment longer, neither of them quite ready to leave. Then Todoroki moved toward the door, and Katsuki followed, casting one last look at Deku before stepping into the hallway.

Katsuki closed the bedroom door quietly, the soft click seeming too loud in the silent apartment.

They made their way back down to the parking lot in silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts. The driver was still there, professional and patient, and they climbed back into the car without speaking.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Katsuki gave his Tokyo address, and Todoroki added his own. The driver nodded, pulling out of the parking lot smoothly.

The drive back felt longer than it should have, the car too empty without Deku's presence between them. Katsuki stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, trying not to think about the possessive heat that had burned in his chest every time Todoroki had looked at Deku, every time he'd implied some kind of claim to Deku's attention.

The thought made Katsuki's hands clench into fists.

"He's important," Todoroki said quietly, mindful of the driver. "To both of us."

"Yeah," Katsuki said roughly. "He is."

"We should... coordinate better. Make sure he's taking care of himself."

"Agreed."

It felt like a truce, maybe. Or the beginning of one. An acknowledgment that they were both invested in Deku's wellbeing, both willing to work together to make sure he didn't work himself to death.

That was all this was. Professional concern. Friendship. Nothing more complicated than that.

The car dropped Todoroki off first, at his apartment in a quiet neighborhood near the Osaka-Tokyo border. He climbed out with a quiet "thank you" to the driver, then paused to look back at Katsuki.

"Good night, Bakugo."

"Night."

Todoroki disappeared into his building, and Katsuki was left alone in the back seat, the silence oppressive.

The rest of the drive to his apartment in Tokyo felt endless. Katsuki tried not to think about why that bothered him. Tried not to examine the possessive heat that had burned in his chest all evening, the territorial instinct that had made him want to stake some kind of claim.

It was just competitive drive. Just normal friendship dynamics.

Had to be.

Didn't mean anything else.

Couldn't mean anything else.

But as Katsuki finally made it to his apartment, collapsing onto his couch in the dark, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight. Something fundamental, something that couldn't be shifted back.

He just had no idea what it was.

Or what it meant.

Or why the thought of figuring it out made his chest feel tight and his thoughts scatter like sparks.