Chapter Text
Katsuki doesn’t remember exactly when he stopped cutting them.
Somewhere between one mission and the next, between paperwork stacked too high on his desk and nights that ended long after midnight, he just… stopped.
A few pale strands had escaped at the nape of his neck, soft and uneven from weeks of neglect. He noticed them only when sweat made them cling to his skin after patrol, when they curled damply against his collar instead of staying sharp and clean like the rest of him.
Hero work was exhausting, long hours and constant patrols, paperwork stacked up like a damn mountain. Who had time to worry about some stupid strands of hair?
Then they started getting longer.
Soon they brushed the back of his neck when he moved too quickly. They got caught beneath the collar of his costume. Wind teased them loose during rooftop patrols, strands flicking against his skin until it made his jaw clench.
The more time that passed the more noticeable they became.
Not enough for anyone to say anything—most people knew better than to comment on his appearance—but enough that he had started tying them back when they became inconvenient. A rough little braid by quick fingers working from muscle memory, more practical than pretty.
Then Izuku touched them.
And it felt like someone had poured straight gasoline into his bloodstream.
They were walking back to the agency from a patrol. It was late evening, the streets were mostly empty except for a handful of people who were probably heading home after a long day of work. Izuku had slowed a bit and fallen behind while they walked but Katsuki paid it no mind. Izuku wasn't a child, he could catch up.
Izuku had jogged up next to him suddenly, eyes lit up.
“Hey—Kacchan, you’re growing these out?” Izuku asked.
Katsuki spared him a glance. Izuku’s eyes were bright, fixed somewhere near Katsuki’s shoulder.
“What?”
“They’re kinda nice,” Izuku said, reaching out.
Before Katsuki could jerk away or bark at him for invading his space, Izuku caught one of the loose strands near the braid and gave it a quick, playful tug.
It wasn’t hard. Barely anything at all.
But Katsuki felt it like someone had lit a match entirely too close to his gasoline filled body and it was enough to make him stop in his tracks.
“They suit you,” Izuku added with an easy smile before walking off like he hadn’t just permanently altered Katsuki’s grooming habits.
Katsuki stared after him for half a second before storming forward, face hot, pulse loud, temper suddenly fettered against whatever the hell had just happened.
But that night, when he stood in front of the mirror for what was admittedly too long—thinking about warm green eyes, about fingers in his hair, about the stupid, heart-melting way Izuku had smiled—scissors in hand, he hesitated.
And then he’d put the scissors down.
The hairs grew in increments so small they slipped past him—an extra brush against his collar one week, the faintest graze of his shoulders the next. By the time the ends started skimming the top of his back when he moved, it felt less like something new and more like something that had always been there.
They were a pain in combat.
They got caught in his costume sometimes. His sidekicks had suggested trimming them more than once.
He always ended up telling them to mind their own damn business.
The truth was simple.
Whenever Izuku showed up—whether for meetings, patrol coordination, or just dropping by unannounced—he would greet Katsuki normally.
Then, at some point during the conversation, his hand would reach out.
Tug.
Sometimes he’d tug them lightly in greeting.
Tug.
Sometimes both sides.
Tug.
Sometimes just one.
Tug.
Every single time Katsuki snapped, “Cut that out!”
And every single time Izuku smiled and said, “Sorry, Kacchan,” with a big grin.
He never sounded sorry though. Not with that bright grin. Not with the way his eyes lingered a second too long, leaving Katsuki feeling like he was being studied.
The worst part wasn’t even the audacity.
No, the worst part was how damn gentle he was about it.
Izuku never yanked. Never pulled hard enough to hurt, never did anything that Katsuki could justify knocking his hand away for beyond the principle of it. It was always just enough pressure to be felt—sharp enough to spark, soft enough to linger. Just a quick little tug, like he liked them.
The thought was ridiculous.
They were just hair. A problem that would take less than five minutes to handle.
Still, Katsuki didn't dream of cutting them.
Months passed.
The strands had grown past the point of being ignorable. They slipped over his collar, then his shoulders, then settled against his back. His agency had long since noticed. Then his friends noticed.
Kirishima visited the agency and gasped like he'd witnessed something unfathomable when he'd noticed.
“BRO.”
Katsuki narrowed his eyes. “What.”
“You’ve got rat tails?”
Katsuki had only rolled his eyes. “Yeah. So?”
“How long have those been there?!”
Katsuki shrugged aggressively. “They've always been there.”
Kirishima leaned closer, inspecting them like they were a second head instead of hair.
“They’re actually kinda cool,” he admitted. "Maybe I should get some?"
Katsuki shoved him away while the red head laughed.
“Get lost.”
Looking back perhaps that should’ve been the moment—the social check, the external awareness, the point where Katsuki got fed up enough and cut them off just to shut everyone up.
But he didn’t cut them, not even then.
Not even when they reached the top of his shoulder blades.
Not even when they got caught in the collar of his jacket.
Not even when the wind whipped them around during patrol.
He kept them.
Because every time Izuku saw them, his eyes lit up.
Then there was that one time, after a planned hangout with their former classmates, Izuku had stood behind him while they waited for the train and gently brushed his fingers through the ends. Katsuki tried not to reach, tried not to look at those beautiful big green doe eyes, tried not to even breathe. Izuku had twisted one around his finger.
Tug.
“They’re getting really long, Kacchan,” he’d murmured, sounding almost pleased.
Katsuki swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
Katsuki had dealt with it for years, never complaining once.
Anyone else would’ve lost a hand for less.. Hell, most people didn’t even try.
But Izuku?
Izuku tugged his hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like those stupid rat tails existed for the sole purpose of fitting between his fingers.
And Katsuki let him. Every. Single. Time.
Sure, he always rolled his eyes or grunted or snapped something half-hearted, but he never actually told him to stop. Not seriously, anyway.
Because the truth—the embarrassing, humiliating truth—was that he liked it.
He liked the attention.
He liked the way Izuku’s eyes lit up whenever he noticed how much longer they’d gotten.
He liked the casual touches, the small tugs, the way Izuku’s fingers would sometimes linger at the nape of his neck.
Katsuki hadn’t cut them for months.
Not really because he liked them.
But because Izuku liked them.
And maybe it was because he'd had a few drinks—a part of him knew that wasn't it at all—but there Izuku was. Green eyes wide and bright under the station lights, freckles dusted across his cheeks, that small, fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like Katsuki was something worth looking at. His finger was still wrapped around the end of a tail.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Katsuki’s brain couldn't seem to process anything past the gentle curve of Izuku's lips that begged to be kissed. And for a second Katsuki thought, yeah, fuck yeah.
He could do it.
He could lean in.
It wouldn’t even take much. Izuku was already so close—just a small tilt forward, just a few inches—
He imagined it in a flash.
Izuku going still.
Those big, doe eyes going wider.
Maybe surprised.
Maybe not.
Maybe—
The distant roar of an approaching train cut through the moment. Wind rushed down the platform. The announcement of the train's arrival crackled overhead.
Izuku blinked, attention snapping toward the tracks.
“Oh—there it is.”
Then his fingers slipped free. The warmth disappeared from the back of Katsuki’s neck as Izuku stepped away.
“C’mon, Kacchan,” he said easily. “That’s ours.”
The train screeched to a stop and the doors slid open. Izuku stepped inside without looking back. Katsuki followed, of course—they were going the same damn way—but the whole time his chest felt tight. He was left feeling like something had just slipped through his fingers, although if he had been asked he couldn't rightly say what it was.
They found seats across from each other.
Izuku started talking almost immediately about something—some patrol route, some hero article he’d read—but who the fuck knew. Katsuki barely heard a word.
His mind kept replaying the moment on the platform.
How close Izuku had been.
How easy it would’ve been.
How his stupid brain had frozen up.
Katsuki shifted in his seat, jaw tight. His hand drifted back to the nape of his neck. The rat tails brushed his fingers and his fingers brushed his neck but… it wasn't the same. It wasn't like Izuku's—
Izuku glanced at him, pausing mid-sentence.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Katsuki grunted.
He stared out the train window the rest of the ride.
And even as Izuku chattered at him all he could think about was how he should’ve just leaned in and kissed him.
Years later, the offer was an obvious move in Katsuki's mind.
Their agencies already worked together constantly. Their teams trusted each other. The public loved seeing them side by side.
It just made sense.
“Bakugo Agency and Deku Agency merge,” Katsuki had said. “We’d dominate the charts.”
Truthfully, Katsuki didn’t care about charts.
He cared about Izuku.
Maybe he couldn’t have Izuku the way he wanted, but he could still have him in some form—something structured, something that kept Izuku close without having to say what he actually meant. He cared about building something that guaranteed Izuku stayed within reach, within orbit, within something that belongs to both of them.
“Come work with me,” Katsuki said bluntly in his office, leaning back in his chair like it was no big deal. “Officially. We're good together.”
Izuku went still. Those big, pretty eyes looked apologetic which, in hind sight, should've been his first clue.
“Kacchan…” Izuku started, rubbing the back of his neck.
Katsuki already didn’t like that tone.
“I can’t.”
The words landed like a punch.
“Why the hell not?” Katsuki snapped, slamming his palms against the desk and standing suddenly. He tried to keep calm. He tried not to make sparks. He tried not to look as desperate as he felt.
Izuku didn’t meet his eyes.
“My agency’s grown a lot,” he said carefully. “My interns, my staff… they depend on me. I can’t just leave them.”
“You wouldn’t be leaving them,” Katsuki said sharply. “They would transfer in.”
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
Silence stretched between them.
Izuku placed a hand on the desk and leaned forward, his fingers reaching out automatically to brush one of Katsuki’s rat tails where it rested over his shoulder.
The familiar sensation came a second later.
Soft.
Gentle.
Tug.
“Sorry, Kacchan,” Izuku said.
Katsuki jerked away before he could do it again.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Whatever.”
He hadn’t stayed at the agency long after that. Just long enough to finish what he needed to, long enough to bark orders that kept people from asking questions, long enough to keep everything intact unlike whatever had just shifted out of place inside him.
Then he went home to the quiet of his apartment. Katsuki sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
I can’t.
Izuku’s voice kept replaying in his head.
I can't.
Katsuki scrubbed a hand down his face with a sharp exhale.
“Stupid,” Katsuki had muttered to the empty room.
Of course Izuku would say no.
He always had his own path, his own plans, his own ideals. Katsuki knew that better than anyone. Knew it since they were kids. Izuku wouldn't follow him around forever…
So why had he expected anything different?
His hand drifted back over his shoulder.
His fingers caught the end of one of the rat tails. They were longer now. Longer than they’d ever been.
He remembered the way Izuku’s eyes lit up when he saw them. The stupid grin he’d get when he wrapped one around his finger.
Tug.
They look good on you, Kacchan.
I can't.
Katsuki’s jaw tightened.
Long enough to be annoying.
Long enough to get in the way.
Long enough that everyone at the agency had asked him why the hell he still had them.
He’d never answered because the truth was stupid.
Because every time he’d thought about cutting them, he’d remembered Izuku’s fingers twisting the ends. That soft, absent tug. Like he was something Izuku liked touching.
Katsuki clenched the strand in his fist before walking straight to the bathroom.
He didn’t hesitate this time.
The scissors were still in the drawer where he kept them. When he pulled them out and looked in the mirror, the rat tails hung halfway down his back.
Long.
Ridiculous.
All because Izuku liked them.
He grabbed the first rat tail and pulled it forward over his shoulder.
For a second he remembered Izuku’s voice.
They suit you.
The memory burned.
“Yeah,” Katsuki muttered bitterly. "Not anymore."
Snip.
The first rat tail fell into the sink.
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Katsuki stared at the short, jagged piece still sticking out behind his ear.
Then he grabbed the second one.
Snip.
Just like that.
Gone.
Katsuki stood there for a long moment, staring at the small pile of hair.
They looked… pathetic.
Years of growth reduced to a couple of limp strands in a porcelain sink.
He ran a hand through the back of his hair.
It felt lighter.
His hair looked normal again.
Exactly how it used to be.
Exactly how it should be.
So why did his chest feel like it had been hollowed out?
Later that night, when he rolled over in bed, Katsuki’s hand drifted automatically to the back of his neck. His fingers found nothing there and somehow that absence had felt worse than the rejection.
The next morning, Katsuki didn’t think about it. At least, he tried not to.
He woke up the same way he always did, the faint gray light leaking through the edges of the blinds. His alarm hadn’t even gone off yet. It rarely needed to anymore. Years of early patrol schedules had carved the habit into his bones.
He sat up, stretched his shoulders, and ran a hand through his hair. The ends brushed the nape of his neck and stopped. No thin strands trailing down his back. His hand paused there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he dropped it.
It didn’t matter.
It had never mattered.
They were just hair.
By the time he arrived at the agency, the building was already buzzing with activity. Phones ringing. Interns shuffling paperwork. Sidekicks arguing quietly over patrol routes.
Exactly the same as every other morning.
Katsuki shrugged off his jacket and headed toward his office.
He had expected no one to say anything and for a while, it looked like he was right.
Kirishima noticed first.
It happened three days later when Kirishima dropped by the agency, like he always did when he had a free afternoon. He walked in loud and cheerful, greeting everyone in the lobby before marching straight toward Katsuki’s office.
“Bro, I was talking with Mina and—”
When he stopped mid-sentence Katsuki looked up from his paperwork. It was the dopey look of shock on his face that made Katsuki heave an aggravated sigh.
“What now?”
Kirishima was staring. Not at his face though. Lower, head tilted like he could see the back of Katsuki's head if he could just get a good angle. Katsuki knew what he was looking for, he also knew it wasn't there.
“Bro?”
Katsuki scowled. “What?”
“Your—” Kirishima gestured dramatically behind him. “—your rat tails!”
Katsuki sighed. “Gone.”
Kirishima looked like someone had just turned his entire world upside down.
“Gone?!”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Few days ago.”
“Why, man?”
Katsuki leaned back in his chair. “Because I cut them.”
“That’s not an explanation, dude! Why'd you do that?”
Katsuki glared. “They were getting long.”
“Wasn't that the point?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“They were iconic!”
“They were stupid.”
Kirishima squinted at him but didn't say anything else. He must have known. He could tell something was up but had the decency not to press any further.
But after Kirishima left, Katsuki found himself absentmindedly reaching behind his neck.
His fingers touched nothing.
He stopped doing that after the third time.
The people who saw him most often at the agency noticed next in the form of small comments.
“Hey, boss… did you cut your hair?”
“Something looks different about you…”
“Wait—wasn't your hair longer in the back?”
Katsuki’s answer was the same every time.
“Yeah.”
That was it.
No explanation.
No elaboration.
Most people took the hint. There were a couple of interns who looked vaguely disappointed.
Katsuki ignored them because despite the tails now missing, work continued. Patrols. Strategy meetings. Incident reports.
Days passed.
A week.
Two.
Eventually Eventually, even the questions faded into background noise, replaced by more urgent things—villains, incidents, the usual constant churn of hero work. People stopped bringing it up which was exactly what Katsuki wanted.
He went about his schedule the same way he always had. He didn’t dwell on small things. Didn’t sit around dissecting decisions he’d already made.
The rat tails were gone.
End of story.
If his hand occasionally drifted toward the back of his neck before he caught himself, that didn’t mean anything.
If the collar of his jacket suddenly felt colder against his skin, that didn’t mean anything either.
He didn’t think about them.
He especially didn’t think about the person who used to tug them. He especially didn't think of the way it made him feel when they did.
The next joint hero strategy meeting came two weeks later.
Multiple agencies filled the downtown conference room—long table, annoyingly bright lights, projector humming through slides no one would fully remember afterward. Coffee that tasted like it had given up on being coffee halfway through the brewing process.
Katsuki arrived early because somehow he'd convinced himself that being the best started with being the first to show up.
He sat near the end of the table, flipping through the briefing documents while people gradually filtered in around him.
Chairs scraped as low murmurs became a soft rumble of conversation.
Then the door opened at one point carrying a voice so famliar that Katsuki didn’t need to look up to know who had walked in.
Izuku’s voice carried easily in the room, warm and polite as he greeted a few of the other heroes.
Katsuki kept his eyes on the papers.
Didn’t matter.
It was just another meeting.
Izuku eventually took a seat across the table.
Katsuki could feel his presence without looking.
The projector switched to a map of recent villain activity, signifying the start of the meeting. Someone at the front began talking through trends and weak points, highlighting zones that needed reinforcement.
Katsuki listened in fragments.
Half worked through patrol projections in his head.
At some point, Katsuki looked up across the table. At Izuku, who was already looking at him.
Their eyes met.
Just for a moment.
And while it wasn't inherently strange—they had done it thousands of times—on battlefields, in meetings, in passing corridors where neither of them slowed down past a shared look of acknowledgment. Izuku’s gaze shifted, dropping slightly toward Katsuki’s neck.
The moment stretched.
Katsuki watched, in real time, as Izuku realized.
First came confusion.
A tiny crease between his eyebrows.
Then recognition.
Slow. Uncomfortable. Delayed by disbelief more than anything else. His eyes widened just slightly.
And then—
Sadness.
It was subtle.
So subtle most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Katsuki knew Izuku’s expressions better than anyone and he saw it immediately.
Izuku knew.
After years of absentmindedly tugging those stupid strands of hair—he would notice the second they were gone.
Izuku’s gaze flicked again—checking, confirming, rechecking—as if the absence might correct itself if observed long enough.
When their eyes met again Katsuki could practically see the questions forming in Izuku’s head.
Why did you cut them?
Why?
When?
Did it matter?
Katsuki looked away first.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest. Expression neutral. Posture unchanged. Because for all intents and purposes nothing had changed and Katsuki was adamant that Izuku know that that was the case.
The coordinator kept talking at the front of the room, pointing at the map.
“…increased activity along the harbor districts—”
Katsuki spoke up, voice sharp and steady.
“Patrol coverage there's garbage.”
The room’s attention shifted to him immediately.
Discussion started.
Arguments. Strategy adjustments.
Normal.
Across the table, Izuku stayed quiet.
But Katsuki could feel his attention drifting back again and again, like something in his mind refused to accept what his eyes had already confirmed.
Katsuki ignored it.
What the hell was he supposed to say anyway?
"Sorry, I cut them off because you rejected my agency offer and I realized the only reason I’d been growing them out was because you liked them?"
Yeah.
That would go over great.
Katsuki ignored the feeling in favor of working. Kept arguing about patrol zones and resource allocation. Kept his voice sharp and his posture relaxed as he debated logistics and response timing.
Because it was easier than acknowledging the truth.
Because there was nothing to acknowledge.
When the meeting ended, chairs scraped back. Papers were gathered. Conversations broke into smaller clusters as people started filtering out.
Katsuki shoved his papers into his folder and stood.
Across the table, Izuku was still sitting there. Watching him with a quiet contemplation that lingered in his expression, right beside something heavier. Still not saying whatever it was he clearly wanted to say.
For a moment, Katsuki’s gaze flicked back to him.
Just once.
Enough to see it.
That same expression from earlier, sharpened now by understanding instead of confusion.
Like he had solved a problem he didn’t like the answer to.
Izuku’s mouth parted slightly.
A question forming.
Probably to ask.
Probably to say something about the hair.
Katsuki didn’t give him the chance.
He turned and walked out of the room like nothing was out of the ordinary at all.