You and Katsuki had always been that duo — loud, competitive, impossible to separate. From the sandbox to the schoolyard, you were always around each other. The first burn you ever got was from him, back when his explosions were still small and unpredictable. You were both maybe six. It didn’t even blister much, but he freaked out, grabbing your wrist and blurting, “I didn’t mean to—dammit, don’t cry!” even though you weren’t crying at all. You just stared at him with wide eyes until he shoved his hoodie sleeve over your hand, muttering, “There. Now don’t tell anyone.”

He never forgot that scar. Every time he saw it, his expression would flicker just for a second, like a reminder he couldn’t shake.

By middle school, things were… different. He’d gotten louder, brasher — and meaner to Izuku. You didn’t like it one bit. You’d tell him to knock it off, and sometimes he did. You’d see him roll his eyes, huff, and mutter, “Fine. I’ll stop,” before stomping off like you’d just scolded a child.

But the next morning, walking through the hallway, you saw him again — cornering Izuku, voice raised, same damn tone. The disappointment hit you so hard it almost made your chest ache. You didn’t even say anything. You just stopped in your tracks, looked at him, and turned away.

He noticed instantly. “Oi—hey! Where are you goin’?”

You didn’t answer. You just kept walking, shoulders stiff.

Katsuki frowned, storming after you. “The hell’s your problem now?”

You ignored him again. It made him angrier, of course. “Don’t just walk off when I’m talkin’ to you!”

That’s when you stopped and turned around, eyes sharp. “You said you’d stop, Katsuki.”

He froze. You rarely used his name like that.

“You said you’d stop,” you repeated quietly, “and the next day, you’re right back at it. Why do you even bother saying anything if you don’t mean it?”

He looked caught off guard — like you’d punched the air out of him. Then he scowled, crossing his arms. “You don’t get it.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice flat. “I guess I don’t.”

You turned again and walked away.

He didn’t follow this time.

But that night, when you both walked home the same way and the silence stretched between you, he finally muttered, “I stopped.”

You blinked, glancing at him.

He didn’t look at you, just kicked a rock down the sidewalk. “Told him I wouldn’t. Don’t care what he does anymore.” His voice was gruff, but quieter than usual.