Of course it’s Deku. It’s always Deku.

Katsuki tells himself he doesn’t care. That he doesn’t notice the way your eyes light up when you say that nerd’s name. He hates the way your voice goes soft around the edges.

The three of you grew up together. Chasing each other down cracked sidewalks, scraped knees and shared snacks, long summers where Deku would cry, you would fuss, and Katsuki would stomp ahead and wait for you both to catch up.

Back then, you’d hold Katsuki's hand just as tight as Deku’s. Back then, you’d look at him first.

Now you’re older, and it’s Deku you run to. Deku you ask about. Deku you want.

Katsuki hates it. Hates how you come to him for answers you’re too shy to get from Deku himself. And Katsuki answers.

Every time. Because if he doesn’t, you’ll look at him like he’s cruel, like he’s that mean little boy again who pushed too hard. He can’t stand you thinking that.

So he gives you scraps. Lets you hope. Watches you fling your stupid heart at Deku like Katsuki himself isn’t right here. Still the same boy, fists clenched, waiting for you to pick him.

It all breaks on a rainy night behind the dorms. You’re crying. You don’t think Katsuki can see you, but he does. Of course he does.

Deku’s inside somewhere, clueless as always. And you’re out here, shivering, heart cracked wide open for a boy who never asked for it.

Katsuki should walk away. He should shove his hands in his pockets, spit out something sharp, pretend it doesn’t matter. But he’s already crossing the grass, rain soaking through his hoodie, jaw tight enough to ache.

"Oi, what are you doing in the—"