The ramen was, in fact, a godsend. Katsuki could practically feel the rich, savoury broth and greasy noodles coating his stomach, quelling the last remnants of his own hangover. Across from him, Izuku was inhaling his food with a single-minded focus that was both impressive and slightly terrifying. The moan that had escaped him after the first gyoza had been downright pornographic, earning a snicker from Denki that Katsuki swiftly silenced with a glare.

“So,” Mina began, her voice a singsong of pure, unadulterated mischief. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, a wicked grin splitting her face. “The bus, huh? Public transportation really gets you going, Deku?”

Izuku choked, a piece of noodle shooting out of his mouth as he sputtered. His face, which had been regaining some colour, instantly flamed a brilliant scarlet. He ducked his head, focusing intently on his bowl as if the secrets of the universe were hidden at the bottom.

“Shut the hell up, Pinky,” Katsuki growled, though there was no real heat behind it. He was too busy savoring the way the chili oil lit up his tongue. “Like you and Raccoon Eyes have any room to talk.”

“We have class!” Mina retorted, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “We wait until we’re in the privacy of our own dorm rooms to make terrible life choices.”

“The video suggests otherwise,” Shoto interjected blandly, sipping his Ramune. He blinked, entirely unaware of the lethal look Katsuki was now directing at him. “It was very… enthusiastic. I’m surprised the bus driver didn’t stop the vehicle.”

That was the final straw for Izuku. With a strangled squeak, he buried his burning face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with embarrassment. “Oh my god, please stop. I can’t believe we did that.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes but slid his arm around Izuku’s shoulders, pulling him against his side. “We were drunk off our asses. Everyone did stupid shit last night.” He scanned the table. “Dunce Face was trying to use his quirk to power a jukebox with his forehead, and IcyHot over there was attempting to make cocktail ice with his left hand and then complaining it tasted like blood.”

Shoto considered this. “It did, though.”

The table devolved into laughter, the attention successfully diverted from the bus incident. Izuku slowly peeked out from behind his fingers, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips. He leaned into Katsuki’s side, the tension seeping out of his frame.

As the meal wound down and trays were cleared, the group splintered off. The common room was littered with their classmates in various states of recovery, some nursing water, others dozing on the couches. The spring sun was indeed blazingly hot already, casting bright squares of light across the floor.

Back in their dorm room, the post-meal lethargy set in. Katsuki kicked off his slippers and collapsed onto his bed, the food coma hitting him hard. Izuku, however, seemed restless. He paced for a moment before going to his desk and pulling out one of his many, many hero analysis notebooks—number 27, Katsuki noted.

“Really? Gonna work on that now?” Katsuki mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He watched as Izuku sat down, his brow furrowed in concentration. It was a familiar, comforting sight.

“Just… want to note down a few things about Best Jeanist’s new fiber mastery technique I saw in the last press conference,” Izuku murmured, his pen already flying across the page.

Katsuki let his eyes drift closed. The sounds of the dorm were muted—the distant chatter from the common room, the hum of the air conditioner, the soft scratch of Izuku’s pen. It was peaceful. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the light in the room had shifted and a soft thud brought him back to consciousness.

He cracked an eye open. Izuku was standing in front of his full-length mirror again. But this time, he wasn’t checking his abs. He had his hero costume top on—the form-fitting green sleeveless shirt. He was flexing his arm, his face pinched with a frown.

“The fabric’s looser,” Izuku whispered to his reflection, his voice so low Katsuki almost missed it. He pinched the material at his bicep. “It was tighter before.”

Katsuki’s sleepiness vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. He sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around his waist. “Izuku.”

Izuku jumped, whirling around as if he’d been caught doing something illegal. His eyes were wide and guilty. “K-Kacchan! You’re awake.”

“What do you mean, ‘it’s looser’?” Katsuki asked, his voice dangerously calm.

“It’s nothing!” Izuku said, too quickly. He forced a laugh, pulling at the collar of his costume. “Just… the fabric probably shrank in the wash or something. You know how Support can be with the materials they use—”

“Bullshit.” Katsuki swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, crossing the room in three long strides. He stopped in front of Izuku, his gaze intense. “You’ve been weird about your weight all day. You puked up everything in your system and then ate one meal. Your costume isn’t loose because of the wash.”

Izuku’s shoulders slumped. The defensive mask crumbled, leaving behind a look of weary anxiety. He looked down, fiddling with the silver bracelet Katsuki had given him for his last birthday. “I… I just… I need to be faster, Kacchan. Stronger. We’re third-years now. The pros are watching. Every gram matters. If I’m lighter, I can move quicker, I can put less strain on my limbs when I uses my quirk…”

“You’re talking like a fucking idiot,” Katsuki snapped, but his hands were gentle as he took Izuku’s bicep. He squeezed it, feeling the solid, defined muscle underneath. “This isn’t fat, you moron. It’s power. You lose this, and you’ll be slower, because you’ll be weaker. You’ll break your bones on a 20% smash because your body won’t be able to handle the output.”

“I know that, logically,” Izuku whispered, his voice trembling. “But when I look in the mirror, all I see are the parts that still aren’t good enough.”

The confession hung in the air between them, raw and vulnerable. This wasn’t just about the hangover or a single comment. This was a deep-seated insecurity that Katsuki recognized all too well—the ghost of a quirkless, scrawny kid still haunting the frame of a top-tier hero student.

Katsuki didn’t offer empty platitudes. He didn’t say ‘you’re perfect.’ Instead, he cupped Izuku’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Listen to me, Deku. Your body is a weapon you’ve built from the ground up. You don’t starve a weapon. You fuel it. You maintain it.” His thumb stroked Izuku’s cheekbone. “From now on, we’re eating every meal together. And you’re finishing what’s on your tray. And if I catch you skipping or talking this shit again, I’ll make you run suicides with me until you puke for a whole new reason. Understood?”

A single tear escaped, tracing a path down Izuku’s freckled cheek, but he was smiling—a small, real, relieved smile. He nodded, leaning into Katsuki’s touch. “Understood.”

“Good.” Katsuki dropped his hands. “Now get that nerd notebook. We’re going to the gym.”

Izuku blinked. “The gym? Right now?”

“Yeah. You want to be stronger? We’ll do it the right way. Not by starving yourself.” A feral grin spread across Katsuki’s face. “I’m gonna spot you while you bench press until you can’t feel your arms. That’ll give you something real to think about.”

The anxiety in Izuku’s eyes was finally, truly, replaced by a familiar, determined fire. “Okay, Kacchan.”

As Izuku turned to grab his stuff, Katsuki watched him, a protective, fierce warmth blooming in his chest. The world saw the invincible Hero-in-Training, the Symbol of Hope’s successor. But Katsuki saw the boy who still fought his own ghosts. And he’d be damned if he let those ghosts win.