Archive of Our Own

I remember dying, even though I was asleep. I remember it like an out of body experience—literally, because whatever remained of me... my soul, I guess, had left the broken shell that was me before that shell had taken its last breaths. I floated above myself (and him) for a while, lying together in that stark white hospital bed, feeling strangely at peace yet knowing what would come when he woke, because he would sleep through my last breaths. My last heartbeats. And would awake to find me cold.

I died in his arms. I watched the last shallow breaths move my chest, felt the last weak thumpings of my own heart before it went still. And he was undisturbed, at some sort of peace in his slumber, still in a fleeting bliss of not yet knowing. As I watched him sleep, the transparent, light version of me that remained floating back to the ground once my body had ceased motion, I could only imagine what was to come upon his waking and even now, without the heavy burden of a physical form, I feared it.

But I wouldn’t leave him. Even if I felt liberated from the constant aching in my side from the fatal wound I’d sustained and the heaviness of that body holding me down to earth, the love for him I’ve held all these years remained with me, in this form... whatever it may be. And I didn’t want to leave him.

And yet... because I was no longer blessed with that body, all of the abundant emotions I’ve carried with me from it had no outlet. I couldn’t cry, as much as I wanted to. I had no means of releasing all of the regret and terrible, potent sadness I held for dying, for leaving him alone like this. For breaking my promises to stay with him. Though I would, it wasn’t like he knew it. It wouldn’t be in the way that he wanted—that I wanted.

I’m so sorry, Katsuki.

I felt it build up. There was some sort of dam holding it back, and it was slight, but definitely there. Too much, and I knew I’d crack. I had to be gone before then. I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.

When his chest lifted more than normal, his eyes flicking beneath their lids and his fingers twitching where they were laced with mine, I knew he was beginning to wake up. And I wasn’t ready. I knew I’d never be ready to watch him discover my lifeless body pinned up against him.

As soon as he was awake enough, he knew something was off. I could feel it. He could feel it. He shook me—the shell me—and mumbled my name. Eijirou . Sat up a little when I didn’t move. Shook me again, a little harder. A sliver of panic made itself known in his voice the second time he said my name, a little louder. Eijirou . A curse. No no no. No. Wake up, Ei. C’mon, you idiot...

The pressure built up a little more. I—the me that I was, witnessing all of this—moved a little closer. I wanted to touch him, find a way to reassure him that I felt okay... other than this. This part of me was peaceful, at least. Because there was nothing else I could tell him, yet I couldn’t even tell him that.

I watched in an unknown kind of agony as he fumbled for the nurse’s button, pressing it at least six times before shaking me—the shell of me—more. Placing his hands on my face, trying to coax me awake though I knew he knew, he just didn’t want to believe it. And I couldn’t blame him. I could never blame him.

He was a mess of tears and pain before the nurse even arrived, one arm curling protectively and desperately around my shoulders, the other hand slipping into mine to hold up to his chest. He hid his face, tear-streaked and portraying so much agony, in my hair. The nurse immediately called for backup, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to say anything to him. Quietly she placed a half empty box of tissues on the bed near him, but he ignored it.

He shook. And shook. And shook. Until gradually his body relaxed, though he never let go of me. Everyone who came in and out of the room looked at him with pity, with so much sorrow that it cause the room to fade into blue.

They gave him time. And I sat watching, wishing for a way to help him pull himself together because this wasn’t good... it wasn’t good for him. He couldn’t possibly find happiness, holding so tightly like this even though I knew it would take him a long, long time to find any semblance of joy again.

The emotions built up more.

Friends showed up after a while—four of them, in normal clothes. They’d been warned, clearly, because their footsteps were hesitant. Timid. Their eyes were already glossy with unshed but impending tears. One covered her mouth as soon as she stepped in and laid eyes upon him, tears immediately spilling delicately down her pink cheeks. None of them seemed able to fathom the sight in front of them.

He didn’t respond to their presence. He hadn’t moved in a good, long while, his eyes staring blankly into space. He never let go of me. His grip never so much as faltered. Somehow I knew that if the others allowed, he’d remain tethered to me until they lowered my body into the ground.

And maybe I knew because were the situation reversed, I’d be the same.

If watching him alone deal with realizing my body was vacant of life was unimaginably hard, seeing their faces as they looked at him and me, pale and limp, only made it so much harder. Their sorrow poured into the room, making it bluer. Colder. Only two of them managed tears while the other two could only stare in disbelief of what they were seeing. It was like they were waiting for me to wake up. Waiting for my eyes to reopen and smile at them, even if it was weak because my body was so damaged. And more than absolutely anything I wished that I could give that to them. Wished that I could give it to him .

They had to get him to let go of me, but couldn’t think of a way how. Couldn’t muster the will to say anything to him. And I couldn’t blame them, either; because what would I say, had I still been breathing?

Izuku, somehow, was the one with the most composure of the four of them though even his freckled cheeks were shiny, wet with everflowing tears, and was the one to approach him, murmuring his name. He didn’t respond, of course, but there was no way he didn’t hear. The room had been dead quiet for so terribly long. Surely his ears were ringing, though he’d been still for so long, the tears having ceased trailing through the stains already on his cheeks, I almost wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

But he hadn’t. Izuku whispered his name again and his eyes cracked open, just slightly. Bloodshot. So terribly tired, and so, so deeply sad. That sadness seeped into me, into the self that watched from afar, and held onto me with an iron grip. No matter what happened now, I would never forget that look. Not ever.

When Izuku spoke, using his voice, he sounded cracked. He was so worried for his friend, and so sad because of me.

Kacchan, you’ve gotta let him go...

He gave no indication of comprehension. His arms did not loosen and his eyes did not widen. He was afraid to let go, I was sure. Afraid because he knew this was the last time he’d ever see me, even if it was nothing more than an empty, decaying shell of me. He hadn’t been prepared, and he had no clue how to fathom all of the grief flooding through him, filling him up to the very brim.

It feels disrespectful to hold onto him like that...

Mina’s words were very small, and I remember feeling surprised that she’d stayed so long.

Please, Kacchan.

Izuku’s hand placed tenderly on his shoulder and he jerked a bit, shrugging him off automatically. Still, it was enough for his hand to loosen through mine and sit up a little, enough for his eyes to open wider. They moved slowly as his head lifted and took one last, long look at my face, deceiving as I merely appeared sleeping.

One word spilled from his tongue, and I never figured out if it was toward me or the rest of the room.

Sorry .

Only a whisper. Not even the slightest vocal tone. And yet he’d never sounded so absolutely defeated.

They told him it was okay, only assuming he’d spoken to them, and let him take his time untangling himself from my shell. Gently he rotated me onto my back and brushed my hair from my face so it fanned out over the pillow, a bright red against the white. He struggled to pull his hand from mine, cold as I must’ve already been, and even lifted it up to his face, pressing the back of it against his lips though not exactly kissing it.

He trembled. And when he finally mustered just enough courage to release my pale hand, he placed it against my stomach, still covered in bloody bandages, before making his way to his feet, his eyes never leaving my face.

And once he was upright he leaned down once more, whispering something so quietly even I couldn’t hear it as I watched him from the other side of the bed, before pressing his lips ever so gently to the center of my forehead.

He made no eye contact with the others as he slouched out the door, hands in his pockets and his eyes bloodshot but tearless. Speechless, they let him go.

I followed him, though, because instinctively I wasn’t used to letting him stay upset; I was used to being there for him, comforting him or talking to him whenever he needed me without question. It took nothing to catch up to him yet as I reached out a hand and it passed right through him, reality hit me in the face all over again.

I’m dead. I can no longer reach him here.

The hallway extended out in front of me so far that suddenly he seemed miles away. The world swirled around me as, more and more, the truth of what I now was sunk in.

Spiraling. I was spiraling. And he kept walking.

~

I kept wondering when I was going to disappear. If I ever was. Or if I would just stay here like this... indefinitely.

Was there no heaven? Or hell? No bright light they always spoke of on TV? Nowhere to go but everywhere, yet having no influence on anyone or anything? Just... this? Endless emptiness?

I had no one to talk to. No dark guy with a cape and a scythe showed up to take me to ‘the other side.’ No other people in the same state as I to relate to. Nothing.

So I stuck with him (as if I wouldn’t, anyway). He, who only got worse by the hour it seemed.

He was never left alone, and he never told them to go... between his parents and his friends, always keeping a concerned but watchful eye upon him. But he refused to eat. He barely slept, though no one could blame him—the last time he woke from a prolonged slumber he woke to find me lifeless in his arms. Waking up and having that truth settle in time and time again surely wasn’t easy. Waking up and expecting to find me right beside him where I was supposed to be...

...where I was, even if he wasn’t aware.

He didn’t eat much, either, which worried me. It worried them, too. He seemingly had no will anymore. Nothing motivating him to... to live . And though I was already dead it killed me to see him that way.

I tried to push him. Tried to send him signals... energy... anything to get him to take care of himself. But nothing worked; I was powerless. And I still couldn’t cry.

~

My wake came two days after my death. And it was... crowded. The small temple my parents chose for it wasn’t equipped to hold so many people at once, resulting in small crowds mulling about outside, too.

There were... so many people I didn’t recognize. People from school and others shedding so many tears. Boxes of tissues were passed around, hugs happened everywhere. One by one people stepped up to the small shrine with a photo of me to pay respects... but I couldn’t listen to most of them. The flood of emotions held back by some invisible wall kept me from going down there, as much as I may have wanted to.

And while there were crowds of people, many of which I did recognize, there was... an emptiness. A vacant spot.

He wasn’t there.

I heard a few of them whispering his name, some wondering if he was coming and some condemning him, blaming him for not protecting me out there when he was my partner. If I still had a stomach, it’d make me absolutely sick. They could say what they wanted about him—I didn’t care because I knew the truth—but not here. Not now. Not like this.

I was torn between staying and finding out why so many people were here, staying with my parents and my friends and trying to find some way to reassure them that I was okay, for the most part, after everything... and going to find him, because I knew he wasn’t. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t there when I wanted him to be so badly.

Every instinct I had told me he needed my comfort—physical comfort I could no longer give him—and that there was no way he wasn’t feeling terribly alone right now. As much as I wanted to be there for my family, the call to go to him was much too strong.

But just as I started to go, I saw him. I saw him before anyone else did, but as he approached, feet shuffling along the concrete with his hands hidden away of the pocket of his hoodie—no, my hoodie, I could tell with a closer look—and the hood covering most of his... unusually flat hair, people started to notice him. It was as though one by one heads turned, silence falling over groups in a wave-like fashion. It only lasted a second before the whispers started again.

And I ignored them. I went directly to him, moved along beside him as he walked slowly toward the temple. While to others his face might’ve looked blank, expressionless, passive, I could see an entire universe of agony. He hadn’t been sleeping well. His eyes were rimmed with dark, his lips chapped and his skin pale. It was only barely noticeable but for someone who’d spent ours gazing at that face, admiring its beauty... it was monumental.

My death crushed him.

Just as me, he ignored the surrounding people—even our classmates who didn’t take their eyes off of him as he approached—and made a straight line for the shrine, for the two waiting for him with saddened eyes to its left.

He stopped a few feet away from them, and had trouble looking either of them in the eyes. I could see him trembling and I wondered just how hard he was holding back his tears, just how much his chest ached, and could only imagine how difficult it must’ve been to hold his composure long enough to speak to them.

You needn’t say a thing, Katsuki.

His lips pressed together in a hard, white line at those words, and somehow I could feel it—I could feel him and everything he felt. He wanted to apologize, to beg their forgiveness for not being able to save me. He thought they should shun him, should be furious with him for being a failure who was unable to save their only son, and thought they should tell him he was pathetic for not being able to muster the courage to even speak. He wanted to be relieved that they didn’t need words from him, but couldn’t find such an energy within him.

And it took... every last ounce of strength he had left after all that had happened to keep himself from breaking down, right then and there in the middle of everything.

Mama hugged him first, and he let her. So much more easily than ever before, he let her. More than that—he latched onto her almost like a lifeline, and though he had to bend down a bit because of her short stature, pressed his face into her shoulder so it could no longer be seen.

She rubbed his back the way she always rubbed mine, gently up and down the spine. Her own eyes were closed, and there was somewhat of a pause before tears leaked from beneath her lids and silently trailed down her cheeks.

Mom didn’t wait any longer once she saw that. Her arms encircled the both, one tight around Mama’s shoulders and the other hand resting gently on the back of his head. While she didn’t cry—she wasn’t much of a crier—the sadness was deep, so deep, in her demeanor.

And I... I couldn’t help sinking to the ground myself, feeling those emotions continue to build up behind a wall I was forcing to hold steady. I... may have wanted to somehow tell them I was okay but... but in a way I was glad I couldn’t because I really, truly couldn’t stand lying to them.

I just wish I had been stronger.

~

The school was shut down, though whether that was permanent was undetermined. Since the news of the death of a student spread throughout the region, people began to revolt, to question, leaving UA with no choice but to stop all operations as an academy and transfer its students elsewhere. The media didn’t calm down from it for a long, long time.

No one thought such a simple, routine training camp would turn so deadly in the blink of an eye. No one thought there would be villains hiding out, waiting to attack, having sworn allegiance to the League we thought we wiped out more than a year ago.

With that one death—with my death—they were one giant leap closer to victory. It put everyone I knew and loved in a desperate situation, all because I’d been too weak to survive...

And he didn’t continue.

They’d given him several options; he was very nearly top of the class after all, and had made great strides in his pursuit to become an amazing hero. Any other academy would’ve been more than happy to have an asset—even those abroad. But he turned them all down. He declined each and every one, all because of me.

No one could talk him into going. No one, no matter who they were. No matter what they said or did. He was stubborn, always had been, and remained that way. He didn’t even transfer to a normal high school. It seemed it was over for him... just like that.

I was starting to hate myself. I felt personally responsible for ruining his life even though I knew, I knew it was his choice and his choice alone not to continue and finish what he started... but the guilt weighed me down anyway.

I always knew I was too weak to be a hero. I’d known it for a long, long time, and I couldn’t help but be impressed I’d made it as far as I had. And now not only had I been too weak to defend myself, to keep myself from getting stabbed through the freaking lung, but I’d ruined so much because of my incompetence. I’d ruined UA. I’d ruined the reputation and careers of so many people. I’d broken two absolutely wonderful women’s hearts.

And... I’d ruined him.

~

My parents decided on a burial instead of a cremation, so my body, pumped with chemicals to keep it preserved long enough for my burial, remained in the morgue of the hospital I died in.

But it hardly looked like me. Because it looked like just what it was—dead. Pale. Bluish. Sunken. Frail. Weak.

All I could do was scream at it—at myself—with the voice I no longer had. I hated it hated it hated it.

You should’ve done better! You should’ve been stronger! You were a fucking failure, a piece of shit, an absolute nuisance who couldn’t protect himself from one stupid attack! You ruined everything, everything!! And you can’t take it back! You can’t fix it! You can’t make him smile anymore because you’re fucking dead! You deserve to rot! Rot in hell, you absolute piece of garbage!

~

He stopped sleeping soundly. His face used to relax completely in his slumber, but now it held distressed lines. He tossed and turned a lot. He woke up often.

There were times when he’d wake with a start, gasping and shaking, grasping desperately at the sheets next to him like he was looking for something. And I knew just what he hoped would be there, but wasn’t—at least, not to his knowledge. Not physically. More often than not he’d stay up after that, trying to distract himself or staring into space when it didn’t work until his body forced him into slumber again... which didn’t happen often, and resulted in more sleep loss...

He didn’t bother trying to hide his dark circles or paleness. It was like... he just didn’t care anymore. About himself. He only ate because he had to, and even then it wasn’t very much. He stopped working out. Hell, he barely left his room...

People tried to reach out... at first, anyway. His parents were more than worried and tried to talk him into grief counseling but, all too like him, he refused and insisted that he was fine.

I kept reaching for him. I kept feeling compelled to take his hand, to touch his cheek or brush my fingers down his arm... something to comfort him. But I couldn’t. My hands weren’t tangible. There was nothing... nothing I could do to make him feel better.

And I hated myself more and more every second for it.

I... wanted to go home. And home, to me, was right there in his arms where that pillow he clung desperately to was. I wanted to feel them slip around me, warm and strong and secure, fingers clinging lightly to the back of my shirt and a tuft of soft, ash blonde hair tucked beneath my chin. I wanted him in my arms, too, where I could feel his deep, even breathing. I wanted things to be normal—to wait until the dorm building had quieted down so I could sneak into his room and slip into bed with him... I wanted to go home.

But I no longer had one.

~

I was waiting for him to snap. Waiting for that fire to reignite and for him to completely blow up in a fit of tears and rage and grief. For him to scream at what he thought was only empty air—at me—that it wasn’t fair, to curse me for being weak and getting myself killed, for leaving him way too soon...

But it never happened. He was like a shell. Hollow. Broken. His eyes were dull. Vacant of that ever-present fire I’d grown to love so much. It was like when I died, part of him died, too—the part that made him who he was. And the only way I could understand why he’d let something affect him so much is because I knew, had the situation been reversed, that I’d be the exact same way from losing him.

I never understood just how painful it was to watch the person you loved most in the world go through something like this, especially when there was not a damn thing you could do about it. So I found myself wanting to wander away, to spare myself from seeing him like this because my hands could no longer reach him. I could... feel everything he felt, and the absolute anguish was too much of a burden for me to bear every second.

So, knowing that I would inevitably find my way back no matter what, I drifted away for a while.

~

It’s only when you’re some sort of mist or... form of intangible energy suspended in the air once your body’s been put six feet underground that you realize it’s the soul that shoulders the burden of emotion, not the body or the brain. And it’s so, so much more prone to being affected by it.

Everywhere I went, I caught emotions. I was like a dream catcher, but with feelings instead of nightmares. His were the most potent, and I was sure it was because I loved him more than anyone in the entire world, but my parents’ weren’t far behind. I felt like I could taste their sadness, even as they tried to go about their lives. Just like for him, it was hard for them. It was inevitable that they were struggling to find some semblance of normalcy again.

Outwardly, Mama took it harder. Every time I was around her, she cried, and I don’t know if it was because she could somehow feel me there or if she was truly crying that much, but either way it broke me a little more each time I saw her tears. She found solace in the only thing she seemed to know anymore, and that was Mom—who I still had yet to see shed a single tear. I recognized the deep sadness in her eyes, though. I saw it in the way she moved and how she spoke. She, too, found solace in Mama. All that could keep them floating above their grief and prevent them from drowning in it was each other.

Despite everything, I was glad for it. Glad neither of them were alone in this time, even when they did start grief counseling. They had each other to lean on, to understand what one another was going through. That, at least, provided me with some form of peace... even if it was small.

My friends, too, were able to lean on and support each other, both with trying to cope with the fact that their classmate had died and in continuing their hero training. Even though many of them had separated in terms of schools, they kept in touch. I was glad, so glad they were doing well.

...unlike him.

Him, who I kept drifting towards no matter where I went or what he did. It felt almost like some sort of wire or thread tugging me gently back, sometimes without my conscious knowledge, and then there he’d be, right in front of me again, unable to feel my palm against his cheek or my fingers trying to coax their way through his.

Sometimes he looked right at me unknowingly. His eyes, still holding a lustrous red hue though they were dull from the inside, bored straight through me. I would try to say his name, though nothing would come out. My presence, to him, was long, long gone.

And even though he didn’t have to be, unlike all the others he was alone. As much as I wanted to scream at him to ask for help, whether it was from his parents or mine, or from any of the people he knew he could call his friends though he was too damn stubborn to, I knew I wouldn’t—not even if I still had vocal chords. If he were to go to anyone, anyone at all, and open himself up—let himself be vulnerable and let every little thing spill off of his chest—it was to the person who he thought had left him. The person who was too weak to keep his own heart beating. And I just didn’t have the willpower to be angry at him for acting this way.

So I stuck around. And I watched, as I knew I would no matter what would happen—even if that dam holding everything back burst open. I left him once. There was no way in hell I could do it again, even if it damned me.

~

He started talking. To me. At first I thought he was talking in his sleep, but in the dark of his room I hadn’t seen his eyes peek open. I’d been doing nothing but listening to his breathing, light and quiet, until his voice sliced through the silence of the room.

I dunno if you’re there. Probably not. ‘M probably just talking to myself like a fucking lunatic. But on the off chance you can hear me or whatever...

He’d stopped. Sat up. Shook his head hard and leaned forward, the hair that had been growing out because he lacked the will to get it cut drooping down over his face. I still wasn’t sure if he’d been talking to me at that point, and it took him a while to collect himself before he continued.

God, I’m fucking crazy. You’re there, aren’t you? Eijirou?

He didn’t sound like he knew I was here and was looking for confirmation. He sounded... hopeful. He didn’t know I was there, but he wanted me to be.

I moved closer.

Even if I’m just fucking talking to the air and you’re not here, ‘s not like anyone can hear me. So fuck it.

I... I think I’m going to lose my fucking mind, Eijirou. I forgot what it’s like to be without you even though I spent most of my life that way. I keep expecting to wake up from this horrible fucking nightmare but every time I do wake up the reality that you’re gone hits me like a train. And it... it makes me wanna fucking die, even if I don’t know if that means I’d get to be with you again.

I don’t want to die. Not really. I just want you to come back. Being... being without you feels like I’m fucking suffocating, but there’s never any release. There’s never an end. As fucking strong as everyone sees me to be... being top of the fucking class and as someone who was on track to be one of the top heroes right out of high school, I’m fucking weak. I don’t know who the hell I am anymore. And I’m lost.

...but I can’t bring myself to regret relying on you. I can’t. You’re what I needed so goddamn desperately without me even knowing it. I just never fucking thought I’d lose you. I took you for granted, and now I have...

He paused in the middle of his sentence, his teeth slamming shut, fingers raking roughly through his hair until he grabbed so hard his knuckles whitened. His eyes were squeezed shut. Once again I tried to reach out with a hand made of something less than mist. When it met his cheek I couldn’t feel him—not really. There was a warm sensation, I thought, but... nothing substantial.

And yet he sucked in a breath as soon as I made contact with him. For one small instant I thought he’d felt me, but then he continued.

...I have so fucking many regrets, Ei. More than I can count. More than ‘s probably healthy to have. I... I should’ve done so much more for you. I should’ve held your hand more. I should’ve fucking supported you better…

Every word sliced through me, one by one. How was I supposed to tell him that I didn’t blame him for anything? That to me, he supported me better than anyone—even my own parents ? That I’m grateful for every time he held my hand, kissed me, let me hug him, fell asleep in my arms, and stayed up all night having aimless, over-tired conversations?

More and more I was growing frustrated, only adding to the mountain of emotions continuously building up within me and I couldn’t help being surprised I hadn’t already completely shattered…

~

The talking was frequent. When he wasn’t telling me about his regrets, he was listing out memories of ours—ones that were his favorite. And while each of them was
happy, there wasn’t the slightest trace of joy in his eyes nor the subtlest hint of a smile. It only seemed to tear at his heart even more, in fact.

I listened to every word. Made up responses in the silence of myself, hoping that wishing as hard as I was to be able to say these things aloud to him would somehow grant me the ability even though I knew magic didn’t exist and there would be no such thing as a flash of starlight to bring me such an ability. I still wished, though. And hoped.

And, as always, stayed by his side.

~

He got up early one morning—a night in which he didn’t manage to catch a wink of rest—and headed out before his parents had even woken up. It was a cool, rainy morning and all he wore was that same hoodie—my scent surely having faded from it a while ago—to shield himself from the weather as he headed down the road on foot. I expected him to stop at the bus station, but he walked right on by it.

It was more than three miles and an hour down the road when I realized where it was he was probably going and I felt the first, real spark of hope I’d had since my heart ceased motion in that instant. And it was like I felt it in my chest, though I no longer had one. It was… the most solid I felt since dying, and it left me reeling for a moment.

The house was quiet when he got there, and as soon as it came into view I could feel his hesitation. It was still early. The sun had only been up for just over an hour, and though Mom was a generally early riser, he didn’t want to push his luck. So he turned and started back the way he came, though instead of going straight back home he slipped into a nearby Starbucks and ordered a small coffee. I could see him eyeing the display with pastries and such kept warm under its light, too, but he didn’t ask for one.

On a whim—an impulse, or instinct perhaps—I nudged him and he… he stiffened . I wanted him to get something to eat; it’d been nearly an entire twenty-four hours since he’d fed himself and even then it was only a small bowl of rice.

And then, I don’t know if this was coincidence or what , but at the last second before handing the cashier his money he asked for a banana muffin. For the first time since my death, what felt like a smile pulled through the strange mistlike thing that I was, small and subtle as it might’ve been.

He ate slowly, quietly, sitting at a small square table in the corner of the coffee shop like he was trying to get away from people though, this early in the morning and on a weekend, there were only a few other people in the building. He kept his eyes away from people, and as I hovered next to him I couldn’t help but notice nearly everyone who walked by glanced his way. Some seemed to recognize him but his demeanor kept them away; others gave him dirty looks because he kept his eyes low and his hoodie was damp.

When he left, he left the same way—hood up and head down, hands in his pockets with not a thing to say.

His trip back toward the house— their house as opposed to his own, somewhat to my relief—was slower than the first. Like he was making sure. It was well into the morning now, and Mom never slept in too late, but even he wanted to be courteous to them.

...or so I thought. When he got just a few steps away from the path leading up to the door, he hesitated once again. His darkened eyes were narrow and his lips pressed together in a hard, white line. He didn’t think he deserved to be here. Didn’t believe he was worthy of being in their presence or taking up their time. I could feel him about to make the decision to turn around and head home, but I couldn’t let that happen.

So, just like back at the cafe, I nudged him. Coaxed a thought towards him. Go. It’s okay.

They would want to see him. They’d been worried about him—so worried, but were the type of people who gave people space when they needed it. And he, being the type of person who did, needed it . So they kept their distance.

With one more scuff of the sole of his shoe against the cold, wet concrete, he padded quietly up to the door. Knocked only three times. And waited.

Mom was there in less than a minute, peeking her head out and clearly wearing nothing more than a fluffy robe and a pair of socks. Her brow relaxed as soon as she saw it was him and without a word, swung the door open and stepped aside to let him in.

He hesitated, of course. Even after making the entire trip on foot, he still felt he was intruding. And Mom being Mom, always having been perceptive, reached out for him and gently pulled him toward her by the shoulder and, completely disregarding the fact that he was practically soaked from walking in the rain, wrapped him into her arms.

And it was like I could feel her embrace myself as she held him; it was a feeling that was still prominent in my memory. She always felt so steady, so strong and safe-feeling. Mama was different in that she was gentler and so warm. She had a habit of rubbing your back whenever she hugged you, and it was more comforting than anything.

It’s okay , she murmured to him. We’ve been waiting for you .

His face portrayed confusion and she didn’t miss this when they pulled out of the hug.

They had, but they knew he’d need space. They knew he’d need time to mourn on his own and respected it, even if they were worried about him.

Though I could see the protest in his eyes, he said nothing when she went to wake Mama. He sat silently on the couch, keeping his head low and his hands in the pocket of the hoodie. And I could feel myself wanting to smile at him, even if I didn’t have the mouth to do it with. I was proud of him for coming here. Proud of him for finally leaving the house on his own.

But the feeling of a smile didn’t last long when I observed him closer and saw the shaking. Immediately I knew it wasn’t because he was cold from being wet; he was never cold. For the first time, his feelings, so unbelievably potent, slammed into me like a truck.

Despair. Grief. Hopelessness. Tension. P a i n.

He was having trouble, being here. And I don't know why I didn’t get it before; this place reminded him of me . It didn’t help that my parents had photos of me on almost all the walls, that we’d spent so much of our time here while I was alive, that most of my life was centered around this place, which automatically made his the same way…

More than ever since my heart stopped I wanted to wrap him in my arms and protect him. God , I wanted to protect him. But how was I supposed to protect him from the pain I caused him?

...I couldn’t help but be surprised my emotional dam hadn’t yet reached its breaking point.

~

Mom and Mama took care of him that day. Fed him. ( You look too thin these days, Mama told him.) Gave him a change of clothes. (Mine, of course; he was blatantly hesitant in accepting them. He’d want you to be warm, Mom told him. Trust me. So he took them. And I was there when he pressed his nose into them, alone in the bathroom, inhaling slowly. Deeply.) Called his parents and let them know where he was.

Just send him home when you need to. One of us can come get him, too, his mother said, to which Mom said, Nonsense. He’s welcome as often and as long as he likes, as long as it’s okay with you.

I’m just glad he’s finally gone out on his own. Thank you for letting me know.

He didn’t say much at all—maybe a few thank-yous and yeahs or no’s. They didn’t pressure him, and eventually he fell asleep to a quiet movie, curled up on the end of the couch with a half-drunk cup of tea beside him. Mama gently tucked my favorite blanket around him—one with a graphic of Crimson Riot on it—and they let him sleep, for once peacefully.

~

He took them up on the offer of being welcome anytime. He made the trip there multiple times a week, and they always let him in. While it was hard for him to be in a place that reminded him so much of me, it helped him, too. Comforted him. Little by little, over the course of a few weeks, he seemed to open up to them.

He helped Mom around the house while Mama worked, and then ate with them. I’d never seen him volunteer to do housework in his life until that point, either; he even started doing the dishes after eating without a word. Mama tried to stop him, but Mom simply laid a hand on her shoulder and shook her head.

It helped him, keeping his hands busy. Gave him something to focus on other than the constant thoughts of regret swimming through his head.

He was changing, but no one could blame him. Though spending time with my parents made him feel better—perhaps made him feel closer to me—he was still far from the person I knew. It seemed as if my death was the rainstorm that’d blown through and put out the fire of his passion, and all that was left were embers—and weak ones, at that.

And I still didn’t know how to help him.

~

He continued to speak to me, usually late at night or early in the morning when the rest of the city was still asleep around him. When no one but me could hear him, even if he didn’t know that. When he couldn’t sleep, or was having a worse day than usual.

Sometimes he’d talk so long he’d start to mumble incoherently and then fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, leaving me in the silence of his room to watch over. It was calming, and I think it helped him to feel closer to me, too, just like being with my parents did.

Eventually he stopped calling himself crazy for it, too, at least when he was talking to me. And then, surprising me, he admitted it out loud to Mama.

I talk to him. Sometimes. Like a fucking lunatic. But... ‘s like I can feel him there sometimes, and I gotta just... say something. And for some reason it… it makes me feel better. That’s why I finally got my ass out of bed to come over here…

It was clear he expected her to look at him like he was crazy, but just like Mama, she only smiled. (He always looked away from her when she smiled. Her smile is the freaking spitting image of yours , he told me one night. It brought him pain, as beautiful as her smile was.) She reassured him that it was normal, that she often thought she could feel me there, too.

It prompted me to move closer to them, to want to reach out and touch them.

I am here, I wanted to say. Right here. I can hear you. I promise I am.

He was just relieved that he wasn’t a lunatic.

I… tell him shit I should’ve told him while he was alive. Cheesy stuff, y’know? And I act like he can hear every word and I pretend he’s right next to me listening. Sounds fucking dumb, I know.

She reassured him it didn’t, but he still shook his head. He didn’t stick around with her long after that—not even long enough for Mom to get back from her errands, and he walked home for the first time in almost a month instead of accepting a ride or taking the bus.

On his way, it started snowing—light little flecks in the air that caught the light of the street lamps he passed under; more like glitter fluttering down than snow. I counted his steps. Counted the puffs of fog emitting from his nose. He kept his eyes pointed downward.

And then he began to speak, hushed, to me.

‘S fucking stupid, huh, Ei? That we all want to tell people the shit we should’ve said before after they’re gone? We all take everything for granted, like there’s no way we’re ever gonna lose it. We just assume the things we love the most are gonna be there ‘til the end. But then life decides to take a shit all over you and takes away the very thing you love the most in the blink of an eye while watching you suffer, probably laughing at you.

...I took you for granted, Eijirou. I hate to fucking admit it, but I did. In my head I planned all this shit out, you know? Graduating together. Becoming heroes together—like some cheesy hero duo you see in the news or whatever, fighting off pussy-ass villains and winning it all. I fuckin’... pictured us moving in together and shit. All that domestic stuff? We’d probably get married too, right? You’d probably end up being the one to ask me since I’m shit at finding the right words for stuff like that. And I’d say hell yes, and then we’d let Pinky or somebody plan our wedding. Kami be your best man and… shit, I hate to admit this, too, but Deku’d probably be mine. You’d look fucking amazing in some sort of suit, probably wearing red, right? And Mina’d make you keep your hair down. And I guess I figured we’d have some weird kind of hero version of that Disney happy ending bullshit. With like, a dog. Maybe adopt some kid a ways down the line with a cool quirk of her own and raise her to be her own kinda hero. I suck with kids, but you’d be amazing… like you were with that horn girl the few times she was around us…

...but shit, these are just stupid pipe dreams. Not even that. They’re fantasies that’ll never come true now.

But I should stop fucking complaining, huh? I always bitch and moan about my own pain or whatever but like… what about you? You were the one who took a fucking spear through the lung. You were the one who managed to make it through surgery and a collapsed lung twice . You were the one who kept coughing up blood and still smilin’ at me with those sharp teeth of yours and insisting you were fine when you were probably in more pain than you led on.

Fuck, I’m such a bastard. I wish I could’ve fuckin’ done more for you. I say that every fucking day but Eijirou… you don’t fucking know how much I love you. How much I wish it had been me instead of you, ‘cause you sure as hell had the potential to save way more people than I ever will since all I ever gave a fuck about was storming to the top and kicking down anyone who stood in my way.

You deserved to live more than anybody, but for no good reason at all, life was ripped away from you and I… I can’t figure out how to cope with it.

And I also think I’m starting to forget what you looked like. I mean, there are pictures… but they don’t show me you . They don’t remind me how you moved and spoke. Don’t let me hear the sound of your voice. Don’t let me feel your warmth or hear the sound of your heart. ‘S so dumb. But I want to remember. I thought… I’d at least have one dream about you since you left but I haven’t had a single one.

Maybe ‘s ‘cause you’re not around anymore and I really am just talking to thin air. ‘Cause remember when we read that thing about how when you dream about someone who’d died, it meant they were visiting you? Back then I thought it was just some bullshit but I guess now I was sort of hoping it was true. The things I’d give to see you one more time, Eijirou, even if it was just in a dream…

He’d stopped at that point because he made it home and his parents were in the family room, but it wasn’t before he’d given me an idea I felt stupid for not thinking of sooner.

~

Getting into dreams was hard. So hard. I had no help, no way of knowing if it was even possible or how to do it if it was. I tried absolutely everything I could think of—drifting close to him, touching his head with the part of me I felt were my hands, whispering to him with the breath I didn’t really have. I tried talking back when he spoke to me and tried to say his name over and over. I paid attention to when he was dreaming, to see if that opened some sort of window I could sneak in through.

He often twitched when I moved close or touched him, and once he’d even jerked awake as soon as the strange form that I was touched him. He’d jolted upright with a gasp resembling my name tumbling from his lips and gripping his blankets so tight his knuckles were white. After that he’d muttered something about really being crazy and then splashed cold water on his face. He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, which prompted worry from his mother when she discovered him staring blankly at a powered off television at eight in the morning.

I was on the verge of giving up, as much as I wanted to appear there for him. It was causing him to lose sleep, confusing him when he felt me there, and even making me tired—as if a ghost, if that’s what I was, could get tired. He needed me, but maybe seeing me there in his dreams would only hinder the process of his healing (as if it wasn’t slow enough already) and make his pain even worse. Dreaming of me would serve as a reminder that I wasn’t there, and he’d wake up to an empty bed and a world where we could no longer reach each other.

With relent, I laid myself down beside him, lighter than a feather, as he settled in for sleep one night. I usually watched him from the floor or above, but even I had to admit I missed the feeling of being beside him. He didn’t seem to notice a thing, either, and this was one of the rare nights when he didn’t speak to me. As usual, he relaxed on his right side and shut his eyes. In the dark I could see how shadowed his eyelids had become from such poor sleep or lack thereof. All I wanted was to help him sleep soundly for more than the few minutes of shut eye he occasionally grabbed at my parents’ house…

With no intention of doing anything more than that, I moved closer and gently rested the part of me that might’ve been my forehead right against his and remained as still as I could until his breathing deepened and his body succumbed to sleep…

I didn’t dare move. I soaked in the moment, trying not to think or do something to wake him, especially wish that all of this was back to normal, that I’d never died and he was aware of my presence.

In the next instant, though I feel I should’ve, I didn’t expect the sudden flash of white hot light shooting throughout my being at the same time his eyes flicked to the left underneath their lids, and then it was as if I was falling, falling, falling…

When I woke up—or what felt like waking up, anyway—I was laying facedown in a puddle, feeling heavier than I had in months. I was… solid again. I could feel the cool wash of rain on my exposed skin—my hands and the back of my neck, the side of my face that wasn’t on the wet ground. The rest of me was clothed in a hoodie and an old pair of pajama pants I used to own. I didn’t know where I was, really, but I knew something was off from the second I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees.

The rain was black. As soon as it made contact with something, though, it became clear, normal rain water. It fell from dark red clouds.

I felt… stiff. It was like I didn’t quite remember how to handle a body—how to move in one; I’d never realized how heavy it was, or how much lighter I’d been without one, so it took me a minute to push myself to my feet and take in my surroundings. Aside from the black rain and red clouds, everything was colored normally.

I was… right outside the front doors of UA—a UA that was in complete shambles, as if it’d been years rather than months since it was shut down and hadn’t been maintained, nor had anyone bothered to demolish it or convert it into something else. The sight of it—broken windows, weeds and vines growing up the walls, the trees around it dead—made my heart sink straight into my stomach. All I could do was stare, black rain cascading down my cheeks, soaking into my hair and the hoodie I wore.

Why would he dream of this…?

“Eijirou?” came a voice from my right—one I’d never forget in a million years, though it was broken and hushed, almost swallowed up by the pattering of the rain.

Sure enough, there he was when I turned. His hair was wet, flattened against his head, his eyes dark and narrow. He looked skeptical, at best, and the same as he did in real life, having lost weight and succumbed to his grief. If the sight of UA in shambles made my heart hurt, the site of him looking like that, right in front of me as he looked at me, too, for the first time in months, made my entire being ache.

“Hey, Katsuki,” I murmured, managing a smile.

His eyes widened at the sound of my voice, like he suddenly realized I was there in front of him, even if it was within a dream of black rain and a red sky.

“It’s me,” I promised. “You wanted to dream of me, right?” I held my hands out, trying to smile wider but finding it difficult, what with a tangle of emotion sitting heavy on my shoulders. “So here I am.”

“‘S not really you, though,” he mumbled, looking away. “‘S just someshit my brain made up.”

“Nah, man, it’s me. Really. I’ve been with you this whole time,” I promised.

His eyes flicked back, then away again, his whole body following and his hands shoving into his pockets. “Guess this is better than nothing,” he muttered. “But ‘s definitely gonna suck ass when I wake up and you’re still gone.”

“Don’t think about that right now, man,” I told him, taking a tentative step in his direction. “‘Cause I am here and I can finally talk to you. Like, you can hear me now.”

“I guess.”

“...mind if I give you a hug? I’ve kinda been dying to forever.”

His throat visibly constricted and he turned toward me again. His answer didn’t come right away; he looked me over for a good, long minute before he gave a slight nod. It took only a few steps to close the distance between us, and I couldn’t find it in myself to hesitate in wrapping my arms around him as tightly as I could. And even though this was a dream, and this physical form I occupied was hardly real, it felt like the greatest relief, just to hold him in my arms again, to feel his arms move around me, too, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Fuck, I missed you,” I sighed into his cool, rain-washed skin. “I missed this so much.”

He gave nothing but a grunt in response. Me, too , it said. So I hugged him tighter, not knowing how much time I had left. He hadn’t been asleep long, but his sleeping patterns were always all over the place.

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised your hair is black again, huh?” he mumbled.

“Probably not,” I chuckled. “Since it was naturally that way.”

“How long can you stay, anyway?”

“Until you wake up.”

“Then let me just sleep forever,” he mumbled, pressing his face into my shoulder. “Fuck waking up. Fuck going back to a world without you. I can’t fucking take it anymore, especially now that you’re here.”

My chest tightened again. This was what I’d been afraid of—my presence making things worse on him, reopening wounds he’d been trying so hard to heal. So I had to make sure they stayed as healed as they could be, if not help heal them more so he could move on.

“...but you have to, Katsuki,” I murmured. “You don’t belong here, with this weird black rain stuff. You belong out there.”

“Out where?” he grunted. “With people who constantly look at me with pity and ask me if I’m okay when they should know the fucking answer? Where everybody else has moved on but for some reason I’m stuck in this shell? Out where you’re still gone? Why the hell would I wanna go back to that when you’re here ?”

“‘Cause you know this is temporary, man.” As much as I didn’t want to, I had to pull back, to look him in the eyes. “Plus, I do exist out there still. I’m in your memories, ya know? And my parents’ memories, and our friends’ memories. There are pictures of me and belongings of mine. Stories you can tell about me and all that.”

“Hmph.” His eyes cut away from mine again. “I don’t want your shit or pictures of you. I want you .”

His voice was so hollow that I almost, almost wanted to relent and pull him back into my embrace just to comfort him because it was my instinct—to make him happy. But I couldn’t; I forced myself to hold him out at an arm’s length.

“Katsuki, look at me.”

Hesitation was clear in the way his eyes flicked back and forth, but eventually they landed back on mine. For the first time since the dream started I realized his forehead was relaxed and there wasn’t so much as a speck of anger on his face; he hardly looked like Katsuki .

“It sucks ass. I know it does, man. I’ve been with you the whole time and I’ve watched how much this hurts you and I’ve tried to help you, but I couldn’t until now. I swear to god I wanna stay with you, too, but we both know it’s not right. We both know that my time has come and now you’ve gotta find the strength to move on. I know it’s easier said than done, but I know you have that strength, man!” I planted my fist in the center of his chest. “You always have. You were top of the class, and your Quirk is insanely powerful. You were on track to fulfill your dream! So you gotta get out there, man! This… sitting around and all that isn’t good for you.”

“...so then what the hell do you want me to do, Ei?” he mumbled. “Go back to school?”

“Yes, if you feel like that’s what you wanna do. Or anything that’s gonna get you moving again. Maybe you don’t have to go right away. Maybe get away from home for a bit. Use your savings to take a trip or something, I dunno. Take some time for yourself to heal. Whatever it takes. And then when you’re ready, come back and fulfill your dream of being the best hero. You’ve still got it in you, Katsuki. That fire--the one I love so much. It’s there, you just gotta start tending to it again.”

His eyes dropped, then, and he said, “You have no fucking clue how much harder it’s gonna be to do that shit than it is for you to say it. You have no idea how god awful it is to try and exist without you.”

“I know I don’t,” I murmured. “And I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t let myself die more than you know.”

“Fuck…” he muttered, pressing a hand to his face. “Love fucking sucks . It’s painful as shit.”

“I know,” I repeated. “But honestly, I’d take that spear through my lung a hundred thousand more times before I ever stopped loving you, man. And even then I wouldn’t stop.”

“Hmph. Even in the afterlife you’re cheesy as shit.”

“Aw, but I’m still manly as shit, too, right?” I asked, finding another grin.

That was what got him to look back up at me, and for just a split second there was the tiniest hint of his own grin. “Yeah,” he murmured. “‘Course you are, Hair for Brains.”

He was the one to pull me back into the embrace, and we held onto each other with absolutely everything left within us. In that second there was an odd shift; the rain stopped suddenly and the sky cleared to a beautiful, vast blue atmosphere. I don’t know how I knew, but he was about to wake up.

“I gotta go,” I told him quietly. “You’re gonna wake up soon.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “‘M not ready to let you go again.”

“S’okay. I’m always there, remember? I’ll always be watching you.”

“What are you, a stalker?”

A laugh bursts from my chest, and with it all of the emotion that had built up behind that dam seemed to dissipate, and once again I was beginning to feel lighter. “Maybe I am.”

He snorted lightly. “You better fucking kiss me before you leave or ‘m never gonna forgive you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving without kissing you,” I told him as we moved back enough.

This kiss felt… different than it had when I was alive. It was more electric, but softer somehow. It felt like him, though, more than it ever had. When it was over and my eyes reopened, he looked more like himself again. The dark circles around his eyes had faded, his skin was a warmer hue, his hair stuck up in a million different directions again, his eyes were brighter. That was all it took for me to smile completely unapologetically for the first time since my heart stopped.

“I don’t think you’ll ever understand how much I love you, Bakugou Katsuki,” I told him, taking a slight step back. “I don’t care if they say we were too young. I know how I feel.” Another, until all the contact between us were our hands interwoven between us. “And no matter where I go after this, I’m always gonna be waiting for you.” Our hands slipped apart, and I backed slowly toward the trees behind me, now alive and full of cherry blossoms. The building beside us was the UA we remembered again. “Now get your ass out there and be a hero like you always wanted.” The trees were just behind me now and, as I disappeared into them, I said, “I’ll always be watching you win.”

My last glimpse of him was of a wide-eyed, slightly lost person with his hand still extended toward me.

Lost, yes, but so much more alive and hopeful than he’d been. That was more than enough to know he would be okay, in the end.