Archive of Our Own

In Katsuki’s dream, Izuku’s hands are clean.

They bear no scars, as clean as the cool water eddying around their waists. They hover over the water like the small, frantic wings of a young sparrow, still frail with the suggestion of tenderness. Miraculous in their wholeness.

These hands have never felt the blood borne from war, or healing, or heartbreak. They’ve never hurt anyone, or anything. The worst thing they’ve ever done is reach for Katsuki like he’s something worthy of kindness.

Katsuki doesn’t belong in this breathless, unbroken world, not when he’s this dirty, war-torn thing, savage with a lifetime of fury. But when he reaches for the spikes in his chest, the skin is unbroken, too, his body warm and solid and clean. It steals the breath from his lungs until he remembers. Somewhere, Izuku is shattering apart, and somewhere, he is falling. Just not in this world. In this world, the Izuku in front of him is still young in ways they can no longer afford to be. But even if their bodies have forgotten their violence, he can’t. Not when the weight of his gauntlets still threatens to tug him out to sea, not when Izuku looks up at him like he still loves him.

Kacchan, Izuku says, and it breaks him wide open. He’s carved this memory so deep in his mind that the scars only ache when Izuku looks at him like this, like he’s worth saving. But he’s still not ready for Izuku to lift one tiny, perfect hand, fingers trembling as he offers Katsuki his palm.

Are you hurt? And he is so, so small, this Izuku, fragile body shaking against the current as he waits for Katsuki’s answer. His Izuku is small, too. But not like this. Not untested and raw. There’s nothing in this boy that speaks of war, no. Not this hand. Not this memory. Just daylight skimming over the soft arch of his wrist.

He hates it.

All the previous users of One for All died young, his Izuku had said, and Katsuki snarls at the memory, tearing at the flesh of the past until his mind slips back into the unsullied blue of this first, precious afternoon.

He looks at Izuku’s hand for a long, long time.

No, he finally says, and he closes his eyes, forcing down the pain in his chest before it can rip through the boy in front of him. I’m okay, he grits out, and he hates how happy it makes Izuku look, hates the relief that splits his face into a grin. Let me go back, let me save you, he wants to say. But he stays quiet. He slips off a gauntlet with infinite care, letting the river wash it away with his gloves. I’m okay, he repeats, softer, and he meets Izuku halfway, lets him wrap his tiny, wondrous hand around two of Katsuki’s blistered fingers.

Good, Izuku says, smile bright, and he presses a quick kiss to the center of his palm. All better now, he adds, and Katsuki grits his teeth, weak explosions bubbling up from where his other hand presses into the earth. He could blow Izuku’s head off without moving a muscle, but he’s right here, wordlessly offering him the gentleness that Katsuki’s always denied him. It’s not fucking fair. Static starts to creep in at the corners of his vision, but he blinks it away, refusing to close his eyes before he sees Izuku smile again.

But it’s too late. Katsuki slips to his knees, head bowing as he spits blood into the river. Fuck. Fuck, it’s coming.

Kacchan?

Fuck. Don’t follow, he’d said before Kamino Ward, and he says it again, the words slashing through the perfect sky of this world. Don’t follow. Please, don’t follow.

Then all of it is sound, and flight, and fury, and he’s opening his eyes to the unforgiving daybreak of war. Izuku’s not smiling anymore, his Izuku, face raw and anguished as he watches Katsuki fall down, down, down, until Katsuki is the one looking up, and Izuku is the one looking down.

Let me do this for you, he thinks, as the sky swallows him whole. Let me try this thing called atonement.