Archive of Our Own

*****

No one ever tells Katsuki that after is the worst part. He has to learn it for himself.

After Kamino, he learns that after means sleepless nights training in the gym until he can’t see straight; it’s glimpsing the All Might paraphernalia in Izuku’s room and sprinting to the bathroom to dry heave; it’s hating himself so badly he must’ve reeked of it.

After has no sympathy for interior things. It burrows straight through skin to the soft, red marrow of bone, telling him that he is not worthy of such immense sacrifice. It says: you were the one who cursed him. It says: you were always weak. After is promising himself that he’s never going to lose again — not to anyone or anything. He’s not going to let another person give anything up for him again.

But after is worse this time. Katsuki breaks his promise, because this time, it’s Izuku’s sallow skin beneath fluorescent lights. It’s the look on Shouto’s face, startled and broken when he sees Katsuki for the first time since he’s woken up, worried classmates crowding them together.

After is shame, and undeserved rest, and desperate, desperate hope.

Katsuki props himself up in bed for hours at a time researching physical therapy for amputees. He memorizes every website he can find on compression bandages, limb positioning, conditioning routines, support prosthetics, barely pausing to acknowledge his nurse and take his meals. He slogs through the sections on grief, retreating to the memory of his forehead pressed to Izuku’s wrist every time the vicious ache of loss proves to be too much.

He remembers the sick mess of confusion and horror he’d felt watching Izuku activate Blackwhip; seeing the inky tendrils burst uncontrollably from his arm and understanding, for the first time, that One for All didn’t belong to Izuku yet. It wasn’t truly a part of him. Katsuki had spent the past year seeing it shatter his body beyond recognition, but in that heart-stopping moment, he’d realized that it was a power destined to consume Izuku, to destroy him if he wasn’t careful while everyone was busy looking up to him as the paragon of heroism. The familiar tangle of fury and pride he felt around his childhood friend had been absent — there’d only been something deeply animal, pulsing frantically in his chest.

So Katsuki goes through the motions of Izuku’s physical therapy alone. He asks Inko how she’s doing and barks at his idiot friends not to worry so much. While Izuku’s busy protecting the world, Katsuki’s going to be the one to protect Izuku’s future. There will be no victory if Izuku’s not there to see it with him.

He’s spent a decade watching Izuku stumble over the earth while he tore the heavens in two, filling the other boy’s sky with acrid, burning light. But Izuku has taught him again and again that the hand is an instrument of violence and care. That day in the river, that night at Kamino, that fight at Ground Beta — he’d been too proud to see it for what it was. Belonging. Trust. Surrender.

This time, he’s going to meet Izuku with both feet planted firmly on the ground, to sort out the splinters of their childhood and lead them into flight together when they’re both ready. Maybe this slow, messy healing can be atonement, too. He doesn’t need Izuku to forgive him. He just needs him to be okay.

*****

After they hold each other that first, fragile time, Katsuki starts sneaking into Izuku’s hospital room every night. The memory of Izuku crying quietly into his hair has ruined him entirely — he can’t fall asleep anymore without skating a hand down the other boy’s side and knowing for himself that he’s real and alive and unbroken. Still here. Still waiting for Katsuki, frighteningly pale in the dim room.

“You’re here,” Izuku whispers every time, eyes alight with wonder, and Katsuki shushes him and climbs into the narrow bed beside him, tucking his head against his chest.

“Go back to sleep,” he replies, pulling the blanket up to Izuku’s chin and tangling their limbs together. Izuku sighs into his skin as he settles down, relief softening his mouth. On good nights, when his arm doesn’t hurt quite as much, he gives Katsuki a fond smile or a quiet missed you, Kacchan. On bad nights, he molds himself wordlessly to his side, seeking comfort in the steady drum of Katsuki’s heart.

Katsuki never tells him of course I’m here, I promised; I’m never leaving you again, I’ll protect you until we’re old and gray. He just presses his nose into Izuku’s curly green hair, wraps a careful arm around his torso, and breathes in his soft, warm scent beneath the hospital antiseptic. Shakes him awake when he feels hot, bitter tears seeping through the front of his shirt. Holds him tight when he struggles through explanations of a shadowy vestige world that’s half-dream, half-nightmare.

These nights, Izuku dreams enough for the two of them combined, but sometimes, Katsuki still jerks awake from visions of splintered bodies and warped skin, clutching at phantom wounds and heaving for breath. He still dreams of Izuku’s crooked hands slipping from his grasp, swelling with blood and broken bone as a river sweeps him out to sea. Izuku wakes with him when he feels his rattling gasps disturbing the dark.

“Wanna talk about it?” he always murmurs, voice scratchy and weak, and Katsuki shakes his head and tries to slow his breaths. He loops his arms around Izuku’s waist, one hand sliding from forearm to wrist until he slots their fingers together and tucks them against Izuku’s chest. He doesn’t need to relive Izuku plummeting through blood-strewn skies when he’s right here, stroking a comforting thumb over his knuckles until they both fall asleep.

In the mornings, Katsuki wakes with his nose pressed to the nape of Izuku’s neck and weak light blooming through the windows, faint stripes of sun falling across the bed. The low, constant hum of the air conditioning and the distant squeak of wheels bring with them the sounds of living, and he eases himself slowly into the rhythm of another day. He rolls his neck and stretches out the arm that’s not pinned beneath Izuku, rubbing the grit from his eyes.

He tries to brace himself for reality to hit, but every time he wakes with Izuku in his arms, trusting and sweet, it still strikes him like a death blow.

He’s spent his whole life driving Izuku away, silencing the only person who truly knew him before anything and anyone, before secrets or doubt. He’s wasted so much time, but still, somehow, he’s won this morning, this boy, rumpled and drowsy in his arms with a little bit of drool at the corner of his lips.

Katsuki is selfish, so he steals those sun-spun moments for himself, studying the wan curves of Izuku’s face in slumber. He memorizes the freckled skin, the half-open mouth, the fluttering eyelashes, the way the morning light grazes his collarbone and renders it fragile. He tracks the hollowing cheeks and darkening circles, planning how he’ll use the day to get Izuku to eat more and sleep longer. He’s selfish, so he lets himself look, and allows himself the weakness of wanting.

He wants — oh, how he wants.

It consumes him entirely — it's quick, bright fever racing through his veins until his tongue feels thick and heavy. He wants like a stormcloud spreading into droplets, like a fruit before teeth, like he was born to know the soft smell of his skin.

It terrifies him.

All the percussive force of his quirk and the heady dreams of his youth do not prepare him for the weight of this longing. Naming the swollen ache in his chest does not make anything easier. He should know better, but every time he looks up and finds Izuku waiting for him, it hurts. It’s not fair that Izuku still looks at him like that, not when Katsuki’s stolen a childhood that he’s never even tried to replace.

Damn Izuku. Damn his faith, and his smile, and his hope. Most of all, damn his foolish, reckless heart.

But still — here they are, lying in each other’s arms at the end of the world. Here he is, safe and close, so maybe all of it really was for him: beloved boy, the flame in his mouth. Yes; every tender gesture, every space in his heart brimming with Izuku, Izuku, always Izuku.

Then Izuku blinks himself awake and shifts slowly in the sheets to face Katsuki, smile uncomplicated and happy.

“Good morning,” he says through a wide yawn, and Katsuki tugs him impossibly closer.

The earth shifts beneath his feet. The body resettles, quietens.

“Morning.”

*****

Izuku’s tears are different now. These days, they only flow unbidden during nightmares or when he thinks Katsuki isn’t looking. It’s a ridiculous notion, because Katsuki’s always watching.

But when they were little, the sight of Izuku hunched over, face scrunched and big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, had been as familiar as the sun rising every morning.

Katsuki’s clearest memory from their childhood had been another tear-soaked day. They’d been four, and Izuku had been crying so hard that Katsuki had thought he’d run out of tears. He’d been sobbing and cradling the limp body of a little sparrow he’d discovered on the side of the road, feathers still downy with youth. The morning dew had soaked through the knees of his frayed pants where he’d slumped in the grass, graceless little-kid limbs collapsing under the newfound weight of death.

It had been eight in the morning, and according to Izuku, the world was ending.

“Oi. Izuku,” Katsuki had said, nudging him with a shoe. Izuku had just cried louder, great, heaving sobs tearing free from his throat.

“Izuku!” Katsuki had dropped into a crouch, fingers grazing the smaller boy’s shaking hands before he’d changed his mind and grabbed his shoulders instead. He’d given him a firm shake, and Izuku had wobbled weakly like a doll.

“Izuku. It’s dead. Put it down before the hag starts yelling at us!”

Izuku had clutched the bird protectively to his chest, refusing to shrink from Katsuki’s harsh tone.

“Kacchan, stop! It’s not dead!”

“It is!”

“Is not!”

“Is to!”

“Is not!!”

Izuku had kicked his ankle and sent them both sprawling into a patch of mud, and their shoving match had devolved into a full-on brawl, sparrow carefully left to rest a ways off. Mitsuki had spent the following hour scolding Katsuki while Inko had fluttered nervously around them with freshly dampened towels.

Katsuki had glared at Izuku until he’d felt like he’d burst, but the other boy had been busy digging a shallow grave for the baby bird. He’d bowed his head and clasped his hands together, shoulders small and thin as he collapsed into more tears. Katsuki had felt a sharp pang in his chest and had turned away with a scowl.

He’d spent the next few months asking his parents for a bird feeder. Proudly, of course. Bakugous did not beg.

When Masaru had finally caved, Katsuki had sprinted straight to Izuku’s apartment, cradling the brand new box to his chest like a precious treasure.

“Izuku, look! You can hang this thing on your balcony and it’ll feed as many birds as you want.”

Izuku had taken the box from him with trembling hands, eyes welling up.

“For me, Kacchan? Really?”

Katsuki had grinned cockily and puffed his chest out.

“You’re welcome, loser.”

Izuku had charged him and flung his arms around his neck, smacking the box against Katsuki’s back with a loud thump.

“You’re the best!”

The two of them had bounced in place in the doorway to Izuku’s apartment, overflowing with excitement, and Izuku had spent the rest of the year eagerly drawing all the birds that visited. He’d given Katsuki his favorites, and Katsuki had carefully pinned his messy crayon scribbles to the fridge.

They’d been best friends, and best friends took care of each other.

It’d been so easy then, to make Izuku feel loved.

It’s only now that Katsuki’s starting to make peace with this impulse he’s held onto all along — this inexorable pull towards Izuku, this need to face down the villains before him the same way he’d faced down that first little loss. He’s been so impatient with his clumsy childhood friend, this boy who barely takes care of himself, who used to reach for Katsuki’s hand every time they crossed the street.

But he wants to give him everything, if Izuku will have him. And even if he won’t, Katsuki will spend the rest of his life keeping him safe. He’ll break his teeth over the words; he’ll love every last version of Izuku whether he knows him or not. He’ll carry their lives in heaping, untidy handfuls and catch Izuku whenever he falls.

For Katsuki, love is not kind. It only needs to be relentlessly, furiously true.

*****

And then Izuku tells him he’s leaving, and Katsuki’s right back to square one, scrabbling at the sides of an impassable summit while his heart stutters up his throat. A sour, burning taste fills his mouth and his lips curl around a snarl.

“The fuck did you just say to me?”

“I’m leaving,” Izuku repeats. The decisive set of his mouth means he’s already made up his mind. He’s just giving Katsuki an obligatory heads up — he’s already decided that it’s his burden to bear and his life to throw away.

“Like hell you are,” Katsuki snaps.

“Kacchan,” Izuku starts, holding up an appeasing hand, and the mix of worry and resignation on his face makes Katsuki abruptly, blindingly furious.

“We’ve already had this conversation!” he shouts, palms crackling uncontrollably at his sides because he can feel Izuku slipping away. Izuku’s been so quiet since the battle, statuesque and resolute in newly unsettling ways. Katsuki should’ve known he’d lost him the moment he started meeting Pro Heroes on his own and shrugging off Katsuki’s questions. But, God, he has to at least try. He can’t let Izuku go. Not like this, not when the shards of survival still litter the ground at their feet.

“Why do you keep trying to do this on your own? I told you, you fucker, I already said it’s our fight! It’s gotta be you and me, dammit! You lure them in and I blow them to bits, because that’s what we do, that’s how we win!” He scrubs a hand through his hair, fighting back the urge to blast Izuku through a wall until he comes to his senses.

Izuku’s already shaking his head.

“I know, Kacchan, I know, but I have to do this. I have to. It’s not just me — I’ll have All Might and Aizawa-sensei and Hawks and Endeavor, but I need you to stay here and protect the others. I’ll be fine, okay?” He presses a hand to his chest. “I won’t be alone, and I’ll be carrying your words with me wherever I go. Right here.” He moves towards Katsuki and presses his palm to the bandages swathed around his chest, eyes dipping to where his fingers feather across his ribcage.

“Look… I did that.”

Katsuki slaps his hand away, bristling.

“No,” he snaps, the sheer force of his anger suffocating him. He wants Izuku to shout, to scream, to strike him across the face like he’d done all those months ago at Ground Beta. Anything except sound like this: soft and sure, every word a heartbreak. “It was that damn son of a—”

“It was my fault,” Izuku repeats, cutting him off. “I was weak, and you paid the price.”

“Then get stronger!”

“I will, Kacchan, but you have to listen. I never want to see you like that again. Ever. You can’t give up your dream just for me. I can’t ask any of you to do that. I won’t be the reason you get hurt again. I won’t.”

“Fuck that. That’s not your decision to make,” Katsuki retorts viciously. “I’m a fucking hero. I take care of myself.”

So let me take care of you.

He’s losing control of the conversation, but he’s panicking because he can’t let Izuku out of his sight again, can’t watch him kill himself while the clueless masses cheer him on. Why is he the only one who fears what this fight is doing to Izuku?

“I know you can — you’ve always been the strongest of us. But that’s why I need you to stay here, at U.A. You’re the only one who knows how much danger we’re really in. All for One can find me wherever I go, and you fought him and lived. You know exactly what we’re up against.” He steps back into Katsuki’s space, tilting his chin up to maintain eye contact. “I save you, you save me, right? That’s how we work. But this time, you keep U.A. safe, and I keep everyone else safe. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

Izuku’s dead wrong. Why can’t he see that? Izuku’s the very best of them — it took Katsuki so long to understand, but Izuku is good. Unflinchingly so. His kindness is a strength that One for All doesn’t even come close to. Katsuki doesn’t deserve the stupid, devoted hand extended to him even now — none of them do.

Katsuki shakes his head, choking on his next words.

“Don’t tell me what to do. Enough of this saving bullshit. Who the hell is gonna save you if I’m not around?”

Izuku smiles gently.

“I was chasing you long before I knew what I wanted, Kacchan. Even when we were little, you were always the most honest part of me. I know you don’t listen when I tell you I’m always looking to the sky for you, but I need you to listen to me this time. Please. Trust me.”

Katsuki shudders. How dare he look at him like that. How dare he say Kacchan like that: familiar and pleading but all steel underneath. He should be furious that Izuku’s dodging the question, but he makes him feel foolish and wild, all of him reduced to just raw, frantic heart.

Katsuki breaks eye contact, scowling at the wall behind Izuku. He knows what Izuku’s asking of him; what he has to do. He knows the responsibility that Izuku has inherited. But he’ll be damned if he lets him leave without a fight. He can’t lose Izuku. He wants to dive into One for All’s vestige world and beg the previous users: please, don’t take him away from me.

“I can’t stand you,” he says, anguish creeping into his voice. “Stop bullshitting me and stop bullshitting yourself.” He fixes Izuku with a fierce glare, fighting back the angry tears threatening to spill over. “D’you even hear yourself right now? How fucking stupid are you? Getting yourself killed ain’t gonna save anyone.”

“There’s no other way,” Izuku says calmly. “You know it too. They’re going to come after me, and the longer I stay here, the more danger you’re all in. I won’t lose another person I love.”

Katsuki scoffs. He needs to raze a city to dust, needs to scorch an ocean into air, needs to do anything except look Izuku in the eye when he says the word love.

“Why are you so...” he swallows, eyebrows furrowing as he struggles to find the right words. “Why…?” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking at this point, just raises his chin and tries to bear it.

Why won’t you let me keep you safe? When do you get to rest?

Izuku looks at him for a long moment. The evening light turns his features strange and still, casting cool shadows over his jaw and the slope of his chin. Katsuki’s watching the last pull of light over the freckled bridge of his nose when Izuku lifts a hand slowly towards his face, telegraphing his movements like Katsuki’s a wounded thing tearing himself loose from a trap. When Katsuki’s eyes slide back to his, refusing to waver, Izuku cups his cheek, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone and drawing a sharp gasp from him. He smiles ruefully.

“Don’t you know by now? Even when we hated each other, it was always going to be you.”

Katsuki swallows. The tenderness in Izuku’s voice disarms him completely.

“Me?” he ventures hoarsely.

“You.”

Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut for a harsh, hitching breath. Izuku’s simple honesty drains the remaining fight right out of him, and he turns his head to press his cheek into Izuku’s rough palm. Izuku catches a tear slipping from the corner of his eye with a fingertip.

“Don’t do this, Deku.”

It almost sounds like a plea.

Don’t ask this of me. You’ve always been right behind me — don’t walk away from me now, you bastard.

I need you. But not like this.

Izuku exhales sharply and pulls him into a crushing hug, and Katsuki wraps his arms tightly around him, taking deep, shuddering breaths against the curve of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku murmurs, stroking his back, and Katsuki clutches the folds of his shirt, knuckles aching from how tightly he holds on. “Promise you’ll stay.”

Katsuki swears quietly into his skin. He doesn’t say, I’m not leaving you even if you beg me to go or I saw you standing over me and never wanted to be without you again or I want a life with you.

He says, “You better come back in one piece, nerd.” He doesn’t shake. He doesn’t. He just clings to Izuku, swaying them back and forth in the center of the room.

“Wait for me, Kacchan,” Izuku says, and he leans back to press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. Something hot and terrible seizes in Katsuki’s chest and he drops his head to press his nose into Izuku’s shoulder. Izuku runs a soothing hand down the knobs of his spine until Katsuki pushes him back far enough to wind their hands together and kiss him roughly, tears turning the slide of their mouths damp and shaky.

“Just come home soon,” he mumbles into his mouth, and Izuku kisses him quiet.

*****

After is worse this time.

After is loving a beautiful boy and letting him walk away without you.

*****

This is what Katsuki remembers.

Izuku, pressing soft kisses to his mouth, his nose, his cheek. His thoughts had been too slow in the morning; fatally clumsy. He’d been teetering somewhere between sleep and sunlight, dreaming his way back to the same sky, the same boy. Same scorched-earth scent of battle. Same clumsy fingers relearning the art of holding. Always Izuku: safe, familiar, and slipping out of his reach.

Stay, he’d thought dazedly, hands twitching around nothing and curling in the blanket as Izuku pulled away. Where are you going?

I’ll come back soon, Izuku had whispered. Thank you, Kacchan. There’d been one last, lingering brush of warmth against his brow, and then he’d been gone. Katsuki had woken up alone, and the bed had been cold.

Where are you going?

*****