Chapter Text
The world is cruel.
This much, Katsuki has surmised, after shouldering everything it’s ever thrown at him, at them. Piercing through them without hesitation, without mercy.
And yet, ordinary people are crueler still.
Katsuki watches as the civilians taking shelter at Yuuei turn Izuku away. Izuku, who’s been shouldering so much more than any of them could even imagine. Izuku, who has taken the responsibility of saving every last person who is in need all alone, no matter what it may rip out of himself.
Katsuki watches as these civilians—ungrateful bastards—turn away a sixteen-year-old hero who himself is in need. Of help, of rest, of sleep, of food and water and safety and shelter, of everything the civilians themselves have already almost been guaranteed. These civilians, determined to turn away any hero out of sheer distrust and selfishness indiscriminately. Whether that hero is a pro—an adult—or a student. A child. As if there's no distinction between them.
As if Izuku’s not a human being. As if he’s not a victim in all of this, equally deserving of safety in the place that sent him out into the throes of danger in the first place.
Izuku, who has taken on this responsibility that other heroes have shied away from, out of some disgracefully cowardly instinct within themselves. All alone, and without hesitation. Everyone has been complacent in the destruction, and even then, Izuku’s sacrifices are dismissed. The idea that if someone else’s safety either doesn’t concern or threatens their own, then it doesn’t warrant their kindness and action and effort at all.
The sentiment doesn’t make Katsuki feel angry. He wishes it did.
It only makes something in his heart crumble into dust.
It makes him feel ashamed. So terribly ashamed.
Not only does Izuku see his own self as a means to an end, like a ticking time bomb, but everyone else does too.
Even after knowing of all the sacrifices he’s made for them all. Even after witnessing the proof and the consequence—he's a broken, hollow shell of himself.
Likened to a monster. Treated as worthless unless he’s constantly driving himself into the ground for others, in some barbaric sense of selflessness.
How could Izuku ever see himself as anything different if everyone around him constantly tells him otherwise?
Katsuki clenches his fists, slick with rain and sweat.
It’s cruel and unfair. And he can’t do anything about it, because he knows it won’t help.
There are more important things to be done.
He looks toward Izuku. His eyes droop and the shadows in them speak of something he can't discern. The twist of his mouth suggests he isn’t surprised at the civilians’ reaction. And how could he be?
Katsuki wants to say something to him. But he forces himself to keep his distance.
He’s said everything he’s feeling. Everything he’s felt since day one. It’s Izuku’s turn to process those feelings and respond on his own terms. He can’t force it, especially when there’s so much else weighing on their minds.
Katsuki knows he should be content to watch from afar, even if every fiber of his being wants to be by Izuku’s side, after being apart from each other for so many agonizing days.
He knows that he deserves this. That thought is, selfishly, catharsis in and of itself.
It takes several long hours of frantic searching on Katsuki’s part, but they eventually find a place for Izuku to rest, at least for a fleeting moment.
Katsuki and Izuku have left the rest of their classmates behind to deal with the civilian protesters outside of Yuuei. While they wait for the commotion to quiet down, they head to the nearest hospital.
Every bed is full. There’s no space for Izuku.
This, Katsuki fully expects. He’s brought first aid supplies and an extra pillow and blanket with him.
They make their way into the bathroom instead. It’s as empty as Katsuki feels inside.
He’d thought that perhaps finally letting everything out in the open would provide him with even a little comfort and relief. But he realizes now that’s incredibly naïve.
He’ll never experience true relief until the danger is gone. Until Izuku’s okay. Until he’s smiling again, like he promised all those years ago he always would, no matter what.
That day isn’t today, and Izuku shouldn’t feel the need to, especially right now. Katsuki knows that, because that’s completely unrealistic. It was an ideal that Izuku should never have forced upon himself.
But he’s willing to wait. For as long as it takes.
Izuku’s still clutching to Katsuki’s forearm as they amble into the bathroom.
He lets Izuku lean against the wall while Katsuki silently lays down the blankets and pillows. It’s hardly a comfortable spot to rest, but it’s better than nothing, which is what Izuku’s gotten up until now.
Izuku sits, sliding down the wall slowly. He doesn’t lie down, not yet.
Katsuki says nothing.
There’s nothing left to say. There’s nothing left to do other than to wait. To aid and to heal. He needs nothing else.
The silence between them is comforting, in a way. The hospital’s cold, and the sharp but lingering scent of antiseptic and hushed, anguished whispers drift through the halls.
In here, they may be alone, but they’re in each other’s company.
Words make things more complicated and more painful. In silence, Katsuki doesn’t feel pressured to think through everything.
He just has to be. He can simply listen to the sound of Izuku’s breathing and the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat.
He takes a cloth and wets it under warm water, setting it to the side. He turns off the sink and inches toward where Izuku is sitting.
Katsuki kneels down beside him and begins to take off pieces of his worn-out costume. It’s all bloodied and dirty and it seriously reeks. The ripped yellow scarf, the threadbare mask, the frayed backpack, the tattered shoes, and the gloves.
With slow, gentle hands, he takes whatever weight he can off of Izuku and sets it all to the side.
Izuku’s not asleep, but his body is limp, and his eyes are closed. He doesn’t struggle or resist or argue. He lets Katsuki take care of him. He lets Katsuki wrap the blanket around him. He's still shivering from the rain and the exhaustion.
He goes to retrieve the wet cloth and sits back down beside Izuku. Taking his face gingerly in his hands, Katsuki gently wipes the grime off of his forehead, his cheeks, the sides of his face.
Izuku opens his eyes and watches silently as Katsuki does so. The attention almost startles him, but he forces himself to continue without remark.
He takes another fresh cloth to wipe Izuku’s hands.
When he returns, Katsuki takes Izuku’s smaller, scarred hand in his own, and carefully cleans the dirt off the arch of his wrist, his knuckles, between his fingers, under his nails.
Once the grime comes off, he stares at them and realizes Izuku’s hands are much different than the ones he used to know. The ones that haunt his dreams, sometimes, when he’s feeling especially masochistic.
Those ones were small and soft and tender. They were innocent and naïve and free of the horrors of blood and war, and the anguish that comes with it.
These ones are scarred and disfigured and know violence and hurt and sacrifice much too well. Better than any child should know those kinds of things. And yet, his hands still continue to speak of inexorable kindness and care.
After finishing one hand, he stops for a moment. He lays Izuku’s hand in his lap.
Katsuki raises his own hands to his eyes and stares at them for a moment.
He knows, deeply and intimately, that these hands have innocent blood spilled on them. They’ve scarred and they’ve been cruel, and they’ve caused hurt beyond anything deserving of forgiveness.
But even these hands, as rough and calloused and war-torn and guilty as they are, can be gentle, too.
As much as he’s spent days and days of his life reflecting on himself, on his previous actions and his plans for the future, it’s still incredibly terrifying, he’s begun to realize.
It’s still incredibly terrifying, each and every time without fail, when he finally understands something fundamental about himself. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, and perhaps that’s the point.
He grabs an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit and returns to Izuku’s side. This time, he cleans some of the cuts on his face.
Izuku winces every time, but he still doesn’t say anything.
It takes Katsuki much longer than it probably should. He keeps finding himself stopping to just look at Izuku, at the bags under his eyes, at the exhaustion behind his pupils, at his mouth that doesn't know how to smile anymore.
He wishes he could do something about it, right here and right now.
But he can’t, so Katsuki settles for continuing what he’s come here to do, in silence, praying that his company alone is at least a little comforting.
All Katsuki’s ever wanted is Izuku by his side. Even since day one, whether he was ready to admit it or not. He never wanted to hinder Izuku from reaching his greatest potential and undertaking his ultimate responsibility.
If they lived in a perfect world where nothing evil existed behind the shadows and underneath the sun, then perhaps Katsuki would selfishly want Izuku to be completely safe and sound, sheltered and protected from anything and everything.
But he’s a realist. He knows that’s not possible. If anything is at all, Katsuki simply wants to be with him.
It doesn’t stop him from dreaming, though, from hoping, from desperately wishing with everything he has. He’d get impaled by those damned spikes as many times as it takes, if it meant that Izuku could smile again.
He’d put himself through much worse, because Katsuki knows that nothing could come close to what the boy next to him deserves from him. Especially after everything. After the things Katsuki said, that had such an impact on Izuku it almost destroyed him.
It’s a terrifying realization, too, knowing that you’d do anything for someone. It makes the heart heavy and it clouds the judgement and it brings nothing but pain and anguish and selfish hope, but it’s impossible to consider another option, even for a second.
Katsuki gets up off the floor, because suddenly it’s a little too painful to be next to him. He goes to the sink and splashes ice cold water on his own face. With a different towel, he furiously wipes at his own eyes.
He thinks, that perhaps, he finally understands what lies within Izuku’s heart, gentle and kind and devastatingly good .
Maybe that’s what love is, and it may be the most painful price to pay, for the blessing of devotion, for the blessing of knowing someone that seems so fundamentally better than himself. But Katsuki can’t help but think it’s all worth it.
Izuku’s worth it. He always has been.
Katsuki stares at himself in the mirror, and it’s like the person looking back at him is completely unrecognizable.
Who is this person who’s suddenly realized he’s capable of loving and caring so fiercely that it’s overtaking everything else that lies in his heart and his soul?
It’s a terrifying ordeal for Katsuki realize that there is no victory for him without Izuku. He doesn’t know why he never realized it sooner when it’s been sitting right under his nose for as long as he can remember.
Izuku’s always been there, wearing his heart on his sleeve, completely honest and open with everything he’s ever felt. It’s completely incredulous that Katsuki never took it for what it was worth.
He knows he’ll never deserve someone like that, especially not after everything he’s done. But he’ll still follow Izuku to the ends of the earth to be by his side, to make sure he’s okay, because it’s all he’s ever known how to do.
Even now, this second, Katsuki returns to Izuku’s side again. But he continues standing, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Izuku’s chest. His eyes are closed again.
Izuku’s asleep, finally.
Katsuki doesn’t know how many hours, how many days, how many weeks, or how many months it’s been since Izuku has last slept peacefully. He doesn’t know if Izuku’s sleeping peacefully now either, or if he’s being plagued with the horrors of the days previous, even now, when he is away from danger for the time being.
He slides against the wall, down to the floor, and sits beside his best friend.
He reaches over and slides a featherlight thumb across his cheekbones. Takes his clean hand and traces the arch of his knuckles and his joints and the scars of those hands with a finger. Presses his mouth against the palm in a silent confession that Izuku isn’t even awake to witness.
Katsuki’s cheeks are damp, again.
It really is such a terribly painful price to pay. To know that there are no guarantees in this world. To have to live the rest of his life with the actions of his past self hanging over him, weighing him down into the ground.
To have to live with the fact that this person that he would honest to God do anything for, would, in turn, do anything for him right back.
But Katsuki would shoulder that weight for forever. He knows for a fact that he would. There’s zero doubt in his heart.
Being honest with himself has always been hard, but as he’s been learning for a while, it’s little easier to do hard things when it’s for someone else’s sake.
And, of course, he’d do it for as long as it takes.