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Katsuki raps sharply on the door, a harsh beat of his knuckles which he has no plans to relent on until it opens or the wood itself gives way. Deku can’t be asleep yet, right? Sure, he’s exhausted, but he retreated to his room only minutes ago. Unless he passed out? Wouldn’t surprise Katsuki, not with the way he was looking when Katsuki found him trapped beneath a horde of zombified civilians. Shit, did he pass out? Katsuki’s hand is a hair’s breadth from the knob when it finally turns.
Deku looks up at him, silent and probably too exhausted to question Katsuki’s presence there.
“Move.”
He obeys without comment, eyes still dark and shadowed. Deku's shedded those disgusting, barely-held-together scraps that were all that remained of his hero costume. Katsuki can see them, a filthy puddle of dirt and blood and maybe even a bit of actual fabric left in the middle of the floor. Now Deku stands bare but for a pair of old, faded pyjama bottoms. He doesn’t appear injured, not badly at least. Just that impressive array of scrapes and bruises and all those other skin deep consequences of consecutives days on the run, stopping only to take down this or that worthless villain. Recovery Girl woulda taken care of anything more serious when she examined him earlier on their way in. If this had just been another training exercise, she’d have been more thorough in her healing. And though Katuski knows, though he understands she needs to keep up her strength for the steady stream of injuries coming through her door these dark days, he can’t help but resent the old woman for not giving more of herself. Because it’s Deku. Izuku. And of all of them, who’s given more and asked for less?
God dammit. It was easier when he pretended to hate him.
Deku wavers a little, unsteady on his feet, and it’s only at that butterfly’s wing of a movement that Katsuki realizes he still hasn’t said anything.
“Why aren’t you washed up yet?” Katsuki asks gruffly, like he isn’t the one who’s just shouldered his way in here, likely delaying Deku from that very task.
But Deku simply shrugs. “Tired,” he mutters, with a soulless glance towards his bed. The garish red, blue, and yellow of his comforter seem almost blasphemously vibrant next to its staggering owner, who has been washed of any color other than the purple orange of his patchwork bruises. Even his green hair is muted from layers of dust and grime. Even his eyes are muted, from something Katuski knows not even the most thorough of baths will wipe clean.
He intends to try anyway.
“C’mon, nerd.”
“Kacchan?”
Fuck. That felt good to hear.
He leads his childhood friend to the dorm’s shared bathrooms, grateful that they don’t run into any of their classmates on the way. Deku allows himself to be led, alarmingly placid compared to that feral person they’d cornered some hours before. He doesn’t even protest when Katsuki helps him strip once more and dumps bucket after bucket of warm water over his head. Deku just sits there slumped on the hard plastic stool as water tinged with red blood and black grit swirls towards the drain set in the tiles between his feet. Katsuki is careful not to let any suds enter Deku’s eyes, but he’s not sure Deku’d even react to the stinging intrusion if he’d missed a few bubbles.
It’s as though Class 1-A has cut whatever strings still kept him standing, still pulled Deku forward, mindless but for his self-sacrificing goals.
Katsuki hates it.
Isn’t he the Deku that can do anything?
He takes a slow breath. Sure, maybe he is. But he’s allowed this. He’s allowed to let his shorn strings hang loose on the floor for a time, to leave his broken limbs limp until he regains the strength to pull them taut himself again. Isn’t that what Katsuki, what they all were trying to tell him?
That they’ll be there, to take up the slack.
Katsuki will be there.
For as long as he needs.
He only briefly considers setting Deku in the tub to soak before immediately discarding the idea. If Katsuki so much as blinks Deku will be sure to slip below the surface and drown. Instead he gives him one final rinse and then towels him dry. If there weren’t already a million things to signal exactly just how weary his childhood friend is, this would explain it clearly all on its own. Deku hasn’t blushed even the faintest tinge of pink at being so utterly naked and exposed before Katsuki. As he gently towels Deku’s hair dry Katsuki can’t help but remember his own hands, much smaller and pudgier, trying to accomplish the same task for these green locks a lifetime ago.
Wishing he’d thought to bring fresh clothes but accepting that the boxers and pyjama bottoms Deku had briefly worn are still mostly clean, Katsuki helps Deku get dressed once more. Then he leads him back to his bedroom. All this time, Deku still hasn’t spoken, has barely even looked up at all. But finally, when Katsuki closes the door behind them both and then ushers Deku into bed, Deku questions the action.
“Why are you still here?”
It’s a fair question. Deku’s healed. Clean. Safe. Not fed, not yet, but Katsuki plans to address that first thing in the morning. This would be the perfect time for Katsuki to turn to go, to leave Deku to his much-needed rest. Instead he says,
“Budge over.”
“Eh…?”
“Budge over, or I’ll do it for you!”
Finally, there it is. Color, real color, warming Deku’s cheeks and making those starry freckles of his stand out less harshly. He clumsily scoots towards the wall and Katsuki slips under the covers beside him.
“W-why…?”
Why indeed?
There are too many answers, and few of them Katsuki feels able to speak.
He could tell Deku of his mistrust, he supposes. Of Katsuki’s fear. That if he doesn’t keep Deku near him, within sight, within reach, he will so quickly disappear again.
But there’s more to it.
A need for closeness.
A need to be the one who keeps Deku safe, even if it is an extra unnecessary layer of protection behind tall walls, advanced security systems, and hundreds of powerful quirks with wielders trained and ready to use them.
A need to be the one who picks up the slack, even though he hopes Deku now understands exactly how many people he has willing to do it. That he’s not alone anymore.
And above all…
A burning need to offer Deku comfort. To be a… A fuckin’ shoulder to cry on, Katsuki supposes. A warm body beside him. A friend to turn to in the darkest hours of the night, when the bad dreams come.
Katsuki has already said so much more today than he’d ever have thought himself capable of a year ago. Why does his throat have to squeeze so tightly when he tries to spare a word more? Shit, he’s supposed to be aiming for the top. Nothing’s allowed to scare him. But…
Maybe he can speak with his actions, instead?
Just for now.
Just for tonight?
“Go to sleep, nerd,” Katsuki says. And his voice is coarse and the words are crude, far too shallow to convey the deep wells of meaning behind them.
But he opens his arms.
Not expecting anything. He can’t think that far ahead-- his brain and lungs and heart won’t permit it. But his body knew what to do. Katsuki guesses he has his old man to thank for that, even though it’s been many years since Katsuki himself responded well to such a gesture.
And Deku--
Izuku--
He rolls into Katsuki’s embrace, settling his back to Katsuki’s chest in a motion so seamlessly graceful it was like they’d done it a thousand times before.
And that’s how it felt.
Not awkward, or foreign.
Just…
Right.
So Katsuki hardly gives it a thought when he settles the arm not currently pillowing Deku’s head around the smaller boy’s waist, tucking their bodies even snugger together.
He forgot to turn out the light, he realizes.
But perhaps that’s for the best.
After only a short silent while of matching their breaths, of feeling their hearts gradually learning to beat in tandem, Deku is first to fall asleep. Katsuki can’t see Deku’s face but he can feel it in the way the last vestiges of battle-ready tenseness seep from Deku’s muscles. Deku’s body relaxes completely, his weight pressing heavier on Katsuki without any of that lingering rigidity. His head slips a little further back, resting against Katsuki’s chin.
Against his lips.
Katsuki breathes deeply, allowing himself the indulgence of smelling the shampoo in the hair he’d scrubbed clean. It’s so much softer now. Fuck, it feels so good to have Deku in his arms. The stress of the days Katsuki passed not knowing where Deku was, whether he was okay, it… It rubbed him raw. Raw, and so fucking exposed, all his nerve ends open to the air and screaming, Left him with the kind of vulnerability he’s only ever felt after the longest fights, or the worst nightmares. The way he feels at three in the morning in the certainty that he’s the only living soul awake.
And maybe that’s why Katsuki presses his lips to the top of Izuku’s head in what is unmistakably a kiss.
Should he have done that?
Is he taking advantage of Izuku’s exhaustion, of the other boy’s own vulnerability? If Katsuki’s been scraped raw, well, Izuku’s been fucking flayed.
It’s probably okay, Katsuki reasons, finally closing his own eyes.
Katsuki’ll make sure Izuku’s awake for the next one.
Maybe he can speak with his actions tomorrow, too.