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"Is he alive and talking?"
The person on the other end didn't get to make so much as a peep or word in when the call connected. It took barely one ring before Katsuki picked it up and less of a second before he cut off whatever spiel he'd receive.
He'd heard the spiel that nurses and doctors never tired of repeating when dialing those numbers and being heralds of death.
Katsuki's been the recipient of way too many 'is this Bakugou Katsuki, emergency contact of Pro-Hero Deku?' in one lifetime.
The nurse stuttered through their reply. "Um, I– That is– I can't–"
Katsuki sighed, shrugging on a jacket as he closed the door behind him. He kept the phone by his ear as he walked to the elevator, the metal doors sliding open immediately.
"This is fucking obviously Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight. Just answer the goddamn question before I get there, shithead."
He could hear Izuku's admonishing voice on treating medical personnel– or pretty much, everyone– with the barest minimum of respect in the far distance.
Maybe Katsuki would've fucking listened if that idiot was here.
"Y-yes, Dynamight-san! Um, Deku-san was admitted a few hours ago after subduing a villain in Shinagawa. The injuries he sustained were–"
"I didn't ask for a full-ass report, idiot!" His voice echoed in the four walls of the elevator, exasperation taken over by irritation.
Katsuki clicked his tongue and took in a couple of breaths as the nurse drowned him in a litany of apologies that flew past him. Then, finally, the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.
He headed towards his car, headlights already flashing. "I asked if Midoriya Izuku's alive and talking. It's the only question you can fucking give me an answer for."
The line went quiet for a few seconds. In those few seconds, Katsuki didn't breathe; didn't blink; didn't move from his car seat– didn't live.
In that pocket of time, just as always since he'd started saving numbers of hospitals from the whole of Tokyo and some nearby prefectures, Katsuki's world stopped.
He wouldn't breathe, blink, move– won't do fucking anything until the shitty extra finally told him–
"Yes, he's alive and talking, Dynamight-san."
And, just as always, Katsuki would end the call right then and there with a lasting remark of 'don't lose him.'
Only when his screen would go black and the contact name of 'Tokyo Takanawa Hospital' disappeared would he let go.
Katsuki's body shook and trembled– finally letting himself be overwhelmed from what he felt the moment he saw the caller ID flash on his phone.
He was hunched over the wheel, hands clawing at his arms and face mushed into them. He was trying– fucking trying to stop the tears from flowing.
It never got easier.
Not after the first time when he was making yakimeshi and answered his phone only to hear someone else– someone who wasn't his shitnerd of a boyfriend who still hadn't come home.
It never got fucking easier, and Katsuki hated it.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it," He sobbed, nails digging into his arms and leaving crescent marks; another scar to join the others from the past years. "God fucking dammit!"
Getting the call never got easier. Not when every time Katsuki would get an unknown caller, his world would stop– only him and the phone; the hero and the caller; the loved one and the herald of news.
It would've been better, Katsuki thinks, if it got easier.
Maybe if he stopped feeling that dread splash over him, his hands steady instead of trembling as he pressed the 'answer call' button, then he wouldn't be like this.
Pathetic and helpless– the opposite of the goddamn hero that he was.
Katsuki took in a shuddering breath, futilely scrubbing at his eyes before strapping himself in. His phone lit up, showing a picture of Izuku grinning over a sleeping Katsuki who had drool coming down his chin as the lock screen.
Message from Tokyo Takanawa Hospital
It was an address and a room number.
Just as it had been for the past five years since he got his head out of his ass and let himself love Midoriya Izuku, Katsuki moved. The lights of the city whizzed by him. Traffic was a non-existent thing for heroes' cars that were recognized by enforcers and cameras.
Just as always since Katsuki forced himself to get used to this– no matter how much he didn't fucking want to–, he walked through sterilized white halls.
Getting the call never got easier.
But sliding the door open, ripping the bed curtain to the side, and seeing Izuku battered up and smiling?
That never got less cruel.
Seeing Izuku smile up at him with his eyes shining with delight and surprise, as if the nerd never expected Katsuki to come at all, made him want to break all over again. He wanted to sink down to his knees right then and there, scream, and thrash, and fucking cry.
He wanted to shake Izuku by the shoulders again and keep shouting 'why, why, fucking why do you keep doing this to me, to everyone' until his voice gave.
"Kacchan!" Izuku beamed at him, his eyes crinkling and the corner of his lips stretching wider than they already were. "You came."
It was this want to break but unable to; to walk away but stay rooted; to cry but stay strong– it was this that never got less cruel.
Because in three long strides, Katsuki was already gathering Izuku in his arms, holding on. He closed his eyes and buried his face in those green curls and imagined, for a moment, that his lover's body wasn't covered in bandages or that it wasn't dried blood in Izuku's hair.
For a moment, Katsuki simply held Izuku in his arms as if everything was okay– as if another part of his heart didn't break off from seeing the love of his life barely missing death again.
"Yeah," He croaked out, a lump in his dry throat. "I'm here. I'm fucking here, you idiot."
This was always cruel– Katsuki having to face this time and time again. How he'd stand at the side and listen to another doctor's spiel that he'd memorized for Izuku; bows given and taken; a limping nerd to take back home.
It was cruel in that he knew there would always be an again.
"Promise me you'll be fucking careful, nerd. I can't keep being your goddamn chauffeur every time, Deku."
Promise me you won't do this to me– to everyone anymore. Promise that you won't make my world stop when I wait on the news on if you're dead or not. I can't keep going after you like this.
His hands, still gentle, gripped at Izuku's hip, the other intertwined with Izuku's. Darkness settled around them on their bed, and still, Katsuki could see Izuku with their faces mere inches from each other.
"Okay, Kacchan," Izuku squeezed their intertwined hands, his other guiding Katsuki down to a kiss. "I promise I won't be a burden anymore."
Katsuki broke away, brows furrowing and his grip tightening. "That's not what I meant, shitty Deku. I just want you to–"
Many things came to mind when it came to what he 'wanted' for Izuku: to be happy, always smile truly, to laugh freely.
But these things he wanted for the nerd were things he couldn't say. Not because of his inability or whatever egoistic pride there was still leftover from his youth, no.
His throat went dry and he paused for a few moments, before loosening his grip on Izuku's hand and hip. "…I just want you to think more about yourself, Deku. You're not a goddamn burden, alright?"
Katsuki sighed, shuffling down to kiss Izuku's forehead. His lips lingered before pulling away, looking at his lover again. "You're just an idiot who keeps being a goddamn regular at the hospital."
When Izuku laughed softly and snuggled closer, new bandages and a fresh bath scent surrounding them both, Katsuki had to stomp down at the nagging voice in his mind. He had to quiet down that voice that told him he needed to tell Izuku outright, or the dense idiot wouldn't get it.
But he can't because telling Midoriya Izuku to fucking stop and take it easy was a contradiction to who Bakugou Katsuki was.
He wanted to– was desperate to– shake Izuku by the shoulders and tell him to stop acting like the burden of the whole world was on his shoulders.
I just want you to stop throwing yourself away for others.
How could he even think of saying that? When Katsuki, out of all the others, knew the desperation that would drive heroes to act? When he, out of everyone else, knew of the burning desire to be the best?
Izuku smiled into Katsuki's neck, eyes fluttering close. "Sorry, Kacchan. I promise I'll do better."
That was what's cruel and never got easier–
Katsuki couldn't say anything like that.
荷 ー荷ー荷
Katsuki knew that he wasn't perfect. Not by society's standards of what 'perfection' was anyway.
Everyone had their flaws– chips in their armor, cracks in the façade, ripples in the surface. There wasn't one person in the whole goddamn world who could say that they didn't see something wrong with themselves– even if it was something only they could see.
Katsuki, despite the times he'd exclaim his perfection, knew he had flaws. And just like anyone else, he denied them. He rejected it with an abhorrent ferocity even when it slapped him in the face.
How could he bear to be anything less than perfect? How could he be anything but the fucking best– striving, struggling, and seeking to surpass even himself?
It was in the name cursed upon him that had him– Katsuki– to deny the flaws he knew were there. To push it back, reject it, and smother it with achievements of superiority until he couldn't see it anymore.
So he used Izuku.
He pushed back the quirkless loser; rejected his hand and earnest offers of help and friendship; smothered it with reminders of a dream Izuku would never achieve.
The flaws that shadowed him were less noticeable that way.
Katsuki thought that if he smothered the inherent light that was Midoriya Izuku, then the shadow wouldn't grow larger– it'd be there, unnoticeable; almost gone.
But then Izuku grew brighter– shone brighter, rose higher, ran faster than anyone could follow after.
It took a while for Katsuki to acknowledge the flaws he had– namely, lacking that heroic spirit that everyone around him seemed to be born with.
A bit longer to recognize the additional flaws that came with ignoring the first one– his hubris, insensitivity, immaturity.
And, almost a decade after Katsuki could allow himself and others to call him a hero, it took a few years more to know what it meant to be one.
Others told him he grew up. Others, still, that he became a man– had a mature lilt to his steps, posture, actions, and words.
Katsuki liked to think that he had just finally come to the same level that others had been at since the start. He still wanted to be No. 1. The desire to rack up achievements was still there, and there wasn't anything wrong with it.
The difference was little but significant– to be better, not necessarily the best; to catch small-time villains, if not bigger fish; to open his heart to future heroes, giving hope not fear.
He was finally at the starting line and moving little by little, but still moving– growing, maturing, saving.
Katsuki was here, ready to follow after Izuku… but not like this.
He wanted to finally walk by his love's– his hero's side with the both of them saving and winning, winning and saving.
…But not like this– not with Izuku losing parts of himself with every step taken.
He didn't want to see the man he learned to admire and love, smile even as his scars split open and bled from the burden he shouldered.
Katsuki didn't want to end up at the finish line with only ashes to take.
And yet.
He couldn't say a goddamn thing.
Words weren't an option when admonishing Izuku for striving to be the 'best' hero was a slight to who they both were and are.
Katsuki couldn't say 'stop' when he kept on going; couldn't say 'rest' when he was awake; couldn't say 'live,' when others' lives mattered more for a hero.
So the best he could do was patch up Izuku's wounds and pick up the pieces and hope.
荷 ー荷ー荷
“You’re wearing long sleeves again, Deku.”
Izuku’s fingers paused in buttoning up his shirt, emerald eyes meeting Katsuki’s through the mirror. He tilted his head slightly, the coifed tuft of green curls swaying at the movement.
“Yes…? I always wear long sleeves, Kacchan.”
“You didn’t wear them back in UA, nerd,” said Katsuki.
Izuku hummed, scarred fingers resuming their task. He fastened the buttons up to the very top, the collar practically choking him. He didn’t show any sign of discomfort and simply smoothed out any wrinkles.
“You know I get cold easily, Kacchan,” He smiled at Katsuki through the mirror, wiggling his disfigured fingers. The sleeves of the loose colorblock shirt that dwarfed Izuku’s figure slipped, showing the plethora of scars. “‘Cuz of scars and broken bones and all.”
Katsuki’s brows furrowed, the telltale signs of an oncoming scowl present. “It’s summer, Deku. And it gets hotter every fucking year and still, you never stop wearing them.”
“It’s not a big deal, Kacchan.”
“It is when you always look like you’re fucking suffocating when we do this shit, Deku!”
Izuku didn’t flinch when Katsuki’s hand hit the closet, nor did he respond to it. Instead, he just kept his head downcast, carefully applying concealer on the scars littering his hands and creeping along his wrist.
Only when the smell of scorched wood dissipated did he speak up again, turning to meet Katsuki. The blonde’s face was pinched, teeth-gnashing, and jaw tense.
Izuku sighed. “Kacchan… you know exactly why I only wear long sleeves. Especially to interviews like this.”
Katsuki still didn’t answer, body shaking. Izuku looked off to the side, his now unblemished fingers fiddling with the ends of his shirt.
“They don’t tell me out right, but I can see that the civilians who talk to me are scared of them. My, uh,” His fingers bunched up the fabric. “Scars, that is.”
Izuku let out a breath, turning back to Katsuki with a forced laugh. “I get it, though! My scars aren’t that nice to look at. There’s even a kid who cried when my sleeves got torn and they saw it– them. Calling for their mom and everything.”
He looked back down on his hands, recessed lines of scars now turned smooth, unblemished, and–
“This way they’ll feel safe instead of scared, Kacchan,” Izuku smiled. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
Isn’t that why we, heroes, exist? To give everyone an image of goodness, light, hope– of perfection. Isn’t that why they don’t condemn us and, benevolently, allows us to live?
What can Katsuki possibly say in a situation like this– one that they’ve repeated time and time again?
What can he fucking say that won’t end up being an admission of defeat to Izuku’s self-deprecating logic? How could he say ‘fuck what they think’ without it being contradictory to how he acts?
Because Katsuki grew up, changed, and matured for himself and Izuku. But most of all, he did it for society– for the people he was to save.
He stopped cursing around children. He gave autographs instead of threats of death, save for a few fans that breached personal space. He dressed up in his best clothes when he showed up on national TV.
What can Katsuki possibly say that wouldn’t be ironic or even condescending on his part, but–
“Yeah,” Katsuki croaked out, fist falling to his side. Crimson eyes met emerald ones, both holding the gaze. “That’s what we’re here for, nerd.”
When Izuku’s smile went a tad brighter, and he started up excited chatter about the questions mailed over to them, Katsuki couldn’t do anything else but smile back.
When he saw Izuku tug at his sleeves as they exchanged greetings at the TV station, the cuffs stained with makeup, Katsuki could only intertwine their fingers.
He hated it– hated this charade that Izuku, out of all heroes, had the vital responsibility to keep up.
As a successor of the No.1 hero and the ultimate cause of the war that wrecked hero society, Midoriya Izuku had to become a puppet that danced to everyone’s tune.
Izuku had to become a Deku, and Katsuki hated it.
He fucking hated how his lover would shy away or even flinch when Katsuki’s hands would brush against the scars on his arms and body. He hated how they made Izuku into this– how Izuku let himself be made into this.
–Someone who couldn’t look at himself in the mirror and won’t let Katsuki love every part of him.
But most of all, Katsuki hated how he’d do this again and again– asking, pleading, losing. Again and again, this repeated, neither of them finding a way out.
荷 ー荷ー荷
Katsuki got a call from a hospital again.
He asked the same question.
His world stopped.
The answer came, and he could breathe again.
He drove.
The door slid open, and Izuku smiled at him.
Katsuki asked for promises of a never again.
Izuku gave them and sealed it with a kiss.
The bottle of concealer was still in their vanity. Always being replaced when it went empty.
Katsuki asked about the sleeves and scars again.
They fight.
Izuku smiled, and Katsuki lost.
And the cycle repeated again and again and again.
And again.
荷 ー荷ー荷
Giving one last wave and a short bow as the elevator doors slid close, Izuku got in the car.
It must say something that the tension in his body– the need to stand tall and strong and sure– only ebbed away once he was behind the comfort of tinted windows.
He sighed, letting the headrest cushion him for a few minutes as he allowed himself to simply breathe. In and out; deep breath in, shaky breath out.
The darkness of the TV station's parking basement added to the safety cover of the specialized tint on his windshield and windows. It didn't make him feel suffocated like others would who seek and preferred light.
No, this darkness– this omission from the spotlight if but for a moment– was Izuku's comfort.
It gave him time to unbutton the collar that'd been suffocating him throughout the interview, with buttons threatening to pop with every practiced laugh.
This pocket of time in the dark gave Izuku freedom– from the long sleeves that covered his scars and the scrutinizing eyes that measured everything he had.
It was just a few minutes, but there was value in those precious accumulations of seconds that Izuku wanted to– no, had to cherish.
Eventually, though, he had to move.
Izuku had to strap himself in, start the car, and break the tranquility of darkness with headlights to guide his way back home. Then, once more, he had to go back to the spinning wheel and run the course given to him.
Always, Izuku had to be on the move.
He learned this earlier on when just the act of moving– constantly, incessantly, obsessively– determined how many more lives could run for shelter away from him. Because with every league he'd take away from everyone, the more they were safe and alive.
So he had to move.
Even when the war was well and done, he kept moving. Even with the death of his father-figure and mother, Izuku couldn't stop to mourn like everyone else.
It was his responsibility– duty– to be the one who moved while others stopped. The wheel's spokes can break and crack, but still, it never stops spinning, turning, moving.
Izuku had to move to maintain that image of stability and hope for the ones lost. He woke up, ate, shouldered another life, and amassed another scar because it was what he needed to do.
That was his responsibility from the moment he donned the label of 'hero.'
Everything else wasn't– couldn't be any more important than that.
Not even himself. Perhaps not even–
The door closed behind Izuku, and the light by the entryway flickered on. Then, with the lock's mechanisms clicking, he heard the signature sound of Katsuki's heavy footfalls.
Izuku smiled and took a step forward. "Kacchan, I'm hom–"
"Did you mean what you said?" whispered Katsuki, hands clenched into fists with a pinched expression. "In the interview, Deku, did you mean what you fucking said?"
…Not even Katsuki.
荷 ー荷ー荷
It was Katsuki who threw the first punch.
The blonde had always been one of the heroes praised for his speed and reaction time, so the quickness of it didn't shock Izuku. No, that wasn't it.
It was the fact that Katsuki was shaking when he threw it. A lapse in Izuku's brain made his step back a bit too late– a second spent frozen instead of moving.
Izuku stumbled back, head whirling from the hit. He heard a crunch so that wetness he felt just above his lips was definitely something broken and bleeding. He barely managed to stop himself from falling into the genkan before Katsuki reared up for another hit.
He wasn't a saint enough to simply receive this… punishment or whatever the hell it was that Katsuki wanted to say through his fists.
So Izuku moved, grabbing Katsuki's wrist as the blonde's fist grazed his cheek and pulled.
"Kacchan! What are you doing?!"
Katsuki growled and kneed Izuku in the stomach, using the closed distance to pull a handful of green curls. "Beating the shit out of you so you can stop being a goddamn idiot!"
The blonde tried for another punch, but Izuku was faster. He barreled forward, arms now wrapping around Katsuki. The action jostled them both, limbs entangled and flying all over, making them a mess on the living room floor.
Midway, Katsuki twisted to make Izuku land back-first, with Izuku biting the arm that was still pulling at his hair.
"Why–" Katsuki gritted out, hands and knees struggling to keep Izuku still. "–the hell do you keep doing this Deku? Ha? Answer me you fucking asshole!"
"I don't," Izuku wheezed when Katsuki kneed him in the stomach again. "Don't know what you're talking about, Kacchan!"
Green lightning flared and raced across his arms as he wrenched them away from Katsuki's hold. Then, their positions were reversed in one swift motion– hands locking on the blonde's neck. Katsuki's head made a loud thump against the hardwood floor, the sound echoing.
Even with the swelling of his nose and bruises most littering his torso, Izuku still, just as always, stopped.
He didn't want to hurt Katsuki. He never wanted to and would never ever want to.
Izuku's hold on the blonde loosened. The clawing grip on Katsuki's neck and legs holding down the other abetting. "Kacchan? Are you oka–"
"Don't you fucking dare ask me that, Deku!" Katsuki spat, eyes burning. "Don't you dare ask me if I'm okay. Not after that shit you pulled toni– no, not after all the shit you've been pulling since forever– since always."
Katsuki looked to struggle for a bit. They struggled one more time with another reversal– the blonde looming over Izuku, trembling.
Even after all their fights across the years, never had Izuku wanted to hurt Katsuki. Not even when he knew that it was the only way they could talk through things they couldn't force themselves to talk about.
And yet here he was, failing again when the first drops fell from crimson eyes on him.
"Why," Katsuki hit Izuku's chest. Once. Twice. "Why do you keep doing this to yourself, to me, to fucking everyone? Tell me, you shitty nerd…!"
Katsuki's body trembled and shook with sobs wracking through him. His hands fisted Izuku's shirt, buttons tearing open and rolling on the floor.
He choked on the words, a sob breaking through. "Why, just fucking why do you throw yourself away as if you aren't worth anything? As if you're less than the people you save?"
"Because I am!"
The words spilled out before Izuku could catch them; they broke out before he could wrangle them back into chains– running, moving, setting free.
With them– with this admission of truth did the rest follow.
Izuku's hands, smooth and unblemished, reached up, grasping at Katsuki's wrists. "I'm lesser– inferior than everyone else and that's okay, Kacchan! That's something I need to be and think that I am."
Katsuki sobbed, struggling against Izuku's firm hold. The tears, something Izuku never wanted to see, continued pouring down. "Deku–"
"You know this, Kacchan. You know this," Izuku whispered, leading the hands he'd loved and admired to his face– his Kacchan's hands. "Because the moment heroes think they're more important than everyone else, lives are lost. And I can't– I won't lose anyone else."
I don't want to lose anyone else.
Those callused hands that produced miracles shook as they cupped Izuku's face properly. His eyes fluttered close at the warmth for a moment before opening again, emerald meeting crimson.
Katsuki's body was still trembling, but his voice– his words were strong; sure.
"Aren't you already losing me? Losing your goddamn friends who have to call you up every week to see if you're still fucking alive?" Katsuki's fingers slipped, pads and nails digging into the base of Izuku's neck. "Aren't you fucking losing me? Losing yourself?"
Something slipped from Izuku's eyes. It was wet and warm, soaking the sides of his face, pooling in the conch of his ears.
Even then, it didn't make everything sound any less muted– not Katsuki's voice that broke off, sobs taking over; not the pitter-patter of his lover's tears on his face; not the own croak in his voice when he answered.
"Heroes always lose something, Kacchan. As long as it's not the lives of others, then it isn't that important."
The burn in Izuku's eyes that blurred his vision didn't make the sight of tear streaks on Katsuki's face any less painful. Likewise, the lump in his throat and the writhing feeling in his chest didn't make the sting of the blonde's hands on his neck any less felt.
Katsuki was all Izuku could hear, see, smell, touch, taste. He was everything, and he was breaking.
"Is that what you really fucking think, you piece of shit?" The callused hands moved again, pulling at Izuku's collar and bringing him up and closer– to Katsuki, to anger and indignation. "Are you calling yourself– the you that your mother raised and All Might chose as not important?"
"That's–"
Katsuki growled, shaking him. "I don't care if you don't think I'm not important."
"Kaccha–"
"But at least think that you are, Izuku."
Izuku's sleeves slipped as he reached up, hands caked in makeup that acted as a second skin– a mask– cupping Katsuki's face. The blonde hasn't stopped shaking. Silent sobs still wracked through Katsuki's body.
It was as if–
He couldn't do this anymore.
"Kacchan."
Katsuki's eyes fluttered close at the contact, brows furrowed– conflicted. His hands let Izuku go, but Izuku didn't pull away or go back down.
How could he when he might– will, will, will– lose Katsuki if he did?
"Don't look down on yourself, Izuku. Don't–" Katsuki held Izuku's hands against his face, squeezing. "Don't go spewing crap like you did in the interview where you say you don't fucking deserve me because you deserve everything this shitty world can give you."
He turned away for the first time that night, burrowing his face in his and Izuku's hands. Izuku could feel it– how his lover took in deep breaths and let out shaky ones.
He felt the wetness against his palm, Katsuki's tears revealing the scars Izuku had to hide. It pooled there, gathering every cover and mask before slipping down the plethora of scars and burns– of every reminder of the burden of a 'hero.'
"Please," Katsuki sobbed, holding onto Izuku's hands like a lifeline. "Don't– don't tell me that after all this time that I've loved you, it isn't enough to make you believe that I do. That even my love wasn't– isn't enough to make you love yourself."
Izuku didn't know why he didn't do this sooner.
He should've held Katsuki sooner. Should've let the love of his life cry into the crook of his neck, letting out his frustrations that spanned years that Izuku didn't notice.
He should've saved Katsuki sooner.
They shouldn't have reached this point where Katsuki, his Kacchan, couldn't do it anymore.
"Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan," Izuku cried, hands gathering Katsuki up against him– near him. "Kacchan, please, please don't be like this. You're enough, God, you're more than enough. It's my fault, okay? Not yours. It's my fault that I can't make myself believe that you love me. It's my fault that I always break my promises with you. From the start it's been my fault, Kacchan. Just me."
His own body trembled and shook, futilely rocking Katsuki against him– an endeavor of comfort for them both. Izuku kissed the top of Katsuki's head, whispering apologies over and over and over.
"So don't cry anymore, Kacchan. You don't need to cry anymore."
Not for me. Don't waste them on me.
"You–"Katsuki wrenched away from the embrace, slamming Izuku to the ground again– and again, and again. "Stop fucking say that, Izuku! Stop– you're not listening to me!"
He hit him again. Once. Twice. Fists trembling with repressed anger that didn't do anything– just weak hits; weak, weak, weak.
"You've never listened from the fucking start and maybe that's your fault too." Katsuki's hits kept coming, and Izuku continued taking them– as he should, as he always would.
He had always been resigned to take whatever punishment he may get. Face whatever and any consequences of his mistakes– of not being more; not being good enough; not being–
"But it's not only you, idiot," Katsuki's voice cracked. Then, with one last hit, he crumbled, and Izuku was there to catch him; to gather up the pieces. "Everyone's always at fault here. It's this whole society's fault for making you shoulder their burdens, hopes, and dreams so fucking much that you can't discern which one's yours."
Izuku's eyes closed as he held Katsuki once more, taking in everything. It was warm. His lover's body was strewn above him– a contrast to the cold of the floor digging into his back.
Katsuki was warm, firm, and all that was good that Izuku shouldn't have taken for granted. He shouldn't have, even for one goddamn minute, thought of his Kacchan as something– someone not important enough.
"It's unfair, dammit," Katsuki whimpered against Izuku's chest, fists unfurled and twitching– clinging. "It's– fuck, it's All Might's fault for never curbing that self-sacrificing streak of yours."
"Kacchan…" Izuku's voice broke, arms tightening around his lover.
No one spoke for a while. Shuddering heaps of breath and lungs wheezing to work around the tremors of sobs, the only sounds breaking the silence.
Minutes passed. An hour, maybe. Seconds– Izuku wasn't sure.
Because it was only when Katsuki finally moved– took that deep breath in and a deep breath out– that time started up for him again. It was only then, when the blonde pulled away, standing and reaching out a hand to pull Izuku along, did the world turn again.
His legs were shaky– from the rush of the fight gone. Katsuki's was too, but, just as always, it's him who reached out to hold Izuku steady.
It was Katsuki who was Izuku's pillar of hope and victory that was worn down and–
Tired.
There was still something wet streaming down Izuku's cheeks. His eyes still burned, vision still blurry. Hiccups still drove shocks through his body.
And yet, here Katsuki was, holding their faces together– unminding, uncaring how weak Izuku was being.
"It's my goddamn fault for being afraid of contradicting myself when I should've been thinking of how much you were suffering in not knowing who the hell you are. I should've…." Katsuki blinked his own tears away, thumb swiping Izuku's. "Fuck, I should've said something sooner. Fought for you harder. Pushed you harder instead of keeping you at arm's length."
Katsuki let out a laugh, and Izuku could only cry harder and come closer at the sound. He couldn't do anything else but keep Katsuki's hands– warm, rough, firm– against his face, knuckles whitening at the grip.
Kacchan shouldn't be making that kind of sound. He shouldn't be looking like that. Shouldn't, shouldn't– never.
"I thought–" Katsuki choked, the sound sending spears through Izuku's chest. "I thought I finally closed the distance between us and let myself love you, but it's really just grown."
Callused hands that could make Izuku break at any moment and raze down cities held his face gently. They swiped away the tears that wouldn't stop.
Katsuki kissed every slip that came from emerald eyes, lips brushing against freckles and small scars.
"I love you. I fucking love you and it's that love that made me still keep you at arm's length because you're so goddamn stubborn that I know you'll pull away when I try telling you to stop, take a break, rest– to leave it to us, to fight with us, to share the burden with us."
Izuku's eyes fluttered shut at the kiss pressed on his forehead. He felt droplets fall and join his own, mixing and falling.
"I love you, and I just want you to love yourself."
Katsuki's hands moved up, threading through green curls that clung onto his fingers.
"I love you, and I just want you to let me love you; let me save you. Just like how I learned that saving is how we win."
Izuku whimpered at the brush of lips against his lids, fluttering before opening. A sob broke through his lips when he saw Katsuki's smile– crimson eyes pleading.
"I love you, and I want to be able to grow old with you, Izuku."
"Kacchan."
Katsuki leaned in close again, and this time, Izuku met him halfway.
They've kissed more times than either of them could count. Had done more than kisses that could be measured. And always, always, did those kisses remind Izuku of how much he loved Katsuki.
But now. Now, all Izuku could think was how much he can't bear to lose Bakugou Katsuki.
"Kacchan."
"I love you," Katsuki kissed him again. Once. Twice. Thrice. "I fucking love you, Izuku. So please don't let me live knowing I could've done more to let you know that you deserve to be loved– to be saved."
Izuku tasted Katsuki's tears on his lips. He could hear and feel every ragged breath on his face. Felt the love of his life tremble against him, with them leaning on each other so not to fall, so not to break. So not to–
"Fucking please don't let me lose."
Saving is how we win.
And Izuku remembered.
He remembered the slamming of the hospital door open, the flurry of movement, and the desperation that leaked from how Katsuki held him. Izuku remembered how Katsuki would frown when he'd cover his scars and everything that wasn't becoming of a hero.
Izuku remembered how much Katsuki has suffered, day-by-day and at every instance. Promises of a never again was broken, and the dread of an again met the blonde at every turn.
And how he never wanted to remember again.
"Okay, okay, Kacchan." Izuku's arms, scars revealed and burdens laid out in the open, wrapped around Katsuki. His hands, disfigured and shaking, pulled his love close.
"I'll try. For you, I'll try. For–" He choked under the pressure of the world that only now did Izuku let himself acknowledge. "For me, I'll try. I'll do it for me, Kacchan."
荷 ー荷ー荷
It was hard. Trying.
Only when Izuku stopped moving and running on the wheel did he notice he was lost on what else to do. The threads he produced were tangled with others so much that he couldn’t discern where his began and where it got lost.
It was hard to curb that ingrained impulse in him– to silence the voice of the world that urged him to move and save them.
And at times, Izuku forgot what he remembered.
At times, the hospital door slid open again, and Izuku forgot of his promise to try.
He’d forget when his bones would break, flesh torn, body given for others. He’d forget to pick up the phone, too tired to answer the voices of concern on the other end.
But it’s when Katsuki faced Izuku again– picked him up from the hospital again, watched him conceal his scars again, stay silent when he deprecated himself again– that he remembered.
It was hard. Trying.
But Midoriya Izuku made a promise, and so he tried– desperately, slowly, erratically– to let himself be more.
Day-by-day he tried, and day-by-day, Izuku learned to stop. Each day he learned to see that even if the wheel he ran on stopped, others continued spinning.
Each day Izuku learned and tried. Learned and tried. Again and again.
It was hard. But his Kacchan was there. As he always was and always would be, and it made things a bit easier.
Even if just a little, trying to save himself and win was easier.