Work Text:
They’re fingerprints.
Bruises lined up on the column of a pale throat, an imprint of two hands pressing down and squeezing on both sides. Vacuum sealing souring oxygen on the inside until there was nothing left to sustain. Stealing something that did not belong to them. Unkind.
He hasn’t been able to stop staring at them.
They shouldn’t, but they make Katsuki think of Izuku.
(He was always so bruised as a kid. Always on his knees and his elbows, once on his forehead and another time all big and purple like a rain puddle splashed across his round, baby tummy.
He was a crab apple fallen into dewy grass during spring, soggy and wrinkled with holes in places.
Katsuki put the holes there. He remembers.)
Maybe he would know what to do.
Izuku always knows what to do. And if he doesn’t know, he figures it out. So maybe, maybe he could tell Katsuki what he’s supposed to do about the withered and hollowed husk of a boy sleeping in his bed.
He’s always been smarter than Katsuki, it’s part of why he fucking hates him, and maybe he would- maybe he could. Fix it.
(But what happened to Izuku isn’t the same, it’s not the same as what happened to Denki.
What Katsuki thinks happened to Denki.
What Katsuki is pretty sure happened to Denki.
What handprints curled around an innocent neck tell him happened to Denki.)
He detangles clinging hands from his bare torso and slides out of bed. Katsuki pulls the blankets up to Denki’s chin and watches his emptied hands curl into fists.
For a moment, Katsuki thinks about staying.
(Denki whimpers in his sleep. His body shrinks with nothing warm to hold onto.)
He leaves and makes his way to Izuku’s room.
(Katsuki will never admit that he’s fucking terrified.
He’s not built for rescue. He’s impatient and loud and mean, and most of the time he cares so little that he finds himself blaming victims for their own injuries.
He imagines, for just a moment, screaming at Denki the way he screams at them.
“It’s your own damn fault, you useless extra.”
Bile rises in his throat.)
Izuku’s light is still on at four in the morning, which means either nightmares or hyperfixating or both, and they equally make Katsuki want to rip his hair out.
He knocks anyway, in the harsh manner that he does everything, scowling at the opaque smoothness of Izuku’s door. When it opens, Katsuki pushes right past him and his curious gaze, shoulders bumping against each other.
“Kacchan? W-why are you awake?”
Katsuki’s throat has never felt cinched tighter than it does now. He’s never known how to ask for help, and he’s never even tried helping others; only as a convenient consequence. A side effect of becoming great. Asking Izuku how to do it—how to help on purpose—makes Katsuki want to throw up on his stupid floor.
(He thinks about Denki’s bruised skin and red-rimmed eyes and nearly gags.)
The door clicks shut, and Izuku moves to stand in front of Katsuki, frowning.
“Kacchan?”
“Den- Kaminari’s all fucked up.”
“What?” The panic is so fast, so immediate, Katsuki wonders why he’s never worried for someone so quickly and so deeply, “fucked up how? What happened? Is he hurt? Is he- why are you telling me? Did you take him to Recovery Girl, or- where is he?”
“He’s asleep.”
And the fear drains away. Just like that, gone, and Izuku stands quietly. Waiting. His fear is gone and Katsuki feels sick. He feels like screaming. He thinks about snapping, don’t be so fucking relieved, and he glowers.
“He fuck- his- there’s bruises.” He swallows, wets his lips, tries not to think about why his eyes are burning. “On his neck.”
Izuku blinks. He opens his mouth and shuts it again. His brow furrows, fingers twitching at his sides.
(Mangled fingers, fingers he’s shattered for other people, hands he’s destroyed over and over and over again on purpose because it meant he could fix something.)
Like he wants to reach for Katsuki, but knows he’s not allowed.
“He wouldn’t fucking talk to me,” Katsuki continues, glaring at Izuku’s left hand, “he was being weird and fuckin’- quiet, and he started asking- he fuckin’ asked me about sex and I told him to tell me what the fuck was wrong with him and he-”
“Kacchan, stop.”
Katsuki’s head snaps up, and his throat feels so tight it hurts and he’s ready to scream because what the fuck?
“Don’t,” Izuku’s voice cracks. He clears his throat, “j- if- if you… if this is, um- don’t. Don’t tell me what you’re about to tell me. I don’t think he’d want you to.”
“What?”
“Kaminari didn’t come to me, Kacchan,” Izuku’s hands come together, picking at skin and damaged nails. He isn’t meeting Katsuki’s eyes. “He went to you.”
And.
And it’s true.
But Katsuki doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it, he didn’t do anything to deserve it, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. Katsuki doesn’t fix things. He beats them and breaks them and destroys them and twists and contorts them until they look the way he wants them to.
(He’s mean to Denki, he’s so fucking mean to Denki all the fucking time and he’s probably going to say something awful, something terrible, and then Denki will never speak to him again and Katsuki will probably be the reason that he fucking breaks.)
“He- I don’t- I can’t…”
Katsuki pushed Denki off his lap. He called him a freak. He tried to kick him out. And he doesn’t tell Izuku about any of it because he knows what Izuku would have done and he knows that what he would have done makes him a better person than Katsuki will ever be.
Izuku smiles at him, and it’s soft and sad.
“Why would he come to me?” Katsuki whispers.
“I don’t know,” Izuku says. “You’re his friend. He trusts you. You, um… you make people feel safe, Kacchan.”
It’s a lie.
During the daytime, Katsuki would yell at him for it, would tell him to die, would sneer. But he’s weary to the bone and sagging, playing Denki’s strangled sob on a loop in his head, seeing handprints on innocent skin and imagining how fucking scared he must have been, and.
He needs to make sure he’s still breathing.
Katsuki heads for the door. He doesn’t knock their shoulders together this time.
On his way out, he grumbles, “whatever, Deku.”
When he gets back to his room, the sky is a light shade of baby blue, sinking into fading purple against the horizon. It’s so much softer than the feeling in his chest that pierces like shattered glass.
Denki’s still asleep. He rolled onto his back while Katsuki was gone, and his arms are stretched out, fingers clenched around nothing. His cheeks are rosy and his breathing is unsteady and noisy, congested from crying.
Katsuki swallows hard. He climbs into bed, pushing at Denki’s body until he’s on his side, facing the wall, and Katsuki can pull him back against his chest and place a hand against his heart to feel it still beating.
And that’s all that he can do for now.