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The room is cold. Too cold. It makes Izuku tighten the hold on the blanket wrapped around him. His bones ache, his head throbs, his mouth is dry, the chair he’s sitting in isn’t very comfortable.
But he refuses to move, because the hand not clutching the blanket is delicately holding the hand of his childhood friend.
Izuku can’t remember how long he’s been here at Katsuki’s bedside. All he knows is that the nurses and doctors have stopped trying to take him out of the room. He eats only the saltine crackers his mother brings in, drinking water with them occasionally.
He hasn’t slept well since his last night at the UA dorms, and there’s no indication he will until this is all said and done.
Katsuki Bakugou lays dormant, completely silent save for the breaths coming in and out. He’s not on a ventilator anymore, but the damage done to his cardiovascular and pulmonary systems was still vast enough to keep him asleep.
It’s the first time in their lives that Izuku has seen Katsuki so quiet, and it terrifies him. Katsuki’s pulse and breathing are there, but only just.
Sometimes, in the days that pass by, Izuku finds himself in the bed with Katsuki, tucked carefully under his good arm. He traces Katsuki’s features with feather-light strokes. Across the bandages covering half of Katsuki’s face, his jawline, the dark blonde eyelashes. It’s become a comfort to Izuku, grounding him to the reality that Katsuki is still here. Still alive. Still fighting.
Izuku weeps into the other boy’s hospital gown. He’s wracked with guilt and sorrow to his very core, the images of Katsuki’s body laid flat on the battlefield along with the others race through his mind. He wonders if he had just been a little faster, if he had kept a better eye on his surroundings, if he had just told Katsuki what he was feeling…
It eats him alive. Izuku feels selfish; his other friends, and mentors are in this same building. He hasn’t been to visit them once. Ever since he’d woken up here, he’d only wanted to be with Katsuki. Of course, when either his mother or Mitsuki Bakugou visit, he asks about them. He’s told that only a few people remain in critical condition, and the pro heroes were taken to a different hospital. Izuku thought this was strange, but accepted it nonetheless. It’s not like he was going to go out and prove it for himself.
He’d rather pull his own hair out than leave Katsuki’s side.
Izuku refuses any treatment that involves him leaving the room except for surgery. He knows he was wounded deeply as well, but if the physical therapy and consultation couldn’t be done inside the room, Izuku wanted no part in it. His mother has to practically beg him to go on short walks with her, saying that it isn’t good for him to stay in one place for this long.
He gives the same answer every time. “I want to be here when he wakes up. I left him once, I’m never leaving him again.”
On the nights he sleeps in the same bed as Katsuki, he’s on high alert. Any change in breath or heartbeat, any flicker across his facial features, any twitch of his good hand is noticed and noted by Izuku. He scrolls through the news on his phone constantly, resting the hand holding his phone on the part of Katsuki’s chest that isn’t taken up by bandages and wires and tubes. He talks to Katsuki, telling him about their friends and what’s going on in the outside world. The doctors quickly start to lean on Izuku for any stimulus response from Katsuki, because it only happens when Izuku speaks to him.
Watching. Waiting. Keeping any nerve on edge for a response. Even if, on the rare occasion, he’s fast asleep, if he feels Katsuki’s fingers twitch on his back, he’ll always look up to see if crimson meets emerald.
It hasn’t. Not yet at least.
And Izuku holds onto the word “yet” with his remaining sanity. He can’t imagine a world without Katsuki, and he’ll be damned if he’s not here when, not if, Katsuki wakes up.
—
Katsuki feels like he’s wading through water. Everything feels heavy. And everything hurts. It feels like something has crushed his right arm, and a truck is laying on his chest. Despite this, he trudges on, because somewhere in here is Izuku’s voice. It comes and goes, but there’s always a light in the distance whenever he speaks. It feels like years since he started trying to head towards the light.
But every day, it gets a little bit closer. Sometimes the light is his mother’s voice. Or someone else’s voice. But he only feels compelled to move when it’s Izuku’s.
Katsuki doesn’t realize he’s reached the light until it’s practically blinding. And the water recedes.
It takes a few minutes, but his eyes finally open.
He feels very annoyed at the pain, but more so at the warm lump that’s taking up half of his bed. The room is a little dark, save for the fading light of day and a small lamp above his head. He’s in a hospital. There’s tubes in his chest. Everything hurts.
Katsuki looks out at the sunset, and notices the green curls just after.
Izuku. Izuku is the warm lump. Izuku is here. Izuku is alive. Izuku is okay.
Katsuki’s breath quickens as he tries to lift his good hand, desperately needing to prove that this isn’t another dream. He hears the change in pace on the heart monitor.
Apparently, Izuku hears this too, because he bolts out of his sleep, meeting Katsuki halfway with a hand on Izuku’s back.
Crimson meets emerald.
“Kacchan?” Izuku whispers, voice hoarse, eyes already welling with tears. “Kacchan! Oh my god—” He cuts himself off, raising a hand to cup Katsuki’s cheek tenderly, and then rapidly pressing the call button attached to the hospital bed.
Izuku cries through his words, immediately rambling on about something Katsuki can barely understand. Nurses and doctors rush inside the room, ushering Izuku out of the bed so they can tend to him.
Izuku complies and suddenly Katsuki misses the warmth. But Izuku does not let go of his hand, and Katsuki gives it a squeeze as best he can. He feels Izuku’s tears drip down onto the back of his palm, and nothing else matters.
Katsuki barely registers the doctors asking him questions; all he can focus on is Izuku. He wants Izuku back by his side. He tugs at the other boy’s hand, unable to speak where his vocal cords hadn’t been used in days.
Izuku understands the message, and nods to him. “Can we have a moment?” He asks the staff.
The doctor gives him a look, but concedes nonetheless. “Only a few minutes. We need to run stimuli and memory tests,” she warns.
Once they’re out of the room, Izuku climbs back into the bed, letting Katsuki’s arm fall around his shoulders. Katsuki tries to bring the other one around, but it’s much heavier than his good arm.
Izuku notices. “Don’t, it’s okay. Your arm’s in a cast.” He settles in, tentatively placing a hand on Katsuki’s chest. “This is fine. I’m just glad you’re back.”
Katsuki can’t help but smile a little. They’re here. They’re alive. And they’ll keep fighting.