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It’s been three days since the last time Katsuki held Shouto’s hand and Shouto squeezed back. Three days, five hours, and thirty-seven minutes. He knows this. Remembers it unmistakably. Because—
The last time Katsuki held Shouto’s hand, he was trying to get him to hold on until the paramedics got there. And now Shouto’s—
Now Shouto’s on a hospital bed unconscious, and Katsuki is—
Well. He hasn’t showered and he’s only eaten whatever prepackaged hospital cafeteria slop Deku threw at him and refused to budge until he finished it. He’s barely eaten, and he hasn’t really moved, and the last nurse who dared utter the phrase visitation hours in his vicinity almost got an explosion to the face.
So. That’s where they’re at.
Because—
Because Shouto is the strongest person Katsuki knows, and Katsuki isn’t going to budge until he wakes up. (Because he has things to say. Things beyond don’t you dare close your eyes and c’mon, halfie, you’re stronger than this. Things like—
Things like our friends make fun of me. Things like they all know, sweetheart. Things like your mouth is the only thing I’ve thought about before falling asleep since I was sixteen. Things like—
Stay.)
Shouto would do the same thing for him. Would sit here in a cramped hospital chair and hold his hand. Would tell him fuckin’ cat facts in steady monotone, or some shit. Or maybe he’d just—
Maybe he’d just try to hold Katsuki’s hand. Stroke the places where the skin is the thinnest—where he’s most likely to bleed—with too much tenderness. Because Shouto’s like that. Surprising. Will do and say the shit you least expect precisely when you least expect it. He hasn’t grown out of that yet. Katsuki doubts he ever will. Like—
Like when they were eighteen and too close to graduation and decided to take a camping trip together, as many of them as Deku could drag along, and Shouto just. Sat in Katsuki’s lap when the spots around the campfire started filling up. Pressed close, told him, “You smell nice,” and then—
Never brought it up again, besides maybe a lingering look.
That’s the thing. That Katsuki was waiting. That he’s been waiting for a while. Too long, probably. But it never felt like the kind of thing to rush into, with Shouto. Too precious to risk ruining it. Too important to touch with rough hands. So. Katsuki waited to be chosen, to be deemed worthy. And waited. And waited.
And Shouto never—
Shouto stands carefully by his side at long and boring hero galas, and texts him cat memes when he’s abroad for work and can’t sleep, and still pretends he doesn’t know how to cut chives when Katsuki ends up sitting in one of his fancy dining room chairs after a long patrol.
Katsuki wants forever with him. That might be the main issue. That he’s scared of being denied endlessness, eternity. The kind of thing you don’t come back from.
Even if—
It’s gotta mean something, right? That while Shouto was soot-covered and sweaty and growing colder with each excruciating second, he squeezed Katsuki’s hand back and told him, laughter in his strained voice, “Don’t make that face, you look less handsome.”
(Katsuki obviously told him to fuck right off, but—)
What he wanted to ask was, Why does that matter? Was, Do you care? Was, Will you come home with me once this is all over? Do you wanna grow old together? Do you want me to kiss all your scars good morning?
I’ll do it. I’ll do it, I’ll do it, I’ll do it. (For you, I’d do anything.)
Shouto’s the only person Katsuki has wanted to be good instead of just better for. That—means things, doesn’t it? Big, important things.
Things they need to talk about. Things Shouto needs to open those pretty mismatched eyes and look at Katsuki in order to discuss.
So. Deku and the nurses can pester him all they damn well want. Katsuki will wait.
Until morning. He’ll wait until morning comes.