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One breath. In. And out.
With his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clenched tightly around the pole of his IV drip, Izuku tries to recall the grounding exercise his therapist has taught him.
Another deeper breath. In and out.
Five things he can see, four things he can touch, three things he can hear, yada yada yada. Remembering The List™ isn’t the problem he has with therapy at the moment. He already knew this specific exercise from various movies, books, and TV shows, because apparently that’s the only thing they teach you in Panic-Attack-School.
Actually using the techniques is a very different thing. How is he supposed to concentrate on listing and counting and being fucking mindful when all he really wants to do is curl into a ball and scream until his lungs collapse?
Another breath. Maybe a little too short this time. Doesn’t matter.
The metal feels cold on his palms. There’s sweat on his forehead. The air around him smells stale and like disinfectant. He can hear the nurses talk quietly amongst each other, probably wondering why he’s been standing here like an idiot for the past ten minutes.
Izuku scoffs. Some Hero he is. Saving the world on a random Tuesday, no problem.
But this? This is different.
Anyway. Moving on. Breathe. In. Out.
When he finally opens his eyes, he’s staring at the door again.
The door to Kacchan’s hospital room. Grey and clean and anonymous.
There’s not even a nametag on it, just a number. Just a single, small, depressing number six, right in front of him.
It needs to be this way, for privacy and security reasons, of course. Izuku knows that. Still, the lack of proof that Kacchan has actually made it off the battlefield, into this specific hospital, and into this specific room behind this specific door is making him so anxious he wants to puke.
Rationally, he knows that Kacchan is in there. The nurses have told him, his doctor has, too. Even his mom has confirmed it. They freaking aired it on live television, for god’s sake. He could pull out his phone right now and watch countless TikToks of people reacting to the moment when Deku and Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight were taken off the battlefield and into the waiting ambulances.
More breaths. All of them shallow and too quick. In and out. In and out. In—ugh, fuck this.
Rationality just isn’t working right now. Hasn’t been for the last five days of semi-consciousness while he was basically chained to his hospital bed.
Getting pumped full of morphine was fun for a while. No pain, no anxiety, no thoughts, just… floating. Being spoon-fed lukewarm mashed potatoes and lumpy gravy by the doting nurses was alright, too. (Pissing and shitting in a bedpan afterward less so, but after all the injuries and hospital stays he’d accumulated over the last year, he’s almost too used to it to care.)
What was driving him up the walls was the fact that nobody had told him how Kacchan was doing for what felt like an eternity and no amount of thrashing or shouting or swearing could sway them.
Now he knows they did it to protect him.
Now he knows that Kacchan was doing so badly for a while that they were never sure he'd survive the night.
Even after everything Edgeshot had done to stitch it back together on the battlefield, between all the blood and dirt and gore, Kacchan’s heart stopped several times once they arrived at the hospital. He had to go through two more open-heart surgeries before the doctors could fix all the remaining issues.
He’d been in a coma for over a week now.
Kacchan had always been a fighter, no doubt about it. But the damage to his body was so severe and traumatic that it just couldn’t keep up. It’s a miracle that the doctors and nurses were able to bring him back every single time, so Izuku should be nothing but grateful.
And he is. Of course he is!
But there’s still a lingering taste of resentment in the back of his throat that he can’t seem to swallow down entirely. Because even if it’s not rational (ahh, a recurring pattern, it seems), Izuku feels like it wouldn’t have happened time and time again if he could’ve just been there.
In his room. Right next to his bed, holding his hand. Keeping watch. Knowing that Kacchan would hate the worried and desperate look on his face that he would definitely interpret as nothing but pity. As always. Because he’s stupid and prideful and insufferable like that.
Despite everything—despite the nerves and the worrying and the pain—Izuku can’t help but smile thinking about that. If anyone could come back (and stay away!) from death’s door simply out of pure rage and an incredible amount of spite, it’s Kacchan.
(His Kacchan.)
He needs to get his act together and get inside that room right now.
Izuku huffs out a breath and presses down the handle with his elbow, using his bruised hip to slowly push open the door and pull the IV drip with him.
He’s greeted with the whirring and beeping of various machines that are crowded around a small bed with an even smaller person inside it.
The smell of disinfectant intensifies, and Izuku would love to blame the sharp stinging in his eyes on that alone, but he’s stopped lying to himself about stuff like that years ago.
He forces himself to slowly keep walking until he stands right next to Kacchan’s bed. Thankfully the last visitor—probably Auntie Mitsuki—has left a chair standing right next to it, because Izuku’s legs feel so shaky all of a sudden, that he falls right into it.
His eyes are locked on Kacchan’s pale face and the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest. Moments pass. Izuku shifts closer to the bed and clears his throat. “Hey, Kacchan,” he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Sorry I couldn’t come visit earlier.”
Carefully, he reaches out and takes one of Kacchan’s hands in his own, hating how cold and lifeless it feels. He interlaces the fingers of one hand with Kacchan’s and starts rubbing the back of it softly with the other one. It doesn’t do much, but at least he’s trying something.
He feels a lump growing in his throat, making it hard to swallow. “My mom told me she came by yesterday, just to check on you.” His eyes fill with tears, but he’s able to hold them back for now. “You’re invited to dinner as soon as we’re out of here. She made me promise to remind you.” Huffing a very unconvincing laugh, he grips Kacchan’s hand harder than he probably should. “Because she hasn’t talked to you in ages and… Well. She misses you, you know?” He smiles wobbly before adding, “I miss you, too.”
At that, he can’t stop himself from crying anymore. A few tears roll down his cheeks and onto their joined hands. He squeezes his eyes shut, but it’s no use. “I’m so sorry, Kacchan,” he hiccups. “I never wanted this to happen. You have to believe me.” His voice shakes with sorrow, but his only answer is Kacchan’s quiet breathing and the consistent beeping of his heart monitor.
Izuku can feel it bubbling up. The guilt that he’s been carrying ever since their first fight against Shigaraki. When Kacchan got seriously hurt because of him for the very first time.
He’s talked about it in his mandatory therapy sessions, he’s talked about it to his mom and even to Iida and Ochako.
He knows that it’s “not his fault” and that he “needs to forgive himself”.
He knows “how to cope” and – most importantly – he knows the right things to say to reassure everyone around him that he’s doing alright. That he’s over it.
He knows how to make them stop asking.
All that doesn’t change his feelings, though. Because deep down he knows that he’s supposed to feel guilty. It is his fault after all. He hasn’t been good or strong or smart enough to beat Shigaraki and All For One on his own, and now all his friends and teachers who had fought and died by his side needed to suffer the consequences.
He remembers Kacchan’s words from back then well enough: ‘You don’t have to do it on your own. When you can’t handle it anymore, I’ll step in for you. All of us will.’ But the wound is still too fresh, too raw. Because this is exactly what he was dreading all along: Kacchan, lying bloody and motionless on the ground, while Shigaraki taunts him, calling Kacchan’s dead body his “gift” for Izuku.
He should have never come back to UA. This wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed away and done it all on his own.
Yeah, sure, he might have died, but that’s a sacrifice he’d have brought happily if it would have meant that Kacchan and the others could have lived without a scratch on them.
***
A honking car outside makes him snap out of it.
He’s been spacing out again. That has been happening a lot in the last couple of days. He’s not sure if it’s a side effect of the morphine or of his rapidly deteriorating mental health, but figuring that out isn’t exactly on his list of top priorities right now. At least it makes the days go by a little faster.
Without noticing, he had brought Kacchan’s hand up to press against the bridge of his nose, his thumbs still absentmindedly rubbing circles into his palm. Izuku isn’t sure how much time has actually passed, but the shadows in the room have moved a considerable amount and Kacchan’s hand feels a whole lot warmer now, thank god.
He moves his gaze from Kacchan’s chest up to his face, where his hair sticks to his sweaty forehead. Izuku reaches out one hand and pushes it gently away from Kacchan’s eyes. His fingers linger against the damp skin.
“If I could switch places with you, I would. You know that, right?” Izuku sniffs. It’s loud and disgusting, but he doesn’t care. If Kacchan has any problems with that, he’s more than welcome to just wake up and punch his bad manners out of him. God, if only.
“I honestly don’t care if you yell at me or beat me up or never talk to me again. Just… Please. Come back to me, Kacchan. Please.”
He searches Kacchan’s face desperately for something—anything—to hold onto. There’s a flutter of movement near his lashes and Izuku’s breath hitches, his heart leaping to his throat. But when he looks closer, Kacchan’s expression is as still as ever. It must’ve been a trick of the light. Or maybe just wishful thinking.
“Great, ha! Now I’m actually losing it,” he says under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. The tears from earlier have dried and left crusty streaks from his cheekbones to his chin. “Wow, breaking news! The guy who talks to a bunch of dead people in his head when shit hits the fan, now also suffers from hallucinations, surprise!” He laughs sarcastically.
A faint noise interrupts his rambling—soft, almost imperceptible. Izuku’s head snaps up, eyes wide and unblinking as he stares at Kacchan’s face. Did he imagine that, too? His heart pounds in his ears, drowning out everything else.
Then, there’s a twitch. Barely noticeable at first. Just the slightest movement of Kacchan’s fingers against his own. Izuku freezes, his breath caught in his throat as his gaze darts to their hands, willing it to happen again.
“Kacchan?” His voice trembles, hopeful and desperate. A sharper twitch this time, and a low, scratchy groan that escapes Kacchan’s lips. He feels the shift before he sees it: Kacchan’s fingers in his hand, curling weakly around his own. “Kacchan! Please, wake up,” he begs, his chest tightening as the tears are welling up again. “Please, Kacchan. Please, I’ll do anything.”
Kacchan’s eyebrows scrunch up tightly, as if in pain. “Shuttin’ the fuck up would be a good place to start,” he says, scratchy and rough—and it might be the most beautiful sound Izuku has ever heard in his entire life.
Kacchan’s hand falls out of his grasp and lands on the bed with a dull thump.
Izuku stares at his face in disbelief. Kacchan clears his throat with difficulty before adding: “And gimme your All Might card. Must’a lost mine.”
His eyes are bloodshot and barely open, his lips are cracked, his face is dry and pale.
He’s stunning.
He’s perfect.
He’s alive.
Izuku continues to stare, open-mouthed.
But when Kacchan’s wrecked lips pull into something that resembles a smile, the loudest, most obnoxious sob breaks out of Izuku’s throat and he jumps out of his chair and onto the minimal free space of Kacchan’s bed without thinking. His knees wobble on the mattress, the tube of his IV-drip pulls uncomfortably on his arm and his hips and back protest immediately because of the weird angle, but he ignores it all easily.
Kacchan.
Kacchan!
Kacchan!
It’s all he can see. All he can feel.
All he can hear and smell and taste and think and fucking breathe.
(Grounding exercises can actually be pretty alright after all, Izuku decides.)
He presses his face into Kacchan’s neck and cries like he’s never cried before, tears soaking Kacchan’s hospital gown in seconds. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Just this. He’s got him back. He’s got his Kacchan back. He’s never letting go again. Never.
Having known Kacchan for basically his whole life, Izuku is prepared to be pushed off or at least yelled at, but to his shock, instead of rejection or anger, there’s just a hand on the back of his neck—a hand that is warm because of him—threading itself clumsily into his hair. “You fuckin’ crybaby,” Kacchan murmurs roughly. But there’s no heat in his voice, only a tired fondness. “If you get your disgusting snot all over me, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
Struggling to get enough air into his lungs, Izuku rasps, “I was so scared, Kacchan.”
A pause. A shaking exhale. “I know,” Kacchan replies quietly.
“You–,” sob.
“And Shiga–,” sob.
“–raki, he–,” sob.
“And you!”
“Yeah,” Kacchan swallows dryly and it sounds like it hurts. “Yeah, I know.”
The hand in his hair pulls him closer and scratches softly at his skin. “It’s okay,” Kacchan mumbles, pushing his nose into Izuku’s hair and inhaling, slow and deep. “I’m good.”
This simple gesture from Kacchan of all people breaks him so cleanly in two, Izuku can’t keep it in any longer. The guilt that has been gnawing on him since the moment he woke up breaks out of him.
“I’m sorry,” he forces out, his body heaving with sobs. “This is all my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry! I should have–, I couldn’t–,” he’s getting louder and more desperate with each word. “I’m useless, Kacchan, so fucking useless–.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds broken and wrecked and embarrassing, but he needs to say it, needs to get it out, needs Kacchan to know that he’s the reason Shigaraki killed him.
That he doesn’t deserve even one kind word or touch or gesture from Kacchan. That because of him, the good-for-nothing “Hero” Izuku Midoriya, who couldn’t even save the one person he’s loved since he could think—
“Izuku,” he hears distantly, “Izuku, stop. Hey! Just… Fucking look at me!” Kacchan’s voice is nowhere near as loud as it normally is, but it has an urgency to it that slowly makes its way through to Izuku’s fogged-up brain. Exhaling a shaky, wet breath, he replies, “I can’t.”
“Don’t piss me off, you idiot, come on!” Despite the harsh words, Kacchan’s hand on the back of his neck stays gentle, only pulling slightly on his hair until Izuku finally finds the strength to lift his head and actually look at him.
Kacchan looks a lot more awake than before, his eyes now fully open. They’re roaming Izuku’s face for a moment before settling on the stitches on his cheek. Kacchan frowns, his eyebrows pulling together. “Are you hurt?” he asks, in the smallest voice Izuku has ever heard from him.
Izuku shakes his head frantically, tears falling from his eyes right onto Kacchan’s face, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. “No,” Izuku hiccups. “I’m good.”
“What’s that, then?” Kacchan asks, with a nod to his stitches.
“Doesn’t matter. You–”
“Stop it.”
“You died, Kacchan!”
“Izuku,” Kacchan pulls his face closer without much finesse until Izuku’s forehead lands hard on his. “This is not your fault, okay? Do you hear me? None of this shit is.”
“But it is! Shigaraki told me. He said– He said he killed you just to get to me.” Izuku’s face crumples even more as he tries to squirm out of Kacchan’s grip.
“Yeah, he said something along those lines, before… It happened.”
“You died because of me.”
Kacchan lets him pull back just enough so he can look directly at him without going cross-eyed. “And I would do it again.” He says it with such sincerity that Izuku is speechless for a moment, staring at him in disbelief. “Yeah! I fucking mean it, alright? Don’t tell anyone!” He adds, rolling his eyes. “Just get it in your giant head already! When you can’t do it on your own, I’m there. I’ll always be there.”
“But–”
The hand still gripping his hair starts to push his head down roughly. “Ugh, just lie the hell down and… Fucking listen,” Kacchan spits out, trying to manhandle Izuku with the little strength he has right now. “Not fucking dead. Not even a little.”
“Kacchan, stop! I don’t wanna hurt you!” Izuku squeals, but it’s no use. He feels so boneless that he can’t do anything but follow. His knees give out underneath him, and he tries his best not to land on any of the medical equipment sticking to Kacchan’s body. He stretches out next to him as carefully as possible, given the circumstances.
“Shut up, this shit won’t kill me either,” Kacchan grumbles.
Before Izuku can argue, his head lands on Kacchan’s chest, his face squished awkwardly between the electrodes and wires connected to the heart monitor. For a moment, he doesn’t even register it—too caught up in his worry—but then it hits him.
“Oh.” There it is. Kacchan’s heartbeat, loud and strong, right under his ear.
It’s steady and unrelenting and impossible to ignore. Each thud echoes in Izuku’s head, like tiny explosions rumbling far in the distance. Not the deafening booms he usually knows from Kacchan’s quirk, but quieter, deeper—an undeniable reminder that Kacchan is still here with him.
Izuku feels himself move in time with each slow rise and fall of Kacchan’s breathing. The rhythm grounds him, calming the emotions raging in his own chest.
His breathing slows, matching Kacchan’s, and his tears finally stop.
Kacchan hums, a low vibration that Izuku feels in his entire body. “Better?”
Izuku nods slowly, his eyebrows knitting together in thought. “Yeah.” He pauses, listening more closely. “But it’s a little fast, right? Is that normal?”
There’s a beat of silence—a little too long for Izuku’s liking.
He lifts his head, concerned, and catches the faintest hint of color in Kacchan’s cheeks. Relieved that they’re not as pale as before, Izuku opens his mouth, but before he can comment on it, Kacchan’s hand shoves him back down. “Hundred percent, totally fine!” He snaps, a touch sharper than entirely necessary. “Now stop being a fucking creep!”
Izuku hides a small smile against Kacchan’s chest. “Okay, Kacchan,” he murmurs, not even trying to hide the warmth in his voice. “Whatever you say.”
A comfortable silence falls between them. Izuku doesn’t move for a long while, still pressing close and listening intently, not ready to get up again. He swallows hard.
“Can I—” Izuku hesitates, a bit embarrassed. “Um, can I stay here for a bit?”
Kacchan huffs, but it’s more a sleepy exhale than annoyance. “Whatever,” he replies, suppressing a yawn. His hand clumsily finds Izuku’s hair again, ruffling it with a gentleness that doesn’t match his tone. "Can’t believe ya woke up ‘fore me, you fuckin’ nerd.” His words slur, heavy with exhaustion. “Gonn’ beat you t’morrow, though.” His voice trails off as sleep finally overcomes him again, and Izuku smiles so hard, his cheeks hurt.
While squeezing his eyes shut, he nuzzles his face more comfortably into Kacchan’s chest and answers in a whisper.
“Yeah. I’m sure you will, Kacchan.”