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Over time, Katsuki noticed a pattern. Each time he landed himself in the hospital, it meant he was about to pass a milestone in his life. Some groundbreaking change that would upend everything he believed in, make him realize he had been going in the wrong direction.
So truly, there was nothing surprising when he decided to quit being a Pro-Hero while lying in a hospital bed.
The doctor was giving instructions for his discharge. Prescribing some new meds for his heart. Some more physical therapy for his arm. All important things he should pay attention to. But suddenly, the words became background noise to the loud, definitive thought that cut through his brain like lightning.
Oh. Katsuki looked at his hands, still shaky from possible nerve damage. I need to quit.
Once upon a time – that felt awfully distant when it couldn't have been more than three years ago – the idea of quitting, of not getting to be a hero anymore, had sent Katsuki into one of the worst panic attacks of his life.
Izuku had held him through it, not saying a word but his grip tight enough to keep Katsuki together as he shattered in his arms.
They had been on their way out of that very same hospital after a particularly grueling session of physical therapy. When one of the nurses had thought they were out of earshot, she had told her colleague, “So cruel to make that boy believe he can still be a hero with an arm like that. It's a wonder he can even hold a fork.”
And for a moment, Katsuki had believed her. He had thought that was it. UA was too kind on its little child soldiers to kick him out, but he was a lost cause.
That night, he went to sleep convinced he would look up what courses Izuku's university offered in the morning.
The next day, he woke up with anger fueling his every move, determined to prove her wrong.
And three years later, he had. He had become a hero, had already broken through the top fifty so early in his carrier, and was expected to open his own agency soon. He had proven himself to this nurse, to Japan, to himself. He had won.
He had also understood, as the years passed and his hospital stays grew in number, that this nurse had meant no ill. If anything, she had probably seen exactly what he was realizing now as he watched the doctor leave.
Being a hero was no longer meant for him.
He expected to break again. He expected to shake, to cry, to beg, even, for another chance. Katsuki did none of that.
He looked down at his hands, at the weapons they were, about to be shelved, and sighed.
He got discharged the next day with a month leave from work and a stern look from his doctor. His first stop was Izuku's place.
Izuku hadn't come to see him at the hospital. He didn't anymore. Katsuki forbade him about a year ago. He couldn't take that haunted, glassy look. Those eyes that looked at Katsuki as if he was gone. As if he had never come back.
So they established that rule. Katsuki or anyone available would text Izuku the details of the incident and the evolution of Katsuki's condition for however long his stay was, but he couldn't come. Izuku hated it but he complied anyways.
The door was open before Katsuki even came out of his car, Izuku's frown visible from a mile away.
“Why are you driving? I’m sure that’s against doctor’s orders. I could have come pick you up.”
Katsuki snorted. “Getting into a car with you would undo all the doctor’s work.”
Izuku squawked, trying to defend his absolutely horrendous driving while making his way to the trunk of the car.
As a way to make up for the hospital ban, Katsuki had gotten into the habit of dropping by as soon as he was out, spend a few days at Izuku's place. Nothing better to calm Izuku's nerves and flashbacks than to see Katsuki in his house, and being allowed to take care of him for some time.
Katsuki would never admit he didn't do it just for Izuku's sake.
The day passed like days like these always did. Izuku fussed and Katsuki let him. Izuku ranted about a thousand things a minute and Katsuki listened. Izuku tried to cook and Katsuki laughed.
There was nothing out of normal. Nothing that announced the bomb Katsuki was about to drop.
As they settled into the couch, TV playing in the background at the lowest level, Izuku finally asked, “How many days off?”
Katsuki hummed. “A month.”
Izuku’s eyebrows climbed, a teasing lilt to his voice. “And you accepted that? Without kicking a fuss? You are losing your edge, Kacchan.”
Katsuki snorted. There was more truth in that that Izuku realized.
When Katsuki rolled his head on the back of the couch to catch Izuku’s eyes, he thought the anger, the despair, the fear would finally crash onto him. And in a way, it did. Things always got so much more real when they left the comfort of his own mind.
“Izuku.”
But he didn’t explode. He didn’t get angry. Instead, the words came out easily, as if they had been ready to be released for a long time.
Izuku turned towards him, gaze curious but soft. Inviting. Understanding, long before Katsuki had spoken a word.
He loved him so much.
“I’m quitting.”
Katsuki watched in real time as his words processed in Izuku’s mind.
There was a time, right after graduation, where reading Izuku had become nearly impossible. A few years where he had retreated so far back into his own mind, even he lost himself. It had been a long journey before he built himself back up. He wasn’t the same person he was before he got One For All, not the one he had been after.
It was a whole other Izuku, one that Katsuki had a hard time accepting for a while. But as he got to know him, as they talked, and talked, and talked until their throats were as raw as their hearts, Katsuki started to understand him. Love him all over again.
He started to understand that rather than drag Izuku back to him, maybe it was about time he ran to catch up to him.
It wasn’t how he had imagined doing so. In his mind, he was always pulling Izuku back into the hero world. Katsuki never imagined leaving it with him.
“Kacchan.”
Izuku’s voice was soft, but so vulnerable. The fragility in his gaze made Katsuki’s battered heart twist.
“What do you mean?”
Katsuki swallowed, and forced himself to shrug. “I mean that’s it. Time’s up.”
There was always this feeling, in the depths of Katsuki’s soul. One he never looked at too closely, never spoke about. The feeling that since he stood back up in that battlefield, he was on borrowed time. Running on something precious and stolen. A gift that could be taken back at any time. More than being unaware, Katsuki chose to disregard it because he knew his friends and family would hate that thought.
Katsuki did too, for a time.
Nowadays, he chose to let it wash over him, let it pass. He had been angry and resentful for so long. Whether this time was something earned or stolen, he made the choice to make the most of it.
“No more hero work?” Izuku asked, just as shakingly as before.
Katsuki shrugged. “Guess not. I mean, I obviously can’t sit back with my thumbs up my ass forever. Will’ve to find something to do. But it won’t be, like… on the field. Maybe the police? Work on cases and stuff. I liked it when I had that long ass mission in Osaka, remember? The one that overlapped with that cold case. Intense work but not the type that lands you in the hospital every other week.”
Izuku closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Once. Twice.
When he looked back at Katsuki, the intensity of his gaze made him feel bare.
“Why?”
“I know the police doesn’t look all that cool next to Pros, but they still do good work. Pretty fucking essential too, someone gotta prosecute the fuckers and get ‘em locked up. Plus, there’s this guy who told me ‘bout consultant work a while ago and…”
Katsuki kept talking, knowing damn well it wasn’t what Izuku asked. He ignored that, just as he ignored his voice growing progressively tighter, less steady. Izuku never once interrupted. He never once looked away from Katsuki, never once faltered in his patience.
Eventually, Katsuki’s voice broke. When he spoke again, it was no more than a whisper. “Since… Since I woke up back there, everything… everything fucking hurts. My whole fucking body. My chest, my arm, my legs, my stupid face. Everything, Izuku. Every day. All the time. Whenever it becomes manageable, I get thrown through another building and it starts all over again.
“I spend nights after night wondering how many years this or that fight shaved off my lifetime. How many more times I can go before my body just can’t take it anymore. Until my heart decides to be done once and for all. A-And maybe it’s stupid and selfish, but I feel like I’m not even making a damn difference. This hero world is the same it was when we were little, only the faces changed. Like fuck, we went through a war for things to remain the exact fucking same?
“There’s still a ranking, there’s still hero faces plastered on every advertisement, there’s still this belief that a hero cannot fall. It’s just– I’m tired. I feel like I have done enough, right? Fought a whole war, died in it, tried to shape the world into something a bit better for a while afterwards. It’s… Can’t I also live a little? Not just fight, not just survive, but actually fucking live.
“Go out to work, and not think it may be the last time I walk out my front door. Have annual appointments at the fucking dentist or some shit, rather than with a damn lawyer to make sure my fuckin’ will is still in order. Meet up with my friends at a bar, rather than at the hospital whichever one of us landed themselves in–”
His voice broke, and before he knew it, a warm and firm hand found its way on his nape and pulled. Katsuki pushed his face in Izuku’s neck and sobbed.
Of course this decision didn’t leave him as unfazed as he originally thought. It was his entire future he was giving up on. Or, more like, the one he had always projected himself in. He made some tweaks to it over the years, making room for other people as he learnt that being no.1 wasn’t all that if he stood alone at the top.
But still. In every version of that future, he was a hero. From age three to age twenty five, he always thought he would be a hero. For a time, he was certain his retirement would be his funeral.
Yet, here he was. Sobbing as he asked if he was deserving of boring days at a desk job and a long life.
Before the shame properly set in and he wretched himself away from Izuku, undeserving as he was of his comfort when he was giving up on a dream Izuku had ripped away from him, Katsuki registered the sobs that weren’t his own.
Then the words.
“Kacchan… Kacchan, I’m so glad. I’m so happy, I know it hurts, but I’m so glad.”
Frowning, Katsuki pulled away from Izuku, searching his eyes. He expected the tear-streaked cheeks and wobbly lips. He didn’t expect the smile.
“Uh?”
Hurriedly wiping at his face, Izuku clearly tried to dampen his joy but no could do.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know this isn’t right. Kacchan must be so upset, I get it – like really get it, I swear. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Katsuki weakly flicked his forehead, some sense of normalcy found in the yelp Izuku let out.
“Explain, nerd.”
And he meant it to sound more serious, more demanding, but it came out breathy. Something was coiling in his chest, something that would either break Katsuki or put salve on his wounds. It all depended on what was about to come out of Izuku’s mouth.
Truly, he should have known Izuku wasn’t capable of anything other than gentleness when it came to Katsuki’s feelings.
“I just… I’m so glad you got to be a hero, Kacchan, really. I know how much it means to you, I would have never wanted anything other than what makes you happy. But…” Izuku inhaled shakily, pain flashing on his face. “I was so worried. Every single day. That feeling that it may be the last time you walked out the door or that each fight was taking years off your lifespan—you weren’t the only one worrying about that. I kept hoping that this day would come. That you would willingly step back, that you would choose yourself.”
Izuku’s hands found Katsuki’s face, cupping it and looking at him with so much adoration, Katsuki wondered what he did to deserve this.
“I’m so proud of you Kacchan. You are so brave. Don’t think for even a second you don’t deserve this. It may not be what you hoped for, but I swear it isn’t as bleak as it first appears. It takes time to learn to live again, to let go of the guilt that you should be out there, helping, fighting. Some days are harder than others. But I will be there, okay? You are not alone in this, Kacchan. You didn’t let me be, don’t you dare think I wouldn’t return the favor.”
Katsuki couldn’t quite tell when he started to cry again, but he aggressively wiped the tears from his eyes to take in every detail of Izuku’s face that he already knew by heart.
The big, earnest, kind eyes that shone like emerald. The soft, slightly chapped lips that were parted around a smile more often than not. The freckles spreading on skin like a constellation.
The deep scar that told of a painful story. The deep scar that spoke of recovery.
Somewhere, deep down, Katsuki had known. He had known years ago that being a hero was near suicidal. He had known his body, the one Edgeshot and a dozen of doctors had put back together, wasn’t one made for this type of life anymore.
But he had watched Izuku, fading along with the embers of his quirk. He had watched him having to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be a hero. That his dream was yet again out of reach.
And as Izuku’s Symbol of Victory, as the amazing Kacchan who was meant for greatness, he had thought he couldn’t possibly give up now. He couldn’t look Izuku in the eyes and shatter the last thing he had always believed in. That Katsuki would be a hero, that he would win, that he would reach that no1 spot.
And maybe for a while, it was what Izuku thought. What he hoped for.
But what Katsuki failed to take into consideration was that the Izuku who remained quiet as he felt the last of the ember fade before smiling a small, shaky, fake thing wasn’t the Izuku who stood before Katsuki nowadays.
The one who tried therapy, really didn’t like it, but still put into work some of what he was told. The one who learnt to think back on his quirk with fondness and nostalgy rather than pain and anger. The one who allowed himself to mourn his future, mourn who he had been, and instead of burying himself along with it, allow the possibility of rebirth.
The one who built a life for himself that stopped feeling like a replacement, like settling, and more like a space he had carved for himself in the universe.
Of course this Izuku stopped expecting anything from Katsuki beyond doing what made him happy.
Maybe Katsuki’s one fear had come true. He was no longer Izuku’s Symbol of Victory.
But as he sat there, Izuku’s hands cradling him as if they held the entire world, relief removing a frown line Katsuki had thought permanent, he realized that maybe that wasn’t that much of a tragedy.
To the Izuku of now, he was just Kacchan. Someone Izuku looked at not like an unreachable god that symbolized inhuman ideals, but like his childhood everything who had his life upturned as much as his. A human who shared many of his wounds. Two halves of the same coin, both just as scratched up, but still linked in every way that mattered.
Katsuki looked in that face, as disfigured as his own was, and imagined seeing it every day. Not out on the field, but here, on the couch, in the kitchen, in bed. Maybe out of here, at the grocery store, at UA, at that Indian restaurant they both adored.
He imagined a life with no more heroic. Just two boys turned men who handed each other their broken pieces and a stick of glue.
And at this very moment, just as sudden but uncontestable as the knowledge that his time was up, Katsuki realized that he didn’t come back to life on that field. His heart simply started to beat again.
No, his life started on this couch, in Izuku’s arms, knowing that things would all be okay. Maybe not now. Maybe not tomorrow. But they would be.
And he wouldn’t be alone.