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Izuku had always been good at dealing with the pain, had grown used to it—to enduring the hits, the bad-mouthing, the bone-crushing ache in his body. He was practically numb to it at this point.
He didn’t like to dwell on it, he could bear it. It’s what he had trained all his life to do—what he’d always done. He didn’t know anything else.
But on some particular nights, like tonight, Izuku’s chest heaves with a very specific, familiar pain. One that not even he can fight. One that he’s powerless against.
Truth is, he doesn’t even try to fight it. Wonders if he ever really did. He’s grown so accustomed to the sting, that he feels like he craves it sometimes, even if it breaks him to the core.
It’s the only way he feels close to him, after all.
Izuku stirs the ice in his glass, the smell of rum filling his nostrils. He always tries to soothe it like this, foolishly thinking that the pungent, antiseptic taste and scent of alcohol will somehow numb the searing pain.
He’s tried to wrap his head around it many times, to visualize it in a way that makes it hurt less. He pictures a gaping hole, one so big, so encompassing, one that makes him feel hollowness all over. How can the absence of something–of someone –hurt so much?
Ochako won’t mind, he thinks as he takes another sip. She is used to him having these kinds of moments once in a while.
Izuku practically knows the words by heart, at this point. Could recite the entire letter in his sleep. Who would’ve thought Katsuki had a way with words, huh? Izuku smirks, smoothing the crumpled, worn sheet of paper with his calloused finger.
Kacchan is the best, amazing at everything he does— of course he’d be good at writing, too. The hole in his chest grows larger at the thought.
Izuku still remembers the way his heart stuttered when he read the first sentence.
“Let me tell you a story about something that could have been, but never was—and will never be.”
Katsuki’s penmanship was beautiful, graceful in a way that reminded Izuku of him. Of how he soared through the sky, nimble and elegant.
“A story about rushed decisions, fears , misunderstandings, and mostly, bad timing—or that’s what I like to tell myself. That’s the easiest way to put it, right? Always blame time or context.”
Every time Izuku reads it, he can’t help but recall the events leading up to the letter. And with each memory, the abyss lodged in his chest grows wider.
The night of their high school reunion.
Katsuki asking Izuku to be hero partners.
Memories blur more and more with each passing year, but even if it hurts, Izuku forces himself to remember.
Izuku refusing politely at the back of Katsuki’s car, smiling, because that’s what he felt like he needed to do back then. He was content being a teacher, his time as a hero had long passed, even if he was endlessly grateful to Kacchan and the others for gifting him the suit.
He still is, so deeply grateful—even if all the suit does now is gather dust in the back of his closet.
“It’s not a story about a broken heart. It’s not the heart that is broken, is the hopes and dreams, the what ifs and the what if we didnts, the dead excitement. The feeling of something new that became old way too soon.
It’s more about seeing what I’ve been forced to let go—what I’ve lost—in front of my eyes, and not being able to do a single thing about it, rather than a story about crying for what it was. ‘Cause it never really was. There was never a story, was there, Izuku?”
The memories are hazy in Izuku’s mind, but he remembers. How could he not?
That night, Katsuki kept on driving, and then they all had dinner, laughing and drinking together, just like old times. Throughout the evening, Katsuki didn’t smile once.
“It’s all about seeing how it is now, and knowing that this is how it’s going to be—how you want it to be. Seeing you smile because of it, and knowing that it’s for good.”
And even if he didn’t fully understand why, Izuku noticed, of course, because he always kept an eye on Katsuki. He was his best friend, and that’s what best friends did.
“I wouldn’t call it a heart break, even if it does feel like one. I’d say it’s something more like a reality slap in the fucking face. I don’t know if there was ever really a story to tell. I’d like to think that yes, there was something huge there, but it was just misplaced in time and space, and we will never know what could have come out of it.
Take care.
Love you, always,
Katsuki,”
Now, Izuku understands. Understands the reason behind every ridge of Katsuki’s face that night, every twist of his pout, every drop of his gaze. But it doesn’t matter that he does, now.
That night, Ochako smiled at him, and Izuku felt a faint tingling in the pit of his stomach. He missed her, he admitted to himself. And after dinner, they agreed to keep in touch and see each other more often— even if just saying it out loud settled strangely in his chest.
He told Katsuki over the phone the next day, because that’s what best friends did.
Izuku cringes at the memory, gulping down the remnants of his drink.
He told Katsuki that he was more or less convinced that he’d liked her, back in high school. “It makes sense, right, Kacchan? To date her and see where it goes!”
Izuku will always remember what Katsuki said over the phone when he told him. “Are you happy?” he asked, without ever answering Izuku’s question.
And right then, Izuku felt like he wasn’t asking about Ochako in particular. It felt like a bigger question, one that Izuku didn’t feel like answering. Because for all the masking he’d been doing these past few years, he didn’t like lying to Katsuki.
With a gnawing in his chest, Izuku replied, “Yes.”
And now, in hindsight—glass in hand and a gaping hole in his chest—he curses himself. For having lied, for not being brave enough, for enduring and masking and letting his life pass him by.
“Yes, I am.”
Whatever Katsuki was asking for, Izuku couldn’t give.
Izuku would never be enough for Katsuki.
“Okay,” Katsuki had said.
Next thing Izuku knew, Katsuki was leaving Japan.
Izuku didn’t find out by him, and that hurt more than any blow he’d ever received in battle. It was Todoroki, who called him and gave him the news days after Katsuki was gone. “His instructions,” he’d said, shrugging his shoulders.
Izuku found the letter in his mailbox a week after Katsuki left—two years ago now.
“Love you, always,
Katsuki,”
It’s always this part of the letter where Izuku’s eyes seem to linger.
He still remembers the exact moment when he first read those three words. Remembers how he should have been shocked, but wasn’t.
They’d never verbalized it, never talked about it. Whatever they felt for each other— it was boundless, too vast to even put into words.
But Katsuki had always been the bravest out of the two. And Izuku had always been weak, always a fearful little kid, afraid of change, of loss, of death.
Now, Izuku thinks he’d known, deep inside. That’s why reading it hadn’t felt like a revelation at all.
The ice in his glass has long melted now, the faint smell of alcohol barely noticeable in the darkness of his study. Izuku stirs it anyway, even though there’s nothing left to drink.
Ochako is waiting for him in their bedroom, and Izuku wonders when exactly he started hating himself so much.
He stands up from his desk and turns off the light, feeling the effects of the alcohol wash over him, along with the heartburn that always comes after thinking about Katsuki for a bit too long.
Maybe a time will come when he’s brave, a time when Izuku can proudly tell their story. Because Katsuki was right, of course there was a story to tell—Izuku had just been a lifetime too short to catch up, and a nightmare too scared to try.