Chapter Text
The war had ended.
Shigaraki was gone. All For One was gone. The world was meant to breathe easier now, but Izuku Midoriya’s chest felt like it was weighed down by bricks, his lungs barely able to draw in enough air.
He had fought with every ounce of strength he had, bleeding until there was nothing left to give. Yet, here in the aftermath, the war’s victory felt hollow, like a shattered mirror reflecting a fractured version of himself. The cheers had faded; now, only the silence remained. Thick, suffocating, mocking.
In his quiet apartment, Izuku’s hands trembled as he traced the scars on his arms. Old ones, jagged reminders of battles fought and survived, but newer cuts — shallow, desperate — were fresh, stinging beneath the thin skin. He hid them under long sleeves, but no amount of fabric could hide the pain carved into his soul.
He was a hero. They called him a symbol of hope. But inside, Izuku was crumbling.
⸻
The bathroom mirror was fogged, the water running cold as Izuku stared at his reflection. His eyes were duller than usual, the bright spark extinguished somewhere beneath the exhaustion and weight of despair. He had not showered in days. Four days. He counted, but the days blurred into one another anyway.
He didn’t want to look at himself. Not really. The skin felt alien — tight, raw, like a cage he couldn’t escape. His hands, the same hands that once dreamed of saving everyone, now shook with quiet fury, the faint, dark scars snaking over his wrists and forearms.
Every day, the voice inside whispered cruel things.
You’re broken.
You don’t deserve to be happy.
Why even try?
Izuku knew he should fight it. He told himself to get up, to eat, to shower, to talk to someone. But each step felt like sinking deeper into quicksand — the harder he struggled, the more he sank.
His phone sat silent on the table, a graveyard of unanswered calls and unread messages. He couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. The guilt was unbearable. They were trying — everyone was trying — but to Izuku, their words felt like distant echoes, not meant for him. He had shut down, withdrawing into a silence heavier than any fight he’d faced.
Sometimes, in the quietest moments, his mind played cruel tricks. His fingers itched for the sharp blade he kept hidden away — a painful release he justified to himself as control, even as the fresh cuts stung with cold fire. It was the only way he could feel something real when the numbness threatened to swallow him whole.
One night, alone and shaking, Izuku stared at the thin, reddened lines on his skin, the sharp pain grounding him amid the chaos in his mind. Tears blurred his vision, mixing with the blood. The shame was overwhelming — but so was the relief.
He wanted to scream for help, to call out to someone who could pull him back from the edge. But his voice was trapped inside, locked behind years of silence and pain.
⸻
That night, at a dim bar, the haze of whiskey blurred the world.
The smoke and chatter were distant, like a dream. Izuku’s fingers wrapped around a glass, the burning liquid a bitter comfort, dulling the ache inside. His thoughts were scattered, fragmented by the alcohol and exhaustion.
Then, a voice cut through the fog.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Deku?”
Izuku’s head snapped up, blurry vision focusing on a figure looming over him. Familiar. Anger etched deep into his features. Katsuki Bakugou — his lifelong rival, his complicated constant.
Katsuki’s gaze didn’t soften when it landed on Izuku’s disheveled form. Instead, there was frustration, worry, and something Izuku wasn’t ready to face.
“You haven’t shown up to work in a week. You haven’t answered your phone in months. You smell like shit. You look like shit.”
Izuku’s lips trembled as a ghost of a smile flickered and vanished.
“I missed you,” he slurred, voice thick with exhaustion and regret, downing the last of his drink.
Katsuki didn’t say anything. He just grabbed Izuku’s arm, steadying him, pulling him to his feet.
“Let’s go. You’re done here.”
Izuku let himself be led away, stumbling as Katsuki shouldered his weight. There was no resistance left in him. Just a bone-deep ache and the dull throb of alcohol in his skull. His cheek rested briefly against Katsuki’s shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, that simple contact; warm, steady, familiar; felt like oxygen in a world that had been suffocating him.
The walk to the car was unsteady. Katsuki didn’t speak, didn’t berate him the way he normally would have. His silence was a blade in itself—sharp, heavy, damning. Izuku’s breath hitched as the cold air slapped against his face, making him realize just how far he’d let himself fall.
Katsuki opened the passenger door, but Izuku refused. “Back,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I want to go back.”
Katsuki ignored him, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed with something unreadable.
“I mean it,” Izuku slurred, suddenly louder, tears already brimming. “Let me out. Just—just let me go back. I was fine there. I was fine, Kacchan.”
His voice cracked like glass, and he hit the window with the heel of his palm. “Please,” he whispered, a sob catching in his throat, “please, I don’t want to go home. I don’t deserve to be home.”
Still, Katsuki said nothing.
He simply shut the back door behind Izuku, walked around, and got in the driver’s seat. Turned the key in the ignition.
The car was silent save for Izuku’s soft, uneven crying. His face was pressed to the cool glass of the window, cheek wet, eyes hollow. His fingers crept slowly beneath the fabric of his sleeve, nails digging into scarred skin—some old and faded, some fresh and inflamed.
He scratched harder than he meant to. The pain grounded him, made him feel real for a moment. A reminder. A punishment.
Katsuki glanced back through the mirror, eyes catching the motion.
“Stop that,” he said quietly. Firm, but not cruel.
Izuku didn’t respond.
He just curled into himself, forehead against the glass, eyes fluttering shut as if wishing the road would never end.
When they arrived, Katsuki parked and got out without a word. He walked around to the backseat, opened the door, and reached out again. Izuku didn’t move.
Katsuki sighed, a sound somewhere between frustration and exhaustion. “Give me your keys, Deku.”
There was a long pause. Then Izuku fumbled in his pocket and held them out with shaking fingers, his gaze fixed on the floor of the car.
Katsuki took them and unlocked the apartment door. Then, gently but firmly, he guided Izuku inside—half-carrying him, making sure he didn’t collapse on the stairs.
The place was cold. Dark. Lifeless.
Cluttered, too. Dishes stacked in the sink. Trash not taken out. Medication bottles left open on the table, some knocked over, their contents spilling like secrets onto the hardwood floor.
It made Katsuki’s chest tighten.
He helped Izuku into the bedroom and laid him gently on the bed. The blankets were kicked half-off, the sheets wrinkled and cold. Katsuki straightened them, tucking them around Izuku’s trembling form.
“Sit up,” he said, voice low but steady.
Izuku obeyed, dazed and glassy-eyed.
Katsuki disappeared for a moment, then returned with a glass of water and a familiar white pill bottle. “Take them,” he said, placing them in Izuku’s hand.
Izuku looked down at them as if they were foreign objects. For a moment, he hesitated.
Then he took them wordlessly.
The water was ice-cold. It shocked his system in a way the whiskey never could.
When he finished, his hand dropped limply to the bed.
Katsuki watched him, expression unreadable. His mouth opened, maybe to say something—maybe to ask why. But nothing came out.
Izuku looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, red-rimmed and tired. His voice was soft. Fragile.
“I love you.”
The words left him in a whisper, like he was afraid of breaking the air between them. Like he wasn’t even sure he was allowed to say it.
Katsuki froze.
For a long, breathless moment, the world stopped spinning.
“I…” Katsuki swallowed, his voice hoarse, as if it took everything in him to say it. “I wish you weren’t drunk when you said it.”
Then he turned, walked to the door, and left without another word.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Izuku alone in the dark.
And for the first time in a long time, Izuku didn’t feel numb. He felt everything.
And it was unbearable.
He curled in on himself beneath the blanket, gripping the fabric until his knuckles went white, tears soaking into the pillow as he whispered to no one:
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”