Chapter Text
The room smells of artificial citrus, the scent distinct but not too poignant. There is another scent, too, something ataractic like lavender or roman chamomile, though Izuku cannot quite place it. The walls are painted sage and decorated with accent pieces and framed credentials. The chair he sits on is comfortable, with plush cushioning and good lumbar support. Altogether, the atmosphere is soothing, he supposes, or distracting, at the very least. He might even say it is pleasant, if not for the reason they are here.
“I have fucking ass cancer,” Katsuki exclaims, his gruff voice pitching up somewhat. The older man scowls at his doctor, seated behind the large, wooden desk between them.
They first met Doctor Takeshi three weeks ago, a few months after Katsuki started losing weight inexplicably and just a week after he began complaining of frequent belly pain. Takeshi ordered a colonoscopy, two years ahead of Katsuki’s next routine test, and, now, here they are, sitting on comfortable chairs in a warm doctor’s office, hearing the worst news of Izuku’s life. Worse than when he found out he needed give up One-for-All, than when Toshinori died, than when his mom passed. What could be worse, he wonders, than learning his husband has cancer?
“Clinically, we call it colorectal cancer,” says Takeshi.
Katsuki leans back, rubbing at his eyes and grumbling to himself, “Well, fuck me in the ass.”
Feeling borderline hysterical, Izuku remarks, “Probably not a good idea right about now.”
Lowering his hand, Katsuki turns a glare onto him. His wrinkles make his frown all the more severe, more so than it ever was in their youth. “You over here making fucking jokes? I have cancer, and you’re fucking giggling?”
Defensively, Izuku exclaims, “I didn’t laugh!” He feels guilty, nonetheless. “I’m sorry!”
Katsuki expels a gusty sigh, shaking his head as he turns back to his doctor, though he spares a thought to set his hand on Izuku’s thigh. At his touch, Izuku feels himself unwind, not having realized how tense he was.
“So, what’s the next step, Doc,” asks Katsuki.
Takeshi jumps into his proposed treatment plan. He recommends that they schedule a polypectomy for two weeks out so he can biopsy the polyps and test their margins. He tells them he is optimistic given that Katsuki is only at Stage One, and he thinks they can avoid chemotherapy. Katsuki accedes with only a few questions, taking a stack of brochures and Izuku’s hand at the end of the meeting. He leads them out of the room, down the hall, into the elevator, and towards their car in the parking garage. In a daze, Izuku allows himself to be dragged along, sitting in the passenger seat when directed and taking Katsuki’s hand again once he takes his place behind the wheel.
Thirty minutes later, Izuku and Katsuki are seated at a two-top in a café they frequent whenever they come into the city, one with French cuisine and elusive outdoor seating. Katsuki scowls at the brochure clenched in his grip, scanning the recommendations for his pre-surgery diet.
Sat across from him, Izuku thumbs idly at his menu. “So, what’re you thinking of getting?”
Katsuki is still consumed with his assigned reading. “I have to eat healthy fats. Avocados,” he sounds out.
Trying to sound chipper, Izuku replies, “You love healthy fats. We could get salmon.” Katsuki grunts, declining to look up from the pamphlet. When the waitress comes around, Izuku ends up ordering for both of them.
As soon as she departs, Katsuki finally tosses the brochure aside, exhaling another blustery sigh. “Now, we gotta tell everyone. Kazuko is going to fucking flip. And Itsuki, he’s such a crybaby.”
“He’s not a crybaby. He’s forty,” Izuku argues.
“So? You’re eighty-one. You still cry whenever the wind blows the wrong way.” Katsuki brings his water cup closer, staring down into it. “Though not lately,” he mutters. Roused by the remark, Izuku peers at him in question. Still looking down at his place setting, he continues, “You haven’t cried once since my colonoscopy, not that I’ve seen anyway.” He scratches along the wooden surface of the table, and some of the finish tears away underneath his nail. “Maybe you’re glad to finally be rid of me.”
Appalled, Izuku chides, “Kacchan, how can you say that?”
He shrugs. “I know I’m a crotchety old bastard.”
“You’re my crotchety old bastard, you jerk.” Katsuki snorts, but Izuku’s disposition does not lighten in the least. “Don’t even joke about this.”
“What? I’m old. I could die. I thought it would be my heart, but it could be my ass,” Katsuki deflects.
At the thought, Izuku feels as his eyes mist over, and his lip begins to quiver.
Katsuki sighs. “Of course, now that I point it out, you cry.”
“Well, what do you expect? Saying that I want you to die,” Izuku responds, his voice wavering precariously.
“I didn’t mean it,” Katsuki weakly contends.
Nevertheless, Izuku starts crying. His tears spill over his lashes, and his shoulders hunch as his breath hitches. Despite the ugly emotions tearing at him, it feels somewhat good to set them loose, rather than to keep them swirling within his chest. For weeks, he has kept these churning waters at bay, doing whatever he could to not upset Katsuki. Now, however, Katsuki has earned his ire for so much as implying that he could be happy after Katsuki dies. Ever since Katsuki’s heart stopped in the middle of their final battle against Shimura Tenko all those years ago, he has been terrified of living without him. The older they get, the more corporeal that fear becomes; the fear that Katsuki will predecease him, if only by a few months, days, hours.
Katsuki drags his chair over to Izuku’s side of the table before plopping back into it. He hooks an arm around Izuku’s shoulders, pulls him closer, and noses at his cheek. “I didn’t mean it, baby. I’m sorry.” His lips replace his nose, caressing Izuku’s cheek with a kiss. “Don’t cry. Nobody wants to see an old man cry.”
Still sobbing, Izuku states, “Well, tough.”
Pulling back, though not far enough to inspire a protest from Izuku, Katsuki breathes, “Look, it’s just,” he trails off, his bravado slipping somewhat. “This time, they caught it early, and I’ll probably be fine, but it’s just one thing after another these days. Your arthritis, my hearing aids, your glasses—”
Izuku’s voice is still pitchy, though he has ceased sobbing. “I got my glasses when I was thirty.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve always been an old fuck.” Izuku pouts at him. Katsuki’s grin dims somewhat. “Listen, I’m glad that we get to be old together, but the nitty gritty of it, this shit, it sucks.”
Merely sniffling now, Izuku strokes along the length of Katsuki’s arm. “It does, but you know the alternative to getting older.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Katsuki acknowledges, leaning back farther. He pins Izuku with a searching look, one that Izuku cannot quite decipher, until he says, “But listen, I’m gonna beat this with you by my side, just like I beat everything else. Then I’m gonna beat you.”
Diverted, Izuku asks, “Beat me?”
Shrugging, Katsuki explains, “Yeah, you know, in age or whatever. I’ll outlive you, won’t make you watch me die again.”
“Are you saying you’ll outrun me,” Izuku wonders, oddly amused.
Doubtlessly recalling all of their back and forth over the years, each of them promising the other that they would always be running after each other, Katsuki smirks. “Yeah.”
Izuku smiles, too. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”
He shrugs again. “Fine, if you wanna watch me die, just say so.”
Still smiling, Izuku lightly smacks his arm. “Stop it.” He grips the front of Katsuki’s shirt, drawing him in for a kiss.
Katsuki indulges him for a moment before pulling away. “Come on, nobody wants to see old men kiss either.”
Keeping him within his grasp, Izuku does not let him stray far. “You’ll be okay, Kacchan.”
“I know.” Katsuki keeps his gaze, a faint smile on his lips. Izuku delights in watching his eyes glitter and his laugh lines crinkle. The moment is broken only when Katsuki winces, posing the question, “Do you think we gotta tell Ma?”
Cringing, Izuku thinks of Mitsuki, one-hundred-four, still kicking—metaphorically, she has been in a wheelchair for five years now—and still as cantankerous as ever. She had her own cancer scare years ago, breast cancer when she was eighty-four. She is sure to be pissed if they keep her in the dark, but perhaps it would be for the best to wait until they are out of the woods. If—no, when Katsuki’s surgery is a success, they can face her wrath after the fact. “She’s your mother.”
Katsuki grunts. “Don’t remind me.” Glancing sidelong, he announces, “Food’s here.”
Though it is a small imposition, Izuku feels his mood dampen. He is entirely opposed to having Katsuki return to the other side of the table. Thankfully, his husband seems to sense this, and he keeps his chair where it is. The waitress sets down their meals side by side.
As Izuku takes up his fork, Katsuki sneers down at his dish. “What is this, salmon?”
Taking a bite of his own filet, as he had ordered them the same item off the menu, Izuku reminds him, “I said I’d order it.”
“You said we could get salmon, not that we would.” Katsuki wrinkles his nose but finally picks up his own fork.
Just for fun, Izuku strives to keep the argument going. “You like salmon.”
Katsuki, sure enough, continues to nitpick. “Not for lunch!”
“You had salmon for lunch last week, on Wednesday,” Izuku notes.
Grimacing, Katsuki barks, “How do know that, ya shitty stalker?”
Warmly, Izuku mentions, “Kacchan, we live together.”
“Not once I get my restraining order,” hollers Katsuki. Well accustomed to Katsuki’s particular brand of boisterous but empty threats after more than fifty years of marriage, Izuku merely laughs. Katsuki puts his hand on his thigh, and they enjoy their lunch, come what may.