Archive of Our Own

He didn’t realize it was the last time until Izuku didn’t come back.

There were no slammed doors. No shouting. No slaps. No thrown words or shattered things. Just a cold, empty bed.

A cold, cold bed.

They’d gone to sleep like always. Laughing, smiling, limbs tangled beneath the blankets. But how could Katsuki have known it was the last time? The last time he’d see those freckles in the morning light. The last time he'd hear that laugh echoing down the hallway.

The last time he'd ever hold Izuku.

He just sat there at the kitchen table, wondering where he went wrong. Where he'd messed up. Where he made a mistake. Where he said the wrong things. Loved too loudly. Not enough.

A cup of coffee sat across from him—still warm. Probably the last thing Izuku had done before walking out the door. The sight of it made something twist in Katsuki’s chest.

Something tighten.

Something crack.

Katsuki didn’t move. The coffee had long gone cold now, but he still sat there, staring at it like it might open its mouth and explain everything. Like it might whisper why . Like it might tell him what he did wrong.

He ran a hand down his face, slow and shaky, like maybe if he pressed hard enough, he could scrub the memories out. Or wake himself up. Or feel something that didn’t hurt.

Where did it go wrong?

He kept asking, like the question would suddenly turn into an answer. Like if he just thought hard enough , time would roll itself back. Give him a sign. A warning. Anything. Maybe it was yesterday. Or last week. Or months ago—

When Izuku stopped kissing him goodnight and started saying "I’m tired" more often than "I love you." No fights. No slamming doors.

Just a slow retreat. Quiet steps backward, one by one, until there was too much space between them. A door closing one inch at a time—

Until Katsuki didn’t even notice it was locked.

And now? Now all that was left was the echo of a life he thought they were still building.  He thought they had more time. He thought love was enough.

He couldn’t even remember the last thing he said to him.

Maybe it was "Don’t forget your umbrella." Or "I’ll reheat your dinner." Maybe it was "Love you," tossed out half-distracted while scrolling through something on his phone. He didn’t know. He really didn’t know.

And that scared him the most.

Because if he couldn’t remember their last moment, did it even matter?

If their ending was so quiet, was it ever really real?

Was he just the only one still holding on?

God.

Had he even said goodbye ?

Sighing he got up and moved around the kitchen to make himself something to eat, even though he knew he couldn’t stomach anything down. Thats when he noticed it.

It was on the counter. Folded once, not even sealed in an envelope. Just sitting there beside the stove, plain and painfully quiet. Like it didn’t want to be noticed.

Katsuki hadn’t seen it at first.

He walked past it twice, opened the fridge, closed it again, paced. His hands were trembling and his thoughts were too loud to notice something so small.

But eventually, he saw it.

His name. Just his name —in Izuku’s handwriting, scrawled gently across the front like a whisper. Like a kiss on the forehead before walking away.

He stared at it for a long time. Long enough for the guilt to bubble up in his throat. Long enough to realize this—this thing —was the only thing Izuku had left behind.

No bags. No jacket. No photo albums. Just a piece of paper and a cup of cooling coffee.

He didn’t want to open it.

Because he already knew what it would say. And he already knew it wouldn’t be enough. But his fingers moved anyway, slow and clumsy, unfolding the page like it might burn him.

There were only a few words. Fewer than he deserved.

“I’m sorry, Kacchan. I tried.”

That was it. 

No, I love you.  No, I'll come back.  No, This isn’t your fault.

Just, I tried.

Katsuki sat down on the floor, the note trembling in his hands.

And all he could think—over and over, like a heartbeat—was,

Tried what? Tried to stay? Tried to love him?

Or tried not to leave?

It had been one of those quiet mornings.

The kind that slipped in gently through the windows without knocking, soft and golden, as if the world had paused to take a breath. Outside, the city still murmured—a few early birds chirping, a car passing now and then—but in their apartment, it was calm. Wrapped in stillness.

The sun poured through the thin curtains in sleepy stripes, painting the kitchen tiles in warm amber. Dust floated lazily in the light, dancing like tiny fireflies.

Katsuki had wandered in, still rubbing the last dregs of sleep from his eyes, his blond hair a storm of bedhead. He scratched absently at his bare chest, muttering something under his breath, and squinted at the sudden light.

And then he saw him.

Izuku.

Already awake. Already moving barefoot, humming some stupid soft tune under his breath as he moved around the kitchen like it was his stage. Like he belonged there. Like he'd always belonged there.

He wore one of Katsuki’s old shirts—gray, threadbare, practically swallowed him whole. It slipped off one shoulder, exposing a soft collarbone and a bit of freckled skin that glowed in the morning sun. The sleeves were far too long, constantly falling past his wrists, and every time he shoved them back up, he did it with a dramatic little huff, muttering at them like they were personally attacking him.

And Katsuki had just… stopped. Watched.

Heart stuttering like it wasn’t sure whether to beat faster or stop entirely.

He didn't say anything. Didn't trust himself to speak.

Izuku turned anyway, as if he could feel Katsuki watching him.

And when he did—when those green eyes crinkled at the corners, sleepy and soft and stupidly beautiful—he lit up. Like someone had plugged him into the sunrise.

“Morning, grumpy,” he teased, his voice still rough with sleep.

He padded over, pressed a warm mug of coffee into Katsuki’s hands, and without even thinking, leaned up to kiss his cheek.

Just a soft little thing. Familiar. Easy.

Like it had never even been a question—of course he’d kiss Katsuki good morning.

And then, as if he hadn’t just unraveled Katsuki’s entire nervous system, he turned back to the counter, still humming. Still barefoot. Still completely unaware that Katsuki was losing his goddamn mind.

He moved like sunlight.

Like warmth made solid.

Reached for the bowl of strawberries they'd left out the night before, popped one in his mouth, and made a small, surprised noise. “They’re still good!” he said around a mouthful, eyebrows lifted in delighted shock.

Then he glanced over his shoulder.

Eyes shining. Cheeks full. Grin so wide it almost didn’t fit on his face.

And Katsuki—still standing in the doorway like an idiot—could only stare.

Try to memorize everything.

The messy mop of green curls. The pale line of his neck. The soft curve of his mouth when he laughed.

The way the world felt quieter when Izuku was near. Softer. Like a warm hand pressed over a bruise.

Katsuki hadn’t told him any of that.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t think he needed to.

Because Izuku had laughed again, leaned against the counter like he was made of air and honey and early mornings, and Katsuki—without even realizing—had smiled.

Just a small thing.

Just enough.

Katsuki picked up his phone like it might bite him.

It was sitting right there on the table—face down, like even it had the decency to be ashamed. He turned it over slowly, almost like it weighed more than it should. Like it had answers tucked away behind the glass.

The screen lit up at his touch.

It was still the same photo.

Izuku. Laughing. That ridiculous, too-wide grin stretched across his face, eyes scrunched and shining like the damn sun. One arm flung lazily around Katsuki’s neck, dragging him in for a selfie. Katsuki looked irritated in it—scowling, eyes half-lidded like he couldn’t believe he was doing this—but his mouth was twitching at the corner. That soft, stupid not-smile that Izuku always caught before Katsuki could stop it.

He stared at it now. Let the image burn behind his eyes.

Then he opened the call log.

Empty.

No missed calls. No new messages. Just... silence.

A pit opened in his chest, slow and yawning, swallowing something that already felt hollow. He blinked down at the screen. Waited.

As if maybe Izuku would call now. Like the universe would realize it forgot to deliver something and drop a text message out of the sky:

Sorry. I didn’t mean it.

I’m coming home.

I still love you.

But nothing came.

Of course it didn’t.

Katsuki inhaled shakily. Tapped the message icon. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, thumbs twitching.

He typed,

You forgot your charger.

Paused. Backspaced.

Typed again,

Are you okay?

Please talk to me.

I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

His eyes stung. He hated that.

He settled on one last message:

Izuku.

Just that. Just his name.

He stared at it. The cursor blinked at him like it was holding its breath.

And then he hit backspace. One letter at a time.

Closed the app.

Set the phone face down again.

The silence in the apartment was deafening. No humming. No footsteps. No coffee pot bubbling in the background. No half-muttered monologues from the bathroom mirror. No Izuku.

It was like living in a photo after the subject had already walked out of frame.

Katsuki sat there, elbows on the table, head in his hands. The phone didn’t ring.

He didn’t really expect it to.

But God—he still hoped it would.

The bedroom was exactly how they’d left it.

Untouched. Airless and quiet in that suffocating way where the silence has weight to it.

The sheets were still half-pulled back from last night, one side tangled and crumpled where Katsuki had slept alone, the other side perfectly smooth, untouched except for the faint dip at the edge where Izuku had sat to lace his shoes.

Izuku’s hoodie still hung over the chair, slouched and limp, one sleeve brushing against the floor. Katsuki’s eyes snagged on it. Just fabric. Just cotton. But the sight pressed at his ribs until it hurt to breathe.

He didn’t move right away. Didn’t cross the threshold. The room felt… wrong. Like a stage after the play has ended, props still in place but the cast gone.

The faintest trace of him still lingered in the air. Shampoo. Laundry soap. Something sweet Katsuki had never been able to name but knew better than his own reflection. He inhaled once, sharp and shallow, before it could fade.

His hand twitched at his side—half a thought toward picking up the hoodie—but he didn’t. Touching it felt like it would make the whole thing real.

A floorboard creaked somewhere deep in the apartment, low and soft. Katsuki’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.

For half a second, his chest surged, stupid and desperate—Izuku’s here—
but then it was gone. Just the house settling.

The sound left him standing even stiller, the hollow beat of his heart slowing until it matched the emptiness around him.

He stayed there longer than he meant to. Long enough for the air to turn cold. Long enough for the smell to start fading, and for his knuckles to ache from clenching his fists in his pockets.

And still, he didn’t step inside.

At first, he tried to downplay it. Tried to tell himself he was overreacting. 

It wasn’t like Izuku was glued to his side every second. It wasn’t like he needed to answer every text.

So why the hell did it feel like something was pressing a brick against his ribs?

Katsuki yanked his phone out of his pocket, thumb swiping through contacts until he landed on the one labeled Uraraka .

It rang twice before a groggy, irritated voice answered.

“Bakugo? I swear, if someone isn’t dying—”

“Is Izuku with you?”  The question tore out of him so fast it cut her sentence in half.

“What? No. Why? Did something happen?”  Her voice dropped instantly, sharp with concern.

“I—” His throat locked for a second. He forced it open. “I don’t know.”

A pause, heavy enough that it made the silence feel crowded. 

 “Katsuki, what do you mean you don’t know?”

“Forget it.” He hung up before she could dig deeper.

He was already scrolling. Already pressing the next name.

Todoroki.

It rang longer this time—each buzz stretching his chest tighter until it felt like something inside him might snap.

“Hello?” Shoto’s voice was as calm as ever, but Katsuki caught the faint edge of surprise.

“Is Deku with you?”  It came out like gravel, low and scraped raw.

“No,” Shoto said, steady but slower now. “Should he be?”

Katsuki clenched his jaw. “Just—forget it.”

“No,” Shoto said, and that single syllable landed like a block of ice. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Katsuki lied too quickly. His thumb hovered over the End Call button.

“You’re lying,” Shoto said, in that maddeningly flat way of his that made it sound like an observation, not an accusation. “Your voice is tight. You sound like you’re pacing.”

“I’m not pacing.”

“Then you’re clenching your teeth. You only sound like this when you’re angry. Or when you’re—” Shoto hesitated, as if searching for the right word. “—worried.”

Katsuki’s fingers curled into his palm, nails biting hard into skin. “I just asked you a question, half-and-half. That’s it.”

“And I’m answering. No, Izuku isn’t here. Have you tried calling him?”

Katsuki’s chest burned. “If I’m calling you, what the hell do you think?”

“Then call him again,” He said simply.

Katsuki’s laugh came out sharp and humorless. “Yeah, sure. Like that’s gonna—”

“Bakugo.” Shoto’s voice softened. Just slightly. “What happened?”

Katsuki dragged in a breath, but it caught halfway. “I don’t know,” he said finally, the words low, shaky despite him trying to grind them into something solid. “I just… don’t know where he is.”

For a second, the line was quiet except for the faint sound of Shoto breathing.

“I can come over.”

“No. Don’t—” Katsuki’s voice cracked, small but undeniable. He shut his eyes tight. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I said I’m fine!” he snapped, but it sounded hollow, even to himself.

He didn’t press again, but Katsuki could feel the weight of his silence—the kind that made it clear he didn’t believe him.

Katsuki hung up anyway.

The silence that followed was even worse.

No ringing. No voice. No Izuku.

Katsuki just sat there, phone still in his hand, staring at the screen like maybe if he waited long enough, it would light up with his name.
It didn’t.

The quiet wasn’t really quiet anymore — it was roaring in his ears, vibrating under his skin.
Something squeezed hard in his chest, so sudden and sharp he gasped. His breath snagged halfway in. He tried again. The air wouldn’t come right.

No, no, not now—

He shoved himself upright, pacing without realizing it, lungs dragging in shallow, useless gulps. The edges of his vision began to blur. His hands were tingling, cold, trembling. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to move , to do something , but his head was just white noise and Izuku’s empty side of the bed flashing behind his eyes.

Panic attack. Shit.

His hands fumbled with the phone, almost dropping it before he finally found Eijirou’s contact. It rang once, twice—

“Hey, Kats! Everything okay?” Eijirou’s voice was bright, warm—so wrong for the way Katsuki’s chest felt like it was caving in.

“P’nic—attack—” The words clawed their way out, shredded and breathless.

There was a sharp inhale on the other end, followed by frantic shuffling. “Shit, uh—okay, okay. Me and Mina will be there in five. Just—just hang on, alright? Breathe for me, man.”

Five minutes felt like an hour. His body buzzed with restless, choking energy. He tried breathing deep but it caught halfway every time, the air sharp and useless in his lungs.

The door burst open and Mina’s voice cut through the static in his head. “Katsuki?”

She froze when she saw him—pale, shoulders hunched, hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were bone white.

“Where’s Izuku?” she asked, her tone clipped, already suspicious.

The question punched the air right out of him. His chest seized again. “He—wasn’t here when I woke up.”

“Double shit,” Eijirou muttered, running a hand through his hair. His usual smile was gone.

Something in Katsuki cracked. The sound that escaped him was ugly, half a sob, half a growl, and suddenly everything was spilling out—fast, jagged, unstoppable.

“He left because of me, I know he did. Because that’s all I can fucking do—ruin shit. Drive people away until there’s no one left. I pushed him out just like I do with everyone else.” His voice broke hard on the last word, and he folded forward, elbows digging into his knees, yanking at his hair until his scalp burned.

“Hey—no, don’t do that,” Mina said quickly, dropping to a crouch in front of him. Her hands were warm when she pried his fingers from his head, holding them firmly between hers. “You’re not alone right now, Bakugo. We’ve got you. You hear me?”

Katsuki’s breaths came ragged and sharp, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers twitched in Mina’s hold, restless, aching to do something, fix something, but there was nothing to fix. Not now. Not if Izuku was—

His chest squeezed so hard it hurt to speak, but the words clawed their way up anyway.

“I was… fuck—” He dragged a shaking hand over his face, like maybe he could rub the heat out of his eyes before it broke loose. “I was gonna propose to him.”

That shut them both up. Mina’s hands stilled around his. Eijirou froze mid-step.

Katsuki let out a dry, broken laugh that sounded nothing like him.

“Had the ring. Had the whole thing planned. Figured I’d wait for the right moment, y’know? Something… something good. Something where he’d smile at me like I was worth a damn.”

His throat closed, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.

“Guess I waited too fucking long.”

Eijirou’s mouth opened, but Katsuki steamrolled over him, voice picking up speed, cracking sharper at the edges.

“Why the hell would he say yes anyway? I’m—look at me. I’m—angry, loud, a pain in the ass to be around. I don’t talk right, I don’t… fuck, I don’t do relationships right. Every time he needed soft, I gave him sharp. Every time he needed space, I—” His voice fractured again, words tripping over each other like they were racing to get out. “Why the fuck would anyone stay with that?”

“Katsuki—” Mina started, but he kept going, like if he stopped, he’d choke on it.

“I don’t blame him. Not even a little. If I were him, I’d’ve left a long time ago.” He pulled his hands from Mina's grasp and leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes until spots bloomed in the dark.

“That’s just me. Push too hard, talk too loud, scare off the one fucking person who—” His voice gave out entirely this time, replaced by a shuddering inhale that rattled all the way down.

Mina grabbed his hands again and this time her hands tightened against his. Eijirou sat down beside him without a word, shoulder pressed solidly to his.

Katsuki didn’t look at either of them. He couldn’t. Because all he could see was Izuku’s smile and the empty space it had left behind.

It had been one of those rare quiet evenings. The kind where the world outside felt far away — no deadlines, no patrols, no noise except for the faint hum of the city bleeding through the cracked window.

Katsuki was stretched out across the couch, head pillowed in Izuku’s lap. His legs were sprawled carelessly along the cushions, socked feet hanging over the armrest. His phone rested loosely in one hand, thumb lazily scrolling — not really reading anything, just… moving. Keeping his eyes busy while the rest of him sank into the warmth beneath him.

Izuku’s fingers were in his hair, slow and absentminded, combing through it like he had all the time in the world. Sometimes he’d twirl a strand around his finger, sometimes he’d scratch lightly at Katsuki’s scalp until it sent little shivers down his neck. The touch was so steady, so grounding, it made his eyelids heavy.

The lamp beside them threw a warm, golden pool of light over the room, catching the faint freckles on Izuku’s arms where his sleeves had pushed up. Katsuki could hear his breathing — soft, even — and beneath it, the faint, irregular beat of Izuku’s heart against his ear.

“Kacchan?”

It was quiet. Tentative. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer.

Katsuki hummed without looking up. “Mm?”

“Will you… ever leave me?”

That got his eyes off the phone real fast. He turned his head to look at him, brows knitting.

“What?”

Izuku’s fingers paused for a split second, then kept moving through his hair like he could pretend he hadn’t said it. But his gaze had dropped, eyes following the movement of his own hand instead of meeting Katsuki’s.

“I mean… people change. Things happen. What if someday you—”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Katsuki sat up halfway, propping himself on an elbow so he could see him better. “No. I wouldn’t. Why the hell would I? You’re—” He shook his head, jaw tightening. “You’re everything I need, dumbass. And more.”

Izuku’s lips curved in a faint, uncertain smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Promise?”

Katsuki didn’t even hesitate. He shifted fully upright now, their knees brushing, and reached out to hook a pinky through Izuku’s. “Promise.”

It was simple. Stupid, even. But he meant it in the deepest way a person could mean anything.

Izuku studied him for a moment, eyes wide and searching, then gave the smallest nod. “Okay.”

Katsuki leaned back again, letting his head drop into his lap once more. Izuku’s hand found his hair without missing a beat, gentle as ever. The quiet returned, wrapping around them like a blanket.

And Katsuki remembered thinking, in that moment, If I can keep this—this exact feeling—for the rest of my life, I’ll be happy.

---------------------

Eight Years Later.

Katsuki was halfway through chewing a mouthful of rice when Eijirou leaned back in his chair, squinted at him, and said, “You’re getting old, man.”

Katsuki froze mid-bite and gave him a flat glare across the table. “You’re literally almost five months younger than me, shitty hair.”

“Yeah,” Eijirou said, pointing his chopsticks at him like he was making a profound observation, “but you’ve got the vibe . The grumpy-old-man, ‘kids these days’ vibe. I’m just saying—if you start yelling at pigeons, I’m staging an intervention.”

Katsuki snorted into his tea, the steam fogging his glasses for a split second before he set the cup down. “If a pigeon pisses me off, I’m not holding back, and you know it.”

Eijirou grinned like he’d expected nothing less. “See, that’s exactly the kind of thing an old man would say.”

Katsuki made a noncommittal sound and kept eating, but there was a curve tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.

Eijirou leaned back further in his chair until it gave a warning creak. “Still… you’ve mellowed out a little. I remember a time you’d’ve threatened to blow me up for saying that.”

“I can still arrange it,” Katsuki said, tone flat, but the weight behind it was gone.

The conversation flowed the way it always did with them, comfortable, lived-in. They slipped easily between insults and half-remembered stories from when they were idiots in their twenties. The restaurant was small, cozy, the faint clink of dishes and low hum of other patrons making a warm backdrop to their voices.

It was… good. Normal.

It was also something Katsuki didn’t take for granted anymore.

And yet—

When Eijirou reached over without warning to steal a piece of karaage from his plate, Katsuki’s hand twitched on instinct. The motion pulled his sleeve back just enough for the light to catch on the band around his finger.

The metal was duller now, worn smooth in places from years of idle fidgeting. His thumb brushed over it before he even realized he was doing it, tracing the familiar ridge where the inside inscription began, one he didn’t have to read to remember.

He didn’t look at it. Didn’t need to.

It was muscle memory by now—the way he wore it without thinking on days off, or kept it tucked in the dish by his bed when he didn’t. The way his hand would automatically curl around it in quiet moments, like it was some kind of touchstone.

Not because it hurt anymore. That sharp, breath-stealing ache had dulled with time. He’d lived through it, let it scab over, learned how to go about his days without feeling the ground shift every time his mind wandered back.

But some things didn’t get packed away neatly.

Some things you kept, not because you couldn’t let go, but because letting go would mean pretending they hadn’t mattered.

And it had mattered.

He had mattered.

Brushing the thought aside, Katsuki took another sip of tea and let Eijirou ramble about some ridiculous client at the agency, nodding in all the right places, the ghost of that weightless gold still resting against his skin.

But somewhere between bites of karaage, Eijirou said, almost casually, “Oh Yeah! Did you hear Midoriya’s back in Tokyo?”

The words landed like a sucker punch under his ribs.

Katsuki didn’t flinch. Didn’t let it show. Just stabbed another piece of chicken with his chopsticks. “Hn. Didn’t know he left.”

“Yeah, he’s been in Osaka for a couple years. I saw him last week at the train station, actually.” Eijirou was still talking, still grinning like he was just sharing trivia. “He looked good. Happier. Healthier. Think he’s with someone now—”

Katsuki’s jaw locked, the next bite of food tasting like nothing.

He let Eijirou talk, nodding at the right moments, but his thumb brushed over the ring again, against his finger without thinking. 

Katsuki set his chopsticks down, flexing his fingers once under the table. The conversation was still rolling—Eijirou was on some story about a patrol gone wrong, Mina shouting in his earpiece while he tried not to fall off a fire escape, even smirking when Eijirou mimicked her voice.

But somewhere under it, the words from earlier still lingered, like a low, constant hum in the back of his skull.

He’s back in Tokyo.

Happier. Healthier. With someone now.

Katsuki drained the last of his tea, ignoring the way the glass felt too light in his hand, like it might slip.

It was fine.

Didn’t matter.

When they left the restaurant, the air outside was crisp and cool, the kind that bit at your lungs and made you walk faster. The streetlamps spilled gold across the wet pavement, and traffic hummed in the distance.

Eijirou clapped him on the back before they split off in opposite directions, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t yell at pigeons, old man!”

Katsuki didn’t answer.

His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, ring pressing into his palm with every step, and he told himself—firmly, stubbornly—that he wasn’t thinking about green eyes or the sound of a laugh he hadn’t heard in eight years.

Except…

Half a block later, he saw him.

It wasn’t even dramatic — no slow-motion, no sudden swell of music like in the stupid romance movies Mina liked. Just… there.

Izuku.

Walking out of some café, head tipped back in a laugh Katsuki could hear even over the noise of the street. His hair was a little shorter than Katsuki remembered, the curls tamed but still messy in that way he could never quite fix. He was wearing a jacket Katsuki had never seen before, one sleeve pushed up where a watch glinted against his wrist.

And beside him, close enough that their arms brushed when they walked—was a man Katsuki didn’t recognize. Taller, dark hair, easy smile. The kind of smile you give someone you’re used to touching.

Katsuki’s feet stopped moving.

The ring in his pocket felt heavier than his whole damn arm.

Izuku didn’t see him, or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. He was still laughing, leaning slightly toward the other guy like gravity had tilted. Like Katsuki was just another stranger on the street.

Something ugly and sharp twisted under Katsuki’s ribs, but he forced his legs to move again, head ducked, shoulders tight. He didn’t look back.

Not when he crossed the street.

Not when he turned the corner.

Not when his chest felt like someone had shoved a fist inside it and just… kept squeezing.It was fine.

He wasn’t twenty-five anymore, standing in an empty apartment wondering why the hell the bed was cold. He wasn’t that person. He had work, friends, a life. He could handle this. He’d clawed his way past that. Built walls. Filled the cracks.

Except—

The sight of him… the sound of that laugh… It was like those walls were made of paper all along.

He looks happy.

The thought was simple. Harmless, even. But it caught in Katsuki’s chest like barbed wire. Because if Izuku was happy, then what did that make the years they had together?

A pit stop? A lesson learned?

A mistake?

Katsuki shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers curling tight around the ring until the edges dug into his skin.

He should’ve gone up to him. Said something. Anything.

But what the hell would he even say?

Hey, good to see you. Sorry I still wear the ring I bought you but never got to give you because you walked out before I had the chance.

Yeah. Real smooth.

No—better to keep walking. Keep quiet. Keep it buried where it couldn’t bleed all over the rest of his life.

By the time he got home, the apartment felt too still. The kind of stillness that made your ears ring. He tossed his keys onto the counter, kicked off his shoes, and didn’t even bother turning on the lights before opening his laptop.

Work. That was safe. Work didn’t look at you like they didn’t know you anymore. Work didn’t laugh in someone else’s orbit.

And if he just kept working, maybe he wouldn’t think about how easy it had been for Izuku to look at someone else the way he used to look at him.

Work became the easiest excuse.

At first, it was just an extra patrol here, a late night there. The kind of thing you told yourself was temporary. But temporary had a way of stretching. Of filling every gap until there wasn’t room for anything else.

And Katsuki liked it that way.

Because work didn’t ask questions. Work didn’t care that you’d run into the love of your life on a crowded Tokyo street and felt like you’d been gut-punched. Work didn’t tell you they were happy now—didn’t make you smile and nod like that was supposed to be enough.

Paperwork didn’t look back at you with green eyes that didn’t recognize you anymore.

So he kept taking shifts.

Kept saying yes.

Kept moving until his body ached and his voice was hoarse from shouting orders over sirens.

When he finally did crash into bed, he was too tired to dream. Too tired to remember that eight years ago, someone had promised they’d never leave — and then left anyway.

Except mornings were the worst. Mornings made it quiet again. And in the quiet, it was harder to lie to himself.

The ring still sat on the counter when he showered, catching the light like it was watching him. He’d told himself it was just habit. Something harmless.

But the truth? It was a reminder. Not of Izuku. Not exactly. Of the kind of man he thought he could be when Izuku was still there to see it.

Now, when he caught his reflection, he barely recognized that man. And maybe that was the point.

Maybe if he worked hard enough—if he filled the hours so completely there was no room left, then one day, he wouldn’t have to remember what it felt like to be left behind.

It started in small ways.

The late nights stopped being “late” and became just… nights. Six hours of sleep turned into five, then four, until Katsuki could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his bed before 3 a.m. in the last month.

The patrol roster filled up fast — other pros left gaps, and he was always the first to grab them. A dangerous neighborhood no one liked to cover? Fine, he’d take it. A graveyard shift in the rain?

Whatever. Didn’t matter if he’d just gotten back from a 14-hour day — the answer was always “yeah, I’ll handle it.”

Because moving was easy.

Because moving meant not thinking.

Because stopping meant remembering.

It wasn’t until the agency’s receptionist gently reminded him for the third time that week that he hadn’t picked up his dry cleaning—the same dry cleaning he’d dropped off two weeks ago—that he realized he hadn’t done laundry in over a month. His fridge had one bottle of water, expired eggs, and something in a takeout container he didn’t want to open.

And yet, he still told himself it was fine.

When Eijirou called, asking if he wanted to grab a drink after work, Katsuki said he couldn’t—too much paperwork.
When Mina texted that she’d made dinner and he better get his ass over there, he replied with rain check .

When Sero invited him to a movie, he didn’t even answer.

They all knew it was bullshit.

One afternoon, Eijirou showed up at the agency without warning. Walked right past the front desk like he owned the place and leaned against Katsuki’s desk.

“You look like hell,” Eijirou said. No preamble. No joking edge to it, either.

“Thanks,” Katsuki muttered, not looking up from the stack of incident reports.

“I’m serious, man. When’s the last time you actually went home and slept?”

Katsuki shrugged. “Last night.”

Eijirou’s brow furrowed. “In a bed, Kats. Not passed out at your desk.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Eijirou crossed his arms, blocking his view of the papers. “And don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ crap, because I know you. You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. And—” he paused, eyes flicking briefly to Katsuki’s hand “—you’re still wearing that ring.”

Katsuki’s jaw locked.

Eijirou’s voice softened. “You can’t work yourself out of this.”

Katsuki finally looked at him, the glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Watch me.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Then Eijirou sighed, pushing off the desk.

“One day, that’s gonna catch up to you.”

It already had.

By the end of the week, Katsuki’s hands were shaking when he poured his first cup of coffee. By the end of the month, his ribs ached when he breathed too deep. He told himself it was nothing—pulled muscle, bad sleep, old injuries.

But there was a part of him, buried deep under all the denial, that knew exactly what it was.

He just didn’t care.

Because if Izuku could walk away smiling, then why shouldn’t Katsuki run himself into the ground?

At least work didn’t leave.

It was raining the day it happened.

Not a soft, steady drizzle—no, it was the kind of rain that came down sideways, needling under his hood, plastering his hair to his forehead. The kind that soaked through his gear before the first ten minutes of patrol were up.

Tokyo at night was a different animal. Neon bled across the wet pavement in smeared streaks—red, blue, yellow—reflecting off puddles that rippled with every passing car. The streets smelled like exhaust, rain, and the faint, sharp tang of ozone that Katsuki had always associated with trouble.

He’d been running on fumes for weeks. The kind of tired that made his eyelids heavy between blinks, that left his muscles sluggish and his reactions a beat too slow. But the agency needed someone to cover the east side, and no one else had volunteered. Of course he’d said yes.

He always said yes.

By the time the first explosion rattled the buildings, Katsuki’s boots were already splashing through flooded gutters, heart punching hard against his ribs. The comm in his ear crackled with overlapping voices—reports of a villain tearing through an electronics store, armed and erratic.

He rounded the corner and saw the damage firsthand. Storefront windows shattered into glittering teeth, sparks raining from severed wires in the awning. A car alarm screamed somewhere nearby, its shrill wail cutting through the rain.

The villain was huge—all muscle and jagged armor plating across his shoulders, some kind of mutation quirk that made his skin look like rusted steel. His movements were heavy but fast, swinging chunks of broken metal like they weighed nothing.

Civilians were scattering, shoes slipping on wet pavement. Katsuki’s eyes tracked a woman clutching a toddler, their faces pale with panic, and without thinking, he launched forward.

Pain flared white-hot in his side when he caught the first hit. It was a glancing blow—should’ve been manageable—but something gave way inside him, sharp and deep, stealing his breath. He bit back the sound threatening to tear out of his throat, forcing himself to keep moving.

Another swing. Another explosion from his palms. The shockwave rattled his bones.

The rain made everything slick—his gloves, his grip, his footing. When he slipped, it cost him seconds he didn’t have.

Somewhere in the chaos, the villain’s fist caught him square in the ribs. The impact was so forceful it sent him skidding across the pavement, grit and broken glass grinding into his palms. He couldn’t breathe—couldn’t even try —his vision tunneling until all he saw was the silver glint of the wedding ring still on his finger.

For a heartbeat, the noise around him dulled. The comm chatter, the rain, the shouts — all faded under one thought, heavy and cruel:

If he’s happy, why am I still here?

He pushed himself up anyway, because that’s what he did—because Bakugo Katsuki didn’t quit, didn’t stay down. But each movement was slower than the last, his body screaming louder than his pride could shush.

By the time backup arrived, he was already bleeding through his hero costume, every inhale catching against something sharp in his chest.

They got the villain. They got the civilians out. And Katsuki…

Katsuki was on his knees in the rain, tasting iron, watching his own breath fog the air in short, shallow bursts.

He told himself it was just another bad hit. That he’d be fine after a few days off.

He knew he was lying.

The ambulance smelled like copper and antiseptic. Too bright. Too loud.

Every light that flashed across the narrow space was too sharp, slicing into his skull. Every bump in the road jarred something deep in his ribs, sending pain screaming through him like someone was twisting a knife.

Someone was talking to him.

No. Not someone . Eijirou.

But the words wouldn’t stay. They kept slipping away before Katsuki could pin them down, like trying to catch water with shaking hands.

"Hang on, man" … "Stay with me" … "Don’t you dare—"

Katsuki wanted to tell him to shut the hell up. He didn’t need this. Didn’t need the panic in his friend’s voice. This was just another hit. Nothing he hadn’t walked away from before. But the oxygen mask pressed over his face made the words thick and heavy in his throat, so they never made it out.

The siren wailed above them, high and sharp, digging into the base of his skull. His hands—when had they started shaking?—kept twitching against the straps holding him down. His lungs dragged in shallow, useless gulps, each one tasting faintly like plastic and blood.

And then, through the blur of motion and noise, he saw it.

The ring. Still on his finger. Still there, like it had been waiting for this moment.

His vision swam as he stared at it, the edges softening until it was the only thing he could focus on. Easier than looking at Eijirou’s face. Easier than letting his brain conjure up the curve of Izuku’s smile, or the way his hand used to fit so perfectly in his.

He’s happy now, Katsuki thought. The words settled heavy in his chest, colder than the air in the ambulance. He’s happy, and I’m just… noise. Static. Something he walked away from without looking back.

Once, that thought would have been enough to crush him. Now, it just felt… tired. Like the echo of a punch after the pain’s already faded.

The ER ceiling was a blinding white when they rushed him in, the lights overhead streaking by like too-fast comets. Voices barked orders above him—sharp, clinical words he couldn’t care about.

BP dropping.

Internal bleed.

Prep for surgery.

A mask descended again, heavier this time, pressing cool oxygen against his mouth. Someone told him to count backwards.

He didn’t.

Instead, he thought about the mornings when Izuku’s laugh had been the first thing he heard. The way sunlight used to spill through their curtains and catch on the steam curling from their coffee cups. The way Izuku would lean over the counter, still barefoot and half-asleep, to kiss him just because.

How stupid he’d been to believe always meant always.

The noise around him dimmed. The shouting softened into a dull hum. The edges of the world started to blur, his focus narrowing down to the weight of the ring, the cool bite of it against his skin.

And somewhere in that shrinking space, Katsuki made a decision.

If he’s smiling somewhere else… why should I still be here?

The monitors began to scream, long and steady, but Katsuki didn’t.

He just let the dark pull him under—calm, almost gentle—the ring still clutched by the faint curl of his fingers.

The monitors went first. A high, flat scream filled the room—the kind that makes your bones feel hollow.

Eijirou’s hands were still on him, gripping so tight his knuckles had gone white, like he could anchor Katsuki there by sheer will. “No, no, no, you’re fine, you’re fine, just—just hang on, man, you’re fine—”

The doctors moved in a blur. Voices rose, calling for crash carts, for doses and paddles, for numbers that meant nothing to Eijirou except that they were running out of time.

“Katsuki—”

No response. Just that piercing, endless note from the machine.

“Time of death—”

The words cracked something open in Eijirou. His head dropped forward, shoulders shaking hard enough to hurt. He felt someone—Mina, maybe—tug at his arm, but he stayed there, hunched over the bed. If he let go now, it would be real.

But the thing was it already was real.

The news spread fast. It always does.

Mina cried in the hallway until she couldn’t anymore, then got up and started making phone calls because someone had to. She hated herself for how steady her voice sounded when she said, He’s gone.

Shoto didn’t say much. Just nodded once, went outside, and stayed there for hours.

When the call reached Izuku, he didn’t answer at first. The number was unfamiliar, and he was in the middle of laughing at something his boyfriend had said. It went to voicemail.

The second time it rang, he picked up.

The voice on the other end was quiet, careful.

By the time they finished speaking, Izuku’s smile was gone. His phone was shaking in his hand. The laughter from a minute ago felt like it had happened to someone else entirely.

The funeral was on a perfect day.

Not a cloud in sight. The air was warm, laced with the clean, green scent of freshly cut grass. The kind of day Katsuki would’ve complained about just so someone could roll their eyes and tell him to shut up and admit it was nice.

But Katsuki wasn’t here to hate it.

The cemetery was crowded—pro-heroes out of uniform, old classmates from U.A., a few familiar faces from the agency, all in dark suits that seemed to weigh them down. The low murmur of voices rolled like a slow tide, swelling and fading, punctuated now and then by the sound of someone clearing their throat or the faint, muffled sound of a sniff.

The coffin sat at the center of it all. Simple wood. No elaborate carvings, no gold trim. Just clean lines and something solid, like Katsuki had always been. It was the kind of thing he might’ve chosen himself—if he’d had the chance.

Eijirou spoke first.

He stood at the front with his hands clenched so tight around the podium that his knuckles were white. His voice was steady for the first few lines, talking about how they met, about a scowling teenager who had somehow become his best friend. But then, mid-sentence, it cracked.

“…and no matter how many times he called me ‘shitty hair,’ I knew he meant—” Eijirou’s throat closed around the rest. He stopped, pressed his lips together, shook his head hard. “—I knew he meant it as ‘friend.’ That’s… just who he was.”

He stepped back quickly, eyes glassy, and Mina took his place.

Her brightness was dimmed, but she still tried to carry the weight in the only way she knew how—with warmth.

“Katsuki was…” She paused, looking down, her voice quieter than most had ever heard it. “He was stubborn. He was loud. And he scared the hell out of most people.” A few soft chuckles rippled through the crowd. Mina smiled faintly at that, then let it fade. “But he was also… the first to show up when you needed help. Even when you didn’t ask. Especially when you didn’t ask.”

She blinked quickly and pressed a sunflower against the edge of the coffin. “I brought these because he’d hate them. Said they were ‘too cheerful.’” Her laugh was brittle. “But I think he’d like them anyway.”

Shoto was next.

He didn’t bring notes. He didn’t need them. His voice was flat, but his hands gave him away—clasped too tightly in front of him.

“Bakugo was one of the few people I could fight without holding back. Physically. Verbally.” His mouth twitched almost into a smirk, then flattened again. “He was honest. Brutally. Even when you didn’t want to hear it. And somehow… that made him one of the most dependable people I’ve ever known.”

He stepped away without another word.

Izuku stayed in the back.

He hadn’t asked to speak. He didn’t trust his voice to hold. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the coffin. From where he was, he could see the ring still on Katsuki’s hand—the one Izuku had never known about until now.

The service ended. People began to drift away in small clusters, murmuring condolences, giving soft pats on the back to the ones who needed it most. The grave was filled slowly, methodically, each dull thud of dirt hitting wood echoing through Izuku’s ribs like a fading heartbeat.

White lilies. Chrysanthemums. A spray of sunflowers Mina had insisted on.

By late afternoon, the crowd had thinned to nothing. The sun hung lower now, casting gold light along the rows of headstones.

Only Izuku remained.

He crouched down, the knees of his suit pressing into damp grass. In his hand was a single white rose. He held it so tightly the stem creaked.

When he set it on the fresh mound of earth, his fingers lingered on the petals like they might bruise if he let go too soon. His throat moved once, twice, before he managed to whisper, 

“I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear. But there was no one left to hear it anyway.

He stayed there until the shadows stretched long across the ground and the warm breeze turned cool. He stayed until his knees ached from the pressure of the grass and dirt beneath him. And still, it didn’t feel long enough.

When he finally stood, his gaze caught on the headstone.

Katsuki Bakugo

He gave everything.

His mouth trembled as he thought about how Katsuki was there for him in ways no one ever was. The way he loved so fiercely, with the same devotion he put into his hero work.

I’m sorry.

And then he turned away.

The white rose trembled in the breeze, alone against the dark earth, as Izuku’s footsteps faded from the graveyard.