Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So it was the dream again.

The dream that didn’t come every night, but whenever it did, it left him staring at his ceiling long after the alarm had gone off, feeling like his chest had been cracked open and something was missing. Even at twenty-four, even after years of med school, residency, and the kind of surgical training that made most people lose their sense of wonder entirely, Izuku still wanted — no, ached — to know what it felt like to be a hero. And in the dream, he was. Standing in sunlight that made his hair stick to his forehead, breathing hard like he’d just run into danger instead of away from it. Sometimes he woke up with the phantom taste of dust in his mouth, or the burn of a sprint in his legs, like his body believed it had happened.

It seemed like no matter what, he couldn’t scrape the yearning out of his head. And sure, now, obviously, he knew it would never become reality — he was well past the point of believing in miracle quirks dropping into his lap. But if the universe ever decided to throw him a curveball, if there was ever a chance to become a hero, Izuku would take it. Immediately. No questions asked.

Because there had been one thing in his heart since probably the moment he came out of the womb, and it was the same thing that had kept him up at night at four years old, at fourteen, and even now: He wanted to be a hero.

So badly, it left an unappealing ache in his heart that sometimes made him question if maybe he should take up therapy. Learn to fully accept the fact that he was quirkless. Which, in fairness, he had — years ago. He’d made peace with the reality that he’d been born without the one thing he probably wanted more than anyone else on Earth. A quirk. It wouldn’t have mattered how weak it was, how useless people thought it might be. He would’ve made it work. Because that desire to become a hero wasn’t just in his head; it was in his bones.

Which was why, whenever he had the dream — like the one he’d just woken up from — it felt like glimpsing the life he was meant to live. In the dream, he wore a green hero suit his mom had designed, stitched with so much love it almost hurt to look at. His quirk was never the same twice — maybe because his lack of one in real life had made him imagine every possible power under the sun. Sometimes he could float. Sometimes he had super strength. Sometimes he could sense danger before it happened. Other nights he could whip what semed black energy from his body , vanish into smoke, release kinetic energy explosively or wield the raw force of wind itself.

And yet, no matter what the dream handed him, each quirk always felt like it had been his all along.

A dream was a dream, however, and it would forever stay that way. And it wasn’t like he wasn’t content with the life he had now. Being a doctor — one of the youngest surgeons in Japan — wasn’t exactly something to scoff at. He got to save lives. Not in the way he’d once imagined, sure, but that had to count for something.

Still… there probably wouldn’t be a moment in his life when his mind didn’t drift back to the old dream. So yes, he was content — content with his life, his apartment, his friends. But his mind would always wander to what it must feel like to battle villains, to go on patrols, to stand in the chaos of a fight and come out the other side. He saw heroes doing it all the time, in flashes and fragments on his way to the hospital or heading home after a shift.

And he was still a fanboy. Sue him. At his grown age, he couldn’t help it — he’d still slow down to watch if a hero zipped past in a flash of color. He didn’t take notes anymore, obviously. He didn’t need to. The pages that used to be crammed with sketches and breakdowns of quirks had been replaced with diagrams of surgical techniques, trauma protocols, and cardiac repair strategies. Different dreams. Same obsessive handwriting.

The life he had settled for wasn't exactly the glamorous life a hero would live — not unless you considered collapsing into bed after a thirty-hour shift glamorous, in which case he was basically a celebrity. His apartment was small but neat, because he was never home long enough to make a mess. His fridge was a crime scene, stocked with takeout containers, three bottles of sports drinks, and a jar of pickles he swore he would eventually finish.

His social life was… fine. He saw Mina and Tsuyu whenever their hero schedules lined up with his rare days off, which usually meant meeting somewhere with food that came in paper boxes so nobody had to worry about washing dishes. Hitoshi dropped by sometimes, mostly to “make sure you haven’t died of exhaustion yet” but also, Izuku suspected, to see if he had any snacks worth stealing. And if Izuku didn’t answer his phone for too long, Mina once threatened to climb up his fire escape just to make sure he was alive.

Some days, his life felt like everything he’d ever wanted. Other days, it was just exhausting. And on the worst days — the ones that started with too little sleep and ended with a patient he couldn’t save — he tried to remember why he chose this path in the first place. To save people in a different way.

Most mornings started with him running late because he’d hit snooze “just for five minutes” and then woken up forty minutes later to  Hitoshi sending a text that just said: “Wake up, idiot. The news says the roads are backed up. Again.” His neighbors probably thought he had some secret night life, since they only ever saw him in one of two states: sprinting out the door with wet hair or dragging himself home like a zombie clutching convenience store food. The hospital cafeteria staff knew his coffee order by heart, which would have been sweet if it wasn’t “double espresso, three sugars, and a look of impending doom.” 

Mina once joked he was “two missed meals away from developing a quirk called Cardiac Arrest.” He laughed, then ate a protein bar at 3 a.m. in the supply closet like it was fine. And while some of his coworkers went home to spouses or adorable pets, Izuku went home to a cactus named All Might. The plant was on its third pot after he’d almost killed it twice by forgetting to water it during back-to-back overnight shifts. Shinsou claimed it was a metaphor for his love life. Izuku pretended he didn’t know what that meant.

Still, he liked his little routines, it all felt oddly comforting now. This was his battlefield. This was where he fought. And yeah, okay, maybe it didn’t come with costumes or trading blows with villains, but he was good at it.

Weekends — the rare ones he actually got off — were even less glamorous. Sometimes he tried to sleep in, but his body was so used to the surgical schedule that “sleeping in” meant waking up at 6:15 instead of 5:30. Other times, he’d attempt errands, which inevitably went wrong. The last time he’d gone grocery shopping, he’d gotten distracted by a hero merch clearance bin and accidentally left with three All Might mugs and no milk.

His mom called him at least twice a week, sometimes to ask if he was eating enough and sometimes to send him articles with titles like “10 Signs You Need More Vitamin D” . He’d try to assure her he was fine, but she had a sixth sense for knowing when he was lying — which was always.

His apartment building was small, the kind where everyone knew each other’s business whether you wanted them to or not. Mrs. Takahashi from 4B kept offering to set him up with her granddaughter “before all the good ones are taken,” which Izuku had no polite way of refusing except to fake a cough and say he was “married to his work.” The kids from 2C knocked on his door every other Friday to sell him cookies for their hero scout troop. He bought them every time, not because he liked cookies (he did), but because they wore little capes and shouted their hero names at him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And, embarrassingly enough, he still had every issue of Hero Weekly stacked in the corner of his bedroom. He told himself he only kept them for “historical reference,” but the truth was, sometimes he just liked flipping through them, looking at the action shots, and wondering — for the millionth time — what it would feel like to be on the other side of the camera.

He wasn’t a magnet for trouble the way some people were, but the universe seemed to enjoy messing with him in small, petty ways. Like last month, when he’d been halfway to the train station and realized he’d left his wallet at home — only for it to start raining. Not just regular rain, but sideways, typhoon-level rain that had his scrubs plastered to his skin before he made it back to his apartment. He’d walked into the lobby dripping like a drowned cat and had to nod politely to Mr. Endo, the elderly man who always fell asleep in the chair by the elevator.

There were also the occasional run-ins with pro heroes. Not the cool, cinematic kind. No — Izuku’s luck meant they were always weirdly mundane. He’d once shared an umbrella with Kamui Woods while waiting for the train. Another time, he’d helped Mt. Lady carry her groceries up two flights of stairs after the elevator broke. And, in what he considered his lowest point, he’d accidentally gotten in Ryukyu’s way at a crosswalk because he was too busy texting Hitoshi about whether or not coffee counted as a meal.

Speaking of Hitoshi, he was probably the closest thing Izuku had to a brother. Which meant half of their conversations were insults.

“You look like hell,” Shinsou had said the last time they met for lunch.

“Thanks,” Izuku had replied through a mouthful of noodles, “it’s my natural glow.”
“You need better hobbies.”
“I have hobbies.”
“Name one that doesn’t involve a scalpel or medical-grade disinfectant.”

Izuku had been unable to answer. Still, for all the late nights, caffeine dependency, and occasional near-death encounters with vending machines that ate his coins, he liked his life. It wasn’t the one he’d dreamed about. But it was his.

But he couldn’t lay in bed forever, dwelling on how content he was with his life.. He couldn’t keep staring at the ceiling, replaying a dream that would always stay a dream. Reality had this annoying habit of barging in, whether he wanted it to or not. His alarm was still buzzing on the nightstand, vibrating so hard it nearly knocked itself onto the floor, and his phone was already lighting up from the second alarm he had set up. 

Izuku groaned, dragging a hand over his face before finally rolling out of bed. His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d been electrocuted in his sleep — which, to be fair, was an accurate summary of how he felt most mornings. He shuffled to the bathroom, glanced at his reflection, and immediately decided not to dwell on it. The dream could linger in the back of his mind all it wanted, but right now, he had to be a person.

And being a person, unfortunately, meant being a surgeon with a shift that started in less than an hour.

His showers were quick — in and out, no fuss. He didn’t waste time worrying about his appearance, mostly because he didn’t have time, and also because being in a hospital for most of the day didn’t exactly require him to look good. Besides, by the time he walked out of the hospital after a shift, he usually looked like he’d been hit by a train anyway.

So he didn’t linger. He jumped into the shower, let the hot water blast away the last of his sleep. As quickly as he got in, he got out. He let his hair dry on its own. His hair had always been a little wild, back when he was fourteen, it was stuck in that awkward middle ground between wavy and curly, a mess of uneven curls that wouldn’t behave no matter how hard he tried. Now it had settled into something more defined, tighter curls that framed his face. He kept it shorter these days, not too short, he hated it buzzed, but just enough that it didn’t get in the way when he was leaning over a patient.

Physically, he’d changed a lot since the days people had called him plain. He still wasn’t striking the way pro heroes or models were, but there was something sharper in his face now, something more adult. Maybe it was the faint shadows under his eyes from sleepless nights, or the way his frame had leaned out with years of long hours on his feet. 

Some of the nurses— more than a few had tried asking him out over the last year. He always turned them down politely, not because he wasn’t grateful, but because he just… didn’t have the time. Dating required time. Energy. Emotional investment. Izuku barely had enough of those things to spare for himself, let alone another person. So he kept his head down, said no with a smile, and went back to what mattered: his work.Whatever it was they saw in him, it wasn’t the awkward kid he used to be. Not that he cared much. 

Once he was out of the shower, his routine wasn’t much of a routine at all — more of a mad scramble. He toweled off, tugged on clean scrubs, and immediately started shoving whatever he could grab into his bag. His keys. His phone. His ID badge that had nearly gone through the wash three times. A granola bar that was probably stale but still edible.

Breakfast, if you could call it that, was whatever he could fit into his mouth on the way out the door. Sometimes it was an apple, sometimes a half-squished protein bar, sometimes just coffee so strong it could peel paint off the walls. He’d told himself a hundred times that he’d start waking up earlier to eat something decent — but considering he’d already overslept today, that clearly wasn’t happening.

He slung his bag over his shoulder, double-checked that he hadn’t left the stove on (he hadn’t used it in three days, but still), and then gave a small nod to the cactus sitting on his kitchen counter. “You’re in charge while I’m gone,” he muttered, because talking to All Might the cactus was better than total silence.

With that, he shoved his feet into his sneakers and bolted for the door.

The hallway outside his apartment was already buzzing with morning life. Mrs. Takahashi from 4B was wrangling her dog, a fluffy white menace who barked at anything that moved. The kids from 2C were arguing loudly about which pro hero was cooler — Kamui Woods or Shouto — and Izuku had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from giving his opinion.

“Morning, Midoriya-kun!” one of the kids chirped when he passed, cape askew and cookie crumbs all over his shirt.

“Morning,” Izuku answered, offering a quick smile as he sidestepped the dog lunging for his ankle.

By the time he made it down the stairs and out onto the street, the city was already alive with the usual chaos. Delivery trucks honking, vendors setting up stalls, people hustling to work. And, because this was Musutafu, a hero zipped overhead in a blur of color. Izuku slowed, just for a second, head tilted back like the kid he used to be. He told himself it was a habit, not longing.

The walk to the station was short, but it felt longer when his bag kept sliding off his shoulder and his sneakers squeaked against the pavement. He weaved through the crowd of office workers and students, trying not to spill the coffee he definitely had to stop for to survive a shift at the hospital. 

The train was already packed when he got there, which was normal. He squeezed inside, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between a man in a business suit and a high schooler blasting music through cheap earbuds. Izuku clutched the overhead rail with one hand, coffee balanced in the other, and told himself this counted as arm strength training.

Halfway through the ride, the train jolted to a sudden stop. Izuku braced himself automatically, coffee miraculously unspilled, while the speakers crackled with the familiar announcement: “Delay due to hero activity ahead. Please remain calm.”

Of course.

The car collectively groaned, but Izuku couldn’t help himself — he leaned toward the window, craning for a glimpse. And there it was, a flash of color in the distance, two heroes clashing with a villain near the tracks. He caught maybe three seconds of the fight before the train lurched forward again, but his heart was already hammering.

By the time he forced himself to look away, he realized the businessman next to him was giving him a very odd look. Izuku ducked his head, sipping his coffee like it was totally normal to look starstruck at twenty-four.

Izuku nearly missed his stop.

One second he was scrolling through an article about new prosthetic limb tech, the next he looked up and the doors were already sliding open. He yelped, shoved his phone into his pocket, and tried to wriggle through the crowd before the doors closed again. In the process he almost lost his bag, elbowed the businessman in the ribs, and had to mutter a string of frantic “sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry—” before tumbling out onto the platform.

His coffee did not survive.

Half the cup splashed onto his scrubs, leaving a dark stain across his chest that would absolutely make him look like he’d been attacked by a caffeinated villain. Izuku stared down at it in dismay. He could already hear Shinsou’s voice in his head: “Maybe if you stopped gawking at heroes out the window, you wouldn’t look like you got mugged by a Starbucks.”

He sighed, adjusted his bag, and kept walking. Just another perfectly average morning.

Izuku walked into the hospital, nodding and offering tired smiles to the people he passed — nurses finishing up night shifts, interns clutching clipboards like lifelines, security guards who’d already seen too much chaos before eight a.m. He got a few double-takes at the massive coffee stain across his chest, but nobody said anything. This was a hospital; coffee stains were practically part of the uniform.

He headed straight for the locker room, grateful for the extra set of scrubs he always kept stashed away. A lesson learned the hard way — because coffee wasn’t even the worst thing he’d ever spilled on himself here. He changed quickly, stuffing the ruined scrubs into his locker, and raked his fingers through his curls before calling it good enough.

Today was supposed to be a chill day. No surgeries scheduled, just a handful of patient check-ups and maybe a couple of discharges if he thought they were ready to go home. Easy. Low-stress. The kind of day he could maybe even get out of the hospital on time.

His first patient of the day was someone who’d had more surgeries than Izuku had seen in his entire career — and that was saying something.

Togata Mirio. The number one hero in Japan. Even months later, Izuku still had to fight the urge not to completely geek out every time he walked into the room. The first time he’d met him, he’d nearly dropped his chart on the floor. He couldn’t help it — Mirio was the hero who’d taken All Might’s place the moment he graduated, filling a void nobody else could. Granted, All Might had retired, and Izuku was absolutely not biased when he thought All Might would still be number one otherwise (he wasn’t, really). But still.

Mirio being in his care was surreal enough. 

What made it bad was why he was there. Strange symptoms had started cropping up a few months back — symptoms Izuku had never seen on any hero before. Organs behaving like they were decades older than they should’ve been. Like his body was… aging from the inside out, far faster than it should. None of the tests gave him clear answers, and none of the treatments worked, because how do you treat something that doesn’t follow the rules of medicine?

Izuku had saved dozens of lives by now, pulled people back from the brink with steady hands and frantic determination — but this, this made him feel helpless in a way that twisted deep in his chest. Because it wasn’t just anyone lying in that bed. It was the number one hero. And Izuku couldn’t fix him.

Blood test after blood test, and nothing. Not a single result gave him anything remotely useful about why Mirio’s body was acting the way it was. Izuku had done his research — stayed up at three in the morning scrolling through every article, every book he could access — and the only explanation he’d found was a grim one.

Some quirks were too much for the body to handle.

Mirio had an immense amount of power. Everyone knew that. But how exactly was Izuku supposed to fix that if the very thing tearing him apart was his quirk? There was no way to remove a quirk. That was impossible.

He’d even gone down rabbit holes he normally wouldn’t — searching for theories about rewinding quirks that could restore organs, bring them back to what healthy twenty-six-year-old organs should look like. Nothing concrete. Nothing he could use. Still, he kept looking. He kept reaching out, even contacting colleagues in America to see if anyone had a lead, a connection, something he hadn’t thought of yet.

For now, all he could do was keep Mirio monitored. Keep running tests. Keep trying.

They’d just finished another surgery last week — a kidney transplant. Mirio’s left kidney had given out, just like the right one had years earlier. And even the new organ didn’t seem safe from whatever was happening to him. Izuku hated that feeling — putting his all into repairing someone, only to watch the body betray them anyway.

And the worst part was that Mirio never stopped smiling through it. Izuku didn't know how he did it. 

Upon entering the room, Izuku found Mirio lying back in his hospital bed, eyes fixed on the window like he was watching something far away. Izuku wondered if he missed patrolling — the rush of the city streets, the feel of being out there. Probably. 

“It’s pretty today, huh?” Izuku said softly, setting the chart down at the foot of the bed. “Very sunny.”

“Good morning, Doc.” Mirio turned his head, and the brightness in his smile made the sterile room feel a little less cold. 

“Good morning, Mr. Togata,” Izuku replied automatically, already moving toward the monitor.

“What have I told you about that? Call me Mirio. I think we’ve reached that status by now, don’t you?” Mirio chuckled, shaking his head. 

“We’ve been over this. It’s professional.” Izuku couldn’t help a small smile. 

“Professional, huh?” Mirio’s grin widened, making it impossible not to feel lighter even with IV lines and bandages keeping him tethered. “Well, Doc, if you’re going to be the one replacing my organs one by one, I think we’ve already skipped the professional stage.”

“That’s not exactly how it works,” Izuku straightened, tugging at the edge of his coat as if it would make him look less flustered. Mirio just kept watching him with that easy smile.“How’re you feeling today?” 

“Like I could bust through that wall and go patrol right now,” Mirio said, jerking his thumb at the window. “But I’ll settle for a walk down the hallway if you let me.”

Izuku shook his head, lips twitching. “You know I can’t clear you for hallway demolition yet.”

“Yet,” Mirio repeated, grin widening.

Despite himself, Izuku chuckled, grabbing the clipped the chart, flipping it open, scanning the latest results before clearing his throat. “Alright. So — your vitals are stable. The new kidney is doing its job, at least for now, and the incision is healing well. If everything continues like this, you should be good to go home tomorrow.”

Mirio’s eyes lit up. “Home, huh? Sounds like paradise.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Izuku said, tone slipping back into professional. “I’ll still need you back here once a week for check-ups. Blood tests, imaging, monitoring your organs. I want to make sure nothing else is being… compromised.”

Mirio tilted his head, smile softening. “Whatever you say, Doc. You know I trust you.”

Izuku swallowed and quickly jotted another note on the chart just to have something to do with his hands.Yes, he got flustered. This was still the number one hero after all. 

Izuku closed the chart but didn’t move away just yet. “When you go back,” he started carefully, “you can’t push yourself too hard. Your body’s still healing — a kidney transplant takes at least six weeks before you can even think about real strain. And that’s assuming everything goes perfectly.”

“Six weeks, huh? That’s a long time for villains to run around causing trouble.” Mirio gave him a sheepish grin. 

“I mean it,” Izuku pressed, trying not to sound too much like his mom and failing miserably. “You can’t go crazy. Not yet. You’re—” he hesitated, searching for the right word. “Fragile.”

“Fragile,” Mirio repeated, laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “Never thought I’d hear that word aimed at me.”

“I’m serious,” Izuku said, even as his lips threatened to curl up. “Ease into it. Nothing reckless.”

Mirio’s smile softened, but the spark in his eyes never dimmed. “I’ll try. But you know how it is, Doc — I’ve got a lot of people to save.” He shifted against the pillows, gaze flicking briefly back to the window. “I haven’t hit a million yet.”

“One step at a time,” Izuku said quietly. “Let’s make sure you get there first.”

Izuku stood there for a moment longer than he meant to, the chart clutched against his chest. He knew Mirio well enough by now to understand he wasn’t joking — not really. That line, the dream of saving a million people, it wasn’t just a slogan for Mirio. It was something he carried with him, the same way Izuku carried his own impossible dream. And it killed him, that the one man who could smile through anything was being undone by something Izuku couldn’t even name. Surgeons were supposed to fix things. But when he looked at Mirio, all he had were question marks and half-measures.

“Alright,” Izuku said, clearing his throat. He forced a smile, though. That was the other deal — the patient always came first, no matter what was happening in his own chest. “Rest today. Tomorrow we’ll talk discharge papers.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Mirio nodded, still smiling like sunshine. 

Izuku gave a short wave and slipped out of Mirio's room, Izuku kept his face neutral until the door clicked shut behind him. The second he was alone in the hallway, though, his shoulders sagged, and he let out a quiet breath that was half a laugh, half a groan. He had just spent solid minutes talking to the number one hero like it was nothing . Like he hadn’t grown up idolizing people like Mirio. Like a part of him wasn’t still twelve years old inside, clutching a hero notebook and scribbling facts until his hand cramped.

He pressed his chart against his chest for a second, letting himself feel it. The surreal weight of it all. He was Mirio’s doctor. His doctor. He was the one running the tests, planning the follow-ups, doing the surgeries.

And sure, maybe he still got starry-eyed when a hero flew overhead, maybe he still stopped dead on the street just to catch a glimpse of pro heroes at work. Maybe he was still a fanboy, through and through. But he was also… this. A doctor trusted to save their lives when even their quirks couldn’t, Izuku thought, as he moved on to his next patient, it wouldn’t kill Mirio to stop smiling so much while his organs betrayed him. It made it impossible to look like the calm, put-together professional he was supposed to be when all Izuku wanted to do was sit down and cry on the man’s behalf.

By the time Izuku finished his rounds, he was more than ready for a breather. His stomach growled so loudly in the elevator that a nurse standing beside him gave him a startled glance, and Izuku tried to cover it with an awkward cough. Professional. Totally professional.

The staff room smelled like burnt coffee and disinfectant — a familiar cocktail by now. He dropped into one of the plastic chairs, tugging his bag into his lap, and dug around until he found what could generously be called lunch: a slightly crushed sandwich wrapped in foil.

“Wow,” one of the interns said as they walked past. “Living the dream, huh, Dr. Midoriya?”

“Don’t be jealous.” Izuku raised his sandwich like a toast.

He was about to take the first bite when the automatic coffee machine sputtered violently and spewed a jet of liquid across the counter, narrowly missing him. Izuku jerked back so fast his chair almost tipped over, and the intern burst out laughing.

“Machine hates me,” Izuku muttered, cheeks pink as he set the sandwich down. “It’s personal.”

He finally did take a bite — stale bread, too much mustard, definitely not worth the effort — but it didn’t matter. Sitting in the break room with the hum of conversation around him, his patients stable for the moment, it was one of those rare pockets of peace in the chaos of hospital life.

Izuku was halfway through forcing down his sandwich when a shadow fell across the table.

“Word on the floor is you lost a fight with the coffee machine this morning. Again.” He looked up to see Nurse Tanaka leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, smirking like she’d been waiting all morning to pounce.

“It wasn’t—” Izuku started, then faltered, because technically it had been exactly that. “It malfunctioned,” he tried weakly, gesturing toward the machine that was still dripping like it had committed a crime.

“Funny how it only malfunctions when you’re the one pressing the button.” Tanaka raised an eyebrow. 

Heat rushed up Izuku’s neck. He grabbed his sandwich like it might shield him. “It’s personal,” he muttered, sticking to his story. “Machines hate me.”

“Sure they do, Doc. Sure they do.” She laughed, shaking her head as she poured herself a fresh cup without a single drop spilling. 

Izuku groaned and dropped his forehead onto the table with a soft thunk. Professional. Totally professional.

“Honestly,” Tanaka went on, stirring sugar into her coffee with exaggerated care, “it’s kind of impressive. Most people just get caffeine. You get… battle scars.”

“I’m not that bad.” Izuku lifted his head off the table just enough to glare weakly at her. 

“You set off the vending machine alarm last week because it ate your coins,” she reminded him.

“That wasn’t my fault,” he protested, sitting up straighter. “The machine stole from me. I was simply standing up for justice.”

“Right,” Tanaka said, deadpan. “Hero of the vending machine underdogs. Truly inspiring.”

Izuku groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Why does everyone in this hospital think I’m cursed?”

“Because you are,” came another voice from the doorway.

Izuku didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.  Hitoshi strolled in, still in his detective’s coat, holding a can of coffee like he’d just walked out of a commercial.

“Don’t encourage him,” Izuku muttered to Tanaka.

 Hitoshi sat across from him, eyes half-lidded with his usual unimpressed expression. “You spilled coffee on yourself this morning, then picked a fight with a machine you’ve already lost to three times. That’s not a curse, Izuku. That’s natural selection.”

“You’re supposed to be my friend.” Izuku pointed his sandwich at him.

“I am,” Hitoshi said, cracking open his can. “That’s why I’m telling you before the machines unionize.”

Tanaka snorted into her coffee. Izuku sighed, resigned. This was his life.

That was Hitoshi Shinsou — sarcasm as a first language. They’d met years ago, when Izuku had been called in to operate on a villain. His hospital didn’t pick sides when it came to trauma — a torn artery was a torn artery, whether the hand holding the knife had been saving or taking lives. Hitoshi  had been the detective on the case, standing in the corner of the ER, watching with those sharp, unreadable eyes while Izuku stitched the man’s heart back together. They’d argued, briefly, about why someone like that deserved another chance. Hitoshi had said something cutting. Izuku had said something stubborn. And somehow, a friendship had come out of it.

Izuku finished chewing his sandwich and narrowed his eyes at him. “What are you even doing here? Don’t you have an actual job?”

“Sure,” Hitoshi  said, leaning back in his chair and taking a slow sip of his coffee. “But your cafeteria has the best bad coffee in the city. I’d be an idiot not to exploit that.”

Izuku rolled his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting,”Hitoshi  replied smoothly. He’d been allowed into the hospital whenever he wanted for years now — technically not protocol, but this was basically Midoriya’s domain, and he could bend the rules a little. The only line he wouldn’t let Hitoshi  cross was the OR — for obvious reasons — but outside of that, the detective could loiter in his office, raid his snack drawer, or haunt the break room without anyone blinking twice.

Izuku shook his head, defeated. “One of these days, security’s going to realize you don’t actually work here.”

Hitoshi smirked, lifting the can in a mock-toast. “And on that day, I’ll make you bail me out. Perks of being your friend.”

The nurse had bid her goodbye, leaving her empty mug on the counter. Hitoshi’s gaze lingered on the door she’d left through, then slid back to Izuku. “You ever notice the way she looks at you?”

“What?”

“Sparkly eyes,” Hitoshi said flatly. “Like she’s one monologue away from writing your initials in her notebook with little hearts.”

Izuku nearly choked on the last bite of his sandwich. “She does not—” he coughed, smacking his chest with his fist, “—she does not do that.”

Hitoshi tilted his head. “She does. So do half the nurses on this floor. It’s embarrassing to watch.”

Izuku’s face went scarlet, and he waved his hands like that would erase the words out of the air. “Th-that’s ridiculous. They don’t— nobody— I don’t even have time to date, okay?”

“Didn’t say you did,” Hitoshi replied, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just thrown Izuku into a tailspin. “Just pointing out the obvious. Some of us notice these things.”

Izuku groaned and dropped his forehead onto the table. “Why are you like this?”

“Gifted,” Hitoshi said.

Izuku groaned again, muffled into the table. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?”  Hitoshi asked innocently, which was a lie in itself. His smirk gave him away.

“You know what,” Izuku said, lifting his head just enough to glare, cheeks still burning.

 Hitoshi shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying, Izuku — you’re twenty-four, one of the youngest surgeons in the country, and you spend more time talking to your cactus than to actual people. At some point, you’re going to have to admit your love life is a flatline.”

Izuku threw his hands up. “I don’t have time! Between shifts, surgeries, research—”

“You had time to buy three All Might mugs last week,”  Hitoshi cut in, deadpan.

Izuku sputtered, his face turning a deeper shade of red. “That—that was different! That was—! It was a clearance sale!”

 Hitoshi leaned back, sipping his coffee with all the smugness of a man who lived for this. “Exactly my point. No time for a date, but plenty of time for hero merch. You’re hopeless.”

Izuku groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,”  Hitoshi said. “I’m the only one who tells you the truth.”

Izuku muttered something incoherent under his breath, but his ears were still glowing red.

Hitoshi set his can down with a quiet clink and studied Izuku with that unreadable detective stare that usually meant trouble. “You know,” he drawled, “if you’re holding out for one of your childhood hero crushes to notice you, you should probably give up now. They don’t put ‘world-class surgeon, slightly awkward, talks to plants’ on dating apps.”

Izuku sat bolt upright, mortified. “I—! I don’t—! I don’t have hero crushes! ”

“Please,” Hitoshi said, unimpressed. “You used to memorize their birthdays.”

“That was— that was research!” Izuku sputtered, jabbing his finger at him. “For analysis!”

“Uh-huh,” Shinsou said, leaning back in his chair. “Totally normal. Most kids make flashcards for math. You made them for Allmight.”

Izuku buried his face in his hands. “Why are you like this ?”

“Because it’s fun,” Hitoshi answered smoothly. “And because watching you melt down over your tragic, nonexistent love life is cheaper than cable.”

Izuku groaned, dragging his hands down his face. But the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. It was easier to take the hits when he knew Hitoshi never actually meant them to wound. He lowered his hands just enough to peek at him. “You know what’s really tragic?”

 “Do tell.” Hitoshi raised an eyebrow.

“You,” Izuku said, jabbing his sandwich in his direction like it was a pointer. “You sit in a dark office interrogating people for hours, then you come here, drink bad coffee, and insult me. When was the last time you went on a date, huh?”

Hitoshi blinked slowly, deadpan. “Cute. Deflect with counterattack. You’d make a terrible detective.”

Izuku grinned, leaning in. “No, seriously. You’re what? Twenty-five? And the most intimate relationship in your life is with that trench coat you wear everywhere.”

Hitoshi took a sip of his coffee without breaking eye contact. “Bold words from a man who talks to a cactus.”

Izuku sputtered a laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle it. “Okay, fair. But at least All Might the cactus doesn’t smell like stale cigarettes.”

Hitoshi tilted his head, lips curving just enough to show he was enjoying himself. “Careful, Mido. Keep talking and I’ll interrogate your cactus. Bet it knows more about your secrets than I do.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Izuku narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “Fine. But if you so much as look at All Might the cactus, I’m telling everyone in this hospital about your secret crush on the number forty-four hero, Chargebolt.”

For the first time that morning, Hitoshi actually sputtered mid-sip. “What—” he coughed, glaring, “—how do you even know he’s ranked forty-four?”

“Because of course I know.” Izuku’s grin widened, all teeth. 

Hitoshi set his coffee down with exaggerated care. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” Izuku said sweetly, “are deflecting.”

Hitoshi dragged a hand down his face, then leveled Izuku with a flat stare. “You know, it’s actually impressive. Most people outgrow their hero obsession by, what—middle school? But not you. You just doubled down.”

“I did not!” Izuku’s mouth fell open.

“You stitched lemillion’s kidney back in and couldn't tell if it was the right time for an autograph,” Hitoshi deadpanned.

“That’s—” Izuku flailed, cheeks burning, “—that’s completely slander!”

“Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep, fanboy.” Hitoshi smirked, leaning back in his chair. 

Izuku groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Why did he even try to turn the tables? With Hitoshi, it always came back around twice as sharp. 

Hitoshi  leaned back, clearly satisfied with how red Izuku’s ears had gotten, and then waved a hand like he was brushing the whole thing aside. “Anyway, back to the real reason I’m here.”

“You actually had a reason?”

“Always.”Hitoshi smirked. “Think you’ll be out on time this shift? There’s a new restaurant downtown I want to try. Supposed to be”—he made a vague gesture in the air—“5 star. But I don’t feel like sitting there by myself looking like a loser.”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “You came all the way to the hospital to invite me to dinner?”

“Better odds of catching you here than if I text. Half the time you ignore me, the other half you’re elbow-deep in somebody’s chest cavity.” Hitoshi shrugged, taking a long sip.

Izuku’s face flamed again, though this time it wasn’t embarrassment so much as… well, okay, it was still embarrassment. “That’s not fair,” he muttered. “I don’t ignore you. I’m just… busy.”

“Busy,” Hitoshi  echoed flatly. “Right. So, what’s it gonna be, Doc? Dinner after work, or do I let your cactus friend know you stood me up?”

Izuku groaned into his hands again, but this time he was smiling. “...Fine. Yes. Dinner. Just don’t pick a place where I have to wear a tie.”

“Knew you’d say yes.” Hitoshi pulled out his phone and started typing. “I’ll text Mina, see what time she gets off patrol. Because if we go without her, she’ll find out.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Definitely tell Mina.” Izuku winced. 

He didn’t need to be reminded. The last time he and Hitoshi had made plans without looping her in, Mina had discovered it through sheer terrifying intuition and hunted them down mid-meal. Izuku still had flashbacks of the way she’d slammed her hands on their table, eyes glowing with betrayal as she declared, ‘So you two thought you could have fun without me?!’

They’d both sworn never to repeat the mistake. Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… I’m not interested in dying that young.”

“Smart choice,” Hitoshi said, sending the text off with a satisfied little click.

The break room door cracked open again. It was Nurse Tanaka, the same one who’d mocked him about the coffee machine earlier — only now, her eyes were wide, and she looked a little flushed, like she’d just sprinted up three flights of stairs.

“Uh—Dr. Midoriya?” she said, voice pitched higher than usual. “You… have someone waiting for you. In urgent care.”

“Someone? Like a walk-in?” Izuku blinked.

Tanaka gave him a look that was equal parts starstruck and horrified. “Not just someone. It’s—well, this girl is asking for you. And she’s with… the number two hero.”

“Wow. Didn’t know you took celebrity appointments.”Hitoshi leaned back in his chair, smirking. 

Izuku froze. Number two hero? That didn’t make sense. Heroes didn’t know who he was — at least, not like that. Sure, his name had made the rounds in medical journals and the occasional article that got picked up by mainstream news: “Prodigy Surgeon Saves Hero With Record-Breaking Operation,” that kind of thing. But still. He never really thought of himself as… known.

“Are you sure?” he asked weakly, standing up.

Tanaka just gestured toward the hall, looking like she was going to faint if she had to say it twice.

“Well, I’m not moving.” Shinsou didn’t even glance up from his coffee. “Good luck, though. Don’t faint.”

Izuku groaned but got to his feet anyway, following Tanaka out into the hall.

When they reached urgent care, it didn’t take long to spot the pair waiting.

The girl — long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, waving cheerfully like she was greeting an old friend — was Camie Utsushimi. She radiated energy, talking fast enough that the staff milling nearby didn’t seem sure whether to laugh along or make a run for it.

And next to her, standing stiff with his hands shoved into his pockets, was Todoroki Shouto. Number two hero.

Izuku’s breath caught.

Camie spotted him immediately and lit up even brighter. “Yo! You’re Midoriya, right? Heard from a birdie who heard from a birdie who heard from another birdie that you’re, like, the guy. The prodigy doc. The legend. So.” She clapped a hand on Todoroki’s shoulder, ignoring the way he flinched at the contact. “This one doesn’t like hospitals, but I dragged him here anyway. Pretty cool, huh?”

Todoroki said nothing, just stared at Izuku with that calm, unreadable gaze.

Izuku’s brain scrambled between holy shit it’s Todoroki Shouto, why is the number two hero in my hospital, and did she just call me a legend?!

Out loud, he managed: “Uh. Hi.”

Camie, still talking a mile a minute, gestured vaguely toward Todoroki’s face. “So, like, here’s the deal, Doc. For the past couple days, his left side’s been all…” She wiggled her fingers, making an explosion noise with her mouth. “…funky. He says it’s nothing, but he’s been getting these headaches, and sometimes he zones out, and also there was this one time he nearly faceplanted during patrol and pretended it was ‘strategy.’” She leaned in, stage-whispering loudly enough for the entire ward to hear. “It wasn’t strategy.”

Todoroki didn’t even blink. “Camie exaggerates.”

Izuku, caught between starstruck and confused, tilted his head. “Your… left side?” His eyes flicked toward the burn scar that stretched across Todoroki’s left eye, then quickly darted away. “Does it happen when you’re using your quirk?”

“Not always,” Todoroki said flatly. “It’s fine.”

Camie snorted. “It’s not fine. He hasn’t been sleeping, either. I practically had to drag him here.”

Izuku swallowed, pulling himself back into professional mode. “Right. Okay. Why don’t we go somewhere private, and I’ll check a few things?”

Todoroki gave him a long look, then finally nodded.

Izuku pressed a stethoscope against Todoroki’s chest, listening carefully while he ran through the basics — heart rhythm, lungs, vitals. Everything seemed normal, but there was tension in Todoroki’s body, like every muscle was coiled and ready to resist.

“Any dizziness? Shortness of breath?” Izuku asked gently.

“No.”

“Fatigue?”

“No.”

“Headaches?”

A pause. “…Sometimes.”

Izuku scribbled notes onto the chart, then glanced up. “I’ll have the nurse schedule some lab tests — blood work, imaging, just to rule out anything more serious.”

“You don’t need to,” Todoroki said, eyes flat. “It’s unnecessary. I’m fine.”

Izuku set the pen down, meeting his gaze. “Maybe. But she’s a good friend if she’s worried about you over something small.”

For the first time, Todoroki’s expression flickered.

Izuku leaned back, chewing his lip. Something wasn’t adding up. The headaches, the zoning out, the left-side issues… all on the side of his fire quirk, the one he famously avoided. And suddenly, the pieces clicked.

“I think I know what’s happening,” Izuku said slowly. “Your quirk isn’t balanced. You’re only using your ice side, right? If you don’t regulate your temperature with the fire side, your body compensates —You’re overloading one half.”

Todoroki’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

Izuku softened his voice. “The solution’s simple, actually. Use your fire. Balance it out. That should stop the symptoms before they get worse.”

Silence stretched between them. Todoroki’s eyes, cool and unreadable, flicked away toward the wall. “…It’s not that simple.”

Todoroki’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “No. There has to be another explanation. I’m not using my fire.”

Izuku set his chart down a little harder than necessary, lips twitching like he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “With all due respect—actually, no, scratch that. Respect or not, if you keep this up, you’re only going to get worse. You’ll end up back here every other week with headaches, fatigue, or worse. And last I checked, the number two hero doesn’t exactly have time for frequent hospital visits.”

Todoroki’s jaw tightened. “It’s manageable.”

“Manageable?” Izuku’s voice lifted, incredulous. “How are you supposed to save people when you can’t even stand without feeling like your head’s splitting in half? Are you going to fight villains in ten-second bursts between migraines? That’s not manageable. That’s reckless.”

For the first time, Todoroki’s eyes sharpened on him, cool and probing. “Why are you insisting so much on the fire?”

“Because it’s my professional opinion. If you don’t use your fire side, your symptoms will continue. And if you want to keep being a hero—if you want to keep saving people—then you need to start giving it your all, not just half.”

Todoroki’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you so insistent? It’s suspicious. Did my father—” his voice was flat but sharp, cutting — “pay you to say this? Did he bribe you to convince me to use my fire?”

Izuku blinked. For a second, he thought he’d misheard. “Wait. What?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Todoroki continued coldly. “He’s tried everything else. Why not this?”

Izuku’s mouth opened, then closed again. His brain scrambled between outrage and disbelief. And then the words just came out, quick and sharp.

“You think the previous number two hero — Endeavor — called me, paid me off, and convinced me to push you to use your fire… all in the five minutes between when your friend dragged you into this hospital and I walked into this room?” Izuku’s voice rose as he went, his hands gesturing wildly now. “Did Camie call your dad on the way here? Was this all some elaborate conspiracy? Really?”

Todoroki’s eyes flickered — not backing down, but faltering, just slightly, as the logic cut through his accusation.

“You just insulted my practice. The years of school I clawed my way through. The debt I’m still in. You think I’d throw all of that away to be someone’s puppet? To get bribed?” He jabbed his pen against the chart in his hands, his green eyes burning. “I didn’t become the youngest surgeon in Japan because people paid me off. I became the best because I busted my ass for it. And I’ll be damned if anyone — even the number two hero — tries to belittle that.”

The words hit the air like a scalpel hitting the tray — sharp, final.

Todoroki stared at him, expression still cool, but his posture had shifted. The unshakable confidence wavered, just slightly. The accusation he’d thrown out in blind anger didn’t hold under the weight of Midoriya’s fire.

“I’m insisting on your fire because you’re not the number two hero right now. You’re a patient. A patient with symptoms that could be fixed easily if you stopped being so damn stubborn.” He leaned forward, eyes bright. “I’m insisting because once you leave this room, you’ll go back to being a hero — and I want you to be able to give it your all when you’re out there saving people who need you. Because I look up to you. Because when I'm a civilian on the streets, and I'm on my way to work and a villain decides to stir up some trouble. You stop them. You are my hero.”

He continued. “But you’re not my hero right now. You’re my patient. And I won’t let you die because you’re too damn stubborn.”

The room went utterly still. Todoroki’s expression didn’t change much — but something in his eyes shifted, like he’d just been struck somewhere deep. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even blink. Just stared at him with that unreadable calm that somehow felt heavier than if he’d shouted back.

Izuku’s stomach twisted. Shit. That was it. He’d just yelled at the number two hero. In a hospital room. Where other people could probably hear. Fantastic. Way to ruin his career before thirty.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Look,” he said finally, softer now. “I got carried away. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. So—yeah. I’m sorry. For that part.”

He straightened, though, his voice firm again. “But I’m not sorry for insisting. I meant every word. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. I've sacrificed years of my life to get here, but not once — not once — would I ever take a bribe to put a patient at risk. Not for your father. Not for anyone.”

Izuku paused, then held the chart out, his tone settling back into clipped professionalism. “Head downstairs to the lab. They’ll take some samples, run some tests. If there’s another solution that doesn’t involve using your quirk, I’ll find it. That’s my job.”

For a moment, Todoroki’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable as ever. Then, without a word, he turned and headed for the door.

Izuku let out a long breath the second it clicked shut. “…Great,” he muttered to himself. “Definitely nailed that. Totally didn’t just scream at the number two hero. Fantastic.”

Todoroki pulled the door open without a word, slipping out into the hall. Izuku followed a few steps behind, trying to shove his chart back under his arm like the argument hadn’t just happened.

Camie was waiting in the chairs near the wall, bouncing one leg and scrolling on her phone. The second she spotted them, she lit up, springing to her feet. “Yo! That was fast. What’s the verdict, Doc?”

Izuku cleared his throat, pointedly keeping his eyes on the chart in his hands. “He needs labs. Can you take him downstairs and get them done?” His gaze flicked to Todoroki, then back to Camie. “And… if he asks to switch doctors after this, I won’t be offended.”

Camie blinked at him, then broke into a grin. “Pfft. Please. If Shouto didn’t want you as his doc, he would’ve frozen the door shut on his way out. He’s here, isn’t he? You’re good.”

Izuku opened his mouth, then shut it again, unsure how to respond to that kind of logic.

Camie tilted her head, her smile softening just a little. “But, uh… everything’s okay with him, right?”

Izuku forced his tone even, professional. “It’s nothing serious right now.”

Camie beamed like that was the best news she’d heard all day. “Awesome! See, Shouto? Told ya it’d be fine.” She looped her arm through Todoroki’s without waiting for permission and started dragging him toward the elevators, chattering the whole way.

Izuku watched them go, running a hand down his face. He’d definitely need to stress-eat something later.

By the time Izuku pushed back into the break room, regret was already gnawing at him like acid in his stomach. He dropped his chart onto the nearest counter, slumped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.

Why had he yelled at Todoroki? He didn’t even know. It wasn’t something he should’ve gotten so defensive about, and now it probably looked suspicious as hell. As if getting heated like that meant he was guilty of something. Which he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

His defensive wasn’t guilt. It was… frustration. At watching someone with such an incredible quirk throw half of it away. At knowing there were people born without anything, people like him, who would’ve given anything — anything — to have that kind of power. And instead, Todoroki was burning his body out rather than using the fire he’d been born with.

Izuku let out a bitter little laugh into his palms. Maybe he really did need therapy.

Still. He could understand why Todoroki hadn’t said anything after his outburst. If he were in Todoroki’s shoes, he probably would’ve just walked out too.

But the whole thing was insane. Putting his body through hell just because he refused to use his own quirk? And then to throw that accusation about his father into the mix… yeah. There was definitely something deeper there. Something Izuku couldn’t even begin to imagine.

He lifted his head, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

The contrast between the top two heroes couldn’t have been sharper. Mirio was sunlight personified — vibrant, grinning like tomorrow was guaranteed, no matter how many surgeries, transplants, or endless hospital stays he had behind him. He reminded Izuku so much of All Might it almost hurt. That same larger-than-life warmth that filled a room and made people believe they were safe just because he was standing there.

And then there was Todoroki. Stoic, cold, eyes like a shuttered window. He was strength contained in silence, a wall instead of a beacon. In some twisted way, it felt like watching All Might and Endeavor all over again.

Izuku leaned back in his chair, exhaling. 

“Deep thoughts?” a voice drawled.

Izuku just about jumped out of his skin, whipping his head up to see Hitoshi lounging in the corner like he’d been there all along. Coffee in hand. Eyes half-lidded. Smirk tugging at his mouth.

“I—how—what—” Izuku stammered, clutching his chest. “You’re still here?”

“Obviously.” Hitoshi took a lazy sip. “Hospital coffee may be terrible, but it’s still free. Now,” his gaze sharpened, “how was Japan’s number two hero? Did you tell him you’re his number one fan?”

Izuku groaned and dropped into the chair across from him, burying his face in his hands. “I think I yelled at him.”

There was a pause. Then Shinsou’s smirk spread, slow and dangerous. “Oh, this is good. You yelled at Shouto Todoroki. Please, elaborate.”

“He accused me of being bribed,” Izuku mumbled through his palms. “By his father. To make him use his fire quirk. And then I just—snapped. I told him he wasn’t my hero, he was my patient. I basically… ranted. Loudly. At the number two hero.”

Hitoshi took another deliberate sip. “Incredible. Truly. If I’d known this day was coming, I would’ve brought popcorn.”

Izuku peeked out from between his fingers, cheeks burning. “I ruined it, didn’t I? He’s probably going to request another doctor. Or worse, file a complaint. Or—or—”

“If he files a complaint, it’s not your fault,” Hitoshi cut in, leaning back in his chair with a shrug. “You were offended, and you defended yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that. Heroes don’t need more people kissing their asses. They need someone who’ll call them out when they’re being idiots. Sounds like you did your job.”

Izuku blinked at him, stunned. His chest still felt tight, but… a little less crushing.

He let out a shaky breath that came out half laugh, half groan. “You make everything sound so simple.”

“That’s because it is,” Hitoshi deadpanned. A pause. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Also because I want to see if Todoroki comes back just to watch you panic again. That’s entertainment.”

Izuku grabbed the nearest napkin and hurled it at him.

Chapter Text

“No way. No freaking way Zuku,” Mina was practically doubled over the table, hands pressed to her pink cheeks as she wheezed with laughter. “You yelled at Todoroki? You? At the number two hero? I don’t believe it.”

Izuku groaned and dropped his face into his hands, already dying from secondhand embarrassment, his own. “Can we not—”

“Oh, we can,”  Hitoshi cut in smoothly, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “Doctor Midoriya, bravely telling off the number two hero. Truly the scandal of the decade.”

Mina slapped the table, nearly spilling her drink. “Hitoshi, stop! I can’t breathe!”

“I can’t either,” Izuku muttered, muffled against his palms. He could feel his ears burning red. Every time he thought about that moment in the exam room — his words, Todoroki’s unreadable stare, the silence afterward — he physically cringed . It had been running on repeat in his head all shift. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d made it through the rest of the day without tripping over his own feet.

There’d been much to distract him. The shift had been slow. No surgeries scheduled, no complications, just rounds and check-ins that somehow evaporated the hours. It had been, without question, the fastest shift he’d ever worked. Which, of course, still didn’t stop him from being late to dinner. Six minutes late. Mina had let him have it the second he sat down, like he’d personally committed a crime.

It was their dynamic, though. Mina Ashido: professional hero and quite possibly Izuku’s best friend in the whole world. Their friendship had started years ago, during his residency, when Mina had come crashing — quite literally — into the ER after some reckless stunt on patrol. She hadn’t been critically injured, but she’d been beat up enough that Izuku had worked with her through her recovery. And somehow, from that moment forward, she decided he was hers .

“Lifesaver,” she’d called him, again and again, until it stuck. Until she’d wormed her way into his life so firmly he couldn’t imagine it without her anymore. Mina didn’t take no for an answer when it came to friendship. She was a storm, bright and unrelenting, and Izuku had been swept up in her current before he even realized it. He still didn’t understand why she bothered sticking around — but he was glad she did.

Mina was the type of friend who’d drop everything if Izuku so much as breathed the words I’m free . It didn’t even have to be an emergency. If he texted her on a random Tuesday night saying

he had a couple hours off, she’d abandon whatever she was doing just to hang out. Which was… strange, sure, at least to outsiders.

There had been rumors, of course. Whispered gossip that maybe they were secretly dating. But it wasn’t like that. It would never be like that. Izuku didn’t see Mina that way, and Mina didn’t see him that way either. If anything, her own romantic disasters were centered on a certain red-haired hero she could never quite figure out.

“Anyway,” Mina said, snapping him back to the table with a grin, “don’t sweat it so much. Todoroki’s always been like that. I wouldn’t take it seriously.”

Hitoshi arched a brow. “Right. I forget you actually went to school with him.” His voice was casual, but Izuku caught it. Hitoshi didn’t like to talk about UA — not bitter exactly, but close enough. Mina either never noticed, or she just chose to ignore it.

“Yeah.” Mina shrugged, stabbing a piece of food with her chopsticks. “He never made friends, never wanted to. Made it clear he was only at UA to become a hero, not to hang out with the rest of us. Honestly? He was kinda scary. Nobody could break through his bubble. Not even me, and you know me. I can get anyone to talk to me.”

Izuku smiled faintly, but his mind was already spinning. If even Mina hadn’t cracked Todoroki’s ice wall, then how the hell had Camie managed it? She was loud, sure — bright in the same way Mina was — but Mina had gone to school with Todoroki. Camie hadn’t. Izuku had never once heard Mina mention her being in their class. So how had they met? Now he was curious.

Honestly, he couldn’t believe how many people in his life had gone to UA. Mina had been in Class 1-A. Tsuyu too.

Mina had been his chaos friend, sure, always popping into the ER with some reckless injury, grinning like a maniac while he stitched her up. But Tsuyu… Tsuyu had been different.

She hadn’t come into his ER as a patient. She’d come as a rescuer. The first time he met her, she’d walked in with a group of civilians, soaked from the rain, guiding them gently but firmly through triage. And then, hours later, when she should have been back on patrol, she’d shown up again, not for herself, but to check on the people she’d pulled out of danger. It had floored him. Most heroes didn’t do that. Not because they didn’t care, but because it was impossible to keep track of every face, every person pulled out of wreckage. It all blurred together in the chaos of hero work. But the hero Froppy remembered. Every time.

That was how they started talking. It was easy with Tsuyu. And then, shock of all shocks, he’d found out Mina and Tsuyu knew each other already, classmates at UA. He hadn’t even known until one day Mina had barged into his office mid-conversation with Tsuyu and the two had shrieked like long-lost sisters. That was how it became… them. Mina, Tsuyu, Izuku. And Hitoshi, of course because Hitoshi was always around Izuku, and by extension, always around them. None of them had exactly chosen it, but it stuck. Somehow, the four of them had ended up woven into each other’s lives.

“Honestly,” Mina continued, “you shouldn’t be that offended. His fire side’s always been a touchy subject for Todoroki. Like, ever since the first year of high school. It literally cost him the sports festival. He flat-out refused to use it. The only reason Kats won was because Shouto held himself back.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial way. “Even during the cavalry battle. Poor Iida was, like, begging him to pull out the fire, and nope. Ice, ice, ice. He lost so many points that way. I mean—you guys watched the sports festival, right?”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. Then he let out a small laugh. “Yeah. Of course I did.”

Of course he had. He’d watched every single one, every single year. Even after failing to get into UA, he hadn’t missed a broadcast. The sports festival was… more than just entertainment to Izuku. 

Maybe it was pathetic—but whenever he watched, some part of him always pictured himself out there too. A phantom version of himself, in a uniform he’d never wear, doing things he’d never do.

Izuku remembered that match vividly. Katsuki had won, of course. But what stuck with Izuku was the way Katsuki had looked furious, teeth bared, rage boiling out of him like winning wasn’t enough. 

“So…” Izuku started, rolling Mina's previous words around in his head, mostly because he didn't want his mind to continue to think about the explosive blonde. Anyways, Todoroki had never really made friends. That lined up with what he’d seen earlier—walls built so high no one could climb them, except apparently Camie, who’d somehow managed to wedge herself through a crack. “He really never made any friends?” 

Mina shook her head, lips pursed. “Nope. Everybody tried, you know? You see a quiet guy, you think, oh, he’s just shy, it’ll be easy to pull him out of his shell. But nope. He was polite enough, I guess, but not interested. At all. He made it pretty clear he wasn’t there to make friends. Just to train.”

Izuku hummed softly, slipping into thought.

“Uh oh,” Hitoshi cut in dryly, pointing his chopsticks at him. “Earth to Midoriya. Don’t do that.”

Izuku blinked. “Do what?”

“That.” Hitoshi gestured at his face. “Thinking in silence. It’s creepy. You usually mutter so much people need subtitles to keep up, and when you just shut up and make that face —”

“—it’s scary,” Mina finished, nodding solemnly. “Super scary. Like you’re plotting world domination or something.”

Izuku laughed, embarrassed. “I’m not scary!”

“You are when you don’t make noise,” Hitoshi deadpanned. “Stick to muttering. At least then we know what’s going on in the hurricane you call a brain.”

Shaking his head, Izuku smiled, setting his chopsticks down. “I was just thinking… Mina, did you ever have a girl named Camie in your class?”

“Camie?” Mina tilted her head, frowning in thought. “No… let’s see. There was Ochako, Tsuyu, Yaoyorozu, Jirou, Hagakure… nope. No Camie.”

Izuku hummed again, leaning back in his chair. “Huh.”

Mina squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean ‘huh’ ? Don’t just ‘huh’ and then clam up. Spill.”

“I… I can’t. It’s patient confidentiality—”

“Oh my god,” Hitoshi cut in, voice flat. “Bro. You literally said he’s going to switch doctors. Relax.”

Izuku groaned, scrubbing at his face. “…Fine. It’s just—he came with a friend. And since you’re telling me he’s not the type to have friends, I was curious how that even happened. Because she’s… she’s very much like you, Mina. Very bubbly. Big energy.”

 “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh. Do you think they’re dating? Is she his girlfriend?” Mina gasped, eyes going wide.

Izuku’s face turned red immediately. “What?! No—no, no, I don’t know, Mina! I don’t know. And I guess we’ll never know, because he’s definitely going to switch doctors after today.”

“Boohoo,” Mina sing-songed, leaning back with a grin. 

Hitoshi smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “It’d be hilarious if he didn’t switch doctors. You’d combust every appointment.”

Izuku groaned again, dropping his head onto his folded arms.

“Speaking of friendships, relationships,” Hitoshi pivoted smoothly, glancing at Mina, “how’s yours going?”

“Don’t. Ask.”Mina immediately dropped her head onto the table with a loud thunk . 

“That bad?” Izuku lifted his head just enough to blink at her. 

“Worse,” she muttered into the wood. “Why is dating so complicated?!”

“Maybe it’s complicated,” Hitoshi said slowly, “because it’s a one-sided relationship.”

Mina’s head snapped up, glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Excuse me?”

Hitoshi didn’t even flinch. “You heard me.”

Izuku winced, but then… well, he couldn’t not agree. “I mean… he has a little bit of a point, Mina.”

“Traitor,” Mina hissed at him.

Izuku held up his hands. “I’m just saying—you can’t really expect Kirishima to, uh… give you his all if he doesn’t even know he’s in a relationship with you.”

Mina groaned, dropping back into her chair with a dramatic flop. “Well, he’ll never know, because he’d never look at me that way. Ever.”

Izuku softened, leaning forward. “You don’t know that unless you try.”

Hitoshi tilted his head. “Right now you’ve basically got him trapped in a hostage situation he doesn’t even know about. You should at least let him negotiate.”

Izuku burst out laughing, clapping a hand over his mouth too late. Mina threw her napkin at Hitoshi, who dodged with a lazy lean.

“I hate you both,” Mina announced, but there was no real heat behind it. “The worst friends. Actual villains.”

“Villains who tell you the truth,” Hitoshi corrected smoothly, sipping his water.

Izuku was still grinning as he added, “And villains who want you to be happy.”

“It’s just so hard to tell someone you’ve known your whole life that you like them.” Mina groaned again, hiding her face in her hands this time. 

“Well, yeah, I can imagine. You’ve known Kirishima since, what—middle school?” Izuku tilted his head.

“Exactly,” Mina said, muffled by her palms. She peeked out long enough to glare at him. “Which makes it even worse. Like, I’m supposed to see him as a brother, right?”

“I don’t know,” Hitoshi drawled. “You can see him however you want. It’s not your fault your heart developed feelings for him.”

“Yeah, but what if I’m confusing them? What if it’s just because I’ve known him so long that I think I should like him?” Mina slumped further. 

“Mina. You’ve known me for years too. Do you like me?” Izuku leaned forward.

Her head shot up so fast it nearly smacked the table. “No offense, but no. Ew, no. You’re like my little brother.”

“Not offended,” Izuku said with a small smile. “But see? You know when you have feelings for someone. Even if you’ve known them forever. So what’s scaring you so much? Because I don’t think it’s the telling him part. You’ve never been scared to tell people how you feel.”

For once, Mina didn’t answer. She just pressed her hands harder against her face, hiding from both of them.

Hitoshi blinked. Then his lips curled into a slow smirk. “Oh wow. We hit something. This is the first time she’s ever shut up.”

“Shut the hell up, Hitoshi,” Mina snapped without looking up.

“You’re scared because you don’t want to ruin what you already have with him, aren’t you? You like the way things are, and if you tell him, it might change everything. And you don’t want to lose him.”Izuku’s voice gentled. 

There was a long silence. Mina peeked between her fingers, glaring faintly. “When did you finally become a therapist?”

“About ten seconds ago,” Hitoshi said smoothly.

 “And he’ll be charging you double for the session.”

Izuku leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I get it, Mina. It’s scary. Because yeah, it could change things. But imagine if that’s how he felt too. If he liked you back, wouldn’t that solve all of this? All your one-sided, non-existent relationship problems? Because right now—he doesn’t even know you’re mentally in a relationship with him.”

“Ugh, don’t say it like that. It sounds worse when you say it out loud.” Mina dragged her hands down her face with a groan.

“But it’s true,” Izuku said, though his voice was gentle.

“I don’t know…” Mina sighed, shoulders slumping. “It’s just hard. I can’t tell if he likes me. And I don’t want to tell him if he doesn’t, because I’d rather keep him as a friend than lose him forever, you know? If I tell him and he doesn’t feel the same, it’ll make things awkward. And I don’t want that. Especially since we have so many mutual friends.”

Izuku hummed quietly. She had a point, the squad was practically a second family. He knew the name they’d gone by back in school; the memory of it still sat bitter on his tongue every now and then. He understood why Mina would hesitate.

“I don’t want it to ruin anything between our friends either,” Mina continued, fiddling with her straw. “I’d hate for them to have to pick sides. We’re all so close, and I never want to be the reason things split.”

Her voice dropped, smaller now. “And besides… I don’t even know if he feels the same. Because it’s Kirishima. It’s Ejiro . He’s always so—friendly with everyone. Hugging, high-fives, all that. He’s like this giant golden retriever, right? He’s touchy and warm with everyone, so how am I supposed to tell if it means something when he does it with me?”

Izuku stayed quiet, letting her talk.

“And plus,” Mina added, pressing her cheek into her palm, “the whole squad sees me as their little sister. Like I need to be protected. If anything, he probably sees me the same way. I’m basically just… one of the bros.”

Her eyes widened. She slapped a hand dramatically to her forehead. “Oh god. I am one of those girls, aren’t I? The ones who are like, ‘yeah, I’m one of the guys.’”

Hitoshi finally cut in, voice dry as sandpaper. “Well… you kinda are one of the guys. I mean, look at your friend groups. When you’re not with us, it’s basically a frat house lineup. Nothing but guys.”

Mina sat up straighter, pointing a finger at him. “That is not true! I hang out with Tsuyu, and Ochaco, and Kiyoka sometimes!”

Hitoshi tilted his head, expression flat. “Uh-huh. And who are you hanging out with right now?” He gestured lazily around the table. “And who do you hang out with when we’re not free?”

Mina’s mouth opened, closed, then puffed out her cheeks. “...poof.”

Izuku bit back a laugh, trying to soften it. “Okay, but seriously. Why don’t you just ask the others in your group what they think? Maybe they’ve noticed something you haven’t. You know—outside perspective.”

“No way!” Mina shook her head furiously, pink curls bouncing. “Absolutely not. That would make everything a thousand times more awkward. If the whole squad knew? Ugh, I’d never live it down.”

“So then why do you keep inviting us to hang out with your squad? If you don’t want anyone there catching on to your massive, earth-shattering crush, maybe don’t put yourself in the blast zone.” Hitoshi arched an eyebrow.

“Because!” Mina threw her hands up. “Because I want you guys there as, like—moral support, duh. Nobody in the squad knows I like him. Nobody. But if I have you guys around, at least I can… I don’t know, lean on someone when I feel like I’m gonna combust. Or when I say something stupid. Or when I almost cry because he ruffles my hair and calls me ‘Mins’ like I’m just one of the guys!” Her hands smacked down on the table with a dramatic thud. “You two are my backup emotional support crew, okay? Deal with it.”

Izuku blinked, then smiled a little. “I mean… I think that’s kind of sweet.”

“It’s codependency. But sure. Sweet.” Hitoshi sipped his drink, deadpan. 

“Okay, Mina. I’m gonna repeat what I always tell you.” Izuku smiled.

“Don’t. Not the speech.” Mina groaned, immediately dragging her hands down her face. 

“Yes, the speech,” Izuku insisted. “Look—it's okay to feel this way. It’s normal. But I always tell you, you just have to be upfront. The best thing you can do is tell someone how you really feel. Because one day…” He paused, frowning slightly as he searched for the right words. “…one day it’s going to slip out anyway. And when it does, it won’t be the way you wanted. It’ll be messy, and unplanned, and worse, you won’t have any control over it. Wouldn’t you rather choose how and when?”

Mina made a dramatic noise into her palms, muffled and despairing. “Ughhh. You make it sound so simple, but it’s not. I can’t. I’m literally doomed.”

Hitoshi leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink like he’d been waiting for this exact line. “Finally. She admits it.”

“Shut up, Hitoshi.” Mina peeked through her fingers just to glare at him.

As Mina groaned into her hands like he’d just signed her death sentence, something twisted in his chest. Because wasn’t he a hypocrite? Be upfront. Tell them how you really feel. He could say it a thousand times to her, but when it came to himself—when it came to the ache of wanting a quirk, of wanting to be a hero, of wanting things he’d never admit out loud—he kept it all locked tight. Safer that way. Maybe Mina was right. Maybe they were all doomed in their own ways.

Hitoshi stirred his coffee lazily, breaking Izuku’s spiral before it went too far. “So what’s the plan then, Mina? You going to confess, or keep dragging us into your soap opera until Izuku loses all his hair from stress?”

“Ha-ha,” Mina deadpanned, flicking a balled-up napkin at his head.

Izuku laughed under his breath, but his own words still echoed in his mind, faint and bitter. Wouldn’t you rather choose how and when?

Mina groaned dramatically, letting her forehead thunk onto the table again. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know, and it’s getting harder by the day. But I don’t want to bore you guys with this whole conversation, so let’s just… move on.”

Izuku blinked at her. “Mina, you literally talk about this every day.” He leaned forward, soft but earnest. “And we’ve never once been bored. We’re here for you.”

“Exactly,” Hitoshi added dryly, stirring his straw around his glass of iced tea with all the enthusiasm of a cat watching laundry spin. “Your love life is the only drama I subscribe to. If you stop, I’ll have to go back to actual television.”

Mina lifted her head just enough to squint at him. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” he said cheerfully.

She sighed, collapsing back into her hands. “Ok well, it’s getting harder. It’s easy when we’re on joint patrols, you know? Because then my brain switches to hero mode. Priorities. Save people first, crush later. But when it’s just the two of us hanging out—” She slapped her palms over her eyes and groaned again. “I have no idea how to control it. I feel like my heart’s gonna explode every two seconds. And it’s getting worse. Like, progressively worse.”

Izuku glanced at Hitoshi, who was already smirking like this was the juiciest part of the soap opera. Then he turned back to Mina and said, gently, “Well… maybe that’s a sign it’s not going away. And maybe that’s why you need to—”

“Don’t say it,” she warned, muffled behind her fingers. “If you say confess again, I’ll scream.”

“Do it, Izuku. Make her scream in public.” Hitoshi tipped his chair back with a slow grin.

Izuku threw a napkin at his head.

“Okay, okay!” Izuku lifted both hands in surrender, laughing a little despite himself. “I won’t say confess.”

“Too late!” Mina wailed dramatically, throwing her head back and letting out a loud, exaggerated scream that made the neighboring table glance over.

Hitoshi choked on his drink, laughing so hard he had to cover his mouth. “Worth it,” he managed between coughs. “That was everything I wanted.”

“Glad I could entertain you,” Mina muttered, cheeks pink as she slumped against the table again.

Izuku shook his head, still smiling faintly. “Look, I’m serious. I’m not saying you have to do anything right this second. But at least… keep it in mind, okay? You’re so convinced it’ll never work, but you’ve never even given yourself the chance to see if it could. Just… think about it. Really think about it.”

Mina peeked at him from behind her hands, expression caught between touched and skeptical.

Izuku leaned forward a little, his voice gentling. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. Because if you keep holding it in and something else happens—like he starts dating someone, or he moves on without ever knowing how you felt—you’ll regret it. And I don’t want that for you.”

There was a pause. Mina puffed out her cheeks, then blew out a long sigh. “You’re too nice, Zuku. You’re supposed to be on my side, not making me face reality.”

“I am on your side,” Izuku said softly. “That’s why I’m telling you.”

Hitoshi leaned back, smirking as if he’d been waiting for the opening. “Congratulations, Midoriya. You’ve officially unlocked your therapist arc. At this rate, we’ll need to start paying you hourly.”

“Why do I even talk?” Izuku groaned, burying his face in his hands again.

Mina, meanwhile, was still chewing over his words, twisting her straw between her fingers. Then, slowly, she lifted her head. “Okay. Fine. Let’s say I do it. Hypothetically. If I tell him… you guys have to be there. Like, in the vicinity. For moral support. No excuses.”

Izuku blinked. “Wait, what—”

“I’m serious, Zuku!” Mina pointed at him and then at Hitoshi. “If I tell Eijiro and he rejects me, I’ll actually die. And I can’t rely on Denki or Hanta to pick up the pieces, they’d just make jokes until I cried harder. And Katsuki—” she cut herself off, groaning.  “God. Kats would probably try to comfort me in his own way, but it’d be like… ugh. Super blunt. He’d tell me to man up, that it’s not the end of the world, it’s just a guy, and that it’d be Eijiro’s loss, not mine. Which, sure, sounds nice, but it wouldn’t help. Because it would feel like my loss. And he just… wouldn’t get that.”

Izuku’s stomach tightened. That… didn’t sound like the Kacchan he knew. The Kacchan he remembered would’ve laughed. He would’ve dismissed her feelings outright, called her pathetic for crying over something so “stupid.” But the way Mina said it…That was not the Kacchan from their middle school hallways. That was someone else entirely. Someone Izuku couldn’t quite picture, no matter how hard he tried.

It was always strange to Izuku how Mina, of all people, had managed to befriend someone like him.

Because to Izuku, Katsuki wasn’t “Kats.” He was Kacchan. Still frozen in time as the boy from middle school, the one who carved himself into Izuku’s memory with every insult, every shove, every casual cruelty. Katsuki had been mean… no, not just mean, but cruel. Cruel enough to tell Izuku, more than once, that the world would be better if he just didn’t exist.

And yet, even then, even hearing words that should have shattered him—Izuku had never once considered it. Not seriously. Not when he still had his mom, and he knew what it would do to her if he disappeared. That had been enough to hold him steady. There was also a part of him, some small, stubborn part of him that never quite believed Katsuki really meant it. But that wasn’t a question Izuku would ever ask. Not then. Not now. Especially not when he hadn’t seen Katsuki in years.

Izuku’s feelings toward him were jagged, messy. Once, Kacchan had been everything. An idol, someone who burned so bright it hurt to look at him. Izuku had worshipped that brightness even as it scorched him raw. He’d let himself believe Kacchan could do no wrong. And maybe that was the most pathetic part: he hadn’t just endured the abuse. He’d admired the person who dealt it.

And what had that devotion gotten him? Bruises. Scars. A voice in his head that still sometimes whispered worthless, quirkless, useless. He hated Katsuki for it.

But maybe worse, he hated himself — for never fighting back, for never saying stop, for letting someone who called him “loser” define the word victory in his mind.

So hearing Mina drop his name so casually, like “Kats” was just another friend… it was surreal. Unbearably surreal. Because Kats sounded like someone Izuku had never met: gruff but loyal, sharp-edged but dependable, someone people trusted. Mina’s Katsuki didn’t line up with the one carved into Izuku’s head at all.

And maybe that was the worst part — the possibility that Katsuki had changed. That he had become someone better, someone worth keeping, for everyone except Izuku. When did he change? The thought was a needle slipping under his skin, sharp and unwelcome.

Izuku had never told Mina that he’d known Katsuki since they were little. Since before quirks. He didn’t think Katsuki would want anyone to know — not that he used to waste his time with a quirkless loser. And sometimes Izuku didn’t want to admit it either. Because what did that say about him? That he’d let himself be tethered for so long to someone who delighted in stepping on him. That he’d spent years mistaking cruelty for strength.

It was easier to let Kacchan become a scar in his memory — that didn’t hurt until it was scraped raw again. Mina didn’t mean to, but every time she said his name, Izuku felt the scar throb.

And the strangest, ugliest thing was that beneath all the bitterness, all the shame, there was still a part of him that admired him. And that was the part he hated most: that even now, some small piece of him still believed Kacchan was everything he’d never be.

And then he caught it—the word echoing in his head.
Kacchan.

Izuku blinked, his chest going tight. Why the hell was he still calling him that? The name felt childish. He clenched his jaw, shoving the thought down hard. He didn’t call him that anymore. Not out loud. Not even in his own head.

Hitoshi arched a brow, stirring his drink lazily. “So what, you want me to keep a stash of tissues in my pocket for you? Maybe hold your hand while you ugly-cry?”

“Yes!” Mina shot back without hesitation, jabbing her finger at him. “You will be in charge of tissues and food. Because obviously my favorite food will help me feel better, duh. And the tissues are for the constant waterfall of tears that will happen for, like, twenty-four hours straight. Maybe longer. I’ll probably need to take vacation time to recover from the heartbreak.”

“So basically, we’re your emotional bodyguards. Great. I’ll make sure to bring popcorn.”

Izuku snorted into his sleeve.

“And you—” Mina whipped around to point at him now, eyes narrowing dramatically. “You’re in charge of emotional support, Zuku. Because out of everyone at this table, you’re the most in tune with your emotions.”

Izuku froze mid-breath. Which, honestly, was the biggest lie he’d ever heard in his life. If only she knew how much of a mess his emotions really were, coiled and knotted and shoved into corners he refused to touch. But he just gave her a weak smile, because correcting her would mean admitting way too much.

“And also,” Mina added with a grin, “you’re a doctor. So if I, like, go crazy and rampage in pain or something, you can stitch me up. Two birds, one Zuku.”

Hitoshi let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Wow. You’ve really thought this whole post-confession apocalypse plan through. Should we start drawing up contracts?”

Mina stuck her tongue out at him.

Izuku chuckled. “Well… as long as you decide to tell him, we’ll be here. Don’t worry. Just let us know.”

Izuku kicked the apartment door shut with his heel, juggling the box of leftovers in one hand and the strap of his shoulder bag in the other. The smell of grease and sugar still clung to him—dessert Mina had insisted on, the kind of indulgence he never would’ve ordered himself.

She’d also shoved the container at him with a grin that left no room for argument. Because you’ll forget to eat otherwise! she’d chirped. He’d laughed then, but the echo of her words followed him to his apartment. But Izuku knew the truth. Mina didn’t trust him to take care of himself. None of them did, really. And sure, he’d laughed it off, made some joke—but deep down, it lodged like a splinter. Because wasn’t that the contradiction of his whole life? Other people were always looking out for him, when all he’d ever wanted was to be the one saving them. He wasn’t supposed to need saving.

The fridge groaned when he opened it, nearly empty except for three other identical boxes of takeout. He shoved tonight’s prize onto the shelf and pressed the door closed harder than necessary. For a moment, he just stood there, palm resting against the cool metal. 

He should’ve felt accomplished. He had, technically, everything he’d worked for: his degree, his residency, his practice. He was good—no, the best—at what he did. People lived because of him. People walked out of his ER stitched up, stabilized, safe. And yet.

And yet, every time he let his mind still, the same gnawing emptiness clawed back up his chest. Like a phantom limb, some part of him missing that he couldn’t place. He saved people every day, but not in the way his heart had burned for since he was a kid. It was almost laughable—spending years convincing himself he was happy, that he was content. And then nights like this reminding him that it was all scaffolding. 

He’d done everything right. He’d succeeded. But it still felt like failure.

Why did it feel like the life he was living was someone else’s?

Izuku tugged the strap of his bag over his head and dropped it on the table, slumping into the nearest chair. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, trying to smother the ache that was less physical, more… constant. A quiet voice in his chest that whispered the same thing it always had since he was four years old:

Hero.

Because this—this life, this work—it was good. More than good. He saved people every day. People walked into his ER broken, bleeding, their lives dangling by threads, and he kept those threads from snapping. He put them back together. Wasn’t that what he’d always wanted? To save people with a smile, just like All Might?

But no matter how many times he told himself that, the ache didn’t leave. Because being a surgeon wasn’t the same as being a hero. Not the kind he’d dreamed of. Sure, sometimes his patients thanked him. Sometimes they called him a lifesaver, even a miracle worker. But he knew the truth. He’d done his job. That was all. The real work—the healing, the rehabilitation, the drive to keep moving forward—that was theirs. They were their own heroes. He just gave them the chance.

And maybe that should have been enough. Maybe it was selfish to want more. But deep down, he couldn’t shake it. That desperate yearning for something he was never meant to have. He wasn’t supposed to still feel it. Not at twenty-four, not after years of proving himself in another field, not after years of swallowing the truth every teacher, every doctor, every kid his age had thrown in his face: You can’t be a hero without a quirk.

It was impossible. It had always been impossible. So why was he still—still—asking himself what if?

He scrubbed his hands over his face, exhaling hard. No. He couldn’t go there. He couldn’t spiral. That dream earlier—it had rattled him, that was all. It wasn’t reality. It wasn’t some buried truth clawing its way out. He was fine. He was happy. He loved his work, he loved saving lives, he loved—

He had to love it. Because what else was there?

If quirks didn’t exist, if the world was just humans and nothing else, this would have been his path from the start. He would’ve been proud to be a doctor, proud to call it his dream. So why wasn’t it enough now? Because of one stupid dream? That had to be it. It had to be. It wasn’t some flaw in him, it wasn’t discontent, it wasn’t failure. Just a dream bleeding into waking hours, nothing more. He could shove it back where it belonged. He’d done it for years. He could do it again.

He needed something else to focus on. Something useful.

His gaze drifted to the edge of his bag, slouched against the leg of the chair. Almost without thinking, he pulled it closer, flipped the flap open, and pulled out the folder stamped TODOROKI, SHOUTO.

Technically, he was still on Izuku’s patient list. At least for now. Todoroki hadn’t requested a transfer. Not yet. Izuku wouldn’t know for sure until tomorrow—or until Todoroki came back from his lab results. But still. For tonight, he was Izuku’s responsibility.

He flipped the file open, eyes scanning the notes he’d scribbled earlier. Todoroki’s case was complicated, but not unsolvable. If he didn’t want to use his fire, then fine. Izuku could respect that, even if part of him wanted to shake the man until he realized how incredible that power was. But at the end of the day, Izuku was his doctor. And if Todoroki didn’t want to use his quirk, then Izuku’s job was simple: find another way.

“There are medications that could… mm, no, side effects too strong, could interfere with—what about… no, not viable for long-term… maybe—maybe a combination therapy, lower doses across categories, less impact on performance…” He tapped the pen against the page, muttering under his breath as he skimmed possibilities. 

He would find a way to support the body that Todoroki had chosen for himself. Medications, treatment plans—something to stop the damage before it cost him more.

Still, Izuku’s pen was already scratching across the notebook, filling the page with furious notes and half-legible diagrams. Because if Todoroki could use both sides of his quirk—if he would —it would change everything. For his body. For his work. For everyone depending on him.

So he scribbled. And scribbled. For hours. When he finally set the pen down, his hand was cramped and the clock on the wall read an hour he didn’t want to process.

Izuku leaned back in his chair, staring at the mess of ink in front of him.

If Todoroki stayed his patient, he’d give him the safer plan. The compromise. But if he didn’t… Izuku would still push him. One more time. To try. To use everything he had. Because Izuku knew what it was like to hold yourself back. To pretend you were fine with half of yourself when all you really wanted was to be whole.

Izuku dragged a hand through his curls, staring at the notebook sprawled across the table. His handwriting was a mess, his thoughts even worse.

If he just used both… if he’d just let himself—

Izuku broke off, catching the way his pen had started pressing harder, the ink blotting in thick, angry dots. He dropped it with a groan, palms pressing into his eyes.

Todoroki’s refusal to use his fire—it made sense.The look on his face when Izuku had pushed him—it all made sense. But it still twisted something in Izuku’s chest. Because wasn’t that what he’d done, too? Lived with only half of himself? Pretended he was fine with it?

His whole life had been built around that half-version. No quirk. Just Deku . Just useless. He shoved back from the table, the chair screeching against the floor. “Damn it, Kacchan—”

The name slipped out before he even realized it. Izuku froze.

He hadn’t said that name out loud in years. It wasn’t supposed to live in his mouth anymore. And yet it had fallen out as easily as breathing. Kacchan. The name that belonged to a boy who had laughed at him until the world joined in. The boy who had shoved him down so hard that even now, at twenty-four, Izuku still felt the echo of it.

But Mina’s voice wouldn’t leave him alone. Kats . The friend. The blunt-but-dependable one. The one who’d comfort Mina, in his own brash way, if Kirishima ever broke her heart. Izuku pressed his hand to his mouth, as if he could shove the name back in. Because if Kacchan really had become someone new—someone Mina trusted— 

His hand curled tighter over his mouth, breath shallow. “Who the hell am I even supposed to be?” he whispered.

The shrill buzz of his phone nearly sent him out of his chair. It rattled across the table, vibrating against the open notebook until the pages quivered. The hospital’s emergency line flashed bright on the screen. Izuku stared at it, pulse pounding in his ears. Then it rang again. Louder. He swallowed hard, throat tight, and reached for it.

Chapter Text

The hospital doors banged open with enough force to rattle the hinges, Izuku’s shoes striking hard against the linoleum as he sprinted down the hall. His bag slapped against his hip, the strap digging into his shoulder, but he didn’t slow. Couldn’t. The nurse’s voice still rang in his ear, frayed with panic.

“Dr. Midoriya, we need you—open chest wound, massive blood loss. Multiple casualties inbound. Civilians and heroes both. It’s— it’s bad. It’s really bad.”

That was all she’d managed before the line cut, drowned in static and shouting in the background. Izuku had never heard any of the nursing staff like that before. They were the calm ones. If she’d sounded shaken, then whatever had happened out there was bigger than anything he’d ever faced.

Now his lungs burned as he flew past the triage wing, already bracing for the flood of stretchers. From the snippets he’d caught, Central wasn’t the only hospital receiving patients. The attack—whatever it had been—was too widespread. Casualties were being scattered across the city, every ER stretched to capacity. Izuku’s hands twitched against the air. The nurse hadn’t been able to say which hero was hanging on for dear life—just a hero. That was all.

Izuku had always told himself he treated them the same. Every life mattered equally. But still… something in him snapped taut whenever it was a hero. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was foolish. But he couldn’t help it. Heroes saved people every day. The least he could do was be their hero. Izuku’s reflection had been a blur when he caught it in the hospital glass doors—a pale, hollow-eyed mess with dark crescents stamped beneath his eyes. No sleep. He hadn’t even realized the night had gone until the shrill buzz of his phone snapped him out of Todoroki’s case file. He’d gone too deep again. He always did, when it came to heroes. Something about them short-circuited the part of his brain that remembered he was only human. He couldn’t help it—Todoroki, Mina, Mirio, any of them—it was like all the wiring inside of him sparked at once, all sense of reason fried away. So of course he’d stayed up until dawn. And now here he was, being hauled back into the hospital by an emergency call with no time to wash his face, no time to disguise the fact that he looked like he’d been dug up out of the ground. If the nurses noticed, they didn’t say a word.

Izuku’s lungs screamed by the time he rounded the corner, shoes skidding across the polished floor. He wasn’t unfit—he kept himself lean, toned enough to handle the twelve-hour shifts and the sprinting emergencies—but he wasn’t built like the heroes whose bodies filled these halls tonight. He wasn’t built for this kind of running. But none of that mattered. His legs burned, his chest ached, and still he pushed faster, until he was crashing through the doors of the OR wing, nurses already waiting with frantic hands.

“Vitals?” he barked, shoving his bag at someone without looking. Another set of hands were already dragging him toward the scrub sink.

“Pulse faint, blood pressure barely holding—he coded twice in the ambulance, we got him back both times—”

“Damage?” Izuku demanded, voice clipped, breath harsh. Soap foamed under his hands, the automatic faucet running too slow for his patience.

“Pierced lung, chest cavity exposed. Severe trauma across the sternum—Doctor, it looks…” the nurse faltered, something breaking in her voice. “It looks like the heart itself… ruptured. We’ve never— we’ve never seen anything like it.”

Izuku’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing behind his mask. “Ruptured?” he repeated, too sharp. That wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t have been possible. “Then how the hell is there still a pulse?”

“That’s just it, sir.” The nurse’s voice was disbelieving. “We don’t know.”

They were wrapping him in sterile gowns now, tugging gloves over his hands, adjusting his mask. The world blurred. He barely registered the rest—shredded tissue in the chest wall, catastrophic hand injuries, blood loss beyond reason—before they were ushering him to the swinging double doors.

Izuku’s pulse was a drumbeat in his ears. His mouth was dry, his throat tight.  The sterile light of the OR flooded over him, bleaching the room in white. The nurses parted around him, their eyes all fixed on the table in the center. Izuku forced his gaze there, and stopped cold. Blood. That was the first thing. It was everywhere—slick on the tiles, dripping off the edge of the table, soaking every scrap of fabric on the body in front of him. Too much. Way too much. Izuku had seen blood before—hell, he worked with it every day—but never like this. Never in sheets so thick it looked like the hero’s suit had been made from it. He didn’t understand how there was even a pulse. How anyone with that much blood loss could still be clinging on. His feet carried him closer, slow, like his body already knew something his brain didn’t want to face yet. From here, he could see the chest cavity split wide open, organs struggling against failing machinery, the heart barely moving. He forced his eyes up, because if he didn’t focus, if he let himself freeze—

And that’s when he saw it. Blonde. Ash-blonde hair, matted with sweat and blood, but still—still somehow defying gravity, clumped in those sharp, impossible angles he knew like the back of his own hand. Izuku’s breath caught. No. No, no, no.

He stepped closer, every muscle in his body locking tighter the nearer he got. And then the mask, torn black fabric streaked with red, the familiar cut of a hero suit under all that ruin— It was him. Every bone in Izuku’s body froze solid.

Kacchan.

The word slammed through his head. His heart thundered so loud he could hear it in his ears, pounding over the beeps and hisses of the monitors. He hated it—hated that he recognized him instantly, hated that his body reacted before his brain caught up. Even under all that blood, even half-covered with the oxygen mask, even broken down to something that barely resembled the force of nature he remembered—Izuku knew exactly who was on that table. And he couldn’t move.

Kacchan. The name screamed inside his skull in bold, ugly letters, over and over, so loud he almost expected it to come tearing out of his mouth. Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan.

Izuku couldn’t move. His body had gone stiff, every muscle locked. He knew—he knew —the staff were looking at him, waiting for him to bark the first order. But he couldn’t. His throat had closed up, his chest heaved like there wasn’t enough air in the room. There weren’t words for this. Not for the storm ripping through him right now. No language could cover it. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear the rhythm in his own ears, a brutal percussion that drowned out the machines. Sweat prickled sharp at the back of his neck. He hated it. He hated that he recognized that hair instantly, like his body had never forgotten. He hated that, out of all the heroes that could’ve been wheeled through those doors, it was him .

Even under all that blood, even with his face buried behind the oxygen mask, even shredded down to pieces, Izuku knew. The torn mask. The black edges of his suit, barely visible under the blood. Every detail carved like a knife against his chest. And he hated that he couldn’t look away. That he couldn’t move. He was rooted to the floor, staring, while everything in him screamed to do something. Adrenaline had hit him ages ago, when the call came in, when he’d sprinted through the halls faster than he ever had in his life. But this—this was something else. His veins felt like fire, his body so overloaded he almost swayed on his feet. Lightheaded. Dizzy. His palms slick with sweat. What the fuck was this?

What the fuck was this?

Izuku’s eyes locked on Katsuki’s face, but there was nothing looking back at him. No glare. No scowl. No voice spitting his name like an insult. Just a body, silent and broken in every form, lying on his table. For a split second, Izuku honestly wondered if he’d finally snapped. If the long nights, the exhaustion had finally dragged him over the edge into insanity. Because there was no way—there was no way —this was Katsuki. And yet, he couldn’t even imagine hallucinating him like this. If his brain had decided to torture him with visions, it wouldn’t have been this . Never this. Katsuki was cruel, Katsuki was harsh, Katsuki was everything Izuku hated and admired all rolled into one—but he would never picture him like this. Dying. His mind could’ve conjured nightmares of Katsuki sneering down at him, screaming at him, blowing him to pieces. But this? No. Not even in his worst moments.

It had been years since he’d actually seen him. Since middle school. Since the paths had split and Izuku had thrown himself across an ocean just to build a future. High school in America, college credits stacked early, medical track shoved into fast-forward. And in all that time, in all those years, Izuku had imagined—he’d let himself imagine—what it would be like to see Kacchan again. Sometimes he hated himself for even letting the thought exist, wishing he never had to see that face again.  But never like this. Never strapped to his table. Never covered in blood. Never barely breathing. The sight made his stomach heave, bile rushing sharp up his throat. He pressed his tongue hard to the roof of his mouth, forcing it back down, but the nausea still burned. Because this wasn’t some imagined scenario. This was real. 

“Doctor—what do we do?!”

The nurse’s voice cracked against the walls, sharp, panicked, begging for direction. All eyes were on him. Izuku’s throat locked. His hands wouldn’t respond. His body was frozen, his feet cemented to the floor. For the first time, he understood. He understood exactly why it wasn’t just frowned on but flat-out not recommended to operate on someone you knew. Because how the hell were you supposed to move when the person bleeding out in front of you was carved so deep into your bones that even their hair set off alarms in your chest?

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t—

The monitor screamed. A flatline .Izuku’s heart stopped with it. For half a second, he forgot how to breathe. His ears rang, blood rushing so loud it drowned out the OR. The world narrowed to that one shrill sound and the still chest on the table. Katsuki’s chest.

His stomach lurched. He swore the floor tilted. His body wanted to fold in on itself, shut down, quit. Every cell in him screamed no, no, no, like if he said it enough times he could rewind the clock and undo it. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t—because if it was, then Kacchan was gone. And that thought alone was so wrong, so unbearable, that his brain shorted out. And then, before his brain could even catch up, his body lurched forward. His feet moved on their own, shoving him to the table, shoving him into motion. His hands were shaking but they moved — voice breaking through the chaos. “We’re not losing him—move, move! ”

He pressed down, hard, blood slick under his gloves, shouting for the paddles. The machine was wheeled over, gel slapped on, the pads pressed to scarred, broken skin.

“Clear!”

The jolt slammed through the body on the table. Izuku’s own chest jerked with it, like the shock had burned into him too. For one terrible second, nothing.

Beep. Beep

Izuku’s arms trembled where they braced against the table. His throat hurt from how hard he swallowed. He couldn’t even breathe relief; all he could do was force himself to work. 

After that, it was all muscle memory. His fingers worked while his chest burned. He clamped, stitched, suctioned, barking orders as though each word could drag Katsuki back from the line. The team moved with him, metal flashing under the lights, blood still flooding but being beaten back by sheer will and training. And then—silence shattered by the alarm again.

“Flatline—he’s going, we’re losing him!”

“Charge the paddles—now, now! ” someone yelled, already fumbling with the machine.

Izuku’s chest squeezed so hard it hurt. His vision tunneled. For a split second, he swore his own knees would buckle. He hated the panic clawing up his throat. This was just another patient, it had to be, that was the rule. But it wasn’t. It never would be. It was Kacchan. Loud, cruel, untouchable Kacchan, the boy who had screamed at him his whole life, the one he swore he hated—And Izuku couldn’t bear the thought of him gone. Not like this. Not on his table. This wasn’t Kacchan. Kacchan didn’t quit. Izuku wanted to grab him by the shoulders, shake him awake, scream at him the way Katsuki had screamed at him a thousand times before. Stop giving up. You don’t get to give up. Not you.

The monitors screamed louder. It was just his body, Izuku knew, his body failing in ways no one could control—but it still felt like betrayal. Like he was slipping through Izuku’s fingers on purpose. And that thought alone made bile rise up his throat. Because never—not once in his life—had Kacchan lost. Not really. To Izuku, Katsuki had always been the embodiment of victory itself. Every race on the playground, every exam, ranking and fight—Kacchan came out on top. He didn’t just win, he dominated. He burned so bright, so relentlessly, that Izuku had built half his childhood around chasing that light, convinced Kacchan could never fall. So to see him here, flatline shrieking, body slack, life sliding away like sand through Izuku’s hands, felt impossible. Wrong. Kacchan didn’t lose. Not ever. And yet here he was, and Izuku couldn’t reconcile it. Couldn’t fit the image of the boy who was always two steps ahead, always out of reach, with the one lying still and silent on his table.

He pressed his hand flat over Katsuki’s sternum, blood soaking through the glove, and for a single raw second, he thought— please, don’t make me fail you, not you, not like this.

His throat burned as the words tore through his head, harsh and ugly. Don’t you dare lose now. Don’t you dare let me be the reason you lose. Because if Kacchan lost here, on this table, under his hands—it wouldn’t just be death. It would be Izuku’s fault. The words ripped past his teeth before he could stop them, a hoarse whisper no one else in the room was meant to hear. “Don’t you dare lose now. Don’t you dare let me be the reason you lose.” 

The shock slammed through the body on the table. Everyone held their breath.

Beep.

Beep.

A pulse.

“Stabilize him. We’re not done.” Izuku’s arms trembled as he forced himself forward again, jaw locked tight.

And he worked. Because he couldn’t afford to think anymore. Thinking meant feeling, and if he let himself feel, he’d shut down. So he didn’t. He shoved everything into a box, slammed the lid, and locked it. The face on the table wasn’t Kacchan. It wasn’t anybody. It was just a patient. Just tissue, just blood, just organs that needed fixing.

His hands moved on autopilot. Clamp, stitch, suction. The words left his mouth without him realizing half of them, sharp orders echoing back to him from the team. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, shoulders hunched, sweat beading under the gown. Minutes, hours—it all smeared together.

Somewhere in the back of his head, the truth kept pounding its fists against the walls he’d built. It’s Kacchan. It’s Kacchan. But he refused to let it in. If he did, he was done. He’d freeze, and Kacchan—no, the patient—would bleed out. So he didn’t think. He didn’t feel. He just worked.

Izuku didn’t know when it happened. One second, his brain had been screaming Kacchan, Kacchan, Kacchan , the name pounding behind his eyes like a migraine. The next, it was gone. Pushed down so deep it was like it had never existed. He disassociated. He had to. The person on the table wasn’t Katsuki Bakugo. He wasn’t anyone. He was a body. A set of vitals. A heart that had stopped.  Izuku worked. He didn’t think—he couldn’t. His hands moved on autopilot, stitching, clamping, suturing, repairing what could be repaired and trying to stabilize what couldn’t. His voice came out steady, rattling off orders like he was reading from a script, even though his head was a storm of static. Time blurred. He had no idea how long he worked on the heart, how long he hovered over shredded lung tissue, how long his hands trembled trying to piece together what had been crushed beyond recognition. He just knew that he couldn’t stop. That he didn’t stop. At some point, his focus narrowed down to the ruined hand. He worked there too, though some part of him already knew the truth. No matter how careful he was, it wouldn’t be the same. The damage was too deep. He tried anyway. And through it all, he refused to look at the ash-blond hair. He refused to see the boy who once told him to take a swan dive off a roof. He was just a surgeon. This was just a patient. That was the only way he made it through.

When it was finally over, when the monitors had steadied into something other than a death sentence, Izuku stripped off his gloves with shaking hands. His voice was hoarse from hours of calling instructions, his back ached, his hands cramped—but none of that registered. Kacchan wasn’t out of the woods. Not even close. Post-op was the real test now—intensive monitoring. He’d need oxygen support for days, maybe longer. They’d have to run a battery of scans. Even with all of that, it would come down to him. Kacchan. Whether his body chose to fight, or whether it gave in.

Izuku couldn’t stay for that part. He couldn’t. So the moment he finished, Izuku pushed through the swinging doors of the OR. The sterile air of the hallway hit his lungs like fire. He yanked off his mask, barely aware of the smear of blood that streaked across his cheek when he touched his face. He walked. Fast. No destination in mind, just away. His shoes slapped the linoleum too loud, his breath too shallow, until finally his legs gave up and he crouched in some corner of the empty corridor. His elbows dug into his knees, hands gripping his hair as if that might stop his chest from collapsing inward.

Everything hit him at once. The blood. The hair. The name he hadn’t let himself think in years, screaming in his skull so loud he thought it might split him open. The sight of Katsuki’s broken, fragile body. Katsuki, who had been unshakable, unbearable, unstoppable. Katsuki, on his table. Kacchan, almost—

Izuku gagged, clamping his hand over his mouth before the sound broke free. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, slow, steady, like he told patients when they were panicking. But it wasn’t working. His heart wouldn’t slow down. It felt like the walls were closing in, like the sterile white light of the hospital had followed him out of the OR, crawling under his skin. For the first time in years, Izuku felt like that quirkless kid again. Small. Weak. Completely powerless.And worst of all useless. In this moment, he felt like Deku.

Fuck. He wanted—God, he wanted so badly to have a healing quirk, anything, something that could fix what he couldn’t. Something that could just patch Katsuki back together in an instant, restore him, make him whole. Because the thought—the fucking thought—of Katsuki not making it wouldn’t leave his head. And it wasn’t just a thought. It had almost happened. For one terrible second in there, the flutter of his heart had stilled. It was wrong in a way that wasn’t just anatomy. Wrong in a way that had made every part of Izuku scream.

They’d brought him back, yes. But the image wouldn’t stop replaying. The idea of it happening again. Oh God. He had just left him. He had left Katsuki in there, surrounded by strangers. They didn’t know who he was. Not how important he was. Not how many people out there needed him—depended on him—relied on him to still be breathing. His parents. Mitsuki. Masaru. His friends. His whole fucking agency. Mina. Kirishima. The thought slammed into Izuku so hard his stomach rolled. He should be calling them, telling them something, anything . But what the hell was he supposed to say?

Izuku pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until sparks burst in the darkness. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. The pressure building in his chest wasn’t stopping. Every second he stayed crouched there, the weight of it just got heavier and heavier. Too much. Physically. Emotionally. His whole body was finally catching. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. No matter how hard he pressed them into his eyes, no matter how hard he ground his teeth, they just fucking shook. His whole body did.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, but his voice cracked halfway through it. His chest was so tight he couldn’t get air in, couldn’t get air out, every breath dragging like sandpaper. And then it just broke. He folded forward, forehead pressing into his knees, and the sound ripped out of him before he could stop it. A raw, ugly sob that echoed off the empty hallway. He shoved his sleeve against his mouth to choke it back, but it didn’t matter. It kept coming. His shoulders kept shaking, his throat burned, and he couldn’t stop. Fuck, he hadn’t cried like this in years. Not since— No. He didn’t even want to think about since when.

He tried to focus. Tried to breathe. In, out. But all he could see was Katsuki on that table. All he could hear was that flatline. All he could feel was that second where he thought he’d lost him. His stomach flipped violently, and he gagged, stumbling up and into the nearest bathroom. He barely made it to the sink before his body gave up, retching until there was nothing left but bile. His hands gripped porcelain so hard his knuckles went white, sweat sticking his shirt to his back.

When it was over, he just stood there, hunched, gasping like he’d run a marathon. His reflection in the mirror looked like shit, eyes red, face pale, dark circles carved so deep under his eyes they looked bruised. A mess. That’s what he was. A fucking mess.

He ran the tap, splashed water over his face until his skin stung, but it didn’t clear the image away. Didn’t clear him away. Kacchan. On his table. Flatlined. Almost gone. Izuku gripped the edge of the sink tighter, trying to force the world to stop spinning. Okay. Fine. It was fine. He was allowed to fucking feel this way…but he was a doctor, for crying out loud. Doctors didn’t fall apart in bathrooms. He needed to get his shit together. And shit— he was cursing. Too much of it. He was starting to sound like— His brain slammed right back to Katsuki, like it had been waiting for the opening.

Izuku sucked in a breath. His hands were trembling so hard he almost dropped his phone when he yanked it out of his pocket. His thumb hovered over the screen before it finally scrolled down, down, down until he found the name.Mom. God, he needed to hear her voice.  And—fuck—someone had to tell Mitsuki and Masaru. Had anyone even called them yet? Or were they still in their house, not knowing that their son had laid on Izuku’s table, cracked open and bleeding out? His stomach twisted at the thought. No, no if someone hadnt informed them yet—someone had to call them. Someone had to tell them. Izuku’s thumb shook over the screen, but he hit the call button anyway.

The call connected on the first ring.

“Izuku! Finally remembered your poor mother? You do know phones work both ways, right?” Inko teased lightly, that normally would’ve made him smile.

But Izuku’s throat was already closing up. All he managed was a broken, “Mom…”

Immediately, her tone shifted. “Izuku? Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

His chest seized. He tried to answer, but the words tangled and burned in his throat. “Mom, I—”

“Please,” Inko pressed, voice tight with fear. “You’re worrying me. Tell me what happened. Are you okay?”

Izuku’s breath stuttered out. He gripped the phone so hard his knuckles ached, forcing the words out before he lost his nerve. “It’s Kacchan,” he rasped. “He—he came in tonight. Villain attack. He was—God, Mom, he was a mess. His heart stopped—” His voice cracked, and he pressed a shaking fist to his mouth. “We brought him back. I—he’s alive, but—”

The other end went silent for half a heartbeat, then Inko gasped so sharply it rang in his ear. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Izuku— Katsuki? He’s—he’s okay?”

Okay? Izuku let out something between a laugh and a sob. “Barely. I don’t even know how, but—yeah. He’s alive. For now.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Inko whispered, her voice trembling. “You… you saved him?”

 Izuku shut his eyes, leaning back against the wall until it dug into his skull. His voice came out hoarse, almost hollow.  He didn't really feel like he did though. Izuku dragged in a shaky breath. “They still have to… observe him. For a long time. It’s—it’s going to be a long road, Mom. I just… I don’t know if the hospital contacted his parents yet. Everything’s chaos here. I doubt anyone had time. So—can you? Can you call them? Tell them to come. They’ll need to sign paperwork and… and they should be here.” His voice cracked on the last word, thick and desperate.

“Of course I will,” Inko promised immediately. “I’ll call them right away. But Izuku—” her voice softened, trembling, “honey, are you okay? You sound… Izuku, you don’t sound okay.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to his knees. Silence filled the line. No, he wasn’t okay. Not even close. What were the odds—the cruel, impossible odds—that the boy he’d spent years trying to bury, trying to hate, ended up on his table tonight? That the last thing Izuku had felt toward him, hours ago, had been bitterness. And now Katsuki was clinging to life, his body shredded beyond recognition, and Izuku was the one who’d held his heart in his hands.

The guilt churned low in his stomach. He hadn’t caused the villain attack. He hadn’t crushed Katsuki’s hand or split his chest open. But it didn’t matter. He still felt like the universe had handed him this responsibility as some kind of punishment. For resenting Katsuki. For never letting go.

“Izuku?” Inko’s voice pulled him back, fragile with worry.

His throat burned. He forced himself to answer, barely above a whisper. “No. I’m not.”

“Izuku… sweetheart. You did everything you could. You saved him. That’s—” she broke off for a second, swallowing hard. “That’s more than anyone could ask of you.”

His stomach twisted. No, it wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel like enough. Because even after everything—even after pulling Katsuki’s heart back into rhythm—Izuku had walked out. Left him lying there, unconscious and vulnerable, surrounded by strangers. Strangers Katsuki would’ve hated. Strangers who didn’t know him, didn’t understand him, not the way Izuku did. God, what if he woke up and—

Izuku clenched his eyes shut. He couldn’t listen to her. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. He’d never told her about the bullying, never confessed what Katsuki had done to him. He hadn’t wanted to ruin his image in anyone else’s eyes. So how could she possibly understand why it felt so wrong, so gutting, to leave him like that? To feel like this?

“I have to go, Mom,” Izuku cut in quickly, his voice sharper than he meant. He shoved a hand through his curls, pacing the cramped bathroom tile. “There are—there are still patients, more surgeries, I can’t—I don’t have time.” He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, forcing himself to keep talking before she could answer. “Just… please call his parents. Tell them he’s here, at Central. That—” his voice cracked, the word catching like a blade in his throat. He couldn’t say he’s okay . Because he didn’t know if that was true. Not when there were a dozen things that could still go wrong— infection, clotting, internal bleeding. Any of it could undo everything he’d just done. So he swallowed the words back, left them rotting in his chest.

“Just… just tell them,” he finished weakly.

Inko exhaled, sharp with worry. “I will. Right away. But Izuku—honey, please, take care of yourself too—”

“I have to go,” he repeated, harsher this time. He didn’t wait for her reply. Just ended the call, his phone slipping back into his pocket with shaking hands.

For a long moment, he just stood there in the cramped bathroom, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, skin pale and clammy under the harsh fluorescent light. He barely recognized himself. His chest kept pulling tight like he couldn’t get a full breath in, and the buzzing in his ears made it hard to think. He braced his palms against the sink, trying to ground himself. But the guilt didn’t let up, the memory of flatlines and blood clinging to him like a second skin. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, frozen, until his legs finally carried him out on autopilot.

The rest blurred. The hallways. The faces he passed. The chief’s voice telling him to take a break, that he was done for now. Somehow, he ended up in the staff lounge. Somehow, he’d collapsed onto the couch.

Izuku woke up in the staff lounge with a start, his neck stiff from the way he’d slumped against the arm of the couch. For a second he didn’t even know where he was. The harsh hum of the fluorescent lights above made it feel like he was still in the OR, still staring at blood.

It took him a full minute to remember—oh

His chest tightened all over again. He scrubbed both hands over his face and reached for his phone on the table beside him. The screen lit up with the time: 2:04 PM. His stomach dropped. The last time he’d checked, it had been barely past seven in the morning. He’d been out for hours.

He shot upright so fast he nearly lost his balance. His scrubs stuck to him, stiff with dried blood that wasn’t his. His hands weren’t trembling anymore, but they felt heavy, clumsy, like they didn’t belong to him. For a second, panic told him he’d wasted too much time—that he should’ve been in an OR, that he should’ve been doing something. But then he remembered the look on the chief’s face before he’d been ordered out. Go rest, Midoriya. You’ll be more use to us later.

He exhaled slowly, trying to believe it. His body felt like it had been wrung out, nothing left but the ache of exhaustion and the dull throb in his temples. He sat back down on the edge of the couch, phone clutched in both hands, and forced himself to breathe. Izuku couldn’t sit still anymore. The lounge was too far away from where Katsuki was. His stomach twisted with every passing second. He’d already been gone from that room for hours. He shoved his phone into his pocket and stepped out into the hallway. The first nurse he saw nearly jumped at how quickly he stopped her.

“Katsuki Bakugo,” he blurted. His voice came out rough, raw from the hours of not speaking. “Where—what room is he in?”

The nurse blinked at him, probably thrown off by the urgency in his tone, but she checked her chart. “Bakugo’s in post-op recovery, ICU wing. Room 312. You’ll need clearance—”

“I’m his surgeon,” Izuku cut in, sharper than he meant to. He swallowed, forcing his tone back down. “He’s my patient. I just—I need to check on him.”

There was a pause, then a small nod. “Alright, doctor. ICU wing, end of the hall. He’s stable, but… still critical.”

That word— stable —let him breathe for the first time since he’d woken up. Critical still twisted something deep inside his chest, but stable was enough to get his legs moving.

The walk down the hall felt longer than any stretch he’d ever taken. Every step closer, his head tried to feed him worst-case scenarios. What if something ruptured? What if—

He shook his head hard, forcing himself forward. His palms were clammy again. The closer he got, the more it felt like the walls were closing in. When he reached the ICU doors, he stopped. Just for a second. Just to get his breathing under control. Then he pushed through. The ICU smelled faintly of antiseptic, sharper here than anywhere else in the hospital. Machines hummed quietly in the background.

“Doctor Midoriya,” the nurse on shift greeted as soon as he stepped in. “I was told you’d be coming by. He’s—” She glanced down at her chart. “Stable, for now. Heart rhythm is irregular but holding. Oxygen levels are being maintained with support. We’ve set him on a sedation protocol to limit strain. Vitals are—”

Izuku nodded along, but the words blurred. Numbers, charts, all the details that normally grounded him, normally gave him control—they barely registered. Because Katsuki was right there. Lying in the bed, pale under the harsh fluorescent light, wires trailing from his chest to the monitor, mask strapped over his face, hand wrapped thick in bandages that already spotted red. He looked… small. Izuku’s throat tightened. He should have felt relief. The monitor was beeping steadily. The rise and fall of Katsuki’s chest was faint but visible. And yet—seeing him like this made Izuku’s stomach twist so hard he thought he might be sick all over again. He dragged his eyes away, just for a second, to nod at the nurse as she finished her briefing. He couldn’t even remember what she’d said.

“Thank you,” he muttered. 

When she left, it was just him and Katsuki. And suddenly the room felt too quiet.Izuku’s legs carried him forward before he could stop himself, until he was standing right beside the bed. Close enough to hear the hiss of the ventilator. Close enough to see the bruising blooming angry purple under the edge of the oxygen mask.

Izuku’s lips parted, then shut again. He thought about saying something—anything. A “you’re going to be fine, Kacchan.” But the words died in his throat. Because that’s not how it was supposed to go. Every version of this moment he’d ever pictured—every imaginary conversation with Katsuki—was loud, Katsuki yelling over him, calling him a nerd, telling him to stop crying, to stop being pathetic. Not this. Not a one-sided conversation to someone who couldn’t even glare at him back. He clenched his jaw, forcing the sting in his eyes back down. He didn’t want this to be the first time he finally got the courage to say what he needed to say, when Katsuki couldn’t even answer. That wasn’t right. But standing here, seeing him like this—it felt wrong to stay silent, too. His throat itched with everything he wanted to spit out. The anger, the guilt, the years of swallowing it all down. 

Why now? Why did it have to be now.

Why did Katsuki have to end up here—why was this the first time they’d been in the same room in… God, Izuku couldn’t even keep count anymore. Years. And of all the places, of all the circumstances—it had to be here, in the ICU, with Katsuki hooked up to machines. Broken down to someone Izuku barely recognized. Why did it have to be here, where Izuku couldn’t say anything he’d imagined saying for years? Where it wasn’t fair to unload the truth onto someone who couldn’t roll his eyes at him, or bark an insult, or throw his words right back. That was how it was supposed to go. Not this. They’d had so many chances to cross paths again. So many chances for the universe to throw them back together. But no. It had to be like this. Izuku’s chest twisted, sour and tight, as he stared at the one person he thought he’d prepared himself for and realized he wasn’t ready at all.

And worse—he wondered. He wondered in ways he never let himself with other patients. Was Katsuki’s consciousness even here? Was he asleep, or was his body fighting battles Izuku couldn’t see? Was he dreaming? Having nightmares? Was his subconscious clawing tooth and nail to stay alive the way Izuku had always known him to fight—or was it just… empty? Quiet? That thought made his stomach twist, because another question crept in, what if Katsuki wasn’t fighting? What if—for the first time in his entire life—he’d just… stopped? It didn’t feel possible. Katsuki Bakugo didn’t quit. He was the embodiment of forward, of never giving in, of refusing to lose no matter the cost. Izuku had built his whole childhood around that fact. But now, standing here with the monitors ticking and the ventilator hissing, he couldn’t shake the fear that maybe this was the exception. Maybe the body lying here was proof that even Katsuki Bakugo could let go. What if Katsuki was just… done? What if he’d decided there was nothing left worth fighting for?

Izuku’s hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling against the weight of it. No. No, that wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. But the doubt still gnawed at his chest until it hurt to breathe, until every second of silence in that room felt like a verdict. The questions crowded his chest until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He’d never wondered this before with any other ICU patient, never cared to. But with Katsuki, the thought of him being in pain, trapped in his own body, alone with it—it was too much. It was unbearable.

Izuku took a look at him. At the bandages, the tubes, the blond spikes of hair that somehow still stood up despite everything.

Then he turned away. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t walk in here every day and pretend he was just another patient. He couldn’t be the one in charge of this case when every part of him wanted to scream, to tear the wires out and shake Katsuki awake, to demand he yell back at him. Someone else would have to handle it. Izuku stepped out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him, his chest tight. For the first time in his career, he felt like a coward. But staying in there… 

Izuku walked the halls with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, head down, eyes glued to the sterile floor tiles like they had all the answers he couldn’t find. Every step toward the chief’s office felt heavier than the last. Coward. The word stuck to him. If Katsuki ever found out—if he woke up and heard that Izuku couldn’t even stay in the same room as him—he’d never let him live it down. He’d call him every insult in the book. Spineless. Useless. Pathetic. Izuku could practically hear his voice already. And he wouldn’t even be wrong. God, it was pathetic. It was pathetic that after everything—after saving him on the table, Izuku couldn’t stomach the sight of him. This was someone he’d spent an entire life knowing. Someone who’d been burned into his mind since childhood, someone he thought he’d never see again. And now here he was, and Izuku was running away. He hated himself for it. But his feet still carried him down the hall. Step after step, until the chief’s office door loomed ahead. The whole way, the word echoed in his skull like a curse, coward.

Izuku had already made his decision. Final. He’d tell the chief straight—he couldn’t take this case. He wouldn’t go into detail. He’d just say what mattered, he knew the patient, and he wasn’t going to have a clear head. And no hospital wanted a surgeon blinded by bias. That was it. He’d said what he needed to say. He wasn’t Katsuki’s doctor anymore.

The meeting was short. The chief had looked confused—Izuku had worked at Central long enough to earn a reputation for never backing down from a difficult case. But this time… this time, something in Izuku’s face must’ve told him it wasn’t just about being “too close.” The chief didn’t press. Just nodded, said he’d reassign it, though he couldn’t help but add, “You’re the best surgeon we have, Midoriya.”

Izuku had swallowed hard as he replied, “Then assign someone who’s the best without a fogged head.”

The chief studied him for a beat too long, like he knew there was more Izuku wasn’t saying. But in the end, he agreed.

Walking out of the office, Izuku thought he’d feel better. Thought maybe letting go of the case would lift the weight pressing down on his ribs. Instead, it was worse. His chest was heavy, sick with guilt, like he’d abandoned someone who used to matter— who still mattered, damn it, more than he wanted to admit. But the truth was… he didn’t even know who Katsuki was anymore. The boy who’d sneered at him in middle school, who’d made every day feel like climbing a mountain barefoot—that wasn’t the man on the table. At least, Izuku didn’t think it was. He didn’t want to know. Because if Katsuki had changed, if he wasn’t the bully anymore, then that meant Izuku had changed too. 

Yes, he wasn’t useless or spineless anymore. He wasn’t the same boy who could barely stutter out a full sentence without breaking into a sweat. He wasn’t extroverted by any means, but he could hold his own now. Start a conversation. End one. Walk into a room without folding in on himself. He was better. Stronger. And yet—standing here in this hallway, leaving that office—he had never felt so small.

So then Izuku had to ask himself—what the hell had changed, really? Because here he was, still a coward. Just like in middle school. All these years later, and he still couldn’t face Katsuki Bakugo without feeling that same bone-deep fear. Katsuki had changed. But had Izuku?

His feet carried him down the hall, autopilot again, this time not toward the OR but toward his rounds. The chief had told him to go home, to rest—but Izuku had brushed it off. He was already here. What was the point? He might as well finish his shift. He’d gotten hours of sleep earlier, more than anyone else working right now. And, well… it was him. They didn’t exactly enforce the same rules on Izuku that they did on everyone else. The chief hadn’t argued, only told him to stay clear of the ER surgeries for now. Which, honestly, Izuku was grateful for. 

So that’s where he was headed. Mirio needed to be discharged today—Izuku had completely forgotten until just now. His stomach twisted at the thought. Okay. He couldn’t help one hero. He couldn’t help Katsuki . But he could help Mirio. That counted for something. And later, Todoroki. Right—Todoroki. Izuku had left his bag somewhere, the one stuffed with all the files and notes he’d been working on for Todoroki’s case. He’d need to find it soon. Imaging was supposed to be scheduled for today, if the nurse had managed to slot him in. Izuku wasn’t sure what time—it didn’t matter. What mattered was that when he checked the patient list for the day, Todoroki’s name was still there. He hadn’t switched doctors. Izuku tried to take comfort in that. Todoroki hadn’t switched yet. Mirio was stable and ready to leave. Two heroes he could help. 

Izuku pushed the door open and stepped inside, and immediately it felt like a breath of fresh air hit him. Mirio radiated sunshine. 

“Mirio,” Izuku greeted, soft but steady. “How are you feeling?” He grabbed the chart at the foot of the bed, flipping it open automatically.

Mirio grinned like usual. “Never better!” he said, giving him a thumbs-up. His voice was as bright as ever, but something in his eyes didn’t match.

He lowered the chart a little, watching him. “You sure?”

“I just…” Mirio started, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I feel like I should’ve been out there. During the attack. You know? If I wasn’t here, in this state…” His smile faltered, the edges dipping. “I could’ve been out there helping. Less people would’ve been hurt. Maybe… maybe even saved.”

Izuku blinked, confused for a second before it clicked. His stomach tightened.

“Mirio…” he said slowly.

But Mirio just shrugged, forcing another small smile. “I’m the number one hero, right? Saving people is supposed to be what I do. And when it mattered the most, I wasn’t there.”

Izuku closed the chart. He needed a second to think, to let Mirio’s words sink in. Because… he wasn’t wrong. If the number one hero had been there, it would’ve made a difference. Mirio had saved more people than anyone. It wasn’t a stretch to believe fewer casualties would’ve been on the list today. But at the same time—Izuku knew better. He knew that if the number one hero was down, if he pushed himself when his body wasn’t ready, then no one would be saved in the long run. Because that would’ve been it. The last time.

Izuku drew in a slow breath. “I get it,it sucks. Knowing people got hurt, and you couldn’t do anything. I understand that feeling.” His throat went tight for half a second, his mind flashing against his will to a certain blonde on an operating table, but he forced himself forward. “But you’re injured right now. And if you’d gone out there like this…”

He paused, meeting Mirio’s gaze. “What if that was your last time saving people? What if pushing your body too far meant you couldn’t save anyone ever again?”

Mirio’s expression shifted, the frown softening.

“Yeah, maybe you missed one chance,” Izuku went on. “But if you get better—if you recover—then you’ll have a hundred more chances to save people. And that’s worth more than forcing yourself once and burning out for good.”

The room went quiet after that, just the beep of the monitor. Mirio stared at him, and then the smallest  smile tugged at his face.

“You’re right,” he admitted, a little sheepishly.

Izuku let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Good. Then let’s focus on getting you discharged and into recovery. Because the world still needs its number one hero.”

Izuku pulled up the chair beside Mirio’s bed, flipping open the file again. His voice slipped into that practiced, professional cadence.

“Okay, so—no straining. We’ve already gone over this, but I’ll remind you again. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You can resume hero work, but if anything feels off—pain, shortness of breath, fatigue—you need to stop immediately and cool down. Don’t push through it. Understood?”

Mirio gave him a quick salute, all smiles. “Yes, yes, I got it. No pressure.”

Izuku frowned, closing the folder with a quiet snap. “I’m serious, Mirio. Please don’t put too much strain on yourself. You’ll be due back for follow-up tests—we need to keep monitoring your other organs, just to be safe.”

Mirio chuckled lightly. “Hey, doc, don’t worry. I’ll be okay. I won’t put too much pressure on myself, I promise. I’ll keep up with the checkups, and I’ll take all the medication you prescribed.”

Izuku’s shoulders eased slightly. “Good. Make sure you go pick it up before you leave.” He glanced up from the notes. “Is someone coming to get you?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a friend picking me up later,” Mirio nodded.

“Perfect. Once they’re here, you’ll be clear to go home.” Izuku stood, slipping the folder back onto the chart rack. “Well, Mirio, I hope not to see you too soon.” He managed a small smile. “But I will see you for those checkups, okay?”

“Okay,” Mirio agreed easily.

Izuku turned toward the door. “Be safe. Don’t go too hard again.”

“Hey, doc,” Mirio called after him, grinning. “Do you realize you just called me Mirio?”

Izuku froze mid-step. His brain stalled. “Uh—I—uh…” He turned back, red creeping up his ears. “That was—slip of the tongue—”

“I like it,” Mirio interrupted with a grin. “Please don’t go back to calling me Mr. Togata . I mean, I’d consider us friends now, wouldn’t you? After everything?”

Izuku blinked at him, floored. Friends. With the number one hero. That wasn’t something you heard every day. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Mirio leaned forward, his tone softer but steady. “I trust you with everything, you know that, right?”

Izuku flushed, waving a hand. “O-okay, you don’t have to be so dramatic—”

“No, I mean it,” Mirio said firmly, though his smile never wavered. “I trust you. Any other doctor probably would’ve spread the news about the number one hero being sick. But you didn’t. You haven’t breathed a word. And honestly, I love the nurses here too—they’ve kept it quiet.”

Izuku blinked, surprised. He hadn’t thought about it that way. It was true—any nurse could’ve slipped. But it was a small, carefully chosen team who even knew Mirio was here, and none of them had let it leak.

That thought settled. He nodded slowly. “Of course. It’s not something for the public. It’s… it’s your life. Your privacy.”

Mirio’s grin widened. “Exactly. That’s why I trust you.”

Izuku hesitated, then finally allowed himself a tiny smile back. “…Okay, Mirio.”

Mirio tilted his head with that big grin of his. “And since we’re friends now, that means we can hang out outside the hospital, right?”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard again. “…Do you even have time to hang out?”

“Of course I do,” Mirio said without missing a beat. “I have to make time for everyone. My fans, the people I save, my friends, my family—everybody deserves a little bit of my time.”

Izuku huffed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re gonna stretch yourself thin at that rate.”

Mirio laughed, that booming sound filling the room. “Then I guess I’ll just have to eat twice as much to keep up with it.”

Izuku cracked a smile, but shook his head again. “Alright, Mirio. Take care of yourself. I’ll check on you at your follow-ups.”

“Got it, doc,” Mirio said, still smiling. “Don’t forget—we’re friends now.”

Izuku’s ears burned at that, so he quickly nodded, mumbled a quiet goodbye, and slipped out of the room.

Izuku stepped out of Mirio’s room with his heart still doing this weird, jittery thing in his chest. He’d just… casually promised to hang out with the number one hero. Like that was normal. Like he hadn’t spent his whole childhood plastering All Might posters on his walls and dreaming of even meeting a pro. And now here he was, joking around with Togata Mirio like they were friends. Friends. The word still didn’t feel real.

He shook his head hard, trying to clear it as he made his way down the hall. He needed to focus. He still had rounds to do. People waiting. He couldn’t get stuck replaying Mirio’s grin in his head like some starstruck kid.

Izuku ducked into the small alcove where he usually checked his list, pulling up the patient log on the tablet. Names scrolled down in neat lines, his eyes caught on one in particular—short, sharp, no last name attached.  

His stomach tightened. That name alone set off alarms, though no one knew if it was real. Probably wasn’t. Probably just another alias scribbled down because he refused to give anything else. This patient was… complicated. The hospital hadn’t even wanted to admit him the first time, said someone like that didn’t belong here, not with his record, not with his mouth. But Izuku had insisted. Pushed. Because whatever he’d done outside those doors, inside them he was still a patient. Still human. And those burns… God.

Izuku could still remember the first night. The smell of charred flesh, the way the man had stared at him with half a look that looked like he was daring Izuku to help him, and the other half expecting him to walk away like everyone else. And Izuku hadn’t. He’d stitched, treated, monitored. The burns weren’t his specialty—he wasn't a derm. But the internal damage? The lungs, the heart stress, the way his body seemed to be eating itself from the inside out—that he could at least manage. Keep him alive. For now.

Even so, the man never hid what he thought. He hated heroes. Said they were parasites in costumes, playing gods. It had been strange, hearing it said so bluntly. Everyone else had that quiet reverence when they talked about heroes. Not him. He spat the word like poison.

Izuku dragged his thumb down the screen, forcing his mind off it. Izuku would see him next, do the discharge, go through the motions. 

Izuku was still staring at the name on the list, thumb hovering above the screen, when the sound hit him. Shoes pounding. Shouts ricocheting down the hall.

He looked up just in time to see a group of nurses rushing past, their scrubs a blur of teal and white, sneakers squealing against the tile. One of them nearly clipped his shoulder, muttering a rushed, “Sorry, doctor,” but Izuku barely heard it. His ears snagged on something else.

“It’s the pro hero—cardiac arrest—”

“He’s flatlining again—”

“Call Dr. Saitou, he’s assigned—”

The words blurred, but his brain filled in the gaps instantly. His stomach dropped.Kacchan? For one breathless second, Izuku couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. He just sat there, heartbeat pounding against his ribs hard enough to drown everything else out. He knew this would happen. He’d known. Post-op patients like Katsuki were fragile, unpredictable. Complications weren’t just possible—they were expected. And yet—he’d left. He’d walked out because he couldn’t stand to look at him. And now—now he wasn’t his doctor anymore. Which should’ve felt like relief. But the words “not his doctor” turned sick in his mouth, because suddenly that meant “not allowed in there,” “not allowed to touch him,” “not allowed to save him.”

His whole body jolted before his brain caught up. His feet were moving, sprinting in the same direction as the nurses, his ID badge bouncing against his chest. He wasn’t supposed to, he had no patients in ICU today, but none of that mattered. Not when the picture in his head was Katsuki’s chest stuttering, stilling. Not when the sound of those words—flatlining again—was already echoing inside his ears like a siren.

Chapter Text

For a heartbeat, Izuku thought it was his own chest flatlining. That sharp, shrill alarm seemed to pierce straight through his ribs, hollowing him out, leaving only one thought repeating like a curse. 

His feet had carried him here before his brain could stop them. He should’ve stayed out of it. Should’ve let Dr. Saitou handle it. That was the rule. That was the whole point of stepping back. So why the hell had he followed the nurses? Why had he let his legs drag him to the ICU doors like some moth to a flame he couldn’t survive touching?

He couldn’t move now. Couldn’t breathe, either. He was rooted to the floor, palms slick, every nerve ending braced for impact. Because he already knew what waited for him on the other side of those double doors. He knew it in his bones, the same way he knew the shape of that hair, the sound of that voice, the weight of that name.

Kacchan.

The thought alone was enough to lock his knees tighter. Every alarm blaring in that room wasn’t just for the patient on the bed, it felt like it was for him too.

This was different. It wasn’t the same paralysis that had struck him in the OR, when he’d first seen the mess of blood and realized who it belonged to. Back then, adrenaline had forced him forward, pulled his hands into motion even when his brain shut down. But this was worse. He was rooted to the tiles, every muscle locked, as though his body already knew what his mind refused to say out loud: he didn’t belong in there anymore.

If he had stayed—if he had fought through the shame and kept the case—this wouldn’t be happening. He would have checked on Katsuki himself. He would have caught the signs earlier, he told himself, irrational as it was. He could have prevented this spiral. He could have—No. That wasn’t true. He knew it wasn’t true. Complications like this were inevitable. They came with the territory. Katsuki’s heart had been held together with stitches and luck; no surgeon on earth could promise stability. Izuku had told patients’ families that a hundred times before. But the logic didn’t stop the thought from chewing at him anyway. If it had been him, if he had stayed—

And wasn’t this the exact reason he’d stepped back? Because Katsuki wasn’t supposed to be different. Because Izuku wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Because he wasn’t supposed to second-guess every step, to wonder if he’d done enough, to hesitate when hesitation could mean death. The whole point had been to keep his head clear. So why did it feel like the moment he handed the case away, he’d made it worse?

The distance between them was supposed to help. Which was ironic. There had been so much distance between them for years. They hadn’t spoken in years. They weren’t close, not anymore at least. But Katsuki’s name still twisted something inside him so violently that Izuku didn’t recognize himself in the mirror anymore. How the hell was he supposed to explain that to anyone, when he couldn’t even explain it to himself?

Because it had been years. Seven years of ocean between them, Seven years of silence. He’d gone to America, thrown himself into textbooks and labs, sleepless nights and clinical rotations, anything that would keep him moving forward. Katsuki had stayed here—become the explosive, unstoppable Katsuki, Izuku only ever caught in headlines or on the TV in the staff lounge. If he wanted details, he got them secondhand, through the way Mina’s voice would brighten when she talked about him, or through the stories That was the only glimpse Izuku ever got. 

But even that had been enough. Enough for Izuku to feel the same old electricity coil in his chest, enough to remind him that Katsuki was still out there, still burning bright while Izuku chased in the shadows. And now—after all that distance, after all that silence, it was still the same. The mere presence of Katsuki—breathing, not breathing, fighting, not fighting—still stopped Izuku in his tracks.

It didn’t make sense. None of it. Being far from him had been blinding, like staring too long at the sun until his whole vision blurred white. Being close to him was the same, blinding, overwhelming, leaving him with nothing but the shape of Katsuki stamped into the backs of his eyelids. Too far, too close, it didn’t matter. The result was the same. Katsuki Bakugo was still the one thing that unmade him, and Izuku didn’t know how to live with that truth.

How could he still have this hold over him? How could someone Izuku had sworn he hated, someone he had spent years resenting, years trying to cut out of his chest like a tumor, still do this to him? Still reduce him to nothing?

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t Katsuki. It was the circumstance. The monitors. The shrill, unrelenting alarm that said he was slipping away. The nurses shouting—where was Dr. Saitou, bring the paddles, hurry, hurry—but their voices felt distant, muffled, like they were shouting  through a pane of glass. His brain barely processed the words. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t helping. He was frozen.

And maybe that was the reason he was unraveling. Not because Katsuki still had power over him, but because for the first time in his life, Katsuki didn’t. Katsuki wasn’t the loudest voice in the room, wasn’t the force that bent everything around him into orbit. He wasn’t glaring or shouting. He was still. Weak in a way Izuku had never seen before. Katsuki had no power right now. And that—God, that was what terrified Izuku more than anything.

Because his whole life, Katsuki had been the standard. The unreachable ideal. The one thing Izuku could never catch, never match, no matter how hard he tried. He hated him for it. He adored him for it. He hated that he adored him, and loved that he hated him, because at least it meant he still felt. Katsuki was everything Izuku wanted to be: confident and untouchable. Everything Izuku lacked, Katsuki carried like it was nothing. And now he was stripped of it all. And Izuku didn’t know who he was looking at.

The contradictions knotted tighter in his chest. He hated him. He admired him. He resented him. He desired to be him. He couldn’t separate one feeling from the other, not anymore. And standing here, paralyzed, with the one person who had defined his entire existence slipping away in the next room—Izuku thought he might actually split open from the weight of it.

He needed to move. He needed to be himself again—the surgeon who knew what to do, the one who didn’t freeze, who didn’t hesitate. He knew how to work under pressure. He knew how to fight for a patient. He knew how to save. But not with Katsuki. Every command, every reflex, every ounce of training was trapped under the avalanche of everything else. Move, he told himself. Just move. But his feet stayed planted to the floor.

It felt like suffocating. No—worse. Suffocating, drowning, burning, all at once, a hundred different agonies layered until he couldn’t tell which was killing him more. His lungs dragged for air that didn’t fill him, his chest clamped down so tight it was like iron bands squeezing from the inside. He didn’t know what was suffocating him. The guilt? The fear? The hate? The love? The way they were all tangled so tightly together that he couldn’t pull one out without ripping open the others? It was too much. 

This wasn’t like the OR. In the OR, he’d been frozen for a heartbeat, yes—but then he’d moved. His body had shoved forward, autopilot kicking in, training pulling him out of himself. The line had gone flat, and he hadn’t thought, hadn’t felt, he’d just acted. Because Katsuki’s life was slipping and there had been no room for hesitation.

But now—now it was the same. The same heart failing in the room just beyond him. Nothing had changed. Nothing. And yet everything felt different. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what was pinning him here, locking his muscles down like stone. The logic didn’t track—if anything, it should’ve been easier now. He should’ve been able to march through those doors and do it all over again. Bring him back. Fight for him.So why couldn’t he move?

His head was a bomb gone off, thoughts shattering too fast to catch. It pressed against his skull, pressed against his ribs, suffocating him from the inside out.

He hated Katsuki. He resented him. He admired him. He wanted to shake him until he woke up, he wanted to run until he never saw him again, he wanted to crawl into the ICU and press his hands to his chest until the heartbeat came back. He wanted—he wanted—he wanted—

Izuku choked on a breath, his throat closing like it was physically rejecting the weight of it all. His stomach twisted, bile rising sharp at the back of his tongue. He swore his legs would give out if he took even one step, but they weren’t moving anyway. He was stone. He was useless. He was Deku again—pathetic, frozen, staring while Katsuki slipped away in front of him.

Move, he begged himself. Move. But the truth hit him like a blade in the gut:

He didn’t know if he wanted to. Because moving meant feeling. Moving meant walking into that room, laying his hands on the one person who had always unmade him, and admitting that he couldn’t separate the hate from the love, the admiration from the loathing. Moving meant choosing. And Izuku couldn’t. He couldn’t untangle it. He couldn’t breathe through it. He couldn’t—

The alarm screamed louder. The nurses’ shouts spiked sharp, desperate. They were calling for the paddles again. Someone swore. The words bled into him like static. Katsuki’s heart had been still for almost a minute now. And Izuku was still standing there, suffocating on everything except the one thing that mattered: moving.

Izuku’s chest heaved, every breath like glass in his throat. Inko’s voice rang sharp in his skull, unshakable: “You saved him. That’s more than anyone could ask of you.”

He almost laughed. God, he was pathetic. His mom thought he’d saved Katsuki. That he’d done something good, something heroic. But here he was, rooted to the goddamn floor, hearing the heart monitor scream itself hoarse while Katsuki slipped further and further away. What kind of savior just stood there?

And Mitsuki. Masaru. Their son was dying. Their one and only boy— and Izuku couldn’t even move. He was going to let them down. He was going to let everyone down. Because his fucking legs wouldn’t work. Because his chest was too tight. Because admitting what this was, admitting why it hurt, admitting anything at all would split him open and leave him in pieces.

The monitor screamed and then went flat. A single, piercing note stretched through the ICU, cutting the air, slicing it open. For a second Izuku swore it was his own chest flatlining, not the body in the bed. His ribs caved in with the sound, hollowed out until there was nothing left inside him at all.

And then— Silence. The world stilled, suspended. Like the moment before a bomb went off. No beeping. No noise. No sound at all. The void swallowed him whole. Izuku’s ears rang, the silence so complete it hurt, and then—A sound cracked through the haze. 

“Move, nerd.”

The voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even sharp. Just there, sudden, impossible, sliding under his skin like it had been waiting all along. Katsuki’s voice.

Izuku froze harder. His mind stuttered, searching for logic. It had to be his imagination. Stress. Sleep deprivation. The guilt rotting his brain from the inside out. Because there was no way—no way—he’d just heard Katsuki speak when his chest was still, when the monitor was a straight line screaming death. He was hearing things. He was hallucinating voices like some kind of lunatic. Maybe he was the one who needed a doctor. Because what the hell else could explain hearing Katsuki now, when Katsuki was the one bleeding out?

And yet—he heard it again. “Move.”

His whole body jolted like the command had been wired straight into his nerves. He didn’t think, didn’t choose. His feet just broke free, sprinting toward the door.

He slammed through the ICU doors, his gloves already snapping tighter as he closed the distance to the bed. Katsuki’s chest was still. Too still. Not rising, not falling.  Nurses scattered at the edges of the bed, already fumbling with the paddles, with suction, with lines of tubing. None of it mattered. Kacchan’s chest didn’t move.

Izuku’s gloves were already on. His hands shook anyway. No compressions—that much he knew instantly. Normal CPR would rip him apart; the stitches wouldn’t hold. He’d seen it happen before, ribs giving way like paper. No—if Kacchan had even a chance, it wouldn’t be from the outside.

It would have to be direct.

“Scalpel,” he barked, voice hoarse, throat dry. The nurse hesitated for a fraction of a second before slapping the handle into his palm. He didn’t think. Couldn’t think. His body moved because it had to. He sliced through the sutures, through the line he himself had sewn not long ago, pulling the wound wide with hands steadier than his breathing. The smell of blood, the impossible stillness of the cavity—none of it registered beyond the sick churn of his stomach. His gloves were slick before he was even inside.

And then—there it was. The heart. Kacchan’s heart. 

Izuku’s vision tunneled. Every sound blurred except the flatline, that high, endless scream drilling into his skull. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream. But his hands—his hands couldn’t freeze. They hovered, then pressed, then curled. He wrapped his palm around the muscle and started to squeeze. Rhythmically, firmly, as if he could force it to remember. His own heartbeat thundered so hard it shook his ribs, trying to lend the rhythm to the body beneath him.

“Come on, Kacchan,” he rasped, his voice breaking, not caring that the nurses froze at the word. “Don’t you dare give up on me now.”

He pumped again. Again. His shoulders shook with the effort. His chest burned with every push. It wasn’t neat, it was desperation. It was love and hate and guilt and rage all bleeding through his gloves into that fragile muscle. “Kacchan, you hear me? You don’t lose.”

The nurse’s voice cut through the blur. “Paddles charged—200!”

“Do it!” Izuku snapped, still compressing. He barely pulled his hand back in time.

“Clear!”

The jolt slammed through the body on the table, Katsuki’s chest arching under the shock. Izuku flinched like it had burned him too, his whole body jerking with the force of it. For one second—for one terrible, infinite second—nothing. Flat.

“Kacchan—” His voice cracked on the name, his throat raw. “No, no, no—”

His hand dove back in. Pump. Pump. Pump. His breath broke into sobs he couldn’t bite back. Every squeeze was a plea, every push a scream his chest couldn’t voice.

“You stubborn bastard,” he whispered through the tears he didn’t notice spilling over his mask. “That’s not you. You don’t quit. You fight. So fight. With me. Right now—fight, Kacchan!”

“Clear!”

The second shock ripped through the air. Silence.

Beep.

Izuku froze, breath caught halfway down his throat.

Beep. Beep.

The monitor stuttered, then steadied into a rhythm. Izuku’s knees nearly buckled. Relief hit him so hard it hurt, dragging a sob out of his chest he didn’t have time to hide. His hand still cradled Katsuki’s heart, trembling, feeling the faint flutter against his palm. It was weak, but it was alive.

His head dropped, forehead almost hitting the edge of the table, the burn of sweat and tears mixing under his mask. “You stubborn bastard,” he whispered again, voice cracking. “That’s more like you.”

Izuku stripped his gloves off with shaking hands, the snap of the latex loud in the quiet that followed. His scrubs were ruined—again. Blood up to his elbows, streaks across his chest where he’d leaned too close. He barely felt it. His body moved on autopilot, scrubbing down at the sink, water running pink down the drain. His reflection in the steel panel above the faucet looked worse than the mess on his clothes. Wide eyes. Damp curls plastered to his forehead. He didn’t even look like himself.

Behind him, nurses murmured, jotting notes, recording times, cataloging doses, shocks, compressions. He tuned it all out. His ears still rang with that flatline. His palm still remembered the feel of Kacchan’s heart.

The door slammed open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Izuku froze. He didn’t need to turn to know the voice. Dr. Saito. The physician of record. The one assigned after Izuku had stepped away. Izuku turned anyway, jaw tight. Saito stood just inside the threshold, mask dangling around his neck, eyes hard.

“That was my patient,” Saito bit out.

“Your patient was dying,” Izuku snapped back before he could stop himself. His voice cracked sharp through the room. Heads turned.

Saito’s glare didn’t waver. “I was with another crash. ICU isn’t a one-man show. You don’t just abandon one code for another.”

Izuku’s chest heaved. Rage built hot under his ribs. “And what—what, you thought leaving this one to flatline was better?!” His hands shook at his sides, nails biting into his palms. “He was gone. He was gone, and you weren’t here.”

“You don’t get to storm in and cut open a chest that isn’t yours!” Saito’s voice rose, echoing off tile. “Protocol exists for a reason. You compromised the case. You compromised me.”

Something ugly twisted in Izuku’s chest. He almost said it—almost spat the truth in Saito’s face. Do you even know who that was? Do you even know whose heart I was holding? But he bit it down hard, teeth grinding. Instead, all he managed was, “If I hadn’t stepped in, you wouldn’t have a case left to compromise.”

The silence after that was thick. Nurses exchanged quick glances, some shifting uncomfortably, clipboards hugged a little tighter to their chests. The air reeked of blood, antiseptic—and tension.

“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” Saito said finally, voice low but shaking with bitterness. His gaze cut sharp across the room, locking on Izuku. “The prodigy. Midoriya Izuku. Youngest surgeon on staff, youngest to get a chair in this hospital. Everyone falling over themselves to praise you, calling you the best.” His lip curled. “Some of us actually had to work for it. Years of study. Decades of experience. And you—you think just because you got fast-tracked, just because you got here sooner, you know everything?”

Izuku’s jaw clenched. His fists tightened at his sides, nails biting through glove and into palm. He tried, just for a breath, to swallow it down. But the words ripped out of him anyway.

“What I know is that your patient was dying.” His voice shook the air, loud enough to make every nurse freeze. “Your patient was gone. And I brought him back. Because that’s my job. Because I’m a doctor.” His chest heaved with rage. “You expect me to stand outside those doors, hear the silence of a flatline, hear the silence of a Kacc—” He bit it back hard, throat seizing around the word. He forced it out different. “—of a hero dying, because you have more years under your belt?”

Saito’s face twisted. “You’re misinterpreting my words.”

“I’m not,” Izuku spat. “You want to talk about authority? About protocol? Fine. Let’s talk about how you weren’t even here.” His voice cracked, rising with the heat in his chest. “You weren’t here. You left him.”

“I didn’t leave him!” Saito snapped, fury bleeding through now. “I was with another patient. A patient coding doesn’t erase the one in front of me. Don’t you dare say I didn’t care.”

Izuku stepped forward before he realized he’d moved, eyes blazing. “You don’t care. He flatlined. He was gone. And I did my job—I brought him back. Before I even knew what I was dealing with. And don’t you dare stand there and tell me I shouldn’t have. Don’t you dare.”

“It’s still not protocol,” Saito threw back, but his voice faltered at the edges, grabbing for straws now, clinging to words that suddenly sounded thin.

Izuku’s lips curled into something colder than a smile. His voice dropped low, sharp as glass.

“Protocol? You should be thankful it was me who walked through those doors. Because I’m the best cardiac surgeon in this hospital. The best in Japan. And I knew what to do when you didn’t. You don’t specialize in cardiac. You never have. You would’ve watched him die because you didn’t know where to start.”

The room was silent. Nurses stiff as statues, eyes flicking between them.

Izuku’s voice didn’t waver. “I didn’t need your permission. I didn’t need your authority. I did what had to be done—I saved him. And I’d do it again. Over and over. Because clearly you couldn’t.” His chest rose and fell, every syllable dripping venom. “As a doctor. As a surgeon. As anything.”

The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.

“Enough.” The word cut clean through the room. The chief stood in the doorway now. “Midoriya. Saito. My office. Now.”

The walk back to the chief’s office was suffocating. It was quiet. Too quiet. Silence that pressed on Izuku’s chest, that filled every inch of the hallway until he swore he could hear the echo of his own heartbeat in his ears. It wasn’t a long walk. Maybe a few halls, a single elevator ride, a left turn down one corridor. He’d done it a hundred times before. But now? Now it stretched on like an eternity. If looks could kill, Izuku would’ve been buried six feet under before they’d even left the ICU doors. Saito’s glare burned into the side of his face with every step. Izuku kept his eyes straight ahead, jaw locked tight, fists buried deep in his pockets so no one would see the way his hands trembled.

When they finally reached the office, the door closed behind them with a heavy click. The chief didn’t waste time. He gestured for them both to sit, his expression unreadable, voice steady in a way that made the weight of it worse.

“What I just witnessed,” he said slowly, “was unacceptable.” His eyes flicked from Izuku to Saito and back again, sharp as scalpels. “Two senior surgeons shouting at each other in front of an entire nursing staff. If I’d had the misfortune of patients in that room, this conversation would be taking place in front of the board, not in my office.”

Izuku’s throat felt dry.

The chief’s gaze hardened. “And worse—” his words clipped off sharp “—you did this in front of one of the most critical patient this hospital has seen in years. A patient whose life, might I remind you, is still hanging by a thread.”

The silence that followed was suffocating all over again. Izuku’s stomach twisted violently. A patient whose life is still hanging by a thread. That was Kacchan. And he had stood there screaming like a child instead of keeping his head.

The chief’s eyes cut to both of them, sharp and unyielding. “You both let your tempers take over. You both crossed a line. I don’t care if it was stress or the heat of the moment. That doesn’t excuse it.” His voice dropped, quiet but heavy. “We don’t do that here. Not in this hospital. Not in front of staff. And especially not in front of a patient whose life is as fragile as this one’s.”

Izuku swallowed hard, his jaw tight, guilt burning hot under his skin. He didn’t need the chief to spell it out. He could still hear his own voice from minutes ago, louder than it had ever been in this building: I’m the best cardiac surgeon in this hospital. The words rang in his ears, ugly and arrogant, so far from anything he’d ever let himself say before. He hated himself for it. He hated that it had been Katsuki—of all people—that had dragged that part of him out. Something had snapped, and he couldn’t even explain why.

The chief let the silence stretch before continuing. “You’re both leaders in your own right. Staff watch you. They follow your example. And what they saw today was chaos, not leadership. If either of you ever repeat what happened in that ICU, I’ll have no choice but to take it higher. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Izuku said immediately.

“Yes, sir,” Saito echoed, his bitterness practically dripping.

The reprimand was equal, but Izuku didn’t need it to sting more than it already did. He could feel it in his chest like a wound. He’d lost control. He’d lost his composure. And for what? For Kacchan. Always, always for Kacchan.

“Dr. Saitō, wait outside.” The chief ordered. 

The older surgeon bristled, shoulders tight, but obeyed without a word, slipping out and shutting the door behind him with just a little too much force.

That left Izuku alone in the office, the silence swallowing him whole.

The chief leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily. For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just studied Izuku with that level, unreadable gaze that had the power to make even senior surgeons feel like residents again.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he said at last, voice low. “Because that wasn’t you back there, Midoriya.”

Izuku’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He couldn’t find words. He didn’t even know what he would say if he had them.

The chief’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’ve always been the one I could trust to stay calm under pressure. To put ego aside and focus on the work. You’ve built a reputation on that. And yet—” His jaw ticked, just barely. “What I saw in that room was not composure. It was… personal.”

Izuku’s chest squeezed. He looked down, knuckles white on the arms of his chair. Personal. God, the word cut right to the bone.

The chief’s voice softened. “I don’t need to know the details. Whoever that patient is to you—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you cannot afford to lose yourself like that again. Not here. Not in this hospital.”

Izuku’s pulse thudded hard in his ears. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to explain that Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t just whoever, that he wasn’t just another file number. But the words died in his throat. Because the chief was right. Every single word was right.

Because the chief was right. Every single word was right.

He had lost himself so many times today he was honestly sure he was going fucking insane. This was all in one day, and he had probably frozen, cried—no, sobbed—and acted completely out of character more times than he ever had in his life. Each of those moments had nearly cost Kacchan his life. Because he couldn’t get himself together.

But this was more than personal. This was Kacchan.

The chief leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. His voice was quieter now, but sharper for it. “Do you know this patient, Midoriya?”

Izuku’s breath hitched. It was a strange question on so many levels. Of course the chief knew Izuku knew the patient. It was the reason why he taken a step down. Did he know the patient? Did he? God, what kind of question was that? The answer should’ve been simple—yes or no—but it wasn’t. Not when it came to Katsuki.

Because Izuku had known him since they were kids. Because Inko and Mitsuki had been best friends forever, and so naturally Katsuki and Izuku became friends, too. Because they grew up side by side in the same neighborhood, and it had almost seemed like fate that they would be best friends. He remembered those days, playing heroes before quirks. Katsuki with his loud, explosive personality—even before his Quirk, he was explosive. No one knew Katsuki better than Izuku back then, and no one knew Izuku better than Katsuki.

And then Katsuki turned five, a couple months older, his Quirk blazing to life. Izuku followed, waiting, waiting—and then his own never came. Just like that, the shift began. Katsuki didn’t want to play as much. Couldn’t play rough with Izuku without breaking him. So he played with the other kids instead. And Izuku, of course, followed. Always followed.

Year after year, Kacchan slipped further and further away, until he was gone. In his place stood someone Izuku barely recognized. Someone terrifying. Someone who hurt anyone who didn’t meet his impossible standards, who sneered at weakness, who spat cruelty as easily as breathing. Middle school had been the worst. That’s when the words started—horrible things, vicious things. Kill yourself. Jump off the roof. Words that carved deeper than any blow ever could. That was the Kacchan he learned to know. Cruel. Cold. Arrogant. Egotistical. The kind of person who made Izuku feel small, worthless, unworthy of even existing.

And then Izuku left. He left Japan. He left everything. And for seven years he didn’t look back, not until he returned at twenty to start his residency. By then, Katsuki was just a name on the TV. Just a voice carried in Mina’s stories, painting a new picture—a version Izuku didn’t recognize. A Katsuki who fought with heroes, saved lives, got along with people and even managed to make genuine friendships. So when the chief asked, Do you know this patient? Izuku’s chest hollowed. Because the truth was complicated.

Yes, he knew him. He knew him better than anyone. He knew every version of him—childhood friend, cruel stranger, untouchable hero. And yet, he didn’t know him at all. Not anymore.

Izuku swallowed hard, throat raw, but forced himself to say something. “I… I told you. I knew him. From before. That’s why I stepped down.”

It came out vague, too vague, and he knew it. The words felt thin in his mouth, insubstantial, nothing that explained the storm tearing him apart from the inside. But he couldn’t give the real answer. He couldn’t say Kacchan. He couldn’t even shape the syllables here. 

The chief watched him for a long moment, eyes unreadable, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “The only reason I’m asking again, Midoriya, is because I want to confirm something.”

Izuku’s chest tightened. Confirm what? What could possibly need confirming when everything already felt so painfully obvious to him?

The chief continued, calm but firm, his words cutting clean. “This patient must be very close to you. Closer than you let on. Because the way you acted back there—the way you lost yourself—I’ve never seen that from you. Not once, in all the years you’ve been here. You were reckless. You were emotional. You were human, Midoriya. That’s not the surgeon I’ve come to know. So if I’m going to understand how to move forward with you on this case, I need a clearer picture.”

Izuku’s hands curled in his lap, nails digging half-moons into his palms. A clearer picture. God, if only he had one himself.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because yes, Kacchan was close—too close—but in ways he couldn’t even put into words. A lifetime of contradictions, of hatred and longing and bitterness and grief all coiled into one name he couldn’t say aloud.

And it wasn’t just the chief who didn’t know. Nobody knew. Not his mother, who still asked gently about Katsuki sometimes, wondering why her son always shut down at the mention of hisname. Not his friends, who probably assumed his silence was just professional courtesy. No one knew that Izuku Midoriya had spent his entire life tying himself in knots over Katsuki Bakugo. No one knew that the boy who once told him to jump off a roof was the same boy who lived, in some twisted, unbearable way, under his skin. So he sat there, silent, while the chief studied him. And the silence said enough.

The chief’s sigh lingered in the room like smoke. He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk.“I’m not going to press you any further, Midoriya. I think I have the picture now.”

Izuku’s chest tightened, heat pricking the back of his neck. He didn’t dare ask what picture the chief thought he had—didn’t dare confirm or deny it.

“But before we move forward, I need to tell you one thing,” the chief went on, his voice softer now, less sharp. “It is okay to break down over someone you know. It is okay to be human. I know surgeons tend to carry this idea that we have to be stone-cold, detached, machines in scrubs—but that isn’t true. Not always. ”

Izuku stared at the floor, at the faint scuffs on the tile. His throat felt raw. Okay to be human. He didn’t feel human. He felt like a mess of contradictions, like a child who never grew out of flinching at a single name. He felt pathetic. Weak. Wrong. He didn’t feel like a surgeon at all. And yet—something in the chief’s words slid under his skin. Maybe the very thing unraveling him was also what had driven him to slam his palms against Kacchan’s chest and fight like hell to keep him here. Maybe being human was what saved him. Maybe being human was what nearly ruined him too.

“That said—you broke protocol,” The chief said firmly. “You overstepped a colleague’s authority in front of his team. You disregarded the chain of command. That’s unacceptable here, Midoriya. You know that.”

Izuku nodded, accepting the blow.

“The only reason I’m not making this something bigger,” the chief continued, “is because at the end of the day, you did your job. You saved a patient’s life. And while Saitou will no doubt take this as an insult, I’ll make it clear to him: our first duty is always to the person on that table. You spared a family grief tonight. You did him a favor, even if neither of you can admit that right now.”

Izuku swallowed hard, throat aching. He wanted to believe that, wanted to cling to it. But all he could think about was the way his voice had broken on Kacchan, the way the silence had stretched when his feet refused to move, the way Mitsuki and Masaru would never forgive him if that silence had lasted a moment longer.

The chief leaned back in his chair, studying Izuku in silence for a moment before speaking again.“I’m going to ask you this once, Midoriya.” His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of command. “Do you want to be in charge of this case? Do you want this responsibility back?”

Izuku froze. His mouth opened, then shut again, useless. Did he want it? He didn’t know. Every time he stepped away, something in him screamed to come back. Every time he stepped closer, he felt like he was doing more harm than good. The truth was, he didn’t know if he was capable of being what Katsuki needed.

The chief’s gaze sharpened. “Because you do understand that if you are not in charge of a patient, you cannot overstep the assigned physician. You understand that?”

Izuku swallowed hard. His throat was dry. He nodded, a stiff, almost mechanical gesture, because words failed him.

“Then Dr. Saitou will remain in charge until further notice,” the chief said, his tone steady, final. “You can help him—but you will not override him. You will not step in uninvited. The only time I’ll allow you near that case is if Saitou himself calls you, or if circumstances demand it, like today. Do you understand?”

Izuku’s stomach twisted. Relief and dread tangled in his chest until he couldn’t tell them apart. He managed a low, “Yes, sir,” though it felt like it scraped its way out of him.

The chief let out a breath through his nose, the faintest sign of weariness, before his voice dropped again. “I don’t ever want to see what I saw today repeated, Midoriya. Not the shouting, not the insubordination. You are better than that. You’ve proven it time and time again. But—” He paused, something gentler edging into his tone. “I also know why you did it. And I’ll say it again: it is not weakness to care. But caring doesn’t excuse recklessness. Find your balance.”

Izuku’s chest squeezed tight. Find your balance. As if balance had ever existed for him when it came to Katsuki.

The chief gave a small nod.  “That will be all. You’re dismissed, Doctor Midoriya.”

Izuku nodded.  He pushed himself to his feet, the legs that had frozen on him earlier somehow carrying him now, each step toward the door heavier than the last. The handle was cool under his palm. He pulled the door open. The silence of the hallway pressed in at once, heavier than the chief’s words had been, heavier than the reprimand still ringing in his ears. His chest ached, guilt gnawing sharp and restless. Balance. The word felt like a cruel joke. How could he ever find balance when Katsuki tilted the whole axis of his life just by existing?

He kept his head down, forcing his feet forward, until he nearly collided with the figure waiting just outside. Dr. Saitou.

The man didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The sneer twisting his face said more than words could, sharp with disdain and something else Izuku didn’t care enough to name. He’d seen sneers before. And for some reason, this one didn’t scare him at all.

Not like his had. Not like the kind Katsuki used to give him—barbed with heat and fire, the kind that could gut Izuku from the inside out with nothing but a curl of the lip. Saitou’s was nothing but bitter resentment. But Katsuki’s? Katsuki’s had always cut deeper, because they meant something. Because he meant something. Izuku didn’t know if it was because Katsuki had planted that fear so deep it never left, or because Dr. Saitou simply wasn’t worth fearing. Maybe it was both. All he knew was that this man’s opinion didn’t touch him the way Katsuki’s always had. And with that quiet, miserable thought, Izuku walked off down the hall.

Izuku leaned against the counter, flipping through the last of the forms with a tired hand. Most of the discharge instructions had been given already. Across from him, Dabi sat slouched in the chair, bandaged arms crossed, blue eyes half-lidded in that way that always made him look like he was laughing at something only he knew.

“That’s it,” Izuku said finally, sliding the chart closed. “You’re clear to go.”

Dabi didn’t move, didn’t thank him, just tilted his head and let a crooked grin curl across his face. “And the bill? Don’t think I missed the part where you keep covering it. You know I don’t got shit. When I get the cash, I’ll pay you back.”

Izuku shook his head, exhaustion tugging the corners of his mouth into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You can pay me back by taking care of yourself.”

For a beat, Dabi just stared at him, that grin fading into something sharper. Then he huffed a short, humorless laugh. “That’s a shit deal, doc. You know I don’t do favors I can’t keep.”

Izuku didn’t answer right away. His hands tightened on the chart. When he didn’t respond, Dabi’s gaze narrowed, keen in a way that made Izuku’s skin prickle. “Something’s off. You look like hell. Did one of your shiny little heroes croak today, or what?”

He had no fucking idea, Izuku thought, throat tightening. Not croaked. Not yet. But close enough. Too close. Katsuki had flatlined so many times today he’d lost count—twice in the OR, again in the ICU. Each time Izuku’s hands had dragged him back.  Izuku forced himself to close the chart, slip the pen back into his pocket. “It’s just been… a really long day.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Dabi’s mouth crooked into something between a smirk and a sneer. “Scrubs are a weird shade of red.”

Izuku froze, looking down at himself before he could stop. He hadn’t changed. Not once since the OR. Not after the ICU. His whole body was stained, the deep maroon of dried blood streaking across his chest and sleeves. Katsuki’s blood. He’d walked through the halls like this, sat in the chief’s office like this. God. He was amazed no one had said anything. Amazed the chief hadn’t ordered him straight to the locker room.

Dabi’s eyes flicked upward, sharp, catching the way Izuku’s hand twitched toward his face. “You’ve got some on your cheek, too.”

Izuku swallowed hard, throat dry. He hadn’t even noticed. It had been there since the first surgery. God, he looked like a madman. Maybe he was. Maybe that’s why no one had stopped him—because they could see it already, unraveling across his face.

“Complicated surgery,” Izuku said finally. It was the closest to an answer he could give without breaking apart right there.

Dabi’s laugh was raspy. “Complicated. That what you call it?” He leaned back, eyes glittering. “Looks to me like you drowned in somebody else’s mess and forgot how to climb out. Tell me, doc—” his grin widened, “—does the blood get lighter the more of it you wear, or do you just stop seeing it? Tell me? Is this what you signed up for? Tell me this isn’t what happens when you build your whole damn life around saving people who were born to bleed out sooner or later.”

Izuku’s stomach lurched. He didn’t answer. The words burned their way into him, lodging somewhere deep, where they hurt too much to dislodge. He stood there in silence, unraveling thread by thread, the weight of blood in his scrubs suddenly heavier than it had been a moment ago. Izuku’s lips parted before he could stop them. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The pushback was weak. Dabi’s eyes lit up like a match had been struck. The silence stretched until Dabi broke it with a rough scoff. He leaned back on the cot, eyes cutting sideways with something almost like concession. “Don’t get too bent out of shape, Doc. If I knew you were this shaken, I wouldn’t’ve said anything.”

Izuku let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, shaking his head faintly. “Sorry. It’s just… been a long day.” 

“Yeah, you said that," Dabi muttered, flicking his gaze over Izuku’s ruined scrubs again. Then he smirked, sharp and tired all at once. “You look like shit, but you still keep showing up. Guess I should be grateful.”

Izuku ignored the jab. “I’ll book your next appointment,” he said firmly, slipping back into that professional cadence because it was the only thing that kept him from unraveling. “I know you’re not going to.”

Dabi’s grin curled at that, almost satisfied. “You know me so well, Doc.”

“I’ll let you know the time,” Izuku pressed on, already scribbling the note for himself. “And your prescription’s filed. Same pharmacy as last time. Just… pick it up, please.”

Dabi raised a brow. “What, no house call delivery? Thought you were footing the bill.”

“I’ll keep covering it,” he said simply. “But you need to take it. Every dose. No excuses.” He hesitated, then forced his eyes up to meet Dabi’s, green locking against blue flame. “And stop using your quirk. It’s destroying you. Every time you push it, you’re making my job harder—and one day, I might not be able to keep up.”

For a moment, something flickered across Dabi’s expression—gone as quickly as it came. “Doc, if I gave a damn about keeping myself alive, I wouldn’t be me. But since you’re the only one dumb enough to keep patching me up…” He let the words trail off, then shrugged. “Fine. I’ll pick up the damn meds.”

Izuku exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Good. That’s all I ask.”

Dabi swung his legs over the edge of the cot, testing the strength in them before pushing himself up. He moved like every bone ached but forced it into swagger, one hand shoved into his pocket. “Well, Doc,” he said, voice drawling with mock gratitude, “thanks for letting me go.”

Izuku tried not to sound exasperated. “I wouldn’t exactly say letting you. I’d feel a lot better if someone was here to pick you up. But since I know you don’t… roll that way…” He trailed off, giving a tired shrug. “Just… take it easy, alright?”

Dabi’s grin curved sideways, a flash of teeth that didn’t reach his eyes. “Relax, Doc. You patch me up, I tear myself apart again, and we rinse, repeat. It’s practically our routine by now.” He tipped his head, tone gone dry. “What would you even do without me?”

And before Izuku could muster a response—something caught between scolding and exhausted disbelief—Dabi was already slipping past him, out into the hallway. The door swung shut in his wake, leaving only the faint scent of burnt ash clinging to the room.

Izuku sat there for a moment, chart still in his hand, staring at the empty cot. He scrubbed a hand down his face.  On any other day, Izuku would have brushed Dabi’s words off. He knew better by now, the man threw out backhanded comments like sparks off a flame, half for the sting, half for the show. But today… today his head was already too crowded. What would you even do without me? It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. It tangled with another voice, one that burned hotter, sharper— What would I do without Kacchan?

The two collided, echoed, overlapped, until it was just noise in his skull. He pressed the heel of his palm against his temple, willing it to stop. He needed to get his shit together. 

Izuku made his way towards the nurse assigned to Dabi’s file, gave the last of the discharge instructions, and made sure the prescription was logged. It was routine by now: he’d cover the cost, Dabi would grumble but still pick it up. The strange little rhythm they’d fallen into. Izuku pu told himself not to dwell. Because his next stop was Todoroki.

He glanced at the clock on the wall as he walked, feet dragging heavier than usual. 4:47. His shift ended at six, and Todoroki was his last patient of the day. After that, he could technically go home. The idea should’ve felt like relief, but instead it made his chest tighten. Home meant being alone with everything clawing inside his head. And right now, the thought of that was terrifying.

He shoved the thought down as he pulled up Todoroki’s file on the tablet. Labs weren’t back yet — that would take a few more hours at least, though he’d expedited them. Imaging, though, was ready. Chest, abdomen, the scans he’d ordered to check the organ strain. He flipped through them with his thumb as he walked. Things he already suspected, laid out in grayscale. By the time he reached Todoroki’s room, he’d schooled his face back into something calm. Even if his insides were screaming.

Izuku paused at the door longer than he meant to. His hand hovered on the handle, knuckles white where he gripped the chart. This was Todoroki Shoto. The number two hero. On any other day, he would have been buzzing with nerves, maybe even let himself slip into fanboy mode the way he had with Mirio. On any other day, he might’ve been excited to say he’d worked on someone of this caliber, to make notes on a file that belonged to a man the whole world watched.

But today wasn’t any other day. Today he was still wearing scrubs stiff with dried blood. His hair was sticking in sweaty curls to his forehead. His chest felt like it had been torn open right alongside Katsuki’s. The weight of the entire day pressed down on him so hard that even standing here, outside a door, felt impossible.

He forced himself to move anyway. The door clicked open, and there Todoroki was, sitting upright in the hospital bed, posture perfect, eyes as sharp as ever even with the bruising that pulled at the edge of his jaw.

“You don’t look good,” Todoroki said flatly. No hesitation. 

Izuku blinked. His lips parted, closed, then parted again. Out of all the greetings he’d been bracing for, that hadn’t been it. For a second, it was like Dabi’s voice layered over Todoroki’s in his head. Different tone, but the effect was the same: a mirror held up to his own exhaustionAnd the strangest part? They didn’t even know each other. Two men on opposite ends of the world, saying the same damn thing, like the universe was mocking him.

Izuku tried to school his face, to smooth the stutter out of his voice before he spoke. “…Yeah,” he admitted, almost sheepish. “I’ve had… a long day.”

Izuku opened the chart, trying to force his brain back into the right rhythm. But before he could speak, Todoroki tilted his head slightly. “Do you need a moment?”

Izuku startled, blinking at him like he’d just spoken another language. “Wh—no. No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You don’t just look like hell. You’re… dressed like it, too.” His gaze flicked down, not subtle at all.

Izuku swallowed, heat prickling the back of his neck. Right. The scrubs. Still blotched, stiff, a shade of red-brown that said more than he ever could. Dabi had said the same. Now Todoroki. The universe just wasn’t going to let him forget.

“I’m fine,” Izuku repeated, firmer this time. “Let’s focus on you, shall we?”

Todoroki didn’t argue. He just inclined his head in that almost imperceptible way of his. 

Izuku skimmed the chart. “Have you been using your quirk these past few days?”

The change was immediate—a flicker in Todoroki’s eyes, the tiniest stiffening of his shoulders. His silence said enough. Izuku waited.

“You were at that fight, weren’t you?” Izuku added quietly. “The one that left half the city leveled. Casualties, multiple heroes down.”

Todoroki gave a single, sharp nod.

“And I’m guessing…” Izuku hesitated, then pushed anyway. “You only used your ice.”

This time, Todoroki’s jaw twitched. His eyes slid away, as if the answer was written somewhere on the sterile wall. The pause stretched long enough that Izuku almost filled it for him. But then, Todoroki finally answered. “…Yes. And it happened again.”

Izuku only nodded. No judgment. He flipped to the imaging printouts, fingers tracing the notes he’d scrawled last night when he couldn’t sleep. “I did a lot of research. Came up with some options for you.”

Todoroki’s head snapped back toward him, surprise flickering across his usually even features. “You… what? After everything you said last time, you were just pushing me to use it—”

“I still want you to,” Izuku cut in, meeting his eyes for once. “Use your quirk.”

Todoroki froze. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Izuku didn’t push further. He just held his gaze. “It’s yours. Not anyone else’s. And if you want to move forward… you’ll need to use all of it. Not just half.”

Todoroki stayed quiet. His face didn’t shift, didn’t betray much of anything—but the silence itself was answer enough.

Izuku exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. You don’t want to use it, that’s fine. That why, since I know using your fire is… delicate for you, I came up with a few options. For the meantime.” He flipped through the pages in the folder, forcing the words out even as his tone edged sharper than he normally allowed. “Until you open your eyes and realize you need to use your own quirk. Which means all of it.”

That landed like a punch. Todoroki didn’t flinch, but his stillness said more than movement could. Izuku caught it, and part of him almost winced. Was it too harsh? Too blunt? But he didn’t backpedal. He couldn’t sugarcoat.

“So,” Izuku pressed on, sliding a series of scans across the table. “Option one: medication. I can prescribe a regimen that will help dull the migraines, manage the muscle fatigue. It’ll buy you time. Slow the deterioration. But it won’t stop it.” He tapped a dark spot on one of the scans, a faint marker of strain deep in the chest cavity. “These are stress fractures in your sternum. They’re minor now, but they’re already happening. It’s not just headaches, Todoroki—it’s your heart, your lungs, your vascular system. You keep fighting like this, and it’ll catch up to you. One day you won’t be able to fight it off. No one will.”

He turned to another film—fuzzy white streaks of inflammation across the lungs. “Option two: you start training your fire side in controlled doses. Small amounts, safe environments, monitored. Build tolerance. Balance out the stress your body’s under from ice overexposure. It won’t erase the damage you’ve already done, but it’ll stop new damage from piling on.”

The words were clinical, stripped down, but Izuku’s chest still felt like it was burning. Irreversible. He’d said that word already today. To someone else. And here it was again, circling back like some kind of curse.

“Those are your choices,” Izuku finished, voice softer now but no less firm. “You can take the meds, keep buying time until there’s none left… or you can use your quirk. All of it. And keep the damage from ever catching up to you.”

He just watched Todoroki instead, waiting for something, anything. But all he got was that same silence.

“And just to be clear,” he added, eyes flicking up to meet Todoroki’s with a wry edge, “this isn’t me being paid off by your father. I don’t care if Endeavor himself throws money at me until I choke on it. This is just me, as your doctor, telling you the truth. The first option’s there because I know you’ll probably take it—you’re so set on freezing yourself out you can’t even imagine anything else. The second one? That’s not bribery. That’s not pressure. That’s me saying you’ll destroy yourself if you keep going like this.”

His words stumbled. If only he knew. If only Todoroki knew how many of  his patients were breaking themselves open in front of him. Mirio, burning his body out from the inside. Kacchan—Izuku’s throat went tight—Kacchan on the table, his heart stopping again and again until Izuku thought his own would go with it. Heroes killing themselves just by being heroes. And here was another one, sitting right in front of him, determined to follow the same damn path.

He almost laughed, bitter and hollow. What was it with his patients? With him? Was he drawing them in because he was just as bad, maybe worse? He was falling apart too. Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite. He hated himself for it, and he didn’t care.

“You’re not invincible,” Izuku finished, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to act like you are.”

Todoroki sat in silence. His eyes dropped to the scans, tracing the pale streaks across the lungs, the stress lines like cracks in ice spiderwebbing across bone. He stayed there a long time, so long Izuku wondered if he’d even answer at all.

Then, finally—“…You sound like you know what that feels like.”

Izuku’s chest stuttered. For a second, his mouth opened and nothing came out. He wasn’t sure what showed on his face, but whatever it was, Todoroki’s gaze caught it.

Izuku swallowed. “I-I know what it looks like,” he said carefully, shutting the folder with a dull thud. “I see it every day.”

Todoroki hummed, noncommittal, but his eyes lingered, searching in a way that made Izuku’s skin prickle. Like he knew Izuku hadn’t told him everything. Like maybe he wouldn’t press now, but he wasn’t going to forget, either.

“I’ll think about it,” Todoroki said at last, voice low but sure.

Izuku nodded, a tiny, grateful nod.“Okay. That’s fair. Do you want me to give you the details now, or after you’ve decided which way you’re leaning?”

“I’d like to hear both,” Todoroki said without hesitation.

Izuku nodded once, tugging the folder open again. “Alright. First option—it’s strictly medical.” He flipped through the papers, pulling out a sheet. “A medication regimen designed to slow the progression of what we’re seeing in your scans. It’ll take the edge off the migraines, help regulate the strain you’re putting on your system. But.” His eyes flicked up, serious. “It comes with restrictions. No alcohol, no smoking, you’ll have to adjust your diet to avoid any interactions. And your training—you’d have to cut back significantly. Maybe not stop completely, but tone it down. A lot.”

He slid the sheet across the desk toward Todoroki, who glanced down at the neat rows of pills and dosages without a word.

“Second option…” Izuku hesitated. “Second option is less about medicine, more about strategy.”

That got Todoroki’s attention—his heterochromatic eyes lifted. Izuku felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, but he pushed on, unable to stop himself.

“You’d start slow. Controlled exposure to your fire, little by little, while balancing with your ice. Training for balance, not power. Building tolerance instead of burning out. If you did it consistently, carefully, you could reach a point where the strain wouldn’t catch up to you. Where the damage wouldn’t ever get to this.” He tapped the scans with two fingers. 

Silence stretched. Izuku’s pulse thundered in his ears. He realized, belatedly, that he’d been leaning forward in his chair. He sat back quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I want you to have the chance to keep fighting without killing yourself to do it.”

Todoroki didn’t speak at first. His gaze flicked between the medication sheet and Izuku’s face. “You sound more like a coach than a doctor,” he said quietly.

Izuku flushed. “I—sorry. Forget I—”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Todoroki interrupted. He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s just… different. Most people tell me what I can’t do. You’re the first person who’s telling me how I still can.”

Izuku’s throat felt tight, but he pushed through it. “Well… I just want you to have the chance. Like I said the first time we met—you’re the number two hero. You’re… my hero. And I want you to give it your all. People like you make it possible for the rest of us to walk the streets safely. And I—” his voice faltered for half a second,“I wouldn’t want to walk those streets knowing my hero was saving everyone but himself.”

Todoroki didn’t respond right away. His gaze dropped to the scans, then back to Izuku.

Clearing his throat, Izuku straightened the chart. “Your lab tests should be processed by tomorrow. As soon as you can, book another appointment so we can go over them together. By then, I’d like to know which option you’re choosing.”

“Alright,” Todoroki said simply, nodding.

Izuku exhaled, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good. I’ll let the nurse know to reach out and schedule you—hopefully within the week. Please… don’t push it off.”

Todoroki gave another short nod and began to stand, then paused halfway, as though weighing something. His eyes flicked to Izuku’s face. “Doctor Midoriya.”

Izuku blinked, startled by the way his name sounded in Todoroki’s quiet voice.

“…Thank you.”

The words were simple but Izuku felt warmth bloom in his chest all the same. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling.”Of course.”

Todoroki’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary before he looked away. He made it all the way to the door before he spoke again. “One more thing.”

Izuku tilted his head. “Yes?”

Todoroki hesitated only briefly, then said, “If I’m going to be your hero, and you expect me to take care of myself…… then I expect the same from you. Take care of yourself, too.”

Izuku’s breath caught, his chest tightening. He forced a chuckle, trying to wave it off. “Right. I’ll… I’ll do my best.”

But Todoroki’s gaze didn’t waver, and for a moment, Izuku wondered if this boy could see straight through him.

Chapter Text

Izuku stepped out of Todoroki’s room and let the door click shut behind him. His hand was still on the handle a second too long, like maybe if he stayed there, pressed against cold metal, he could just… stay in that moment. Pretend the day ended there. Pretend he wasn’t about to drown in everything else waiting for him in the hallway.

Todoroki’s words still clung to him, though. Take care of yourself too.

He’d heard that before. A million times, actually. From his mom, from Mina, from Hitoshi. Even from some of the nurses when they thought he looked like death warmed over after forty-hour shifts. Usually, it annoyed him. It sounded like pity. Like you can’t handle it, Midoriya, like he was fragile, like he didn’t know how to survive in his own body.

But this time—God, why didn’t it bother him this time? It should have. It should’ve crawled under his skin, made him want to argue. But it hadn’t. And that was what was throwing him off. It didn’t feel like pity. Not the way Todoroki said it. Not sharp, not soft, just… even. Like fact. Like he was saying, If I’m going to do my job, you better do yours. He didn't even know anymore.

Izuku dragged a hand down his face, palm rasping over dried blood on his cheek. Right, still there. He should’ve changed his scrubs hours ago. Should’ve showered. Should’ve done a hundred things. But he hadn’t. And now he was walking through the hospital looking like some horror movie extra, spiraling about the number two hero telling him to take care of himself.

Cute. Really cute. He exhaled hard, pushing off the doorframe and forcing his legs to move. The chart in his hands crinkled where his grip was too tight. He loosened it, tried to smooth the page flat again, and gave up. His chest felt too tight anyway. He wanted to brush it off, shove the words into the same drawer where he shoved all the other advice he never listened to. But they wouldn’t fit. Not this time. Because Todoroki didn’t know him. Didn’t know what kind of mess he was. Didn’t know how many ways he was already failing today alone. And maybe that was the difference. Maybe that’s why it felt… different. Because for once, someone wasn’t saying it because they’d watched him fall apart a hundred times before. Todoroki had just looked at him—saw him for two seconds—and said it anyway. Like he already knew.

Izuku’s throat worked, but no words came out. Not that there was anyone around to hear them. Just the hum of the hospital, the squeak of his shoes on the tile, and the weight in his chest that wasn’t getting any lighter. Honestly, if he wasn’t in the state of mind he was in—juggling about fifty emotions at once, most of them revolving around a certain blonde who kept flatlining and dragging every old feeling back from the grave—he’d probably be way more flustered about the fact that Todoroki had called himself his hero. Which—sure, Izuku had said it first. You’re my hero. He meant it. But still. Hearing the number two hero say it back, plain as anything, like it wasn’t the most insane thing Izuku had ever heard in his life? It was surreal. It should’ve left him red-faced, stammering, scribbling about it in some notebook like he was fifteen again.

But he couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy. His shift was over, and that was supposed to be a relief, but all it did was make his stomach twist tighter. He didn’t want to go home. He also couldn’t stay here. Not looking like this. Scrubs stiff with dried blood, hair plastered down with sweat, circles under his eyes that had to be terrifying his patients more than reassuring them. He needed a shower. A change of clothes. A bed. But the thought of going back to his apartment, being alone with his head, alone with the silence—that was worse.

He hadn’t slept more than a couple hours in the on-call room. He was tired, exhausted, overwhelmed, overstimulated, overly over every emotion in existence. Going home wouldn’t be so bad, he tried to convince himself. He could crash, just for a little while. Close his eyes, pretend none of this was real. His hand drifted automatically to his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen lit up. Notifications stacked, one after the other, buzzing against his palm like they’d been waiting for him to notice.

Mom
Izuku, honey, are you okay?
Please text me when you can. I know you’re busy but I need to know you’re eating.
I spoke with Mitsuki. They’re scared. I told them you saved him. They’re so grateful. I’m so proud of you.
Please, don’t push yourself too hard. He’ll need you steady.
Text me, Izuku. Please.

He swallowed hard

Mina 
IZUKU                                                                                                                                           Are you okay? I saw the news? Hospitals are getting swarmed. Please dont over work yourself!                                                                                                                                        Hellooooooo U okay?                                                                                                                 You better not be ghosting me. I will hunt you down.
Do you need food? Coffee? A hug? All three?
Seriously, babe, I’m worried. You’re scaring me.
If you don’t text me back I’m storming the hospital.

Tsuyu                                                                                                                                        Midoriya, I heard it’s been a rough day. Please take care of yourself.
If you need me, I’m free tonight. Just call.

Hitoshi
I heard it's going rough at the hospital.
You know I don’t do pep talks, but… don’t be an idiot, Izuku.
Text me when you can.

Izuku stared at the screen until it dimmed and went black again, his reflection ghosted faintly in the glass. His chest squeezed. He wanted to answer. All of them. None of them. He wanted to say he was fine. He wanted to say he was drowning. He wanted to say Kacchan’s heart had stopped in his hands three times today and he didn’t know how he was still standing. Instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket.

He could tell Mina wasn’t aware yet of what had happened to Kacchan. None of them were. If they had been, their texts would’ve been chaos by now. Mina would be demanding answers, demanding to know why he hadn’t called, probably threatening to break into the ICU herself. And he didn’t know if he should be the one to tell her. Would Kacchan even want that? Izuku had no idea what he would’ve wanted anymore. He used to think he knew him better than anyone. Now he wasn’t sure if he knew him at all.Still, Mina would murder him if she found out he hadn’t said anything. That much was certain. So what was he supposed to do? Keep it quiet until the news broke, let her find out through headlines? Or break it himself, watch her face crumble when she realized? The media clearly hadn’t caught on yet. He supposed that was why the halls were still calm, no whispers darting between nurses, no rumors about cameras waiting outside. If reporters had gotten wind of it, the whole place would already be buzzing. Swarmed. For now, it was still a secret. And Izuku was the one stuck holding it. 

Which, technically, was the protocol anyway. Patient confidentiality, all that. He wasn’t supposed to just hand out information, not to friends, not to anyone. Not without consent. But even if he could—he wouldn’t know what to say.

He gripped the chart and finally let himself leave. His shift was over. Time to clock out, to go home, to… what? Sit in his empty apartment and think himself into a spiral? Pretend Katsuki wasn’t lying in the ICU, machines doing the work his body couldn’t?

Izuku headed down the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. 

Izuku didn’t make it far. He was halfway down the corridor when he heard it.

“Izuku!”

His whole body locked. That voice. He hadn’t heard it in years, but it cracked through him like glass anyway. So much like Katsuki’s it made his chest clench. For a second, he actually thought he was hallucinating again. He’d spent the whole day hearing voices that weren’t there. Maybe this was just one more. But he turned. He had to. And it wasn’t in his head.

A few feet down the hall stood Mitsuki Bakugo. Her eyes were wet but blazing, her posture tight like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. Masaru was beside her, steady and quiet, a hand resting on her shoulder like he was the only thing keeping her from breaking. And just behind them—Inko. His mom. Her face pale, worry etched deep into every line as her gaze landed on him. For a second, Izuku couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The weight of all three of them looking at him at once—expectant, desperate—it was suffocating.

Mitsuki stumbled forward before he could even speak, arms wrapping tight around him. “Izuku—how is he? How’s my boy?”

Izuku wanted to cry. Mitsuki’s arms were tight around him, tighter than he ever remembered. He hadn’t been hugged by her since—God, maybe since he was six? And Mitsuki Bakugo’s hugs were nothing like his mother’s. Inko’s hugs were soft, warm, overflowing with love you could feel down to your bones. Mitsuki’s weren’t like that. Mitsuki didn’t hug often, not even her own son. If she ever pulled you close, it was because she had no other choice, because words weren’t enough. The only times Izuku remembered her hugging him as a kid were the aftermaths. Those afternoons when Katsuki had gone too far, left Izuku’s small body trembling, tears streaking down his face. Mitsuki’s arms would circle him then. A kind of silent apology. Sorry my son is a dick. Sorry he hurt you. And now—here she was again, clinging to him like he was the only lifeline she had left.

Mitsuki was staring at Izuku, her grip tight enough to bruise, her voice breaking as she talked.“We rushed here straight from the airport,” she blurted, words tumbling out quick, like they’d been bottled up for the entire flight. “They won’t tell us anything. The desk girl just kept repeating it—‘only the attending can give updates, the attending, the attending’—but he’s with another patient, and we were about to go find him, and then we saw you—” Her hands tightened on his shoulders, tugging him back just enough to stare him in the face. Her eyes, wide and wild and crimson. Too familiar. Too much like his. “And I’d rather you. You saved him, Izuku. Inko said it—said you brought him back. Thank you, really Izuku. Thank you. How is he? How's Katsuki? Can I see him? What’s his condition?”

Izuku’s throat closed. He wanted to tell her everything and nothing all at once. He wasn't Katsuki's attending. He wasn’t even supposed to be here, standing in this hallway being crushed under the weight of her desperation. The procedure was clear. Only the assigned physician gave updates. That was how it worked. That was the line Izuku himself had drilled into residents a hundred times before.  And God help him, Izuku couldn’t bring himself to tell her of the procedure. Because she didn’t want an assigned physician. She didn’t want some stranger rattling off medical jargonShe wanted him. The boy she’d known since he was four. The boy she used to scold alongside her own. The boy she’d once hugged as if to shield him from her son’s temper. She wanted answers from him—Izuku.

Izuku’s breath stuttered. All he could see was her resemblance to Kacchan. Ash-blond spikes, sharp crimson eyes, skin unblemished and perfect even after a day of travel. Copy and paste. It knocked him off balance, dizzy with the uncanny familiarity of it. He remembered thinking it when they were kids—how it made no sense that Katsuki’s skin was so flawless when his quirk literally worked through sweat glands. No pimples, no scars, no imperfections. Even puberty hadn’t touched him. Kacchan was untouchable, untouchably perfect. And Mitsuki was that, too. Standing here, looking at him with the same fierce, demanding gaze, it was like being burned alive all over again.

“Mitsuki,” Masaru said quietly, finally stepping in. His hand hovered near his wife’s elbow but didn’t quite land, not daring to break her grip. “Please. You’re asking too much at once. He can’t—he can’t answer you if you don’t let him breathe.”

“I don’t need him to breathe, I need him to talk,” Mitsuki shot back, eyes never leaving Izuku’s face.

“Mitsuki.” Masaru’s tone sharpened. 

She exhaled hard through her nose but didn’t release Izuku’s shoulders. Her fingers stayed hooked tight. Inko, standing just to her side, reached forward softly. One hand rubbed slow circles into Mitsuki’s back, soothing, steady. Her other hand curled around Izuku’s arm. “It’s alright,” she murmured, almost like she was telling both of them. “Izuku will tell us what he can.”

Izuku’s throat tightened. All of it pressing on him at once. Too much. 

How does he even start? How do you tell a mother what her son had looked like when he came through the ER doors—his body torn up in ways no hero should ever be, not in this decade, not in any? How do you put into words the way his chest looked split open on the table, the sound of the flatline that screamed over and over, the dead weight of his heart stilled in Izuku’s palm? How do you make someone see it without shattering them? Because he couldn’t get those images out of his head. And now Mitsuki was looking at him like he held every answer in the world, and all he wanted to do was cry. His chest ached with it. His eyes burned with it. He bit it back so hard his jaw trembled.

“He’s—” His voice cracked before he even got the word out. He swallowed, tried again. “Katsuki… he’s alive. But…”

Izuku’s hands curled tight at his sides. The clinical phrases lined themselves up in his head like they always did—heavily sedated, intubated, forty-eight hours minimum, three to five days if complications, ICU monitoring for hypoxia, secondary organ failure, possible neurological delay. Words he’d repeated to families a hundred times before. But this wasn’t just any family. This wasn’t just any patient. This was Kacchan. How did he say that to Mitsuki? How did he look her in the eye and tell her she might not see her son awake for days? So he tried. “He’s… he’s stable. But the damage was—” He cut himself off, throat thickening. He forced the word out anyway. “Severe.”

Mitsuki’s fingers tightened on him. “What does that mean? What does that mean for my boy?”

Izuku flinched. He couldn’t say it. Not all of it. He couldn’t tell her that every doctor on staff was holding their breath, waiting for Katsuki’s body to decide if it was going to keep fighting or not. He couldn’t tell her that the next few days would decide everything.

Masaru stepped closer, his voice soft “Mitsuki. Let him speak.”

Inko’s hand squeezed Izuku’s arm gently, grounding him even as his chest squeezed tighter. Izuku dragged in a breath that shook like it was too heavy for his lungs. “He’s sedated. Intubated. That’s standard—they want his heart under the least amount of stress possible. It’s… it’s not just the heart they're watching. His lungs, kidneys, brain—we don’t know how much oxygen he got during the arrests.” His chest ached saying it. “They will keep him under for at least forty-eight hours. It could be longer. Three days. Five. Maybe more. They can’t… we can’t predict. It depends on how his body responds.”

Mitsuki’s eyes went wide, glossy and Masaru’s shoulders slumped like the words had punched him clean through. Izuku’s heart clawed at his ribs. He couldn’t cry. But god, he wanted to.

“So you’re telling me I won’t be able to talk to him for days?” Mitsuki’s voice cracked sharp enough that a few heads at the desk turned. She tightened her grip on Izuku’s shoulders, eyes burning straight into his.

Izuku forced his voice steady, though it scraped his throat raw. “He won’t be able to wake up for a few days. He… They're  keeping him under for his own safety.”

Masaru, quiet until now, exhaled hard. His hand rubbed down his face, fingers dragging across tired eyes. “So he’s really that bad.”

The words twisted the knife Izuku already carried in his chest. He dropped his gaze, shame coiling hot in his stomach. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do more.”

“You’re doing everything you can,” Inko’s voice broke in, soft but firm. Her hand found his arm, rubbing. “You’re trying your best, honey.”

Mitsuki’s eyes snapped. “No—you saved him. Don’t you dare apologize for that.” Her hands shook where they gripped him, not loosening, not letting go. “You saved my son, Izuku. You brought him back. Thank you.”

The words landed a punch, because he didn’t feel like a savior.

Mitsuki blinked hard, her jaw tight. “Inko told me you operated on him. That you saved him in the ER. But then they said you weren’t his doctor. That doesn’t make any damn sense.” Her eyes narrowed, sharp as a knife. “Why aren’t you his doctor? Why isn’t it you on his case?”

Izuku’s mouth went dry. His brain scrambled for footing, for words that didn’t exist. “I—” He swallowed. “I knew the patient. It would’ve… clouded my judgment. So I stepped down. That’s all.”

That wasn't all. Mitsuki—Mitsuki stared at him long and hard, the same way Katsuki used to when he knew Izuku was lying. She didn’t call him out. She didn’t have to. The disbelief was clear in her eyes. The silence stretched just long enough for  Mitsuki to finally see it. Her gaze swept him up and down, lingering on the streaks dried deep into his scrubs, on the brown-red stains crusted over his shirt and pants. Her eyes widened, sharp with realization. “Is that—” Her voice caught, broke once before she shoved it back under control. “Is that my son’s blood?”

Izuku froze. He wanted to deny it, to brush it off, to say something—anything. His throat bobbed uselessly. “…Yes.”

“Oh, honey.” Inko’s voice cut in quick, soft but urgent, her hand already fussing at his sleeve like she could wipe the stains away herself. “Let’s get you changed, really quick. You can’t stay like this.”

Masaru stepped in, calm as ever, his tone steady despite the tension that still hummed in the air. “I have clothes in the car. In my luggage. You’re about the same build. You can change into those, if you don’t have spares.”

Inko seized the idea, nodding fast, her hand rubbing his arm again. “Yes, thank you. That’s perfect. Izuku, how long have you been like this? All day? You didn’t have extra scrubs?” She reached up suddenly, thumb brushing his cheek with a worried frown. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s even dried on your face.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. He leaned back slightly, resisting the tug of her hand. He knew he looked a mess—he could feel the stiff pull of dried blood in the fabric, the tight crack along his cheek where it had crusted. He should want it off. He should want it gone. But a part of him didn’t.

A part of him wanted to keep it. As if Katsuki’s blood was the closest thing he had to him right now. It was strange, maybe wrong, but the thought rooted in his chest anyway. Before he could stop himself from spiraling, Mitsuki’s voice snapped sharp through the moment. “Did he really lose that much blood?”

Izuku’s head shot up. His mouth opened, words tripping over themselves in a scramble. “N-No—I mean, yes, he—he did lose blood, but it’s under control. We replaced the volume. He’s stable now. I promise. It’s not… it’s not an issue anymore.”

Mitsuki’s eyes narrowed, reading every twitch in his face. The sharp edge in her tone softened by just a thread. “He’s always been stubborn. Figures he’d bleed himself dry just to prove a point.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her gaze didn’t waver from Izuku’s. “Don’t sugarcoat it, though. I’d rather hear it ugly than pretty.”

Izuku nodded once, swallowing hard. Izuku’s throat felt tight. All he could manage was a quiet, “Okay.”

Masaru finally spoke. “Izuku… is it allowed for us to see him? Our son?”

Izuku nodded quickly. “Yes. Of course. ICU rules mean only one person at a time, and visits are short—ten minutes, maybe fifteen, depending on his stability. He’s heavily sedated, so he won’t be awake, and the machines…” His voice faltered for a second, but he forced it back. “The machines can be overwhelming, but he’s safe. He’s monitored around the clock.”

Mitsuki gave a sharp nod, swallowing hard. Inko rubbed her back gently, while Masaru’s hand closed over his wife’s shoulder.

Izuku shifted, gripping the sleeve of his coat a little too tightly. “Come on. I’ll walk you there and explain everything else on the way.”

He gestured down the hall, his footsteps dragging just slightly as they fell into step behind him. 

By the time Izuku left them at the ICU doors, the air between them was overwhelming. It wasn’t a walk down another hospital corridor. Every step carried the weight of where it led: to Katsuki. To a son, a friend, a boy still fighting for his life. Izuku hadn’t seen him since earlier. Part of him wanted to. Part of him burned with the urge to just push through those doors and look for himself. But the last time he’d tried that, he’d bolted right back out. He wasn’t sure he could handle it happening again.

So he told them he was heading home. Shower, clean clothes, just an hour or two to pull himself together. Masaru had offered his own luggage—but Izuku couldn’t bring himself to accept it. He didn’t want to wear anyone else’s clothes, didn’t want to peel off the ruined scrubs just to shove them into a stranger’s suitcase. They were ruined, yes, but he couldn’t throw them out either. Maybe it was strange, keeping them, but in some twisted way, they felt like the only piece of Katsuki he had left to hold onto.

Inko had insisted on accompanying him, but Izuku had shaken his head. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Please… stay with them. They need you more right now.”

The thought lingered—that maybe Mitsuki and Masaru needed more than just his mom. Maybe they needed people who knew Katsuki as he was now. Friends. Izuku hadn’t been sure whether they’d been contacted yet, so he asked. Mitsuki admitted she’d tried Kirishima, but the call hadn’t gone through. She’d try again, she promised, and she’d tell him to bring the rest of the gang if he could. The words had sat strangely in Izuku’s chest. Kacchan actually had friends. Real friends—so real that Mitsuki called them without hesitation, as though they were family. Izuku wasn’t sure what he felt. Not pain, exactly. But something. Something he didn’t have a name for. Before he left, Masaru had insisted on one more thing: lending him his jacket. “You can’t take the train looking like that,” he’d said. And Izuku hadn’t argued. He probably did look like a murderer, blood soaked into every inch of fabric. The jacket covered most of it, enough to get him home.

Now, back in his apartment, the jacket was folded neatly on the couch and Izuku stood barefoot in his bathroom, hair damp, skin pink from scrubbing too hard. His scrubs sat in the corner, a dark pile he couldn’t bring himself to move. The shower hadn’t rinsed away the heaviness in his chest. Clean didn’t feel clean. Fresh didn’t feel fresh. The exhaustion was still bone-deep.

He really wanted to rest—God, he needed it. His whole body screamed for it. The kind of exhaustion that wasn’t just in his muscles, but in his bones, in his head, in his chest. Today felt like a week crammed into twenty hours. But it wasn’t. It was still just one day. Barely even 8 p.m.

And still, he couldn’t just lie down and let himself crash. Not when he’d told Mitsuki, Masaru, and his mom that he’d come back. It would’ve been easier to just text them, maybe beg off, but it felt wrong. Too wrong. Like not showing up would be the same as not caring, and if there was one thing he needed them to know, it was that he did care. Probably too much.

Mitsuki had told him not to. Practically ordered him to rest. “You’ve done enough,” she’d said, fiery even through her gratitude. “You’ve already been a lifesaver, literally.” And he wanted to believe her. He wanted to accept that. But the guilt stuck too hard. The thought of staying away left a pit in his stomach. His feelings twisted so much he couldn’t even sort them out anymore.

So yeah. He’d told them he’d be back. Which meant he had to go back. It was weird, though—returning to the hospital after leaving. He never did that. Usually it was simple: shift over, home, reset, return the next day. Except tomorrow, his shift didn’t start until late. That meant he had the whole night stretched in front of him. No excuse not to spend it there. With them. With Mitsuki, Masaru, his mom. Close to Kacchan.

He bent to lace his shoes, already rehearsing the excuse he’d give Mitsuki if she told him again to go home and rest. He should rest. He wanted to. But the idea of not going back felt wrong, like it would prove he didn’t care enough. And he did care—too much. The TV murmured in the background, the news still cycling coverage of the morning’s attack. Izuku crossed the room to grab his bag, thumb brushing the remote, ready to shut it off—

“—reports confirm the villain responsible for the Shinjuku devastation has been contained. Witnesses described it as a bioengineered creature with multiple quirks. Authorities are investigating whether this was an isolated incident or part of a larger, organized effort—”

Izuku froze. His hand dropped from the remote, gaze dragging to the screen. Footage played in the glow of the TV: rubble, smoke, shattered streets still cordoned off by police tape. Heroes were silhouettes against the chaos, indistinct but moving with urgency.

“Pro-Hero Dynamight was among the first on scene. While official statements have not confirmed the extent of his injuries, eyewitnesses reported a prolonged battle, characterized by sustained explosions, before his collapse. The hero was transported to Musutafu Central Hospital in unknownl condition—”

Izuku’s throat tightened. Collapse. They said it like it was nothing. “Sources say the villain was ultimately subdued by Pro-Hero Shoto. His decisive strike ended the fight within minutes.”

Izuku’s stomach knotted. Within minutes. If it went down that fast after Shoto stepped in, then what the hell had Katsuki been facing before that? What had pushed him far enough that his body had just—given out?

The anchor’s voice droned on. “Conspicuously absent from the battle was Japan’s number one hero, Lemillion. Agency representatives claim he is overseas for international work—”

Izuku’s jaw clenched.

“—authorities remain cautious, warning this attack may be linked to previous incidents.  Speculation continues—”

The broadcast moved on. Izuku did too. He clicked the remote. The screen went black. For a second, his reflection stared back at him. 

Izuku’s phone lit up as he tugged on his shoes. He hadn’t checked it since before his shower, mostly because he already knew what he’d find — worry stacked on worry.

Mom
Are you on your way?
Did you eat?
Honey, you need to rest too.
Don’t forget your umbrella, it looks like it will rain.

Mina
Izuku, where are you?
Don’t ignore me.
Tell me you’re not at the hospital still.
Wait. Are you??

Asui’s                                                                                                                                         
Are you okay?

And Hitoshi, who didn’t text often but always called when it mattered, had already called. Izuku had answered. He’d told him more than he should’ve — that he operated on Dynamight(because he couldn't call him Kacchan), that the man barely lived through it. And Hitoshi, who was tied too close to this investigation for Izuku’s comfort, had said something about stopping by the hospital to speak with the family. Izuku had shut that down fast, told him tomorrow morning would be better. Because if Mitsuki said too much — if she said his name — then Hitoshi would know. And no one knew. Not Mina. Not Asui. Not Hitoshi. No one. No one knew that he and Katsuki Bakugo had once been inseparable. That they’d grown up in each other’s pockets until quirks, until fear, until Katsuki’s voice became sharper than his fists. No one knew that Izuku had kept the silence partly out of shame, partly out of respect for a boy who had never wanted to be linked to him. He’d kept it that way for two reasons. First, because Katsuki always seemed to hate it when people remembered they were childhood friends. It embarrassed him somehow. Izuku never wanted to make that worse.

And second—because what was he supposed to say if people asked why they weren’t friends anymore? Because he bullied him until Izuku couldn’t stand to breathe near him? Because he told him to kill myself? What would they say back? Why didn’t he stand up for himself? It was humiliating. Easier to let people think they were strangers. But the truth was, Izuku hadn’t stood up to Kacchan because he couldn’t. Because he’d admired him too much. Because he’d been untouchable in Izuku’s eyes, like All Might himself, even when the words coming out of his mouth cut deeper than fists ever could.

Izuku rubbed his temple, staring at the unread messages stacking higher, He should have answered a while ago. He didn’t. He was too tired to spin a lie.

There was a sudden banging on the door. Like the kind of banging that promised a murder scene on the other side if he didn’t answer quickly enough.

Izuku froze on his couch, his stomach lurching. Nobody ever banged on his door like that. Not unless it was an emergency.  He got up slowly, every step toward the peephole feeling like a walk to the gallows. His palms were already sweating before he even looked. And then he did look. And he wished he hadn’t. Because standing there, fuming, practically glowing with pink fury, was Mina Ashido. Izuku’s blood ran cold. His heart tried to climb out of his throat. He knew that look. That very specific, very terrifying look that only Mina got when she was absolutely, positively, cosmically pissed. And the fact that she had come all the way here to bang on his door like a SWAT team meant he was in deep, irreparable trouble. He didn’t even know what kind of trouble yet, but he knew it was the life-threatening kind. He pressed his forehead against the door, whispering a pathetic little prayer under his breath. Please, please, please let this not end with him losing a limb. Or his dignity. Or both.

“Izuku Midoriya,” Mina’s voice rang through the wood, sharp enough to split him in half. A full government name meant death for sure. “I know you’re in there.” Another round of pounding rattled the door on its hinges. “I heard your pathetic prayer. That won't help you. Open this door right now or so, help me god Izuku I’ll give you a reason to never open this door again. Don’t test me.”

Izuku winced. He had no idea what that even meant but he knew she would do whatever intention her words had.. Mina always meant it when she made threats like that. His life flashed before his eyes. At this point, Izuku knew he didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t open the door, Mina would blow it off its hinges with sheer force of will and he’d spend the next three weeks trying to explain to his landlord why his front door looked like it had gone through a warzone. And honestly, that was probably more dangerous than just… letting her in.

So he opened the door, plastering the world’s weakest smile across his face.
“Oh. H-h-hey, Mina. W-w-what’s up?” he said, way too casual, like she hadn’t just been threatening to break into his apartment ten seconds ago. “Nice night, huh?”

Mina didn’t even blink. She brushed past him with all the force of a pink hurricane, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like coward. Before he could shut the door, the window creaked behind him. Izuku spun just in time to see Tsuyu’s head appear from the fire escape, her frog-wide eyes blinking like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Midoriya-chan,” she said calmly as she pulled herself through the window, landing light on his floor. “Mina said she had a backup plan if you didn’t open the door.”

“Which was?” Izuku asked weakly.

“Breaking in through here,” she answered like it was the simplest fact in existence.

Mina shot him a look over her shoulder. “Relax, I didn’t need it. He opened the door all by himself like a big boy.”

Izuku rubbed at his face, already feeling his blood pressure spike. “What the hell, you two? Did you seriously make plans to break into my apartment?”

Mina folded her arms, leaning against the couch like she owned the place. “We did what we had to do.”

“Yeah, ribbit,” Tsuyu added, as calm as ever.

Izuku stared between them, caught somewhere between terrified and offended. “Okay… okay, fine, but can someone please explain why you’re here? Like, did something happen? Is everyone okay? Am I… forgetting something? Because you’re bombarding me right now and I don’t—” His voice cracked, panic creeping in. “—I don’t know what’s going on. Did someone die?”

Mina’s eyes sharpened, her whole body going still. “You should know why, Izuku.”

Tsuyu’s gaze flicked toward him too, quiet but steady. “Just tell her. There’s no point in hiding it.”

“…Tell you what?” Izuku blinked, his throat tightening. And for the first time all day, he realized he had absolutely no idea why they were standing here in his apartment. Izuku didn’t even see her move until it happened. Mina lunged, palms shoving against his chest hard enough to knock him back a step.

“You asshole!” she snapped, her voice breaking like glass. “How could you—how could you possibly keep that from me?”

His breath stuttered. “Wh—what?”

“How long were you gonna wait, huh?” Mina demanded, eyes blazing, chest heaving. “How long until you decided I deserved to know?”

Izuku’s throat closed. He had a feeling. God, he had a feeling he knew what she meant. But saying it out loud would make it real. And he couldn’t—he couldn’t do that.

“I—I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he managed. His pulse was pounding too loud in his ears.

“Dude, stop,” Tsuyu cut in, her tone calm but sharp, like a blade under silk. She leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Just tell her. You have no idea how hard it was to keep her from storming your door sooner. She was worse than this.” Her eyes flicked toward Mina, steady. “Way worse.”

Mina’s hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling. “How could you keep that—Kats—from me? Do you have any idea—” Her voice cracked, splintered. “Do you have any idea how delicate this is? How serious this is?”

Izuku froze. Every muscle locked tight, like if he didn’t move, maybe the words would dissolve before they hit him. But Mina wasn’t done. Not even close. Her face crumpled, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes even as her jaw clenched tight. “I’m your best friend, Izuku. One of your closest friends. And you knew—I’m one of his closest friends, too. You knew that. And you didn’t call, you didn’t message, you didn’t tell me anything.”

Her voice broke all the way then. “I had to find out through his mom. His mom, Izuku. Mitsuki had to be the one to tell me. Not you. Her. She told me that one of Katsuki’s closest friends operated on him. She told me it was you. That you were the one who saved him.”

Mina’s chest heaved, her hands flying up in a helpless gesture, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. “You want to tell me what the hell that’s about, too? What do you mean, you’re one of his closest friends? Since when?”

And just like that, Izuku felt his whole world tilt on its axis. This. This was the exact conversation he’d been avoiding his entire life. The one he never wanted to have. And now here it was, burning down on him with nowhere left to hide.

“Hold on,” Tsuyu cut in. Her big eyes flicked from Mina to Izuku and back again. “Mina, don’t be so harsh. You know there are regulations he has to follow. He can’t just go blabbing about Bakugo’s condition to anyone.”

Izuku swallowed, throat bobbing, trying to form words—an explanation, an apology, something—but Mina snapped right over him before he could get a syllable out.

“Okay, fine,” she spat, jabbing a finger at him, “I’ll give you that. I get it, regulations. But what about me at least knowing you were okay? Huh?” Her voice cracked, pitched higher with emotion. “That you were fine? That you were alive? I was worried sick about you, Izuku. I didn’t know if you were somewhere out there not taking care of yourself, passed out on the floor from exhaustion—”

His stomach twisted. His jaw clenched. He hated that. Hated when people acted like he couldn’t take care of himself, like he was fragile, like he was still the useless kid who couldn’t do anything without someone babysitting him.

He opened his mouth—“Mina, I—”

But she barrelled over him again, eyes wet and shining, words spilling out like she couldn’t stop. “All you had to do was tell me you were okay and busy! That’s it! Just one text after your shift ended. One text to let me know you weren’t—weren’t killing yourself, Izuku.”

Her cheeks were flushed, her lip trembling, and God help him, her anger was heartbreak painted across her face in the most Mina way possible—adorable.

“I just needed to know you were okay,” she finished, voice dropping, rough with unshed tears. “That you were safe. That you weren’t pushing yourself past—past everything like you always do.”

“I can take care of myself perfectly fine,” Izuku snapped back before he could stop himself, the words harsh in his throat, scraped raw.

“No, you can’t,” Mina and Tsuyu said in unison.

He knew they didn’t mean it in a bad way. They weren’t calling him useless or incapable. It wasn’t like that. It was just… they cared. Which almost made it worse. He didn’t like it. He never liked it. But this wasn’t the time to spiral about that, not when there were bigger things happening.

“I’m fine, Mina,” Izuku said, holding his hands up like proof. “See? In one piece. Changed, clean, alive. I haven’t even passed out yet.” His voice cracked a little on the last word, but he tried to laugh it off. “I’m fine.”

Her face didn’t change.

“I’m sorry,” he rushed out. “I didn’t answer you, I should’ve. I should’ve told you I was okay. I just—there was a lot today. Too much. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Mina just crossed her arms tighter. Asui blinked at him, quiet, waiting.

“And I’m sorry,” he added, softer this time, “that I didn’t tell you about—about…” He froze. The word stuck in his throat. What was he supposed to call him here? Her friend. His old friend. His enemy. His hero. His worst nightmare. Katsuki. Dynamight. Bakugo. Nothing fit. Nothing sounded right. “.....everything.”

“It’s okay,” Mina said finally, her tone softer. “I get it. I just—” she huffed, shaking her head. “Sorry for overreacting. I was worried about you, Izuku. I heard about how swamped every hospital was, and I got scared. You don’t know your own limits sometimes, and you push yourself way too far. I just…” Her throat bobbed. “I was worried. Especially when I found out Kats was—was fighting for his life. Two of my closest friends, both of you, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Before Izuku could say anything, she grabbed him and hugged him tight. It caught him off guard. He stiffened, then let out a breath and hugged her back. He was still a little irritated about the whole “you can’t take care of yourself” thing—he hated when people said that—but honestly? He was just glad Mina wasn’t furious at him anymore. Mina furious was terrifying.

“Glad that that’s settled,” Asui croaked from where she was leaning by the window, ever blunt.

Mina let go, Izuku awkwardly dropping his arms back to his sides. “I was just about to head to the hospital,” he said quickly, needing to move the conversation on. “Are you guys gonna go too?”

“I’ll probably stop by later,” Asui replied. “I have to finish my patrol. Mina dragged me out of it just to come yell at you.” Her eyes blinked steady, unbothered. “I figured I should come along to make sure she didn’t actually kill you.”

Izuku let out a nervous laugh. “That’s… comforting.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Mina grumbled, folding her arms but looking away. “Anyway ,yeah, I’m heading to the hospital too. We can take my car.”

Izuku nodded, relieved that at least he wasn't dead. 

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Izuku kept waiting for Mina to open her mouth and ask questions, to start digging, because that was what Mina did—she asked until she got her answer, no matter how long it took. But she didn’t. That was almost scarier than when she’d been pounding on his apartment door like she was ready to break it down. Mina being silent was unnatural. Mina being silent meant she was either planning to explode with questions later, or she’d already decided something in her head and was letting him sweat until she felt like sharing. Neither option was good.

He should’ve been relieved she wasn’t grilling him. He didn’t know what he would’ve said anyway. What could he have said? Yeah, I’ve known Katsuki since I was four. Yeah, we used to be best friends. Yeah, he spent most of our teenage years making me wish I didn’t exist. That would’ve gone over well.No. If Mina asked, he’d just tell her he wasn’t comfortable talking about it. Or maybe he’d dump it on Katsuki himself when he woke up. Ask him, he’d say. Which was unfair—Katsuki was literally unconscious and Izuku was gonna make him carry the weight of this—but it would buy time. And right now, buying time was all Izuku knew how to do.

He hated how he still measured his own words by what Katsuki would or wouldn’t want, like he was still thirteen and afraid of setting him off. He was twenty-four now. A grown man. And still Katsuki lived in the back of his head, dictating the way he spoke, the way he breathed. It pissed him off.

Mina drove with music low, not singing along. She always attracted stares when she drove anyway—hard not to, in a neon pink car with zebra-print detailing—she thrived when she people complicated her care or stared in awe, but tonight she didn’t seem to care. Her eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel.

By the time they pulled into the hospital parking lot, Izuku almost preferred her door-pounding fury to this. At least then he knew where he stood. He was in fear. Which apparently wasIzuku’s only emotion was fear. He didn’t even need an energy drink today because the fear had already jumpstarted his heart like some kind of natural remedy. If you wanted your veins full of caffeine without paying for it, just dump a near-death childhood best friend on the operating table and watch your body take care of the rest. Free of charge.

Either way Mina had been silent. Like stated. Which was terrible. And he supposed the whole him knowing Katsuki thing wasn’t even the whole thing. Her friend was fighting for his life. Mina actually, truly, wholeheartedly cared about Katsuki. More than Izuku thought someone could care about Katsuki. It was a bond he’d overheard through her stories over the years. And it was a bond that made Izuku realize—again—how close they were. Not like he didn’t already know. But this silence… it proved it further. Not that it needed proving. Mina was close to Kacchan. Close enough to shut up. And Mina didn’t shut up. And Mina wasn’t the only one close to him. There was a whole squad. Bakusquad. He wondered if they knew too. Kirishima? Mitsuki had mentioned him, said she’d tried to call but he hadn’t picked up. Did that mean he didn’t know yet? Or that he knew and couldn’t bring himself to answer? Was he also close to Kacchan? Closer than Mina? Well. He knew the answer to that. Mina had said they were basically attached at the bone.

So, fine, one question answered. But then came the others, were the rest just as tightly knitted too? Mina talked about her friends all the time. She’d made it clear more than once how much she wished their friend groups could collide, how perfect it would be if everyone she loved just merged into one big circle. Izuku had always managed to evade that dream. Dodged it like a professional. And Hitoshi—well, Hitoshi was antisocial enough that Mina probably saw his “no” coming before she even asked.

Mina didn’t talk about the rest as much as she did about Katsuki and Kirishima. Kirishima wasn’t a surprise—she’d known him since middle school, practically forever friends, and she’d had a crush on him forever too. So naturally, their conversations always circled back to that. How her crush was literally crushing her. And then there was Katsuki. She didn’t bring him up as often, but she did bring him up. Enough that Izuku noticed. Enough that it sucked. He remembered the first time. They were barely starting to form their friendship, sitting in the hospital break room with the news flickering on in the background. Katsuki was on the screen, fighting some villain. Izuku couldn’t remember what his face looked like in that exact moment, but he remembered Mina’s. She’d lit up.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” she’d said, eyes on the TV. “He was the second top student in our class and grade. He was arrogant though—very unfriendly—but I managed to squeeze through that facade.”

Izuku had raised a brow at that. Facade? He was pretty sure that wasn’t a facade. That was just Kacchan. But Mina had kept going, saying he deserved better than the rank he had. Which… Izuku remembered being confused about. Dynamight had broken straight into the top five heroes, but now he sat at number fifteen. Everyone assumed it was because of his personality. But then again, Endeavor had been top two for years with an attitude that could burn the paint off walls. So what was the difference? Mina had assumed Izuku was just another fan of Dynamight, and she’d even offered to arrange for them to meet once. Izuku had declined politely. Failed to mention their long, messy past. Failed to mention anything at all.

And he never decided to fix that failure. The car doors opened,stepping out, Izuku couldn’t stop his mind from circling back to every story Mina had ever told him—about Katsuki, about Kirishima, about the others. They’d all sounded so close, so seamless, so tightly knitted together in a way Izuku couldn’t even imagine. Now all he could think about was them. The rest of them. How close they really were. How they were taking the news about Kacchan. 

“Does Kirishima know?” Izuku asked before he could stop himself, voice quiet, almost hesitant.

Mina let out a breath, locking her car. “Yeah. He knows now. Took me forever to reach him. He was busy fighting that villain who kicked all of this off.” She shook her head, her mouth twisting. “He said he’d meet me here.”

Izuku nodded. “And Sero? Kaminari?” 

“They know too,” Mina said, sliding her bag onto her shoulder. “They’re all meeting up here.”

Silence followed them as they started toward the hospital entrance. Izuku’s chest burned.

“It’s funny,” Mina spoke, her voice carrying the same brightness she always used, “How much I always wanted you to meet them. And now this is the way it’s happening.”

Izuku swallowed hard. Guilt curdled in his stomach. She didn’t have to say it for him to know—this wasn’t how she wanted it.

“You’d always say, ‘Sorry, my schedule doesn’t allow me to exactly make friends,’” Mina went on, mimicking his voice badly, making a face. “And I just thought—wow, I’m so lucky to be friends with him anyway. Because he still manages to be my friend, even when he’s so busy. And it’s not that I don’t feel that way anymore, Zuku, because I do. But…”

She stopped walking. Turned fully to face him.“You truly are my greatest friend, Izuku. And I’m so lucky to have you in my life. I wouldn’t know what to do without you. I trust you with every part of me, you know that? So I need you to be honest with me right now………Would you have ever told me you knew Katsuki? Even if all this hadn’t happened? Or were you planning on keeping that a secret forever?”

Izuku’s throat closed up. He swallowed hard but no words came.That was a good question. Would he? Probably not. It wasn’t something he ever saw worth mentioning. He’d already come to terms with the reasons years ago. And he didn’t even feel guilty about that—because he genuinely wouldn’t have ever told Mina. She didn’t deserve that, not after being such an amazing friend, not after all the ways she’d shown up for him. But still. He just couldn’t.

“…No,” he admitted, voice low. Izuku took a moment, long enough that Mina’s eyes flickered, hurt flashing across her face.  “I wouldn’t have told you.”

The look she gave him burned. And it burned worse because he knew he deserved it. But at least he was being honest with her now. At least this once.

“I’ve never told anyone,” Izuku went on. “And I never planned on telling anyone. And I don’t plan on telling anyone else either.”

Mina stared at him, like she was holding back the question sitting heavy on her tongue. Izuku’s chest ached, so he answered it for her.

“It’s complicated, Mina,” he said. “I can’t tell you why I never said anything. Or why I never mentioned it. It happened a while ago and I… I just prefer to pretend it never happened.”

Mina didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him, then nodded subtly, like she’d accepted the answer even if she didn’t like it.

“Is that why you always dodged meeting the group?” she asked after a moment. “Because you didn’t want to see Katsuki?”

Izuku froze. He had to really think about it. Because it wasn’t just the fact he’d have to see Katsuki. No—it was more than that. He was scared of her Katsuki. Her Katsuki, who somewhat smiled in group photos. Who had a squad that cared enough to call him family. Who Mina could say “Kats” about so casually. Her Katsuki was different to his. Like they’d come from two completely different universes. And Izuku had no idea how he’d interact with that version of him. Would the old Katsuki come out if Izuku showed up? Would Izuku drag that out of him like he always seemed to? Katsuki had been the one to make friends after all. Maybe that meant Izuku was the problem. Maybe Izuku was the one who just… couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t be the kind of person Katsuki wanted around.“…Let’s just say the Katsuki you know is different to the one I know,” he murmured. “And I just was… I’m scared of facing who he is now.”

Mina blinked at him. “So— you’re terrified of someone’s character development? ”

Izuku grimaced, heat climbing into his face. “Like I said, Mina, it’s… complicated. There’s just so much that happened, things I don’t even know how to explain—”

“That’s bullshit, Zuku,” she said, not unkind. “You think I don’t know how rough Katsuki can be? You think I haven’t seen him blow up at people, push too hard, be a total ass? I have. I still do. He’s… not easy. But you’re acting like he’s some monster only you get to see, and I don’t buy that.”

Izuku’s throat went dry. He opened his mouth, but Mina kept going.

“People change, you know? He’s changed. We all have. Maybe you’re right—maybe the Katsuki I know isn’t the one you knew. But if that’s the case, then doesn’t that mean you should give him a chance to show you who he is now?”

Part of him wanted to believe it—wanted so badly for it to be true. But the part of him that remembered the explosions in his face, the words sharp enough to cut him down to nothing, still were louder.

Mina shook her head, sighing, her tone softening even more. “Look, I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m not even saying you have to. I just… I don’t think it’s fair to either of you to pretend the past is all there is. You deserve better than being scared of someone you knew. And he deserves better than being stuck as that old version in your head forever.”

Izuku just stared at her.

Izuku and Katsuki deserved better? Katsuki deserved better—than being stuck as that old version? Maybe Mina had a point. Maybe. But it was hard to imagine, hard to change a perspective on someone when you’d known them your entire life as one thing. Mina couldn’t possibly understand that, not fully. And he wasn’t going to tell her, because that would be cruel. Cruel to undo the version of Katsuki she held so tightly in her head, all because his own version was darker. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

So he stayed quiet. Not disagreeing. Not agreeing.

“I won’t tell the guys,” Mina said suddenly.

Izuku’s eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t even thought of that—but the fact that she had, after everything she’d just said, hit harder than he expected.

“I won’t tell Hitoshi. Or Tsuyu. Or Eijirou, or Hanta, or Denki,” Mina continued, her voice steady. “I won’t. But… I do want you to give Katsuki a chance.”

Izuku gave her a look—something between disbelief and exhaustion, a silent are you serious right now?

Mina caught it, and the corner of her mouth pulled into the softest smile. “Don’t give me that look. I just want you to give him a chance, okay? He’s an amazing person. I know you two would get along so well if you just gave him the space. If you can’t, Izuku, fine—but at least think about it. I know your idea of him will change.”

Silence pressed between them, long enough that Mina almost shifted her weight. Finally, Izuku exhaled.

“…I’ll think about it.” He paused, his voice low. “And… thank you, Mina.”

Mina’s expression softened further, and she didn’t hesitate to pull him into a hug. “I’m not sure what that idiot put you through that made you feel like you had to hide this,” she murmured into his shoulder.  Izuku—you’re my friend. I’m in your life now. And I would never let anyone or anything hurt you. Over my dead body.”

A small laugh bubbled out of him despite himself. “…Thank you.”

They let go, and for a moment Izuku thought about how amazing Mina really was.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, clearing his throat. “Let’s go inside.”

“Yeah,” Mina agreed, already thumbing through her phone as they started walking. Her eyes flicked to the screen, and she let out a hum. “Kiri and the others are already inside.”

Izuku only nodded at that, trying not to let his nerves show.

The entrance loomed in front of them, bright withlights. To visit ICU patients in Japam, you needed clearance, visitor passes, and sometimes timed slots depending on the patient’s condition. Normally, that meant lines, paperwork, and waiting. But this was Izuku’s territory, and the staff knew him. He wore his ID badge still clipped to his collar, and the second the receptionist at the front saw him, the process was quick. No questions asked, just a polite bow and a pass handed to Mina.

It was fast. Too fast. His stomach twisted because now there was no stalling. They made their way down the hall, the air getting quieter the closer they got to the ICU wing. Izuku’s pulse picked up. He was nervous. God, he was nervous.

These weren’t just anyone. These were heroes. And if there was one thing Izuku had always loved, it was heroes. He had studied them, memorized them, lived and breathed them. Now, he was about to meet them in person, not as patients, not with the comfortable script of doctor-to-hero. This was Mina’s world. Her friends. And that was different.

Mina had gone to school with them. She’d connected with them, bonded with them in ways Izuku hadn’t bonded with anyone in high school. He could already feel himself curling inward, defaulting to old habits—overthinking how to talk, how to keep a conversation alive, how to not look like the socially stunted mess he felt like outside of the hospital walls. In here, as a doctor, he had control. Introduce yourself, review symptoms, ask standardized questions, deliver the diagnosis. A system. But with them? There was no script. And the circumstances made it worse. It wasn’t like they were all meeting up for drinks after work. Katsuki—Kacchan—was unconscious, hooked to machines, his condition critical. Was that what the conversation was supposed to start with? Did they even know Izuku had operated on him? Had Mitsuki told them?

The thought alone made his skin prickle. He almost hoped she had, because then it wouldn’t fall on him. If Katsuki woke up furious about his past being dragged out into the open, then at least it wouldn’t be Izuku’s fault. He could shove the blame on Mitsuki and hope for the best. But still. His nerves buzzed like static. He was about to meet the Bakusquad—the ones Mina had talked about for years. He had little sketches of them in his head, pieced together from her endless stories and the polished media interviews he’d seen on TV. He had already built a version of them in his head.

Kirishima seemed humble. Friendly. Inviting in a way that felt rare. From what Mina told him, he was loyal to a fault, the kind of person who’d treat even rocks like friends if they gave him the chance. Extroverted. Easy to talk to. The type who made everyone feel welcome, no matter who they were or where they came from. Honestly, that was probably why he fit so well as a hero. That kind of warmth radiated off of him, in every clip Izuku had ever seen.

Kaminari and Sero were more the jokesters of the group. Kaminari especially. From interviews, he came off as charming in that reckless way, all smiles and shameless flirting with anyone who breathed near him. Mina confirmed it—he flirted with everyone, all genders, no shame, no hesitation. A little dumb, sure. She never let Izuku forget that part. But also charismatic, almost disarmingly so. He was the kind of guy who could turn awkward silence into laughter, and Izuku wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or terrifying.

Sero was cut from a similar cloth, but steadier, like he knew when to reel Kaminari in before things tipped too far. Balanced the chaos with just enough ease to keep everything afloat. Izuku remembered Mina saying once that Sero was the tape. No pun intended. And honestly, from what little he’d seen of him, it fit.

Then there was Mina herself. Loud, bright, impossible to ignore. Izuku didn’t need secondhand descriptions for her—he already knew. Welcoming, the way the whole group seemed to be, but with her, it was dialed up, shining like a spotlight. She drew people in whether she meant to or not.

That was the running theme, wasn’t it? Loud. Welcoming. All of them.

And that was what shocked him the most about their bond with Katsuki. Because Katsuki was the opposite of all of that—or at least, the version Izuku knew was. Harsh, explosive, relentless in how he pushed everyone away. How did someone like him fit into this kind of group? Maybe that was why Mina wanted him to give Katsuki a chance. Maybe she saw a version of Katsuki that actually matched them, warm, loyal, loud in the way family is loud. Izuku wasn’t sure. But if there was one thing they all had in common, it was volume. Katsuki knew how to be loud, and apparently, so did everyone else in the Bakusquad. Still, he had no idea how they’d be right now. Not in a moment like this. 

Izuku wasn’t sure if he should even voice his worry right now. Was it the time? Probably not. There were obviously much heavier things happening than his nerves, but still—he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he should’ve told Mina he was nervous. Maybe even told her he’d come back later. Because this felt… intimate. Like maybe this wasn’t his space. Maybe they just wanted it to be them. He wasn’t part of the group. He wasn’t close to anyone besides Mina. Hell, he hadn’t even spoken to Mitsuki in years, so it wasn’t like he was close with her either. His mom, sure. But his mom had been in contact with Mitsuki since forever, since high school. That didn’t count.

He didn’t want to feel out of place or awkward but it wasn’t really the moment to feel awkward. This wasn’t his moment. Was he selfish for thinking that way? Probably. 

“Dude, relax,” Mina said suddenly, snapping him out of his spiral. “I can feel your aura like all the way from here.”

“What? My—what do you mean?”

Mina gave him a look like he was dense. “Zuku. I’ve known you for years. You’re practically radiating anxiety. Just chill, okay? They’re the sweetest people ever. You’re gonna love them. I can already see a whole friendship blossoming.”

That didn’t exactly help. If anything, it made him more nervous. It wasn’t that he was against having more friends—he’d actually like that. But these weren’t just random people. These were heroes. Mina and Asui didn’t count, not in his head. They were just Mina and Asui. But the rest… 

Kirishima had been the face of some huge fitness campaign last year, commercials plastered on every train Izuku rode. Kaminari had done ads for tech companies—headphones, chargers, even some weird sponsored drink that Izuku had actually bought once and regretted because it tasted like battery acid. Sero had been part of some flashy promo shoot for an energy drink that showed him swinging across skyscrapers like a human ad banner. They were everywhere. Which meant they weren’t just Mina’s friends—they were the heroes. And that was intimidating. Not just because of their quirks or reputations but because they were all—let’s be honest—stupidly good-looking. Like there wasn’t a single one in that group that wasn’t built and sharp-featured and glowing with that hero polish. He wasn’t exactly checking, but it was impossible not to notice. Kirishima especially—yeah, probably the prettiest of the bunch, with that ridiculous red hair and smile like the sun. But that wasn’t even the main problem. The real problem was that they weren’t just heroes. They were Katsuki’s friends.

Everything circled back to him. Of course it did. These were his people. His world. And Izuku was terrified of stepping into it, because what would Katsuki think? What would he even want? And then he stopped himself, because what the hell was he even doing? Why was he thinking about what Katsuki would want when the guy was lying unconscious in a bed hooked up to machines? If he wanted anything, it was probably just to wake up. To breathe on his own. But still, Izuku couldn’t stop thinking about it.

​​They rounded the last corner and sure enough, there they were. A cluster of them near the ICU doors, too loud for a waiting area but not enough for anyone to kick them out.

“Oh my god, hey guys!” Mina called, already picking up speed.

Izuku’s stomach dropped. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His head spun with the reminder to chill, to play it cool, to not make a complete fool of himself. They weren’t heroes. They weren’t the faces on billboards or the clips he’d seen on endless replays of fights. They were just people visiting their friend. Just people.

His pulse didn’t listen.

By the time he caught up, Mina was already hugging everybody, laughing, calling names, falling into the rhythm of people who belonged together. Izuku hovered awkwardly at her shoulder, not sure if he was supposed to stand closer, farther—what was the etiquette for being the outsider here?

He didn’t see his mom. Or Mitsuki. Or anyone else he knew. Just them.

Before he could spiral further, Mina clapped her hands once, catching everyone’s attention. “Okay, guys. This is Izuku Midoriya.”

Izuku froze.

Kirishima was the first to move, because of course he was. Broad grin, wide open, hand outstretched. “It’s so nice to meet you, man. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Izuku blinked, startled, but shook his hand. “You’ve actually… heard stuff about me?”

“Hell yeah,” Kirishima said, his grip warm and firm.

Before Izuku could process that, Kaminari leaned in, flashing a grin. “So this is the famous Midoriya, huh? The one stealing Mina away from us all the time?”

Izuku stammered, caught between denial and apology, but Sero swooped in, elbowing Kaminari lightly. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous Mina spends most of her free time with you instead of us.”

That didn’t help. Izuku’s mouth went dry. “I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, “for, um, taking up most of her time.”

Mina groaned loudly, whacking his shoulder. “Don’t believe them, Zuku. They wouldn’t even notice if I disappeared for like a month.”

“Don’t be like that,” Kirishima said, mock-offended. “I’d totally notice.”

Mina flushed a little a. Izuku looked away, throat tight, pretending he hadn’t noticed anything at all.

“Anyways,” she said loudly, forcing the focus away. “Have you guys gone in to see him yet?”

Kirishima’s smile faded. “No. We haven’t been able to. It’s only two people allowed in at a time, Right now it’s Mitsuki and, uh…” He hesitated, then looked straight at Izuku. “Your mom, right?”

Izuku blinked at the attention. “Yeah,” he said, quietly. “That’s my mom.”

Kaminari squinted between them, then cracked a grin. “God, you’re literally copy and paste, huh?”

“Seriously,” Sero chimed in, pointing lightly. “Exact carbon copy. Only difference is the curls.”

Izuku huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’ve gotten that most of my life. I look exactly like her.”

“You know what’s funny?” Kaminari leaned back, hands in his pockets. “Katsuki is the same way. Looks just like his mom.”

“Yeah, literally,” Kirishima said. “Even personality-wise.”

Mina snorted. “There’s no difference. Mitsuki basically just birthed herself in guy form.”

They all chuckled a little, but then Kirishima cleared his throat, pulling it back. “Anyway—yeah. We haven’t visited him yet. Masaru went earlier, with Mitsuki. He just stepped out to grab drinks. Inko wanted to go again, so Mitsuki went with her this round.”

Izuku stayed quiet, just listening. First-name basis. Comfortable. It drove home what he already knew but hadn’t really felt until now: they weren’t just friends with Katsuki. They were close. Izuku swallowed hard.

The conversation drifted, and then Sero’s eyes cut toward him. “By the way… Mitsuki told us. About the surgery. How you… operated on him.”

Kaminari nodded quickly. “Yeah. She wouldn’t stop saying how thankful she was. Like, really.”

Izuku’s ears burned. He shook his head. “There’s nothing to thank. I was just doing my job. Anyone else in my position would’ve done the same.”

That hung in the air for a beat. Then Kirishima’s voice came softer, heavier. “So… is there any way you can tell us? About his condition? Like—are you even allowed?”

Izuku hesitated. “I’m not his doctor,” he said carefully. “But I can tell you this much: he lost a lot of blood. It… wasn’t easy. But he pulled through. Miraculously.” He swallowed, then forced the next words out steady. “The road ahead won’t be simple. It’s going to be a long recovery. But he’s stubborn. If anyone can make it through something this difficult, it’s him.”

“Yeah,” Kirishima said, and there was something almost like pride in his voice. “That sounds like him.”

Sero leaned back. “Remember that time in high school when he sprained his wrist? Mr. Aizawa literally told him to sit out for the rest of the week, and the very next day he was back in training, chucking blasts around with his other hand like it was nothing.”

Kaminari laughed, shaking his head. “Nothing is generous. He was destroying the training ground. He almost fried me because he couldn’t aim worth shit with his left.”

“You ducked too slow,” Sero shot back.

“Yeah, right,” Kaminari scoffed. “Tell that to the burn mark on my uniform.”

Kirishima grinned wide. “I remember that. He wouldn’t even admit he was hurt. He kept yelling at Recovery Girl that he didn’t need her quirk because he’d ‘walk it off.’ With a sprained wrist. Like that’s even something you can walk off.”

Mina shook her head with a small smile. “Yeah. That’s him.”

 Kaminari who caught on first. He leaned back, scratching the back of his neck with an awkward grin. “Ah, sorry, Midoriya. We’re just, like, over here blabbing. Didn’t mean to leave you out.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s… it’s fun to hear stories.”Izuku shook his head quickly, forcing the corner of his mouth up. That was a lie. Nothing about it was fun. Listening to people laugh about your childhood bully wasn’t fun. But it was perspective. It was… information. A picture of who Katsuki was now, who he turned into when Izuku wasn’t there to ruin it.

“Exactly!” Mina cut in, too fast, too cheerful. “Let’s tell him more. Midoriya doesn’t really know Kats, you guys. He should hear about him.”

Izuku knew why she was doing it. She wanted him to see it—to see Katsuki through their eyes. It was a kind gesture, in its own way. But it made him feel worse. Because nothing about those stories would undo the years he had lived with his own version. The way Katsuki couldn’t stand the sound of his voice. None of that disappeared just because Katsuki had gotten friends now. If anything, hearing it out loud only proved what Izuku had already told himself a thousand times over: there must’ve been something wrong with him. Something broken in him that made him unworthy of the friendship that seemed to come so easily for everyone else. He didn’t tell Mina that, though. He never would. She didn’t mean harm, she didn’t mean judgment. She was vouching for someone she loved, for a friend she believed deserved a chance. Izuku just knew better than to let himself hope.

The door to the waiting area opened and suddenly it felt like the whole group inhaled at once. Inko and Mitsuki stepped inside.

“Oh, hey,” Mitsuki said, blinking at the crowd.

“Mitsuki!” Mina was the first to jump up, pulling her into a hug before anyone else had the chance. The others piled in quickly after—arms around her, voices all tumbling over each other.

“How is he?”
“Did he wake up?”
“Does he look—?”

Mitsuki huffed, pulling her arms free only to ruffle Kaminari’s hair when he leaned in too close. “He looks like hell. What do you expect? He’s my son.”

That earned her a weak laugh from the group, which seemed to be the point. Mitsuki gave them a tight smile.

“First time he’s been quiet in twenty-something years,” she added, “Peaceful, I guess. If you can call this shit peaceful.”

Inko touched Mitsuki’s arm gently, murmuring something soft that Izuku couldn’t quite hear. Mitsuki nodded.

“Can we—?” Mina tilted her head towards the direction of the door..

Mitsuki nodded. “ Fifteen minutes each. They’re strict about it.” She glanced around at the cluster of worried faces. “Go on then. Don’t all stand around looking like ghosts.”

“Me and Kiri,” Mina volunteered without hesitation, already tugging at Kirishima’s arm.

“Yeah, of course,” Kirishima said.

The two of them moved toward the ICU doors, leaving the rest behind. Izuku stayed put, nerves clawing at him again, trying not to think too hard about the fact that sooner or later his turn would come too.

“Damn,I’m starving.” Kaminari said, stretching his arms over his head. “We should probably stock up on some chips or something.”

“Yeah, snacks sound good,” Sero agreed.

Mitsuki huffed softly, half under her breath. “He’s taking his damn time.” Then, louder, to Inko, “Why don’t you show these two where the vending machines are?”

“Yes, of course,” Inko said, “Come on, boys, it’s just around the corner.”

“Sweet,” Kaminari grinned, following after her with Sero at his side. “Thanks, Ms.Midoriya.”

They trailed off, their voices fading into the hum of the ward.

Mitsuki waited until the hallway felt quiet again before leaning back and patting the empty chair beside her. Her eyes didn’t leave his. “Izuku. Sit down. Right here.”

He obeyed, his legs carrying him before his brain had even agreed.

“Izuku. It’s been a while. How’ve you been? How are you?”Mitsuki leaned back, folding her arms.

“I’ve been well. Working hard. You know how it is.”

Her eyes softened a little. “You’ve grown so much. Last time I saw you, you were—God, what, still knee-high?”

“You haven’t aged a bit yourself. You look exactly the same as when I was four.”Izuku smiled faintly. 

“Ha! You’re full of shit,too nice for your own good.” Mitsuki snorted, waving him off. There was a pause before she tilted her head. “So. How was America? Heard you ran off there for a while.”

Izuku thought his mom hadn’t mentioned it, but apparently she had. Not shocking, really—he had disappeared for four years. “It was good. Different than here. A lot different.”

“I can imagine.” Mitsuki hummed, then narrowed her eyes with a sly smirk. “Meet any pretty girls while you were there?”

Heat rushed to his face. “N-No, I… I didn’t have time for that. It wasn’t my priority.”

“Figures.” She chuckled. “Just like Katsuki. No time for girls. Straight into what you’re passionate about, huh?”

Izuku froze. The words hit strange—her comparing him to her son, like there was common ground between them. He’d never thought there was.

Before he could form a response, Mitsuki’s expression shifted, sharper now. “Izuku. Do you hate my son?”

His whole body locked. What the hell was going on today? Everyone throwing questions at him like knives to the chest. No warning, no time to think. Just—straight to the throat.

Did he? No. Yes. Maybe. His feelings were a mess of resentment and old wounds and things he’d never untangled. Years ago, he would’ve said yes without hesitation—of course he hated him. Katsuki had made his life hell. The pain, the anger, the humiliation. But now? With Katsuki lying unconscious, machines doing the work of keeping him alive? He couldn’t call it hate. He didn’t feel joy over any of this, didn’t feel vindicated. He didn’t want him to suffer. He never would’ve, not really. Not even at his lowest point. There was a fine line between hatred and something else—something unresolved and complicated. He couldn’t name it. He just knew it wasn’t hate. Izuku swallowed hard, his throat dry, and forced the words out. “…No. I don’t hate Kacchan.”

“Then what?” Mitsuki asked quietly. “What do you feel about him?”

Izuku’s breath caught. His chest felt tight, too tight, like she’d backed him into a corner without even moving an inch. What kind of question was that? Why was this happening now, here, of all places? He wasn’t sure if anyone would know what to say to something like that, but he knew for a fact he didn’t. He could lie, but there was no point. Mitsuki would see right through it. She always had. And Izuku was never much of a liar anyway.

“Mitsuki, I—”

She cut in before he could stumble further. “I just want you to be truthful with me, Izuku. I’m trying to piece something together here. Because I know my son. And, whether you believe it or not, I know you too. I’ve known you for years.”

Izuku’s hands twisted together in his lap. His thoughts spun uselessly. Where was this going?

“I know he’s not the easiest person to be around,” Mitsuki went on. “He’s loud, temperamental, too damn proud for his own good. He pushes people too hard, blows up when he shouldn’t, refuses to admit when he’s wrong. He’s—” She let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “He’s Katsuki. You don’t need me to tell you what that means. But even in spite of that,he’s made these amazing friends. People who’d give their lives for him, who are so close to him it shocks me sometimes. Just like you once were.”

Her words landed sharp. They had been close once. Inseparable, even. At five, at six, when their bond had seemed unbreakable. Before everything changed.

“You two were glued to each other’s hip,” Mitsuki said, voice tinged with something that almost sounded wistful. “It was a bond I’d never seen before. And then, one day, it was gone.”

Izuku kept his gaze fixed on the floor. He didn’t trust his voice.

“It was strange to me,” she admitted. “Stranger than I could ever explain, when you stopped coming around. I asked Katsuki about it. You know what he said? Nothing. No excuse. No lie. No deflection. Just silence.”

Izuku clenched his hands tighter.

“At first, I thought you’d had a fight. Friends do that. God knows your mother and I have had our share. But then months went by, and still nothing. I asked him again. Same silence. Even now, to this day, I’ve never gotten an answer out of him. He just shuts down.”

She turned her gaze sharper on him again. “So, tell me, Izuku—what happened between you two? I know it must’ve been something really big. Because we both know Katsuki—he always has an answer. Loud, wrong, rude, whatever, he always has something. But whenever I asked about you? Nothing. Just silence. That doesn’t happen.”

Izuku’s throat bobbed.

“And today, you told me you stepped down from being his doctor because you knew him.” Her eyes narrowed, almost daring him to deny it. “But you haven’t spoken to him in years, have you? You didn’t want to go in to see him, either. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but to me that just screams… whatever happened, it was big, wasn’t it, Izuku?”

He kept his head down. Because she was right. Something did happen. Something huge. And he had never said it out loud. Not to anyone.

“Do you think there’s a reason he never told you? Why he never answered?”His voice came out low, deflecting.

“If you want me to be honest,”Mitsuki sat back slightly, eyes narrowing with thought.  “I think it’s because even he doesn’t know how to explain it. There’s no denying how special you were to him, Izuku. And sometimes… things that cut that deep, you can’t even put into words. Maybe it hurt him more to even open his mouth about it.”

Izuku’s chest tightened. He shook his head faintly. “I think you’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Her brows furrowed

“He stopped talking to me because I was quirkless. Because I didn’t have power. That’s all it was.” He exhaled shakily. The words were strange on his tongue but slipped out fast, like they’d been waiting for years. .“When we were little, he made a nickname for me. Deku. It meant useless.That’s who I was to him. Someone who couldn’t keep up. Someone who embarrassed him just by existing.” He swallowed, hard. “So no—he doesn’t stay quiet because he doesn’t know how to explain. He stays quiet because he hates me. That much.”

“Do you really think that?” Mitsuki’s frown deepened. 

Izuku’s chest felt raw, but he forced himself to nod. “Yes. Katsuki wasn’t… he wasn’t nice to me. Especially after we were about seven, eight. He was harsh. He didn’t like me, and he didn’t hide it.”

“You may have a point.”

Izuku blinked, startled.

“Maybe he does hate you,” Mitsuki said simply. No hesitation, no sugarcoating. “Maybe you’re right.”

Izuku’s head jerked up, eyes wide. He didn’t say it, but the look on his face was clear.

“But,” Mitsuki added, “If that’s really true, then let me tell you something. You probably got him back now.”

“Got him back?”Izuku frowned, confused. 

“Yeah.” Her lips quirked, though there was no humor in it. “Because if you really believe he hates you, then the worst thing that could’ve happened to him was getting saved by you. By someone he supposedly can’t stand.”

Izuku stared at her in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” she shot back. “He’s my son. I love him. But I’m not going to condone his actions. Hating you because you were quirkless? That’s bullshit. It could’ve been him. It could’ve been anybody. And then what? What would he have done if he had been the one without a quirk?”

Izuku just kept looking at her, torn between shock and something else he couldn’t name. 

“I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I think you’re completely right.” Mitsuki said after a moment, “Because I feel like there’s probably some truth in both of our reasons why things turned out the way they did. But whether it was you, whether it was him, whether it was something else… I guess only Katsuki really knows.”

Izuku stayed quiet.

“Either way,” Mitsuki continued, “I want to apologize. For what my son did. You’re not telling me everything—I can tell—but whatever it was, it had to have been more than you’re leading on. Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting out here instead of visiting him.”

She smirked faintly, almost teasing, but her eyes gave away that she meant it.

Izuku dropped his gaze to the floor and let out a breath. “How do you always know when I’m lying? What’s my tell?”

“Absolutely not,” Mitsuki said immediately. “If I tell you, you’ll stop, and then how the hell am I supposed to keep catching you?”

Izuku huffed. “Then I won’t lie to you anymore.”

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered, though there was the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

She went quiet for a beat before reaching over, pulling him into a hug that caught him off guard. “Thank you,” she said against his shoulder. “For being who you are. Anybody else might’ve denied operating on him. But you didn’t. You saved him. You did an amazing job, Izuku. Inko did a good job raising you.”

He swallowed, managing, “Yeah. I think she did a good job, too.”