Work Text:
The snow had always been your favorite. You loved the way it blanketed the world in silence, turning sharp edges into soft shapes, muffling every sound until everything felt like a dream. Bakugo used to scoff at you for it. He’d cross his arms, roll his eyes, and mutter something about “dumb extras romanticizing frozen water.” But when he thought you weren’t looking, he would stare out at the falling snow with an almost wistful expression, as though he were trying to understand the calm you saw in it.
You were his snowflake. That’s what he told you once, on a night when his walls were down and the fire in his chest burned more softly. He said you were different, not like anyone else, and though he hated flowery words, he admitted you stood out to him—unique, fragile, but strong enough to survive the storms. “You’re my snowflake,” he muttered into your hair, pretending he wasn’t being gentle.
Now, the storm was real. And it was merciless.
The fight had left the world around you fractured—trees torn apart, the ground ruptured, the air thick with smoke. The snow, once pure, was streaked with ash and red. You stumbled across the battlefield, your lungs burning, searching for him. Panic clawed at your throat, louder than the echo of explosions that still rang in your ears.
...
Then you found him.
...
Bakugo lay sprawled in the snow, one hand pressed tightly to his stomach, the other trembling against the icy ground. His breath came in harsh, uneven gasps, and when his eyes met yours, something in your chest cracked open.
“Damn it,” he muttered, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”
You dropped to your knees beside him, hands shaking as you tried to help, tried to hold him together as though sheer will could keep him from slipping away. “Katsuki, stay with me. Please. You’re not— you can’t—”
He managed the smallest smirk, though his face was pale, his skin trembling under the cold. “You’re…crying, Snowflake. Don’t…cry.”
His words gutted you. Your tears fell faster, hot streaks against the frozen air. “Shut up. Just shut up, you’re going to be fine—”
But he knew better. He always knew. His crimson eyes softened, and for the first time, he didn’t try to hide his fear. He just looked at you, as though memorizing every detail, every curve of your face, every word you never got the chance to say.
...
His ears went numb, soft ringing. His pupils following your movements--he saw you yell out, looking up and around, panicking. He could only assume you were calling for help, but your words faded away, and he couldn't hear your voice anymore.
...
And then, the smirk faded. His hand slipped from yours. His chest barely rose anymore.
...
He quickly realized this was the end.
That there was nothing he nor anyone could do to stop the end from hurtling towards him.
A lake of crimson, his own blood, pooled around him like a moat in the fresh snow. He grew angry as the snowflakes continued to fall onto his jittary eyelids...
But then--he realized it didn't matter.
There was no point in being angry about getting snow in his eyes because he was dying--and not even anger could stop that.
All he could think about was you, that night--standing in the snow, smiling.
Then--everything went black.
...