Chapter Text
Winter rolls in waves. It's the small things; the cashier at his local store starts wearing fluffier jumpers, but no gloves. Her hands turn blue and purple, shaking with the need to not need. The lady near the bus stop stops appearing altogether after the first few signs of winter, the birds near his house— the ones that stayed despite the lingering cold and the absence of food— have stopped chirping much. Katsuki has stopped getting out of bed.
Izuku walks out of the train, cold air hitting his face almost instantly. He's wearing Katsuki's black puffer jacket, no gloves since he couldn't find them this morning and Katsuki needs his new prescription and he just— he didn't have time. The prescriptions are supposed to slow his heart rate down and keep him from dying in his sleep, and that can't exactly happen if Izuku misses the prescription appointment because he can't find his fucking gloves.
He sucks in a shaky breath and it leaves in a cloud of fog. Izuku's mouth is dry, like charcoal has stuck to the rooftop of his mouth and refused to leave, claiming the space between his teeth.
He walks with his head down and kicks too many pebbles down the side of the road, shaking from the cold, leaving nothing but the absence of heat behind, like a ghost.
The door opens with no force at all. Katsuki broke the hinge last summer after a bad day. There wasn't any budget to get it fixed until the metal grew rusty, and then Izuku had to buy a whole new one and fix it himself, so he did a rather shitty job and now the door doesn't do it's job properly. It's a miracle they haven't been robbed yet, Izuku wonders what they would take anyway. Clothes, no. The piggy bank under the bed, yes. Katsuki's pile of medical bills that are growing mold at the edges, old and waiting to be opened, no. The ring he bought for Katsuki less than six months ago, but won't get to use, yes. His spine and bone marrow from the inside of his flesh, maybe.
Katsuki raises an eyebrow. He's sprawled on the couch, mouth curved into a permanent frown that screams nothing and too much all at once.
He has a blanket draped over his frame, hunched over himself.
Izuku puts the prescription on the coffee table and weeps.
_______
Science tells Izuku that Katsuki should be dead by the end of the year, if not before. Science tells Izuku that Katsuki's lungs are water vapor, gone before they had a chance to exist. Science says that Katsuki's heart is a burning supernova. There is no heart out there to replace him, no solution to his dying formula, nitroglycerin is both the solution and the problem. Katsuki's quirk will kill him. Death, science says, is guaranteed.
Izuku presses the knife against the delicate onion flesh, and wonders what it means to be dead, where does energy go when there is nothing physical to hold it? Izuku thinks, if he could be a black hole, he would swallow Katsuki until there was nothing but the absence of presence left. He imagines sniffing the ashes left behind, like cocaine, feeling the entrails of his lover stick to the back of his throat. This is what love tastes like, he would think.
Katsuki sits on top of the counter beside Izuku, hoisting himself up with effort. Izuku blinks, eyes stinging. He didn't used to do that, he thinks. There was a moment in life, right before their first pro-hero year ended, Katsuki was stronger than Izuku. The last two years of high school, right after the war, his body just started working better. He didn't need effort for anything.
“The fuck you crying for?” He grunts.
Izuku sees rot. He sees chipped nail polish and izuku wonders if fingernails grow even once after you're dead, he wonders if he could pull the things from the root with his teeth.
“nothing," he dismisses.
Some days, Izuku dreams of worlds that don't exist. He wonders if Katsuki only dies in this one, or if there's another universe where he dies, over and over. He wants to say please don't leave me in this godforsaken world with this godforsaken quirk. He wants to say if i swallow you whole, can I preserve the pieces of you that aren't already dead or saying goodbye?
But he says nothing at all.
The silence that follows is thick. Katsuki knocks his foot against Izuku’s side, pain blooms onto his ribcage and spreads like a nasty thing, he hisses out the pain through his teeth slowly, subsiding just slightly.
“What’re you crying for?" Katsuki asks again, like Izuku will actually answer the second time. He doesn't. Izuku's heart makes somersaults out of his grief. Izuku writes sonnet 30 and uses the toothbrush holder only for his toothbrush and not Katsuki’s. Izuku’s Pinterest boards are full of grief ceremony decorations and when his phone pings it's his Pinterest board, cheerfully saying This is so you coded. Izuku's words rot in his mouth, he makes a zombie out of himself. Someone who will bite into Katsuki's soft flesh and eat him whole, bones and all.
"The onions, Katchan,” Izuku says.
But neither believe it.
_______
It's one of those days.
The ones where Katsuki can't pretend his heart isn't failing. The ones where cold meets skin and frostbite seems more achievable than making him eat a meal. They'd warn Izuku, told him that dying isn't quick, it doesn't happen in the matter of thirty minutes and seventy two seconds like the movies show. Death finds itself on the cavity of your teeth, in the crack space between the door and the hinges. In the small splinters of wood, where the quiet settles like premeditated grief.
"Here, Katchan,” Izuku says, Katsudon sitting on the plate, warm. It's one of the only meals Izuku had bothered to learn right before their 3rd year at UA. Katsuki tried teaching him more, but it hadn't exactly worked out. Izuku almost regrets not learning, but with him going on patrol (someone needs to pay the medical bills, and even though Katsuki's insurance covers well over half of it, the rent still needs to be payed) and Katsuki unable to do much, most days takeout ends up being the only option.
Katsuki makes a face. He's more queasy lately, gets tired easier, too. Izuku's mouth goes dry. He places the Katsudon on the nightstand and sits in the spot he always does. His ass is indented into the foam from countless hours of sitting.
“Katsuki?" He asks, a slight tilt to his voice. Fear. It settles between his ribcage and grows teeth. Izuku is so afraid, he barely lets himself acknowledge it these days. It's a shadow following him, a banner waiting for his recognition, a splinter that won't quite leave but stays quiet, down low until Izuku brushes against it, and he’s reminded of it once again.
"I'm not hungry,” Katsuki says, jaw tight. Izuku's mouth is a world wind of things. Izuku breathes and it settles so deeply into his lungs, he wishes he could breathe for Katsuki, too. He plays with the words in his mouth, makes a reason out of every single one.
“Okay," Izuku says.
_________
By the start of October, the wind doesn't settle, the leaves have fully changed colours, or fallen, and there are only a few green things to see. Primarily, grass.
Izuku's hand settled onto his drink. He wasn't supposed to be there, not at a bar and much less alone. The guilt stayed between his lips, heavy in his mouth. He hadn't been able to sleep lately, the words playing in his head, like a broken record.
They gave Katsuki a tiny baggy of pills just last week, the words molding onto the nurse's mouth.
For Katsuki to take if it gets too much.
Soon, Izuku translated in his head. Soon. He wouldn't have Katsuki around for December. Izuku's hands trembled as he settled the glass onto his lips and drank. The flicker of disco lights contrasted against his skin, red, blue, green, orange.
He chose this bar for a reason. The low light and the night made it almost impossible for anyone to notice him. He wasn't Pro Hero Deku there, a small mercy only a place like that could grant.
Someone settled onto the seat opened right next to him, and Izuku tipped the drink down, addams apple bobbing.
“Hard night?" The stranger asks, breaking the silence. Izuku's eyebrows furrow, squinting just slightly. Yeah, he thinks. It's been a rough night.
“I'm…sorry?" He said. A part of Izuku ached ached ached. There's the ugly parts of him bursting at the seams.
“Ah, sorry, startled you, did I?"
No. He wanted to say, but the words got stuck to the roof of his tongue, drunken tears springing to his eyes, threatening to fall. He'd always been a crybaby. It was a good thing that the flicker of lights wasn't enough to make out his face, not the way his jaw shook with too many words being held by his tongue.
"No,” he finally said.
“Ah. That's good."
The silence stretched thin. Izuku's mouth grew a heart of its own, he could feel his throat vibrating against his skin. A knot. A second skin lumped into the center. He would choke, he thought. He would choke if he didn't let the words vomit out of him.
"My boyfriend's gonna die,” he said. Izuku's skin burned hot hot hot. He thought about sex. He thought about skin meeting skin and death meeting Katsuki and he wanted to say no. please not him. anyone but him. but the words rotted in the start of his digestive system. The words rotted and his mouth smelled like decay and the hint of caramel coating his lips.
The stranger says:
"I'm sorry, son,” and he sounded so sad. Izuku opened his mouth to say it's okay, but ended up with his knuckles around his teeth. In spite of himself, Izuku spoke.
“He's my childhood friend. We went to high school together."
Izuku ordered another drink.
Thank you he mouthed when the cold glass touched his palm. The bartender didn't see it. Izuku didn't say it any louder.
The moment stretches long. Izuku's sure the stranger has gotten bored of his sob story. No one comes to a bar to hear about dying people, Izuku sure wouldn't.
“My wife died two years ago. Today is her anniversary."
Oh.
Oh.
And it was just his luck, wasn't it? He had to go find probably the only other person in this fucking bar with a dead partner.
No. his mind screamed.
he’s not dead yet it says. But isn't he? Katsuki's already started talking about himself in the past tense. He folded his clothes in boxes labeled keep and donate just yesterday. Izuku pretended not to notice. He's leaving in small ways, and a part of Izuku hopes it's soon and hopes it never.
"I'm sorry,” he said, the words sounding less reassuring than he would like. The stranger shakes his head, barely visible in the dark of the bar.
"Love him, son. The world is far to ugly already. Fill the rest of his days with love, isn't that the best gift of all?”
__________
Izuku came home to a sleeping Katsuki on the couch. He breathed in with force, out with too little energy, like the task of bringing oxygen to his lungs was simply too much.
At the table laid his bottle of prescription pills and two napkins bundled up together, blood peeking through like a poor attempt at covering a crime scene. There was something disgustingly beautiful in this, Izuku felt sick.
When he woke Katsuki it was to bring him to bed, one small move of his hand towards his body, no reaction. Would he do the exact same thing with Katsuki's dead body?
A second small shove, and Katsuki awoke, dazed.
“‘Zuku?" he croaked.
“Yeah, it's me." A suck of a breath, a sigh. He didn't know which belonged to which.
“Let's get you to bed, yeah?"
______
Ochako’s voice is high pitched against his ear. It's far too early for a morning call, no less one Izuku is not keen on being a part of. Ochako's an early riser, and though she has calmed down over the years since Yueei, she's still an earlier riser than Izuku ever was during his earlier years as a Pro.
“I was thinking," Ochako continues.
“Katsuki hasn't gone out since the villain attacked, right? That's what I heard from Ashido and Denki anyways.”
Ah. Izuku thinks.
That's right. Katchan never did tell them.
Around a few months ago, Kamino had a big villain attack that left half the city destroyed. Katsuki happened to have been the Pro involved in the case. He got injured severely, stayed in the emergency care room for more than Izuku would have liked.
A few weeks later, the same hospital called, announcing Katsuki's failing heart.
’His heart is modified to take in nitroglycerin, a heart transplant would only kill him on the spot. But— his own heart can't take it much longer. It seemed like there was an attempt to repair the damage done. He was impaled, right?’The other side of the call is silent for a moment, right before Izuku goes to answer, the voice picks up again.
'Ah, yes. Impalement. Katsuki should have died, but the quick procedure, whatever it was, was done by a quirk. It kept him alive long enough. But the effects of the quirk only bought him a little time.’
“Izuku?" Ochako asks, concerned etched into her voice.
Izuku manages a sound, something animalistic; a noise from the back of his throat, a lot like a dying thing.
Katsuki never told anyone. Only Izuku knows. His stomach churns, revolts against him. Katsuki will die, and no one will know he had been dying for a long, long time. Katsuki will die, and only Izuku will be there. And God, how selfish grief is. Izuku wants to say he's dying, Ochako. My best friend is dying. Instead he swallows around the words.
"Yes, ‘Chako?” He says.
“Are you okay?"
The words could be comedic. Izuku would laugh, if he wasn't so close to crying.
“Yeah. Yeah, don't worry,” he says courtly. His tongue finds the crevice of his canines, brushing through them.
“Okay then ... I was saying, Tsu and I are going to the bar this Saturday, it's a new one I think. You and Katsuki could tag along, get some fresh air, you know?”
Izuku hums, closing his eyes momentarily and letting a shaky exhale out.
“I don't know, ‘Chako. Katchan's still pretty sick. The villain really fucked him over, you know? Maybe—” here, he swallows again, a thick string of curses at the tip of his tongue. He swallows that, too.
"Maybe another time, yeah?"
He barely hears the cheerful okay! Ochako responds back before hanging up.
_______
It's a Thursday afternoon when Katsuki signs the papers. Izuku will remember this day engraved in his skin and in his body. He will remember the smell of antibiotics and hand sanitizer.
He will remember this room. This exact doctor's room looks like an office. The shitty blue pen with the letters of the previous company all scratched out. He will remember this.
Katsuki finishes the paperwork and ends up with two shiny bracelets— a DNI and DNR.
Do not intubate. Do not Resuscitate.
Don't save at all. It will stop any medic in its track— Wait! don't save him. No hospice for Katsuki. No life support. Nothing.
He will die, and once he dies, it is no more. It will be byebye Katsuki.
______
“Thank you," he will say that night against the pillows. Izuku will raise an eyebrow in the darkness and question.
“For what?"
Katsuki will sigh, thinking.
“For letting me decide."
It will be the last time they talk about it. The last time Izuku hears about Katsuki's death is out of his lover's own mouth.
"It's your choice. Not mine.”
"You didn't tell me to stay,” he will say. Because in the end, Izuku hadn't begged. Katsuki hadn't asked.
"And for the record. I wouldn't have sign the fucking papers if you asked me not to.” Katsuki whispers.
"I know.”
"Then why didn't you ask?”
There is no right answer to this question. There is only want and need and please and I'm sorry and stay.
"You didn't want me to."
_____
There is no doubt in Izuku's mind that Katsuki sees things that aren't there. He thinks it might be the blur between life and death. He read about it before— something about the red string fading. It's only here, in the open, vast less darkness of a hill right in the center of a park they shouldn't be at, that Izuku lets himself acknowledge.
Katsuki will die. There is no hero here, no one to save the day like there had been back then, during the war. Death is inevitable, Izuku knows this. He'd seen many others die before his Pro career even started, he knows death better than he knows the space of his home. But Katsuki is not others. Katsuki is the space between time and the start of a new day. He's the light plucked from stars, the breath spilling into his lungs. Katsuki is the fire rising to reach the sky. Katsuki is life.
And how ironic it is, that death can take him.
Izuku reaches for a star, arm raised upward. He catches a peak of Sirius. He lets the raised hand down.
"I don't want you to die," he says finally, voice breaking.
Izuku used to cry so easily, as a kid. He would tire his mum out with all the tears and snot. It didn't change much in high school either and if anything, he cried even more.
Izuku doesn't remember when the switch between constantly crying and not crying at all happened, but lately he feels more like a child, and cries like one, too.
Katsuki sighs, a deep wounded thing that rattles through his body. He barely acknowledges the words.
"I don't want you to die, Katsuki,” Izuku says louder, angrier and meaner. Grief seems to do that lately. Izuku isn't a naturally angry person, but the word death rattles his teeth, it hurts. A hurt person, Izuku read once, is an angry person. The jokes write themselves in pen, really.
Katsuki recoils, wincing at the words. They don't have conversations like these. Katsuki doesn't do emotions, and Izuku's so angry and tired most of the time to care.
"I used to want to be an astronomer,” he says.
Izuku's heart aches. He thinks acknowledge me, please. acknowledge this, I need to know I'm not the only one scared. I need to know you're still fighting.
"Yeah?” he whispers.
Izuku doesn't know how to stop grief from taking a place in his heart. He doesn't know how to let the soft parts of him show when he's destined for longing, but he can do this. Izuku can listen in a world where everything is so loud and so scary, he can lay and listen.
Katsuki nods.
“Right before I got my quirk," he says, lazily, so unlike himself. Sickness took that, too, among other things.
“Everyone told me I should be a hero, so I did it.”
There's something here. Irony, perhaps. Death takes, but it has never taken more than humans ever did.
“You could be an astronomer," Izuku says, his throat constricting.
“Izuku, would you lie to me?"
And the answer is so obvious. It's right there, but he wants to say no, he wants to say please. Katsuki has hated lies, ever since he was a kid. He hated them, and grew to despise them as an adult. It is wrong, to lie to someone who knows the truth too well, it is wronger to lie to Katsuki, to plant hope into his heart. He will believe Izuku despite the lies he knows.
But it is so kind, and Izuku is already so selfish. He could bare to be a little kinder
"Yeah. Yeah, I would.”
Katsuki smiles. The night makes it possible for Izuku to see, but he knows he's smiling because his mouth makes that nose, a mix between a scoff and a content sigh.
He rolls over, landing on Izuku's chest.
“Good. Lie to me sometimes. Let me believe in something."
Izuku smiles, a small thing. And when he speaks, he tries to keep the sadness out of his voice, there's a hitch at the start of a sentence.
“You’re gonna be the best astronomer, Katsuki," he whispers into the shell of his air. Katsuki lets out a small ragged breath, a sigh of relief.
_____
Blood had a distinct smell. Iron is the closest thing anyone can describe it too. Rusting iron, or something metallic, but too plastic-y to be considered real metal or iron. You can smell it and just know It's blood.
Izuku knows the kitchen sink has blood because Katsuki is currently coughing it up. He knows it's blood because the smell hits his nose—metallic and burning plastic.
It drips from Katsuki's chin. Slowly. It spills over the dishes.
Someone will have to wash them later. Katsuki does not move. He stands very still, letting the blood drip from his mouth.
It's not dramatic. Just slow and painful to watch. It's phlegm and pink, bubbling just slightly. Izuku feels sick, he caresses his stomach, doubles over slightly before strengthening up.
Izuku used to believe death was loud. He used to think that death was noticeable, all in your face. It's farther from the truth.
Sometimes, Izuku forgets his lover is sick. It's moments like these that he remembers the truth, the bone crushing truth searing itself into his ribcage.
“Do you need help?" Izuku offers.
As teenagers, Katsuki had been Izuku's role model of victory. Not even All might could compare to the awe he felt, watching Katsuki climb higher because he could, fight harder because he wanted something. Determination sheared itself into his skin, he always had something Izuku didn't, and it had never been a quirk.
Katsuki fought like he was losing something, or perhaps wanting to find it. He fought like the sky met earth within every breath. Practice was not just practice, but the real thing settling between him. It seemed that the mere idea of someone working harder than him, made him sick to his very core. And in addition, the idea of needing help, made him sicker.
“No," he says, so very clear despite the dribble of blood spilling down.
Izuku's already mid sentence, protesting against Katsuki with words like let me help you and you're literally bleeding, Katchan.
Katsuki's hands tremble against the edge of the counters. These hands touched him once. They made a prayer out of his mouth, God's name be damned. And Izuku knows that help is not in Katsuki vocabulary but it is in his.
He cannot help someone who does not want help, and that is the truth.
There are too many truths that hurt and too little that soothe. Izuku doesn't know what to make of it.
________
"Thank you for having us, auntie,” Izuku says, bowing his head low, taking his shoes off at the entrance.
"The house smells really good.”
Mitsuki made Katsudon as soon as she knew Izuku and Katsuki would come. They don't leave the apartment often, and when they do it's only for short moments, small grocery trips, walks Katsuki insists on because he isn't that fucking fragile. And Izuku believes him. Sick people deserve autonomy, too. There's so many things he doesn't get to do nowadays, the small things count.
“Of course, Izuku, darling. Come in, come in," she says, embracing him with a hug. Mitsuki smells like mint and the distinct scent that old people get. It's comforting. His own mother has the same smell, a lot like memories. Izuku sighs into the hug, corresponding it back.
"It's been a while. I'm so sorry we couldn't visit sooner, auntie.”
Mitsuki waves her hand, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and breaking the hug.
She goes to hug Katsuki.
“I know this one caused more than enough trouble," she says, patting Katsuki's shoulders.
"You have grown so skinny, do you not eat well?” She whispered to him. Izuku pretends not to listen. Katsuki pretends to pretend Izuku didn't listen. There is a lot of pretending in this house.
Izuku laughs nervously, following her to the living room, Katsuki not far behind him. He's with more energy now, he slept for the whole day, so Izuku imagines he's recharged enough for a few hours.
“Not at all, auntie!" Izuku says, hands coming up in a defensive manner.
Katsuki only clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth, much like his mother.
Izuku sees Masaru, a smile on his lips as he gets up, placing his hand on Izuku's shoulder.
“It's been so long, Izuku," he says, and Izuku can't do anything but agree.
Then, Masaru goes to Katsuki, leaning in for a hug that Katsuki reciprocates.
That wouldn't have happened during high school, Izuku notes.
“Come, sit, sit, I made Katsudon.”
"Ahh, thank you auntie! You shouldn't have bothered,” he praises, hands pushing the chair to make space for his body. Katsuki sits next to him, a stiff sort of look on his face.
“It's no problem at all, Izuku," Mitsuki responds, waving her hand around and sucking her teeth in. In moments like these, Izuku is reminded how much Katsuki is Mitsuki's son. He's reminded of the Ursula Major and Ursula minor, two copies of the exact thing, one smaller than the other, but not less wonderful.
Mitsuki is a strong woman, an independent woman that knows where her value lies, that knows the tip of her tongue has no hairs for filter. She speaks because she knows, and much like Katsuki, hates the idea of not knowing.
Izuku doesn't think he could stay around once Katsuki dies. Mitsuki is too similar for comfort, and even now, the tip of his fingers tickle, as if wanting to tremble.
This is what Katsuki would look like, if he grew old.
and the thought alone disgusts him, because to think this is to imply that Mitsuki are the same, that Katsuki is the reflection of Mitsuki, which is simply not true. Katsuki likes asparagus, Mitsuki doesn't. Katsuki listens to classical music and punk rock, Mitsuki hates the sound of anything but soap opera. Katsuki paints his nails pitch black every Saturday afternoon to mask the purple of his nails, oxygen doesn't travel there anymore. Mitsuki has had a coat of fresh red everyday since Katsuki was an infant and hates the colour of black in any corner of any room or object, or thing. Mitsuki is not Katsuki and Katsuki is not Mitsuki.
But when the lighting hits just right, Izuku confesses to the innermost parts of himself, he lets himself believe it is Katsuki. For a moment, he lets himself believe this is Sunday night thirty years from now, and Katsuki is well. It's not good for him to believe.
He did once, believe. His heart was that of a child, and anyone who knew him knew that Izuku Midoriya believed with all his heart. But that was a long time ago, and time changes people, and grief changes people faster.
“Izuku, honey?" Mitsuki asks. Izuku startles, jumping from his seat. He looks towards his side, where his lover should be, but finds the seat empty.
And he thinks:
Was this all a dream? Is he gone already, is he mine no longer?
But he has only gone to the bathroom, and Mitsuki Bakugou is only worried.
"Sorry!” he says, the way a scared child would ask for forgiveness, all soft and tired and so so sad.
“It's quite alright, Izuku. No problem at all, see?"
Masaru says, not unkind. Izuku swallows, breathes through his nose, but the tears fast springing, making a storm out of his eyes. His lower lip wobbles, and soon, Izuku is biting his knuckles, blinking harshly against the light.
"Katsuki is sick,” he heaves.
Mitsuki's mouth does not waver, she holds her hands tight, one over the other on top of the counter. Her finger brushes against her ring, once, twice.
"Oh, Izuku. We know.” she says, there's a tightness to her voice, like she's trying not to cry.
"You and Katsuki didn't visit us for so long, no villain attack would have my son down without any movement on the news for longer than a few weeks." Her eyes go misty and she shakes her head softly, unsure. Masaru holds out a hand on top of her shoulder and whispers into her ear. It does little to soothe them both.
“I only needed to see him on my door to confirm it. What is it that he has, Izuku?” She asks, and Izuku has never been more sure of anything else than the fact that Mitsuki Bakugou knows, but does not wish to hear it.
Izuku swallows, speaks with the force of a high schooler presenting a project.
Here, take it. My information, don't look at me, what you will see is not pretty.
“His heart is failing," he says.
Izuku expects a gasp, hears nothing, it hurts more than he thought it to.
It is Masaru who speaks next, Mitsuki's mouth tightly closed together, as if afraid to speak.
"Ah, he is on a waiting list, then?”
Izuku swallows once more, throat parched. He drank water not too long ago, so it is not thirst he feels.
“No, he is not. The nitro in his blood is too strong, a normal heart would kill him instantly. There is no cure.”
Izuku speaks like a doctor, detached from his body. He feels the dread like a second skin, adds:
“Do not tell him I told you," for measure. Grief is so selfish, Izuku is trying not to be.
The door of the bathroom opens softly, a clink. He hadn't even heard the sink sing in his dazed silence.
“What's going on?" Katsuki asks, and in a chorus, they all say:
“Nothing."
______
On the way home, Katsuki is not silent. He turns the radio on and sings. It's one of Izuku's favourite songs. It is not classical nor punk, but Katsuki knows the lyrics anyway.
And so, he sings his heart out, grinning. He pulls the window of the car down and laughs. His hair looks perfectly golden in the afternoon sunlight, his nails half chipped even though it's only been a day since he coated them.
He says, "we should do something tomorrow,” alive like he hasn't been in a long, long time.
His hands still tremble, mouth still sucking in ragged breaths, heart beating too hard underneath his clothes, but for now, he is so full of energy and life.
Izuku's own hands grip the steering wheel tight, leather sticks to his palms like syrup. He lets out a small breath through his teeth.
"Yeah,” he says.
"We should.”
Izuku learned about terminal lucidity as a pro. The brain seems to work harder, just before death. The wave pattern of this person will look similar to when someone is processing something, or trying to make sense of things. He saw it once—a long time ago, a stranger he visited at a children's hospital. The mother told him it was the most active he'd ever seen the kid. They'd all thought Izuku's presence brought it on. A day later, he died.
He knows what terminal lucidity is, and knows there's no possible way that Katsuki can get better. There's a part of him, a small flicker of him that hopes.
And it's such a dangerous thing, but he is so tired, and Katsuki is so so happy.
___
“I've been craving bitter and salty things lately. Spicy doesn't do it for me anymore," Katsuki says. His hands carefully peel the skin of an orange and dips it into salt. The delicate flesh rips in his mouth, the taste of tart against his tongue.
Izuku hums, acknowledging his words but never taking his face away from the newspaper.
"You've never liked salty things.”
Katsuki scoffs, clicks his tongue, bony fingers going to take another piece of the orange.
“Cause no one knows how to cook right. Can't eat shit without tasting a shitload of salt," he complains.
Izuku startles, a laugh bubbling out of his mouth.
"Is that why you don't like restaurant bought Katsudon?”
During their first year as pro heroes, Izuku would beg to try Katsudon at new restaurants, and almost every time, Katsuki would put up a fight.
"Why’d you think it was?” Katsuki asks, tilting his head slightly.
Izuku shrugs, unsure.
"I thought you just didn't like restaurants at all.”
Katsuki, mimicking Izuku, shrugs.
“Two things can be true at once."
Izuku supposed that yeah, two things can be true at once.
" I never got hearing aids,” Katsuki says.
Izuku pauses to consider the question. Confessions are dirty things. It is the first Izuku hears of this.
Don't show me the parts of you already leaving. I'll fall in love with them, too.
And what is love, if not pain?
“I was gonna have them put in my suit before my death diagnosis.”
Izuku swallows. He wants to say Please don't joke about this. or maybe Why didn't you tell me before it was too late? I would have helped.
Grief hunts the corners of this apartment. The walls are already learning how to soothe the ache of Izuku's heart.
He was a good man. Taken so soon.
The truth is that Bakugou Katsuki should not have lived past twenty-five years. But he did. He exceeded the limits of his quirk, became the best hero in Izuku's eyes(and the second best hero of Japan, fifth worldwide), he defeated AFO during the war, goddamnit. Katsuki should not have lived, and yet he did.
It was a miracle he was not killed during Kamino,or during the war, hell, it was a miracle he wasn't killed in middle school during the sludge villain attack. He survived all of this, and bitterly, Izuku finds it unfair that he is to die when he has everything he has fought for.
“I mean, I could ask Hatsume to put it in, just in case.”
Katsuki shies away, wincing slightly.
“I don't think that's a good idea, ‘Zu.”
Katsuki's hands shake. His hands never stop shaking these days. He's gotten paler, red eyes and a milky sort of pink now. Does his body know that Katsuki hates the colour pink?
Izuku swallows, nods.
He's right, because he always is.
_____
The hospital room is cold. Izuku's hands huddle close together, he makes a point to not make much movement. To preserve the cold.
Katsuki is colder than he is by a long shot, but it matters little. Katsuki is always cold.
Izuku hates hospitals. He told this to Katsuki once, as a passing thought. He hates hospitals for a plethora of reasons, but loves Katsuki enough to hate them a little less.
Izuku looks at Katsuki. He has a nasal cannula over his nose, supplying him direct oxygen. This will do little to help. The doctors do not care, because Katsuki is a patient with no care to give. There is nothing to do now, but wait.
“The fucking nose thing reminds me of those cows," Katsuki starts.
Izuku startles, looking up.
He laughs— snorting just slightly and then laughing harder at the ridiculousness of it all.
"What?” Katsuki asks, and Izuku laughs harder, out of shock more than anything.
“You look sexy in it, don't worry.”
"Damn straight,” Katsuki quips.
Izuku smiles, the smell of antiseptic and hand sanitizer fills the room, it is too bland, do they not know that Katsuki hates white,too?
Izuku wonders what they'll say at the funeral. If they'll mispronounce his name, or wear a red suit even though Katsuki's favourite colour has always been orange.
He can hear it now, so clearly in his mind it might drive him crazy.
What will you do, when he is gone?
Izuku gets up, moving towards the bed and making space for himself. Katsuki adjusts himself in the bed, and even then, there is no way two bodies can fit. But they make do, awkwardly, with Izuku's knee on his rib, and Katsuki's elbow knowing his chest.
It is awkward, uncomfortable at best, but Izuku doesn't care, and Katsuki is too tired to complain.
Izuku makes a home out of his skin, breathes in the scent of shampoo—caramel and coconut. the same it has been since middle school. He makes the seconds count. He sears the memory into his mind. He forces his brain to be present.
This is the last of him. You loved him until the very end.
And isn't that the only thing he could do?
Izuku whispers:
“I love you," into his ear, lower lip wobbling. He kisses the start of his collarbone, his cheek. He wants to say take me with you. But how selfish it would be, to ask that of him.
Instead he repeats:
"Katsuki, I love you. I love you so much.”
The kiss is wet against Katsuki's mouth, and another time he would have said something about it. He doesn't.
“Hey, Zu’, close your eyes, yeah?" He mumbles instead.
Izuku shakes his head, his jaw clicked tight. This is the first time he will ask this of Katsuki, the first time he will let the words into the air.
"Stay, please." And isn't it too late, already? Does it mean anything for him to say this when the end is near?
This is an old story. There is no other version of this story, it all ends the same.
Katsuki, patient, though Izuku does not know if it is he is dying or because he is sad. Does it matter?
“C’mon, Zu’, close your eyes. There's nothing to see. Please." Katsuki says again.
And Izuku does. He takes a good look at him, and then closes his eyes tightly, pressing his ears to the beating of Katsuki's chest.
It is soft, like a baby's heartbeat, softer, like an animal's beat, softer, like the drum of your fingers. And then it's nothing at all.
_____
They will pronounce Bakugou Katsuki the next day. It will not rain, and the day will piss Izuku off. The lighting will make him awake, extra space in the small bed he shared. There will be no one to wake up to.
He will ask the nurses to keep the paper sheet underneath him. Just to remember Katsuki's smell. The nurses will say no.
Izuku will drag his body outside, and it will be the shiniest day outside. Izuku will drag his body into his apartment and call his friends and family. Izuku will eat the leftover food and check the expiration date on everything. Katsuki died before the milk expired. Ha.
Finally, night will bring nothing. The stars will shine so bright and the irony will kill him. The irony will have killed the very little Izuku had since him. Katsuki would have told him what each and every star meant, if only he listened more intently. If only he pressed his fingers into the hum of his ribcage.