Work Text:
You wait for me where I do not want to go:
you love me where I do not exist.
—Roland Barthes
Blood in his mouth. The heat of it running thickly down his chin. The sun is a punishing, burning blur, stinging Katsuki’s eyes shut as he struggles to his knees. His hands are raw from overusing his quirk, and the thick, choking stench of smoke fills the air, blurring the rubble around him.
In the wake of the explosion, there’s no sound left, just a dull ringing in his ears, his harsh breathing muffled as he digs his fingers into the earth to brace himself. His shoulder’s dislocated, gauntlets shattered, and his throat’s so dry that when he tries to swear nothing comes out.
All at once the distant jumble of noise coalesces painfully into one sharp cry punching through his earpiece: GET UP!
A voice. Izuku’s voice, he realizes distantly, staggering to his feet. There’s a terrible undercurrent running through it that slices through his dulled senses, jerking the world back into technicolor, bounded shapes. A bent pipe here. An uprooted tree there. No time to process that it’s Izuku. Izuku’s here. Izuku’s back. Izuku sounds— scared.
It doesn’t matter. The villain’s hurtling back towards him, clawed fingers reaching for his face, and Katsuki propels himself sideways with a blast, snarling as it wrenches his arm further out of place. He barely manages to land before he’s forced into the air again, stomach lurching as the ground spins wildly beneath him. From this height, the ruined street shrinks abruptly, the villain reduced to a dark blur of grasping hands, bared teeth.
It’s not enough.
Dynamight! Izuku’s voice fractures over the comms, and Katsuki feels wild with fury. The terror scorching the word so different from the way Izuku had said his name the last time they’d seen each other, one year ago in the dull light of his doorway, his voice so rough with emotion that Katsuki hadn’t believed him, hadn’t listened to the finality in his words when he’d said, Ah, Kacchan. We’ll do what you want.
Now’s not the time. He’s falling anyway. Punishing force dragging him back towards the ground, the villain condensing gravity towards herself as her body sparks with crackling light, quirk blackening the space around her until it becomes painful to look at her directly. Smoke floods his head. When the bullet punches through his chest, his body’s so numb with adrenaline that it only registers as a bright sting, the burst of red like someone else’s blood.
Katsuki curls into himself with a hoarse, choked gasp, raising his hands to fire off another blast, the searing ache in his palms burning everything else away as his focus narrows down to the sickly smile on her face. Spots of black swarming the edges of his vision when he hears a thunderous crash: the sound of a mountain giving way, monstrous roar of sound, centuries of stone plummeting into an ocean’s froth. His heart jolts, careless thing, and Izuku’s above him before Katsuki can even register the weight of his inexplicable presence, splinters of green lightning shooting past him, sunlight glancing off of them and blinding him all over again.
Not enough, his mind supplies dizzily, breath catching at the yellow cape that cuts through the air next, all that forceful grace that he missed so badly. Not like this, not like this.
“No!” Izuku’s yelling, doubled through the air and the comms, echoing painfully in Katsuki’s ears as if he’s right next to him, but he’s not fast enough. They’re out of time. They’re always out of time.
Katsuki hits the ground, and it all goes away.
***
In his dreams, Katsuki’s always falling. The sky broken open above him, the battlefield a smoking ruin below. Rain on his cheeks, his body reduced to pain in the shape of a boy. The landing knocks the air out of him, and for a moment, he’s choking for breath, heaving past the hole in his chest. One fist still reaching for the sun, the other bloodied and broken at his side.
Can I still catch up to you, his head rings, an endless loop. Let me stand at your side. Just let me get back up again.
Then Izuku comes. Izuku always comes. One hand reaching for his. The terrible, wondrous miracle of faith. It’s not over yet. Time won’t leave him behind.
***
Katsuki feels the warmth of the morning light against his eyelids before he registers the pain. Cracking his eyes open is torture—blinding sun streams through the window onto his pillow, and the weakened state of his body makes itself known through a series of throbbing stabs and aches.
“Bakugou.”
Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a long, hoarse groan of displeasure.
“You,” he grits out, mouth so dry that he can feel his lips splitting, “are the last fucking person I want to see right now.”
Shouto’s sitting in the chair next to his bed, flipping idly through a magazine.
“Don’t sound so disappointed. Midoriya’s already been by.”
All of it comes rushing back at once. The villain’s gravity-bending. Izuku’s voice. The green flare of his eyes, the diamantine clarity of his suit’s artificial quirks. Katsuki sits up with a pained curse.
“Ouch,” Shouto says dryly.
“He’s back,” Katsuki says stiffly. “Since when?” He chokes down the other words. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you warn me? His heart lurches in his chest, sending another painful stab through his body. He should’ve known. Why didn’t he know?
“It’s been a few weeks,” Shouto replies. He studies Katsuki, mismatched eyes going cool and sharp. “Didn’t want anyone to know, I think.”
Katsuki grits his teeth. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.” It comes out matter-of-fact, almost cold. He should’ve known, somehow.
“Sorry,” Shouto says belatedly.
“You should’ve told me,” Katsuki says. The image of Izuku from that night swims before his eyes, the glitter of his tears, the wobbly line of his mouth. The sight of his back turning away, the flinch when Katsuki slammed the door shut. “I would’ve…”
Then, with little fanfare, he passes out again.
***
When they were nineteen, Izuku liked to sleep with the covers pulled up over his nose. He slept curled tightly in a ball, hands tucked under his cheek so the only parts of them that touched when they crammed together on Katsuki’s twin bed were his cold feet against Katsuki’s ankles. It was fine, because Katsuki didn’t want to touch him anyway, felt only a hot pulse of irritation at the way his face looked slack with sleep, eyelashes fanning darkly over his cheeks, mouth still swollen from Katsuki’s teeth, evidence of unseemly desire.
He liked to sleep in, and Katsuki never stayed long enough to watch him wake up, busying himself in the kitchen until he emerged bleary-eyed from the bedroom, half-dressed with his jacket hanging from his arm. It was a simple ritual. He ate Katsuki’s food, drank a cup of coffee, kissed him once, and left before they had to go to the agency. Then it was just Katsuki, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, tucking in the sheets that Izuku always left rumpled.
It was a simpler age.
When they saw each other at work, Izuku greeted him with a bright smile, expression so warm and open that Katsuki had to look away. He didn’t know what to do with the way Izuku looked at him. It was too much. The two of them sailing through the wind, the sky an endless blue dream, no one else who could keep up with them, and still, Katsuki felt twisted, felt wrong. He couldn’t understand it himself. He didn’t want Izuku to look at him like that, as if Katsuki had never laid a hand on him. He didn’t want Izuku to look at anyone else. He wanted shamefully, resentfully, wanted Izuku to want more than what Katsuki gave him.
Izuku only crossed the line that Katsuki drew between them when he was in his bed, knelt between Katsuki’s legs with a hand pushing his thighs apart. Then it was like nobody else had ever even touched him, like Izuku’s mouth on him was the only thing he could remember, like the soft animal heat of him could wipe away every other trace of violence that had reached him before his body against his.
Izuku took what Katsuki gave him and never asked for more. He’d never learned how to be selfish, not like Katsuki. It drove him mad that he couldn’t figure out what Izuku wanted back. What did he want for himself? A hot cup of coffee? A call from his mother before he went to bed? A quirk that wouldn’t kill him when it faded away? A lover that didn’t leave him in the morning?
Fuck this, Katsuki thought, again and again, but still, every week, Izuku came home with him. So what was he supposed to do. Maybe this was all it was ever going to be. Falling into bed with him, smarting from the thrill of their last fight, pretending that he didn’t know the exact curve of his smile, the precise tilt of his eyes when he was angry. Fuck, fight, pretend, again and again and again, stumbling deeper into the tangle of something that neither of them could name. Maybe everything else was always going to be on the outside of them. But this was theirs. Their wanting. So what.
***
Like most things between them, it had started with something stupid. Avoidable, if Katsuki had had his way. Only their knotted history was a long series of inevitable disasters, dogged by devastating earthquakes, haunted by endless aftershocks that kept the earth split wide open. Maybe nothing was an accident. Maybe it was always going to happen.
They’d been standing on the balcony of Momo’s ridiculous penthouse apartment, and Izuku had been flicking his lighter on and off, a pack of cigarettes resting on the ledge beside him.
“Stop that,” Katsuki had snapped.
“I’m trying to quit,” Izuku had said nervously. His eyes had darted to Katsuki and then back to the unsteady flame. “I know it’s no good, you don’t have to tell me again.”
Katsuki had been drunk. That had been his excuse. And Izuku hadn’t really looked at him in a week. He’d been too quiet for even longer. One moment Izuku had been cupping his hand to light his cigarette, and the next, Katsuki’s hand had locked itself around his wrist, palm heated with warning, frustration boiling over. Stop doing this to yourself. Stop pretending you’re fine. Stop avoiding me. Stop looking away.
“Kacchan!” Izuku had exclaimed, cigarette falling to the ground, and then Katsuki had leaned in and caught his mouth with his. Then it had been the cold press of the glass door against his back, his hand fisted in the smooth silk of Izuku’s messy tie, wanting it to choke him. It had been Izuku’s lips moving down his neck, the sudden wet warmth drawing a groan from his chest. A shaking hand on the dip of his waist. A soft gasp, a curse. The sound of their friends’ muffled laughter leaking through the cracked door, the way Izuku had jolted against his thigh, the bitter, consuming heat in his head, the blinding, burning lightness of Izuku kissing him back.
Ah, Katsuki had thought, dizzy. There it is.
***
Katsuki gets back on his feet. A man learning how to breathe again.
He comes home with an unwieldy cast and a cleared schedule, assigned to bed rest for the next few days. His apartment’s grown dusty during his hospital stay, and he’s pissed. When he opens the cabinet to get a glass of water he’s confronted with the showy yellow gleam of Izuku’s limited edition All Might mug. The sudden bright-white shock of memory: Izuku sitting on his counter, kicking his feet against the cabinets and sipping coffee from his mug, sleepy eyes following Katsuki as he grumpily made them breakfast.
He grits his teeth. He should’ve gotten rid of all his things by now. God knows Izuku’s spent the past year purging every trace of Katsuki from his life.
After it was over, Katsuki didn’t avoid him. Izuku was the one who’d run away to America for an undercover mission, tail between his legs, Katsuki’s number blocked, their friends forbidden from updating him. He should’ve known he was back, somehow. Izuku was always going to find his way back to him. They couldn’t stay apart. Like two little kids clinging desperately to each other, refusing to be separated. Childishly stuck together, twisted up and tangled close.
He should’ve known better. His mother always told him to watch out for signs from the weather. It’s raining when he gets to the market, so really, he should’ve known, should’ve been prepared when he turns a corner and slams into someone, shopping basket crashing to the floor. When he looks up to curse the stranger out, of course it’s Izuku.
“Kacchan,” Izuku says, startled. “You’re here!”
He looks tired. Shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes. His hair’s gotten longer, the ends curling damply from the rain. Those familiar green eyes, darting away from Katsuki’s, tracking the shift of his feet. Hands fidgeting with the bundle of snacks in his hands, the disgusting, unhealthy ones that Katsuki kept stocked for him in the back of his cabinets.
“Idiot,” Kacchan snaps instinctively. “Watch where you’re going.”
“Sorry,” Izuku says, wringing his hands.
Katsuki used to grab his wrist to stop him from doing that, used to dig his thumb into the curve of bone until all that nervous energy ran out. Now he only bends to pick up his cucumbers, grinding his teeth.
“Hey, are you…”
“Half and Half said you came to see me.” It comes out against his will. He clicks his tongue. “Still a coward, huh? Watching me sleep like a pervert?”
“Ah…” Izuku’s graduated to digging his nails into his fingers. Katsuki aches to wrench his hands apart. He clenches his fists.
“I thought you wouldn’t want to… um. See me.”
“Asshole.” He grinds his teeth some more. “And? How was it?”
Izuku smiles uncertainly, shifting on his feet like he’s about to bolt. “The mission went well. Look, I’m sorry—”
Katsuku cuts him off. Not good enough. “Were you satisfied?”
“What?”
“Satisfied.” A pause, then, abruptly: “It didn’t suit you. I thought you were past this.”
Izuku looks lost, struggling to follow his train of thought. “Past what?”
Katsuki takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. Draws on every second of his anger management sessions. He’s never cut his words to be clean.
“Running away. You’re too old for this.”
Izuku’s brow furrows. There, that spark of hurt. Katsuki drinks it up. Come on, he thinks. Come on. Shout at me. Fight with me. Keep looking at me. Tell me why. Tell me where you went, when you were running from me.
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Izuku says, drawing himself up.
Katsuki rears back, furious. “Fuck you,” he says. “You piece of shit—”
“Kacchan,” Izuku interrupts, laying a hand on his arm. “Wait, please. I don’t want to fight. I just—”
Katsuki shakes him off with a snarl. “No,” he says. “No.”
He drops his basket, leaving Izuku standing in the aisle, one hand still stretched out in front of him. He doesn’t look back.
***
Twenty-one was a cold year. The last embers of One for All had died out on Izuku’s birthday. Katsuki had found Izuku sitting on a swing at the park, crying. Damn terrible birthday gift. The day’s mission had gone horribly, his strength flickering out so suddenly that Katsuki had abandoned the villain he’d pinned down to catch him midair, chest tight with fear. He’d known the second he’d touched Izuku, from the stiffness of his body and the grief in his eyes. It was over.
The night had been dark. Katsuki’s hand had rested firmly on Izuku’s knee. He’d been kneeling in front of him in the dirt, waiting for the tears to stop.
“Come on,” he’d said, as softly as he could manage.
It’d taken an hour for Izuku to stand up. Ten minutes to get on the back of Katsuki’s motorcycle, ten seconds for his hands to fist in the back of Katsuki’s shirt, body shaking with sobs against his back. Izuku hadn’t touched him when they’d gotten back to Katsuki’s apartment, so Katsuki had drawn him into his arms, letting Izuku lean against him until the two of them had slumped down to the floor, holding each other. There’d been nothing he could’ve said to fix it. Something had broken, then, and there, in that fragile, pieced-together quiet, Katsuki had sworn to himself that he’d fix it. Anything. He’d do anything.
***
Sleeping with Izuku wasn’t supposed to change anything. Too bad that everything meant something with the two of them. It was everything. It was nothing. It was Izuku screaming at him outside the bar, it was Katsuki pinning him to the ground after a sparring match, it was like every time he used his quirk, like catching light between his palms, forever elusive and endlessly scorching. It was the two of them swallowing each other whole, it was the bruise on his neck and the handprints on Izuku’s hips.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Eijirou had said when he’d found out, brow furrowed. “You guys have never been normal about each other.”
“Fuck off,” Katsuki had said, and he’d gone home and laid in bed until he couldn’t take it anymore, had sat up and called Izuku. Then it was Izuku gasping into his pillow, Katsuki’s fingers tangled in his hair, the creak of the bed and a shaft of moonlight gleaming through his blinds, a glimpse of them together in the mirror propped against his wall, scars and sweat and something that Katsuki wanted to look away from.
Hit me, he thought, lying sprawled on the mat after another spar, bracing himself for the sting of Izuku’s fist against his face. Make it hurt. Watch me. Watch me get back up again. Watch me get on you again.
It was always violent until it wasn’t. Izuku tracing patterns on his back in the lazy blur of evening, Katsuki rising with the sun to buy the best pick of salmon for their lunch. Sitting on the edge of a roof during a patrol, scribbling reports together in the dim light of Izuku’s living room, the wind in his hair and Izuku’s laughter in his ears as they sped down the highway. Wanting to press his nose into the soft shape of him. Inexplicable warmth. Unconscious touch. It was nothing. It was everything.
***
In the end, Katsuki’s the one who breaks first.
He should’ve avoided Izuku, should’ve stuck to his side of the party, trapped on the couch under Eijirou’s heavy arm and Denki’s nodding head. But Izuku had always been in the habit of following Katsuki out of every room that he walked out of, and when he saw Izuku ducking out the door without looking at him once all night, a raw, caustic ball of rage condensed in his chest. He was on his feet before he knew it, ignoring Eijirou’s concerned call, and when he caught up to Izuku on the street, the other only stood there, shoulders slumped as if in defeat. The fluorescent white glare of the streetlight casting harsh shadows down his face.
Katsuki curls his lip. “Where are you going now, nerd?”
“Home,” Izuku says simply. He’s not in the mood to talk, clearly. Katsuki doesn’t care.
“Can’t even face me, can you?”
“Kacchan, I don’t want to do this right now.”
“You’re the one who left,” Katsuki spits. “You said we’d do what I want. The fuck do you know about what I want, hah?”
It’s been so long. His heart aches, helpless. Stupid thing. Still, the longing, rising bitterly in his throat. Put your hands on me. In violence, in want. Touch me. Tell me you still need me. Prove that I’m not alone in this. His body only knows the same old pattern. Izuku’s standing right in front of him but Katsuki still misses him like a sick dog, wants him like something worse. They’ve lost a year of quiet mornings, the perfect calm of Izuku in slumber, the ugly, rearing beast of his own body, rotten with desire.
“It was pretty obvious,” Izuku says. He turns to face Katsuki fully, chin lifting. “Look, I—”
“The fuck do you know about obvious?” Then, bursting out of him messily: “Why the hell did you block me?”
Izuku shakes his head. “I couldn’t do it anymore, Kacchan,” he says, and there, there’s the same resignation he’d had on his face when he’d left Katsuki behind. He shakes his head. “I couldn’t… I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Coward,” Katsuki hisses.
Izuku looks at him for a long moment. As if tracing his features, the heat of his gaze like the ghost of his touch, snapshot memory of the way he’d smooth out the crease between Katsuki’s brows with his thumb, lying there in his arms in simple innocence, gaze soft with affection.
“I had to leave,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t have you and not have all of it. It was killing me.”
The words ring out like a death toll. The streetlight flickers, Izuku’s face blinking in and out of focus. Katsuki’s nails are digging so sharply into his palms that they might draw blood. He wants to go home. He wants to be where Izuku is. He wants to be anywhere but here, hearing Izuku’s voice saying the words he’s been waiting for, too little, too late. A year ago, he might’ve stayed. A year ago, he might’ve listened. But he can’t do this. It’s been too long. Izuku left him anyway. The hurt won’t heal. He’s spent a year redressing the wound, bandaging the festering flesh, the infection of Izuku that he could never cut out. He wants to be sick. His voice won’t work. What is there to say? They’re wide awake, now. Somehow, still breathing.
Izuku’s face shutters when Katsuki doesn’t respond, the corner of his mouth tugging up bitterly.
“Let’s just leave it, okay?”
Don’t, Katsuki thinks. Don’t you dare look at me like that. Don’t you dare turn away from me. But he can’t say a word. His body won’t move.
This time, Izuku’s the one who leaves again.
***
Twenty-three was their best year. An endless summer, the days raining down around them like so many drops of sunlight.
Izuku was sitting on the steps of the shrine, hair tousled, snacking on Katsuki’s chips. His knee knocked against Katsuki’s, their hands intertwined, crumbs everywhere and the early morning light limning his cheek with gold. Katsuku reached out before he could think, pinching his freckled skin.
“Little thief.”
“Ow, Kacchan,” Izuku said, giggling, trying to pull away, and Katsuki pinched harder, giving their hands a little shake. Helplessly fond smile pulling at his mouth.
“Look alive, dipshit. We’ve still got an hour before we get to the summit.”
It was the new year. Miraculously, they’d gotten their schedules to align, three days off and nowhere to go but to each other. Katsuki had proposed the hike, and Izuku always came when he called.
“I know! Just give me a second, I don’t do this as much as you.”
“Tch. Do better,” Katsuki said.
Izuku turned to him, still giggling. “Gotta catch up, right?”
“Damn straight.”
He stood with a groan, yanking Izuku to his feet despite his protests. “Come on. Mountain ain’t gonna climb itself.”
Izuku’s smile was small and lovely. He looked stupid, dressed impractically in a ratty shirt, blocky red shoes, and Katsuki’s hoodie. A stray slant of sun cutting through the trees caught the deep green of his eyes, soft and bright and luminous as he looked up at Katsuki, all wondrous, refracted light.
“Okay, Kacchan. Let’s go.”
Katsuki didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. In that moment, all he felt was warmth.
***
Something had to give.
The fight had been a long time coming. Twenty-five and aching, the thing between them squalling, pushed to its limit. The easy years were gone, and Katsuki had spent all of them biting his tongue until it bled.
The mission had been a bust, and he’d taken it out on his team. He should’ve known that Izuku would follow him. He’d slammed out of the agency and sped all the way home, running red light after red light, and before his door had even swung shut, Izuku had caught the edge of it and stepped into his apartment, still dressed in the suit that Katsuki had made for him, boots clicking loudly on the wood.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Izuku accused. “You’re shutting us out again. You’re shutting me out.”
“Yeah?” Katsuki snapped. “Fuck you. I’m not doing this with you.”
His heart ached. He’d said horrible things to Izuku, words that had fallen flat in the stiff air of the locker room, chest heaving. I’m sick of this. All of this. Fuck, I’m sick of you. You’re weak. You’re not good enough. They hadn’t fought like that in years. Katsuki hadn’t been able to control himself. Izuku had only looked at him like he was breaking his heart, mouth a thin, tense line.
“Stop it,” Izuku said, fists clenching. “Why won’t you look at me?”
Katsuki glared at him. “I don’t want to see you. What the fuck are you even doing here?”
“Stop it!” Izuku burst out. “You always do this! You can’t just blow up at me in front of everybody and, and call me weak, and run away and expect me to chase you! It’s not fair!”
“Well. Here you are,” Katsuki snapped. “Chasing.”
Izuku glared. “You made me like this,” he said. “You… you never just say what you want. It’s always these games with you, this fighting, and I can’t, I just can’t pretend anymore!” He shook his head, breathing hard. “I thought we were past this, Kacchan!”
“Hah? Pretend? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You said you’re sick of me,” Izuku said, and, horribly, started to cry. He choked back a sob, scrubbing furiously at his face. “You said you’re sick of me, but then you call me, and you kiss me, and you tell me that you’re on my side, and then you do something like this all over again! Do you even know what that does to me? I can’t keep up with you!”
Katsuki swallowed. His hands were shaking with rage, with self-hatred. All the violence he directed towards himself kept ending up in Izuku. Izuku’s tears always pulled the same reactions out of him, like his body was trained into it. Sick dog. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to hurt someone.
“As if I give a shit about your little feelings,” his mouth said, against his will. He felt small and cruel. His chest hot with something like fear. The walls were closing in on him. “Get the fuck out.”
“You said I’m not good enough,” Izuku said, throwing his words back at him. “You said it was a waste of time.”
“This is a waste of time!” Katsuki yelled. “What the hell are you still doing here? I said get out!”
“You’re a liar,” Izuku snapped. “A liar!” He was braced against the counter like it was the only thing holding him up, tears running freely down his face. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. You don’t want this? You don’t want me? You have to tell me,” he demanded. “You have to be the one to say it.”
Katsuki didn’t know how to do this either. He couldn’t get his voice to work. He couldn’t see past the rage. He was furious, furious that Izuku kept asking things of him, things that he couldn’t give. He’d already given as much as he could, and he needed Izuku to stop asking, to stop taking. Katsuki didn’t have anything left. Maybe now Izuku was just as selfish with him as he was with Izuku, but it was worse, because he wanted more than what Katsuki had. Why couldn’t he understand that?
He knew that sleeping with Izuku was a bad idea. But he’d gotten too close, gotten so close that he’d come out on the other side of him entirely, and it was worse than those long, scorched years when he hadn’t known him at all, because now he knew the way Izuku stretched when he woke up in his bed in the morning, knew the way he left all the cabinets open in his kitchen, knew the way he came sweeping through the doors of Katsuki’s office, windswept and brilliant, always his hero, always drawing his attention, knew the impossible weight of his face in his palm, his tender trust and his kind eyes. Knew it all, and still, never knew what Izuku was thinking about him.
He couldn’t tell what Izuku was thinking as he stood there, shaking, expression turning awful and remote, wet eyes going blank like he was looking straight through Katsuki in a way that made his hackles rise, thick pulse of dread trickling down the back of his throat. Katsuki could never keep his head straight around him, had stumbled his way through the bitter vacuum of wanting for too long. Look at me, Katsuki willed. Look at me.
What was there to say? That they were always going to be more in love with saving someone else than being with each other, that the thing between them was doomed before the idea had even formed? That Katsuki didn’t want to be a hero for him, that he only wanted to be one with him? That there was something they had that Katsuki refused to name, something that he could only touch when Izuku was looking at him, when Izuku laid his hand on his cheek, when they were fighting back-to-back and knew how the other would move without a word? Wasn’t that another kind of speaking? A safer one: the press of skin against skin, the gap between language where desire encountered itself.
He wanted to reach inside himself and wrench that stiff, implacable quiet out of place. Wanted to make Izuku look at him the way he used to when they were kids, when they were too stupid to know any better, lit up with something like awe.
The silence stretched out between them. Katsuki willed him to understand. That he couldn’t say it, that he wouldn’t say it. He thought Izuku knew him better than this. He didn’t want Izuku to know him at all. He felt trapped, like some clumsy, lumbering animal, obscene and stupid with his longing.
Izuku shook his head. There, again, that look of defeat. When had he stopped running towards victory? What had Katsuki done to him?
“Ah, Kacchan,” Izuku said, and there it was, that terrible, resigned look. “We’ll do what you want.”
Katsuki couldn’t say it. He was sick of himself. His body was a helpless void, filled only with fury. It wasn’t good enough. It would never be good enough for Izuku.
He couldn’t say it. Izuku was in the doorway now, looking back at him. Katsuki started forward, heart clenching, and before he could register the hope in Izuku’s eyes, he slammed the door in his face. Sank to his knees in the genkan, fists clenched against the floor. Silence on the other side, then the slow, unsteady sound of Izuku walking away.
***
A week after the fight found Katsuki banging on Izuku’s door. A crumpled bouquet in his hand, his heart in his throat. He couldn’t leave it like this. When it came to Izuku, he’d never had any restraint.
Ochako opened the door. She looked him up and down, face unreadable, gaze lingering briefly on the flowers.
“Bakugou.” Her voice was cold.
“Move. I need to talk to him.”
“Deku’s gone.” For a moment, she looked regretful.
“Where is he? Is he at U. A.?”
Izuku wasn’t picking up his calls, wasn’t answering his texts.
Ochako shook her head. Her face was unreadable again. “He’s gone,” she said. “He left this morning.”
Dread rose in Katsuki’s throat. When he took a closer look, the apartment behind her looked emptier. A half-filled box by the couch, a missing figurine. He barely got the word out.
“Where?”
“America,” Ochako said, softer. “He didn’t tell you?”
It wasn’t a question. They both knew the answer already.
“Fuck,” Katsuki said. The flowers fell to the floor. He pushed a palm into his face. His eyes ached. “Fuck!”
Ochako sighed. “Bakugou…”
Katsuki couldn’t look at her. He didn’t want to know what he’d find. Pity, probably. She knew as well as he did. For as long as Izuku had followed him, Katsuki had chased him back, had stumbled after him for years after high school, had begged him into his agency, had begged him into his bed, had passed off his begging as a command. But it wasn’t the truth, was it? He could never catch up. He was always waiting for Izuku to turn around, to give him that smile again. And this time, Izuku was gone. Running away from him, refusing to look over his shoulder for Katsuki to catch up. There was nowhere on this earth far enough he could go to free Katsuki of him. It was Katsuki’s fault, after all.
Fuck. He should’ve known.
***
“Izuku!”
Katsuki’s out of breath. He’d stood on the street, struggling with his misplaced fury before he’d come back to himself. Then he’d chased after Izuku, blasting his way through the air until he’d seen that green head of hair, ducked low.
“Leave me alone,” Izuku says.
Eyes rimmed red. He’s been crying. Always crying over him. Belatedly, Katsuki realizes he’s wearing one of his shirts, the collar worn and stretched out from use. The last time he’d seen it, he’d been tugging it over Izuku’s head, the two of them laughing when his face had popped out of the bottom. His hand on Izuku’s bare chest, heartbeat thrumming like a bird.
“No, fuck,” Katsuki says. He grabs Izuku’s arm, forcing him to turn around. “Listen to me. You don’t want this,” he says before Izuku can get a word in. “You can’t want this.”
Izuku’s brow furrows. “Don’t tell me what I want,” he says. “You never asked me. You never even answered me.”
“You blocked me! I tried to tell you,” Katsuki says, chest heaving from the effort of using his quirk. “I called, I left you messages, I told all our dumbass friends to tell you. You made it damn clear I couldn’t follow you.”
“Kacchan…”
Katsuki shakes his head. “This isn’t good for you,” he says. “You were right.”
Now Izuku’s angry. Eyes narrowed and hot with it.
“Don’t tell me what’s good for me. You don’t know how long I waited before I left. I tried, Kacchan! I tried to figure out how to do it without you, how to live with what you gave me. I tried to fix myself so I wouldn’t keep looking for you. But I can’t be your friend. I can’t do it anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Katsuki says. He chokes. Forces himself to speak past his hurt, past the shock on Izuku’s face. “I just… I don’t know what you want from me,” he says, finally. “I don’t get it. I can’t figure you out.”
“So ask,” Izuku says. Desperation on his face. Something else there, something terrible. Something like hope. “Just ask me, Kacchan.”
“I don’t know how to— I can’t—” Katsuki swallows. Starts again. “I…”
Izuku shakes his head. “What do you want, Kacchan?”
Another morning. Another dawn, another day. An endless stream of days, a year, a decade, a life with you. A second of your time. A glance, a smile. The sound of your voice before I go to sleep. The shape of your hand in the dark. Things that I don’t deserve. Things that I don’t know how to ask for. A love that I know how to keep safe. A love that I want to learn how to have, with you, if you think you can want me. If you think you can let me keep you.
Don’t ask me what I want. Ask me to stay.
“You,” he says, quiet. “Us.” Then, terribly: “Please. I’m sorry, Izuku. I’m sorry for everything.” An echo of those words from long ago, seventeen and soaked in ash and rain.
“Why?” Izuku says breathlessly.
Katsuki gives him his truth. “I want to give you everything,” he says. “I just don’t know how.”
Izuku slips his hand out of his grasp. Katsuki’s heart lurches horribly, and then Izuku’s reaching forward. Intertwining their fingers. When Katsuki looks up, Izuku’s looking at him softly, eyes bright and damp.
“I don’t forgive you,” Izuku says. Then he smiles, small and wobbly. “Not yet. But I missed you.”
Katsuki tightens his grip until he can feel their bones creaking. Takes a step forward, then another, until Izuku’s right in front of him, the familiar smell of him so dear and so close, his eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at Katsuki.
“I missed you too,” Katsuki says hoarsely. “I always miss you.”
Then Izuku’s in his arms, Katsuki’s nose buried in his hair, the heat of his shaking body in all its miraculous warmth, so near and tender that it ruins Katsuki all over again, the pull between them something he could never fight. He was never going to win. It was always going to be Izuku. Burst of incomprehensible light, skin against skin. That day in the river, faded with memory, like sun through stained glass, the two of them stumbling against the current, the first time he knew he could have Izuku and that having him would kill him.
“Let me try again,” he mumbles. “Izuku.”
He doesn’t say, I love you. He doesn’t say, this is the only way I know how to be with you. But he knows Izuku hears it anyway.
“Kacchan,” Izuku whispers. “Stop talking. Just hold me.”
“Okay,” Katsuki says. “Okay.”
***
Atonement was a difficult word. It didn’t fit right in Katsuki’s mouth, wasn’t enough to capture the years that he needed to earn back.
“But that’s your way of trying to atone,” Toshinori said. “Right?”
They were watching Izuku practice his new quirks, fumbling through his moves with their classmates. Katsuki was thinking about the two of them as children, the way Izuku had followed him through forests, over fences, into silly battles, the kind of childish matches before quirks meant anything to them, sticks as swords and scraped knees that their mothers would fuss over. Couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Izuku’s face when the dark tendrils of Blackwhip had first burst out of him, wild and uncontrollable, his own sick terror when he’d realized that Izuku was only going to push himself further, sacrifice himself again.
He wanted to keep Izuku at arm’s length. He wanted to stop hurting him. He wanted to catch him at the end of the day, when no one else was looking, when no one saw Izuku for who he really was, when no one knew how much he was going to give up to save them. He wanted to hold the truth of them in his hands and know that it was theirs.
“Right,” Katsuki said.
He wasn’t going to fail this time. He wasn’t going to let his weakness pin him down anymore, flat on his back and still wanting. He stood up and called him by his name, and when Izuku looked up at him, eyes bright with warmth, Katsuki didn’t look away. He took a step forward, and walked into the light.