Chapter Text
Katsuki wakes up with Izuku’s arm slung heavy over his waist and the familiar, irritating thought that this is just his life now.
Not irritating in a bad way. Just… constant. Like background noise—something you stop noticing until it’s gone.
Izuku is warm, still half-asleep, breath slow against the back of Katsuki’s neck. His fingers twitch once, curling like he’s afraid Katsuki might disappear if he loosens his grip. Katsuki stays still, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight settle. Letting the moment exist.
They never started dating so much as they… failed to stop. There was no announcement, no dramatic shift—no moment Katsuki can point to and say this is where it changed. Ever since that day after the midterms, Izuku was just… there, the way he’d always been, but closer. Steadier. Threaded into Katsuki’s life until there was no room left for plausible deniability. Their hands fit together without thinking. Their beds stopped being separate by default.
People noticed before Katsuki did.
Eventually he stopped snapping when someone assumed. That was how it became public.
Izuku never made a big deal out of it. He’s not the dramatic type. He just smiled more—small, private smiles meant only for Katsuki. The kind that felt earned, not performative. Katsuki pretended not to notice how grounding that was. Pretended it didn’t matter.
They’re dating. Officially. Out in the open.
It’s… fine. Good, even. Great on some days.
They train together like they always have, pushing each other harder than anyone else dares. Izuku still takes notes, still analyzes Katsuki’s movements like a language he’s fluent in. Katsuki still pretends it annoys him. Still shows off just enough to make Izuku’s eyes light up. Nothing about that part really changes, except now Izuku kisses him after, quick and breathless, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Katsuki lets him. That’s the part that surprises him the most.
Being seen like this—together—wasn’t as suffocating as he’d expected.
Some days, it even felt grounding.
His body shifts, though, and the illusion cracks.
Because some things never changed.
Bulimia doesn’t soften just because Izuku’s arm is warm around him, or because they fall asleep tangled together more often than not. Katsuki still wakes up with that same tight, distorted awareness—too much, not enough, wrong in ways he can’t fully articulate. Mirrors are still landmines. Food is still a negotiation. Control is still the only thing that reliably quiets the noise.
Izuku knows.
That truth sits between them, unspoken but constant. Carefully guarded. He never outs Katsuki. Never even comes close. But being together makes secrecy harder in ways Katsuki hadn’t anticipated.
It’s harder to disappear when someone expects you back in bed.
Harder to lie convincingly when someone knows your rhythms, your tells.
Izuku doesn’t confront him outright. He just notices. Adjusts. Tries to help without making it a fight.
Sometimes that looks like quiet damage control. Sometimes it looks like tension—tight and coiled—when Katsuki comes back pale and withdrawn and Izuku’s jaw sets just a little too hard.
They argue more than they used to. Not shouting—those are constant but brief—but the small stuff. The way Izuku sometimes goes quiet, clearly weighing words he’s afraid will land wrong. The way Katsuki bristles at the concern, even when it’s gentle.
Love doesn’t make this easier.
If anything, it sharpens everything.
There are nights Izuku ends up taking care of him anyway.
Not because Katsuki asks. He never does. But because there are moments where pretending everything is fine stops being an option—when Katsuki comes back to bed trembling, when he goes lightheaded mid-conversation, when he leaves the room in that way Izuku recognizes immediately.
He hates how quickly Izuku moves in those moments.
Hates how automatic it is.
He grounds Katsuki with practiced calm, talks him through breathing like he’s defusing a bomb. Gets him water, salt, something—anything—into his system. Monitors him without looking like he’s monitoring him. Keeps his voice steady even when it must feel like his chest is caving in.
Afterward, Katsuki acts like nothing happened.
That’s when Izuku gets angry.
Not explosive anger. Not righteous anger. The quiet, aching kind that settles in his bones and doesn’t leave. The kind that makes Katsuki feel younger than he should be.
He doesn’t want to be responsible for keeping Katsuki alive. Katsuki knows that it’s unfair.
He forced Izuku to walk a careful line between boyfriend and bystander. Katsuki watches him struggle with it and feels everything at once—gratitude, guilt, defensiveness. He doesn’t want to be managed. Doesn’t want to be saved. Doesn’t want to be reduced to something broken.
Izuku knows more about bulimia than Katsuki ever wanted him to.
He knows the physiology, the warning signs, the statistics. He’s read medical journals at three in the morning with Katsuki’s breathing steady beside him, the glow of his phone turned low so he thinks he won’t wake him. He knows about electrolyte imbalances, about dental erosion, about edema and dehydration and how stupidly easy it is for someone as athletic as Katsuki to hide how bad it’s gotten. He knows the tricks. The timing. The lies people tell themselves and the ones they tell others.
He knows all of it.
What he doesn’t know—what Katsuki knows still trips him up—is how none of that knowledge translates into control.
Or safety.
That gap between knowing and understanding gnaws between them
But… he also doesn’t want Izuku to leave.
That fear sits low and constant, shaping the way Katsuki lets him close without ever letting him all the way in.
They make something that works. For now.
Publicly, they’re solid. Intense. Inseparable. Wonder duo. Privately, they’re different. Less confidence. They sleep together. Study together. Kiss, make love. Sometimes it’s enough to make Katsuki feel almost normal. Sometimes it just reminds him how far he still feels from it.
Months pass. Nothing explodes. Nothing resolves.
Katsuki retakes the calculus course he failed. Passes this time— not easily, but honestly. Izuku’s proud, catalogued like proof that forward motion is still possible. Katsuki pretends that doesn’t matter.
Unfortunately, Katsuki knows better than to get too comfortable.
This isn’t normal. It’s maintenance. Survival—with company.
Izuku stirs again, tightening his arm, and Katsuki finally lets himself lean back into it.
For once, he’s almost glad to wake up like this.
With nothing fixed.
With everything still fragile.
With the uneasy, dangerous truth settling in his chest
—
He has something to lose.
Katsuki blinks against the pale morning light slanting through the dorm window. The room smells faintly of detergent and breakfast from down the hallway. His head pounds faintly—too much spinning last night, too little sleep, too many calories in his body—and his stomach twists with a mix of hunger, guilt, and the lingering ache from purging.
Izuku is still asleep, curled up beside him, mouth slightly open, a quiet breath rattling through his chest. Katsuki watches for a moment, the normalcy of it almost painful. Almost. The arm draped across his waist is heavy and warm, anchoring, and he doesn’t push it away. Not yet.
He just shifts carefully, just enough to nudge his shoulder against Izuku’s without waking him, the motion familiar from months of shared space. Then he waits, counting the slow rhythm of Izuku’s breathing, deciding if he has the energy to get up or if he’ll stay tangled here a little longer.
Eventually, Izuku stirs, eyelids fluttering open, green eyes blinking against the light. He doesn’t speak at first, just shifts slightly, stretching in a way that makes Katsuki’s heart skip—the casual, unconscious way he moves that always makes Katsuki notice every little thing.
“…Morning,” Izuku murmurs finally, voice soft, hoarse.
“…Morning,” Katsuki replies, voice tight and gravelly. His own throat still aches. He pushes the blanket back over his shoulders and swings his legs off the bed, wincing slightly as his body complains.
Izuku sits up too, stretching one arm over his head before rubbing at his face, hair messy from sleep. Katsuki can’t help but watch—the way Izuku’s hoodie rides up just enough to reveal the lean line of his abs, the way his bare arms flex slightly as he moves. His chest tightens in a familiar way. He doesn’t want to look away. It’s not like it matters; it’s just… Izuku.
“…I’m not going to class this morning.” Katsuki blurts before he can think better of it, the words out before his pride has a chance to kick in.
Izuku freezes mid-movement, eyebrows knitting together in concern. “You… okay?”
Katsuki shrugs, keeping his back to Izuku while he fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “…Yeah. Fine. I just don’t feel like going .” The word *fine* tastes bitter, not because he isn’t, but because it’s easier than explaining how shaky he is, how raw his throat still feels, how much of his body aches from last night. How nauseating it still is.
Izuku doesn’t push. He’s learned, ironically. Learned that any effort to force Katsuki to move, to eat, to talk, will hit a wall harder than steel. He simply nods, voice quiet but steady. “Okay. Just… make sure you eat something later. Or drink. Water, at least.”
Katsuki snorts, then coughs into his hand, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, nerd.” He can feel Izuku’s eyes on him, patient, measuring, not accusatory. The gaze doesn’t suffocate like it used to; it just feels good.
He sits on the edge of the bed a moment, stretching his legs, pretending the dull ache in his chest is just from lack of sleep . He watches Izuku get dressed across the room, pulling on a sweater, then his idiotic shoes. Katsuki notices the little things—the way Izuku folds his socks just so, the tilt of his shoulders when he leans over to tie his laces, the soft hum he makes when he’s focused on something mundane.
It’s painful domestic, and Katsuki’s stomach twists at it. He’s been around this person enough to know it’s safe, and still… it makes his chest ache anyway. He feels the familiar tug of wanting something he’s not sure he deserves, something beyond being protected or managed. Something… simpler. Just Izuku, without the weight of secrets or sickness pressing between them.
Izuku glances up, green eyes catching Katsuki’s. “…You sure you don’t want to attend at least one class? One lecture? Maybe… not calculus. But, y’know…” His voice trails, cautious.
Katsuki shrugs again, focusing on his own sleeves. “…I said no. I’ll be fine.”
There’s a pause. Izuku swallows, nodding. “…Okay. I… I’ll be around if you need me, though.”
“Yeah, I know.” Katsuki leans back against the wall, pulling the blanket around his shoulders like armor. His stomach twists again, because he knows that knowing Izuku is there doesn’t make the ache or the shame go away. It doesn’t change the fact that he binged last night, that his throat is raw, that he didn’t sleep.
Izuku doesn’t bring up attendance policies. Doesn’t mention how many classes Katsuki’s already missed this term. Doesn’t say you worked so hard to pass last time or I don’t want you to fall behind again.
All of that hangs between them anyway.
“I can grab you the notes later,” Izuku offers. “If you want.”
Katsuki nods once. Noncommittal. “Yeah.”
Izuku hesitates, hand hovering over the door handle, before he finally pulls the backpack over one shoulder.
Izuku hesitates, hand hovering over the door handle, before he finally pulls the backpack over one shoulder. He glances back at Katsuki, a small, unsteady smile tugging at his lips.
“I… I love you,” he says softly, almost afraid Katsuki will roll his eyes or say something cutting.
Katsuki freezes, eyes snapping open, cheeks heating. “…I—” He swallows, throat tight. “…I love you too,” he admits, voice gruff, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly.
Izuku’s smile widens just a little. He steps back toward the bed, leaning down to press a gentle, quick kiss to Katsuki’s temple. Katsuki stiffens, turns his face into the pillow, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath, clearly embarrassed.
“There. See you soon,” Izuku says, still smiling idiotically, pulling the yellow backpack straps over his shoulders once more.
“Mm,” Katsuki mutters, still half-buried in the pillow as the door clicks closed. Silence settles in the room, thick and quiet.
Katsuki closes his eyes, letting himself feel the emptiness in the way he can’t feel it when Izuku’s arm is draped across him. He feels the residual tension in his body from the purge, the way his stomach still twists, the raw ache in his throat. Everything is still here. Nothing’s changed.
And yet… there’s the echo of Izuku’s presence, lingering in the warmth he left behind. A grounding force that’s as small and consistent as the sunlight spilling across the floor.
Katsuki exhales slowly, tracing idle patterns on the blanket with his fingers. He knows the day will be quiet. Boring, maybe. Unproductive, probably. And still, for a fraction of a second, he imagines Izuku returning to him, nudging him toward breakfast or class, staying until Katsuki is upright, steady, functioning. Maybe just staying in bed with him instead. He knows it’s wrong, being codependent on someone like that. But even though he knows it’s unlikely, he lets the thought sit there, fragile but comforting.
His phone buzzes. A message from Izuku:
-> I’ll check on you before lunch. Don’t do anything stupid.
Katsuki smirks despite himself. The fucking idiot. He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. He never needs to. Izuku knows. He just knows. And that… sure is something.
He rolls onto his side, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. The morning stretches long and quiet. He listens to the faint rustle of the dorm outside, the distant hum of footsteps in the hall, and lets himself exist in the in-between.
Katsuki lies there for a long time. The dorm is empty—empty halls, empty rooms, even the faint clatter of distant breakfast has faded. No one’s watching. No one’s asking questions. That’s part of the appeal, part of the reason he’s skipped lately. He’s been doing it more often, choosing absence over the pretense of normalcy.
He thinks about getting up. Should go for a run. Hit the gym. Clear his head. Burn something off. But the thought alone feels like an insurmountable mountain. The steps—small, simple steps—loom too large. Stand up. Pull clothes over sweat-warm skin. Tie shoes. Walk out the door. That sequence, something most people do without thought, has somehow turned into an obstacle course he’s not ready to navigate.
He shifts, hugging the blanket tighter. He tells himself he’s resting. That’s the plan. It’s believable enough. If Izuku asks, he’ll say he did homework, studied a little, maybe even wrote a few notes. Anything to fill the silence convincingly, to make it seem like he was productive, responsible.
Small lies, harmless. Functional. Nothing to break.
Katsuki stares at the ceiling. The morning light has moved across the floor in the time he’s been still. Shadows stretch in slow, patient arcs. He breathes shallowly, letting the rhythm of the dorm fill the gaps of his thoughts. He doesn’t move. Can’t. Won’t. Not yet.
The air in Izuku’s dorm room was thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Katsuki lay on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, his body still humming with aftershocks.
The argument had been stupid—something about class, about them, about Katsuki. It always spiraled the same way: Izuku’s carefully constructed concern hitting a wall of Katsuki’s explosive defensiveness, words thrown like punches until the only solution left was to use their bodies instead.
But not sparring.
Sex.
It burned off the adrenaline, left them breathless and pliant, the anger dissolving into something more forgiving.
Izuku pulled out and collapsed beside him, chest heaving. For a moment, they just existed in the quiet, the only sound their ragged breathing slowly evening out. Katsuki felt the mattress shift as Izuku rolled, propping himself up on an elbow. A gentle hand came to rest on the small of his back, tracing idle patterns on his sweat-slicked skin. It was nice. It was grounding. It was the part of aftercare Katsuki secretly craved, the quiet intimacy that followed the anger.
Then the hand moved.
It slid up his spine, a slow, deliberate caress that should have been comforting. But as Izuku’s fingers drifted lower, kneading the muscle of his side, then moving to the soft flesh of his ass, Katsuki’s entire body went rigid. The warmth that had been spreading through his chest curdled into ice. Every muscle tensed, a primal recoil kicking in before his brain could even process it.
He hated this. He hated himself for hating it more.
“Kacchan?” Izuku’s voice was soft, confused. He felt the sudden stiffness under his touch and immediately stilled, his hand hovering just above Katsuki’s skin.
Katsuki didn’t answer. He just twisted away, a sharp, jerky motion that put space between them. He rolled onto his side, facing the wall, pulling the tangled blanket up to his shoulders like a shield. He could feel Izuku’s gaze on his bare back, heavy with questions he didn’t want to answer.
“Hey…” Izuku started, his voice gentle, laced with that careful patience he’d perfected over the last few months, just a bit of exasperation. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Katsuki bit out, the word muffled by the pillow. “Go to sleep. I’m tired.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. The air crackled with the unspoken truth. This was the new battlefield, the one that had nothing to do with quirks or villains and everything to do with the rot festering inside Katsuki’s own head. His body dysmorphia was a landmine, and Izuku, in his innocent desire for closeness, had just stepped on one.
Izuku sighed, a quiet, weary sound. He shifted, and Katsuki braced for the inevitable gentle probing, the soft-spoken pleas to just let him in, to let him help. But this time, something was different. The patience in Izuku’s sigh was frayed at the edges.
“Katsuki,” he said, and the use of his full name was a warning. “We can’t keep doing this.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightened. “Doing what? I’m just lying here, Deku. Not everything is a fucking crisis.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Izuku’s voice was firmer now, losing some of its softness. A thread of frustration was weaving its way in. “I mean… this. The pulling away. The second I try to touch you, to actually be with you, you shut down. I want to take care of you after, but you… you act like my touch is poison.”
“It’s not you,” Katsuki gritted out, the words tasting like ash. It was the classic, useless line.
“Then who is it, Kacchan?” Izuku’s voice rose slightly, the frustration bubbling over. “Because it sure feels like its me when you flinch away. And I’m trying, okay? I am trying so hard to be patient, to understand you. But I’m… I’m hitting my limit here.”
The raw honesty in Izuku’s tone made Katsuki’s chest ache. He squeezed his eyes shut, hating himself for putting that sound in Izuku’s voice.
“I just… I hate it,” Izuku continued, his voice cracking slightly. “I hate that I can’t touch my own boyfriend without wondering if I’m going to trigger something. I hate that I have to walk on eggshells around your body, around food, around your lies. I hate feeling so... helpless, because nothing I do makes a difference.”
Katsuki flinched at the blunt words. He wanted to scream, to tell Izuku to shut up, that he didn’t understand, that he was making it worse. But he couldn’t. Because Izuku was right. Every word was true.
“I love you,” Izuku said, his voice dropping back to that pained, quiet register. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes. But love isn’t fixing this. It’s just… making me more and more useless. And I’m scared, Kacchan. I’m scared that one day I’m going to come back from school and you’re not going to be here. That I’ll have lost you to this… this thing, before I ever really had all of you.”
Silence hung in the air after his confession, heavy and suffocating. Katsuki could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, a frantic, trapped rhythm. He felt exposed, flayed open. He wanted to run, to disappear, to go back to the time when the only person he was hurting was himself.
Slowly, reluctantly, he rolled over. He faced Izuku, who was sitting up now, his shoulders slumped, his face etched with a misery so profound it made Katsuki’s breath catch. His green eyes were shining with unshed tears, his hands clenched in the sheets.
Seeing him like that, so scared, was worse than any mirror. It was a reflection of the damage Katsuki was causing, not just to himself, but to the one person who had refused to leave his side.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly. He didn’t grab Izuku, didn’t pull him close. He just rested his palm on Izuku’s knee, a tentative, uncertain connection. The contact was slight, but it landed like a peace offering in the tense air between them.
Izuku looked down at Katsuki’s hand on his knee, his own clenched fists slowly uncurling in the sheets. He took a shuddering breath, the anger draining out of him to be replaced by the familiar, weary sorrow. He covered Katsuki’s hand with his own, his thumb stroking over Katsuki’s scarred knuckles.
“I’m sorry I got mad,” Izuku murmured, his voice thick. “I just… I don’t know what else to do.”
“S’fine,” Katsuki rasped, his gaze fixed on their joined hands. “I’m the one who’s… fucked up.”
“You’re not fucked up, Kacchan. You’re sick. There’s a difference. A big one.” The words were gentle, but they still made Katsuki’s spine stiffen. It was the clinical, detached language Izuku used when he was trying to be rational, to separate the person from the illness. Katsuki hated it. It made him feel like a specimen under glass.
“Stop,” Katsuki warned, his voice low.
“I’m just trying to—”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Katsuki cut him off, pulling his hand back as if he’d been burned. He sat up, dragging the blanket with him to cover his lap, a fresh wave of shame washing over him. “Don’t analyze me. Not again. Not right now, goddamn it.”
Izuku’s face fell, the brief moment of soft connection shattering. “I’m not… analyzing you. I’m trying to have a conversation.”
“No, you’re trying to solve me,” Katsuki shot back, his voice regaining its sharp edge. “You think if you just say the right thing, or… or touch me the right way, or read the right fucking medical journal, you can fix it. You can’t.”
“I know I can’t fix it!” Izuku’s frustration surged back, his voice rising again. “But I can’t just sit here and watch you destroy yourself either! Do you have any idea what it’s like, watching you kill yourself slowly? Do you know how many nights I lie awake wondering if this is the night you push it too far? Wondering if I’m going to find you passed out on the bathroom floor?”
The words hung in the air, brutal and unforgiving. Katsuki felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth to retort, to deny, to do anything to deflect the crushing weight of Izuku’s pain, but nothing came out.
Izuku pushed on, his eyes glistening, his words coming faster now, a torrent of desperate fear. “This isn’t just about me being able to touch you after we have sex, Kacchan. This is about the fact that you failed a class because you were too busy throwing up to study. This is about the fact that you passed out during training last week and lied to pass it off as the flu. This is about the fact that I found your damn toothbrush in the trash can last month because the acid had worn the bristles down to nothing!”
Katsuki flinched, his face paling. He hadn’t known Izuku had found that. He’d thought he’d been more careful than that. The shame was so acute it was nauseating.
“I’m scared,” Izuku whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so scared all the time. And I can’t do this alone anymore. I can’t carry this for us,” He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he knew would be the next landmine “Kacchan,” he started, his voice careful, measured. “What if… what if we got you some help? Real help?”
Katsuki’s body went rigid again, but subtly this time, a tensing of muscle. “I don’t need a fucking shrink, Deku.”
“No, no, not just… a therapist,” Izuku rushed on, his words tripping over themselves in his desperate attempt to explain. “I mean, yes, maybe that too. But I was thinking… someone who understands. A specialist. We could talk to Recovery Girl. She’s seen everything, she wouldn’t judge. Or… or we could find a counselor, one who works with heroes-in-training. They’d get it, the pressure, the body image stuff. They’d have actual strategies, things I don’t know. Things that could actually help.”
He was leaning forward now, his eyes intense with the light of a solution. He couldn’t see the way Katsuki’s face was closing down, couldn’t feel the ice creeping back into the space between them. All Izuku could see was a problem, and a potential answer.
“Or we could tell Aizawa-sensei,” he added, voice wavering, the thought gaining momentum. “He’d understand the need for discretion. He could get you resources, make sure you get the support you need without it affecting your standing. He’d help, Kacchan, I know he would.”
There it was. The suggestion Katsuki had been dreading since this whole conversation started. Since this whole relationship started. His blood ran cold. The fragile truce they’d built evaporated, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated panic.
“No,” Katsuki said, his voice flat and final. “Absolutely fucking not.”
“Kacchan, please, just think about it—”
“No! You want me to what? Go crying to a teacher? ‘Sorry, Sensei, can’t train today, I’m too busy puking my guts out because I hate how my thighs look in my costume?’ Are you fucking insane?” His voice was laced with hysterical disbelief. “That’s it. That’s the end of everything. My career, my reputation—gone. I’d be a goddamn liability. A fucking head case.”
“It wouldn’t be like that!” Izuku pleaded, reaching for him. “They’re professionals. They deal with this stuff. It’s confidential. It’s about getting you better, not ending your career.”
“You don’t know that!” Katsuki recoiled from his touch, scrambling off the bed and grabbing his discarded sweats from the floor. He pulled them on with jerky, angry movements. “You have no idea what it’s like! You’re the golden boy, Deku. Everyone’s favorite. You think they’d look at me the same way if they knew? If they knew how weak I am? How fucked up?”
“It’s not weak to be sick!” Izuku shouted, his own composure finally snapping. “It’s weak to refuse to do anything about it! It’s weak to let it control you, to let it push away the people who love you! You’re so obsessed with being strong, with being the best, but you’re letting this… this thing make you weaker every single day!”
“Fuck you,” Katsuki snarled, his voice dangerously low. “You don’t get it. You’ll never get it.”
“You’re right, I don’t!” Izuku stood up too, the blanket pooling around his waist. He wasn’t crying anymore. His eyes were dry, blazing with a mixture of fury and despair. “I don’t get why you’d rather kill yourself than ask for help. I don’t get why your pride is worth more than your life. I don’t get why my love isn’t enough to make you even try.”
The words hit Katsuki like a physical blow. He stood there, chest heaving, feeling trapped and cornered. He wanted to lash out, to break something, to do anything to escape the suffocating weight of Izuku’s love expectation.
“I never asked you to love me,” he said, the words quiet but venomous. “If you’re so tired, then just fucking leave. Go find some perfect, well-adjusted girlfriend who doesn’t make you want to tear your hair out. Maybe that’ll be easier for you.”
Izuku flinched as if he’d been struck. The anger in his face crumbled, replaced by a raw, gut-wrenching hurt. He stared at Katsuki, his mouth slightly agape, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“K-kacchan…” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.
But Katsuki was already moving. He grabbed a shirt from the floor, not bothering to put it on, just clutching it in his hand. He needed to get out. He needed air. He needed to not be in this room, under the weight of Izuku’s devastated gaze.
“Don’t,” Izuku said, his voice cracking. “Please don’t leave like this.”
Katsuki paused at the door, his back to Izuku. He couldn’t turn around. He couldn’t look at him. If he did, he knew he would break. And Katsuki Bakugou did not break. Not again.
“I’m sleeping in my room tonight,” he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a negotiation. It was a statement of fact.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He just opened the door and walked out, leaving Izuku standing alone in the middle of the room, the silence that followed his departure louder than any shout.
The walk back to his own dorm room was a blur. His own dorm felt cold and sterile after months of living out of Izuku’s. The sheets were clean but smelled of laundry detergent, not of Izuku. He threw his shirt onto the floor and collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He was in the right. He knew he was right. Telling someone would be a disaster. It would be a permanent black mark on his record. But Izuku’s face, the utter devastation in his eyes when Katsuki had said he never asked for his love, kept replaying in his mind. The guilt was a physical presence, a heavy stone on his chest. He’d pushed him away. He’d hurt him on purpose, using the sharpest weapon he had, just to make him stop. To make the fear and the concern stop.
Hours passed. He didn’t sleep. He just lay there, the anger slowly cooling into a miserable, churning regret. He knew Izuku was just as miserable. He could picture him in his room, probably replaying the whole fight, blaming himself.
He tells himself he’ll deal with it tomorrow. With Izuku. With the fallout. With everything.
The lie is thin, but it’s enough.
Sleep drags him down at last, shallow and restless, carrying him away with the uneasy knowledge that he was the one who ran away.
Again.