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Izuku couldn’t eat his dinner.

Rikido Sato’s cooking was foolproof. Everyone knew that. If there was one thing in the dorms that could reliably lift spirits, no matter how exhausted or shaken they were, it was Sato’s meals. Tonight had been Katsudon, made in a big enough batch to feed the entire class twice over. The savory scent of simmered onions and broth clung to the air, enough to make any passer-by’s mouth water. 

Izuku could barely stomach it. He stared down at his bowl, watching almost deliriously as the steam curled upward in ghostlike strands. After working up the courage, Izuku forced a spoon to his mouth. The flavor was exactly right as always, but it sat heavy on his tongue nonetheless, like his body had forgotten what to do with such simple pleasures. After a few mechanical chews, he swallowed with what felt like disproportionate effort. 

Around him, the rest of Class 2-A carried on normally. There was bickering and storytelling and laughter, and Izuku tried to bury himself in that familiar noise, if only as a distraction. Hanta was laughing loudly at something Tsuyu had said, nearly knocking his elbow into someone’s drink in the process. Mina leaned across the table to egg them both on, and even Shoto had joined in, bluntly commenting.

But for all the effort Izuku put into focusing, everything still felt strangely far away. The voices around him blurred together and muffled, like he was listening from beneath water. Something- or rather, someone - kept resurfacing instead. Persistent and unrelenting, forcing their way to the forefront of his thoughts. It wasn’t new. It only happened every second of every day.

“Has Kacchan come out of his room today at all?” Izuku asked suddenly, unable to help himself. 

The effect was immediate. Just the mention of his name was enough to make the room’s easy attitude falter. Voices dipped, glances traded. A few expressions tightened, some worried, some angry, some sad. 

Tenya was the one who eventually answered. He shook his head once. “I have not seen him today. However, Mr. Aizawa reassured me that the reason he skipped class was because he needed the day to rest.” 

He adjusted his glasses, tone careful. “I know we are all worried for him, but we should give him the space he desires. After everything he’s been through since the past few months… how he chooses to process it isn’t ours to judge. We should be forgiving with him, and with each other.”

Izuku nodded, the motion more an acknowledgment than any real agreement. 

He picked his chopsticks back up and nudged a piece of pork through the rice without actually lifting it. He preferred Katsuki’s katsudon, if he were being honest, by a wide margin. It was spicier, grittier, and never quite balanced, just like the boy who’d made it. It burned his tongue, and his mouth hurt long after the meal was over. Izuku would eat it every day if he could. But now, with everything, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get the chance again. 

-

“Kacchan, wait, please. How was your day today? How have you been? Are you feeling okay? Does your arm still hurt? How is your chest healing? Let me walk with you home, at least. 

“I’m fine. Go away.”

“But I know you’re not, Kacchan. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Fuck off.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Then you should’ve been faster back then.”

-

Something turned inside his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the food.

The conversation came back with a clarity that felt punishing. As with every memory he held of Katsuki, his mind refused to let it dull with time.

That had been over a week now, and Izuku hadn’t spoken to him since. Simply hadn’t had the strength. Izuku’s grip tightened where his hands rested in his lap, fingers curling in against his palms. Katsuki had always been perceptive in his own way, he knew exactly where to aim to make it hurt. 

The worst part was, Izuku knew he deserved it this time. He knew it down to the bone, with an unshakable certainty.

During that awful day, Izuku had been too slow, too weak, too distracted at the moment it mattered most—when Katsuki’s life hung in the balance, wholly entrusted to him. And as a result of that catastrophic failure, Katsuki had nearly been lost for good, just barely scraping the line between life and death. He bore permanent damage to his body. It was impossible for the blame to lie elsewhere, besides sorely on Izuku’s shoulders. Everybody knew it. 

But there was a difference, a vast undeniable difference, between thinking it in the privacy of his own mind and hearing it spoken aloud. He had never needed Katsuki to say it. In some desperate, ugly way, he truly believed Katsuki would spare him that final confirmation, that it could remain unspoken between them and therefore less real. Hearing it from Katsuki’s own mouth shattered Izuku irreparably. It plunged him to unthinkable depths, like ink dropped into water, his spirit bleeding outward until everything around him lost all shape and meaning. He didn’t know how to live with the guilt. 

Izuku startled back into the moment, trying with a bone-deep weariness to be in the present again, eventually finding a little purchase in the familiarity of the room and the people around him. Everyone seemed to fall back into easy conversation as they ate. Denki leaned too far back in his chair mid-sentence and tipped over with a loud crash, and it made Izuku laugh a little in a way his body had forgotten how to do over the last few weeks. It startled out of him, awkward and a little breathless. For a brief moment, he felt almost okay again. Beside him, Shoto gave his back a firm pat, his hand lingering for a second before pulling away.

Despite all of that, however, Izuku was still unable to ignore the empty dining chair that was seated next to him. It stretched the space in a way that felt wrong, leaving a noticeable absence of fiery energy in its wake. Try as he might, Izuku couldn’t stop his eyes from glancing over to it every few seconds.

He wanted Katsuki to magically walk in and take his seat like nothing had changed. He wanted things to go back to normal – whatever was normal for them, anyway. Izuku didn’t really know what that looked like, but he would take it anyway, in any form it came.

Eijiro was watching him when he passed behind Izuku to grab another serving. Izuku turned slightly, and whatever showed on his face must have been obvious. Eijirou reached out and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Hey, it’s not just you man,” he said. “I can barely get him to talk to me for more than a minute. It’s not anybody’s fault. With everything he’s seen, the injuries, the shock… it makes sense he’d be more distant. Honestly, I think he’s been doing better lately. I’m sure he’ll be back to our good old Bakugo in no time.”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. That assessment surprised him. Because every other time Katsuki had been hurt, he came back louder, bolder, more determined than ever to prove nothing could keep him down. But this… felt nothing like that. Izuku spotted it easily, in the way Katsuki’s hands trembled slightly, the way he blinked twice as much as usual. Izuku had assumed Eijiro had noticed too. If anyone would, it would be him. 

Then again, maybe Izuku had only seen it because he’d been looking. Looking in a way Eijiro probably didn’t look at Katsuki. 

Izuku stood up a little too quickly, drawing the attention of the room as he fumbled for a spare bowl. He moved to the stove, portioning out another serving of the pork and sauce, adding a generous scoop of rice.

“I’m gonna go see if Kacchan wants dinner,” he said, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes. “He might let me in for that.”

The others nodded easily, no questions asked, and Izuku didn’t let himself dwell on the way his stomach twisted as he headed upstairs, the bowl balanced carefully in his hands. He realized, distantly, that he was scared. Terrified. Because despite the cruel words he’d dealt the other week, Izuku knew Katsuki had plenty more to throw back at him. After all, Izuku had been the one that had let him down, left him broken and disabled. If Katsuki wanted to cut his losses, he was well within his rights to. Maybe Katsuki would really discard him for good now, slash an abrupt end to everything built between them throughout the years. Izuku was well aware he wouldn’t know how to cope when that inevitable moment came. 

But even if Katsuki didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, even if the last thing Katsuki wanted right now was to see his face, and even if everything meaningful that was carefully growing between them the past year was thoroughly screwed up and fucked up and shattered beyond repair - at the end of the day Katsuki still needed to eat, and it was Izuku’s responsibility to make sure he did. That didn’t just disappear because of a stupid argument.

Izuku approached Katsuki’s door without reservation, and knocked. 

“Kacchan? I brought some katsudon for you.”

Izuku winced as soon as the words left his mouth, bracing for the incoming insults and curses. But he was only met with silence. He waited anxiously for a good while, weight shifting from one foot to the other. Izuku wondered if he’d gone to bed already, but the thought was quickly aborted when he looked down and noticed the line of light spilling from beneath the door.

Izuku knocked again, three quick taps, more urgent this time. “Kacchan? Are you in there?”

The silence dragged on. Izuku stood lingering in the hallway, and he frowned. He supposed Katsuki could be ignoring him, but at the same time Izuku knew that wasn’t his style. He snapped, he barked, he slammed doors. Katsuki was the type who would die with the last word in his mouth. 

Was he hurt? Had something happened? Was he unable to respond? Izuku’s mind couldn’t help it, lurching immediately toward the worst possibilities. Izuku knew, logically, that Katsuki had come a long way in his recovery. He was back in class, managing on his own again, no longer under constant watch. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t get hurt again. He was still vulnerable, still fragile, and sometimes that was all it took for health to take a wrong turn.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Izuku reached for the handle and pushed the door open slowly. If it pissed Katsuki off, then so be it. Katsuki’s wellbeing came far above his comfort, and he’d leave the second he knew Katsuki was okay. 

Izuku stepped into the room. He saw Katsuki’s desk first, cluttered with bottles of medication tipped on their sides and piles of schoolwork stacked crookedly. The rest of the room followed the same pattern as he wandered in further and peered around, everything left in a quiet state of disarray. Laid in stasis, incomplete. 

Izuku’s heart leapt into his throat. If that wasn’t a bad sign, he didn’t know what was. Katsuki was such a stickler for tidiness, for presentation. It was so staggeringly unlike him that Izuku’s chest tightened instinctively. 

Then he saw it.

A tuft of ash-blonde hair, sticking out just above the edge of the bed. Katsuki was kneeling on the floor, chest pressed into the side of the mattress. His good hand gripped the sheets in a white-knuckled hold, his bad arm limp at his side. 

For a moment, it looked like he’d simply fallen, like he was bracing himself against the bed to push back up. But he wasn’t moving. The motion had stopped halfway, aborted, like his body couldn’t follow through.

Something was so, very wrong.

Izuku couldn’t say what exactly—there was no blood, no injury he could immediately see. If anything, it was the absence of something that gave it away. Katsuki wore a blank indifference on his face, and that was just… wrong. It didn’t belong. Katsuki had always glowered fire and spite and brilliance, even at his quietest.  Katsuki breathed with such vibrant colors, and it painted Izuku’s world. 

His eyes looked dead now. They stared lifelessly ahead at nothing. The sight shivered down Izuku’s spine. 

“Hi, Kacchan,” Izuku said gently as he moved slowly, lowering himself to kneel by his side, level with him. Up close, he saw just how tight Katsuki was holding onto the sheets. His hand was pale, trembling with the force of his grip, tendons pulled tight under the skin. It looked painful.

When Katsuki didn’t respond with so much as a blink, Izuku swallowed and cleared his throat. “I brought you dinner. Sato made it for everyone. I thought… you should eat.”

Nothing. Katsuki stayed terrifyingly still, like he was seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Like he wasn’t there at all, lost someplace far beyond where Izuku could follow. Izuku could feel his quiet worry quickly giving way into dire concern. Katsuki was in a bad, bad, bad way. 

Later on, Izuku would think about how idiotic his next few moves were.

But in that instant, when he took in the sight of Katsuki, lifeless and dulled and folded in on himself on the floor while their friends laughed and ate and bickered just three floors below, Izuku felt something visceral and overwhelming claw up his chest, the desperate need to help Kacchan drowning out all rational thought. Izuku forgot who he was dealing with. He forgot what they were capable of.

Izuku reached out carefully, and rested a hand against Katsuki’s shoulder. “Kacchan, are you—”

Katsuki’s good arm shot up, palm aimed straight at Izuku’s face.

It was pure instinct that made Izuku react. His hand snapped up, catching Katsuki’s wrist and forcing it sideways, shoved beside his ear just as the explosion tore free from his palm, ripping through the bed and closet behind them in a loud, searing blast. The room ignited with an overwhelming white flash and erupted with the impact. The ground jumped. The detonation was deafening.

Rice and pork went flying, the ceramic bowl shattering as it hit the ground, forgotten instantly in favor of something far more urgent. The acrid smell of burning fabric hit Izuku a second later, followed by heat as flames began to lick upward, smoke curling along the ceiling. The fire alarm shrieked to life, barely drowned out by the sound of Izuku’s own breathing.

Izuku’s cheek felt hot. His ear pulsed with a nauseating ring. Holy shit, that had been close. Way too close.

Izuku didn’t have the mind to linger on it, adjusting automatically. 

Priorities: Protect Katsuki. Contain Fire.

He tightened his grip on Katsuki’s wrist, holding it firmly to prevent another blast, and dipped low to hook an arm around his waist, hauling Katsuki back and away from the small flames that started to roam across his bed and closet drawers.

Katsuki went willingly. Too willingly, his body felt dead under Izuku’s grip. 

When he set him down on the floor a safer distance away, Katsuki looked up at him with an excruciating expression that stopped Izuku’s heart outright. His eyes were wide, horrified. His face lost all color. His entire body began to tremble wildly, visibly scared and confused.

In that instant, Izuku knew without question that it hadn’t been Katsuki who’d thrown that explosion. Katsuki hadn’t even been in the room.

“Kacchan, It’s just me,” Izuku said quickly, his free hand lifting before stopping short a couple inches from Katsuki’s face, remembering how badly he’d reacted to touch just moments prior. “It’s me. Deku. Izuku Midoriya. It’s just me. We’re in your dorm room, at U.A.”

Katsuki’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. The breath he dragged in hitched, catching somewhere in his throat. His eyes still locked onto Izuku, darting all around his face, like he couldn’t quite convince himself this was real. He was disturbingly unaware of where he was, or what was going on.

“You’re not in danger. Do you understand?” Izuku pressed, aware of just how quickly this could spiral out of control if Katsuki believed otherwise. “You’re safe, I promise. I need you to nod, Kacchan. Just tell me you understand. Please.”

For a second, nothing happened, Katsuki just sat still, looking pained and disoriented and so, so lost. Izuku’s breath caught, his helplessness quickly turning into the beginnings of panic. But then, miraculously, Katsuki managed a small, jerking nod, the movement conducted like he’d never operated a body before. His gaze flicked past Izuku, darting toward the fire.

Oh, right. The fire.

“I’m going to let go of your hand,” Izuku said. “Don’t attack. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you, Kacchan. I promise. I just need to grab a fire extinguisher.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. He just kept staring at him, with that same shell-shocked, crushed expression, like he’d just watched Izuku die right in front of him. Izuku took that as the closest thing to agreement he was going to get, releasing his wrist. He bolted for the door, sprinting down the hall to grab the red extinguisher at the far end.

Just as his fingers closed tight around the canister, footsteps thundered up the stairs behind him.

“Midoriya! What the hell was that?” He turned just enough to see Eijiro cresting the top step, a couple of their classmates close on his heels. 

“That explosion, was that Bakugo?” 

“Holy shit, is that the fire alarm going off?”

“What the heck just happened?”

Their faces were drawn tight with concern, eyes flicking past Izuku toward Katsuki’s room, at his door still hanging ajar where he’d thrown it open. Immediately, he shifted quickly, stepping into their line of sight and blocking it. Something furious and protective ignited in his chest. As much as he trusted his classmates, Izuku didn’t want them in there, didn’t want them to see Katsuki like that, shaking apart, stripped raw, at his most vulnerable. It wasn’t theirs to witness. It wasn’t theirs to touch.

“Is Bakugo okay?” Ochaco asked. 

No, not even close. 

“I’ve got him.” Izuku said quickly, the words clipped, breathless. “Everyone, just stay in the common room, okay? I’m handling it. Please.”

He turned to go, already moving before anyone could press him further, when a hand caught his arm and pulled him back.

Eijirou stepped closer, meeting Izuku’s eyes. Up close, the worry on his face was impossible to ignore, eyes searching Izuku’s like he was trying to read everything he wasn’t saying.

“Hey,” Eijirou said, voice low, meant only for him. “If you guys need anything, just text me. Seriously.” His grip tightened briefly, his mouth twisting with undeniable fear. “Please… look after him. Please.”

Izuku nodded once, sharp and certain. “I will.” With that, Eijiro let go.

Izuku didn’t waste another second. He turned back to the door, heart racing as he slipped inside. He never stopped moving. The moment his eyes landed on the small flames licking across the bed and biting into the closet, he snapped the canister up and discharged it in quick, controlled bursts. It was no big deal, really. The suppressant smothered the fire within seconds, leaving behind blackened wood and a thick, pasty residue smeared across the sheets. Gone.

Izuku dropped the canister with a loud clatter and grabbed the nearest thing—a random notebook from Katsuki’s desk—and fanned hard, forcing the smoke out into the hallway in quick, urgent sweeps.

The alarm beeped overhead, but the smoke thinned with every pass, bleeding out of the room into the hall until, at last, the alarm choked off into silence. Finally.

Without another second wasted, Izuku spun back on his heel to sort out what actually mattered. 

Katsuki hadn’t moved.

He was still exactly where Izuku had left him, seated on the floor, shoulders slack, eyes locked onto nothing and then, slowly, onto Izuku. There was something deeply wrong in his face. So many emotions flickered in rapid succession on his face, so much so that it mushed and blurred into something empty. He was all there and not there all at once. Izuku had never seen Katsuki even close to such a state before. 

 “H-Hey, Kacchan,” Izuku tried, voice cautious, like he was talking to a child. “Are you alright? Did you get burned? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Katsuki just stared, pale and trembling, mouth parted in obvious terror. Hollowed out, ready to give way at any second. Izuku started to feel hysteric, because he’d seen that face before, so many times. On civilians he’d carried from burning buildings or dragged from scenes of violence, so shaken that their minds couldn’t catch up to their bodies. Katsuki was teetering on a dangerous, dangerous edge.

Izuku lifted his hands slowly, palms open, nonthreatening, “Do you–do you know who I am? Where you are? Please, talk to me, Kacchan.” 

“I just tried to kill you.” Katsuki rasped. His lips parted slightly, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing himself say. “F-Fuck.”

Izuku’s chest seized painfully. He searched desperately for something that would reach him, comfort him, reassure him, but his mind was infuriatingly useless, coming up blank. Izuku's loudest instinct was simply to hold him, but he didn’t want Katsuki to panic again. 

Think. Think. Think.  Every second stretched too long. Every move Izuku made felt like it could crush what little Katsuki had left.

Katsuki deteriorated in the silence, his head shaking back and forth like he was in disbelief. The utter pain in his eyes was unmistakable. His good hand clenched tight again, fingers trembling with the force of it.

“I-I almost killed you,” he said again, louder this time, like he was challenging Izuku to argue, to deny it, to tell him he was lying. “I almost killed you—fuck, oh fuck Izuku, I didn’t mean—holy shit, I almost—”

“It’s okay!” Izuku cut in quickly, stepping forward. “Everything is okay. I’m okay—”

“It’s not fucking okay!” Katsuki snapped. The reflexive shout tore out of him, and then he flinched like it had scorched him.

“S-sorry,” Katsuki choked. “Izuku Fuck—oh shit, fuck I’m sorry, I fucked up I fucked up I’m sorry—I’m—I’m—” 

And as Katsuki spiraled, Izuku simply stood there, completely frozen. In all his life, Izuku only ever heard Katsuki say “sorry” a few times in rare, fleeting moments, and never, never like this, again and again and again. Izuku didn’t know what to do. Every familiar thing about Katsuki was burned out, the remaining shell of the person in front of him unrecognizable and scattered. He was in new territory here, utterly useless. Each second closed a ring tighter and tighter around Izuku’s chest, squeezing. 

Suddenly, Katsuki’s breathing hitched. Izuku’s focus snapped to his chest. It wasn’t rising right. Each breath came thinner and faster than the last, dragged out on shallow, broken air. Panic was spiking through him hot and rapid. This was full-on hysteria, and it was spiraling fast, dangerous, out of control.

“Kacchan, breathe.” Izuku said, more urgent now. He took another cautious shift closer. “Hey, you need to relax, okay? Just—just breathe. Everything is okay. Just calm down a little.”

Katsuki did not calm down. Air moved in and out of him way too rapidly, not traveling deep enough, bouncing up and down his throat and never quite reaching his chest. Katsuki could only gasp and gasp and gasp, like there was no oxygen in the room at all. Still, words kept forcing their way through, strangled and splintering apart.

 “Fuck—I Fucked up—Shit, Izuku, I’m—I’m sorry—”

“Kacchan. Kacchan.” Izuku reached him on the floor without hesitation. He caught Katsuki by the shoulders and rubbed his thumbs in small circles, praying to whatever god was out there that Katsuki might register the motion as something comforting. 

“It’s okay, just breathe. Breathe with me.” he soothed, drawing in a slow, deliberate inhale himself. “Come on, Kacchan. Just take a breath. I’m here. I’m okay. Everything's okay.”

Katsuki’s whole body kept trembling violently, and there was still almost no rise in his chest. He kept gasping, half-choked words spilling out in fragments, Sorry and Fuck and Izuku. He still wasn’t breathing. 

Katsuki wasn’t breathing. 

Izuku started to spiral. His mind raced ahead of the moment—heart rate, oxygen, stress response, how quickly this could tip from bad to catastrophic if Katsuki’s still-fragile body kept fighting itself so violently like this. He couldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not him. 

Katsuki’s arms hung useless at his sides, his left hand was still clenched tight. Izuku fumbled for it, caught it, and pressed that fist against his own chest, right over his heart, completely uncaring of the danger it displayed just moments ago.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Fast and steady and real. Izuku could hear his heart in his own ears, feel it under Katsuki’s knuckles. Positioned like this, Katsuki could too.

“Kacchan, you have to breathe. Do it now.” Izuku said again, taking a deliberate breath himself. This time it was a command, uttered without an ounce of hesitation. The kind he gave Katsuki on the field without thinking, similar to how he might say move, save them, or now, orders that meant the difference between life and death every time they went out to put themselves on the line for the world.

Finally, that seemed to do the trick. Katsuki dragged in a harsh, ragged inhale. The next came a little easier. And the next after that steadied further, slowly giving way to rhythm. Survival instinct slowly reasserting itself, inch by inch, clawing back control from whatever had taken hold in Katsuki’s head.

Izuku didn’t let go. One hand stayed locked around Katsuki’s wrist, the other firm on his shoulder. He adjusted his own breathing on purpose until it started to bleed into Katsuki’s pattern too, until their rhythms matched, syncing up. They both calmed. 

Izuku stayed still as he listened to Katsuki’s breathing stabilize, but his mind kept spinning, racing to catch up to what had just happened. 

All of that, in a few minutes. 

The air still carried the bite of smoke. Behind him, the extinguished foam gave a soft fizz as it collapsed into itself. His ear was still ringing. Katsuki hadn’t even hesitated. He saw a body—not Izuku, a body—and he fired. It was so unlike him Izuku could barely comprehend it, couldn’t reconcile the person in front of him with the one he knew. Sure, Katsuki could be reckless, impulsive even, but not this, not blind, not indiscriminate. Not like that. Never once like that.

“Talk to me,” Izuku whispered, digging his fingers into Katsuki’s shoulders, reminding him he was still there. “Please, Kacchan… just talk to me.”

Katsuki shivered in his hold, shaking his head minutely, still catching his breath. “Izuku,” he choked out. “Shit, I didn’t mean to… it was an accident—”

“I know,” Izuku cut in immediately, and he found himself truly unbothered by what had happened. In the grand scheme of things, it was hardly the most dangerous thing that’d happened to him in the past year.

“I know, Kacchan. I know. I know. That’s not what I’m worried about at all. I just want to understand what’s going on in your head, so I know how to help you. That’s it. ”

Katsuki shivered, and then his head dropped forward, shoulders caving in. He stayed disturbingly silent, mouth quivering, unable to get the words out.  

It was almost absurd, when Izuku really thought about it. Katsuki talked so much. He yelled, snapped, hurled insults with relentless force, refusing to yield no matter how hard the world tried to shape him otherwise. Every word that left his mouth was always so sure, uncaring of how his words were received. Izuku had envied that once, the certainty and ease of it. But none of it ever touched what Katsuki actually felt. It was all deflection, building barriers and tearing everyone else’s down. And this is where it all led him. What it had done to him.

“I’m…scared.” Katsuki eventually whispered in defeat, completely spent, worn out, lifeless.

Izuku’s heart sank deep into the ground. Everything about him seemed drained, from his voice to the way his body was hunched in on itself. Absent were his innate defiances, his defenses - he was out of everything, it seemed, like a machine with no gas. Izuku realized with a sickening horror, that he was witnessing Katsuki at his barest bones. A body drawn tight around a fragile heart. A formless shape without resistance. 

“I’m – I’m paranoid. Ever since…Just - all the time.” Katsuki continued, breath hitching. His jaw clenched, like even now he was fighting the instinct to shove it all down. “It doesn’t stop. Between that and this fucked up body — the pain— I can’t do anything right anymore. I don’t sleep. My room’s trashed, my grades are tanking, I can’t even keep up with basic shit. I’m just so…so tired.” 

Izuku whimpered. Every word from Katsuki trampled over Izuku’s heart, brought a sledgehammer down on it over and over. Katsuki looked painfully young all of a sudden, so much like the Kacchan Izuku grew up alongside. His hands moved without thinking, coming up to Katsuki’s shoulders, rubbing soft circles again. 

“Have you um, talked about this with your doctors?” Izuku tried, low, hopeful. “Maybe they can help, at least with the physical pain?”

Katsuki scoffed, an offended sound that didn’t belong to anger so much as pure exhaustion. 

“Course I have. But with all the shit that’s happened to me… there’s no easy way around it. Gotta tough it out. It doesn’t help that all the meds keeping me upright right now screw with my head.” His voice dipped, rage starting to creep in. “I keep seeing it. That shitty day, over and over and over like it’s stuck on loop. My brain just won’t—Fuck—It won’t shut up!”

Katsuki’s fist came up fast and struck hard against his forehead. Izuku flinched hard at the impact, the raw anger in it, quickly grabbing Katsuki’s wrist and pulling it down before he could do it again.

“I’m just not…I’m not–” Katsuki’s voice faltered. “I’m not strong anymore.”

Izuku stopped breathing instantly. Katsuki, his Katsuki, admitting such a thing, so certain in his own defeat… it was wickedly wrong. It was blasphemous. Distantly, It reminded Izuku of the first time he’d seen All Might’s true form— witnessing someone untouchable and larger than life collapse into something fragile and painfully human. It reminded him of seeing his mother furious. There were some things in life that certain people just didn’t do.

“Kacchan, what?” Izuku said, a disbelieving huff slipping into his voice, trying to get him to see the absurdity of his own confession. “Come on. You survived all of that, and you’re here. You’re— you’re so strong.”

“I’m not.” Katsuki snapped. “How am I supposed to be number one, if I'm this screwed up over one damn fight!” 

Izuku watched in horror as Katsuki dragged in a rough breath while shaking his head, as if he were truly disgusted with himself.

“It’s pathetic. Feels like going insane. I can’t even tell where I am half the time. I’m hearing things. I mean, fuck— I hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me!” Izuku said immediately. “You didn’t even scratch me!”

“Don’t.” Katsuki’s eyes snapped up, sharp. “Don’t act like that makes it fine! If you hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve blown your fucking head off! You would’ve… I would’ve—“

He cut himself off with a harsh exhale, dragging a hand over his face. “Shit. Shit. You’re not safe here. I’m not— I’m not right. I can’t think straight. You need to get the hell out of here.”

Izuku didn’t even hesitate. He reached out and caught Katsuki’s hand and pulled it away from his face, holding it steady and sure between both of his own. 

“Kacchan, I’m not going anywhere, not when you’re in this state.”  Izuku said immediately. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m right here, I’m fine, nothing happened. You can’t push me out over this. I just want to help you.”

Izuku squeezed Katsuki’s hands where they were cushioned between his own, and felt his entire body begin to tremble. With Katsuki’s pain sat so plainly in front of him—a terrible, tangible thing— it ignited something so vehement and overwhelming within Izuku’s soul that it almost frightened him. It went deeper than just concern: it was a ferocious, untamed need. He needed to take away Katsuki’s pain, carry it, tear it apart with his bare hands. No matter what it took. No matter what it cost. 

“I’m fine now, just go.” Katsuki said. An infuriating, terrible instinct that forced him to keep pushing, never stopping, never slowing down, right until he was run down into the ground. Right until this point. 

“Nope, not happening. Nuh uh. You know me Kacchan, I’m stubborn when it matters, and right now, it does. I’m staying.” Izuku looked at him properly then, really looked, just noticing the washed-out pallor of his skin, the dark bruises that bloomed on his knees. Izuku’s chest tightened painfully.

“How long were you… on the floor?” Izuku asked cautiously. 

Katsuki didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, like he might brush it off, snap something back, shut it down. But the fight just wasn’t there anymore. It was like he simply didn’t have the energy for it. 

“Sometime this morning,” he muttered. “I tripped and ate shit. Was too damn weak to stand back up, so I stopped trying. Didn’t see a point.”

Izuku felt all color drain from his face. It was evening now. The horrifying image slammed into his head. Katsuki on the ground for so many hours, alone, in agonizing pain, too weak to get up. While everyone else had kept moving like normal, while Izuku had gone to class, sat through lectures, eaten, talked, existed like it was just another day.

Izuku felt sick to his stomach, nauseous all of a sudden. He should’ve noticed - somehow, he should’ve known. And maybe he would have, once, before everything in the last year had gotten tangled, left him stretched thin and exhausted in ways he didn’t want to confront. 

Izuku moved before he could spiral further. “Up,” he said.

He guided Katsuki’s good arm over his shoulder and pulled Katsuki to his feet, taking most of his weight without hesitation. Katsuki didn’t resist. He went with it, pliant in a way that was disturbingly unlike him. 

Izuku dragged his chair out from the desk and eased him down into it.  “Sit.”

Katsuki slumped into place, a hand coming up to rub at his temple. He looked up at the ceiling with hollowed-out eyes. He looked so tired. He looked unbelievably upset. Izuku wanted to scream, rip apart the world with his bare hands. 

Instead, Izuku’s eyes flicked across the room, landing on the scattered medication bottles across the desk. He grabbed them, scanning the labels quickly. 

Izuku had a job to do. He had a person to save. 

“When did you last take these?” Izuku asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Katsuki let out a dry, humorless breath. “Dunno. That shit messes with my memory.”

Izuku’s grip tightened  around the bottles. “Did you eat anything today? Drink anything?”

Katsuki didn’t speak, which was more than enough for an answer. Izuku closed his eyes for half a second, steadying himself as he felt his breath start to tremble dangerously. God, had he been like this the whole time? So traumatized, overtaken by pain he was barely surviving, just scraping by for months? The pieces slid together with a sickening kind of clarity, the distance Katsuki forced between himself and others, the irritability.

Izuku glanced at him again and couldn’t unsee it. The way Katsuki was slumped in the chair, curled into his chest with stiff limbs. The slow, distracted motion of his fingers rubbing against his head, and the pinched expression on his face. Constant pain like that hollowed people out, made you a half-person. Fear built up your guard, forbade rest. The fact that Katsuki had made it this far like this, going to school like normal without anybody catching onto the extent of it—it was astounding, really. 

Izuku’s body started moving on its own. He gathered the medicine bottles, lining them up in his hands, scanning labels with dedicated focus. There were too many, in different dosages, different schedules; some hourly, some twice a day, some only when the pain spiked, others spaced out across days. It was heavy stuff, and most of them were for the pain in his chest and arm—that was enough for Izuku’s own heart to cry out in hurt. No wonder why Katsuki had been losing track. 

Izuku read each one carefully, committing them to memory. He repeated them in his head, building a system, creating a schedule. If Katsuki couldn’t keep up with them, then Izuku would. He set the bottles down in a neat row and turned toward the mini-fridge Katsuki kept tucked in the corner of his room, spared from the earlier explosion by sheer chance.

On his way, Izuku glanced at the rest of the room. It looked like a warzone. The walls were blackened, the sheets on his bed completely scorched, and debris scattered all around where the blast had reached. 

He’d sort that out later. Katsuki came first.

Izuku opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off as he stepped back over. Without a word, he pressed it gently into Katsuki’s hand and tipped it toward him.

“Drink that,” he said, and Katsuki begrudgingly obeyed. He lifted the bottle and took a slow swallow.

Izuku watched until he was sure he’d taken enough, then turned back to the fridge. There wasn’t much in it: a few canned drinks, and some packaged food that looked like it had gone bad. But tucked toward the back, there were a couple packs of orange yogurt.

The sight was enough for Izuku to stand still for half a second, transported to a much simpler time. Katsuki used to eat them every day without fail for recess when they were children in elementary school, back when things between them had been uncomplicated and easy and bright. The sight of them now, in this room, in this state, sunk something heavy in Izuku’s chest. He wondered whatever happened to those two little kids.

Izuku reached in and took out two yogurts. He considered grabbing something more substantial— he knew there was plenty more of Sato’s katsudon downstairs—but he wanted to give Katsuki something easy right now, something familiar.

Izuku grabbed a spoon, then reached up to the top of the fridge and found a couple of tangerines sitting there, and grabbed two of those as well. He brought everything back to the desk, setting the yogurt down within Katsuki’s reach before he started peeling the fruit. 

He stripped away the rind in clean sections, picking off every single thin white thread until the surface was smooth. He separated the tangerine slices and set them back into the peel, arranging them into a flower almost absentmindedly, like his own mom used to do for him. Katsuki never cared for things like that, never one for unnecessary effort. But Izuku figured that right now, it might do him some good, might remind Katsuki being kind to himself was worthwhile, and that he should want to do it even if he didn’t necessarily want Izuku around to do it for him.

“Eat the yogurt and the tangerines, at least two of each.” Izuku said while peeling the lids off the yogurt containers, pressing the spoon into one. “If you want more, tell me. I’ll get it for you.”

Katsuki looked at the food, expression blank, until his gaze drifted past the desk, to the mess of spilled katsudon on the floor, to the burnt destruction of the room. 

“I’m not hungry.” Katsuki protested weakly. 

Izuku just glared at him. “I wasn’t asking. You need to eat, Kacchan.”

Katsuki shook his head immediately. “Just get out, Izuku.”

“I won’t.”

“Out, now. I need to…I need to clean my room.” he muttered. 

Izuku quickly stepped in, hands pressing down on his shoulders preemptively before he could even try to stand. He knew this pattern all too well, why Katsuki was trying to chase him out— for as long as Izuku had known him, Katsuki had never been built for half-measures. He threw every ounce of his heart and soul into anything he chose to care about, everytime. If Katsuki wanted someone to help him, even a little, it required him to surrender control completely; and that was one hell of a vulnerable position to be in. And while Izuku could understand and sympathize with that - Katsuki’s safety was imperative. His comfort was not. 

“Nope. You need to eat. One step at a time, okay? That’s how we’re going to do this.” Izuku commanded. He then softened slightly, squeezing his shoulders gently. “I’ll take care of the room. You just focus on eating.”

Katsuki stood still for a few moments, lingering resistance all too present on his face. His mouth tightened and he looked torn, hands fidgeting, throat working. 

After a few more seconds of indecision, Katsuki finally seemed to make his choice, reaching out slowly and picking up the yogurt. He took a small bite, mouth trembling like it took great effort. Still, something loosened in Izuku’s chest at the sight, a small relief starting to take hold. That was one problem down. One step in the right direction.

He turned to the rest of the room, quickly finding cleaning supplies tucked near the fridge and started with the worst of it, kneeling down to scrub at the spilled katsudon from the floor. He worked at it until the savory smell faded and the surface was clean. He then gathered what remained and tossed it into the trash. 

From there, he moved through the room piece by piece. Pens and pencils scattered across his desk were collected and placed back into their holders. Books were stacked unevenly, pages bent and out of place; Izuku straightened them out, smoothing out creases where he could. A few pieces of clothing lay crumpled across the floor, and he picked them up, tossing them into the laundry bin. 

He then started with the worst of the damage: carefully clearing away the larger pieces of charred wood and warped debris, setting them aside in small, manageable piles. He found a broom and began sweeping, guiding the soot and ash into neat lines. 

When he reached the closet, he paused. The edges of the door were blackened, the inside tinged with soot. Most of the clothes hanging within were scorched, fabric warped and brittle where the heat had caught them. There wasn’t anything left that was salvageable. Same with the bed, which had taken the explosion more directly. The sheets were blackened through, and a section of mattress near the foot of the bed had been blown out entirely where the force had struck.

 Izuku exhaled slowly, taking it all in.

He’d fix this.

He’d call Mitsuki in the morning, ask her to bring some of Katsuki’s extra clothes from home. He’d talk to Aizawa too, make sure the damage got reported, that the room got repaired properly. He wouldn’t let it stay like this.

Izuku glanced back at Katsuki, and was met with the most miserable expression he’d ever seen. Katsuki wore a deep, carved out frown as he peered around the destroyed room. Izuku winced. He knew exactly how hard Katsuki would be taking this. For the many things Katsuki took pride in himself, Izuku would bet real money the one he valued most of all was his control. People could criticize his temper, his attitude all they wanted, but no one, no one was able to deny the discipline it took to wield such a volatile power so precisely. No doubt Katsuki was tearing himself apart for losing it like that, even if it was for a single moment. Even if it was human. 

Izuku followed his line of sight briefly before lowering himself to the floor beside his chair, one hand coming to rest loosely over his knee.

“Mr. Aizawa won’t be mad, you know,” Izuku said gently. “It was an honest accident. We can tell him together, tomorrow.”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Katsuki said suddenly, spoon pressing harder into the yogurt. Without fully turning, he glanced sideways, just enough to catch Izuku’s eye.

Izuku’s heartbeat picked up. “Didn’t mean… what?”

“What I said last week, last time we spoke. When I said… you should’ve been faster”

Katsuki grimaced, as if the words genuinely pained him. His face scrunched, eyes squeezed tight, like he wasn’t able to look at Izuku just then. “I was just—I was trying so hard to keep my shit together that day. My head, it …I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t mean it. I knew it would hurt you is all.”

Izuku sat with the words for a few seconds, nodding. They didn’t land very deep. Izuku felt like it should have mattered more. It did matter - but after everything that had happened in the past few minutes, that argument felt so far away and irrelevant now. That always seemed to happen with Katsuki. He always had a talent for disrupting Izuku’s sense of time, of priority, of what was supposed to matter most, shuffling everything out of order without warning.

Katsuki exhaled sharply. His grip tightened around the spoon before continuing. “I just wanted you to back off. Or hell—maybe I just wanted you to hurt like I was hurting. I don’t know. I don’t know why I always default to… taking shit out on you. It’s messed up, I know that. I won’t do it again.”

Izuku nodded again. And as he filed the words away, Izuku found some masochistic, vindicative satisfaction by the admission. That when Katsuki was hurting, he felt the need to turn to him, and only him. It felt right - Like Izuku was the one designed to absorb it, to hold it. At this point, if it made him feel even a little better, Izuku would welcome his anger gratefully, let it bleed him down to nothing. 

“It’s okay, really,” Izuku replied, sincere. “I forgive you. I understand. You were scared and in pain, so you got a little mean. That’s okay. That’s normal.”

“No, it’s not.” Katsuki’s response was immediate. There was something desperate under his breath, like he needed to hear Izuku condemn him. “It was a fucked up thing to say. I was an asshole. Don’t make excuses for me.”

“It’s fine,” Izuku retorted, loathe to create another argument between them. While it was true Katsuki had hurt him, these kinds of conversations could come later. When Katsuki was better. When everything was better.

 “And besides,  you weren’t even… wrong, exactly,” Izuku added without thinking. 

Katsuki went completely still. “What.”

“You just said the quiet part out loud,” he continued, trying to force the words out as calmly as possible. “You got so hurt that day. And look what it’s still doing to you. You’re allowed to be upset with me. I should have been fas–”

“Izuku, stop!” Katsuki cut in. He glared at him outright, furious and searching. There was a look on his face that made Izuku want to hide, to run far, far way. It told a truth he wasn’t sure he was ready for. 

Katsuki, of course, said it anyway.

“What happened to me wasn’t your fault, you know,” Katsuki said easily. 

No. Nope. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this. Izuku’s gaze broke immediately, darting away, fixing on a random spot on the wall above Katsuki’s shoulder. His heart was racing all of a sudden, something in his face threatening to give out entirely. No, No, Nope. Izuku contemplated running away shamelessly, if only to avoid this inevitable conversation—but he couldn’t bear the thought of moving even an inch away from Katsuki’s vicinity. 

“Don’t look away. I’m talking to you.” A hand shot out, grabbing his wrist tight. He tugged hard, and his nails dug in with stubborn pressure until Izuku had no choice but to look back at him again. 

“It’s not your fault,” Katsuki said again, firmer.

 “Yes it is.” Izuku whispered back immediately. 

Katsuki flinched slightly, and his grip loosened on his wrist as if in apology. He shook his head furiously, his eyes turning glassy. 

“No, stop, damn it. That’s bullshit and you know it. You take that back right now.” 

“But it’s true.” Izuku sobbed. “I’m sorry. Oh Kacchan, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t there. I was too slow, it’s all my—“

“Izuku shut up! Shut the hell up for a second, damn it!”

Katsuki pulled hard again on Izuku’s wrist, forcing him to shift forward, come closer. His eyes blazed straight into his, leaving no room for argument, his voice rapid-fire.

“Don’t you dare apologize for something you didn’t do. You really think I’d ever blame you for that? I never did, not for a damn second. And nobody else does either. It’s not anybody’s fault for that matter, shit just happened to hit the fan that day. So don’t be an idiot about—”

Katsuki stopped himself, jaw tightening. He then shook his head slightly, slowing down.

“No. Wait. That’s on me,” he corrected. “I messed you up, didn’t I? I couldn’t see past my own shit and—I’m sorry, Izuku. With everything that happened that day…you did the best anybody could. So it wasn’t your fault. It never was, and it never will be. Say it, damn it, tell me you know that now, nerd. ” 

And for the first time that evening, Katsuki’s voice sounded like it knew exactly where it was. His eyes were no longer dull, but pointed and burning and alive, a flicker of that same fire Izuku had been waiting for, hoping for. And for one brief, miraculous moment, it blazed straight through the ugliness in Izuku’s mind, searing through the towering weight of shame and guilt that had taken root. Katsuki’s conviction was so clear and sure that, just for a moment, Izuku almost believed him. He almost believed him. 

Izuku blinked rapidly, but it did nothing to stop the blur creeping into his vision. A broken sound slipped out before he could swallow it back, and then he gave in, hot tears spilling freely.

He didn’t want to fight him - couldn’t. Izuku wouldn’t dare risk pushing Katsuki away again, not when he’d just gotten him back, not when he was being this strong for him. And so, for the first time in years: Izuku let Katsuki win without a real fight.  

“I’m not ready to yet,” he admitted as he wiped quickly at his cheeks, “But I’ll try to be. For you, I’ll try.” 

Katsuki frowned and stayed silent at that, visibly unsure of what to say. He just watched Izuku cry for a few moments, still and focused. But he must have found whatever answer he was searching for in Izuku’s face, because he gave a small nod and a brief, grounding squeeze to his wrist before letting go. 

“Good,” he decided.  

Katsuki returned awkwardly to his food after that, and Izuku just watched him eat silently. The air was heavy. There was still so much left unsaid, but neither of them seemed brave enough to take the next leap. It always seemed to be like that between them. Teetering on a thin line. Forever clinging to a ledge. 

After a few minutes, Katsuki finished the yogurt and picked through the fruit. He set the peels and containers aside with a finality that told Izuku he wasn’t going to eat any more, and Izuku didn’t push him. He stood and gathered what remained and tossed it into the trash, tying the bag off and setting it aside, making a mental note to take it out in the morning. 

Now that Katsuki had something in his stomach, Izuku turned his attention to the medicine bottles nearby.  He checked the labels again twice, counted out the pills, then counted them again before placing the correct doses into his palm.

When he glanced back over, he paused. Katsuki’s arm—-the one that had tore the room apart earlier—-was trembling. He held it close to his chest, and there was a tight tension that spread from shoulder to fingertip. It wasn’t hard for Izuku to piece together. Using his quirk like that, especially in his still-fragile condition, must have hurt much more than he was letting on. And in that terrible state he was in earlier, there was no way Katsuki had braced himself for the recoil.

Izuku’s gaze dropped back to the bottles. After a brief hesitation, he reached for another one and added an extra pill to the others—something meant for flare-ups, for when the pain spiked. 

“Here,” Izuku said, holding them out. Without comment, Katsuki took the pills from Izuku’s palm. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Izuku missed the warm sensation the moment it was gone. Katsuki then picked up the bottle of water from beside him before tipping his head back and swallowing the pills in one go. 

Once that was done, Izuku lingered for a moment before speaking again, this time trying to lighten the mood a little.

 “Okay!” he began. “Game plan. I help you take a bath, and then we call it a day and get you to bed. Everything tends to feel a bit more manageable after that. I’d know, remember?”

He offered a small smile, his mind flickering back to the loud relief of feeling clean again after that awful month away from U.A. He hoped it could do the same for Katsuki, getting to wash away the cold-sweat that currently slicked his face, to warm away the shiver in his shoulders. It would at the very least help him feel more whole, more put-together. 

But Katsuki just looked torn once again, his face tense and clearly fighting some hidden internal battle. He blinked a few tired times, mouth twisting as he silently debated against himself somewhere in that stubborn mind of his. Izuku braced himself, ready to defend against any and all incoming defiances.  

“But….I burned all my clothes,” Katsuki eventually said. “And wrecked the bed.” Still, it sounded enough like an agreement that Izuku smiled and nodded quickly, seizing the opening.

“You can borrow my clothes!” Izuku offered. “At least until you get new ones, or until your parents can bring some from home. I don’t mind at all. My room’s on the way to the bathroom anyway, so we can stop there to grab you some. You can take whatever you want, you have free reign! No need to give anything back anytime soon, seriously.”

He paused, seriously debated, then added sheepishly. “You can even have my All Might stuff if you want, just erm… as long as you promise not to crease them too badly…”

At that, a sudden huff of laughter croaked out of Katsuki. It lurched out of him, rasped and short, but his mouth was just slightly curved upwards with a small smile. Izuku felt it like a spark catching, and a small laugh slipped out of him in return. Breathing was easier all of a sudden. He made a promise to himself then and there, to try harder to make Katsuki laugh and smile more often. 

“I mean it,” Izuku said, softer now. “Take whatever you want. And… you can take my bed, too. Until yours gets fixed. It’s big enough for both of us, we can share like we used to when we were kids. Or I have extra blankets, so I can take the floor. I really don’t mind. Whichever makes you feel more comfortable. Sound good?”

Katsuki shifted like he was going to nod, but then he stalled once more. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, and his hand shifted, thumbnail pressing into the cuticle of his index finger. It wasn’t a habit Izuku recognized, not one of Katsuki’s usual tells. Izuku wondered distantly if this was a new habit he picked up, born recently from all the stress or if he’d had it all along and just kept it well hidden. Izuku wanted more than anything to know. 

He followed Katsuki’s gaze, trying to understand what had stopped him, and it landed on the door. 

Right, of course. 

“We won’t run into anyone,” Izuku reassured quickly. “Everyone’s downstairs in the common room. They’re eating. If we take the back stairwell to the bathroom, no one will see us.”

Katsuki seemed to like that answer, because he gave a tight nod and immediately pushed himself to stand, bracing himself against the chair. A little shaky, but determined. As soon as Izuku was sure Katsuki was steady, he turned away, pulling out his phone and typing quickly. 

Izuku: hey, can you keep everyone in the common room for a few minutes? don’t let anyone go into the hall upstairs

Eijirou: yeah of course!! i got you guys. is bakugo okay???

Izuku: he will be, i’ll make sure of it

Izuku slipped his phone back into his pocket quickly and moved to Katsuki’s side.

“Ready?” he asked. Katsuki didn’t answer, but he stepped forward anyway. 

They made their way out into the hallway and toward the back stairwell. The building was mostly quiet, the noise of their classmates muffled and distant from downstairs. 

The medication seemed to be catching up to Katsuki, now. His movements were heavy, steps dragging slightly. Once or twice Katsuki’s foot stumbled as he descended the stairs, forcing him against the railing to steady himself. Izuku shifted closer each time, hand gripping onto his elbow, offering some of his strength. 

By the time they reached Izuku’s room, Katsuki looked spent all over again, eyes dull, posture slack. Izuku opened the door and guided him inside.

“You should sit,” he murmured, gesturing toward the bed. Katsuki didn’t argue. He sank down onto the edge of it, shoulders slumping. 

Izuku turned to his closet. Right now, with Katsuki barely having the energy to stay upright, he didn’t bother asking what he wanted. He pulled out an oversized t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and then, after a brief pause, his favorite blue lounge robe. Izuku always reached for them on cold mornings, because they always seemed to hold warmth well. It was a small comfort that Izuku was happy to give. 

With fresh clothes in hand, Izuku guided Katsuki down another floor to the communal showers. He led him into one of the stalls, setting the clothes within easy reach before turning back to him.

Katsuki started to undress on his own, or rather, was trying to. With his one good arm, he fumbled for the hem of his shirt, missing the fabric the first time, then catching it wrong the second. The motion was slow and uncoordinated, clearly weighed down by whatever drugs were running through Katsuki’s system. He swayed slightly as he worked. 

Izuku stepped in before any frustration could take hold. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

Carefully, Izuku helped him out of his shirt, mindful of any lingering soreness. He moved to the waistband of his pants next, slower, giving him space to pull back if he wanted to—which he didn’t. Once Katsuki was undressed, Izuku folded his clothes neatly before setting them aside and turning back. 

The moment Izuku took in the sight of Katsuki’s naked body, it took all of his strength not to cry.

Because God, oh God. Katsuki was thin, so thin. Izuku could see his ribs. There were hollows where muscle had once been dense and defined, now withered away from months of stressful recovery. His skin was sickly pale, hanging over all-too prominent bone.

Izuku felt it hit all at once, the reality of what the war had taken from him. His stomach hurt all of sudden, his throat tightening, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes uncontrollably.

He forced himself to breathe hard through it, moving to pull out a stool into the shower. Losing it now would be selfish. Izuku was only a witness, Katsuki was living it. 

“J-Just sit down. Relax,” Izuku shakily said, guiding Katsuki to sit. 

Katsuki blinked slowly, like he had forgotten where he was, then gave a faint nod. He lowered himself onto the stool.

Izuku turned on the water, adjusting the temperature carefully, testing it against his wrist. “You stay just like that. I’ll sort you out.”

When it was warm and right, he reached for the handheld showerhead and brought it closer to Katsuki, whose head was tipped forward, eyes slipping shut like he was seconds from falling asleep.

“Kacchan, hey,” Izuku said, one hand coming up to rest lightly against Katsuki’s pale shoulder, lightly tapping at it. “Stay with me.” Katsuki blinked a few times at that, eyelashes fluttering to stay open. 

Izuku angled the water slowly, letting it run over Katsuki’s shoulders first, then down his back, easing him into the temperature. After a few moments he let it wash over his hair, massaging through the strands gently until they were damp.

He reached for the shampoo next, working a small amount between his hands before bringing it to his head. His hair was thick and stubborn, strands clumping together. There were tangles and small knots that caught against his fingers, but Izuku didn’t rush. He worked the lather in slowly, massaging it into Katsuki’s scalp with gentle, steady pressure, easing apart the knots as best he could without pulling. Every strand on Katsuki’s head was precious. 

He rinsed it out just as gently, watching the suds wash away, the water running clear again. Izuku reached again for the shampoo bottle: Katsuki had always double-washed his hair. Izuku remembered that even now, from countless shared evenings in cramped dorm showers. He followed through now without thinking, working the second lather in just as carefully as the first, and then conditioning with that same unhurried attention. 

Katsuki just stayed silent through all of it. Izuku thought he’d be more creative: a few complaints here and there, some biting commentary to fill the silence. But he didn’t say a word, his eyes stayed mostly closed, and his body swayed faintly where he sat, entirely vulnerable in Izuku’s hands.

He was just… letting it happen. Letting Izuku take care of him, take over in a way Katsuki usually never allowed. Izuku swallowed, telling himself it must be the medication, or the exhaustion, or the pain finally catching up to him. Either way, Izuku didn’t take it lightly. He vowed to not take this incredible, overwhelming display of trust for granted. Every ounce of him would be committed to making Katsuki feel better. 

Izuku set the showerhead back into its holder and reached for a clean washcloth, working soap into it until it frothed lightly between his fingers.

“Kacchan,” he said, brushing his knuckles against Katsuki’s shoulder. “I’m gonna wash you now. Just tell me if anything hurts.”

Katsuki didn’t open his eyes, but he gave the smallest nod. Izuku started at his back, drawing the cloth over his shoulders careful and slow. He traced along the imprinted lines of softened muscle that had once been fuller, but still unmistakably Katsuki. He worked down his arms next, gentler there, easing around the damage, adjusting his touch instinctively where the skin seemed more sensitive. Katsuki was completely laid out, exhausted throughout, but at least coherent enough to obey when Izuku gently tugged at his arms, prompting him to lift so Izuku could scrub at his underarms.

Izuku moved methodically down his sides, leaving his chest for later, careful to keep every touch kind, respectful, and unhurried. 

When he crouched to reach lower, where Katsuki sat on the stool, he hesitated slightly before murmuring a quiet, “Spread your legs a bit, just so I can get here,” and Katsuki complied without question, too worn out to protest. His knees fell open gently, trusting Izuku to handle the rest. He gently scrubbed at the inside of his thighs, traveling down to the undersides of his knees, down the line of his calf. 

It didn’t feel awkward at all. He supposed it should’ve been. And it surely would’ve been if it were anyone else, but this was Katsuki. His Katsuki. He’d seen him through the years, at his most delightful, at his most insufferable. He’d seen him broken, furious, triumphant, and grieving. At the end of the world and in death. Seeing him undressed hardly felt immodest in comparison. 

Still, try as he might, Izuku couldn’t help where his mind went. He couldn’t stop himself from finding little things to obsess over, as if his mind was overcompensating for the long months of Katsuki’s absence. Izuku was no stranger to Katsuki’s body, but his previous knowledge was limited to accidental glances in the showers and changing rooms. Bathing him was entirely different, where he was forced to give attention to each and every part of him.

He was entranced by how Katsuki’s right collarbone dipped slightly lower than the left, a subtle asymmetry he’d never caught in passing. The small beauty mark on his lower back. The smooth curve of his hip. The way his toenails were still filed nicely despite everything, and how his fingers laid so straight and precise. Kacchan was… pretty, in a word.

These observations weren’t born from any place of want or desire, though Izuku would’ve been lying if he said he’d never thought about Katsuki like that before. But this was different. Izuku was simply… appreciating. Admiring. There wasn’t a single part of Katsuki that wasn’t incredible, not one square inch of him that Izuku didn’t adore, wouldn’t tend to, protect, devote his entirety to.

“Almost done,” Izuku said, before finally moving to his chest. 

He had to brace himself. Up close, there was no softening the reality of it. The scar on Katsuki’s chest was jagged and unforgiving, a harsh line carved across where his heart rested. The skin pulled tight in places and sagged in others, rough and discolored. The uneven marks of stitches told a horrifying story, hurried, desperate work that had forced broken flesh back together without care for anything beyond survival.

His gaze flickered, taking in the others: the permanent mark along his shoulders and across his abdomen. So many marks of violence carved out on a body so young. Even fully healed, they sat stark and raw against his skin. Each a moment that could have ended, so, so differently. Izuku didn’t want to even imagine it. He’d risk shattering apart completely. 

He swallowed hard, his throat tightening around a cry, trying to ground himself in the fact that Katsuki was here, alive, that none of those scars had taken his Kacchan away from him. They only created new patterns on the beautiful body that Izuku would wash clean.

He reached out again, the cloth moving slowly across Katsuki’s chest. After a few seconds of contact, Katsuki drew back just the tiniest bit. He let out an unintentional whimper as the pressure awakened some deep, gnawing pain. Izuku frantically adjusted, his touch turning feather-light and he shut his eyes tightly, focusing on the sound of the drip drip drip as water ran down Katsuki’s skin and struck the tile below, and not the stabbing at his heart at the noise, nor the terrible memories it inspired: a horrifying reel of every agonized sound Katsuki had ever made in pain - a staggering majority of which a result of Izuku's own failures. 

His hands, nonetheless, continued, building a gentle lather that somehow helped dull the brutality of it all. Soft bubbles settled over broken, abused skin. 

At some point, Izuku had to stop. Unable to help himself, his fingers loosened around the washcloth and his palm came to rest flat over Katsuki’s chest, right over his heart. 

Thump Thump Thump, Katsuki's heart fluttered miraculously beneath his touch. It was a second chance Izuku didn’t deserve. His thumb hovered at the edge of his scar, where his pale, smooth, perfect skin gave way where evil had mercilessly shredded through. Before and after, separated by such an easy line. 

Izuku felt a sudden fleeting surge of rage then, at the wickedness that had carved into Katsuki's body permanently and uninvited, without care or respect of the beauty and strength that lay there. It had no right to exist. No right to touch him at all. It was blasphemous.  

But that searing feeling burned out just as fast as it arrived, giving way to an insurmountable grief that lay dormant within him. Because for all the things Izuku wanted to say, all the ways he might have scolded Katsuki for shutting him out, for hiding how much he’d been struggling— truth be told, Izuku wasn’t any better. Because he’d never told Katsuki what it had done to him, seeing him bloodied and lifeless that day. How much it had ruined him.

The gruesome images bore their mark in Izuku’s mind, just as permanent and bold as the scars on Katsuki’s body. The image of his corpse buried itself inside his brain, his skin, his organs, an agonizing pain with no reprieve. An eternal, cruel reminder of his failure to protect the one person he treasured above all. Izuku knew with an unshakeable certainty he would never heal from it. It crushed his soul into brittle pieces he could never quite fit back together. Izuku will be picking up the pieces for as long as he breathes. 

Before Izuku could think better of it, he spoke. “It really scared me, s-seeing you like that. Like—”

He cut himself off, the rest of the thought collapsing. Izuku felt an all-too-familiar self-hatred ignite in his chest. It was selfish to be talking to Katsuki about anything serious in his current state. Izuku should’ve been focusing on trying to help him, not spinning him around in circles, making it about himself.

But then Katsuki moved, his warm hand gently settling over Izuku’s where it rested against his chest. Katsuki’s fingers aligned with his, just holding them together. 

Izuku startled at the contact, his breath catching as his gaze snapped upward. Katsuki was already looking at him, more awake now than he’d been moments ago, as if Izuku’s confession had jerked him into a greater state of awareness. His eyes were steady and present, red irises sharp with something intense and searching Izuku couldn’t quite name. He felt naked all of a sudden. Heat crept up Izuku’s neck before he could stop it, and he had to look away. 

God, it was just ridiculous, wasn’t it? Katsuki was completely bare in front of him, every part exposed, and yet somehow it was his eyes Izuku couldn't bear to look at, that made him shy away like a flustered schoolgirl. 

“You shouldn’t have had to see me like that,” Katsuki said. His gaze suddenly drifted somewhere past Izuku, unfocused. “You shouldn’t have to see me… like this.” 

His mouth twisted, something close to disgust pulling at the edges.  “Tch. I swore to myself you wouldn’t.”

Izuku’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Katsuki let out a slow breath through his nose, shoulders tightening like he already regretted saying any of it. His fingers twitched faintly against Izuku’s where it rested over his chest.

“Because I know you, Izuku. I knew you’d do all of this. That you’d… try to help me.”

Izuku’s frown deepened. “Is that so terrible?”

“Yes,” Katsuki said, the answer immediate. His hand tightened over his.

“You think I’m the only one still dealing with crap?” Katsuki started, voice rising. “You had it worse than anyone, this whole damn year. You were out there, carrying the weight of all that shit that never belonged to you, and where the hell did it get you? You got torn apart over and over. You lost your quirk, Izuku. Lost our—your dream.”  

His breath hitched into a frustrated huff, like saying it all out loud made something in him snap completely.  “I just— with everything that happened to you, the only person you should give a damn about right now is yourself!”

Izuku’s chest tightened sharply, his body rejecting the words before his mind could even fully process them.

 “What—what are you talking about?” he said on autopilot. “I already told you, I’m fine. Really, Kacchan. About everything.”

Katsuki huffed and shook his head harshly at that, visibly offended. Izuku flinched like he’d been struck.

“Jesus, it’s like you don’t even see it.” Katsuki rasped. “You don’t even think to consider yourself. Just look at you right now, Izuku. I almost—I tried to kill you earlier and still, you feel obligated to slave after me. To do all this dirty work for me.”

Izuku shook his head quickly, not wanting to give those terrible words a single isolated second in the air. “No. Stop it, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. It’s not dirty work, Kacchan. And it’s not obligation I feel.”

“Whatever the hell you want to call it doesn’t matter. Point is, it's always someone else you’re throwing yourself into, always. Never yourself. And I knew if you, or any of the others, saw me like this—” he gestured vaguely at himself, bitter—“this is exactly what you’d do.”

Izuku shook his head again. “But I can do both. I’m strong enough to take care of myself and still be there for you. For everyone.” 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t,” Katsuki shot back. “Maybe, just once in your whole life, you save that strength for your own damn self!”

“So what, that’s it? That’s why!?” Izuku asked, voice raising without meaning to. “You’ve been avoiding me, avoiding all of us, this entire time? Just so we wouldn’t worry about you?”

The realization knocked the air out clean of his lungs. It was absurd. And so unbearably simple, and yet—

 “Yup,” Katsuku breathed. He sighed, something worn down in it. 

Izuku stammered, dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to say. He felt completely blindsided, punched straight through the gut. 

He absolutely detested that this was how Katsuki had come to understand Izuku’s devotion— as something finite and transactional. That his love was some sort of charity, that caring for him was an inconvenience. It was as clear as day on his face, visible the moment Izuku took him in. Izuku wondered for a moment how the hell Katsuki had reached such an awful conclusion, only to slowly come to the sickening realization that himself—once again—is to blame. 

Because as much as Izuku loathed to admit it, there was some truth buried in Katsuki’s words. Izuku did throw himself into other people. He knew that. Maybe because it was easier than turning that same attention inward. It was a delayed, self-inflicted hurt that always circled back to him eventually, blowing up in his face sooner or later. But Izuku had always believed it to be a closed system, contained to himself, and therefore: harmless in the grand scheme of things. 

 He’d never meant for it to touch Katsuki like this. Never.

He felt sick, suddenly, as he came face to face with what his behavior was doing to Katsuki. The irony of it twisted sharply in his chest. Katsuki had once seen him as weak, as someone small and easily crushed. And in some grotesque way, that perception had never fully disappeared. It somehow evolved forward into this - like Izuku was someone fragile that had to be protected. Someone that had to be spared - and therefore, fundamentally unreliable. Someone Katsuki couldn’t trust to confide in at his lowest, at his most desperate.

Izuku wanted so badly to just violently shake Katsuki’ shoulders, force him to believe otherwise, demand he listen. But deep down, Izuku knew it would get neither of them anywhere. That was to be expected—Izuku hadn’t earned that trust yet. 

But maybe–just maybe–he could, in time. 

He could show it. Live it and breathe it.

He could start right here. 

“...I’m sorry,” Izuku eventually said.

Izuku exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. “...You’re right. These past few months haven’t exactly been… easy for me, either. So I get why you’d be worried, since you know —probably better than anyone–that I don’t always look out for myself the way I should. And that’s not fair. It’s not right. I promise you that I will work on it. I’ll be someone you can rely on without ever worrying about that.” 

Izuku offered a tentative, shaky smile. “I really do appreciate your concern for me, though. More than you probably realize.”

He let the words sit between them for a second. Katsuki didn’t respond, he just sat silent, unimpressed. The soap suds clinging to his skin began to thin and slide, dripping slowly onto the tile and down into the drain. Izuku prayed desperately his words wouldn’t follow too, that they’d catch somewhere inside Katsuki and stay.

“But… Kacchan, you have to understand. You shutting me out didn’t make things easier for me. It just made everything so much worse. All I wanted – more than anything these past few months – was to be there for you. But you barely let me talk to you, see you, and I…” He faltered, swallowing hard. “A messed up part of my brain kept telling me it’s because you were dead and I just hadn’t processed it yet.”

Katsuki’s eyes widened immediately, regret flashing across his face plain as day. A small, traitorous part of Izuku considered taking it all back, if only to spare him. But Katsuki needed to hear this, even if it hurt. And he might not accept it, or embrace it, but he had to at least know it. 

“I knew you weren’t well, Kacchan… but I had no idea it was this bad. And that—that really hurts me. Knowing that you were doing all of this alone, when I could’ve been helping you the whole time.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue under his breath at that, looking away. “So… what? You’re saying I should've just let you run yourself into the ground for me?”

“That’s the part you’re getting wrong.” Izuku said, shaking his head. “I’m not neglecting myself to be here. I’m not emptying myself out for you or anyone else, it’s the opposite. If you’re happy, then I’m happy, Kacchan. It’s as simple as that.” 

Katsuki’s brow furrowed, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that. Izuku gently pulled their hands from where they rested on Katsuki’s chest, bringing them forward and cradling them between his own.

 “I do get it,” Izuku said, softer this time. “I know asking for help is hard, especially for you. And I know I haven’t exactly made that easy, with how I handle things. But…your wellbeing matters, Kacchan. It matters. So much, to me and to so many people. You can’t neglect it, even if you think you’re doing it to protect others. If you need help, you can tell me. You have to trust that I know my limits. And right now, I’m certainly not past them.”

Izuku’s gaze held steady, a determination terrifying in its certainty taking shape. Katsuki let out a slow breath, and his expression faltered under it. Izuku watched with deep satisfaction as something tight within Katsuki was slowly coming undone. Izuku continued. 

“You can come to me, for anything, anytime. Even if we’re not talking, or we’re pissed off at eachother, it wouldn’t matter. And if not me, then anybody else: your parents, or Mr. Aizawa, or all our friends. Everyone’s been worried about you, you know. Just… just don’t do this alone anymore. Please.”

Katsuki looked pained, conflicted. His thumb shifted faintly against Izuku’s hand, but not pulling away. “…You really don’t get it,” he said under this breath. “It’s not that easy for me.”

“Maybe not,” Izuku said softly. “But that doesn’t make it impossible. It doesn’t make it wrong. You can try, and try again. Until it gets easier.” A faint, almost teasing breath of a smile touched his lips. “Nothing’s too hard for Kacchan.” 

Katsuki didn’t answer right away, but Izuku could tell his words seemed to land by the way his mouth twisted and his brows pulled in - not in anger this time, but in careful consideration. His tired eyes blinked a few times, as if his brain was working overtime. Izuku was well aware that it was unfair to be talking to him in this exhausted, vulnerable state. He was drugged halfway to hell at this point – but if it allowed for Izuku’s words to slip past his walls and strike straight where they needed to be, he didn’t mind crossing that line a little. He’d take this shameless advantage, for once. He’d do just about anything for Katsuki.  

“I—,” Katsuki started, then faltered. “No, yeah. Okay. That makes sense.” 

Izuku blinked, still a little surprised at how easily it came. Katsuki dragged in a breath slowly, his shoulders rising and falling with it. 

“I guess I just thought…if we stayed outta each other’s way, then no one’s a burden. I deal with my own shit, and you deal with yours. I didn’t really think through the part where you don’t let anything go. It was a dumb idea, really,” he said, though it lacked any real bite. “Can’t hide anything from you, nerd.”

“Not really, no,” Izuku admitted, a little sheepish.

For a moment, they just looked at each other without saying anything, with an understanding that only came from living an entire lifetime beside someone. Slowly, Izuku smiled.

 “See?” Izuku said softly, resting a tentative hand on the curve of Katsuki’s knee. “We can do this, if we try. We can… communicate. Maybe it doesn’t have to be you versus me all the time. Maybe it can be you and me versus …whatever’s in the way?”

Katsuki paused, then nodded seriously. He bit his lip, shifting his gaze down to where Izuku’s hand sat on his knee, and for a second he looked wretched again.

“Will you…promise to talk to someone other than me about all this?” Izuku asked. “Doesn’t have to be tonight. Just— soon. And next time something’s wrong, or you need anything, you let me know?”

Katsuki hesitated. Izuku could still see it, that infuriating, persisting instinct to push back. But it didn’t hold the same weight it had before, and it crumbled beneath Izuku’s presence within moments. 

“…Okay,” Katsuki said finally, voice low. “Yeah.”

A breath Izuku hadn’t realized he was holding slipped free, relief starting to take hold in his chest—

“—if you do, too.”

It stopped him short.

Izuku stilled. “If I…?”

Katsuki shot him a look, faintly incredulous. “You don’t get to lecture me about this and do the same shit,” he scolded. “You push too far, you wreck yourself - doesn’t matter if it’s for me or someone else - you tell someone. You let me know, so I can knock some sense back into you. Someone’s gotta call you out when you’re being stupid.”

For a second, Izuku just stared, then a sudden laugh broke out of him, untroubled and free. It felt like something in the air had finally shifted, like the tension that had built up between them had finally found a path to unravel. Not quite resolved, but getting there. It was getting there.

Izuku nodded eagerly. “Okay!” he said quickly. “Yeah! Um– deal.”

He hesitated for half a second, then added without thinking. “Let’s pinky swear.”

Katsuki glared at him. “No.”

“I’m serious. It has to be binding!” Izuku laughed. 

Katsuki made a noise, something between a scoff and a groan. “In your dreams, moron.”

Izuku held his hand out anyway, pinky extended, stubborn as ever. Katsuki looked at it like it personally offended him. For a second, it seemed like he might just refuse, but then he sighed, long-suffering, and reached out, hooking his finger with Izuku’s.

“Happy?” Katsuki said, annoyed.

“Very,” Izuku said, elated.

Their hands lingered a second longer than they needed to, fingers loosely curled together before finally letting go.

With that miraculously settled, Izuku grinned ear to ear, his spirit soaring. He patted Katsuki’s knee before standing up, quickly shifting his focus back to the task at hand with newfound energy.

Izuku turned away, reaching for the shower head again to rinse the last of the soap from Katsuki’s skin, where it slid easily from his skin down to the drain. When he was done, he reached to shut off the spray, the soft rush of water tapering off into silence.

“Hang on,” Izuku said. “I’m gonna run you a bath.” And just like a switch, Katsuki looked tired all over again. Katsuki nodded slightly, the motion more of a sway than any real signal. Izuku watched him for a moment, a fond ache settling in his chest. Emotions always wrung him out like that. 

Izuku stepped away briefly to the bath, turning the knobs and adjusting the temperature. He  tested the stream with his hand, letting it warm in careful increments until it was just right. He let the tub fill partway before turning back.

When he reached Katsuki again, Izuku slid an easy arm around his back, guiding him up from the stool in one smooth motion. Katsuki stumbled almost immediately, but Izuku adjusted his balance without comment, steering him towards the tub. One of Izuku’s hands dipped to grip tight at his hip, the other helping lift his leg carefully over the rim. 

Izuku kept hold of him as he guided him down, lowering him inch by inch into the water, watching closely for any sign of strain. Only when Katsuki was fully balanced sitting in the bath did Izuku finally ease his hands away. 

The heat seemed to sink into him immediately. Katsuki leaned slack against the tub’s walls, shoulders dropped, eyes slipping shut. His breathing evened out, and the tension that had been wound so tightly through him slowly began to loosen, piece by piece, fiber by fiber. It was subtle, but Izuku could see it. He always did.

For the first time since Izuku had found him earlier this evening, he looked… at rest. And without realizing it, Izuku felt his own body follow, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned back against the counter. Izuku let himself stare unashamedly, just watching Katsuki warm and relaxed in the bath. The foamy water lapped gently against his newly cleaned skin, steaming up his face. Precious minutes slipped by, soft and unrushed. 

Izuku eventually forced himself to step forward, or he knew he would’ve spent all evening just standing there watching Katsuki breathe. 

He stepped closer and crouched beside the tub, nudging Katsuki’s shoulder lightly.

“Kacchan,” he said. “Don’t fall asleep in there.”

Katsuki made a low, half-conscious sound, something between a protest and acknowledgment.

“Yeah, yeah,” Izuku said softly. “C’mon, let’s get you into a bed.”

He helped him out just as carefully, one arm braced around his hip as Katsuki stepped back onto the tile. Izuku grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around him immediately, tucking it snug around his shoulders before reaching for another.

He started with his hair, carefully patting and pressing with the towel, working the dampness out. He moved down from there, drying his shoulders, his arms, making sure he didn’t miss anything, that Katsuki wasn’t left cold even for a second. When he crouched to get his legs, he was just as thorough, just as gentle. 

He helped him into the clothes he’d picked out earlier, guiding his arms through the sleeves, adjusting the fabric so it sat comfortably. Then he reached for the robe, draping it over Katsuki’s shoulders and pulling it closed, tying it securely at the front.

When Izuku finished, Katsuki was already leaning into him slightly, clearly at the last reserves of his energy. Katsuki didn’t say anything, neither did Izuku. But this time the silence was easy and unforced, the energy around them finding its place again. 

With Katsuki cleaned and dressed, they walked together to the sinks. Izuku reached for their toothbrushes, squeezing toothpaste onto each before handing one over.

Katsuki took it without comment, movements slower now, like everything lagged a half-second behind his thoughts. They stood side by side at the sink, shoulders nearly brushing. For a few minutes, there was only the mundane sound of brushing. It was strangely intimate. Izuku wanted more than anything to brush his teeth with Katsuki like this every night. 

When they finished, Izuku rinsed his mouth and set the toothbrush aside, glancing over just in time to see Katsuki do the same, but uncoordinated and heavier, like even that small routine took more energy than it should’ve. 

As they made their way back into the hallway towards Izuku's room, whatever thin thread of stubborn energy that’d been keeping Katsuki upright had snapped. He leaned into Izuku more with each step, his feet dragging roughly against the floor. 

At one point, Izuku glanced down and noticed Katsuki’s legs wobbling like they might give out entirely, and he just couldn’t hold back anymore. Without hesitation, Izuku bent and scooped him up, one arm under his knees, the other braced across his back, lifting him clean off the ground.

Katsuki jolted. “What the hell are you doing?!” he rasped, the edge in his voice dulled but still stubbornly, miraculously there. 

“You were too slow,” Izuku said easily. 

“Put me down,” Katsuki snapped, weakly. “I can walk, dumbass—”

“You were about to fall.”

“I was not!”

“You were.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue, clearly gearing up for more, but it didn’t go very far. Izuku knew he had won when he felt his body untense and reluctantly give into Izuku’s hold. His shoulders sank, head tipping just slightly toward Izuku’s chest. Izuku didn’t want to ever let go. 

“...This is stupid,” Katsuki muttered.

“Mhm,” Izuku hummed, entirely unbothered. 

Once they reached his room, Izuku nudged the door open with his foot and stepped inside, heading straight for the bed and lowering Katsuki down to sit on it. His hand lingered at his back a moment longer than necessary before letting go.  

Izuku stepped back, giving him space, and moved to the corner of the room. He pulled a spare blanket from the shelf, along with a pillow, and set them on the floor beside the bed, smoothing it out for himself.  

He paused, glancing at the bed, and then at Katsuki. He could share it. He’d offered earlier, and Katsuki hadn't shut it down. The thought tugged at him more than he wanted to admit—having Katsuki beside him all night, close enough to feel him breathe. He could clutch onto that proof through the late hours, when his mind inevitably dragged him back through places they shouldn’t be. The image flashed uninvited once again: Katsuki still, bloodied, unmoving. Izuku’s fingers curled tightly at his side.

No. Tonight wasn’t about him.

Katsuki looked wrecked. He was slumped where he sat, body sinking into the mattress like it might just give out entirely if he let it. And despite being visibly exhausted, there was still a lingering, fraying energy about him— eyes blinking too fast, skittering around the room. His good hand pressed hard into his temples, fingers digging at the skin there. It was an exhaustion that burrowed into bone, deep into muscle, scratching the soul. 

Katsuki needed rest, real rest. The kind Izuku knew he couldn’t guarantee if he was tossing and turning all night beside him, murmuring through half-formed dreams, as so often he’d been told he did.

And so the floor it was.

When Izuku was done setting up the blankets on the floor for himself, he stepped close to Katsuki again, stopping just in front of him.

“You keep rubbing your temples…” Izuku said quietly.

Katsuki hummed. “Headache.” His fingers pressed down at his temple again with punishing pressure, like he was trying to override the ache by simply creating a new pain. 

“Let me,” Izuku said.

Slowly, he reached down and caught Katsuki’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. He replaced it with his two of his own, thumbs settling gently at his temples. There was a flicker of resistance on Katsuki’s face, more instinct than intent really. But it didn’t last. Katsuki didn’t stop him.

His skin was still warm, from the bath. Izuku pressed slow, steady circles into Katsuki’s temples, touching firmly, but never enough to hurt. Just giving a consistent feeling for his body to sense that wasn’t pain. He let the pressure build gradually rather than all at once.

Katsuki’s eyes fluttered shut. The tension in his brow eased, and a quiet breath slipped out of him, followed by a softer sound, almost a sigh.

“Fuck,” he said low under his breath. “That’s…”

Izuku couldn’t help himself - he watched with a fervent, pulsing satisfaction as Katsuki began to lean further into his hands. His jaw slackened, his mouth parting slightly as his shoulders lowered. Tension unwound leisurely, muscle after muscle. Katsuki didn’t seem to think about it, didn’t pull back or correct himself. He just stayed.

This was dangerous. 

Izuku had to fight the overwhelming urge to close the distance completely, to wrap his arms around him and grip tight forever. His heart burned, wanting more, more, more of Katsuki, in a way that was all encompassing and unselective. He wanted Katsuki tired and vulnerable. He wanted him at his most enjoyable, his most ugly. His most rageful and his most infuriating - there was no version of him Izuku wasn’t utterly, pathetically needy for. And he wanted it badly enough that it was terrifying—that something so absolute and clearcut could exist in him at all. 

Izuku wanted excruciatingly to take this moment as some sort of … sign of reciprocation. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t afford to interpret this the wrong way – the likely truth was, Katsuki was exhausted, and nothing else. Anything more than that was assumption, and Izuku refused to build meaning where there might not be any. He would take what he was given tonight, and nothing more. 

He let himself indulge in massaging Katsuki’s temples only a few moments longer before pulling back with herculean effort. Izuku masked his grimace as best he could. 

Izuku stepped back, grabbing a water bottle and setting it on the nightstand within easy reach. He fluffed Katsuki’s pillow and pulled back the edge of the blanket, before gesturing lightly toward the bed. 

“....You should lie down now,” Izuku suggested. 

Katsuki didn’t move. He just sat there still and quiet, and all of a sudden he looked incredibly troubled. His jaw worked slightly, teeth catching at the inside of his cheek, fingers picking at the edge of his nail in that same restless way before. Like something wasn’t quite finished.

Izuku stepped closer immediately. “Do you need anything else before we sleep?”

Katsuki swallowed, visibly distraught, then gave a small nod. But he couldn’t speak. He just sat there, shoulders tightening again, like whatever he was trying to say kept catching somewhere on the way out. His eyes blinked unnaturally, and his fingers stilled and then started again, caught in a loop he couldn’t seem to break.

Izuku could feel it - the inner conflict, the clearcut debate, how closely his desires were to being forced down again. 

Izuku felt it again: that hot ignition of determination in his chest. It was bright and furious, and Izuku nearly had a mind to tear open Katsuki mouth and reach in elbows deep, to claw at whatever Katsuki was fighting to keep down and rip it out into the open before he could swallow it.

“Kacchan, I’m right here.” Izuku said firmly, stepping further into his space. “Didn’t we make a promise earlier? You can just tell me what you need. I mean it – whatever it is. You don’t have to think about it so much.”

Katsuki didn’t look up. His jaw worked up and down, and he shook his head almost imperceptively, like he was edging backward from a precipice, retreating from something he had nearly committed to.

Izuku crouched slightly so he was closer to eye level, voice raising, unwaveringly resolute. “There’s nothing you could ask for that’d be too much. If it helps, if it makes things easier for you, I’m not going to say no.”

Katsuki’s teeth ground together, strain visible in the set of his mouth. 

“Can you…” Katsuki started, the words barely more than breath. “Can you—um…” He faltered, the sentence breaking apart. His entire body shook visibly, as if forcing the words out demanded everything he had. 

Izuku knelt in front of him, nodding furiously. 

“I would. I will. Anything.” 

Izuku trembled with anticipation, adrenaline coursing through his veins, ready to fulfill any need of Katsuki’s – no matter how strenuous or colossal the request would be. It didn’t feel dissimilar to how a dog might kneel before its owner, or a devout follower praying before their god. Every fiber in him shook with the need to obey. 

“C-can you just hug me?” Katsuki flinched the moment the words were spoken, eyes squeezing shut, unable to stand his own admission. 

It was nothing at all. Izuku would tear planets apart for him. He’d fight and die and kill and bleed and live and breathe for him. He would work himself to the bone to shape the world into something kinder for Katsuki to live in—and just as easily, he would have turned on it without hesitation if it ever dared to threaten him. And it would be nothing. It would be nothing at all. 

And so this - Katsuki asking him, this, this heartbreakingly simple request – well, it wasn’t even a question. 

Izuku stepped forward without a word and immediately pulled his arms tight around him, one hand splayed between his shoulder blades, the other coming up to cradle the back of his head. With Izuku still standing, and Katsuki sitting on the bed, Katsuki’s forehead found his shoulder, his breath spilling hot and damp against Izuku’s collarbone where his mouth rested. Izuku let his cheek rest against Katsuki’s hair, heart thrumming at the proximity. 

Katsuki folded into him instantly, his weight resting fully against Izuku. His arms came up and gripped at the back of Izuku’s shirt, holding onto him like he was scared it was the only thing keeping Izuku there. As if Izuku would want to be anywhere else.

Izuku could feel the heat of their bodies mingle, the rise and fall of Katsuki’s chest on his abdomen. He smelled like soap now, faintly citrus and clean, and underneath it lingered Katsuki’s familiar scent - burnt sugar and smoke. He smelled like Izuku’s childhood, and he let himself inhale deeply without shame. Every single piece of Izuku, big and small, let out a deep sigh - his nerves and muscles relaxing, the world balancing. Holding Katsuki felt like breathing air. Still, Izuku ached to be even closer, so it’d be impossible for Katsuki to ever slip through his fingers again.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, clutching one another so tightly that no air could exist between them - skin to skin. But even then, it wasn’t enough to satiate Katsuki. Izuku felt it in the way his hands tensed at his back, fingers twisting harder into the fabric of his shirt. There was a frayed edge to it, strained and insistent. Katsuki shook his head faintly against him, breath hitching, his body trembling with a need he didn’t seem to know how to name.

Before Izuku could pull back, could even begin to ask—

“I just need you,” Katsuki admitted, with a desperation Izuku had never heard from him before. Katsuki took in a gasping, strangled breath. “Fuck, Izuku, I just… all the damn time. I never don’t.”

Katsuki pressed his face harder into Izuku’s shoulder, like he was trying to hide there, use him as cover. His breathing broke into small, uneven sounds, and his hand pulled insistently on Izuku’s shirt again, with the desperation of someone who was completely, utterly addicted. 

Izuku froze. He pulled back slightly and looked down, and couldn’t tear his eyes away from Katsuki. How he was pushing closer, crowding into his space, as if Izuku’s touch alone was the most precious thing in the world to him. Katsuki looked as though he was coming apart with need, and Izuku was utterly entranced, spellbound by the sight of it.There was no guard left, just this simple, unfiltered glimpse into Katsuki’s soul. Izuku’s heart was set ablaze, burning a hole clean through chest.

“Please…” Katsuki added quietly. 

That was all. There was no direction to his wanting, no request or explanation. Just, one single, heavy please. 

Heart pounding, Izuku pulled back slowly, just enough to catch Katsuki’s eyes, his own searching for any want and need. He needed to know—needed to see. His hand slid up, fingers curved under Katsuki’s jaw to tilt his face upward. And there it was. Laid bare. In Katsuki’s eyes burned something honest and raw and equally fragile. Izuku saw straight through him, he understood instantly. 

Izuku leaned in without hesitation and kissed him.

Immediately, Katsuki breathed in, making a rough, relieved noise. And he melted as if the very foundations of him had crumbled away, leaving Izuku as the final supporting beam. His entire body went limp, weight tipping backwards towards the bed without regard, trusting Izuku to catch him - which he did. His hands slid from Katsuki’s face to his shoulders, gently guiding him down until his back met the mattress. Izuku followed without breaking connection, lips still on him, fluidly positioning himself over Katsuki. Hands on either side of his shoulders, knees resting by his hips. 

The press of mouths was a light one. Izuku wanted to ease into it, get a taste of what it was Katsuki was after. Katsuki tasted like toothpaste, his lips hot and heartbreakingly soft. Izuku’s mouth filled with saliva. 

This was it. Izuku had at long last found it: this outstretched hand that brought shining salvation. Everything broken and scattered within him finally clicked back into place, fitting together effortlessly. 

Katsuki just needed him. 

That was what he’d said. And Izuku was by no means a perfect person. He’d screwed things up time and time again— he was reckless and pushed himself too far, was often too naive when he needed to be smart and then far too scared when he ought to be brave. But despite all of that, Katsuki still needed him, chose him. Just the way he was.

In Katsuki’s eyes, Izuku was enough.

For whatever reason, whatever miraculous stroke of luck that’d made Katsuki feel that way, it was the undeniable truth.

And if all that Katsuki needed was him, then Izuku would gladly surrender himself in his entirety. And maybe, finally, Izuku could do right by him. 

Their kiss deepened, wet and warm, hands beginning to move. Izuku’s hand traced along the line of Katsuki’s jaw again, feeling his pulse flutter under his fingertips. Katsuki responded in kind, gripping the back of his neck and huffing through his nose - like he was furious that it had taken them this long. 

Izuku had half a mind to speak. Words pressed insistently at the back of his throat—wanting to tell Katsuki how much this meant to him, how perfect he was, how badly he wanted this—but he simply wasn’t capable. He couldn’t tear himself away from Katsuki’s mouth, couldn’t dislodge his fingers from where they were holding onto Katsuki. Not when Katsuki kissed and kissed and kissed him, his technique sloppy, his chest heaving. Every nerve in his body was vibrating, stomach flipping violently, demanding he never stop. 

Katsuki’s tongue approached his lips, asking permission, and Izuku let him in without hesitation—feeling him lap at his teeth, the inside of his cheek, his tongue. Katsuki was all over him. Izuku was holding steady, letting Katsuki drink from him, draw whatever he needed. Izuku could give him that. He wanted to give him that—everything, if it came to it.

Katsuki’s mouth plundered his own, thorough and hungry. His fingers traced against Izuku’s jaw, neck, down the line of his shoulder and to his bicep. Katsuki was pursuing this with an urgency Izuku didn’t recognize in him. It was indulgent and slow - the first few sips of a man parched, finally given water. It was a raw form of wanting, less about recklessly chasing a feeling and more about fulfilling a fundamental, bone-deep necessity. Katsuki needed him. Maybe, almost as badly as he needed Katsuki. 

And God, wasn’t that everything? It was everything. It was… everything.

The thought was addictive. And for the first time in his life, all Izuku wanted to do was take and take and take. He wanted to be selfish. Greedy. Izuku’s grip tightened, his touch growing surer. Without thought, his fingers dipped low at Katsuki’s back and tucked itself under his shirt, Izuku’s shirt, and brushed against the hot mounds of Katsuki’s bare spine, the fragile pieces of bone that held him together. The wet slide of their mouths, the heat of their bodies mingling, the rough sounds Katsuki was making - it was sending his brain into overdrive, euphoria coursing in him, through him, around him, everywhere. 

This was it. This was where Izuku needed to be, forever, forever and ever and ever and into the next life. Izuku was completely lost in it. He couldn’t say which way was up or down, left or right, where he began or ended. He had no idea of where he was in space, and it didn’t matter. The only direction he needed to go was closer, closer, closer. 

The feeling seemed to be mutual. Katsuki pressed stubbornly, clumsily closer into him. Figuring it all out as he went, but still insistent on taking the lead. At one point their noses collided hard, and both of them broke into a small, breathy laugh that brushed warm between their lips, completely detached from all their burdens. Izuku felt the spark catch through his spine, his insides, and it drove him insane, everything about Katsuki drove him crazy. Izuku gripped his shoulders tight, diving back into his lips and pressing him harder into the mattress, crowding into him. 

After another moment, against all natural instinct, Izuku managed to pull away just enough to speak. His lips brushed Katsuki’s as he whispered.

“I’ve got you,” Izuku said, wanting Katsuki to know deep in the most senseless, feral parts of him, that that was true, “You understand, Kacchan? You need me? Then I’m yours. I’ve got you, I’m yours, I promise. Let me be there for you. Please tell me you’re hearing me, Kacchan.”

And Katsuki really was hearing him. He stared straight into Izuku’s eyes, fixated and rapt and utterly focused. There weren’t any instinctive denials any more: Izuku was telling him things, and now Katsuki was listening. He was understanding.

Katsuki swallowed and nodded, so achingly distraught, and so goddamn beautiful under him. “Okay. Okay–yeah. Yes.” He didn’t say anything else, didn’t need to. Without a word, he lifted his face, closing the distance so their mouths could meet again. 

It was tender, Izuku realised. All of this was tender. Strangely, Izuku’s mind was pulled back to Ground Beta, just barely a year ago. Where they’d torn into each other kicking and screaming and thrown one another about so aggressively they’d broken buildings and Izuku had left with burn marks on his body, Katsuki with a split lip and a swollen eye. It’d been what they both needed back then, but it was so far away from what they needed now. Katsuki needed Izuku. And Izuku needed Katsuki to know that he was alive, he was safe. He was loved. 

The thought clicked into place with startling clarity.

It was love. 

Izuku loved him. 

It made so much sense, and yet none at all. The revelation flicked on a light switch, the brightness dizzying. It was why Katsuki had always felt bigger than everything else. Why memories of being with Katsuki flashed through his dreams. Why looking at him made Izuku’s chest twist and his heart pound, why his gaze couldn’t spare a single moment for anyone else whenever Katsuki was in the room. Why there was a magnet under his sternum that pulled him towards Katsuki, always, forever. 

Izuku Midoryia was in love with Katsuki Bakugo.

And for once, his mind didn’t spiral around it. It was a mesmerising thing to behold. There was no frantic need to analyze, no instinct to pull it apart piece by piece. It wasn’t a problem to fix, or an answer to be solved—it simply was. The sun rose and fell. The ocean crashed and receded. Izuku loved Katsuki, and it didn’t change anything. He supposed all it did was simply give it a name. Maybe one day, Izuku will be brave enough to say it out loud.

While they kissed, Izuku opened his eyes and stared without shame at Katsuki’s relaxed lids, his fluttering eyelashes. At his flushed cheeks and the slight furrow in his brow as he kissed Izuku the same way he approached everything in life - total and utter devotion to the cause. It was an unbelievably satisfying sight. It was him, it was Izuku doing that to Katsuki, giving him this pleasure, making him feel good after so many weeks of pain and stress and fear.

Izuku wanted the image seared into his brain. He never wanted Katsuki to look the way he had when Izuku found him earlier that evening. He only ever wanted Katsuki to look like this— in Izuku’s room, laid on Izuku’s bedsheets, caged in Izuku’s body, covered in Izuku’s clothes. He wanted for Katsuki to never leave this space where he was unmistakably his - where he was safe, valued, cared for and protected. Where he could be vulnerable, comfortable enough to tell Izuku the truths that he so often hid. And Izuku, too, felt like he could say anything here. All the grotesque, ugly confessions that he’d never told a soul, not even admitted to himself — he could let them all out now in front of Katsuki and it would be okay. It would all be okay.

After what felt like a lifetime, Izuku felt Katsuki's lips begin to falter as exhaustion finally claimed him whole. Katsuki's mouth slowed and quivered slightly against his, no longer able to keep up with him. The moment was ending, and it was perfectly alright, Izuku supposed. He'd get to have this again, for the rest of their lives. He’d make sure of it. 

Izuku pulled away, their lips unsticking from eachother with a soft sound. Under him, Katsuki's eyes were still shut, face languid. A quiet hum rumbled from Katsuki's throat, and his eyelids began to flutter as they struggled to pull themselves open. Before that could happen, Izuku lifted a hand and gently covered his eyes. Immediately, Katsuki stilled.

“That's okay, rest your eyes. You can relax.” Izuku soothed. Katsuki made a soft sound in agreement, and Izuku grinned. 

He slipped from the bed just long enough to switch off the overhead light. Darkness blanketed over the room at once, leaving only the amber glow of his lamp and the pale moonlight spilling through the window. Back on the mattress, Katsuki was obediently following Izuku's command: eyelids shuttered, body lying loose-limbed, breathing deeply and melted into his mattress. Izuku stopped for a moment just to look and enjoy, smiling softly, before stepping forwards and laying himself beside Katsuki and pulling the blankets over them both. 

Finally surrendering to their shared gravity, they both drifted closer and closer and closer until they were pressed together side by side on the bed, arms wrapped around each other, legs tangled, the broad expanse of Katsuki’s chest a warm and inviting landing pad. Their cheeks rested together, chests rising and falling in tandem, every breath shared. Welded together, inseparable. Izuku wouldn’t dare move even if the end of the world came knocking again.

And for a while, that was all there was. They held each other in the dark, and took in each others air. Neither of them seemed to have the urgency to say anything, to acknowledge what had just happened - unanimously deciding to instead completely, utterly, entirely focus on the presence of each other, the togetherness of it all. It was a head laid down on a pillow after a long day, the last few steps before desert gave way to oasis. It felt like— finally. 

As time passed, inevitably, Izuku felt it against his chest. Katsuki drew in a deeper breath than before, and he felt premature relief as he thought, finally, Katsuki had earned the sleep he so desperately deserved.

But his next exhale was a sob.

With a fervent energy Izuku didn’t realize he still had - ragged, pained sounds tore out of Katsuki, dragged into the open from some fortified, hidden abyss within him. His body shook hard with it, each wounded cry rippling through him, jolting them both where they were pressed together.

Warmth spread slowly against Izuku’s shoulder. Damp at first, then soaking. Katsuki’s tears seeped through his shirt, clung to his skin. Each shaky inhale brushed hot and wet against his throat, broken sounds muffled into him. 

Months of exhaustion, pain, fear and stress too heavy to carry alone anymore, unloaded all at once -  now that he finally found somewhere safe to put it.

Izuku froze slightly, but didn’t startle. He only tightened his hold, one arm sliding up to cradle the back of his head, tucking him into the safe curve of his neck. And Katsuki finally let it happen—wholly, completely shattering in his arms. He buried himself deeper into the crevice of Izuku’s collarbone, and remaining pieces of Katsuki came undone, with lzuku left in the wreckage. Izuku’s own chest ached, burned with it. This was a long, long time coming. 

But this time, Izuku was here. He hadn’t been too late. He was here to save him, this time. And he would be enough. 

“It’s okay,” Izuku said, voice sweet and sure against Katsuki’s ear. He rubbed grounding circles into Katsuki’s back. “You don't have to be strong right now. And you never have to be strong with me. I’ll take care of you, I’ll protect you. I promise, I will. Let me do that for you. I want to do that for you. Don’t ever think otherwise. Don’t ever worry about it. We’ll get past this together, you’ll see.”

Katsuki cried even harder at the reassurance, like he’d been waiting for permission he never knew how to ask for. Luckily for him, he didn’t have to. Izuku would give it to him anyway.

Izuku’s grip tightened. He continued rubbing his back patiently, not rushing him through it. Katsuki was the strongest person Izuku had ever known. To be the one entrusted with his weakness... Izuku felt unfathomably privileged. His sadness felt sacred in Izuku’s hands, and he cradled it gratefully. 

Eventually, Katsuki’s sobs began to lose their edge, fading into uneven breaths and tremors that slowly worked their way out of him. The tight clutch in Izuku’s shirt loosened, though it never fully let go. Katsuki pulled back just enough to drag his sleeve across his face, wiping furiously at the stray tears. 

“Fuck, Izuku,” he rasped hoarsely, sniffing and rubbing at his face again. “That sucked. I don’t know how you manage to do that all the time.”

A weak laugh slipped out of Izuku before he could stop it. Izuku couldn’t help himself from reaching out again, succumbing to the million compulsions that begged him simply to touch. He brushed his thumbs carefully beneath Katsuki’s eyes, wiping away the last of his tears. His hands cradled his face for a moment before leaning in and pressing a kiss to his forehead, just because he could.

“You’re exhausted,” Izuku said gently. “You should rest now. You’ll feel better tomorrow. We can talk more about everything, and figure it all out then, okay? But for now…I’m yours. I’m yours, and nothing’s going to hurt you here, I won’t let it. You’re safe. You can sleep. It’ll be okay.”

Katsuki nodded gently and shifted closer, tucking himself beneath Izuku’s chin - entirely surrendering, transferring ownership freely. 

 “Okay. If you… that sounds… yeah. Thank you. Izuku.” 

The heat of his whisper danced lightly on his neck, and relief bloomed like a flower beneath Izuku’s ribs. He swallowed down the tightness that inexplicably found its way to his throat and rested his chin on the still-damp tufts of Katsuki’s hair. Izuku took Katsuki’s hips in his hands and pulled him even closer, shielding him with his body, taking him in gratefully. 

It only took seconds for Katsuki’s body to become limp. The heavy growing exhalations of Katsuki's breathing fanned his chest with hot air, the mass of him growing heavier as he stopped bothering to hold his weight and instead let himself fall fully into Izuku’s embrace. The rhythm of his breathing found a stable melody, sleep finally and undoubtedly beginning to take hold. Izuku kept his arms steady around him, holding him through the transition. 

Katsuki fell asleep like that, in his arms.

And all Izuku could think was that he fit so perfectly into him, like he’d always belonged. Every line of him, every curve and edge aligned so naturally it all felt inevitable, in a way.

He buried his head into Katsuki’s hair, shutting his eyes and just letting himself feel it all. The mind-numbing goodness of it. The heat of his body and the scent of his skin and how relaxed and safe Katsuki felt with him and the love, oh god the love, he was in love with him. Tears welled uncontrollably at the corners of his eyes from the pure intensity of the feeling, gently trailing down his nose, and he did nothing to stop them. 

He was Katsuki’s, and Katsuki needed him. He was Katsuki’s, and Katsuki needed him.

And with that thought, Izuku felt his own body begin to give in, finally satisfied with a job well done. Sleep pulled him down, inviting and tender and insistent - and he found himself no longer afraid of it. No longer was he clutching tight to the thoughts and images that had tortured him for so long - how could he, when he could be holding Katsuki instead?

Izuku’s eyes grew heavy, his thoughts slowing, but he didn’t dare loosen his hold.

And, just like he always had—

He followed Katsuki.