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Everything swims for a while. Izuku blinks his eyes open to a million different scenes that are somehow all the same. Pale walls, blurry light. There are crimson eyes next to him, above him, gleaming in the darkness.
He is gone for weeks. Blinking in. Blinking out. Repeat. In between are half-dreams where Izuku talks to the vestiges in circles, forgetting what he’s asked, why he’s there, what they’ve said. He remembers Nana’s hand in his hair, scratching at the top of his scalp in a way that reminds him of his mom. He remembers Yoichi’s voice, the steady drone as he talked about something that flew away just as Izuku heard it, but the cadence, the way it made Izuku feel, that sticks. He thinks he remembers Katsuki. That campfire smell, those pointed words, the ways Izuku has always felt at home with him. But Katsuki isn’t a vestige, so it must have been a real dream.
He wakes for real an indeterminate amount of time later. He’s in the hospital, a real one, not just the infirmary wing at UA. And Katsuki is there, resting in a chair by the window. He looks…bleary. If he was a photograph, he’d be in sepia tones. Izuku stares at him for several beats, but he must shift, or make a noise, because Katsuki’s eyes flick to his, his mouth turning wry.
“You with me again nerd?”
“Where’d I go?” Izuku half-coughs. His throat is dry.
Katsuki moves silently to pour a glass of water. The familiarity with the motions—the gentle way he pours, then holds the glass steady under Izuku’s chin—makes something stick in Izuku’s throat.
He’s still laying down, mostly. He fumbles for the button at the side of the bed to raise himself up. It’s a couple of awkward moments, just the whir of the bed’s motor and Katski’s unusual patience filling the room. Izuku can’t place anything in the near past, it’s all just a fuzzy mess.
“When did I…” Izuku trails off, because he doesn’t really know how to finish that sentence. Did he get attacked? Was he influenced by a quirk? Did the stress finally get him and eat him whole?
“There was a kid,” Katsuki starts, the story well-worn. It’s clear this isn’t the first or the fifth time he’s said it. “Lilah. You met her in a konbini and could tell something was off. We did some digging and found that she was part of a quirk smuggling ring for villains.”
“Aizawa put together a taskforce,” Izuku says, picking up the thread. He remembers some of it now. It had been a hard fight. Harder, perhaps, than even Eri’s rescue. “What happened to Lilah? Aizawa?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Katsuki scoffs. “You’re the only one who didn’t make it out.”
Izuku know he shouldn’t feel so relieved, that only he was hurt. That he should care he was hurt. They got Lilah. Aizawa made it out. The rest of the heroes too.
“That’s good. And she’s doing okay? Now that she’s, uh, here?’
“Aizawa’s got her. Eri’s happy to have a surrogate sister.”
“Good,” Izuku murmurs again. His eyes are dragging, but he doesn’t want to sleep, not now. Katsuki is sitting on the edge of the bed, and he’s holding something back.
It’s so unlike him, it’s making Izuku borrow grief.
He licks his lips, presses a hand ontop of Katsuki’s. “What about you?”
Katsuki’s face hardens then, and it gives Izuku secondary relief. There you are. There’s that anger. I know this, I know you. But there are tears in Katsuki’s eyes, and it’s so foreign it extinguishes whatever hope Izuku was feeling. “Who gives a fuck about me, Izuku? Who gives a fuck about anyone? You’re—” he cuts himself off, and Izuku wants to chase that tangent, unwind it from Katsuki’s mouth bit by little bit.
In the past, Izuku would have taken that as the end Katsuki so clearly means it to be. But they’re seniors at UA now, and Izuku isn’t afraid of Katsuki anymore. Maybe he never was. Not this Katsuki anyway. “I’m what, Kacchan?”
“You’re fucked up is what you are,” Katsuki snaps, but he’s no longer crying. He shoves Izuku’s shoulder, and Izuku slides over easily, letting Katsuki settle tight against his side. “You need to stop throwing yourself headlong into danger, without any regard for yourself. We can’t—” he stops, swallows, restarts. “I can’t, Izuku.
“I’ve known you so long, it’s like you’re a part of me. If you get yourself killed, where will that leave me?”
It’s a sentiment Izuku shares. Katsuki is nearly as much a part of Izuku as Izuku is. As any of the vestiges. He lets his head fall onto Katsuki’s shoulder, shutting his eyes as Katsuki’s hand comes up to pet his hair. “I would apologize, but I think we’d both know I wouldn’t mean it. This is who I am Kacchan. I don’t…I don’t think I can be anything else.”
Katsuki’s movements don’t stop, but his breath hitches again. Both say so many things—I know and I hate that you’re like this and I’ll see it through, you know I will.
Maybe in the future Izuku will know how to not be like this. He hopes Katsuki is still there when he figures it out.