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Katsuki
Katsuki Bakugou didn't go to the infirmary; he told them he was fine, and nobody argued. Nothing was broken. Nothing life-threatening. The rookie would recover.
The mission report would say exactly what every report said when things went wrong, but not wrong enough: Contained. Resolved. Successful. Katsuki hated it; the rookie had trusted his call. That was the problem—not the injury, the trust.
He could still see the moment it happened, the hesitation, the impact. The realization that he'd been half a second too late.
"Katsuki." He ignored the voice.
The debrief room buzzed around him. Heroes talking. Analysts are reviewing footage. Someone laughing at something that wasn't funny enough to justify it.
"Kacchan."
Izuku, closer now, Katsuki signed the last page of the report.
"Hey."
A hand landed lightly against his shoulder. Normally, he wouldn't have minded; today, it felt unbearable.
He shrugged it off before he could think about it, not hard enough to be read into.
"I'm fine."
Izuku blinked.
"I didn't ask if you were—"
"I'm fine." Katsuki stood.
The chair scraped loudly against the floor, too loud. Several heads turned; he ignored them—ignored Izuku too. The coordinator called after him.
"We still need—"
"I know what happened." And then he was gone.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
Izuku
Izuku watched the door swing shut. A strange feeling settled low in his stomach. Not concerned, but something uncomfortable. Because Katsuki hadn't looked at him once—not once, and that was unusual. Even on bad days.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
Two hours later, Izuku found him in the equipment bay. The agency was large enough for privacy, not large enough for hiding. Katsuki stood at a workbench with one gauntlet dismantled in front of him. The pieces were already clean; he was cleaning them again. Izuku recognized the behaviour immediately—overthinking, fixating, punishing himself.
"Kacchan."
No response, Izuku approached anyway.
"You skipped the review."
A bolt clicked into place, nothing else.
"The rookie's going to be okay."
Another click, still nothing. Izuku stopped beside the table.
"Kacchan."
Finally, Katsuki looked up, red eyes sharp—guarded.
"I'm aware." The answer was immediate, flat, professional. Not Katsuki, Izuku frowned.
"Okay..." A beat, "You wanna talk about it?"
"No."
The response came so fast it almost overlapped the question. Izuku paused.
"Later?"
"No."
"Kacchan—"
"I said no."
Silence, the words weren't loud. But they landed hard because Katsuki wasn't snapping.
If he'd snapped, Izuku would've known how to handle it. This was worse, controlled, and cold—like a door closing.
Katsuki picked up another piece of equipment. Conversation over, dismissed. Izuku stood there for another few seconds before nodding.
"Okay."
Katsuki didn't answer. That hurt more than it should have. Because usually—even when he was angry—Katsuki answered.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
The next morning started badly; it got worse from there. Izuku arrived at the briefing room five minutes early. Katsuki was already there. Normal, Katsuki always arrived early–what wasn't normal was where he was sitting. Back row, near the exit, alone. Izuku smiled anyway and headed toward him.
"Kacchan—"
The second Katsuki saw him approaching, he stood. Izuku stopped; Katsuki grabbed his tablet and walked to the opposite side of the room–the movement was casual enough that nobody else noticed. Izuku did, of course, he did. For a moment, he simply stood there. Staring–then sat down by himself. The briefing suddenly felt much longer than usual.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
Brush-off three happened at lunch; this time, it was impossible to explain away. Katsuki was sitting alone–actually eating. Izuku saw him through the break room doorway. Relief loosened something in his chest. Finally, a normal conversation. He grabbed his tray and walked over.
"Kaccha—"
Katsuki stood–immediately, the relief vanished.
"I'm heading out."
Izuku stared, "You literally just sat down."
"I'm not hungry."
"Kacchan." The name slipped out before he could stop it, because now he was confused. Actually confused. Katsuki wouldn't look at him–wouldn't meet his eyes, wouldn't stay.
"You've got food."
"I'm done."
"You haven't taken a bite."
A pause. For a second, Izuku thought maybe—maybe Katsuki would explain.
"Not your problem."
The words landed like a slap, not because they were cruel. But, because they weren't–because they sounded exhausted, and because Katsuki was already walking away. Again, leaving Izuku standing there.
The food on his tray suddenly looked a lot less appealing.
The problem wasn't that Katsuki disappeared. No–he was everywhere. Still arriving early, still taking patrols, still filing reports, still existing in all the same places he'd always existed. Just–out of reach.
Every single time.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
The first time Izuku really noticed was after training. Normally, they stretched together, years of habit–years of finding each other automatically. Izuku finished putting away equipment and headed toward the mats.
"Kacchan?"
Katsuki looked up. For one brief second, Izuku thought everything was normal. Then Katsuki stood, grabbed his water bottle and walked away. No explanation. No excuse, he just left. Izuku stared after him; the empty spot beside the wall looked strange.
Wrong.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
The second time happened later that night, a text message. Simple, nothing dramatic.
~You home yet?
Seen–no reply. Izuku frowned, not unusual. Katsuki was terrible at texting.
Twenty minutes later:
~Want me to bring dinner tomorrow?
Seen–no reply. The frown deepened because Katsuki wasn't ignoring the messages. He was reading them and choosing not to answer.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
The next morning, Izuku tried again, coffee machine, agency kitchen. A routine so established that neither of them thought about it anymore. Izuku walked in carrying two mugs.
"Kacchan, catch."
Without looking, Katsuki caught the mug automatically, years of muscle memory. For a second, something in Izuku's chest eased. Then Katsuki looked down, realized what he'd caught and set it back on the counter. Untouched.
"I already had some."
The mug was still steaming, freshly poured–obviously untouched. Izuku stared.
"Kacchan."
"I'm heading out."
"You just got here."
"I'm busy."
There it was again, that same wall–that same distance. Katsuki left; the kitchen door swung shut behind him. Izuku looked down at the abandoned coffee. Something unpleasant settled in his chest because this wasn't one bad day anymore. This was deliberate, and for the first time, the thought made him angry–not worried, not confused.
Angry.
Because if something was wrong, Katsuki wasn't just refusing help–he was refusing him.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
By the second day, Izuku had stopped telling himself he was imagining things. Patterns were patterns, and Katsuki was avoiding him. The fourth brush-off happened after the patrol. Usually, they walked back to the agency together, not always talking.
Izuku finished paperwork a little late and hurried downstairs. He spotted Katsuki immediately.
"Kacchan!"
Katsuki looked up; their eyes met. For a second, relief sparked–then Katsuki looked away, turned and kept walking. Not stopping, not waiting–not even slowing down. Izuku stood frozen on the agency steps. The sting hit before the anger did, because Katsuki had seen him. I saw him and left anyway.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
The fifth brush-off happened the next morning. The locker room was empty except for the two of them—a perfect opportunity. No coworkers, no patrol schedules, no excuses.
"Kacchan." Katsuki shut his locker. "What?" The word was clipped enough to make Izuku's stomach sink. "Can we talk?" "No." "Five minutes." "No." "Kacchan—" "I'm busy." "You've been busy for two days." Katsuki grabbed his gear bag and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm leaving." And then he did. Again.
The locker room door swung shut behind him with a heavy thud, leaving Izuku standing alone. For several long seconds, he stared at the door, something hot and ugly twisting in his chest. For two days, he'd told himself not to overthink it—Katsuki was stressed, Katsuki was busy, Katsuki needed space. But standing there now, watching him walk away yet again, Izuku couldn't pretend anymore. This wasn't confusion or concern. This was hurt. And underneath the hurt, something sharper was beginning to take shape: anger. Because this wasn't accidental. Katsuki wasn't forgetting to talk to him, wasn't getting distracted or simply overwhelmed. He was choosing this. Every single time.
⊹⊱✧⊰⊹
The agency lights were dimming when Izuku finally stopped waiting.
He caught Katsuki outside the locker corridor near the end of the shift. The hallway was empty; most of the staff had already gone home. There was nowhere to hide behind paperwork or patrol schedules now.
"Kacchan."
Katsuki kept walking; Izuku followed.
"Kacchan."
Still nothing, the frustration that had been building for forty-eight hours tightened painfully in his chest.
"Katsuki."
The reaction was immediate. Katsuki stopped–completely. Slowly, he turned around. Red eyes narrowed, dangerous. Because Izuku never called him that anymore. Not unless something was seriously wrong. The hallway fell silent.
"What?"
The word landed hard; Izuku folded his arms. "You've been avoiding me."
"I've been working."
"No."
Something flickered across Katsuki's face. Tiny. Sharp.
"No?"
"No."
Izuku stepped directly into his path. Blocking the hallway, blocking another escape route.
"You've been avoiding me for two days."
Katsuki's jaw tightened.
"Move."
"No."
"I said move."
"No."
The word echoed between them. Neither budged nor looked away. For the first time in two days, Katsuki was actually looking at him, and somehow that only made Izuku angrier. Because he'd spent forty-eight hours trying to get exactly this.
"You don't get to keep doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Walking away." The answer came instantly, "You leave every conversation." Katsuki's expression darkened. "You leave every room." Still silence, "You won't even look at me."
Katsuki scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound. "You're being dramatic."
The words hit harder than Izuku expected. His expression hardened immediately, "Really?"
"Yeah." Katsuki crossed his arms. "You've been acting weird for two days because I don't feel like talking."
Izuku laughed once, a humourless sound—disbelief more than amusement.
"Weird?" The word came out sharper than he intended: "Katsuki, you literally left lunch because I walked into the room." Silence, "You saw me outside the agency and turned around.” More silence, "You won't even sit beside me."
For the first time, Katsuki looked away, just for a second. But it was enough, because that tiny movement told Izuku everything. Katsuki knew he was right. The silence stretched between them, tense and dangerous. Then Katsuki spoke, "You think this is about you?"
Izuku flinched internally because that wasn't fair.
"No." The answer came immediately. "I think you're shutting me out."
"It's not the same thing."
"It is when I'm your boyfriend."
The words landed heavily between them.
For a second, Katsuki looked trapped, Cornered, defensive, vulnerable.
Izuku recognized the look immediately. Katsuki hated feeling vulnerable—always had.
"What do you want from me?"
The question snapped out rough and frustrated.
Izuku stared at him, "I want you to talk to me."
"I'm talking to you now."
"Oh, bullshit."
Katsuki froze—Izuku almost never swore at him like that, not with genuine anger behind it.
"You've barely said ten words to me in two days."
"I said I was fine."
"And I don't believe you."
The hallway suddenly felt much smaller, much narrower, much harder to breathe in.
"I don't need your permission to deal with my own problems."
"That's not what this is about!"
"Then what is it about?"
The shout echoed down the corridor.
Both of them froze—now they were yelling. Actually yelling, the kind of fight neither of them had ever had before.
Izuku's chest hurt. "Katsuki, for two days I thought you were angry at me." The confession slipped out before he could stop it.
Everything went still.
"What?"
"I thought you were angry at me."
Katsuki blinked, actually blinked. Like the possibility had never occurred to him—maybe it hadn't. Izuku laughed bitterly. "You wouldn't look at me." His voice cracked, "You wouldn't talk to me." He swallowed, "You kept leaving." The hurt he'd been carrying for days pressed painfully against his ribs. "What was I supposed to think?"
For the first time, Katsuki looked shaken—not irritated, not defensive. Shaken, and somehow that didn't make Izuku feel any better. Because Katsuki genuinely hadn't realized what he'd been doing, hadn't realized how much it hurt. Or maybe he hadn't cared enough to notice. The thought landed hard enough that Izuku looked away.
Katsuki saw it. Saw the hurt. Saw the uncertainty. Saw the way Izuku suddenly couldn't meet his eyes. That hurt more than any accusation could have.
For several moments, neither of them spoke. The hallway felt too small—too quiet.
Katsuki looked away first. Not because he'd won—not because he'd lost, but because he couldn't stand the look on Izuku's face.
Hurt.
That was the problem. He could deal with anger; he could handle yelling. Izuku being hurt because of him was worse—much worse.
"Katsuki, I don’t know what is going on with you. But… but this cold shoulder you’re giving me fucking hurts."
The words came softer this time.
Still serious, still wrong. Katsuki grimaced, "Stop calling me that." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Izuku blinked, "What?"
"You only use it when you're pissed."
A beat passed–then, despite everything, Izuku let out a short laugh. "Maybe because I'm pissed."
Normally, Katsuki would've fired back immediately. Today, he had nothing, because Izuku wasn't wrong. The realization settled heavily in his chest. Izuku rubbed at his face. The anger was fading now, leaving exhaustion behind.
"I don't understand why you didn't just tell me."
Katsuki's jaw tightened. Because he understood exactly why, he just hated the answer. "You wanna know why?"
Izuku nodded once; Katsuki looked toward the floor—anywhere except those green eyes.
"I screwed up."
Silence.
"And?"
Katsuki barked out a bitter laugh, "And?" His voice rose.
"That's it."
The frustration finally cracked through. "I made a bad call." his chest felt tight, too tight.
"The kid got hurt because of it."
"Katsuki—"
"No."
For once, he interrupted. "I keep seeing it."
The admission escaped before he could stop it. Raw, ugly, honest. The hallway fell completely silent.
"I keep replaying it," his voice dropped.
"If I'd moved sooner," a pause, "If I'd noticed faster," another, "If I'd done anything literally differently."
Izuku's expression softened immediately, and somehow that made everything worse. Because there it was—the thing Katsuki had spent two days running from.
The knowledge that someone could see he was hurting. He hated it. Almost as much as he wanted it.
"I didn't want you seeing that."
The words barely made it out; Izuku froze. Understanding slowly crossed his face, not pity–understanding.
"Oh."
Katsuki laughed once, harsh and humourless.
"Yeah." The sound echoed down the hallway.
"I know how I looked."
"Katsuki."
"I was falling apart." The confession felt like tearing off his own skin. Painful, necessary, and humiliating.
"I didn't want you standing there watching."
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Izuku stepped forward. Only one step–not enough to crowd him, but enough to be closer, and Katsuki let him. That alone said more than either of them could.
"Katsuki." Softer now–less angry, more sad, "That's exactly when I wanted to be there."
The words hit harder than the fight ever had.
Katsuki closed his eyes because suddenly the last two days looked very different–not from his perspective. From Izuku, watching him leave, watching him pull away. Trying over and over again. Getting shut out every single time, a wave of guilt rolled through him.
"Damn it."
Izuku's eyebrows lifted.
Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated–mostly with himself.
"I handled it badly." For Katsuki Bakugou, that was practically a formal apology.
Izuku stared. Then snorted–despite himself. "That's the understatement of the year."
Some of the tension cracked—not gone. Not fixed. But lighter, and for the first time in two days, Katsuki didn't try to run from it.
The anger had mostly faded; the hurt remained, but now it had somewhere to go.
Somewhere to settle.
They stood together in a silence that wasn't hostile anymore, just… tired.
Eventually, Izuku sighed.
"You really thought I only wanted the good parts?"
Katsuki frowned.
"What?"
"The victories. The easy days."
Izuku shrugged.
"The days when everything goes right."
Realization hit slowly. Then all at once, Katsuki felt like an idiot, because somewhere deep down, that had been exactly what he'd been protecting. Not Izuku-–himself.
The fear was that if Izuku saw him at his worst—really saw him—something might change. It was stupid–he knew it was stupid. But fears rarely cared about logic. Izuku watched him for a long moment, then shook his head.
"Kacchan."
The familiar nickname returned–the right one; something in Katsuki's chest loosened immediately.
"You absolute idiot."
Katsuki barked out a laugh.
"There he is."
"There, who is?"
"My boyfriend."
Heat immediately flickered across Katsuki's face. Izuku looked entirely too pleased about it, which was irritating.
Comforting and irritating.
"Tch."
"That's not an apology."
"You already got one."
"I absolutely did not."
"I said I handled it badly."
Izuku stared at him, then laughed–actually laughed. For real this time, and the sound felt like the first full breath Katsuki had taken in days.
Eventually, they started walking. Same direction, same pace–not because either of them suggested it, but because that was what they did.
Halfway to the exit, Izuku bumped his shoulder lightly against Katsuki's, a familiar gesture–an old habit.
Katsuki bumped him back a little harder. Naturally, the way they always had—the way they always would.
Nothing was completely fixed. The guilt was still there–the rookie was still injured; Katsuki would probably spend another week overthinking everything. But the distance was gone, and for now, that was enough. When they reached the doors, Izuku glanced over.
"You coming over tonight?"
Katsuki rolled his eyes, "Yeah."
The answer came immediately, no hesitation, no excuses, no walking away. Izuku smiled–small, private, and satisfied.
When they stepped out into the evening, they left together.