Work Text:
Izuku
The first thing Izuku noticed was that Katsuki stopped taking his shirt off around him. Not completely, but enough that it became noticeable.
At first, it was easy to miss. A quick change in the gym locker room before Izuku arrived. A hoodie was pulled over his head before they left agency headquarters. A jacket was kept on longer than necessary when they met up after patrol, little things. Individually, they meant nothing—together, they made Izuku's stomach twist. Especially because Katsuki had never cared before. He'd always been unapologetically himself. Scars, burns, bruises, all of it. The kind of person who looked at permanent damage and shrugged.
So when Izuku stopped by Katsuki's apartment one evening and let himself in after getting the usual grunted permission over the intercom, he wasn't expecting anything unusual. The place smelled faintly of coffee and whatever Katsuki had been cooking earlier. The kitchen was clean, not spotless—Katsuki wasn't obsessive—but everything had a place. Dishes drying on a rack beside the sink. Groceries neatly put away. A pot soaking in warm water.
Domestic in a way most people never expected from him, Izuku smiled automatically as he stepped inside. Then he saw Katsuki reaching for a mug in the cabinet. His shirt rode up revealing a small amount of toned stomach muscle, a strip of dark purple bruising wrapped around his ribs.
Izuku froze, "Kacchan."
Immediately, Katsuki yanked the fabric down, too fast, too guilty—nothing good ever followed guilt.
"What?" Katsuki snapped, the response was automatic, defensive and sharp.
Izuku set down the notebook he'd been carrying.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Kacchan—"
"It's nothing, Izuku."
The use of his actual name instead of "Deku" should have felt sweet. Instead, it felt like a warning. Izuku studied him carefully, the slight stiffness in his posture, the way he wasn't quite standing straight, the tension around his shoulders, and suddenly he knew—not exactly what had happened. Just that Katsuki was hurt.
Again, and apparently had decided not to tell him. A familiar ache settled behind Izuku's ribs.
Not anger, disappointment—the kind that came from being shut out.
"You got injured."
"No."
"You are literally bruised."
"Occupational hazard."
"Kacchan."
"Drop it."
Izuku fell silent, for a moment, neither of them moved. The apartment hummed around them—the refrigerator, the traffic outside, the soft buzz of the overhead light. Then Katsuki grabbed his coffee and walked away.
Conversation over—at least for him. Izuku watched him disappear down the hallway, watched the slight hitch in his step, watched the way he kept one arm pressed close to his side, and felt something cold settle in his chest. This wasn't about bruises, it wasn't even about the injury. It was about the fact that Katsuki would rather suffer alone than let someone help him, even now, even after everything, even after every promise they'd made since.
Some part of Katsuki still believed vulnerability was something to survive—not something to share.
°. *࿐
Katsuki
The second the bedroom door shut behind him, Katsuki leaned against it and squeezed his eyes shut. ~Shit. He knew that look, he'd seen it on Izuku's face enough times over the years to recognize it immediately. Disappointment—not anger, nor frustration, and somehow that felt worse.
Katsuki let out a slow breath and pressed the heel of his hand against his ribs. Pain flared through his side—sharp, immediate, and entirely deserved. The mission three days ago had gone sideways. A collapsing support beam, civilians trapped underneath, no time to think. He'd made the calculation in less than a second and taken the hit. Worth it, he'd do it again.
The problem wasn't the injury, the problem was everything that came after. Now he had bruised ribs—probably a crack somewhere—and every movement reminded him of it. Worse, Izuku knew. Of course, he knew. The idiot noticed everything.
Katsuki pushed himself away from the door and sat heavily on the edge of his bed. Almost immediately, the familiar argument started up in his head.
The old voice was there first. The one that sounded like years of expectations and survival instincts wrapped together.
Don't tell him. It'll heal. You've handled worse. Stop being pathetic. You don't need help.
The words came automatically, old, comfortable, safe, then another voice answered.
Quieter, but just as stubborn.
Izuku isn't "help."
Katsuki grimaced.
Doesn't matter, the old voice shot back. You show him the injury, and what happens? He worries. He fusses. He starts treating you like you're fragile.
The thought made his stomach twist.
No, he doesn't, the quieter voice argued. He's never done that.
Because that was the real problem, wasn't it? Not the pain. Not the bruising. Not even the possibility that something was actually wrong. It was being seen. Standing there while someone looked directly at the damage and knew he wasn't okay. Katsuki hated it, always had. Asking for help felt too much like admitting weakness. Like handing someone a weapon and trusting them not to use it.
The apartment was quiet beyond the bedroom door. He could hear cabinets opening and closing, the kettle being filled, the ordinary sounds of Izuku existing in the next room. Still there, not pushing, not demanding. The idiot.
You trust him with everything else.
Katsuki stared at the floor. It was true, Izuku knew things nobody else did. The nightmares. The guilt. The panic attacks after Izuku’s drowning. The fears Katsuki never admitted out loud. Hell, Izuku probably knew him better than he knew himself some days, and yet showing him a stupid injury felt impossible. Because injuries were real, visible, undeniable. The old voice seized on that immediately.
Exactly. Once he sees it, you can't take it back. He'll know you're hurting.
The quieter voice didn't hesitate.
He already knows.
That one landed hard, the old voice faltered.
You'll be fine on your own.
Maybe, the other voice replied. But you don't have to be.
Katsuki sat there for another minute. Then another. The argument kept going.
Don't do it. Just wait a few days. It'll heal.
And Izuku will spend those days worrying because you shut him out.
That did it. "Goddammit."
He stood. His ribs protested immediately. He ignored them and headed back toward the living room. Izuku looked up the second he appeared in the doorway. Concern flashed across his face. Katsuki almost turned around. Almost—instead, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it.
"Don't make a thing out of it."
Silence, then—"Kacchan."
The disappointment was gone. Relief had replaced it, and somehow that hurt less.
The bruising wrapped around nearly half his side, dark purple and ugly against pale skin. Izuku's eyes widened.
"How long?"
"Three days."
"Kacchan."
"I know."
"You should've told me."
"I know."
The words came out rough and reluctant, but they were honest. Izuku stood slowly, as if he were approaching a scared animal—which was insulting, and, unfortunately, accurate.
"Can I look at it?"
Every instinct screamed no—Katsuki swallowed. Then nodded once, Izuku smiled softly. Not victorious, not smug—just grateful, and somehow that made it easier.
"Okay," Izuku said quietly. "Let's get some ice."
°. *࿐
Thirty minutes later, Katsuki was stretched across the couch, looking thoroughly miserable.
The injury had been cleaned and re-bandaged. An ice pack rested against his side. Painkillers sat on the coffee table. A blanket had appeared from somewhere despite his repeated objections. Humiliating, absolutely humiliating.
His head rested in Izuku's lap while one of Izuku's hands idly stroked through his hair. Katsuki should've hated it, maybe he did hate it—at least a little. But every time Izuku's fingers scratched lightly against his scalp, some of the tension leaked out of him before he could stop it.
The apartment had settled into evening quiet. Streetlights glowed through the windows, casting soft shadows across the room while traffic murmured in the distance. For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Izuku broke the silence, "Thank you."
Katsuki frowned and tipped his head back enough to look up at him. "For what?"
Izuku's fingers never stopped moving through his hair, "For trusting me."
The words landed harder than any punch, Katsuki immediately looked away. "Don't be weird."
"I'm serious."
"I literally showed you some bruises."
A small smile tugged at Izuku's mouth, "It wasn't just bruises."
Damn him, because he was right—of course, he was right, Izuku shifted slightly, close enough that Katsuki could feel the warmth of him. "I know that was hard."
Katsuki stared stubbornly at the opposite wall, the silence stretched. Then he muttered, "Didn't ask."
"I know."
Another pause, "I still appreciate it."
Something uncomfortable tightened in Katsuki's chest.
"I know you hate feeling vulnerable," Izuku continued quietly. "I know asking for help isn't easy for you."
Katsuki didn't answer, didn't need to. Izuku's hand found his and squeezed gently, "And I know you did it anyway."
The tightness in Katsuki's chest became suspiciously emotional, which was unacceptable.
He squeezed Izuku's hand once in return. A warning, a thank you—both. Izuku seemed to understand, he always did. For a while, they sat in comfortable silence. Izuku's fingers returned to his hair, moving slowly through the blond strands.
Katsuki should've moved, should've complained, should've done something.
Instead, he settled a little deeper into the couch and let his eyes drift shut—just for a minute. Just until his ribs stopped hurting. Just until he remembered how to carry the weight himself. The lie didn't even convince him, and for the first time in a long while, he found that he didn't mind.