Work Text:
Katsuki
The building was already failing before they stepped inside.
Izuku’s voice came through comms immediately.
“Structural instability confirmed—Dynamight, don’t go up to any of the higher floors—”
“I can see it,” Katsuki snapped back, already moving.
Not faster in any visible way—just more precisely. Weight distribution, timing, and pressure underfoot. The kind of awareness that doesn’t need to be spoken to exist. Smoke poured through the stairwell in uneven waves. Somewhere deeper, the structure kept collapsing in delayed, ugly sequences. Civilians were still inside.
That narrowed everything.
Katsuki moved first. Explosion bloomed from his palms—controlled, directional, carving space instead of obliterating it. He forced a corridor through debris that didn’t want to yield.
“Move!” he barked.
Izuku was already guiding civilians through the opposite passage, voice tight but steady.
Too steady.
A crack split overhead, Izuku looked up first.
“Dynamight—above you!”
Katsuki didn’t respond. He shifted. Explosion surged upward—not a blast, but sustained pressure shaped into a lift, holding collapsing mass for a fraction too long to matter. It almost worked. He caught it. Arms locked, shoulders braced, hands acting less like weapons and more like structural anchors.
“Hold it—hold it—”
Izuku’s voice cut in, closer now. Not comms. He was physically there. Then the building failed deeper than either of them could read. A secondary collapse point gave way. Everything dropped at once. The force didn’t spread outward. It came inward. Katsuki didn’t hear the impact correctly. He felt it. Like the world folded and chose him as its landing point. He hit hard, concrete, water, dust, air gone before thought could catch up. Silence. Then, delayed pain—sharp, immediate, disorganized. He pushed up automatically. His right hand didn’t follow correctly. Fingers lagged behind intent. Not absent—misaligned.
“Kacchan!”
Izuku was on him instantly, no hesitation, no distance. Hands already under his arm, hauling him out of the wreckage before Katsuki fully registered he was down. Katsuki tried to stabilize. Instinct fired in his left hand—nothing came out. He blinked once. Again.
“…what,” he muttered.
Izuku’s eyes dropped immediately. Not gradual. Instant recognition.
“Don’t move your hands,” he said.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
Katsuki scoffed—but it cut off when his right hand failed to close properly. That stopped everything. He looked down. Gloves torn, fingertips exposed. Swelling was already rising over his knuckles. Skin-tight, uneven, wrong under the light. He tried again. Command: close. Result: partial motion, delayed response. Izuku grabbed his wrist.
“Kacchan—stop. Don’t test it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said I’m—”
Another attempt. Nothing responded. Silence dropped between them. Izuku’s grip tightened slightly—not forceful, but anchoring. Then his voice changed.
“Extraction. Now. Severe bilateral hand trauma. Possible fractures. Likely nerve involvement. Loss of controlled quirk output through upper limbs.”
“I said no.”
Katsuki yanked back hard, pain flaring sharply enough to cleave through denial, and he froze for half a beat while Izuku didn’t let go.
“…Kacchan,” Izuku said, lower now. “You can’t use them.”
“I just did.”
“No. You tried.”
That distinction landed wrong. Because it was true. And Katsuki hated that it was.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
The hospital lights were too white. Too still. Katsuki sat upright because lying down made his arms feel dissociated from how gravity was supposed to treat them. Both hands were in splints. He kept looking at them anyway. Izuku stood near the wall, still half in gear, like he hadn’t fully accepted the shift from mission to aftermath.
Dr. Shiratori spoke plainly.
“There are multiple fractures in both hands, along with crush injury to the soft tissue. The right hand is worse than the left.”
Katsuki exhaled once.
“So they’re broken.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Izuku muttered, then stopped himself.
Dr. Shiratori continued.
“Nerve conduction disruption detected in several digits. Full assessment unavailable until swelling subsides.”
Izuku stepped forward slightly.
“That means the signals are interrupted,” he said quickly, softer to Katsuki than the doctor. “Not gone. Just not functioning properly yet.”
Katsuki didn’t look at him.
“Yeah.”
Dr. Shiratori closed the file.
“Quirk activation through the hands is restricted. You will be fitted with a suppression brace during recovery.”
Katsuki’s gaze sharpened.
“…I can’t use Explosion.”
“Not through the hands,” she corrected.
Izuku’s jaw tightened slightly.
“And if he does?” Izuku asked.
Dr. Shiratori didn’t soften.
“Permanent diminution in grip strength. Chronic pain. Loss of fine motor control under load.”
Izuku went quiet.
Processing.
“No strenuous work for at least eight to ten weeks,” she continued evenly.
Katsuki let out a short laugh.
“Paperwork hero.”
Izuku didn’t respond, but his eyes lingered on Katsuki’s hands longer than necessary.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Discharge came too soon. Heroes didn’t remain unless something was actively unstable. He wasn’t unstable. Just impaired. Izuku walked beside him the entire way home. Not hovering. Just present. Like it was assumed. It required no negotiation. Katsuki didn’t tell him to leave. Didn’t tell him to stay either.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
The apartment was too quiet, familiar in a way that felt slightly askew. Izuku lingered at the door longer than necessary. Katsuki didn’t sit down, didn’t remove his boots, didn’t transition into anything resembling rest.
“I’ll be back on patrol in a week,” Katsuki said automatically.
Izuku exhaled through his nose.
“The doctor said six to eight weeks.”
“I heard her.”
A beat.
“I didn’t ask if you heard her,” Izuku said.
Not confrontation. Just grounding.
Katsuki scoffed. Izuku stepped further inside and set his gear down properly. Not reorganizing anything—just restoring the space’s natural order. Then he looked back.
“Sit down,” he said.
Katsuki frowned.
“I don’t need—”
“I didn’t say you needed it.”
Beat.
“I said sit down.”
That stopped him—not obedience, but recognition that Izuku wasn’t speaking loosely.
Katsuki sat, not carefully, just finally. Izuku didn’t remark on it; he simply stayed nearby longer than necessary afterward.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Later, it was a habit more than thought. Katsuki flexed his fingers. Pain spiked immediately. He stopped. Waited. Tried again anyway. Nothing responded. No ignition. No spark. No instinctive correction.
“Bullshit,” he muttered.
He reached for a glass. His grip misaligned. The glass didn’t move. He stared at it. Tried again—smaller motion. Simpler command. Still nothing. From across the room, Izuku didn’t speak immediately. Then he moved. Not quickly. Not cautiously. Just directly across the space. He didn’t take the glass away. Didn’t correct Katsuki. Instead, he placed his hand lightly around Katsuki’s wrist—not to control, just to steady the angle and intent.
“Kacchan,” he said quietly. “Don’t force it.”
“I’m not forcing anything.”
“You are,” Izuku said, but not sharply.
A pause.
“Your hand isn’t listening right now. That’s all.”
Katsuki didn’t look at him.
“…it should be.”
“I know.”
Izuku adjusted the glass slightly, moving it closer—not into Katsuki’s hand, just into reachable range that didn’t require strain. Then he didn’t move away immediately. Katsuki tried again. The motion still failed—but now the object was already positioned correctly, so no full correction was required. Silence settled. Not empty. Shared. Izuku’s hand remained near his wrist—not gripping anymore, just present. Anchoring without constraining.
“…you don’t have to fix it,” Katsuki muttered finally.
Izuku shook his head slightly.
“I’m not fixing it,” he said.
Beat.
“I’m just here so you don’t have to figure it out alone.”
Katsuki didn’t respond immediately.
Then, quieter:
“…annoying.”
Izuku huffed once—almost a laugh.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
But he didn’t move away, and Katsuki didn’t tell him to—not this time.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Recovery changed the shape of Katsuki’s days before it changed anything else. He wasn’t going into the agency full-time anymore. Only short consult sessions. Strategy input. Incident breakdowns when his input was required. Everything else happened at home. Izuku adjusted his schedule around it without making it sound like an adjustment. Like it was normal. Like Katsuki was still just there, not recalibrating.
Mornings started with Izuku already moving through the apartment. Coffee. Equipment check. Half-written reports on the counter. Katsuki would wake up slower than he used to, and that was the first thing that annoyed him. Not the injury—the lag. He sat up, flexed his fingers carefully in their supports. They didn’t feel like his yet. Izuku noticed immediately.
“You slept badly,” he said, not a question.
“I slept fine.”
Izuku walked over anyway, brushing a hand briefly through Katsuki’s hair like it was instinct.
“You always say that when you didn’t.”
Katsuki huffed.
“…I didn’t ask for a diagnosis.”
Izuku leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Katsuki’s temple before stepping away.
“Still true.”
That ended it.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Katsuki tried to keep doing things the way he used to. That was the problem. He still reached for the cabinets without thinking. Still tried to open packaging too quickly. Still got irritated when his hands didn’t respond with the same alacrity as his intention. Izuku never took over immediately. He waited until Katsuki clearly hit friction. Then helped without announcing it as assistance. A jar that wouldn’t open. Izuku just appeared beside him.
“Give it here.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Mhmm.”
Pause.
Katsuki handed it over. Izuku opened it easily, then placed it back in Katsuki’s hand like nothing had happened.
Katsuki muttered, “…annoying.”
Izuku smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
That was their rhythm now.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Katsuki still did agency work—just differently. Occasional in-person consults where he sat at the strategy table while others filled in operational particulars. He hated those most. Not because he couldn’t contribute. Because everyone waited for him to speak differently now. Like he had become a version of himself that required calibration. Izuku usually came with him. Not because he had to. Because he stayed close without turning it into a statement.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
The first real shift wasn’t pain. It was forgetting. One morning, Katsuki reached for his hero gauntlet case out of habit, then stopped and looked at it. His hands were wrapped, limited—not wrong, but not what they used to be—and he stood there longer than necessary before Izuku noticed.
“Kacchan?”
“Nothing.”
But he didn’t move for a while after that.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
The hair washing started as something simple. It wasn’t planned as “comfort.” It just happened on a night Izuku came home late, rain still in his hair, exhaustion sitting in his shoulders. Katsuki looked at him from the couch.
“You’re soaked.”
“I know,” Izuku said, already smiling a little.
“Then fix it.”
“I will.”
He didn’t move immediately, then—
“…do you want me to help wash your hair?” Izuku asked casually, like it was the same category as making dinner.
Katsuki blinked at him.
“…you’re already tired.”
“I’m still functional,” Izuku said immediately.
“That’s not the point.”
Izuku walked over and crouched slightly in front of him.
“It’s not effort,” he said more softly. “It’s just easier if I do it for you.”
Katsuki stared at him, then sighed.
“…don’t make it weird.”
Izuku grinned.
“I’m literally offering to wash your hair, Kacchan. You’re the one escalating it.”
That got a quiet “tch.”
But no refusal.
The bathroom was warm and slightly fogged from the shower running low. Izuku guided Katsuki carefully into the shower and adjusted the shower head.
“Lean back a bit,” he said.
Katsuki did. Water ran through his hair, steady and warm. Izuku’s hands worked slowly—massaging shampoo in, careful not to tug too hard around sensitive areas. Not clinical. Not distant—familiar.
Like this wasn’t new between them, even if the injury was.
Katsuki exhaled once.
“…you’re slow.”
“I’m thorough,” Izuku said automatically.
“You’re always thorough.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then Izuku’s voice softened.
“Is the water okay?”
“…yeah.”
Izuku adjusted the temperature slightly anyway, just in case. Katsuki didn’t say much while it happened. That was normal, but he didn’t pull away either, and that mattered more. At one point, Izuku leaned forward slightly to rinse the shampoo, and Katsuki’s shoulder bumped his knee. Neither of them moved away, not because they were ignoring it, but because they didn’t need to.
Afterward, Izuku wrapped a towel around Katsuki’s head and pressed it lightly.
“Done,” he said.
Katsuki adjusted it automatically.
Wrong angle.
Izuku fixed it without comment.
Katsuki exhaled through his nose.
“…you’re really domestic for someone who runs into burning buildings for a living.”
Izuku smiled.
“You keep me around for worse reasons.”
“We are not discussing that.”
Izuku paused.
Then, casually:
“Sure.”
Katsuki glared.
Izuku laughed softly.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
That night, Katsuki tried to open a drawer in the kitchen without thinking. His hand missed the handle. He stopped. Tried again. Missed again. He froze longer this time.
Not frustration first, recognition.
Izuku didn’t step in immediately. He waited until Katsuki looked at his hand as if it didn’t fully match memory. Then Izuku gently guided the drawer open from behind him, one hand briefly resting at Katsuki’s waist—not restraining, just anchoring.
“You’re overthinking it,” Izuku said quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are a little.”
Katsuki didn’t argue. That was new. No agreement. Just… pause. Izuku stayed close a moment longer than necessary, not fixing anything, just there.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Later, Katsuki sat at the table longer than he meant to, hands resting in front of him. Not useless. Just unfamiliar with timing.
Izuku moved around the kitchen behind him, humming quietly while making tea. Normal rhythm. Shared space. No urgency. Katsuki looked down at his hands once, then away, then back again. They still worked. Just not the way he expected them to. And for the first time, that didn’t feel temporary in a way he could immediately outrun.
Izuku set a cup down beside him without speaking. Katsuki didn’t thank him. Izuku didn’t expect it. He just sat across from him and stayed.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
It didn’t get worse. That was the problem. It just stopped getting better. The pain eased enough that people acted like it meant something. Like reduction meant recovery. Like, less hurt meant progress. Katsuki knew better now. Less pain just meant more space for everything else to show up.
His hands weren’t useless. That was the lie people would’ve said if they were trying to be careful. They still moved. They still responded. Just not the way they were supposed to. Not fast enough. Not clean enough. Not automatic. And that gap—that delay between intent and result—was starting to feel like something he couldn’t train out of. Just… something he had to work around. That was worse. Working around himself.
Izuku noticed before Katsuki said anything. He always did. Not in a loud way. Not in a “you’re not okay” way. Just small adjustments. Food left out without comment. Doors already open when Katsuki got there. Silence that didn’t ask questions. Izuku was still working too. Still gone during the day. Still coming back tired in ways he didn’t bother hiding anymore. But he never stopped orbiting. Even when Katsuki tried not to notice it.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
The agency didn’t slow down. That was the insult of it. Katsuki wasn’t replaced. He was routed around. Reports kept being filed. Strategies got built. Decisions got made. Not badly. Just… without him. He saw it in fragments when he went in. People spoke a little longer before realizing they didn’t need to pause for him to respond. Interns filling in ideas he would’ve cut or rebuilt. No one was doing anything wrong. That was the point. Nothing required him anymore.
He stopped answering messages. Not all at once. Just… delayed. Then ignored. Then unopened. Not because he didn’t see them. Because replying meant acknowledging a version of himself he didn’t have access to right now.
Izuku didn’t push. But Katsuki could feel when he checked anyway. He always came home the same way. Quiet. Present. Not demanding anything from the space. Which somehow made it harder to avoid.
The apartment felt too structured now. It had decided to continue existing without checking whether he was participating. Katsuki stood in the middle of it one afternoon longer than he meant to. Not thinking about anything specific. Just noticing how nothing in the room needed him to function. That should’ve been normal. It wasn’t. His hands hung loosely at his sides. They didn’t feel injured anymore. That was the wrong part. They just felt… uncertain. Like they were waiting for instructions they didn’t automatically receive. He flexed his fingers once. Nothing meaningful happened. He stopped. Didn’t try again. That was new.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Izuku came home later than usual. Katsuki heard the door. Didn’t move right away. He didn’t need to look to know it was him. Footsteps across the entry. Gear set down. The small pause before Izuku decided whether to call out. He didn’t. That was the first thing that registered as different. Not absence. Restraint.
Then Izuku was there in the room. Not immediately close. Just present in the doorway first. Like he was checking something without turning it into a question. Katsuki didn’t look at him. That wasn’t avoidance. Just… not necessary yet. Izuku set his bag down slowly. Then crossed the room. No urgency. No correction. He sat down on the floor a short distance away.
Not touching. Just close enough that the space didn’t feel empty anymore. Katsuki stayed where he was. That part didn’t change. A long silence stretched out. Not uncomfortable. Just unstructured. Izuku shifted slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. Then, quietly:
“You’ve been gone in your head for a bit.”
Katsuki exhaled through his nose.
“…I’m here.”
“I know,” Izuku said immediately.
No disagreement. Just acknowledgment. Another pause. Izuku leaned a little closer—not physically into him, just into the same space of attention.
“I don’t need you to be fine right now,” he added.
That landed differently than comfort usually did. Not fixing. Not reassurance. Just permission to not perform.
Katsuki stared at the wall for a while after that. His hands curled slightly without intention. Then stopped. He didn’t correct it. Didn’t hide it. Didn’t turn it into anything.
Izuku didn’t move in to touch him right away. He just stayed there. Present in a way that didn’t ask for participation.
After a while, Katsuki felt the space beside his hand shift slightly. No contact at first. Just closeness. Then Izuku’s hand rested there. Not holding. Not guiding. Just there. Like a reference point that didn’t require a response.
Katsuki didn’t look at it. But he didn’t move away either. The silence stayed. But it stopped feeling like absence.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Katsuki noticed the change first in how people paused before responding to him. No hesitation. Consideration. They still brought him problems, still asked for his input, still expected answers—but the tone had shifted. His words were no longer treated as background noise between operational decisions. They were treated as decisions themselves. That difference lingered.
At the agency, a containment layout had reached stalemate. Two proposed approaches were on the table. Neither was wrong, but neither was efficient. Katsuki scanned the map once.
“Move the eastern perimeter inward by two meters,” he said.
A coordinator frowned slightly.
“That reduces buffer time for evacuation.”
“It prevents overlap collapse during phase two,” Katsuki replied immediately.
Silence followed. The coordinator checked the projection again. Izuku, seated across from him in an analyst capacity for the day, leaned forward slightly.
“I agree with Katsuki,” he said simply.
That settled it. The plan shifted without further debate. No one treated Izuku’s agreement as decorative support. They treated it as reinforcement of Katsuki’s judgment. Katsuki didn’t comment on it. He registered it anyway.
An intern misread one of Katsuki’s earlier strategies during a briefing. Their explanation came out compressed and inaccurate in key sections. Katsuki didn’t interrupt immediately. He waited until they finished.
“That’s not structured correctly,” he said flatly.
Tension flickered across the room. The intern started to backtrack— Izuku spoke first.
“You’ve combined the fallback sequence with the initial dispersal phase,” Izuku said, calm and precise. “Those are separate steps.”
He glanced toward Katsuki.
“That’s what you meant, right?”
Katsuki gave a short nod.
“Yeah.”
No embarrassment followed the correction. No reprimand was needed. The intern adjusted their notes at once. The room moved forward. That, more than anything, stayed with Katsuki afterward. Not correct. Absorption.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
At home, the rhythm was quieter. Izuku didn’t treat Katsuki like he required management. He treated him like Katsuki still set the baseline. If something slipped from his grasp or slowed under his hands, Izuku didn’t rush in immediately. He watched first. Only intervened when effort turned into strain. Even then, nothing was announced. Assistance arrived without commentary. A door already open. An object already within reach. A task already half-supported. Katsuki noticed it more than he acknowledged it.
One evening, Katsuki reviewed reports at the kitchen table. Izuku sat nearby, eating late.
“I heard they approved the revised containment structure,” Katsuki said without looking up.
“Because of your notes,” Izuku replied.
“They would’ve adjusted it anyway.”
“No,” Izuku said simply. “They waited for your confirmation.”
That made Katsuki pause briefly, not because it was surprising, but because it was stated without exaggeration.
Respect showed up differently now. Not louder. More consistent.
During a briefing later that week, a senior coordinator challenged one of Katsuki’s proposed adjustments. The room waited for escalation. It didn’t come. Katsuki explained once.
Clean and direct.
The coordinator studied the data again.
“…that’s more efficient,” they admitted.
No resistance followed—not because authority was assumed, but because it was verified.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Izuku noticed Katsuki watching those moments more often. Not reacting. Just observing how easily his input settled into decisions now. On the walk home, Izuku spoke casually.
“You’re quieter in meetings.”
“They don’t need volume anymore,” Katsuki replied.
“It’s not that.”
Katsuki glanced at him, and Izuku kept walking.
“They listen faster now,” he said. “Because they trust your read.”
That reframed something without softening it. Katsuki didn’t answer immediately.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
At home, the apartment settled into evening quiet. Katsuki sat down without thinking about it. Hands resting on the table. Not fighting placement. Not correcting position.
Izuku moved around the kitchen, finishing something simple. No urgency in his movements. No attempt to fill the silence. After a while, Katsuki spoke.
“…they still listen.”
Izuku turned slightly.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Katsuki exhaled.
“…even like this.”
Izuku didn’t hesitate.
“Especially like this,” he corrected.
Katsuki frowned slightly. Izuku leaned back against the counter.
“Because you’re not guessing anymore,” he added. “You’re just stating what you see.”
That didn’t erase discomfort. It reshaped it.
Later, Katsuki looked at his hands for a longer stretch than usual. Not searching for change. Just acknowledging their current state without reaction.
The room stayed quiet. Izuku came over eventually, setting down his plate, then lowering himself onto the couch beside Katsuki. No announcement. Just proximity. After a moment, Izuku nudged Katsuki lightly with his shoulder.
“Tired?” he asked.
“…no.”
Izuku hummed like he didn’t fully believe that, but didn’t argue. He shifted, then opened his arms slightly—not demanding, just offering. Katsuki hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then leaned in anyway. It wasn’t dramatic. No collapse into him. Just contact. Izuku adjusted immediately, wrapping an arm around Katsuki and resting his head briefly against his shoulder. Katsuki exhaled slowly.
“…you’re annoying,” he muttered.
“I know,” Izuku said softly.
Neither of them moved away. The TV kept playing in the background without either of them watching it. Katsuki’s posture eased gradually—not fixed, not solved, just allowed to rest without effort for once. Izuku stayed warm beside him, hand steady at his back. Not holding him up. Just there so he didn’t have to hold himself quite as tightly.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Three months after the collapse, Dr. Shiratori smiled for the first time since Katsuki had become her patient. She rotated his wrist carefully, watching the small muscles in his hand respond.
"Again."
Katsuki spread his fingers. There was still stiffness. Still hesitation. But the movement was smooth. She nodded.
"Better."
He tried not to read too much into one word. Dr. Shiratori looked over the newest scans before turning back toward him.
"The fractures have healed well."
She tapped another image.
"The nerve conduction studies still aren't identical to your baseline, but they're improving."
Katsuki stayed quiet.
She knew what he was waiting for.
"So," she continued, folding her hands together, "I'm clearing you for graduated quirk reactivation."
His head lifted immediately.
"...Really?"
"With restrictions."
Of course.
"No sustained output."
She held up a finger.
"No combat deployment."
Another.
"No repeated ignition if you experience pain, numbness, or delayed response."
She met his eyes.
"You're learning how your hands work now, Katsuki. Don't expect them to behave exactly as they did before."
He nodded once.
This time, he meant it.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
The agency arranged for the first test to happen in one of the smaller training facilities. Nothing elaborate. Just a reinforced room, monitoring equipment, and medical staff. Dr. Shiratori stood behind the observation glass.
Izuku stood beside the wall inside the room, not close enough to interfere but close enough to be there. He smiled when Katsuki walked in.
"You ready?"
Katsuki looked down at his hands.
"...I don't know."
It was the first time he'd admitted that out loud.
Izuku didn't try to answer for him. Instead, he stepped closer and bumped their shoulders together.
"You don't have to prove anything today."
Katsuki let out a quiet breath.
"...Easy for you to say."
"No."
Izuku smiled softly.
"It's easy for me to believe."
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
Katsuki lifted one hand. It felt strange. Not painful. Different. His fingers settled into a familiar position almost automatically. Almost. He stopped. A few months ago, that hesitation would've made him angry. Now, he simply adjusted. Slower. More deliberately.
Dr. Shiratori's voice came through the speaker.
"Whenever you're ready."
Katsuki inhaled, then exhaled. A tiny burst of orange light flickered across his palm. A sharp pop echoed through the room. Barely stronger than a firecracker, the blast dispersed almost immediately.
Silence followed. Katsuki stared at his hand. No pain. No numbness. No loss of control. Just... a spark. He laughed. It caught him completely off guard—not loud, not forced, just a real laugh. Izuku's eyes widened before a grin spread across his entire face.
"There you are," he said quietly.
Katsuki looked over.
"...It was tiny."
"I know."
"It barely counted."
"I know."
Another laugh escaped him.
"It was pathetic."
Izuku shook his head.
"It was progress."
Dr. Shiratori entered a minute later, checking his hands before reviewing the monitoring equipment.
"No swelling."
She gently rotated his wrist.
"Any tingling?"
Katsuki flexed his fingers.
"...No."
"Pain?"
He thought about it.
"...No."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Good."
She made one final note in his chart.
"We'll increase the workload gradually."
No promises. No guarantees. Just the next step. For once... That was enough.
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
The drive home felt lighter. Not because everything had changed. Because nothing needed to. Traffic rolled past outside while Izuku drove one-handed, humming quietly to whatever song was playing through the speakers. Katsuki rested his arm against the window.
"...You looked like you were gonna cry."
Izuku laughed.
"I absolutely was."
"You would've been embarrassing."
"I know."
"You still are."
"I know."
Katsuki shook his head.
"...Sap."
"Your sap."
The words slipped out so naturally that neither of them noticed at first.
Then Katsuki glanced over.
"...Yeah."
A faint blush crept across Izuku's face.
"...Yeah."
✧˚ ⋆｡˚
That evening, they ordered takeout instead of cooking. It felt worth celebrating. Halfway through dinner, Izuku reached across the table.
"Can I see?"
Katsuki held out his hand without asking what he meant. Izuku turned it over carefully and ran his thumb gently across the center of Katsuki's palm.
Not checking, simply holding it.
"I missed this," Izuku admitted.
Katsuki looked at their hands.
"So did I."
Later, they ended up on the couch the way they often had during recovery. Except this time, Katsuki moved first. He leaned sideways until his shoulder rested against Izuku's. Izuku smiled immediately, and without saying anything, he wrapped an arm around Katsuki and pulled him a little closer.
Katsuki settled there easily, resting his head against Izuku's shoulder. The television played quietly in front of them. Neither paid much attention. Izuku pressed a kiss into Katsuki's hair.
"I'm really proud of you."
Katsuki smiled—a small one, but genuine.
"...Wasn't exactly graceful."
"No."
Izuku laughed softly.
"It was very you, though."
Another comfortable silence settled over the apartment. Months ago, Katsuki would have measured himself by the size of the explosion. Tonight, the spark had been enough. Not because it proved he was the hero he used to be. Because it reminded him that recovery had never been about becoming that person again.
He was still moving forward. Still learning. Still growing into someone worth relying on. Someone Izuku had never stopped believing in. Katsuki laced his fingers loosely with Izuku's.
"...We've still got a long way to go."
Izuku squeezed his hand gently.
"Yeah."
A warm smile crossed his face.
"We'll go the rest of it together."
For the first time since the building collapsed, the future didn't feel like something Katsuki had to chase.
It felt like somewhere they were already walking toward, side by side.