Chapter Text
The first thing he's aware of is the sound of the damn HVAC.
Katsuki peels his eyes open, blinking rapidly. The chalkboard blurs in and out of focus. He squints. Chalkboard…shit. Right. Class. He peers down at the open notebook on his desk, nose wrinkling at the trail of pencil dragging across the half-filled out page. The kanji are muddy and don't really make sense, though whether or not that's because his handwriting looks like shit or because his focus is shot through from the overwhelming ache radiating all over his fucked up body is hard to say.
"Hey, Kacchan." Deku's voice startles him. He blinks, frowning. Deku's…next to him. Oh. Huh. It's right about now that Katsuki realizes the classroom is empty, save for them.
Shit. He fell asleep again.
"Where's Kirishima?" he asks, voice dragging out of him kicking and screaming. Deku makes a face, reaching up to scratch at his scarred cheek.
"He, um, he had to run—Fatgum asked for his help with some of the reconstruction."
Right. Duh. Katsuki closes his notebook, tries to ignore the pang in his chest. Reconstruction efforts have been an all hands on deck effort. Most of their classmates have been bouncing right after class to go help most days. Hell, Katsuki's shocked Deku's not running around out there—the idiot's usually one of the first out the door.
'Course, Kirishima's been hanging behind more often than not, lounging in the seat Deku's currently occupying until Katsuki manages to finagle his brain online enough to stand up and walk back to the dorms. A fucking feat and a half, right now.
"Ready?"
Katsuki blinks. Sighs. "Yeah, whatever." He sucks in a breath, his good hand splaying onto the desktop, and tries to will himself to stand.
Fun fact: standing with a patchwork heart? Not a fun fucking experience.
The dizzy spell hits immediately. Katsuki teeters in place, desk blurring into a smudge of white and back again, chest going so tight breathing fucking hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows down the curses burning at his tongue. Add to it all the godawful throbbing of his fucked up arm, and Katsuki contemplates the merits of just blowing himself the fuck up again.
Pros—the room would stop fucking spinning. Cons—well. Getting blown up sucks major dick.
As soon as his vision settles and he can manage standing without keeling over, pushes himself fully upright, and regrets everything because his stupid fucking backpack is still on the damn floor. Katsuki glares at it. God fucking dammit. He hisses a sigh, eyeing Deku who watches with those irritating, gentle eyes, and decides to bite the damn bullet.
"Grab my backpack, wouldja?"
Deku chuckles, clothes rustling as he leans forward, swiping the offending backpack off the floor. "Do you want to carry it, or…?"
Gods, this is embarrassing as shit. His skin prickles, and he glares at the backpack as if glaring will make his body hurt less. It doesn't. Because of fucking course it doesn't. He hisses a breath through his teeth, takes his notebook and stuffs it into the offered backpack and shoves it towards Deku without a word. He gets it, thank fuck, and slings the damn thing over a shoulder, his own bag hanging off the opposite one.
They walk side-by-side out of the room and into the empty hallway. Katsuki wonders what time it is. A glance out the large, floor-to-ceiling walls shows bright skies that hint at late afternoon. How late, he has no fucking clue, and decides it's not worth knowing.
The answer will only piss him off.
Deku doesn't talk much as they walk. Which. Katsuki's kind of very grateful for, because walking? Yeah, it sucks major ass. At least, right now it does—his pain meds have almost definitely worn off, and he feels it with every single breath, every fucking step. The throbbing, radiating ache in his arm's got him gritting his teeth and half wishing he could rip the damn thing off and chuck it across campus. It doesn't matter if he's got it limp at his side or if he tries to move it, the end result's the same—pain.
His own damn fault for choosing to keep it, he guesses. Fucking hell, is this the kind of shit Deku felt every time he fucked up his limbs? Fuck. Even now, he finds himself side-eyeing the idiot, gaze sticking to his scarred hands that, less than a couple of weeks ago, were covered in bandages.
"I'm surprised you're not out there helping, too," he mutters. "Usually you're out until the damn sun sets."
Deku adjusts one of the backpacks with pursed lips, reaching for the door handle. It squeaks on its hinges, loud enough to be grating, and afternoon light spills into the building. "Yeah, I guess so. There's just a lot to do, y'know?"
And, yeah, no shit. The country is in fucking shambles. Shit, coming back to UA from the hospital was a trip and a half—it took an extra thirty minutes to get around the mountains of rubble and destroyed city blocks just to get back to campus. Which, is still teeming with civilians who're using the emergency shelters UA has because half the damn population's been left unhoused. Including his own fucking parents.
Half the class's folks are here, actually. A quick glance across the greenery, and he can spot Jirou's folks strolling down the sidewalk a hundred meters to the right, her mom's arms laden with what looks to be grocery bags. Katsuki won't be surprised if his own parents show their faces around the dorms, later, because his mom is a nosey bitch, and they've both been irritatingly clingy, lately. (He'll never say it aloud, but he…he's kind of glad for it. Something about his mom's hugs eases the ever-present ache in his busted up body. He'd rather eat glass than tell anyone that, though.)
"But, well, I uh, I'm technically supposed to be on light duty anyway, and Kirishima-kun felt really bad about leaving, so I offered to stay and keep you company."
Something tugs inside his chest. Katsuki grasps at his fucked up arm, fingers twitching uselessly, and huffs. "I would've been fine," he says. Deku looks at him. There's a gentleness rippling in the forest of his gaze. A gentleness that drapes over Katsuki like a warm quilt, and he. He bristles, looks away, because facing that gentleness has embarrassment burning his skin like a brand.
"Yeah, I know," Deku says softly. And for as soft as those words are, they carry one hell of a weight—a weight laden by all the things left unspoken. Katsuki's throat goes tight. He glares at the sidewalk, puts all his focus into keeping his feet moving. It doesn't stop his eyes from burning, a little. It doesn't stop this shitty, traitorous whisper in his head telling him he doesn't deserve this gentleness, this kindness.
He tells that shitty whisper to fuck off. Mentally flips it off for good measure.
Kindness isn't about deserving, he tells himself. Does he believe it? Well. He's trying. He likes to think that counts for something.
They slow as they approach the dorms. Katsuki can feel Deku's gaze sticking to him. He doesn't bother sparing a glance back, too preoccupied with glaring at the accursed staircase standing between him and the damn couch calling his name. Seriously, who the hell decided stairs were the perfect entrypoint for the dorms? Like. What the actual fuck was the thought process here. It might be better if they had a railing, but apparently safety isn't a number one concern to their chief engineers.
Katsuki huffs out a breath. His first day back, his dad had helped him up the steps, one arm around his waist. They'd had to go really fucking slow—Katsuki's heart-rate went haywire and he got so dizzy his legs kind of stopped working. It's gotten easier, little by little. He just. Has to go irritatingly slow.
"Stand on my other side," he tells Deku. "Might need to grab you, and I can't do that with my shit arm."
"Oh, right, okay."
The second Deku's on the right side, Katsuki decides to quit stalling and begin the trek up the small flight of steps. One step at a time. 'Course, it doesn't take long for his heartrate to spike—the ground starts to spin beneath him, and Katsuki reaches out, latching onto the sleeve of Deku's uniform jacket, stopping short.
"You okay?" Deku asks. Katsuki grunts.
He's fine, he just. Needs a second. Or ten.
They make it eventually. Katsuki only stops three times, which is a personal best so far. But holy fuck, is he so damn ecstatic to sink to the floor inside the entryway, eyes drooping and body aching like a pressed-on bruise. There's the distinct thump thump of book-laden bags hitting the floor, and Deku sits across from him, scarred fingers working to undo the laces of those obnoxious, red shoes of his.
A sigh drags itself from Katsuki's throat. "Fuck, I need to go get my meds. And change out of this shitty uniform." He also needs to take his damn shoes off, but his motivation for moving is shot through.
"D'you…d'you, um, want some help?"
Katsuki blinks. Deku peers at him with knit brows and pursed lips, gaze flicking from him to his shoes and back again. And. His shoulders hunch, skin prickling something fierce, and he curls his lip. "No, I fucking got it." Thank fuck for loafers, because he can just tug them off one at a time, tossing them carelessly at the line of house slippers left by their classmates.
'Course, next comes the impossible task of standing up again to go upstairs and retrieve his meds. His very desperately needed meds. Katsuki's eyes sting a little, and he hates himself for it.
Fucking christ, being hurt sucks dick.
He throws a glance over his shoulder. The couches tempt him, all soft and cushiony and not up several floors away like his bed. Another sigh crawls free of his throat. He looks at Deku.
"I'm gonna go sit on that couch and not fucking move for awhile." He stops. Makes a face. That irritating tightness squeezes at his throat, again, and he once again finds himself contemplating the merits of palming his face and just. Blasting himself. His hand drifts to his chest, rubbing at his sternum.
Not worth it, he tells himself.
'Course, Deku's too damn smart for his own good, because he shoots Katsuki a knowing look. "Where's your meds at?" he asks. Simple and efficient and somehow dodging the nest of brambles all tangled up in Katsuki's chest.
Something uncoils in his gut. He sighs, shoulders sagging. "My desk. There's three bottles."
Deku hums, stands. He offers a scarred hand.
Katsuki takes it.
Standing part two electric boogaloo is probably worse because this time, the only thing he's got to steady himself against the onslaught of dizzy is Deku. Which is fucking embarrassing. He stumbles, vision whiting out and room bucking with all the tenacity of a boat careening on a wild, bucking ocean. Firm hands steady him, keep him upright long enough for the floor to feel steady beneath his feet, again.
He unlatches himself from Deku, muttering a, "Thanks."
"'Course, Kacchan."
Needless to say, he's really fucking happy to sink down into the couch.
His eyes droop. Fuck, he's tired. He's pretty sure he hears Deku call something to him, but he's not paying much attention. No, he's blinking slowly at the large, black screen of the tv, body heavy and jittery all at once.
It's a weird fucking feeling.
Something vibrates in his pocket. Katsuki's bad hand twitches on instinct. He leaves it draped uselessly on the couch cushion and clumsily fishes his phone out with his left hand instead.
Kirishima ⚙️💕(4:32PM)
[IMG: JPG]
found a friend :)
Katsuki stares at the texts, chest aching in ways that have jack shit to do with his injuries. A smile tugs at his lips. It's a picture of a cat rolling around on the ground, looking cute as shit as Kirishima's tanned hand sinks into its soft looking fur. He tries to type a message, fingers clumsy and awkward. Seconds bleed into minutes. Frustration saws at him. He settles for liking the picture, letting the phone drop on the couch, and glares at the shine of his reflection on the tv screen in front of him.
What he sees is a pathetic, rumpled, pallid-faced boy, with a limp arm covered in bandages.
The bite of frustration digs deeper. His jaw twitches.
He should be out there, with Kirishima. With all of them. Fuck, he should be helping instead of sitting here like a damn bump on a log. His skin buzzes with a need to get the hell up and—and fucking do something, good hand curling into the couch cushions, knuckles going white.
Some shitty, leftover pieces of the pride he carries thrash around inside him, slicing at him with its wailing pleas. You're falling behind, it says. Your friends are pulling ahead, you're missing out on opportunity. It takes a willpower to shove the voice away. A willpower Katsuki's not sure he's strong enough to maintain.
His phone buzzes again. He flips it over. Breath sticks in his throat.
Kirishima ⚙️💕(4:32PM)
hope ur feeling okay! wish u were here its boring without u :P
Heat stings his cheeks, and for some fucking reason, one simple text has his lips curving up into a smile, the sting of his hurt pride melting away into nothing but a distant memory. Katsuki leaves the phone on the cushions, opting to poke the screen with a finger instead. Typing left-handed is easier, this way.
"Here you go."
Katsuki startles, jerking back and blinking at the pill bottles rattling in his face. He fumbles to take them, dropping one in his lap from the effort. "Thanks," he mutters. Deku hums.
"Want a glass of water?"
He grunts an affirmative. Tries to decide if it's worth attempting to open these shits one-handed. Footsteps recede, and he hears the telltale creaking of cabinets opening and closing from the kitchen.
Theoretically he should be able to, if he just. Presses down on this tab with his thumb, right…?
The faucet runs. Turns off. Katsuki frowns at the bottle. Shit, he's supposed to press down on the stupid lid. Goddammit, why the hell is this shit so complicated to open? Actually, scratch that, he knows why. Fuck. It's annoying as shit, though, because his right hand's fucking useless, right now. Grip strength is non-existent, and it hurts like a bitch to move.
"Here, lemme just set this over here…" Glass clinks against the side table too far away. Deku peers at him with pursed lips, gaze zeroing in on the shitty pill bottle clutched in his hand. He raises his brows. Katsuki huffs.
"One of these." It rattles when he holds it out. Deku takes the bottle and twists it open with ease, the asshole, and shakes out one pill, which he hands to Katsuki. He pops it in his mouth. Deku hands him the glass, wordless, and he gulps down a mouthful. One pill down, four more to go.
Rinse, wash, and fucking repeat until Katsuki's consumed all his shitty prescribed drugs and can sink further into the couch with a sigh. His eyes droop, again. He should probably go upstairs and change. Should being a key word. But the couch is real goddamn comfy, and Katsuki's too damn tired to move again.
Deku shrugs off his uniform jacket, tossing it somewhere out of eyeline, and swipes the remote from the coffee table. He flops down next to Katsuki on the couch. Holds up the remote. The screen flickers to life, and Katsuki watches tiredly as Deku taps his way to Netflix.
"The fuck're you doing?" he asks. Deku shrugs. Clicks on some old as sin documentary about All Might Katsuki's watched dozens of times over as a kid. He blinks. Turns to squint at Deku. The fucker just appraises him with raised brows, tie askew and shirt all rumpled from the day.
Katsuki looks at the screen again. All Might's famous debut rescue flickers in all its grainy, shaky glory. Deku makes no move to get up, and Katsuki's insides squeeze something fierce.
"You really gonna tell me you don't have better shit to do than sit here?" His voice comes out rough, raw. The damn nerd just shrugs again, all nonchalant and shit, and, fucking christ, Katsuki has the faintest thought of, holy shit, we're actual, honest to god friends, now. What the fuck. Colors smear into a shitty watercolor. He blinks, and they settle.
All Might's voice rings out. "Being a hero is a heavy burden to bear. Keeping the peace, saving lives—it's rewarding work, of course. But it doesn't change the fact that oftentimes, the one thing standing between life and death is me and my ability to do my job."
Katsuki stares at the tv. All Might reclines in a comfortable couch, his silver age costume practically glowing against the neutral tones of the set he's on. He talks right to the camera as if he's having a conversation with an actual person, face-to-face.
It's. Shit, it's one of the reasons he's always loved this stupid documentary.
Contentment drapes over him like a warm blanket. He blinks again, eyelids growing heavy, drooping. S'funny, but he feels a little bit like he's floating.
Meds must be kicking in.
"Thanks," he murmurs, voice sounding distant in his own ears. Something rustles.
"Um. What…what for?"
Katsuki tips his head. Deku's blurry—a tell-tale sign he's high as balls right now. It's the best and worst thing about his cocktail of meds. He can't feel shit anymore, which is nice because being in pain sucks major dick, but everything's always real fucking blurry.
"For being so fucking nice."
He thinks Deku might be blushing, but it's hard to tell with the way everything feels all weird and shiny.
"You don't have to thank me, Kacchan."
He scoffs. Reaches over and shoves at Deku's shoulder. "Too fucking bad."
It's easier, to sit here and watch, after, embracing the warmth of companionship and letting himself drift into the hazy, dreamy sort of existence there on the common room couch. And, if he drifts off to sleep, well. That's between him and Deku.