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Ever since he was a kid, Bakugo had hated hospitals. He told everyone it was because of the white, soulless walls, the silence in the rooms, the sterile smell that seemed to cling to everything, and how you could practically smell “the old hags’ asses rotting” from down the hallway.
And, yeah, those reasons were actually true. What he never usually said was that everything about hospitals made him feel miserable. If he was in a hospital, there was only one explanation for it: he had been weak, and now other people had to take care of him. He hated that. He hated being unable to do things for himself, hated having to rely on someone else for even the most basic necessities, hated the way everyone suddenly started looking at him like he was something fragile that needed to be handled carefully.
And if he was there visiting someone, it was even worse, because then he had to stand there and pretend it didn’t bother him to see someone he actually cared about lying helplessly in a hospital bed. He had always despised helplessness, perhaps more than anything else. To Bakugo, needing someone else meant that you had failed to protect yourself, and he had spent most of his childhood convinced that failing was something he simply couldn’t afford to do.
Obviously, that mindset had changed after he entered the Hero Course. Not completely. Bakugo still hated hospitals, and he probably always would. He still hated the smell, the stupid fluorescent lights, the uncomfortable chairs, the way every hallway seemed to stretch on forever. But somewhere along the way, they had stopped meaning only weakness. He had learned what those places actually held. People who had fought until their bodies had given out. Heroes who had put themselves between danger and somebody who couldn’t protect themselves. People whose injuries weren’t proof that they had failed, but proof that they had refused to let somebody else get hurt instead.
Being hurt didn’t necessarily mean you had been weak. Sometimes it meant you’d given everything you had.
That was probably why hospitals had become harder to hate over the years. He still didn’t like them, but he had almost forgotten the particular kind of misery they had caused him when he was a kid.
Almost.
Because now, sitting alone in a hospital waiting room with a notebook pressed tightly against his chest, Bakugo could feel all of it coming back. His knee bounced against the floor. He stopped it. A few seconds later, it started again. He really didn’t want to see Izuku. He wasn’t going to back out. That wasn’t it. He wasn’t scared of walking through a door, and he sure as hell wasn’t scared of some hospital room. He was just unprepared.
He’d heard what their classmates had said. He’d heard what Aizawa and All Might thought about the situation. He’d listened to the doctors explain the neurological damage, the memory loss, the uncertainty surrounding his recovery. Fuck, he’d even read every diagnosis and report he could get his hands on. Purely out of curiosity, obviously. He’d told himself that for weeks. It was easier than admitting he had been reading them because he wanted to know exactly what had happened to Izuku. Exactly how bad it was. Exactly what the doctors thought the chances were.
Everyone had been on his ass about visiting him, too.
“You’ve known him forever. If he remembers someone, it should be you.”
“He always looked up to you. Even if he doesn’t know who you are now, I’m sure it would make him happy that you visited him.”
Bullshit.
They didn’t know that.
Nobody knew what Izuku would remember. Nobody knew what would happen when Bakugo walked into that room. Maybe nothing. That was the part he couldn’t stand thinking about.
His fingers tightened around the notebook.
He’d brought it because it was useful. That was all. Izuku had written it before the accident, and maybe seeing his own handwriting, reading his own thoughts, seeing all those names and memories written down might help him put something back together. That was the reason. It had nothing to do with the fact that Bakugo had spent the last three nights going through it himself, staring at pages he’d already read a dozen times because somehow reading Izuku’s handwriting felt better than thinking about the fact that Izuku might never remember writing any of it.
He let out a slow breath.
The pressure in his chest wouldn’t fucking go away.
“Um… Bakugo?”
He looked up. The nurse who had been attending to the rest of Izuku’s friends stood a few feet away, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe.
“You can go in now.”
Bakugo stood so quickly his chair scraped against the floor.
“Tch.”
He followed her down the hallway, the notebook still held against his chest. The nurse glanced back at him once. There was something in her expression that he didn’t like. Something too gentle.
Pity.
His jaw tightened.
“They’ve already told you about him, right?” she asked quietly.
He nodded.
“They said he doesn’t remember shit. They don’t know when his memories are coming back, if they ever will, and some identity-loss bullshit.”
The nurse gave him a sympathetic look.
“More or less.”
They stopped in front of a closed door.
“I’ll go in first. Just try to be gentle with him, okay? And don’t raise your voice too much. He’s still sensitive to really loud noises.”
“Tch. I know.”
She opened the door.
Bakugo waited until she stepped inside before following her.
He immediately wished he hadn’t.
Izuku looked small.
That was the first thing he noticed.
Not weak, exactly. Bakugo hated that word now, hated how quickly it came to his mind. But small. Too still. Too quiet.
His face was marked by injuries that were still healing, bandages covering parts of his body. His green hair had been flattened against his forehead, stripped of the ridiculous mess Bakugo had spent years making fun of. His skin looked pale underneath the bruising, and his eyes were unfocused as he looked toward the nurse.
For one horrible second, Bakugo could see the kid he’d known.
The same expression Izuku used to get when he disappeared into his own thoughts. The same slight furrow between his eyebrows. The same absent look.
Except this time, when those green eyes moved toward Bakugo, there was nothing there.
No recognition.
Bakugo stopped breathing.
The nurse said something to Izuku, but he barely heard it. His attention was fixed entirely on that face.
He had seen Izuku injured before. He’d seen him bleeding. Seen him exhausted. Seen him unable to stand. Seen him break himself apart and still get back up. Those things had never scared Bakugo like this. Because Izuku had always looked at him afterward. He’d always been there. Even when they fought, even when they screamed at each other, even when Bakugo told him to piss off and Izuku kept following him anyway, there had always been something familiar in his eyes.
Now there was nothing.
Bakugo swallowed hard.
“Hey, Deku.” Izuku blinked.
He tilted his head slightly.
“Do I know you?”
It hit harder than any punch Bakugo had ever taken. He shoved his hands into his pockets because he suddenly didn’t know what else to do with them.
“Yeah.” His voice sounded wrong.
Too quiet.
“You do.”
Izuku stared at him for a moment, searching his face as if the answer might be hidden somewhere in it. Then his expression crumpled into an apologetic little smile.
“I-I’m sorry. I don’t think I remember you.”
Bakugo looked away. He’d known. He’d fucking known.
For weeks, he’d been told the same thing over and over again. He’d read the reports. He’d listened to the doctors. He’d heard the others talk about how Izuku had looked at them without recognizing them. He’d known exactly what he was walking into.
So why did it feel like someone had just reached into his chest and ripped something out?
He’d spent years trying to surpass this idiot. Years fighting him, competing with him, getting dragged into one ridiculous situation after another because Midoriya Izuku had apparently never learned when to leave him the hell alone. They’d grown up together. Bakugo knew things about him that nobody else did. He remembered the way Izuku used to mutter under his breath when he got excited about something. He remembered how he looked when he was trying not to cry. He remembered every stupid notebook, every muttered analysis, every time that damn idiot had looked at him like he was something worth chasing.
And Izuku didn’t even know who he was. Bakugo’s throat tightened. He looked toward the nurse. She was standing near the door, deliberately giving them space.
Good. He didn’t want her watching. He didn’t want anyone watching. He turned his head away and blinked hard.
It didn’t work. A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away immediately. Another followed.
“Fuck.” His voice broke.
Izuku’s eyes widened.
“Are you okey?”
“Don’t.” Bakugo scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand.
“Don’t fucking look at me.”
Izuku went quiet.
Bakugo could feel his own breathing getting worse. Every breath came in unevenly, catching somewhere in his throat. He hated it. Hated the way his body was betraying him, hated the way his chest hurt, hated that he was standing in front of Deku like some pathetic little kid who couldn’t hold himself together.
He had fought villains stronger than him. He’d been burned, broken, thrown through buildings. He’d stood in front of people who wanted him dead and refused to move.
And this was what finally made him cry. The fact that the person standing in front of him didn’t know him.
“I’ve really tried,” Izuku said.
Bakugo looked at him. Izuku’s fingers were curled nervously into the blanket.
“I know people keep expecting me to remember them. They tell me things, and I try to connect them to something, but…” He hesitated. “I can’t.”
Bakugo said nothing.
“I feel awful about it.”
“You shouldn’t.” The answer came out immediately. Izuku looked surprised.
Bakugo clenched his jaw.
“You didn’t do anything.”
Izuku lowered his eyes.
“But everyone gets sad.”
“That’s not your problem.”
“But—”
“I said it isn’t.” His voice was sharper than he’d meant it to be.
Izuku flinched. Bakugo immediately regretted it. He looked away.
“Sorry.”
The word felt strange coming out of his mouth. Izuku seemed to notice that, too. Bakugo stared at the floor.
“I’m not pissed at you.”
He swallowed.
“I’m pissed because…”
He couldn’t finish. Because I remember. Because you don’t. Because I spent my whole fucking life thinking I’d have to beat you, and now you’d probably walk right past me if we met somewhere outside this room. Because I never thought there’d be a day when you’d look at me and see a stranger.
None of it made it past his throat. He reached for the notebook instead. His fingers were shaking. He walked over to the table beside Izuku’s bed and put it down.
“You wrote this.”
Izuku looked at it.
“What is it?”
“Your notebook.”
“I wrote it?”
“Yeah.”
Izuku picked it up.
Bakugo watched his fingers move over the cover. That notebook had been in Izuku’s hands so many times that Bakugo could remember exactly how he used to hold it. Usually too close to his face. Usually scribbling something down while walking and nearly running into a wall because he wasn’t looking where he was going.
Now he held it like it belonged to somebody else. Izuku opened it. His eyes moved over the first page. He frowned. Then he turned another. And another. Bakugo waited. Izuku’s expression changed slowly, curiosity replacing confusion.
“I don’t remember this.”
Bakugo’s chest hurt. Izuku turned another page.
“Or this.” His thumb stopped against the paper.
“This handwriting is mine?”
“Yeah.”
Izuku stared at it for a long moment. Then, strangely, he smiled.
“This is amazing.”
Bakugo frowned.
“What?”
“I really wrote all this?”
“Yeah.”
Izuku flipped through a few more pages.
“There are so many names.”
He laughed softly, almost embarrassed.
“I don’t even recognize half of them.”
Bakugo couldn’t bring himself to laugh. Izuku looked up at him.
“Thank you.”
Bakugo’s fingers curled against his palms.
“Don’t thank me.”
“But you brought it.”
“It’s yours.”
“I know, but…”
Izuku smiled again.
“It’ll be fun to read.”
Bakugo felt something inside him break.
Fun.
Izuku was going to sit here and read about his own life like it belonged to someone he’d never met. He was going to learn about the people who loved him from ink on paper. He was going to read things that Bakugo remembered happening and discover them as stories.
The thought made him feel sick. He stared at the floor.
“Yeah.”
Izuku looked at him. Bakugo’s eyes burned again.
“Whatever.”
He turned toward the door.
“Can I ask you something?”
He stopped.
“Yeah?”
“Will you come back?”
Bakugo’s hand tightened around the doorknob. He didn’t turn around.
“Why?”
Izuku was quiet for a moment.
“I don’t know.”
Bakugo closed his eyes.
“I just…”
Izuku’s voice was small.
“You seem like you really want me to remember you.”
Bakugo’s throat closed. He couldn’t answer that. Because yes.
Because he’d never wanted anything so badly in his life.
He wanted Izuku to remember him yelling at him across a classroom. He wanted him to remember being a stupid little nerd with scraped knees and too many notebooks. He wanted him to remember every fight, every argument, every moment they’d stood beside each other when everything else was falling apart.
He wanted to hear Deku say his name like it meant something. He wanted his best friend back.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
“Get some rest, Deku.”
His voice was rough. Izuku nodded.
“Okay.”
Bakugo opened the door. He stepped into the hallway. But he stopped.
His back remained turned toward the room.
“Deku.”
“Yeah?”
Bakugo’s fingers tightened around the handle. He’d spent years telling himself he didn’t owe Izuku anything. He’d spent years carrying around things he couldn’t say because saying them would make them real. Now there was no point in pretending.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
Bakugo stared at the floor.
“For everything.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“For what I said to you when we were kids. For how I treated you. For making you think you had to chase me just to be worth something.” His throat burned.
“I was a shitty kid.” A shaky breath escaped him.
“I should’ve been better.”
He finally looked back. Izuku was staring at him. Still confused. Still trying to understand. Bakugo forced himself to look away.
“I’m sorry you don’t remember.”
He stepped into the hallway.
The door began to close behind him.
Bakugo kept walking.
He didn’t want the nurse to see his face. He didn’t want anyone in the hallway to see him. He didn’t want anybody asking if he was okay, because he wasn’t, and he didn’t have the energy to lie about it anymore. His vision blurred almost immediately, and he wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm, but the tears kept coming anyway. He walked faster, head lowered, shoulders tense, breathing unevenly as he tried to get far enough away from that room before whatever was left of his pride completely gave out.
He felt fucking stupid.
Pathetic.
He had spent all those weeks avoiding this because he had been afraid of what would happen when he saw Izuku, and now he finally had the answer. Nothing had happened. Izuku had looked at him like he was a stranger. He’d smiled at him politely. He’d thanked him for a notebook. He’d asked him to come back because he didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
That was it.
Bakugo stopped at the end of the hallway, pressing one hand against the wall.
His breathing shook.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Izuku’s face kept appearing behind his eyelids, that confused little smile, those green eyes searching his face for something that wasn’t there anymore.
He had wanted to tell him.
For years, he had wanted to tell him.
Not in some stupid, romantic way. Not with flowers or some perfectly prepared confession or any of the other bullshit he’d seen people do. He just wanted Izuku to know. He wanted him to know that somewhere between all the fights and the shouting and the competition, he’d become someone Katsuki couldn’t imagine his life without. That he had been there for him longer than almost anyone. That, somewhere along the way, the thought of losing him had become unbearable.
And now, when he finally had the courage to say it, Izuku couldn’t even remember who he was.
Bakugo laughed once under his breath, but it came out broken.
“Fuck it.”
He wiped his face again.
It didn’t matter.
None of it mattered if Izuku couldn’t remember.
He had been so fucking desperate for one look. One stupid fucking sign that said all those years had meant something to him too. Instead, he’d walked into that room and confessed everything without actually saying the words, and Izuku had looked at him like he was some grieving stranger.
Bakugo’s shoulders shook again. He lowered his head.
“Deku…”
The name came out so quietly that he almost didn’t hear himself.
He took another step.
Then another.
He couldn’t do it anymore.
He couldn’t stand in that room and watch Izuku smile at him without knowing why. He couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t destroy him. He couldn’t keep standing there hoping for a memory that might never come back.
So he left.
He walked away from the room with tears still running down his face, trying desperately to get himself under control before someone saw him, before someone asked him what happened, before anyone could look at him with the same pitying expression the nurse had given him.
Behind him, the door remained closed.
Inside the room, Izuku stared down at the notebook resting in his lap.
Something about the handwriting felt strange.
Familiar.
Not familiar enough to become a memory, not yet. Just a feeling he couldn’t put a name to, something deep in his chest that had appeared the moment that boy had turned to leave.
He looked toward the door.
His lips parted.
The word came out before he could think about it.
“Kacchan?”