Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One | Take As Needed.

The pain is nothing new. It’s a familiar weight, an ache that sits deep in his bones, burrowed into the marrow like a part of him.

He’s learned to live with it. To move with it. To push past it.

But today, it’s different.

Today, it’s sharp. Constant. A steady, burning pressure behind his ribs that makes every breath feel like a knife between his lungs.

His right arm is useless—bruised, swollen, probably fractured—but he can’t find it in himself to care.

It’s just another injury, another consequence of trying too hard, another tally mark on the endless scoreboard of damage he’s done to himself.

Recovery Girl sighs, shaking her head as she examines him.

“You don’t stop, do you?”

Izuku forces a sheepish smile, but even that takes effort.

She doesn’t heal him. Can’t heal him. Not completely.

“There’s only so much I can do when you break yourself like this, dear.” Her voice is gentle, but there’s something sharp in her gaze. “Your body isn’t invincible. You have to start listening to it.”

He does listen to it. It just never says anything he wants to hear.

The pain lingers even after she’s done, settling into his muscles, weighing down his limbs.

When she presses a prescription slip into his hand, he barely glances at it before stuffing it into his pocket.

“Take them only as needed,” she warns. “You’re already dealing with chronic fatigue and long-term muscle strain.

Your body isn’t recovering the way it should. These will help, but don’t rely on them. Understand?”

He nods, but he’s already thinking about what’s next. About tomorrow. About training. About pushing harder, getting stronger, being better.

The pain is just part of it.

He’s used to it.

The first pill is nothing.

It barely touches the ache, but it takes the edge off, lets him breathe a little easier. He doesn’t even think about it when he swallows another one that night, washing it down with water, staring at the ceiling as the tension in his muscles finally eases.

It’s nice.

Not life-changing. Not incredible. Just… nice.

A few days later, the bottle sits mostly untouched in his drawer. He only takes one when the pain is too much—when training leaves him shaking, when he wakes up stiff and sore, when the bruises linger longer than they should.

It’s controlled. He’s controlled.

The pain is still there, still woven into his every movement, but now there’s something to soften it. A buffer. A quiet space between him and the discomfort.

He doesn’t realize how much he needs that space.

Not yet.

The first real shift happens two weeks later.

The battle is rough. His ribs take a hit—bad one. He’s lucky nothing breaks, but it feels like they did. He finishes the fight, stands tall in front of Aizawa like he’s fine, like the fire in his lungs isn’t threatening to consume him from the inside out.

He barely makes it back to his dorm before the pain crashes over him like a wave, pulling him under.

His body is screaming.

He stares at the bottle in his drawer.

And for the first time, he doesn’t hesitate.

Two pills, this time.

He swallows them dry, collapses onto his bed, and lets the warmth spread through his limbs, numbing everything.

The pain fades. The tension melts. His heartbeat slows, steady.

And for the first time in months, he feels light.

He sleeps easy that night.

Too easy.

The next morning, the pain is still there, buried under the surface but not forgotten.

He should let it be. Should train through it, work around it like he always has.

Instead, his fingers brush over the bottle in his pocket.

Just one, he tells himself.

Just to make it easier.

And it is easier.

Training doesn’t feel like dragging himself through glass. The world doesn’t feel as heavy. His movements are smoother, sharper.

It’s manageable.

And that’s all it is—at first.

Management.

Control.

A way to keep going.

A way to keep winning.

The pain is nothing new.

But neither is the relief.

And relief is so much easier to reach now.

He doesn’t think about it when he takes another pill that night.

And another the next morning.

And another before training.

And another before bed.

It’s nothing. It’s just to keep moving. To keep fighting.

It’s not addiction.

Not yet.

(Katsuki’s POV)

At first, it’s almost nice.

Deku’s always been a fucking stress case. Too much energy, too much thinking, running a hundred miles per hour with no brakes. Katsuki’s used to it, even relies on it—because that’s who Deku is. A restless, overanalyzing pain in the ass.

But lately, there’s been something different.

Not huge. Nothing worth noticing at first. But Katsuki feels it.

Deku’s movements are smoother, less stiff. He still trains like a lunatic, still takes hits like he’s got a death wish, but there’s something more… relaxed about him afterward. He doesn’t wince as much when he stretches. He doesn’t walk around like his body’s made of broken glass.

And the biggest change?

He actually laughs more.

Not the over-eager, trying-too-hard kind he used to let out when he was nervous. No, this is genuine. Easy. Like he’s not constantly carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And sure, maybe Katsuki notices that a little more than he should.

Maybe he catches himself watching sometimes, listening when Deku’s voice doesn’t have that anxious edge to it, when his shoulders don’t sit so fucking tense all the time.

It’s not bad.

It’s just… different.

The shift doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the class, either.

One afternoon, they’re all crammed in the common room, half of them doing homework, the other half arguing over some dumbass game on the TV. Deku’s on the couch, stretched out in a way that doesn’t look like him.

Usually, he sits with his back straight, shoulders squared—ready to launch himself at the nearest problem. But now? He’s slouched, legs out, chin resting against the back of the couch as he listens to something Ochako is saying.

It’s subtle. But Katsuki sees it.

Deku never lets himself relax like that.

And then—he smiles.

Not the nervous, polite one. Not the ‘sorry I’m taking up space’ one. A real fucking smile.

Katsuki doesn’t realize he’s staring until Kirishima elbows him.

“Dude,” Kirishima grins. “It’s kinda nice, huh?”

Katsuki scowls. “What?”

“Deku. Loosening up a little. He’s been in a good mood lately.”

Katsuki huffs, crossing his arms. “Tch. So what? He’s not running around like a headless fucking chicken for once.”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” Kirishima says, lowering his voice. “It’s like… he’s actually relaxed.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond, but the thought sticks in his head.

Because Kirishima’s not wrong.

And maybe, just maybe—Katsuki likes it a little more than he should.

A week later, he finally says something.

It’s after training, the two of them walking back toward the dorms. Deku’s rolling his shoulder, wincing a little—but then he grins, shaking it off.

“You’ve been weird lately,” Katsuki mutters.

Deku snorts. “What else is new?”

Katsuki glares at him. “I mean it. You’re… I dunno. Different.”

Deku glances at him, raising a brow. “Different how?”

Katsuki chews the inside of his cheek. He’s not great at this talking shit, but something about it nags at him.

“You just don’t stress so much anymore,” he grumbles. “Not that I care, but it’s weird. You’re not you without all your stupid muttering and overthinking.”

Deku chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I just realized I don’t have to be tense all the time,” he says lightly. “It’s nice. Feeling a little more… I dunno, normal.”

Katsuki squints at him. “Since when the fuck have you ever wanted to be normal?”

Deku just shrugs. “Maybe I was overcomplicating things before.”

And that’s the part that doesn’t feel like him.

Overcomplicating things is Deku’s whole thing. It’s what makes him who he is.

But instead of pressing, Katsuki just scoffs.

“Whatever, nerd. Just don’t turn into some lazy ass.”

Deku grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Kacchan.”

And maybe Katsuki doesn’t push harder because it doesn’t seem like a bad thing yet.

Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, Deku seems happy.

And fuck—Katsuki likes that look on him.

The Quiet is Nice (Izuku’s POV)

The next few weeks are the easiest he’s ever had.

It’s almost laughable, how much simpler everything is.

He still wakes up sore, still trains hard, still pushes himself. But now? The pain isn’t all-consuming. It’s there, but muted, like a conversation happening in another room.

He doesn’t need the pills all the time. He’s careful. He only takes them on the harder days—when he wakes up stiff, when his joints feel like rusted hinges, when the phantom aches of past injuries threaten to slow him down.

It’s fine.

It’s control.

And for the first time, he’s not living at the mercy of his own body.

He’s not weaker than everyone else anymore.

He’s not struggling just to keep up.

For the first time in his life, he feels—normal.

Training Feels Different (Katsuki’s POV)

At first, it’s just another training match.

Katsuki doesn’t think much of it when Deku takes his stance—doesn’t notice anything weird when they start sparring. But then—

He’s faster.

Not in a physical speed way—Deku’s always been fast, always had quick reactions. But today? He’s fluid. Like he’s not second-guessing his every move.

The hesitation that usually lingers in his body—the brief pauses where he thinks too much before acting—are gone.

Deku moves like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Not frantic, not overcompensating. Just sharp. Precise. Unshaken.

It throws Katsuki off.

For the first time, he finds himself on the defensive.

Deku dodges his explosions like they’re nothing, like he already sees them coming before Katsuki even makes a move. He counters without overthinking, blocks without stumbling, adapts without panic.

And fuck—Katsuki kind of loves it.

It’s hot.

Not that he’d say that out loud.

But it’s thrilling. This is what he’s always wanted from Deku—not just skill, not just strategy, but confidence.

He grins, widening his stance, hands sparking.

“Finally got your shit together, huh, nerd?”

Deku smirks—actually smirks—and Katsuki nearly forgets what he’s doing for half a second.

“I guess I just needed to stop overcomplicating things.”

And Katsuki doesn’t know why, but that answer bothers him a little.

Not enough to question it. Not yet.

Later that night, the whole class is scattered around the dorms. Some playing video games, others doing homework, a few just talking.

Deku’s laughing.

Actually laughing.

Not in that weird nervous way. Not in the I’m just being polite way.

It’s real. Easy. Like he’s actually enjoying himself.

And Katsuki can’t stop looking at him.

Not staring—fuck no—but watching.

Because it’s weird.

Not bad. Just… new.

Deku’s always been awkward. He fidgets, he stammers, he thinks too much before he speaks. But now?

Now he’s relaxed. His legs are stretched out, his arm draped lazily over the couch, head tilted back as he talks with Kaminari and Kirishima about something Katsuki doesn’t care about.

The way he moves now—it’s unforced.

And maybe it’s fucking annoying how much Katsuki notices it.

Because he can’t lie—this version of Deku is nice.

Less high-strung, less exhausting.

Deku without the constant nervous energy?

It’s… charming.

(Not that Katsuki would ever admit that. Ever. Even under threat of death.)

Katsuki is heading to the kitchen for water when he hears something—

A faint thud.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But enough to make him pause.

It’s coming from Deku’s room.

For a second, he hesitates. He could just leave it alone. But something about it—something about the quiet—unnerves him.

He knocks. “Oi. You alive in there, nerd?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, Deku’s voice, muffled and slightly out of breath—

“Yeah—yeah, I’m good! Just—just tripped over my desk chair.” A small laugh. “I’m fine, Kacchan.”

Katsuki narrows his eyes at the door.

Something about the way he says it sounds... off.

But it’s late, and Deku does trip over things all the time.

So Katsuki lets it go.

For now.

The First Missed Dose (Izuku’s POV, Training Ground Beta)

The mistake sneaks up on him.

He doesn’t even realize he forgot to take one until the ache sets in—deep, slow, creeping up his spine like a warning bell.

They’re mid-training, running drills against Iida and Todoroki, when his limbs feel off. Heavy. Sluggish. His vision sharpens, but his reactions are half a second too slow.

He ignores it.

Pushes harder.

It’s just fatigue.

That’s what he tells himself.

But then his hands shake.

Not violently. Just barely—enough that when he tries to steady his grip, his fingers tremble against his palm.

His limbs feel off. Not broken, not even aching the way they normally do, but sluggish—like his own body is moving a fraction behind his mind. His ribs are still tender from last week, and his shoulders protest every stretch, but that’s not new.

What’s new is the hesitation.

The second’s pause before every movement. The way his vision sharpens but his body lags.

He knows the reason before he even has to think about it.

He forgot.

He was supposed to take a pill this morning, just to smooth out the rough edges, to keep himself moving without resistance. But training started early, and he was distracted, and now he’s feeling everything.

It’s fine. He can push through.

He has before.

Todoroki’s ice comes too fast.

Izuku sees it. Calculates. Moves too late.

The cold slams into his side like a truck. His ribs take the full hit, his breath shoves out of his lungs, and for the first time in years—

He stays down.

The air is sharp, frozen against his skin, and his hands curl uselessly in the frost as his head swims.

Someone is shouting his name.

Footsteps. Shadows moving. His ears ring.

Iida’s voice, clipped with panic. “Midoriya!”

Shit.

Shit, no.

He forces himself up, blinking hard against the dizziness. “I’m fine,” he breathes, pushing his weight to his feet, ignoring how the world sways just slightly. “Just miscalculated.”

Todoroki frowns, his stance shifting. He doesn’t buy it. “You hesitated.”

Izuku forces a smile. “It happens.”

But Katsuki—Katsuki is staring.

Standing across the training grounds, arms crossed, eyes sharp, burning with something Izuku can’t place.

A sinking, churning feeling twists through his gut.

Kacchan saw.

The First Real Warning (Infirmary, Recovery Girl)

The infirmary smells sterile and cold. It always has.

Izuku sits on the cot, pressing an ice pack to his ribs, hands trembling faintly.

Recovery Girl watches him. Too closely.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard again, Midoriya,” she says, sighing as she jots something down on her clipboard. “This can’t become a pattern.”

His stomach clenches.

A pattern.

Like something she’s starting to expect from him.

He nods, staring at his hands, waiting for the usual lecture about being more careful, about knowing his limits, but instead—

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he doesn’t know why.

It just slips out.

Low. Small.

And then, softer—“It just… hurts so bad sometimes.”

The silence stretches.

Recovery Girl stills. Her eyes flick up.

Izuku never admits when he’s in pain. Never says anything about it unless it’s obvious, unless the damage is too visible to deny.

But today? Today, his body feels like it’s breaking down from the inside out. And he’s tired. So, so tired.

She exhales through her nose. “Midoriya.”

She’s looking at him like she knows something.

Like she sees something.

She opens a drawer, pulls out a prescription slip.

His breath catches.

“This will help,” she says, pressing it into his hand, firm but gentle. “But you need to start listening to your body, dear.”

He nods. Says thank you. Forces his fingers not to tighten around the paper.

And as soon as he’s out the door—

Relief.

The second his door shuts behind him, he lets out a breath.

His hands shake as he opens his drawer.

The bottle inside is almost empty. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

He takes two pills. Swallows them dry. Waits.

And then—

Relief.

It comes fast, settling over him like warm water, smoothing out every ache, dulling the pain until he barely feels his own skin.

His breath evens. His body relaxes, boneless, loose.

He closes his eyes. It’s okay now.

Now it’s quiet.

(Katsuki POV, Common Room Later That Night)

Katsuki watches.

He doesn’t mean to.

But Deku wasn’t right today. The hesitation. The way he stayed down.

Something’s wrong.

He knows it in his bones.

But later that night, Deku is fine again.

Sitting on the couch. Laughing. Relaxed.

Like nothing happened.

And Katsuki doesn’t trust it.

Because Deku doesn’t relax like that. Not unless he’s exhausted. Not unless something’s off.

And it’s not just instinct this time.

It’s more than that.

Something clawing at the back of his mind, something tight in his chest.

It’s like—

It’s like—

Fuck.

Why does it matter so much?

Why does it hurt to see him like this?

He waits until they’re alone.

Finds Deku sitting outside, staring at the stars.

Katsuki doesn’t do this.

He doesn’t ask questions.

But he’s doing it now.

He sits beside him, arms crossed. The words feel weird in his mouth. “Oi.”

Deku blinks at him. “Huh?”

Katsuki hesitates. Then, low—“You good?”

Deku smiles. Too easy. Too fucking easy.

“I’m fine, Kacchan.”

Katsuki stares at him. “Tch. Don’t play dumb.”

A pause. A flicker of something in Deku’s eyes.

Then—a laugh.

“Seriously, I’m okay. Just tired.”

Lie.

Katsuki knows a fucking lie when he hears one.

But there’s something else.

Something deeper, sharper, heavier.

Something clawing in his chest.

The heat curling in his ribs, the way his fucking heart feels like it’s crawling up his throat.

Why does this—

Why does he—

Fuck.

He stands up, scowling. “Whatever. Just don’t start slacking, nerd.”

Deku grins. Katsuki ignores how soft it looks.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Kacchan.”

Katsuki walks away.

But the weight in his chest doesn’t.

Something is wrong.

And Katsuki is going to figure out what.

Even if Deku doesn’t want him to.

Chapter Text

Chapter T wo | Slipping Through the Cracks.

(Except Him) (Katsuki POV, Common Room, A Week Later)

Deku has always been too much.

Too many thoughts, too many words, too much energy coiled tight beneath his skin. But now? Now he’s too much in a different way.

He’s everywhere now. Always touching, always moving, slipping into people’s spaces like he belongs there. He’s confident. Charismatic. Laughing in a way that makes everyone lean in.

And Katsuki hates it.

Because it’s wrong.

It’s not that it’s fake. Not exactly. It’s just not Deku.

His pupils are too small. His irises too green, too sharp. There’s a glassiness to his gaze that no one else seems to fucking see.

His light never goes off at night.

He eats maybe once every two days.

No one else notices.

But Katsuki does.

And he doesn’t know why, but the more people praise this new version of him, the more Katsuki wants to rip it to fucking pieces.

(Common Room, Early Evening, The Setup for Disaster)

“Kiriiii,” Mina groans dramatically, throwing herself across the couch. “How are you so oblivious?”

Kirishima grins, utterly clueless. “Hah? What?”

Mina glares. “The girls at the café. Earlier. The ones flirting with you? Like, aggressively? How did you not notice?!”

Kirishima blinks. “Oh. Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God.” Mina drags her hands down her face. “What are you, allergic to people crushing on you?”

Kirishima laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I dunno, I guess I don’t really think about that stuff.”

And that’s when Deku, sprawled on the couch like a cat in the sun, laughs too.

“Yeah, well, you are kinda hot, Kiri.”

The room dies.

Kirishima chokes on air. “W-what?”

Deku stretches lazily, tilting his head. His too-bright eyes dance with something amused.

“I mean, you are.” He shrugs, all smooth and unbothered. “I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

Mina looks ready to start swinging.

“Midoriya.” Her voice is too calm, too even.

Deku blinks at her, so fucking casual it’s almost infuriating. “Hmm?”

She narrows her eyes. And this is where things should stop.

Except—they don’t.

Because Kaminari exists.

And Kaminari, with all the tact of a brick to the face, blurts, “Wait, wait, wait—you like guys?”

Everything goes silent again.

Except this time, it’s worse.

Because suddenly it’s not just a dumb moment anymore.

Suddenly, everyone is actually listening.

And Deku?

Deku just shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says easily, like it’s nothing, like it’s never been anything. “I’m gay.”

The words slip out like they cost him nothing. Like they’re as natural as breathing.

Like he hadn’t just kept them locked up his whole fucking life.

Kaminari short-circuits. “Wait. What.”

Ochako’s mouth drops open. Iida’s glasses glint.

Mina—Mina, who was literally about to throw hands a second ago—just stops.

And then she does something that no one expects.

She bursts into laughter.

Full-body, bent-over, wheezing laughter.

“Holy shit,” she gasps between breaths, shaking her head. “You—oh my God. Midoriya. You—you just—you really just casually came out to all of us at the same time, huh?”

Deku grins.

That too-bright, too-smooth smile. “Guess so.”

Mina shakes her head, laughing again, tension dropping out of her shoulders. “Goddammit, nerd.”

Katsuki is blinking.

And that’s—that’s a problem.

Because he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t fucking freeze.

But he is right now.

Because what the actual fuck just happened.

Deku just—just—casually came out.

Like it was nothing.

Like he hadn’t spent his whole fucking life keeping it locked up.

Like he hadn’t been so damn scared of being different that he never even said it out loud before.

Katsuki remembers.

Remembers the little moments. The quiet tension when the class talked about dating, the way Deku always deflected when the topic got too close.

Remembers how he never looked at girls the way other guys did. Remembers how he looked at him.

Wait. No. Not that. Not fucking—

Fuck.

There are too many feelings in his chest, all at once, all colliding.

Jealousy.

Fear.

Relief.

Suspicion.

Because this—this is what does it.

This moment.

This too-casual shrug, this too-easy smile, this smooth-talking version of Deku who doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t overthink.

Doesn’t act like himself.

And suddenly, Katsuki wants to shake him.

Wants to grab him and shake him and demand to know why.

Why now.

Why like this.

Why does it feel like the person sitting in front of him is slipping away while everyone else is too fucking distracted to see it?

Why does it feel like he’s losing something?

The common room gradually returns to normal.

People adjust. Laugh again. Make jokes. Kaminari is still struggling to reboot his entire brain, and Mina is grinning like this is the best day of her life.

Deku just goes with it.

Effortless. Smooth. Like this was always meant to happen like this.

But Katsuki is still frozen.

Still stuck.

Still sitting in the aftermath of all the things he didn’t fucking say.

Because this moment—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Deku should have told someone first.

He should have been nervous.

He should have told his mom first. Should have told someone he trusted, should have—

Should have told him.

Katsuki’s stomach twists violently.

He doesn’t know why he cares.

But he does.

And it fucking kills him.

(Katsuki POV, Watching the Cracks Widen, Helpless to Stop Them)

The problem with knowing someone for your entire fucking life is that when they start to change—really change—you’re the first one to notice.

And no one believes you.

Because as far as everyone else is concerned, this is a good thing.

Deku isn’t anxious anymore. He isn’t muttering under his breath, wringing his hands, tearing himself apart with nervous energy. He’s cool now. He’s effortless. He’s not a complete mess anymore.

The class loves it.

But Katsuki fucking hates it.

Because it’s not right.

It’s been weeks of this. Weeks of watching, tracking, trying to figure out what the hell is actually happening.

Deku never sleeps. His door is always cracked, always glowing faintly with lamplight, no matter how late it gets.

Deku never eats. At first, it was every once in a while, a missed meal here and there. Now it’s all the time. He’s always got an untouched tray in front of him, pushing food around like he’s pretending, just enough to get people to leave him alone.

Deku never hesitates anymore. In fights, in training, in conversations. His mouth is faster, sharper, smoother. The stammer is gone. The blush is gone.

He doesn’t feel like Deku anymore.

And—**fuck, Katsuki hates this part—**but without his version of Deku around, he doesn’t feel the same either.

He’s restless. Frustrated. Lost.

Because he never realized how much space Deku took up in his life until he wasn’t there the same way anymore.

He never thought about how much he relied on those little moments—the muttering, the nervous half-smiles, the way Deku’s hands always moved when he was thinking.

And now it’s gone.

And he fucking misses it.

And that pisses him off more than anything.

Katsuki’s been waiting for it.

The moment Deku fucks up.

The moment he slips just enough for Katsuki to prove that something’s wrong.

Because he knows something is.

And then it finally happens.

They’re sparring. Hard. Faster than usual, because Katsuki is pushing him, pushing him on purpose. He wants to see what happens when Deku gets tired.

Except.

Deku doesn’t get tired.

He’s too smooth, too fast, too fluid. His body moves like it’s loose at the joints, like nothing sticks, like nothing holds him down.

And then—

He misses a block.

And it’s stupid.

It’s a basic, first-year mistake.

Katsuki doesn’t hesitate. He slams him down.

Hard.

But then—then Deku does something worse than making a mistake.

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

And Katsuki short-circuits.

“What the fuck is so funny?” he snaps, scowling down at him.

And then—Deku looks up at him. Grinning.

Flushed from the fight, sweaty, breathless—but grinning.

And then he smirks.

Fucking smirks.

And purrs, “Careful, Kacchan. If you wanted me on my back, you could’ve just asked.”

Katsuki short-circuits.

Like. Completely.

His brain stops working, his body goes rigid, because what the actual fuck did Deku just say.

The second of silence is all Deku needs.

He takes advantage of the distraction, flipping them over, getting Katsuki on his back instead, pinning him down with a knee to his ribs.

“Whoops,” Deku breathes, grinning again, pleased with himself. “Guess I win this one, huh?”

Katsuki shoves him off so fast it’s almost embarrassing.

Deku just laughs again.

And Katsuki wants to hit something.

Because that’s not Deku.

Deku doesn’t flirt like that. Deku doesn’t say things like that.

And more than that—Deku doesn’t use shit like that to get out of things.

But he just did.

And it fucking worked.

And Katsuki doesn’t know what to do with that.

(Katsuki POV, The Shift, The Realization)

It happens again.

And then again.

At first, Katsuki thinks it was just a fluke. Just a weird moment, just a one-off.

But it’s not.

Because now, whenever he asks too many questions—whenever he pushes too hard—Deku flusters him on purpose.

He does it deliberately.

A lazy smirk, a teasing tone, a well-placed comment that makes Katsuki’s brain stall for just long enough to make him lose the argument.

It works every single fucking time.

And Katsuki knows it.

But he still can’t do anything about it.

Because Deku has figured out his goddamn weakness.

Deku has figured out that when Katsuki is flustered, he shuts up.

And that realization makes Katsuki feel sick.

Because if Deku is sharp enough to manipulate him—

Then he’s sharp enough to manipulate everyone else.

And if he’s doing that? If he’s covering things up like that?

Then how bad is it really?

(Katsuki POV, Watching the Light Under His Door, Realizing How Alone He Feels Without Him)

It’s late again.

Too fucking late.

And Katsuki knows what he’ll see before he even looks.

Because he already knows.

The hallway is dark.

Deku’s door is not.

The light is still on.

It’s always on.

And Katsuki stands there, staring at it.

Because it’s too much now. It’s not fucking normal.

And it’s not just that.

It’s everything.

The missing meals.

The too-wide, too-glassy eyes.

The way he doesn’t flinch anymore.

The way he’s slipping out of reach, becoming someone Katsuki doesn’t know how to talk to.

And—fuck, Katsuki hates this part, hates it so much—but without his Deku around, he doesn’t feel like himself anymore either.

He’s been fighting for weeks to ignore it. To push it down. To pretend it doesn’t fucking matter.

But it does.

Because this is wrong.

And he’s the only one who sees it.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Katsuki feels alone.

(Katsuki POV, Rooftop Scene, The Moment He Stops Ignoring It)

Katsuki stands in the cold, letting the wind bite at his skin.

He doesn’t understand this.

He doesn’t get why it’s hitting him like this.

Why he fucking misses him.

But he does.

And it makes him angrier than anything.

Because if this is the way things are now—

If this is what it’s like without his version of Deku—

Then he’s not fucking doing this anymore.

He’s going to figure out what’s going on.

And he’s going to stop it.

Even if Deku hates him for it.

(Katsuki POV, )

Everything stops.

It’s sudden. One day, Izuku is everywhere—smiling, laughing, slipping into conversations like he belongs there, leaning into people’s space like gravity has shifted just for him. One day, he’s easy in a way that doesn’t make sense, his words smooth, his laughter light, his touches casual and constant.

And then the next—he’s gone.

Not physically. No, he’s still there, still sitting in his usual seat, still showing up to class, still existing in all the spaces he always has. But there’s nothing behind it.

No charm, no ease, no lightness. It’s like something inside him shut off overnight, like someone flipped a switch and drained the color from him. He sits at his desk with his head in his palm, the weight of it too much to hold up. His uniform is wrinkled, his eyes dull, his body folding inward like he’s trying to disappear.

At first, the class doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. Kaminari throws a few easy jokes his way, looking for that smirk, that clever little retort that always got the rest of them laughing. Ochako nudges him once, twice, waiting for him to pull himself back, to return to them. Mina makes a dramatic comment about the weather being way too depressing today and Izuku usually bites back, plays along, lets her have the back-and-forth.

But today, he doesn’t.

He just blinks.

Shrugs.

Mutters, “Just tired,” and goes back to staring at nothing.

No one says anything, but there’s a shift, a ripple of confusion. Like the class just collectively realized something is off, but they don’t know what to do with it. It’s different from the old Izuku, the one who kept his head down, the one who used to make himself small out of fear, out of not wanting to be noticed. This isn’t small. This is empty.

And Katsuki feels sick.

Because he knows this isn’t normal.

He’s been watching too closely for too long.

He already saw the changes—the sleepless nights, the meals left untouched, the hands that don’t shake anymore because they’ve already settled into something far worse. But even at his worst, Deku was still something. He was still present. Even when he was too smooth, even when he was using shitty, flirty grins to shut Katsuki up, even when he was too loose and too reckless, he was still there.

But this? This is different.

This is nothing.

It’s worse than the charm. Worse than the teasing. Worse than anything that came before it.

And Katsuki doesn’t know how to fix it.

He watches, waiting for something. Waiting for Izuku to snap out of it, to shake himself free, to look up with those too-bright eyes and grin like it never mattered. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, unmoving, a ghost of himself.

By the time lunch rolls around, the tension has settled too thick.

Katsuki doesn’t even realize how much he’s waiting, how much he’s holding his breath. He just sits there, watching Izuku out of the corner of his eye, waiting for something to break the silence.

It doesn’t come.

Izuku barely touches his food.

And that’s it. That’s the moment Katsuki realizes just how bad this is.

Because Izuku was already skipping meals. It was already getting worse. He was already brushing off hunger, already pretending, already drinking too much coffee to make up for the exhaustion pulling at him.

But today, he doesn’t even pretend.

Today, he just sits there, tray in front of him, staring at it like it’s something foreign, something that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

It’s too much. Katsuki doesn’t even think before he mutters, “Oi.”

Izuku doesn’t react.

He grips his coffee cup a little tighter.

Katsuki feels his stomach twist.

“Deku.” Sharper.

Izuku blinks, slow, unfocused. His head tilts slightly in his direction, like the weight of looking up is too much.

Katsuki hates it. Hates how fucking empty he looks.

“You good?” he forces out.

Izuku shrugs. “Just tired.”

And Katsuki realizes something that makes his breath hitch.

He misses it.

He misses the teasing. The grins. The stupid smirks that shut him up.

He misses every version of Deku he’s ever known. Even the one he hated. Even the one that wasn’t real.

Because at least that version fought back.

At least that one was still alive.

Now?

Now, he’s not even sure.

The feeling doesn’t go away.

By the time he’s standing outside Izuku’s room, it’s settled into something thick, something weighty, something like fear.

He knocks. No answer.

Knocks again. Nothing.

His jaw tightens, frustration curling in his chest. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t fucking do this.

But he presses his forehead against the door anyway, breath tight.

“Oi. Open up, dumbass.”

Silence.

It sits heavy. Like a fucking wall between them.

And Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut.

Because Deku doesn’t do this.

Deku doesn’t lock him out.

Deku doesn’t leave him standing there, waiting, like this doesn’t fucking matter.

And he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

Because for the first time in his life—

Katsuki feels like he’s losing.

And it’s not just a fight this time.

It’s Deku.

It’s everything.

And he doesn’t know how to bring him back.

Because Deku doesn’t want to be saved.

And Katsuki doesn’t know how to fight against that.

Not when he doesn’t even know if Deku is still in there at all.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three | You’re My Person (So Fucking Act Like It)

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It happens in pieces. Slowly at first, then all at once.

Izuku looks sick all the time now. Pale, dull-skinned, his frame thinner than it should be, his eyes permanently rimmed in exhaustion. He barely stays awake in class, slumping into his hand like he’s too weak to hold himself upright. He rubs at his arms absently, scratches at his skin like there’s something crawling underneath. He shifts between sweating and shivering, sometimes within minutes of each other, like his body can’t regulate itself anymore.

And still, Katsuki tries.

Still, Katsuki pushes.

Because what the fuck else is he supposed to do?

Every time he gets him alone, every time he tries to say something, to demand an answer, to plead for one, Izuku barely even acknowledges him. Just looks through him. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even pretend to care. Like he’s not worth the effort anymore.

And Katsuki—Katsuki can’t fucking take it.

So when he finally snaps, it’s not calculated. It’s not a plan. It’s just him, raw and unraveling, grabbing Izuku’s shoulders and shaking him.

“Snap the fuck out of it!” Katsuki yells, because maybe if he’s loud enough, forceful enough, something will break through.

But nothing does.

Izuku barely even reacts, barely blinks. And then, he just pushes Katsuki’s hands off him.

“I’m too tired to argue today, Kacchan.” His voice is flat, tired, detached. He turns away and walks off like it didn’t mean anything.

Like Katsuki didn’t mean anything.

And for the first time in his life, Katsuki realizes Izuku doesn’t care about him anymore.

Or at least—that’s what it feels like.

And something inside him hardens.

Fine. Hate me all you want. But I’m going to save you, nerd.

And with that, he makes his decision.

Training doesn’t matter right now.

Consequences don’t matter.

All that matters is that he figures out what the hell is happening.

So he skips.

The second the training alarm goes off, he turns his phone on silent and heads back toward the dorms, knowing damn well Aizawa is going to chew his ass out the second he sees him again.

He doesn’t care.

He stands in front of Izuku’s door, fists clenching, heart pounding.

Then, without thinking, he reaches for the lock.

It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid.

And he tells himself that as he pulls out a thin metal pin and starts working at it, talking under his breath the entire time.

“This is fucking crazy,” he mutters. “I’ve lost my damn mind.”

He’s never picked a lock before, but he’s not about to stop now.

Minutes pass. His palms start to sweat. His breath gets shorter. And then—

Click.

The lock gives. The door cracks open.

For one second, he hesitates.

This is crossing a fucking line. This is crazy.

And then he swallows it down and pushes the door open.

The second he steps inside, his stomach drops.

Because this isn’t Izuku’s room.

Not really. Not the one he remembers. Not the one he’s seen before.

Izuku is structured. Izuku is meticulous.

Izuku doesn’t live in chaos.

But this?

This is a disaster.

Clothes are everywhere. The bed is unmade, blankets half on the floor. Homework untouched, crumpled, scattered across the desk and floor like he started and never finished. Half-full water bottles litter the room, mixed with empty ones, the trash can overflowing.

And at the top of that overflowing mess—

Two orange pill bottles.

Katsuki’s heart slams into his ribs.

Slowly, cautiously, he steps forward. Reaches for one. Reads the label.

It’s a prescription. A legitimate one.

This is from Recovery Girl.

His mind flashes—the time he caught Izuku taking something in the hall.

It’s something Recovery Girl prescribed.

Maybe he hadn’t been lying.

Katsuki grabs the second bottle.

The date is too fucking close to the other.

One from Recovery Girl.

The other?

From the hospital.

And not the one near UA.

The one fifteen miles across town.

His fingers tighten around the bottles. His chest tightens with them.

What the fuck?

Why is he getting them from multiple places?

Why is he making trips to the hospital?

For a terrifying moment, Katsuki panics.

Is he sick? Is he hurt?

But then—his mind flashes again.

The last three months.

The rise, the fall, the complete fucking decline.

No.

No, he’s not sick.

But he looks sick now. He’s throwing up sometimes. People have noticed. He always blames it on stress, hero training, lack of sleep.

No one believes him anymore.

But they nod along anyway.

Because what the fuck are they supposed to say?

Katsuki is still standing there, staring at the bottles in his hands, when the door opens behind him.

Izuku steps in.

And for a second, he doesn’t register it.

Then he does.

And he fucking snaps.

The second he sees Katsuki in his room, at his desk, holding his pills—

“What the fuck are you doing in my room, Bakugo?!”

The name hits like a slap.

Katsuki physically flinches.

Izuku storms forward, half-hazy, bloodshot eyes flashing with something wild.

Katsuki opens his mouth, but Izuku is already there, snatching the bottle out of his hand.

“Get out,” he says, voice shaking.

Katsuki doesn’t move.

“No.”

“Get the fuck out of my room, you piece of shit!”

And Katsuki—Katsuki’s eyes go wide.

Because Izuku has never spoken like that.

Not even to villains.

He stares, mouth opening and closing, trying to figure out what the hell to say.

Then he shuts the door.

Because Izuku is losing it, and he doesn’t want the rest of the dorm to hear.

Katsuki takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking now too.

“…I’m sorry,” he says. His voice sounds small. “I shouldn’t have broken into your room.”

Izuku’s eyes burn. “You’re goddamn right.”

Katsuki swallows. “But Izu—”

Izuku freezes.

He’s never called him that before.

“I’m worried about you,” Katsuki says. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

For the first time in weeks, Izuku speaks truthfully.

“I hurt every day of my life.” His voice is ugly, bitter, raw. “One For All has destroyed me, Kacchan. I have to take these to not be in constant fucking pain. Unrelenting pain.”

Katsuki’s stomach twists. He never knew.

“You’re taking too many,” he says quietly.

Izuku doesn’t answer.

Instead, he clutches the bottle tighter.

And Katsuki reaches for it.

“I’ll help you,” he says. “Let me help you.”

Izuku hesitates.

And then, slowly, reluctantly, he hands over the bottle.

Katsuki takes it.

And the second it’s in his hand—

He pulls Izuku into his arms.

Tightly.

Because fuck, he’s so relieved.

Izuku tenses. Then, slowly, he melts.

And he cries.

Katsuki holds on tighter.

Because he loves him.

And now—he’s never letting go.

Katsuki doesn’t let go. Not even when Izuku finally stills in his arms, not even when the last of his shaking stops, when his breath evens out into something slow and steady against his shoulder. He won’t let go. Not when he’s spent months watching him slip through his fingers, clawing desperately at a version of him that never felt real, and now—now—he’s finally here. Right here. Flesh and blood and heat and exhaustion. Broken. Wrecked. His.

But Katsuki knows this isn’t over.

He has him now, but it isn’t enough.

So, as carefully as he can, he pulls back. Feels Izuku resist for just a second, like he doesn’t want to lose the contact.

Katsuki doesn’t let him go far. Just enough to see him.

Just enough to look him in the eye and know for certain that Izuku is still here.

“We need to go to Recovery Girl,” Katsuki says, voice steady, measured. Firm. “Now. She needs to know what’s going on—”

Izuku shakes his head.

“Deku—”

“No,” Izuku mutters, voice hoarse but resolute. His hands tighten where they’re still curled into Katsuki’s hoodie. “No hospitals. No teachers. No Recovery Girl. I—I won’t accept help from them.”

Katsuki’s heart lurches.

Because fuck.

He can see it in his face. The absolute conviction in those bloodshot, too-wide eyes. The panic hiding just beneath the surface.

Izuku won’t budge.

But he’s letting Katsuki help.

That realization hits him like a fist to the gut.

“Okay,” Katsuki breathes. Shit. “Okay. Fine. Fuck. Okay.”

And then he asks.

Because he needs to know.

He needs the truth.

“When did you take your last dose?”

Izuku swallows thickly, avoids his gaze for a second too long. “Before class.”

Katsuki’s stomach tightens.

“How much?”

Izuku hesitates.

Katsuki glares. “Deku.”

“…Three.”

Three.

Fucking three.

Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut for a second, breathes through it, doesn’t let the panic show.

“How many a day?”

Izuku hesitates again. Katsuki can see the calculation behind his eyes. The flicker of a lie that never quite forms.

“…Six. Sometimes seven.”

Seven.

Katsuki wants to scream.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Izuku’s silence is an answer.

Katsuki forces himself to wait.

“…A couple nights ago,” Izuku finally mutters. “Not much. An hour? Two?”

Katsuki’s entire body locks up.

“And the last time you ate?”

Another pause.

“…Yesterday, I think.”

Katsuki feels like he’s going to be sick.

He can feel himself starting to shake again, the pills in his grip rattling softly.

This is so much worse than he thought.

And Izuku—Izuku just said it all like it was normal. Like he wasn’t barely functioning. Like he wasn’t fucking killing himself.

“You—fuck, Deku.”

Izuku flinches. But it’s not fear. It’s guilt.

And Katsuki has to do something.

He has to fix this.

He looks over, eyes snapping to the empty bed in the room. The one that’s never been used.

Izuku never got a roommate. Never wanted one.

And Katsuki makes a decision.

“I’m moving in,” he says abruptly.

Izuku blinks. “What?”

“I’m switching dorms,” Katsuki says again, sharper this time, more sure. “You’re not doing this alone. I’m going to fucking help you, and if you’re too goddamn stubborn to go to Recovery Girl, then I’m just gonna do it my way.”

Izuku looks stunned.

“You’re my person,” Katsuki says. And—fuck. That’s it. That’s the truth, raw and aching, spilling out of him before he even realizes what he’s saying. “And I’m going to take care of you, dumbass.”

Izuku just stares at him.

Katsuki waits.

And then, slowly, Izuku breaks.

Tears well in his already red-rimmed eyes, his hands tightening in Katsuki’s hoodie.

“I don’t—” Izuku’s voice cracks. “I don’t understand why, Kacchan. I’m—”

He sucks in a sharp, shaky breath.

“…I’m a mess right now.”

Katsuki chuckles. And fuck, he’s shaking too, his entire body on edge, fraying at the seams, everything he’s feeling too much.

He pulls Izuku into him again, tugs him in, tight and desperate, buries his face against his shoulder.

“Nerd,” he breathes, voice breaking, hands tangling into Izuku’s curls. “You’ve always been a mess.”

Izuku shudders against him.

Katsuki presses his forehead against his shoulder, holds on tighter.

“But I want you to be my mess,” he says, barely above a whisper. “And if that’s not something you want, then I still wanna help you.”

The vulnerability in those words is too much. So he hides.

Keeps his face tucked away, out of Izuku’s line of sight, because if he looks at him right now, it’ll fucking destroy him.

And then—Izuku wraps his arms around him.

Pulls him closer.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t need to.

Because this is enough.

Because Katsuki understands.

And for the first time in months—

Izuku isn’t alone.

Katsuki keeps the pills on him. Always. Not in Izuku’s room, not hidden in some drawer where he could dig them back out in a weak moment. On his fucking person. Because Izuku doesn’t get to back out now.

The second he has them secured in his pocket, he drags Izuku’s scrawny ass into the kitchen.

“Sit,” he orders, practically shoving him into a chair.

Izuku doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight it. He just sits there, slouched forward, looking completely wrecked, elbows resting on the table, head tilted in exhaustion. Katsuki watches him for a second too long, feeling his stomach curl with something sharp and aching before he turns his back and gets to work.

Katsudon.

Because of course it is.

Because Izuku needs comfort food or whatever the hell. Because if anything is going to get him to eat, it’s this. Because if there’s one damn thing Katsuki can do in this situation, it’s cook.

The kitchen is quiet while he moves, but he knows Izuku is watching.

Not in the way he used to, not with curiosity or interest or admiration. Just tired.

By the time Katsuki shoves the bowl in front of him, Izuku looks even worse.

“Eat.”

Izuku stares at it.

Katsuki grits his teeth.

“Drink first, then eat.”

He shoves a glass of water forward, watches Izuku wrap his fingers around it without conviction. He doesn’t argue. He drinks. He doesn’t finish it, but it’s something.

Katsuki waits.

And then—Izuku finally lifts his chopsticks.

Takes a bite.

He chews slowly, like he’s preparing for something, like he’s already expecting the worst. His shoulders are tense, his breath shallow.

Another bite.

Then he sets the chopsticks down.

Katsuki scowls. “Oi. Keep eating.”

Izuku swallows thickly. “I—” He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s hard.”

Katsuki waits.

Izuku looks down at the bowl, eyes flickering, something unspoken hanging between them.

“My stomach hurts all the damn time,” he finally mutters, voice low, ashamed. “And if I eat, I throw up.”

Katsuki’s stomach fucking drops.

“So if I don’t eat,” Izuku continues, like he’s explaining something simple, “I don’t have to throw up.”

Katsuki just stares at him.

He’s flabbergasted. Completely fucking floored.

Because has he always been this fucking dense when it comes to taking care of himself?

“You—you absolute fucking idiot.”

Izuku blinks at him, tired and unimpressed.

Katsuki clenches his fists. “That’s a fucking vicious cycle, dumbass. You’re throwing up because you’re not eating enough. The pills are making you sick. Not the other way around.”

Izuku shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fucking fine.”

“It’s not that bad, really.”

Katsuki sees red.

Not that bad? Not that bad?

It takes everything in him to keep his voice even. To not shake him. To not lose his fucking mind.

Instead, he makes a stupid, reckless, impulsive choice.

He reaches into his pocket.

Pulls out the bottle.

Pops it open and pours seven fucking pills onto the counter.

Izuku goes completely still.

“Look at that,” Katsuki says, flat, almost hollow. “Count them, damn it.”

Izuku’s throat works like he’s swallowing down bile. His hands curl into white-knuckled fists.

“What if I just fucking took these?” Katsuki says, picking them up, holding them in his palm like he would, like he could. Like he’s daring Izuku to react.

Izuku goes pale.

Because he knows the truth.

If Katsuki swallowed those right now, he’d die.

Because seven is over three times what he should be taking in a day.

Because he knows.

Because he knows he’s fucked everything up.

“I’m scared,” Izuku suddenly breathes, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes are wide, dark, rimmed in something deep and hollow and afraid.

Katsuki waits.

Izuku’s hands shake.

“I can’t use One For All without this, Kacchan.”

And fuck.

That’s so fucked.

Katsuki puts the pills away. Feels like a fucking idiot while doing it. What the hell was that, huh? What did that accomplish? All he did was put on a damn show, scare the shit out of Izuku, bully him in a different way. That isn’t what he wants to do. That’s never been what he wants to do.

He glances at the clock. Ten minutes. That’s all the time he has before the others get back, before the dorms fill with noise, before they’re not alone anymore. And he has a lot of shit to do today.

So he shifts. Quick. Too quick. From frustration, fury, the urge to shake some sense into Izuku—back to concern.

“Eat a few more bites, nerd.”

Izuku grimaces, but doesn’t argue. Takes a few small bites, barely chewing, swallowing slow. It’s not enough. But it’s something.

Still, after a moment, he sighs, drops his chopsticks onto the table, and stares at Katsuki with tired, half-lidded eyes.

“So, are you gonna micromanage me taking a nap too?” Izuku asks, voice dry.

Katsuki’s jaw clenches. He wants to snap back, wants to bark at him to shut the hell up and take this seriously—but he stops himself. Swallows it back. This isn’t about him.

“Go,” Katsuki says, voice measured. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Izuku pushes up from the table like it takes all the energy in his body. He drags his feet as he moves toward his dorm, moving like he’s got fucking weights on his back. Katsuki follows, and when Izuku swings the door open, he sees it again.

The disaster of a room.

It’s fucking filthy.

And how?

Katsuki knows him. He knows how messes freak him out, how he needs structure, order, everything in its place. How is he functioning in this?

He’s not.

That’s the fucking point.

Izuku doesn’t even hesitate as he flops into bed, barely curling up around himself before going completely still.

Katsuki watches him for a long time, watches the way his body doesn’t relax. Knows he’s not asleep.

For a moment, he just stares. Then, slowly, carefully, he picks up the blanket that’s halfway to the floor and drapes it over Izuku’s shoulders.

Still, he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t say a word.

Katsuki takes a breath. Keeps his voice calm.

“I have to go talk to Aizawa about skipping drills today,” he says. “And my dorm reassignment. A couple other things.”

Izuku doesn’t react.

“I’m gonna go to the store. Do you need anything?”

Izuku shakes his head.

Katsuki continues.

“If you lock your door, I’ll just pick the lock again. I’m cleaning this fucking mess when I get back, and you’re gonna eat dinner.”

It’s not a request.

It’s just how it’s gonna be.

Izuku still doesn’t move. Doesn’t thank him, doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t tell him to be safe.

Instead, his voice comes quiet, flat.

“…And you’re taking my meds?”

Katsuki’s jaw locks.

Fuck. Goddamn it, Izu, how is that all you’re worried about?

“Yeah, nerd,” he says, voice tight. “I’m keeping them with me.”

Izuku doesn’t react. Doesn’t move for several minutes before he finally exhales, barely audible, rolling deeper into his bed, tucking himself away like he wants to disappear.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Whatever.”

Katsuki wants to pull his fucking hair out.

Instead, he leaves. Closes the door behind him.

The second he steps into the kitchen, the dorm is filling back up. Voices, movement, the others filtering in from training.

And Izuku’s basically untouched bowl of katsudon is still sitting there.

Katsuki stares at it.

Then, without a word, he grabs it, scoops it into a container, shoves it into the fridge.

Someone will eat it. Someone will love it. Because he’s a damn good cook.

Just… not the someone he hoped would.

The others clock him immediately.

“The hell was that, man?” Kaminari says. “Skipping? Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Katsuki doesn’t blink.

Iida crosses his arms, looking less disappointed, more irritated. “Aizawa-sensei is furious. At both of you.”

Katsuki’s fingers twitch.

Yeah. That tracks.

Kirishima frowns, looking genuinely concerned. “What’s going on? He was really pissed at all of us, like it was our fault you and Deku have been acting weird for weeks.”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow. Weeks?

Deku’s been weird, sure, but was he really acting that different? He was still passing his classes, still showing up to training. He was still—

Still what?

Still fucking alive?

He exhales sharply.

“I better go talk to him,” Katsuki mutters. “I had some—” he pauses, thinking about it, thinking about Izuku, about what he’s become to him. “—Family shit to deal with.”

It’s not really a lie. Not to him.

Kirishima looks even more concerned. “Everything okay?”

Katsuki hesitates.

Then he nods.

Kirishima grips his shoulder on the way out. “If you need to talk to anyone about shit… I’m here, bro.”

Katsuki doesn’t say anything at first.

Then, quietly, sincerely, he nods. “Yeah. I know. Thanks.”

Izuku is alone.

And he’s been crying since the second Katsuki left.

Everything is spinning.

Kacchan knows.

Kacchan knows everything.

And his worst fear happened.

Kacchan saw. Told him he was fucking up. Failing.

When Katsuki had those seven pills in his hand—when he counted them out, one through seven, sharp and deliberate, making Izuku stare at them, making him acknowledge them, making him see what he’d done—

Izuku had known then.

Had really known.

If Kacchan took those, he’d die.

But he’s been taking that many.

Not all at once, but—fuck.

It’s different.

It’s different, right?

Right?

God, he doesn’t know.

And that’s the worst fucking part.

He just wants to go back.

A few weeks ago, when everything was easy. When he could just smile and laugh and flirt with Kacchan like none of it mattered.

Because none of it did matter.

Right?

What was he even doing this for?

How was he ever supposed to be a hero with a body like this?

The pills.

The pills were the only way.

And Katsuki didn’t understand.

Katsuki didn’t know.

Didn’t know that Izuku needed this.

Didn’t know that Izuku couldn’t use One For All without this.

And yet—

Kacchan called me his person.

Izuku’s breath catches.

Katsuki cried.

For him.

Held him. Tightly.

Called him something new.

Not Deku.

Not Nerd.

Not Stupid, Idiot, Useless.

Just Izu.

His person.

Izuku squeezes his eyes shut.

And hates himself.

Because he made Kacchan cry.

And Kacchan never cries.

Especially not for him.

Aizawa isn’t an easy man to find, but Katsuki hunts him down anyway. Finds him exactly where he expects—in one of the staff lounges, slumped into the couch like he hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in years. There’s a fresh cup of coffee steaming in his hand, a stack of papers balanced on his knee. The second Katsuki steps through the door, Aizawa doesn’t even look up.

“Hope you had a good fucking reason,” he says, voice dry, rough with exhaustion, but very much not amused. “For skipping, for leaving, for making me deal with your classmates bitching about it—”

“I did,” Katsuki says, and that’s as far as he gets.

Because Aizawa’s head snaps up, and suddenly, he’s talking again—louder, sharper, almost unhinged.

“You and Midoriya.” His voice is hard, clipped, full of something just short of anger but twice as dangerous. “Both of you. The two students who don’t skip, don’t miss training, don’t fucking breathe out of place—you both disappear on the same day? What a fucking coincidence.”

Katsuki bristles immediately, jaw locking. “I don’t—”

Aizawa doesn’t let him finish.

“What were you doing?” he demands, voice rising. “What was he doing? What the fuck was either of you thinking?”

Katsuki opens his mouth, about to bark something back—but Aizawa is still going.

And then Katsuki realizes—it’s not about him.

Not really.

Because Aizawa isn’t yelling at him about skipping.

He’s yelling at him about Midoriya.

“I am this fucking close—” Aizawa holds up two fingers, just barely apart— “to expelling him, Bakugo. Two fucking weeks. That’s what he’s got left. That’s how much longer I can justify keeping him here.”

Katsuki’s stomach plummets.

“He’s failing every fucking class,” Aizawa continues, voice hard but not cold—not indifferent. No, it’s worse. It’s concerned. It’s weighted. “He’s not doing the work. He can’t focus. I can barely put him on the fucking training field anymore without wondering what he’s going to break, if his head’s even in the game.”

Katsuki stares.

His hands curl into white-knuckled fists at his sides, and he doesn’t know what to do with this feeling.

Because he didn’t know.

He didn’t know it was this bad.

Sure, he noticed Izuku pulling away, failing to keep up with group work, losing track of conversations, staring at nothing when he thought no one was looking. But failing? Expulsion?

His whole chest seizes up.

And before he can stop himself, his voice snaps out—

“What the hell does this have to do with me?”

The words come out too sharp, too defensive—and they taste like a fucking lie the second they leave his mouth.

Because it has everything to do with him.

Because Aizawa is right.

Katsuki has known the whole goddamn time that something was wrong. Even when it had looked fine, looked easy, looked charming. Even when it had looked happy.

It had still been wrong.

And he should have done more.

Katsuki drags a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back. Exhales hard, like he’s trying to force something out of his lungs. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches forward and grips Aizawa’s forearm.

Aizawa’s eyes flick down to his hand, then back up, sharp.

“I know,” Katsuki says, quietly, seriously. “I’m sorry. But I’m trying to help now.”

Aizawa watches him.

Katsuki clenches his jaw, forces the words out through his teeth. “I—I got him, okay? I know what’s going on. I had to skip. I had to do something.” His voice breaks slightly, and he swallows hard, forcing it steady again. “I can do this. Fuck, I didn’t even know he was failing too. But I’ll—I’ll tutor him, I guess, whatever the fuck it takes. I’ll help him.”

Aizawa doesn’t move.

Katsuki straightens. Lifts his chin. “That’s why I came here. I want to change dorms.”

Aizawa’s expression doesn’t shift, but Katsuki catches it anyway. The slightest, almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows.

“Midoriyas dorm?” he asks.

It’s not really a question. More of a fact.

Katsuki nods.

Aizawa’s gaze pierces right through him.

“What’s going on with him, Bakugo?” he asks, voice low, careful. Serious.

Katsuki forces himself not to look away. Not to back down.

He pushes out a half-truth. Not a complete lie.

“He’s… depressed,” Katsuki says, slow and careful, like testing the words. “The pressure of One For All. I—I let it slip through my fingers for a while, because for a while there…” He pauses. His throat feels tight. “He was hiding it well.”

Aizawa’s expression doesn’t change.

Katsuki breathes in. Breathes out.

“Me and him finally talked,” he continues, voice softer now, but still certain. “I—I told him I’d help him. And I plan on it.”

He takes a step forward, wringing his hands slightly—something he hasn’t done since he was a kid.

“Please don’t kick him out,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “I should’ve been there. Bullshit past aside, he’s my oldest, my best friend, and I should have been there. This shit’s on me, too.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrow slightly.

Katsuki’s throat tightens further, but he pushes forward.

“Please,” he says again. “Just—just let me try and fix this. Being a hero is all that dumbass has ever wanted. I don’t want him to lose that chance.”

Silence.

Aizawa watches him for a long time.

Too long.

Katsuki doesn’t fucking breathe.

Then—finally, Aizawa exhales. Scrubs a hand over his face, down to his jaw, like he’s trying to massage the tension out of it.

“Dorm reassignment is paperwork,” he mutters, like that’s the biggest pain in the ass out of all of this. “But fine. I’ll do it.”

Katsuki doesn’t let himself relax yet.

Aizawa fixes him with a long, hard stare. “But if I see a single goddamn slip-up, if Midoriya keeps spiraling, if I think for one second that you can’t handle this, I’m stepping in.”

Katsuki nods. Immediately.

“I mean it, Bakugo,” Aizawa says. His voice isn’t just a warning. It’s a promise. “This isn’t your responsibility. It shouldn’t be. But if you’re gonna make it your responsibility, you don’t get to half-ass it.”

Katsuki grits his teeth.

“I’m not gonna half-ass it,” he mutters. And he means it.

Aizawa studies him again, measuring. Then, finally, he sighs.

“You’re a goddamn problem child,” he mutters.

Katsuki snorts. “Yeah.”

Aizawa shakes his head, picking up his coffee again.

“Two weeks,” he says, sounding more tired than Katsuki has ever heard him. “That’s all I was going to give him. That’s all I had left.”

Katsuki’s stomach clenches.

Aizawa takes a sip of his coffee. “Guess I’ll give him a little longer.”

And Katsuki nods.

Because that’s all he fucking needs.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four | Rock Bottom Doesn’t Have a Floor.

Izuku wakes up like absolute death.

His mouth is dry, his stomach is sour, and his body feels like someone dragged him across concrete and left him to rot.

He groans, pressing his face into the pillow, wincing at the dull ache behind his eyes.

Everything feels too heavy.

His limbs, his chest, his goddamn head.

But he learned something important last night.

Slow down.

He was stupid before.

He doesn’t need to rush.

Just because he spent a fuckton of money, bought more pills than he’ll ever admit—

It doesn’t mean he has to burn through them like an idiot.

The key is control.

He needs to stay balanced.

Not like last night.

A hand brushes through his hair, slow, careful.

Katsuki.

Izuku barely peeks one eye open before the other boy is leaning down, lips pressing soft, warm, unbearably sweet against his temple.

Izuku’s stomach twists violently.

Not from the withdrawal.

Not from last night.

From this.

From Katsuki.

“You look like shit, nerd,” Katsuki mutters against his skin, but there’s zero bite behind it.

Izuku snorts, exhausted but amused.

“Yeah, well.” He clears his throat. “I threw up all night, so.”

Katsuki frowns.

The way he looks at him—**like it physically pains him to see Izuku like this—**makes something sharp dig into Izuku’s ribs.

He doesn’t like it.

Not because he doesn’t like Katsuki caring.

But because he’s lying to him.

And Katsuki doesn’t know.

“You should stay in bed today.”

Izuku shakes his head.

“No, I—” He forces himself to sit up, groaning, pressing his palm into his forehead. “I have class.”

Katsuki stares at him.

His hand finds Izuku’s wrist, thumb brushing over his skin.

“You don’t have to push yourself, dumbass. It’s just class.”

Izuku’s chest tightens.

Katsuki is always like this now.

Soft. Gentle. Careful.

Like Izuku is something fragile.

Like he’s something important.

It’s too much.

He forces a lazy, half-hearted smile, nudging Katsuki in the ribs.

“I’ll be fine, Kacchan. You worry too much.”

Katsuki doesn’t look convinced.

But he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, muttering a low, exasperated, “Fucking idiot,” under his breath.

Then he stands, stretching, reaching for his clothes.

And that’s Izuku’s cue.

The second Katsuki’s back is turned, Izuku moves.

Slow. Careful.

Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t stumble.

Just slides off the bed, makes his way to the bathroom, and locks the door behind him.

His hands don’t shake as he reaches under the sink.

He feels for the loose tile.

Finds it.

Lifts it.

There—the bag.

Safe. Hidden. Perfect.

Katsuki will never find it.

Izuku takes one pill.

Not two.

Not like before.

He pops it in his mouth, swallows it dry.

Exhales.

The tension in his body starts to fade, the ache starts to dull, the weight in his chest starts to lift.

His pulse steadies.

He can do this.

He can control this.

He can make this work.

He just has to be smart.

Katsuki will never know.

And that—that is the most important part.

It doesn’t take Katsuki more than a day or two to realize something is wrong.

Izuku should be crashing.

He should be miserable.

Katsuki had spent hours—fucking hours—one night, sitting in the dark while Izuku slept, phone screen glowing in his face, reading through articles, forums, medical pages.

Opiate withdrawal.

What to expect. How to handle it.

He had braced himself for weeks of hell.

Pain. Suffering.

And yet.

Nothing.

There was that first night. The puking, the shaking, the exhaustion.

But that had been it.

Sure, it had been shitty.

But Katsuki had expected more.

Something isn’t right.

Izuku is trying.

He’s studying, making an effort, actually paying attention in class.

There’s a noticeable effort.

But something isn’t adding up.

He’s too—loose.

His words are too easy, too smooth.

Like he doesn’t give a shit what comes out of his mouth.

Like he’s not filtering anything.

And Katsuki knows that’s not normal.

Not for Izuku.

Not for the anxious, overthinking, second-guessing nerd he fell in love with.

Izuku initiates it.

Slowly. Hesitantly. Like the thought alone might crack him open—but he leans in anyway.

And it’s—fuck.

Katsuki has wanted this for so long he doesn’t know how to breathe when it finally happens. Not just the press of Izuku’s mouth against his, not just the fingers curling in his shirt—pulling—but the choice behind it. The raw, unspoken want.

Loving an addict is complicated. It’s not a straight line. It's pain tucked under ribs and hope stitched into silence. It's watching someone unravel and praying you're not pulling on the thread.

But there are moments.

Moments like this—when the noise goes quiet. When Katsuki can feel everything Izuku won’t say in the way his hands shake while pulling Katsuki closer, or how his breath catches like he's afraid this will vanish if he breathes too hard.

Shirts are tugged off without grace. Pants dragged down, half-forgotten in the stumble toward the bed. There’s a soft thump as fabric hits the floor, another as they both crash down after it, breathless and burning.

There’s a sloppiness to it, but not carelessness. Izuku kisses like he’s trying to memorize the shape of Katsuki’s mouth. His hands are everywhere—too eager, too reverent—like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real. Like Katsuki might slip away if he lets go.

And Katsuki lets himself fall into it. Into the blur of limbs and mouths and whispered names. Into the warmth of skin and the ache of needing something too much. Into the dizzying illusion that this is solid ground.

For a little while, he lets himself believe they’re okay.

That this means something.

That Izuku is choosing him—not out of desperation, not to distract from the emptiness, but because he wants him.

But the edges start to blur again.

And as the weeks pass, the memory of that night softens—loses its clarity.

Because Katsuki starts noticing.

The silence between them stretching longer. The bruises under Izuku’s eyes deepening. The way he starts showering at 3 a.m., coming back with damp hair and hollow excuses. The subtle tremble in his hands when Katsuki reaches for them.

And he starts to wonder—

Was that night a promise?

Or just a pause?

A momentary quiet before the next storm?

But the storm is already here.

It’s not brewing anymore. It’s breaking—right now, right in front of him.

In their dorm. Their room. The place Katsuki thought he could make safe.

He smells it before he sees it. That chemical sweetness, sharp and wrong, clinging to the air like guilt.

And Izuku is sitting there on his bed. Hoodie wrinkled, legs folded underneath him, back too straight. Too still.

Katsuki can’t ignore it anymore. Can’t pretend. Not tonight. Not when it’s this obvious.

Izuku is high.

Right now.

And he’s lying about it.

Katsuki’s heart is pounding, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he forces his voice low. Steady. Controlled.

“Izuku.”

Green eyes flicker toward him. Just a second too slow. Just a fraction too sharp.

“Are you still using?”

There’s a pause.

Barely a breath.

And then—Izuku smiles.

Small. Easy. Practiced.

“No,” he says.

Katsuki swears he feels his ribs crack around the words. Like his chest physically tightens with the weight of it.

He steps closer. His voice drops into something harsher, quieter, begging through clenched teeth.

“Tell me the fucking truth.”

Izuku doesn’t blink.

“I already did.”

And Katsuki just stares.

At the way Izuku’s pupils are blown wide, too dark in the dim light.

At the sweat slicking his hairline, the way he won’t move, won’t breathe—like he’s balancing on the edge of something and knows one wrong twitch might shatter the illusion.

It’s all there. Katsuki knows. Every part of him knows.

But Izuku won’t admit it.

Won’t even look ashamed.

And something in Katsuki breaks.

He snaps. Not in a loud, explosive way. Not this time. It’s worse.

It’s quiet.

Ugly.

His voice goes hoarse with it—raw like he’s speaking through a throat made of splinters.

“Don’t fucking lie to me. Not about this.”

Still, Izuku just sits there. Smiling. Spun-out and vacant. Like maybe if he says it enough, it’ll become true. Like maybe Katsuki will stop asking. Like maybe Katsuki will stop caring.

And that’s what finally undoes him.

Because Katsuki does care.

Too much.

More than he knows how to survive.

And the person he loves is looking him in the eye, high as hell, and pretending nothing is wrong.

And Katsuki doesn’t know which hurts more—the addiction.

Or the lie.

He tears the fucking place apart.

Drawers ripped open. Bedding flung. Desk emptied with a single furious swipe. Clothes yanked from hangers. Bags dumped and kicked across the floor.

And Izuku—Izuku is crying now. Voice cracking, hands trembling, eyes wide as he begs:

“Kacchan—please—please stop—!”

But that’s all the confirmation Katsuki needs.

Because if there was nothing to find, Izuku wouldn’t be this scared.

If there was nothing to find, he wouldn’t be shaking like that, wouldn't be trying to curl in on himself like Katsuki might see through his skin.

But Katsuki doesn’t find anything.

Not a single goddamn thing.

And that infuriates him.

His chest heaves. His vision pulses at the edges. He spins around, eyes wild, teeth clenched like he’s trying not to scream.

“Where the fuck is it?”

Izuku doesn’t answer.

Just stares at him, heart in his throat, hands curled in fists against the mattress like he’s bracing for a hit that’s never coming.

“Where are you hiding them, Deku?” Katsuki snaps. Spits the name like it’s venom. His voice shakes. His hands won’t stop shaking.

Still—nothing.

Just that silence. That unbearable, echoing silence.

And something inside Katsuki snaps again. Not like glass—but like a bone bending too far the wrong way.

And he says it.

The worst thing.

The thing he should never have said.

“If you don’t tell me right now,” he growls, “I’m done, Izuku.”

Izuku flinches like he’s been hit.

Katsuki’s chest burns, but the words keep pouring out—like blood from a wound he ripped open himself.

“I’ll walk out of here right fucking now. Because I’m not wasting my goddamn time on a junkie who doesn’t even want to get help.”

The air goes still.

Dead still.

Izuku’s face goes blank.

Like someone cut the wires.

No more tears. No more tremble. Just cold, mechanical stillness.

His eyes dull. His mouth goes slack. And when he finally moves, it’s with precision—controlled. Like he’s flicking a switch somewhere deep inside himself.

He turns his head.

Doesn’t even look at him.

“You should go.”

And Katsuki—

Katsuki breaks.

Not on the outside. Not yet.

But inside? His heart stops. Then free-falls. Then starts crashing into every rib on the way down.

No.

No, no, no—fuck—

He takes a step forward, but Izuku doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t care.

The wall is already up.

So Katsuki does the only thing he knows how to do when he’s overwhelmed and cornered and ruined—

He runs.

He storms out, door slamming behind him with a bang that echoes through the dorm hall like a gunshot.

And the second he’s alone—

The panic hits.

He braces against the wall like the floor’s about to give out. His chest is too tight. He can’t breathe. His hands are still shaking, fingers twitching like they’re reaching for something that’s not there.

He said too much.

He said the worst possible thing.

And Izuku believed him.

Izuku believed him.

Because Katsuki just did the one thing Izuku has always been afraid of—he made the threat real.

And now?

Now he might not get the chance to take it back.

He finds Kirishima.

Doesn’t remember deciding to. Doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s knocking on the door, breath caught somewhere between his ribs, like if he exhales he’ll fall apart.

He doesn’t know where else to go.

He doesn’t think—just breaks.

The second Kirishima opens the door, Katsuki blurts it all out in a single, ragged breath.

No filter. No buildup. Just everything—the pills, the lies, the dorm room wreckage, the fucking look on Izuku’s face when he said it.

And Kirishima listens.

Quiet. Steady.

That same unshakeable calm Katsuki has always resented and relied on in equal measure. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there like a damn fortress while Katsuki rages and gasps and spirals through it all.

And then—without a word—he steps forward.

And hugs him.

Katsuki freezes.

His jaw clenches. His whole body goes stiff, like he’s been cornered. His arms hover awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching with restraint.

He doesn’t—fuck. He doesn’t need a hug.

He doesn’t need comfort. He needs a plan. He needs control.

He needs Izuku not to be—

His throat closes up.

His hands start to shake again.

And then—

He doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t shove him off. Doesn’t growl or curse or snarl something defensive just to buy time.

He just… sinks into it.

Lets himself be held.

Because he’s so fucking tired of fighting. Of pretending this isn’t killing him. Of screaming into a void while the person he loves disappears an inch at a time.

Kirishima holds him like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to hold Katsuki Bakugo while he breaks apart in someone else’s arms.

And when he finally steps back—slow, careful, still close—he meets Katsuki’s eyes with something painfully gentle.

“Bakugo…” he says, voice low, heavy. “I hate to say it, man, but—we’ve all been noticing it.”

The words hit like a hammer.

Katsuki’s stomach clenches. His spine stiffens.

Kirishima doesn’t stop.

“We didn’t know what was going on, but… this whole year, dude. Something’s been off.”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking away just for a moment—like he doesn’t want to say it, but has to.

“I was starting to think he was bipolar or something. I mean… the way he’d be up one week and crashing the next? The mood swings. The way he isolates.”

He sighs.

“I should’ve said something. I should’ve asked.”

Katsuki doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Because there’s too much grief in his chest. Too much guilt in his lungs. Because now he knows it wasn’t just him. It wasn’t just a bad week or a bad fight or a bad night—

It was happening, right in front of all of them.

And no one did a damn thing.

He stands there, jaw locked, throat tight, eyes burning, fists clenched so hard his knuckles go white.

But still—he says nothing.

Because he doesn’t know how.

Not anymore.

Katsuki sits on the edge of Kirishima’s bed, elbows braced against his knees, hands tangled in his hair, and he can’t—

He can’t fucking breathe.

His chest feels tight, like someone’s got their hands wrapped around his ribs and is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

He just sits there, frozen, the weight of everything suffocating.

And Kirishima is watching him.

Not like he’s waiting for an explanation.

Like he’s waiting for him to break.

And Katsuki hates it.

Because he already fucking has.

Katsuki drags his hands down his face, exhales sharply.

His voice comes out hoarse, exhausted.

“I don’t know what the fuck to do, Kiri.”

Kirishima leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.

“What do you mean?” His voice is low, careful.

Katsuki snaps.

“I MEAN—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard, shaking his head. “I mean, I don’t—I can’t fucking fix this. I can’t—I tried, I thought I was helping, but he just—he just keeps—”

His throat closes up.

His fists clench in his lap, nails biting into his palms.

Kirishima nods slowly.

“He keeps using.”

Katsuki laughs, sharp and bitter and empty.

“Yeah, no fucking shit.”

Kirishima sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re sure?”

Katsuki jerks his head up, glaring.

“OF COURSE, I’M FUCKING SURE.”

Kirishima doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t back down.

Just looks at him, steady and unwavering.

And Katsuki wilts.

Drops his head into his hands.

“I found out he was using, I tried to get him to stop, and I—I took them away, Kiri.”

Kirishima’s brows furrow.

“His meds?”

Katsuki nods, hands curling into his hair.

“Yeah. His meds. The ones from Recovery Girl. He was taking too many, I fucking—I saw it happening, I took them, I thought—” He cuts off, inhaling sharply. “I thought if I handled it, if I helped him through the withdrawal, if I just stayed with him, I could—I don’t fucking know. Fix it. Fix him.”

Kirishima’s eyes darken.

“And that’s when he switched to something else.”

Katsuki laughs again, empty and humorless.

“Yup.”

Kirishima sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Katsuki lifts his head, stares at the wall like it’s got all the fucking answers.

His voice isn’t as sharp when he speaks.

It’s just—tired.

“Why would he do this to himself?”

Kirishima doesn’t answer right away.

Doesn’t say something stupid, like ‘I don’t know.’

Instead, he just exhales, voice quiet.

“Maybe he doesn’t see it like that.”

Katsuki frowns, turning to him.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Kirishima shrugs.

“I mean, maybe he doesn’t think he’s hurting himself.”

Katsuki stares.

Because that’s the dumbest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

“Kiri.” His voice is raw, tight, barely held together. “You weren’t there when he told me he couldn’t use his quirk without them.”

Kirishima’s jaw tightens.

Katsuki scoffs, leaning forward again, fingers laced together between his knees.

“That’s what he fucking said. Like he actually believes it. Like he actually thinks he can’t throw a punch without them.”

His voice shakes.

And he hates it.

Kirishima sighs, shoulders sinking.

“And you don’t think he can?”

Katsuki’s hands clench.

He shakes his head.

“I don’t fucking know anymore.”

Because he does.

He does know.

Izuku can do it.

He just doesn’t believe it.

And Katsuki can’t convince him.

Not like this.

Not when Izuku won’t even fucking listen to him anymore.

Silence stretches between them.

Katsuki’s heart beats too fast, too erratic, like it’s trying to rip itself out of his chest.

His fingers dig into his knees.

His voice is small, weak, broken when he finally speaks.

“So what the fuck do I do?”

Kirishima looks at him. Long. Careful. Thinking.

Then—softly, carefully, like he knows Katsuki won’t like the answer—

“I think you have to let him hit rock bottom.”

Katsuki’s stomach drops.

His whole body tenses.

His pulse spikes violently.

And then—rage.

He shoves himself to his feet, breath coming fast, vision blurring at the edges.

“Are you fucking KIDDING ME?!”

Kirishima’s expression doesn’t change.

He just lifts his hands, calm, unshaken.

“Bakugo. Listen to me.”

Katsuki’s breath heaves.

He wants to punch something.

Wants to throw something.

Wants to fix this.

But he can’t.

And Kirishima just sits there, patient, waiting for him to listen.

And Katsuki—Katsuki doesn’t have anyone else to turn to.

So he fucking listens.

Because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Katsuki can’t breathe.

The words feel like static in his brain, like a bomb about to go off in his chest.

Let him hit rock bottom.

The fuck kind of advice is that?

Kirishima is still watching him. Not with pity, not with judgment—just steady, unshaken patience.

And it pisses him off.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Katsuki’s voice is hoarse, raw, barely leashed. “What, you think I should just let him keep using? Watch him throw his life away and do nothing? You think I should just sit back and—”

Kirishima sighs, cuts in before Katsuki can spiral any further.

“I mean, you can’t force him to stop.”

Katsuki freezes.

And it’s not that he hasn’t thought about it before.

But hearing it out loud, spoken like an undeniable truth—

It makes him want to scream.

“Like hell, I can’t.”

Kirishima shakes his head.

“Bakugo. Listen.”

Katsuki’s hands clench into fists.

“No, fuck you, listen to me!” His chest rises and falls, breath heaving. “Aizawa has him on thin fucking ice. You get that, right? He’s already one or two mistakes away from being expelled. He’s fucking failing, Kiri. He’s barely training. If rock bottom means losing U.A.—”

His breath catches, and suddenly, his throat feels too fucking tight.

“If rock bottom means that, then he loses everything.”

Kirishima doesn’t say anything at first.

Just nods slowly. Thoughtfully.

Then—carefully, quietly—

“But you can’t stop him from making that mistake.”

Katsuki’s chest feels like it’s caving in.

Katsuki can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Can’t believe the words coming out of Kirishima’s mouth.

Let him hit rock bottom.

Let Izuku—his Izuku, his nerd, his fucking person—fall.

Katsuki’s whole body tenses like a live wire, muscles coiling so tight he might snap.

His chest is too small, too tight, too full of things he can’t hold.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fucking fingers.

And Kirishima?

Kirishima is just sitting there.

Calm. Steady. Waiting.

Like he’s got all the time in the world.

Like Katsuki isn’t barely holding himself together with chewed-up string and sheer force of will.

And it pisses him off.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Katsuki spits, voice sharp, fraying at the edges.

Kirishima doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. Just sighs, slow and careful, like he’s dealing with a bomb that might go off if he moves too fast.

“I mean, you can’t force him to stop.”

Katsuki freezes.

The words land like a punch to the ribs, all air knocked out of him at once.

Not because he didn’t know.

But because he doesn’t want to know.

Because hearing it out loud, spoken like an unshakable fact, makes it real.

And Katsuki can’t handle it being real.

His nails dig into his palms, his jaw aching from clenching too hard.

“Like hell, I can’t.”

Kirishima shakes his head. Not like he’s disagreeing. Like he’s sad.

Like he wishes Katsuki were right.

“Bakugo. Listen.”

Katsuki’s hands are shaking now.

His breath is uneven, unsteady, raw in his throat.

But he can’t listen to this bullshit.

Can’t sit here and let Kirishima tell him to do nothing.

“No, fuck you, listen to me!” Katsuki explodes, breath coming too fast, too ragged, his vision tilting at the edges.

Kirishima doesn’t move. Doesn’t back down.

Just lets him break.

Katsuki grips the edge of the bed, feels like the ground under him is shifting, cracking, crumbling into something unrecognizable.

“Aizawa has him on thin fucking ice. You get that, right?” His voice is rough, desperate. “He’s already one or two mistakes away from being expelled. He’s fucking failing, Kiri. He’s barely training. If rock bottom means losing U.A.—”

His breath catches.

His throat locks up.

His ribs feel too tight, like they might break under the weight of this.

“If rock bottom means that, then he loses everything.”

Kirishima goes quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that means he’s thinking. Calculating.

And Katsuki doesn’t want to hear what he’s about to say.

Doesn’t want to know.

Because Kirishima might be right.

And Katsuki can’t—**he won’t—**let that happen.

Kirishima sighs, rubbing his hands together, like he’s about to tell Katsuki something he doesn’t want to hear.

And Katsuki beats him to it.

Says something he doesn’t even fully understand until it’s already in the air between them, sharp and real and irreversible.

His voice isn’t loud.

It’s quiet. Raw. Small in a way he didn’t know he was capable of.

“And I’d follow him, Kiri.”

The room goes still.

Like the whole world has stopped.

Kirishima’s expression wipes blank.

Katsuki swallows. Feels his stomach twist, his hands flex and curl in his lap.

But he doesn’t stop.

Because now that it’s out there, now that it’s real, he can’t take it back.

He just leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’d quit everything.”

He breathes in, breathes out, forces the next words past the tightness in his throat.

“Because it’s fucking worthless without him. It always has been.”

Kirishima stares at him like he’s seeing something dangerous for the first time.

Like he’s realizing just how deep this runs.

Just how far gone Katsuki is.

Like he didn’t fully understand until right now.

“Bakugo.”

Katsuki shakes his head, because no, Kiri doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t fucking get it.

He doesn’t know what it’s like to love someone who’s destroying themselves in front of you.

Who’s slipping through your fingers like smoke.

Who’s walking straight into a fire, and no matter how hard you pull, they won’t fucking stop.

“You don’t get it.”

Kirishima leans forward, voice softer now, but firm.

“No, I get it, man.”

And it sounds real.

Sounds like he’s being honest.

And it makes something in Katsuki fracture.

Kirishima rubs a hand down his face, sighing.

“I just—I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Katsuki laughs, sharp and bitter and hollow.

“Tell me how to fucking save him.”

Kirishima doesn’t answer.

Izuku stands there for a long time.

Silent.

Motionless.

His arms hang limp at his sides, fingers twitching—clenching, unclenching, like his body’s trying to grasp something that isn’t there anymore.

His chest heaves in shallow bursts, like he can’t decide whether to scream or collapse. Like his lungs are filled with static.

But he doesn’t move.

Not yet.

Not until he’s sure.

Not until the sound of footsteps fades. Not until the hall outside goes still. Not until the tension in the air curdles into absence.

Not until he’s absolutely, undeniably certain that Katsuki is gone.

And then—only then—does he move.

He turns. Slowly. Mechanical.

His hands close around the lock, knuckles white, bones grinding.

He turns the bolt with shaking fingers. Clicks it into place. Twists it again, just to be sure. Again. Again. Twist, twist, twist—until the metal groans and bites.

And then he presses his forehead against the wood.

Like if he leans hard enough, it’ll hold him together.

It doesn’t.

He crumples against it, one arm stretched out like a lifeline, and then—he screams.

Not just a shout. Not just anger. It’s not clean enough to be rage. It’s not contained enough to be grief.

It’s a howl.

It’s everything.

Everything he’s been shoving down, hiding behind tired smiles and glassy eyes. Everything he couldn’t say. Everything he shouldn’t feel. Everything that’s been rotting in his chest like poison.

It erupts out of him like a dying star. Ferocious. Final.

The sound he makes isn’t human. It’s the kind of scream that scrapes skin off bone. That leaves his throat raw and bleeding. It claws its way out of him like something feral, something that was never meant to be caged.

It’s agony. It’s betrayal. It’s love that’s turned septic.

His knees buckle.

And he drops.

Hard.

Hits the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, legs folding under him with a soundless gasp. His back slides down the door, his body curling in on itself like a dying thing trying to make itself small.

He sobs. Chokes. Gasps like he’s drowning in air. His whole body trembles—wracked with convulsions that have nothing to do with detox and everything to do with grief.

Because this is it.

This is the moment.

This is rock bottom.

Not the pills. Not the lies. Not the late nights with a sink full of bile and shame.

This.

Katsuki walking out.

And meaning it.

Izuku feels sick.

His stomach twists, bile burning at the back of his throat, and he dry-heaves once, twice, body curling tighter with every spasm.

He claws at his own arms, fingernails biting skin, needing something to feel—anything to remind himself he’s still here.

And the worst part—the worst part—is that a voice inside him whispers:

You don’t have to be.

No one would stop him.

No one would know—not until it was too late.

Katsuki’s already gone.

He already thinks I’m a junkie.

He already gave up on me.

The sob that rips through him is quieter now, broken and hoarse.

He drags his fingers through his hair, fists it, pulls—hard enough to hurt.

But it doesn’t help.

Nothing helps.

Nothing touches this.

And he thinks—just for a second—how easy it would be.

One more hit.

One more pill.

One last high to go numb.

To disappear.

To stop hurting.

He sits there for what feels like hours.

Alone.

Shaking.

Waiting for something—anything—to come back.

But nothing does.

Just the silence.

Just the echo of the door slamming shut.

Just the truth—

That he drove away the only person who still loved him.

And maybe that’s what he wanted.

Maybe that’s what he deserved.

He moves without thinking.

There’s no plan. No logic. No second-guessing. Just static in his brain and white-hot panic crawling down his spine.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Doesn’t pause.

Doesn’t stop to ask himself what the fuck he’s doing or why everything feels so wrong.

He just grabs the bag.

Fingers fumbling, clawing.

Rips it open like it’s attacking him.

The pills spill out in a flood—little pale ghosts bouncing and rolling across the wood floor like they’re laughing at him.

His breath catches in his throat.

Shallow.

Too fast.

Not enough.

His chest stutters with it, tight and locked and aching like he’s breathing through crushed glass. He sinks to the ground, slow, like the air itself is heavier now. Like gravity wants him gone.

Cross-legged. Shaking. Bent at the spine like something broken and folded inward.

His hands twitch at his sides.

He counts.

Not all of them.

Just—seven.

Seven stupid, chalky white pills scattered in a half-moon in front of him.

And the memory hits like a gunshot.

Katsuki.

Voice cold. Face pale. Hand outstretched, palm open, pills glinting like a threat.

"What if I took these right now?"

Izuku chokes on a gasp.

His stomach lurches. He swallows bile and hate and grief and shame, blinking hard, trying to make it stop, trying to stay here.

He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, hard enough to see stars.

It doesn’t help.

None of it helps.

He grabs more.

Not seven.

More than seven.

Fistfuls.

His hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold them. Some spill, some roll away, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t chase them.

Doesn’t think.

He shoves them in his mouth. Dry. No hesitation. The taste is bitter, metallic, like guilt and rot and finality.

His throat barely works.

He fumbles for the water bottle—half-empty, warm, dust-coated on the nightstand—and chugs, forcing the pills down like he’s swallowing nails. Like they might pin him back together from the inside out.

Like they’re the only thing that’s ever worked.

Like they’re the only thing that’s still here.

Because Kacchan’s not.

Kacchan left.

And not just left—he quit.

He called him a junkie.

Said he was done.

Done with him.

With Izuku.

With the version of him that hurts and lies and can’t stop.

And Izuku doesn’t understand why it hurts this much.

Why his ears are ringing.

Why his vision is tunneling.

Why his skin feels too tight and too loose at the same time.

Why his heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to explode.

Why he can’t breathe.

Why he can’t think.

Why he wants to scream and sob and vomit all at once.

Why it feels like Katsuki just died.

Why it feels like he’s about to.

“No, no, no—fuck—fuck—fuck—” he whispers, over and over, voice cracking, breath catching, knees pressing into the floor like prayer.

“Oh god. Oh god, oh god—Kacchan’s gone—he’s gone, he’s done, he’s done with me—”

His nails dig into his thighs.

His body rocks forward, then back, then forward again, like movement might keep the dark from swallowing him.

But it won’t.

Because Katsuki’s gone.

And the room is so fucking quiet now.

And Izuku feels like he’s floating.

Like his skin isn’t his.

Like the air is syrup and his brain is static and the floor doesn’t exist anymore.

He sits there, dizzy and numb and vibrating, eyes wide and unseeing.

Waiting for something.

Anything.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this is what it feels like to fall all the way down.

Maybe there’s nothing left to hit.

His hands are shaking so badly, he almost drops his phone.

It slips in his grip, fumbles out of his fingers, and he catches it by instinct alone—clumsy, desperate, like even it wants to leave him too.

He swallows hard, mouth dry, throat raw, vision blurring with salt.

The screen lights up, cold and bright against the dim haze of his room. His fingers hover over the keyboard, twitching, fumbling, like they don’t belong to him.

He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t want to think.

He just types.

Simple.

Too simple.

To his mom.

I love you. I miss you.

That’s it.

That’s all.

No explanation. No context. No warning. Just—

I love you. I miss you.

His thumb hovers over the screen.

Frozen.

And for a second—just one terrible, infinite second—he stares at it like it’s some kind of lifeline. Like maybe if he deletes it, he won’t be doing this. Like maybe if he hits send, he’s already gone.

He doesn’t know why he sent it.

He doesn’t even know what he expects.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe he just wants her to know.

Maybe he just wants someone to know.

Maybe… maybe those are the last words he’ll ever say to her.

That thought sits in his stomach like a swallowed knife. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t move. He just feels it—coiled, sharp, and final.

He sets the phone down beside him on the mattress.

Face down. Out of sight.

Like it might accuse him if he looks at it too long.

Then he reaches for his headphones.

His hands are still trembling, but he manages to get them over his ears. Lets them sit heavy against his skull like armor, like blinders.

Finds the playlist.

The one he made years ago.

The one he swore he’d never use.

The one called "Catching the Bus."

The name was a joke once. A dark one. A whisper passed between internet forums, an inside phrase. Now it feels sick. Now it feels true.

His thumb hesitates again.

Then taps.

Play.

The music starts soft.

But it’s immediate.

It wraps around him like a blanket soaked in ice.

♪ "I hope you won’t see me tonight..."
— Maybe I Won’t See You Tonight Pt. 1 – Avenged Sevenfold

The lyrics settle into his chest like dust.

Familiar.

Distant.

Like something he used to feel when he still felt everything too much.

Now it’s just—hollow.

♪ "Such a lonely day, and it’s mine..."
— Lonely Day – System of a Down

His breath catches.

It feels like someone else is singing for him. Like the song was written about him. Like somewhere out there, the universe already knew this day would come.

♪ "I can’t carry this anymore..."
— I Can’t Carry This Anymore – Anson Seabra

His hands fall to his lap.

Loose. Boneless.

Like every muscle in him just gave up.

Like the weight of himself is finally too much.

His breathing slows. Not peaceful—just tired. Just the way a machine sputters before shutting down.

He sits there in the dark.

Not crying.

Not moving.

Just… waiting.

For the numb to hit harder.
For the noise to drown everything out.
For sleep.
For silence.
For something to take the place of everything he can’t carry anymore.

And in the back of his mind, a single thought echoes—

If Katsuki really meant it…

If he’s really done…

Then what the fuck is the point?

It comes slow at first.

A warmth.

Gentle. Almost comforting. It slips beneath his skin like sunlight through water—soft, spreading, slow.

His chest blooms with it, then his arms, his legs, his fingers and toes.

It’s not bad.

Not yet.

It’s quiet. Heavy. Like his body is sinking into the mattress, like the floor is softer than it’s ever been. His eyelids drag, fluttering with the weight of something thick and golden and full of lullabies.

His head gets heavy.

Not just tired—dense. Like it’s filling with sand, with fog, with something soft and cloying that’s pressing against the inside of his skull. The pressure builds and builds and builds, and his thoughts slow to a crawl.

Everything is distant. Blurred.

Like the world is a painting underwater.

His muscles loosen. His limbs go slack. His fingers twitch once, twice—and then forget how to move.

His heart drags. Sluggish. Like it doesn’t want to keep going.

And then—
Then it turns.

The warmth shifts.

Grows thick. Sticky. Wrong.

It’s no longer comforting.

It’s suffocating.

It spreads too fast now. Drowns his chest. Fills his lungs like smoke.

He tries to take a deep breath—but it catches halfway.

His chest won’t expand.

His ribs feel too tight. His lungs too small. Like there’s no room left inside him for air.

The floor tilts sideways.

His stomach lurches.

His arms feel like they’re being pulled gently away from him—floaty, untethered, like he's leaving them behind.

His body is here. But he’s not in it.

He doesn’t feel real anymore.

His skin isn’t his.

His legs are gone.

His heartbeat is too far away, like it belongs to someone else, thudding faintly through a wall.

And—fuck.

This is it.

This is really it.

He was ready.

Wasn’t he?

He thought he was. He told himself he was. He planned for this. Knew it was coming.

But suddenly—he’s not.

Suddenly he’s terrified.

Because this isn’t theoretical anymore. This isn’t numb. This isn’t quiet.

This is real.
This is happening.
Right now.
Right now.

And he—
He doesn’t want to die.

Not like this.
Not now.
Not alone.

His fingers twitch again. Desperate. Clumsy. Reaching for the floor, the wall, anything to hold onto.

His hand slips against the wood.

His nails scrape, weak and useless.

His chest spasms.

His vision pulses, goes dim at the edges—colors bleeding together, corners darkening, curling inward like a picture burning from the outside.

His breathing—
God—his breathing is wrong.

It stutters.
Stalls.
Slows.

He can’t draw it in. Can’t get it out. Every inhale tastes like cotton. Every exhale gets stuck.

He can’t feel his toes.

His legs are buzzing.

His ears are ringing—
Or maybe that’s the music still playing—
He can’t tell—
It’s too loud and too far away all at once—
Like he’s drifting from it—
Like he’s drifting from everything.

And just before it slips entirely—
Just before the black overtakes it all—
He feels it.

A flicker of panic.

A scream that never makes it to his throat.

No, no, no—fuck, not like this—

And then—

Everything goes still.

Everything goes black.

And he falls out of himself.

Katsuki knocks first.

Soft. Just once.

Because maybe—maybe—he’s just asleep. Maybe he’s wearing headphones. Maybe he’s pissed and ignoring him. Maybe this is nothing.

But his heart is already racing.

Too fast. Too loud.

Something’s wrong.

Something feels wrong.

The air is off—too still, too quiet, like the hallway is holding its breath.

He knocks again.

Harder this time. Louder. A closed fist against the wood.

“Deku.”

Still nothing.

No shuffle of movement. No muffled voice. No groan of protest. Not even the creak of a bedframe.

His pulse slams against his ribs.

“Come on,” he mutters, stepping back, then forward again. His hand curls into a fist. He knocks again, three sharp bangs in a row. Urgent. Unstable.

“Izuku, open the fucking door.”

Nothing.

Not a word.
Not a sound.
Not even a breath.

His stomach twists.

Cold.

Heavy.

Like lead poured straight into his gut.

His chest tightens like a fist curling around his lungs.

He knocks again—again—hard enough to sting his knuckles.

“*Deku—*don’t fuck around with me, open the door—”

Still silence.

Still that awful, awful stillness.

He presses his ear to the door. Just for a second. Just to hear—something.

But there’s nothing.

No footsteps. No rustle of sheets. No hum of music. No human noise at all.

His skin goes cold.

His hands start to shake.

He fumbles for his dorm key, the one he just got, the one he swore he’d never use unless it was an emergency—

And this is, isn’t it?

He can’t breathe right.

He curses under his breath, because his fingers won’t work, they won’t move right, and the fucking key won’t slide in cleanly, and every second that passes is too loud in his head.

“This is fine,” he lies to himself, “he’s probably—he’s probably just sleeping, it’s fine, it’s—fuck—”

The key turns.

The lock clicks.

He throws the door open so hard it rebounds off the wall with a bang that echoes down the hall.

And then—

His whole fucking world stops.

Izuku is on the floor.

Not in bed.
Not at his desk.
Not even conscious on the couch in some pathetic attempt at rest.

He’s on the floor.

Slumped like a ragdoll someone dropped and never picked back up.

His legs are twisted beneath him, one at a wrong angle, one sock halfway off. His arms lie limp at his sides—boneless, useless, dead-weighted.

His head is tilted just slightly, like he never finished the motion of turning. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his skin is—

Oh god.

His skin is gray.

Not pale. Not flushed. Gray.

His lips have gone faintly blue at the edges. His cheeks are hollow. His eyes—

Fuck.

His eyes.

They’re half-lidded. Glazed. Pupils pinprick-small and floating unfocused in his skull, like they’ve lost the signal.

Like he's lost the signal.

And surrounding him—

The pills.

Everywhere.

White and round and scattered like bones across a battlefield. Like snow that fell wrong. Like someone upended a bottle and walked away.

Only it wasn’t a bottle.

It was several.

It was fistfuls.

There’s dust, too. Crushed tablets under Katsuki’s shoes. White smears on the floor, on Izuku’s hands, on his mouth.

He’s in the middle of it. The eye of the storm he built with his own trembling hands.

His fingers are barely curled. Like he was holding something.

Like he let go.

His chest rises.

Too slow.

Falls.

Too shallow.

Too wrong.

It’s not sleep.

It’s not rest.

It’s a shutdown.

And Katsuki’s brain—

Shuts the fuck down with him.

There’s no logic. No step-by-step. No plan.

Just terror.

Just terror.

Pure, red-slick, numbing terror.

He doesn’t think.

He doesn’t speak.

He just—
Moves.

“ FUCK! ”

The word tears out of him like it’s ripping through his ribs on the way out—raw, broken, feral.

His knees slam to the floor.

He doesn’t remember dropping. Doesn’t care that it hurts. Doesn’t feel the sting in his kneecaps or the burn in his palms as they scrape wood and pill dust.

He’s grabbing at Izuku before he even knows he’s moving.

Fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt—fists in the collar, yanking, shaking him, too hard, too rough—but he’s not thinking, he’s not thinking—

“*Izuku—*wake the fuck up! WAKE UP!!”

His voice cracks, wild and high in his throat like a scream being strangled into words.

Izuku’s head lolls.

Slack. Boneless.

His lips are parted just enough to breathe—barely.

Each inhale is a whisper. Each exhale is a coin flip.

His face—

His fucking face—

It’s wrong. It’s wrong.

His freckles look like bruises now. His eyelashes are clumped together with sweat. His skin is ice—ice—and Katsuki can’t tell if he’s shivering or if it’s just himself that’s shaking.

He can’t—he can’t—

His breath catches so hard it burns.

He swallows it down. Swallows the bile that surges up his throat. Swallows the scream trying to break out of his teeth.

And then—
Then he screams for real.

“HELP!! I NEED HELP!! AIZAWA—SOMEBODY—FUCK—CALL RECOVERY GIRL, CALL AN AMBULANCE—”

His voice cracks in half. Shatters like glass on pavement. His throat goes raw from the force of it.

He’s still holding Izuku—still gripping his shoulders like he can anchor him to the world if he just holds hard enough. His fingers are white-knuckled, cramping, digging in.

He doesn’t notice the tears until they hit Izuku’s face.

He doesn’t feel the sob building until it breaks out as a guttural gasp, chest spasming like his lungs are betraying him.

Someone slams into the doorframe behind him.

“Bakugo—?!” It’s Kirishima, breathless, wide-eyed, frozen.

Mina stumbles in behind him, skidding to a stop. Her hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes spill over immediately.

She starts crying.

"Oh my god... oh my god... oh my god—"

“CALL SOMEONE!!” Katsuki roars, voice wrecked and breaking apart.

Kirishima jerks into motion, already fumbling for his phone, dialing with fingers that won’t stop trembling.

Mina’s sobbing now. Whispering a prayer or maybe just his name, over and over.

And Katsuki—
Katsuki is losing his fucking mind.

Because Izuku isn’t moving.
Because Izuku isn’t blinking.
Because he’s so cold, and his breathing is wrong, and Katsuki’s shaking him like it’ll fix something but it doesn’t, it won’t, and—

He did this.

Izuku did this.

He wanted to die.

He chose this.

And Katsuki—

Katsuki doesn’t know if he’s already too fucking late.

Katsuki presses his forehead to Izuku’s.

His breath stutters—uneven, ragged, like every inhale cuts deeper than the last. His lungs won’t fill. His chest won’t open. His ribs feel like they’re caving in.

His heart slams against his sternum, a violent, chaotic rhythm. His pulse is everywhere—his throat, his ears, his hands—which won’t stop shaking.

He’s never been this scared.

Not in battle.
Not facing death.
Not ever.

“Izuku,” he whispers. His voice is already cracking. Already splintering apart.

“Please, nerd.”

The nickname punches out of him without thinking, soft and familiar and desperate.

“Don’t…” He swallows. Fails. His throat burns like it’s full of glass. “Don’t fucking do this to me.”

Izuku doesn’t move.

Nothing. No twitch. No breath. No miracle.

Katsuki clenches his jaw so hard his teeth grind. His vision blurs, but he refuses to blink. He won’t look away.

His hand slides to Izuku’s cheek.

Gently. So gently.

Like if he presses too hard, he’ll break him.

His thumb brushes over his skin—skin that’s too cold, too still, not right. Not Izuku.

And Katsuki—

Katsuki breaks.

“You’re my fucking person, Izuku.”

The words rip from him, raw and low, like they’ve been buried in his chest for years and only now have the chance to claw their way out.

“You’re it. You’re—you’re it.”

His voice cracks, drops to a whisper that trembles in the air between them.

His grip tightens, just a little. His other hand curls into Izuku’s shirt, fingers fisting the fabric like it might anchor him here. Like Katsuki can hold him in place if he just doesn't let go.

“Please stay.”

He presses his forehead harder against Izuku’s.

He’s crying now. He doesn’t know when it started.

Doesn’t care.

He lets it fall.

Lets it all fall.

And then—

Sirens.

The distant wail of them punches through the stillness like a blade.

Footsteps.

Fast. Heavy. Rushed.

A voice shouting. Orders. Instructions. Everything moving too fast and too slow all at once.

And then—
Hands.

Hands pulling him back.

Katsuki resists—thrashes—snarls—but someone grabs his arms, and someone else is checking Izuku’s pulse, and someone is saying his name but he doesn’t hear it.

He’s being pulled—away, away, away—

And all he can do—

All Katsuki can do—

Is watch.

Watch them surround him.
Watch them work.
Watch them lift Izuku’s body like he’s made of paper.

And as they carry him out the door—sirens blaring, voices shouting—

Katsuki’s knees hit the floor again.

He covers his mouth with one shaking hand.

And all he can do—

Is hope to god he didn’t lose him.

Aizawa arrives first.

Not because he’s fast.

Not because he was prepared.

But because he was already looking for Midoriya.

Because something had been wrong for months—wrong in the way Midoriya smiled, in the way he laughed too hard, in the way his hands shook when he thought no one was watching.

And tonight—
Tonight, the final piece clicked into place.

Tonight, the dread that had been growing in his gut finally erupted into something sharp, something undeniable.

And still—

This.

This is worse than anything he could’ve imagined.

He steps into the dorm room and stops cold.

The air is thick with grief. With panic. With something that tastes like blood and failure.

And the first thing he sees—

Is Bakugo.

On his knees.

Bent over Midoriya’s limp body like a boy begging a god he doesn’t believe in.

Katsuki looks like a child.

Not the brash, loud-mouthed second-year with explosions at his fingertips.

A child.

Small. Trembling. Unmade.

His shoulders quake like he’s holding up the sky and it’s crushing him.

He’s gripping Midoriya’s shirt with both hands, knuckles white, fingertips dug in, like he thinks if he just holds tighter, he can drag him back from the edge.

His face is ruined.

Tears streaking down flushed cheeks. Lips parted around gasps that won’t come full. Eyes rimmed in red, locked on Midoriya’s face like the world will stop spinning if he blinks.

Like he doesn’t know how to keep breathing if Midoriya doesn’t.

And Aizawa—

Fuck.

Aizawa’s stomach plummets.

Because this isn’t a panic attack.
This isn’t a breakdown.
This isn’t a bad night.

This is an overdose.

This is a suicide attempt.

This is too fucking close.

And worst of all—
He should’ve seen it.

He did see it. In fragments. In whispers. In the moments between training and debriefs and silence.

The missed meals.
The long showers.
The injuries that didn’t make sense.
The way Midoriya stopped raising his hand in class.

It wasn’t just burnout.

It wasn’t just pressure.

It wasn’t just a gifted, broken student trying to keep up.

It was a boy sinking.

And Aizawa—
Aizawa let it happen.

He lets out a breath like he’s been hit.

Because this—this isn’t just a student.

This is Midoriya.

The heart of his class. The stubborn, self-sacrificing kid who smiled too much and asked too many questions and carried the weight of the fucking world on his shoulders without complaint.

Aizawa sees Katsuki press his forehead to Midoriya’s.

Hears the shattered whisper:

“Please stay.”

And something in Aizawa shifts.

Because this is it.

This is the line.

This is the moment where a hero chooses.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He moves.

He drops to his knees, pulling out his phone with one hand and reaching for Midoriya’s wrist with the other, already barking orders—

To Kirishima, to Mina, to the operator on the line, to anyone who will listen.

Because this isn’t going to be another funeral.

This isn’t going to be another kid lost to the cracks.

Not on his watch.

Not this time.

And if he has to scream, to fight, to bleed to make sure Midoriya wakes up—

Then he will.

Because he’s a hero.

Because he’s a teacher.

Because he loves this fucking kid.

And he is not losing him tonight.

Katsuki’s head jerks up when he hears Aizawa’s voice.

His eyes are wild. Unfocused. Pupils blown wide with panic, rimmed red with tears. His whole face is soaked—his nose running, mouth trembling, breath coming in ragged, choking gasps like he’s trying to scream and suffocate at the same time.

“How many?” Aizawa demands, voice sharp, cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. He steps forward, steady. Unmoving. “Bakugo. Look at me. How many pills did he take?”

Katsuki shakes his head.

His whole body is shaking.

“I—” His voice cracks so hard it collapses in on itself.

His hands are still knotted in Izuku’s shirt, fisted into it, like letting go means letting him die. Like his grip is the only thing holding Izuku to this plane of existence.

He’s crying so violently he can barely breathe—every inhale hiccups through his chest like his body is rejecting air.

“I—I don’t—he—”

His breath stutters again.

And then—

“FUCK!” he screams, throat raw, voice shredded. “I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!!”

It rips through him like a bomb.

He folds over Izuku’s body again, gasping, clawing at his shirt, fists trembling, face pressed against his shoulder like maybe he can will him awake if he just begs hard enough.

Aizawa kneels.

Fast. Controlled.

He reaches out and grabs Katsuki’s wrist.

Not to stop him. Not to pull him away.

Just—anchor.

It’s not hard. It’s not sharp. It’s just firm. Just here.

And somehow—that’s enough.

Katsuki jerks at the touch, eyes snapping up—still drowning, still broken—but he meets Aizawa’s gaze.

His chest is heaving.

His lungs are failing.

But he’s listening.

“Bakugo.” Aizawa’s voice is low. Measured. Gentle in a way that still commands attention. “Focus.”

Katsuki clenches his teeth. His whole body is still twitching with adrenaline. He doesn’t know where to put it—doesn’t know what to do.

But he forces himself to look.

To listen.

To breathe.

“Tell me what you do know.”

Katsuki swallows. Hard.

It hurts—his throat is a battlefield, torn to pieces from screaming and sobbing and begging the universe to give him a second chance.

His gaze drops.

To the floor.

To the pills.

So many fucking pills.

White. Round. Smeared. Crushed.

They’re everywhere.

And Katsuki—Katsuki’s stomach lurches.

This is his fault.

He was supposed to protect him. He promised. He said he’d take care of him. He said he’d handle it.

But Izuku—

Izuku went behind his back.

Izuku bought more.

Izuku lied to his face.

Izuku—

Gave up.

And now—

Now he might die.

Katsuki’s hands tighten. His knuckles go white. His fingers shake with the effort of staying grounded, of not falling into that void again.

His voice is barely a whisper when it comes out.

“...Twenty. Maybe more. I don’t know.”

Aizawa’s breath catches.

Just for a second.

Then he’s moving again—scanning, calculating, assessing.

His eyes dart across Midoriya’s body, taking in the signs.

The stillness.
The color of his skin.
The unnatural slack in his limbs.
The blue creeping at the edges of his lips.
The weak, shallow rise and fall of his chest.

And for the first time in a long time—too long—

Aizawa feels the bottom drop out.

Fuck.

They might be too late.

But he doesn’t say that.

He doesn’t let the fear show.

Because Katsuki is watching him.

Because he can’t afford to lose both of them tonight.

There’s a rush of movement behind them.

A new voice—sharper, louder, demanding.

“MOVE!”

Katsuki flinches, jerking back instinctively.

And then—
she's there.

Recovery Girl.

One second the doorway is chaos—voices, sirens, footsteps—and the next, she’s dropping to her knees beside Izuku like she was summoned by the worst prayer ever whispered.

Her hands move fast.

Too fast.

One to his neck. The other lifting his wrist, pressing her fingers to the inside like she can force a pulse back with touch alone.

Katsuki watches her face—
And it's wrong.

He’s never seen her look like that.
Not ever.
Not when someone’s arm was dangling by threads.
Not when limbs were crushed or quirk accidents left students mangled.

But this—
This—

She looks like she’s going to vomit.

Like she’s aged ten years in ten seconds.

Like she knows.

Like she knows exactly how bad this is.

Her jaw tightens. Her eyes flash with horror. With guilt. With something sharp and ugly—something that makes Katsuki's stomach twist even harder.

Because maybe she should feel guilty.

She gave him the fucking pills.

She prescribed them. She started this.

She was the one who handed over bottle after bottle like it was fine. Like it was safe. Like it wasn’t a fucking loaded gun in Izuku’s hands.

She had to have known.
She had to have seen the signs.
The dullness. The detachment. The weight loss. The avoidance.

And she kept going.

Even when it was obvious he wasn’t taking care of himself.

Even when he stopped looking like a boy and started looking like a ghost.

Her voice cuts through the storm. Tight. Flat. Urgent.
“We need to get him to a hospital. Now.”

Aizawa is already moving, already pulling out his phone. His eyes are stone, but his fingers are shaking.

Katsuki—

Katsuki can’t move.

He’s still kneeling.
Still frozen.
Still clutching air like he’s supposed to be holding Izuku but somehow isn’t.

He’s watching.
Just watching.
As Recovery Girl works.
As Midoriya’s body lies there.
As the people who know what to do do it—
While he just breaks.

“Bakugo.”

Aizawa’s voice cuts through the numb like a blade.

“Call his mother.”

Katsuki’s head jerks up like he’s been slapped.

“What?”

His voice is too high. Too thin. It sounds like a child’s.

Aizawa meets his eyes, gaze steady but not cruel.

“Call his mother.”

Katsuki blinks.
Slow.
Dazed.

The room feels like it’s filled with water.
Everything sounds warped.
Like he’s deep underwater, hearing everything from below.

Izuku’s shallow breaths.
The static of Recovery Girl’s comm.
Aizawa’s voice—firm, then soft.
The whirr of a stretcher being wheeled in from the hallway.

And he—

He can’t breathe again.

“I—” he chokes out.

His chest stutters. His stomach twists. His heart feels like it’s tearing itself apart from the inside.

And then—
Aizawa does something worse than yelling.

He’s kind.

Just a little.
Barely.

His voice doesn’t rise.
His eyes don’t harden.
He just… softens. For a breath.

“Bakugo.”

That’s all.

Just his name. Just once.

But it’s enough to shatter him.

Because Aizawa knows.

Knows what this is.
Knows this isn’t about duty or protocol or family notifications.

Knows this is his person.
Knows Izuku is his everything.
Knows Katsuki can’t survive this.
Not if this is how it ends.

Katsuki swallows around the sob in his throat.

It burns.

He nods once, barely more than a twitch.

Then—fumbling. Shaking. Scrabbling for his phone like it weighs a thousand pounds.

His fingers don’t work.
His vision blurs.
He nearly drops it twice.

But he finds her number.

He dials.

The phone rings.

He holds it to his ear with hands that won’t stop trembling.

And he waits.

And waits.

And prays—

God, please—

That she doesn’t pick up too late.

Katsuki's hands trembled as he dialed Inko Midoriya's number, each ring echoing the dread tightening It rings once.
Twice.

And then—

“Hello?”

Her voice is soft. Warm. Unsuspecting.

“Katsuki, dear—”
A gentle lilt, like she’s smiling. Like she just got out of the shower. Like she thinks this is a check-in.
“Is everything alright?”

His throat locks up.

The words don’t come at first.
They stick—wet and heavy and wrong.
He swallows, hard. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. His grip on the phone tightens until his knuckles ache.

“Mrs. Midoriya...”
His voice is hoarse. Shaky.
“It’s Izuku. He—he took something. A lot of pills. We’re at the dorms, but—an ambulance is on the way.”

There’s a pause.

Too long.

Long enough for his stomach to drop.

Then—

A sharp inhale.

“Oh my god.”
The warmth vanishes. Just gone.
“Is he—is he breathing?”

Katsuki’s eyes flick to Izuku. To the barely-there rise and fall of his chest. The slackness of his jaw. The way his fingers twitch without purpose.

“Barely,” he whispers. “They’re doing everything they can.”

There’s a sound on the other end.

A choked, half-contained sob.
But it’s—
Muted.

Like she’s covering her mouth.

Like she’s somewhere she doesn’t want to be overheard.

“I’ll come,” she says. Quick. Sharp.
Then, quieter—
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just—please, stay with him.”

But something’s off.

Something in her voice—it stutters. Not from grief. Not from fear.

Hesitation.

A breath caught too long. A pause before the promise. Like she had to decide to say it.

And Katsuki hears it.

He doesn’t want to.

But he does.

He notices.

And it punches something cold and awful into the hollow of his chest.

Because it sounded like—

Like maybe she didn’t want to come.
Not immediately.
Not without thinking.

Like maybe this wasn’t shock.

But resignation.

Like she’s been waiting for this call.

Like she’s already grieved him once.

“I won’t leave him,” Katsuki says. And he means it so fiercely it hurts.

He doesn’t wait for her to respond.

She doesn’t.

The line clicks dead.

And Katsuki is left in the silence.

Phone still to his ear.
Izuku still unconscious.
The medics still working.

And the promise—

I won’t leave him.

It echoes louder than everything else.

Because right now, it feels like he’s the only one who still believes Izuku’s coming back.

Katsuki’s world was made up of beeping monitors, frantic voices, and the sterile scent of antiseptic and bile.

He sat in a stiff plastic chair, his legs jittering, his fingernails biting into his palms as the doctors worked frantically over Izuku’s limp, unresponsive body.

“He’s crashing—heart rate’s dropping!”

No. No, no, no, NO!

Katsuki was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, barely held back by Aizawa’s firm hand on his shoulder.

The room was a fucking warzone. Nurses shouting orders, machines screaming their electronic wails of distress, Izuku’s body jerking as they injected him with something—what, what the fuck was that, was it working?

Then his heart stopped.

Flatline.

That long, monotone beep made Katsuki’s own heart slap against his ribs so hard it hurt.

His vision tunneled.

The doctor shouted, “Clear!” before pressing the defibrillator paddles to Izuku’s chest.

His body jerked violently.

No response.

Another charge.

Katsuki’s lungs wouldn’t work.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Again!”

Another jolt.

The heart monitor skipped—then, weakly, a beat.

Then another.

The relief hit so hard Katsuki almost collapsed.

He barely had time to process it before the doctor barked another order.

“Get that charcoal in him! Stomach pump ready? Good, let’s move!”

Katsuki had never seen someone vomit up literal black sludge before.

He wished he never had.

The thick, tar-like substance splattered against the pristine white floor, an inkblot stain that would never wash out of his brain.

Izuku gasped, choked, whimpered—but he was alive.

Barely.

Katsuki had never felt relief so sickening before. He felt like he might throw up too.

And then—then it happened again.

Izuku’s heart stuttered.

Faltered.

Stopped.

Katsuki saw the doctors spring back into action, heard the orders shouted over the ringing in his ears.

But all he could do was stand there, frozen, watching the love of his fucking life die right in front of him.

Again.

The second Izuku was stable, the second the machines stopped screaming, the second the doctors stepped back, breathing out relieved sighs—Katsuki finally moved.

He sank into the chair beside the bed, dizzy, weak, exhausted, but unable to take his eyes off Izuku.

His face was pale, his lips still tinged slightly blue, his whole body too still.

But his chest was rising and falling now.

He was alive.

Katsuki still felt like he was going to puke.

Then the door opened, and Inko Midoriya stumbled in.

She looked like she had been running. Like she had been crying. Like she was holding herself together with nothing but sheer maternal desperation.

Her eyes landed on Izuku, and then—she broke.

“My baby.”

Aizawa was beside her in an instant, steadying her, murmuring something Katsuki didn’t hear.

She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, her whole body wracked with silent, shuddering sobs.

Then—her eyes snapped to Katsuki.

Katsuki barely had time to prepare himself before she was gripping his hands, squeezing so hard it almost hurt.

“Why?” Her voice cracked. “Why did he do this?”

Katsuki swallowed. Hard.

“I—I don’t know.” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “I thought he was getting better.”

Inko shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Aizawa crossed his arms. His expression was grim.

“This was more than just slipping up.”** He wasn’t asking. He already knew.**

Katsuki sucked in a breath.

Then he whispered, “I think this was my fault.”

Inko flinched.

Aizawa frowned. “Bakugo—”

But Katsuki kept going.

“I—I threatened to leave,” he admitted, voice shaking. “I told him if he didn’t tell me the truth, I was done.”

He covered his face with his hands. “But I could never be done. Not with him.”

Inko’s sobs grew louder.

Aizawa closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That dumbass loves you too much for that to be it.” His voice was firm, steady. “This was deeper than a fight. This was months in the making.”

Inko wiped her face, inhaled a shaky breath.

“I’m pulling him out of U.A.”

Katsuki’s head snapped up.

Aizawa’s brows furrowed.

“Mrs. Midoriya—”

“He’s not safe here.” Her voice wavered. “I should have taken him home months ago.”

Katsuki’s heart pounded.

“You can’t.” His voice was rough, pleading. “If he leaves, he’ll—”

He couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t finish that sentence.

But they all knew.

Aizawa sighed. “If he loses his structure, he’ll slip even further. If you isolate him, he’ll have nothing to hold onto.”

Katsuki swallowed. “He needs me.”

Inko’s eyes filled with fresh tears.

Katsuki pressed on.

“I can get through to him.” His voice cracked. “Please. Let me try.”

Inko hesitated.

Then, voice barely above a whisper—“And if you can’t?”

Katsuki’s throat felt like it was closing.

But he already knew the answer.

If he couldn’t save Izuku—

Then Izuku would die.

And Katsuki wouldn’t survive it either.

But Inko Midoriya wasn’t going to budge.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were bone-white, her entire body trembling as she sat in the hospital chair beside Izuku’s bed.

She had barely let go of his hand since they stabilized him.

Katsuki stood beside Aizawa, heart pounding, body rigid, the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders.

Inko shook her head, voice hoarse but firm.

"I'm taking him home."

Katsuki felt the words like a gunshot.

His breath stilled, his pulse roared in his ears.

"No."

It came out raw, broken, but absolutely unshakable.

Inko flinched. "Katsuki—"

"You can't." He stepped forward, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "If you take him away from U.A., he'll—"

He stopped himself.

He couldn’t say it.

He couldn’t even think it.

But Aizawa didn’t hesitate.

"He’ll spiral, Midoriya-san."

Inko snapped her head toward him, defiance flashing in her eyes. "He almost died here, Eraserhead! You expect me to just leave him?"

Aizawa sighed, rubbing his temples. "No, I expect you to help us help him."

Her lips trembled. "I can take care of him."

Aizawa shook his head. "No, you can't."

That made her gasp softly, like she’d been struck.

Katsuki wanted to yell at him, but Aizawa wasn’t being cruel. He was being honest.

He looked at her, tired, serious, but not unkind.

"He needs structure. He needs guidance. And more than anything—he needs to be surrounded by people who understand what it takes to be a hero."

Inko’s shoulders shook.

Aizawa softened, voice lowering.

"I don’t say this to be cruel. But I see this in students, Midoriya-san. I see this in pro heroes. If you pull him out now, he will resent you. He will blame you. And worst of all—he might give up for good."

She sucked in a shaky breath, tears streaming freely down her face.

Aizawa stepped closer. "He’s not done yet. Not by a long shot. But he needs help. And if you let us, we will help him."

Katsuki couldn’t take it anymore.

"He needs me." His voice cracked, raw and desperate.

Inko looked up at him, staring at the absolute devastation in his face.

Katsuki clenched his fists. "I don't know why he slipped. I don't know why he did this. But I know that if I have enough time, I can get through to him."

Aizawa nodded, reassuring. "We’ll do this right. We’ll make a plan. We’ll give him the support he needs."

Inko let out a ragged sob.

Her shoulders curled inward, her hands clutching at her lap.

She nodded.

"Okay."

Katsuki's knees almost buckled.

"Okay?"

She looked at him, eyes filled with nothing but a mother’s fear and hope.

"Okay, Katsuki. Bring my son back to me."

And Katsuki—he swore to fucking god, he would.

The Drive Back to U.A.

Katsuki didn’t want to leave.

He had argued.

He had fought.

But Aizawa had given him no choice.

And now, he was sitting in Aizawa’s car, watching the city lights blur past, his entire body wracked with exhaustion.

He was too wired to sleep, too drained to think.

Aizawa drove in silence for a long time.

Then—softly, too softly for someone like him—

"Why the hell didn’t you tell someone?"

Katsuki's jaw tightened.

His fingernails bit into his palms.

He knew this was coming.

He should have been ready.

But all he could do was exhale sharply and stare out the window.

Aizawa continued. "Why didn’t you tell me? I could have handled this discreetly."

Katsuki’s stomach twisted.

"Because I thought you’d expel him."

Aizawa sighed. "I never wanted to expel Midoriya. I just wanted him to wake up. I thought if you went back at him, waging war over his grades, he'd snap out of it. But I put too much on you."

Katsuki snapped his head toward him, bristling. "It’s my job to take care of him."

Aizawa scoffed. "No, it’s not."

Katsuki blinked. What?

"You're seventeen, Bakugo." Aizawa kept his eyes on the road. "You’re supposed to be focusing on school, training, becoming a hero. This is heavy shit for an adult to deal with. I shouldn’t have left you to handle this on your own."

Katsuki opened his mouth, closed it.

Aizawa sighed. "I knew something was wrong. I suspected it was more than what you said, and I let it slide... because it’s Midoriya."

Katsuki’s head snapped up.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Aizawa let out a breath, like he’d been holding it.

"He’s special." His voice was quiet. Certain. "Without One for All, you know that. I know that. The whole damn world knows it—but him. I want to see him succeed. I want to see you both succeed."

Katsuki’s throat ached.

Aizawa continued, "But you were right. Kicking him out is the worst thing we could do. Bless her, but Inko Midoriya is too soft. Too forgiving. She would let him fall right into his grave. Or she’d lose him forever trying to stop it."

Katsuki swallowed hard.

"Shit."

He hadn't even thought that far ahead.

He had been too caught up in the fear, in the thought of losing him.

Aizawa sighed. "The entire class is freaking out. Most of them heard you screaming. Saw Midoriya being wheeled out on a stretcher. I know it’s the last thing he would want, but we need to talk to them. Prepare them for his return. Because he’s going to need every layer of support he can get."

Katsuki shut his eyes.

"I was scared, Sensei." His voice shook.

Aizawa’s grip tightened on the wheel.

"I know."

A pause.

"I was too, Katsuki."

Silence.

And then, they were back.

Back at U.A.

Back where Katsuki was about to tell every single one of Izuku’s friends that he was a junkie.

That their golden boy, their strongest fighter, had nearly died tonight.

And god.

Katsuki hated himself.

Hated that he hadn’t been enough.

Hated that he had to say these words.

Hated that Izuku was still suffering.

But most of all—he hated that deep down, he wasn’t sure if this fight was even close to being over.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five:  This Isn’t a Confession, It’s a Scream.

The door to the common room opened slowly.

Katsuki stepped inside, Aizawa at his back, but it felt like he was walking into a battlefield alone.

The entire class was huddled together, no one in their rooms, no one willing to be alone.

Pallets of blankets and pillows were spread across the floor, a mess of people sitting on couches, leaning against walls, waiting.

Ochako was the first to stand up, eyes wide, searching.

"Where is he?"

Katsuki’s stomach twisted.

"Hospital. Stable."

The words felt foreign in his mouth. Like they belonged to someone else.

A collective exhale rippled through the room.

Denki ran a hand down his face. "Holy shit. Holy fucking shit."

Sero’s leg bounced. "What happened?"

Jirou’s voice was small. "We heard you screaming."

Katsuki sucked in a breath, fisted his hands.

Aizawa’s voice cut through the tension, calm but firm. "Sit. This is going to be a long conversation."

No one argued.

They settled in, eyes locked on Katsuki like he had all the answers.

Katsuki didn’t.

But he was going to give them anyway.

"Izuku’s an addict."

He said it flatly, like ripping off a bandage.

Momo’s breath hitched.

Todoroki blinked, slowly processing.

Ochako covered her mouth.

Iida’s hands shook.

"How long?" Jirou asked, voice tight, raw.

Katsuki exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"Since the start of second year."

Denki’s eyes widened. "What?"

Jirou’s voice cracked. "That long?"

Aizawa stepped forward. "We don’t know everything yet. But what we do know is that it started with prescription painkillers. From Recovery Girl. He was in pain, and they helped. Until they didn’t."

A dark, horrible silence fell over the room.

Katsuki’s nails dug into his palms. "He started taking more. It got worse. And then, when I started weaning him off—"

His throat closed.

Sero leaned forward. "What happened, Bakugo?"

Katsuki swallowed.

"He overdosed."

The silence crashed like a thunderclap.

Mina’s breath hitched. "Oh my god."

Ochako’s eyes shone with tears.

Iida's glasses slipped down his nose. "Izuku—he wouldn’t—"

Katsuki’s fists trembled. "He did."

Aizawa let it settle, let them process.

Then, he kept going.

"I’m not going to lie to you. He almost didn’t make it. His heart stopped. Twice. If Bakugo hadn’t found him, if we had been even minutes later, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now."

Todoroki shifted, voice carefully measured. "What do we do?"

Aizawa sighed. "We support him."

Katsuki exhaled harshly, shaking his head.

"We missed it." His voice was thick, choked. "We all fucking missed it."

Momo’s voice wavered. "I thought something was wrong. But I didn’t—"

"None of us did," Jirou murmured.

Ochako’s hands curled into fists. "He was different. Then he was quiet. Then—he just wasn’t there."

Iida removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "We let this happen."

Aizawa cleared his throat, firm but not unkind.

"This is not your fault. Guilt will not help Midoriya. What will help is ensuring that when he returns, he knows he’s not alone. That he knows we’re not abandoning him. That he still has something to fight for."

Katsuki exhaled sharply.

"I’m not letting him fail." His voice cracked. "I'm not letting him do this to himself again."

No one argued.

No one doubted.

They weren’t going to lose Izuku Midoriya.

Not now.

Not ever.

There was only the sound of the machines.

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. The gentle whir of the IV pump. The distant murmur of voices in the hallway, too muffled to make out.

The world felt heavier than it should.

For a long time, Izuku didn’t move.

He lay there in the haze of waking, caught between consciousness and the pull of nothingness, suspended in a place where time had no meaning.

Then—he felt it.

Weight.

Not the suffocating kind. Not the kind that dragged him down into the dark.

But warmth.

Something solid. Grounding.

He blinked slowly, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, his mind struggling to piece together reality.

And that’s when he saw him.

Kacchan.

Asleep.

Bent over the edge of the bed, head resting against Izuku’s stomach, arms folded beneath him like a damn pillow.

Izuku stared.

Everything came back all at once.

The last thing he remembered was pills spilling through his shaking fingers. His heart slamming in his chest, his body going weak, the edges of his vision closing in. The way the room had spun, the way the floor had hit his knees before everything faded to black.

And now—he was here.

Hooked up to an IV.

Still breathing.

Alive.

Why?

Why was he still here?

Why had they saved him?

His chest tightened. His throat closed up.

The first broken sob slipped out before he could stop it.

And beneath him—Katsuki jolted awake.

The weight on his stomach vanished as Katsuki shot up, hands gripping the bed, wide red eyes locking onto him instantly.

“Izuku—?”

Izuku didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Because Katsuki was here.

Because Katsuki had stayed.

Katsuki’s mouth opened, but his voice failed him for a second. He looked… wrecked.

Eyes rimmed red, dark circles deep as bruises beneath them. His hair was more of a disaster than usual, shoved back in a way that looked like he’d dragged his fingers through it a thousand times.

And when he spoke again—his voice cracked.

“You’re awake.”

Izuku swallowed. Tried to breathe past the lump in his throat.

“…Yeah.”

Katsuki exhaled sharply. His hand clenched against the blanket. His jaw went tight, something flickering behind his expression—something Izuku couldn’t quite name.

Then, just as quickly—his face twisted in anger.

“You fucking idiot.”

Izuku flinched.

But before he could say anything, Katsuki’s hands dug into the sheets, gripping them so tightly his knuckles went white.

“What the fuck were you thinking? What the fuck, Izuku?! You—! You fucking—!”

And then—his voice broke completely.

And Katsuki just collapsed forward, forehead pressing against the bed, shoulders shaking, his breath ragged, his whole body trembling.

Izuku’s heart stopped.

He’d seen Kacchan cry before.

He’d seen it when they were kids, once or twice, when they were too young to understand anything.

He’d seen it after Kamino, when All Might fell.

But this—this was different.

Katsuki was shaking.

“You almost fucking died.” The words were choked. Raw. "You almost—fuck, Izuku, I thought I lost you."

Izuku’s chest constricted painfully.

Slowly—**so fucking slowly—**he reached out.

His fingers brushed against Katsuki’s hand, hesitant, uncertain.

Katsuki sucked in a sharp breath. Didn’t move for a long moment.

Then, carefully—he turned his hand over.

And gripped Izuku’s back.

Tightly.

Desperately.

Like he was afraid to let go.

Izuku felt his own eyes burn.

“…I’m sorry.”

Katsuki shook his head.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Izuku let out a weak, broken laugh.

Katsuki finally lifted his head.

And shit, he looked so fucking wrecked.

His eyes were wild, red-rimmed, unreadable.

His lips parted like he was trying to find the words.

Then—softer than Izuku had ever heard him—

“Why, Izuku?”

Izuku’s chest ached.

He looked away.

“I—” He swallowed, voice cracking. “I don’t know.”

Katsuki’s hand tightened around his.

“Bullshit.”

Izuku bit his lip. Blinked back the burning in his eyes.

And whispered, “…I was just tired.”

Katsuki exhaled shakily.

“Of what?”

Izuku let out a breathless, hollow laugh.

“Everything.”

Katsuki went completely still.

The air felt too thick.

Izuku could feel the weight of his stare, could feel the heat of it against his skin.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then—quiet. Careful. Measured.

“…Are you still tired?”

Izuku froze.

He turned back to him, heart pounding.

And there—in Katsuki’s eyes—

Was something Izuku had never seen before.

Something fragile. Something terrified.

Something that looked like hope.

Izuku’s lip trembled.

And for the first time since he woke up—he let himself feel it.

He let himself feel the warmth of Katsuki’s hand in his.

He let himself feel the way his body ached—but still moved.

He let himself feel the way his heart still beat inside his chest.

“…I don’t know.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

But he didn’t let go.

And neither did Izuku.

Katsuki doesn’t leave. Not that night, not the next day, not for a second.

When the nurses come in to check Izuku’s vitals, Katsuki stays planted in the chair beside him, arms crossed, eyes sharp, watching every fucking thing they do. When a doctor asks if he needs to step outside, Katsuki doesn’t even blink before answering,

"No."

Izuku doesn’t tell him to go either.

For the first time in a long time, Izuku feels like he doesn’t have to be alone.

He’s exhausted—physically, emotionally—but there’s a clarity now. A quiet, raw sort of understanding that hadn't been there before.

Katsuki saved him.

Katsuki was here.

And he wasn’t leaving.

It happens in the middle of the night.

The lights are dimmed, the sounds of the hospital reduced to a dull hum in the background. Izuku can’t sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees flashes of the last thing he remembers. The pills. The decision. The moment he’d let go.

He shifts, turns his head on the pillow, and finds Katsuki still awake.

He's sitting on the edge of his chair, forearms on his knees, eyes dark and unreadable.

Izuku stares at him.

And then, voice hoarse, he whispers, “You’re still here.”

Katsuki lets out a breath through his nose.

“Yeah, nerd.” His voice is rough. “I told you. I’m not fucking leaving.”

Izuku’s fingers tighten in the blanket. He licks his lips, hesitating.

“…Why?”

Katsuki’s gaze snaps to him, sharp, narrowed. Like he’s offended by the question.

“Why the fuck do you think?”

Izuku exhales slowly. Drops his gaze.

“I don’t know.”

Katsuki clenches his jaw.

“Bullshit.”

Izuku flinches.

Then, voice small, barely audible—

“…I thought you’d hate me.”

Katsuki goes still.

For a moment, he doesn’t speak.

Then, low, furious but careful, he asks, “Why the fuck would I hate you?”

Izuku’s eyes sting. His throat burns. His breath shakes.

“Because…” He swallows. “Because I gave up.”

Katsuki’s fingers dig into the fabric of his pants.

“…You think that makes me hate you?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

Izuku nods, small, almost imperceptible.

Katsuki lets out a sharp, ragged exhale.

And then, before Izuku can process it—Katsuki’s hands are on him.

Not rough. Not demanding. Just… grounding.

One gripping his wrist, the other gently curling into the sheets near his shoulder.

Katsuki’s head bows, his breathing heavy, shaky.

“I don’t hate you.” His voice is raw. “I love you, Izuku.”

Izuku’s chest tightens painfully.

“…Even after everything?”

Katsuki’s grip tightens.

“Especially after everything.”

Izuku lets out a shuddering breath.

And for the first time—he believes him.

Morning comes too fast.

Izuku must have fallen asleep at some point, because when his eyes flutter open, Katsuki is still there.

Still sitting in the chair beside him.

Still gripping his hand.

Izuku stares at their hands, at the warmth between them, at the way Katsuki’s fingers are wrapped so firmly around his like he’s afraid to let go.

And then—the door opens.

Izuku barely has time to process it before he hears his mother’s sharp inhale.

“Oh—”

Katsuki’s head jerks up instantly.

Izuku snaps his hand away without thinking.

The movement is too fast. Too sharp. His IV pulls slightly, and he winces.

Inko steps forward, eyes wide, red-rimmed, full of so many emotions Izuku doesn’t know which ones are winning.

“Izuku…” Her voice is soft, relieved, but there’s something else there, too.

Something that makes Izuku feel even smaller.

Guilt.

So much guilt.

She rushes forward, carefully, cautiously, as if afraid he might break apart in front of her.

And Izuku wants to cry.

Because he did this to her.

To Kacchan.

To everyone.

He opens his mouth—

But the apology catches in his throat.

Katsuki clears his throat, shifting. He doesn’t say anything, but the tension is thick, suffocating.

For a long moment, no one speaks.

Then, slowly, Inko steps forward and cups Izuku’s face in her hands.

And Izuku falls apart.

The sob tears out of him before he can stop it.

And then another.

And then another.

And suddenly—he’s crying too hard to breathe.

His mother is pulling him forward, holding him, whispering things he can’t hear over the sound of his own breaking.

And Katsuki is still there.

Not touching him, but so fucking close.

Izuku gasps between sobs, his whole body trembling.

“I—I’m s-sorry,” he chokes out. “I—I d-didn’t—”

His mother shakes her head quickly, pulling him closer, voice firm but breaking.

“Don’t. Don’t say that. Just—just let me hold you, sweetheart. Please.”

Izuku sobs harder.

And Katsuki—fuck, Katsuki—

Izuku feels his warmth. Feels the way he’s gripping the bed again, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he should.

So Izuku makes the choice for him.

He blindly reaches out.

And Katsuki’s hand is there immediately.

Gripping. Holding. Grounding.

The words don’t come.

The explanations don’t come.

But the relief does.

And for now—that’s enough.

The night is quiet.

The kind of quiet that should be peaceful but isn’t.

It presses down on Izuku’s chest, heavy and suffocating, coiling tight in his throat.

Katsuki is sitting at the edge of his bed, arms braced on his knees, head tilted slightly downward, eyes unreadable in the dim glow of the hospital monitors.

And Izuku is staring at him, heart pounding, hands curled in the blanket, debating.

Debating whether or not to ask.

Because he isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer.

But he has to.

He has to.

His throat bobs. His voice is small. Hesitant.

“…Do you really still love me?”

Katsuki stiffens.

His head snaps toward Izuku so fast it’s almost a crack, eyes wide, mouth parting—because what the fuck?

“What?” His voice comes out sharper than he means for it to.

Izuku flinches.

He shouldn’t have asked.

He should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut, should’ve let himself believe it, even if it wasn’t true, because now he’s put it out there, now it’s real, now he’s going to lose—

“I—” Izuku swallows thickly. He can barely get the words out. “You haven’t—you haven’t touched me since I woke up.”

Katsuki freezes.

Izuku drops his gaze.

His hands clutch at the blanket, curling into the fabric so tightly his knuckles go white.

“Not even once,” he whispers.

Katsuki’s stomach drops.

Because fuck.

Fuck.

How could he be so fucking stupid?

Izuku thinks that just because he hasn’t kissed him, hasn’t touched him, hasn’t called him anything but Izuku—that means he doesn’t love him anymore?

He hadn’t even thought about it.

Hadn’t even realized.

He’d held back because, yeah, he was afraid to push. Afraid to rush. Izuku needed to focus on healing, on surviving, on getting through this without Katsuki making it about them.

But there was another reason too.

A reason he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

Because a small, dark part of him had wondered—

When Izuku wasn’t all doped up on painkillers anymore, when his mind was clear, when he was back to being the muttering, anxious nerd Katsuki had always wanted so much—

Would he even still want Katsuki?

And now, looking at him—at the way Izuku won’t even fucking look at him, at the way he’s curling in on himself like he already knows the answer—

Katsuki realizes just how badly he’s fucked up.

He moves before he can think.

Shifts closer. Grabs Izuku’s face in both hands.

Izuku inhales sharply.

Katsuki tilts his chin up, forcing Izuku’s stupid, glassy, overwhelmed green eyes to meet his.

And then, softly, carefully, shaking with the weight of it—

“I’ve always fucking loved you, Izuku.”

Izuku stops breathing.

Katsuki’s thumb brushes over his cheek, his hold gentle but firm.

“I will always fucking love you.”

Izuku’s lips part, but no words come out.

Katsuki swallows thickly, forehead pressing against Izuku’s, breath uneven.

“I didn’t touch you because I didn’t want to fucking push you, dumbass.” His voice trembles. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to. I didn’t know if you even still wanted this.”

Izuku lets out a shaky, breathless sound.

“Of course I do.”

Katsuki exhales, something cracking apart in his chest.

“Then let me fucking touch you.”

Izuku barely has time to process before Katsuki is kissing him.

Soft.

Reverent.

Like he’s afraid Izuku might break apart beneath him.

Izuku whimpers into the kiss, hands gripping Katsuki’s hoodie, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

And Katsuki lets him.

Lets himself sink into Izuku like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Because fuck.

That’s exactly what he is.

Izuku doesn’t let go.

Even after the kiss ends, even after the words settle between them, heavy and real and undeniable, Izuku still clutches Katsuki’s hoodie like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Katsuki doesn’t move away.

He stays close, forehead still pressed against Izuku’s, hands still cradling his face, breathing him in.

Neither of them speak for a while.

The air feels thick. Charged.

Katsuki knows Izuku has a million things spinning through that stupid, overthinking head of his.

But for once, he doesn’t try to explain himself.

He just… breathes.

And that’s how Katsuki knows he’s exhausted.

“…You should sleep, nerd.”

Izuku hums, but doesn’t move.

His grip doesn’t loosen.

“…Stay?”

Katsuki huffs.

“I ain’t fucking leaving.”

Izuku lets out a slow, shaky breath.

He nods against Katsuki’s forehead.

And then—so fucking quietly, so fucking fragile—

“…Can you hold me?”

Katsuki’s stomach clenches.

His arms move before he can even think.

He shifts onto the hospital bed, pulling Izuku into his chest, arms wrapping tight, protective, fingers curling against the fabric of the hospital gown.

Izuku melts into him immediately.

Like he belongs there.

Like this is all he’s ever wanted.

Katsuki presses his lips against Izuku’s hair.

“…Go to sleep, baby.”

Izuku lets out a breathy chuckle.

Then—so soft, Katsuki almost doesn’t hear it—

“…I love you, Kacchan.”

Katsuki’s throat closes up.

His grip tightens.

And then, with his lips still pressed against Izuku’s hair, he murmurs—

“I love you too, nerd.”

Izuku falls asleep in his arms.

Katsuki stays awake for a long, long time.

The door creaks open.

Katsuki blinks blearily, barely awake, half out of it, his arms still wrapped securely around Izuku’s sleeping form.

He registers a soft gasp.

Then—a quiet, tired voice.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Katsuki’s body tenses.

Slowly, he shifts his head to see Inko standing in the doorway, hand over her mouth, eyes wet, looking at them with an expression he can’t quite read.

His first instinct is to move.

To untangle himself, to sit up, to act like he wasn’t just sleeping in her son’s fucking hospital bed like a clingy asshole.

But before he can, Inko just exhales shakily.

And whispers, “…Don’t let go.”

Katsuki stills.

Inko steps forward.

Her hand trembles as she reaches down, fingers brushing gently through Izuku’s messy curls, eyes soft, lips pressed together like she’s trying not to cry.

“He looks peaceful,” she murmurs.

Katsuki swallows.

Yeah. He does.

For the first time in a long, long time.

Later that morning, Aizawa arrives.

He walks in looking like he hasn’t slept in days, which he probably hasn’t.

His eyes immediately land on Izuku, still asleep, curled into Katsuki’s chest.

He exhales through his nose.

“I see nothing has changed.”

Katsuki glares.

Inko frowns. “Aizawa-san, please.”

Aizawa sighs, scrubs a hand down his face.

“…It wasn’t a complaint,” he mutters. “Just an observation.”

Katsuki scoffs.

They’re in Katsuki’s—their—dorm room, the lights dim, the weight of everything pressing down so much heavier at night.

Izuku is quiet.

Not withdrawn, not lost in a haze, but quiet in a way that feels like he’s carrying something too heavy to hold alone anymore.

Katsuki doesn’t push. Not at first.

He sits beside him on the bed, back against the headboard, waiting.

Izuku takes a deep breath.

And then—soft, quiet, voice barely above a whisper—

“It’s always been like this.”

Katsuki’s fingers twitch against his knee.

“What’s always been like this?”

Izuku hesitates.

Then, slowly, carefully—

“The thoughts.”

Katsuki’s chest tightens.

Izuku’s gaze is distant, staring at his own hands like they belong to someone else.

“I don’t know when they started,” he admits, voice almost detached. “I just… I don’t think there’s ever been a time I didn’t feel like I wasn’t enough.”

Katsuki’s hands curl into fists.

Izuku takes another breath.

And then, so fucking softly—

“I went to the roof that day.”

Katsuki’s heart stops.

He knows exactly what day he means.

Exactly what fucking words he’s referring to.

Izuku doesn’t look at him.

“I just stood there,” he says, voice flat, hollow, like he’s talking about someone else. “Stared at the edge for a long time. Thought about it.”

Katsuki’s mouth is too dry.

His fingers are numb.

“But I couldn’t do it.”

A shaky breath.

“I was too much of a coward.”

Katsuki lets out a sharp, ragged exhale.

“Izu…”

Izuku finally turns his head, meets Katsuki’s wide, horrified eyes.

He blinks.

“…I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenches.

“How the fuck do you think I was gonna react to that?” His voice is tight, shaking. “You think I wanted to hear that you almost—you almost—”

Izuku exhales slowly.

“I didn’t.”

Katsuki feels like he can’t breathe.

He knew. Somewhere deep down, he always knew how much of an impact he must have had on Izuku back then.

But this—this is something else.

This is a fucking knife in the gut.

His head drops. He grips his hair.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

Izuku’s breath catches.

Katsuki’s voice breaks.

“I’m so—fuck, Izuku, I—”

His shoulders tremble.

And then he’s moving, pressing his forehead against Izuku’s shoulder, breathing ragged, barely keeping himself together.

Izuku doesn’t know what to do with that.

Doesn’t know how to comfort Katsuki when he was the one who said those words in the first place.

So he just stays still, lets Katsuki have this moment, lets him process it however he needs to.

After a long moment, Izuku says something he never thought he’d say.

“I forgave you a long time ago, Kacchan.”

Katsuki tenses.

Izuku turns his head, resting his chin against soft blond spikes.

“I’m still here.”

Katsuki lets out a shaky breath.

And then, barely audible—

“…I’m fucking glad you are.”

He doesn’t know how he’s going to catch up.

Three months.

Three months of missing assignments, three months of skipping classes, three months of barely retaining anything.

Katsuki is helping.

Tirelessly.

Patiently.

More patient than Izuku has ever seen him.

But even with Katsuki by his side, even with his mind clear for the first time in forever—

He still feels like he’s drowning.

Izuku doesn’t tell him at first.

Doesn’t tell him that his hands shake when he holds a pencil.

That his knees ache when he walks up the stairs.

That every punch, every step, every breath feels like his body is punishing him for feeling again.

But one night, after training, after a long day of trying to pretend everything is fine—

Izuku breaks.

He curls up in their dorm, arms wrapped around himself, shaking.

Katsuki finds him like that.

Eyes red.

Breathing ragged.

Silent tears streaking down his face.

“I—” Izuku chokes on his own words, voice cracking. “I—I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

Katsuki’s chest hurts.

He moves forward, pulling Izuku into him, holding him tight, hands trembling slightly as they curl around his back.

“I got you, nerd. I fucking got you.”

Izuku breaks apart in his arms.

And Katsuki holds him together.

Katsuki doesn’t realize at first.

Doesn’t think about it, doesn’t question it.

Until one day, in training, Izuku doesn’t use his quirk.

At all.

And then he remembers.

Remembers Izuku telling him he couldn’t use it without the drugs.

Katsuki watches him closely.

The way he hesitates. The way he pulls back before engaging. The way he keeps his hands at his sides, like he’s afraid of himself.

And suddenly, Katsuki understands.

This isn’t just about the pain.

This is about something deeper.

Something Izuku hasn’t admitted yet.

And Katsuki isn’t going to let him keep running from it.

Three months.

Three months of missed assignments.

Three months of failing grades.

Three months of trying to stay alive instead of trying to keep up.

It’s too much.

Katsuki helps. He’s always there.

Late nights, sitting on the floor of their dorm, guiding Izuku through lessons, snapping at him when he zones out, pushing, pushing, pushing—

But never too hard.

Never in a way that makes Izuku feel small.

And even with all of that—

Even with Katsuki by his side—

He still feels like he’s drowning.

The confrontation doesn’t happen all at once.

Katsuki watches. He observes. He lets it sit, lets it simmer, lets the weight of it settle until he can’t fucking stand it anymore.

Because Izuku isn’t using his quirk.

At all.

Not in training. Not in sparring. Not even in small, instinctive ways like he used to.

And the longer Katsuki thinks about it, the clearer the realization becomes.

This isn’t about the pain.

This is about fear.

So he waits. Until they’re alone in their dorm, the space between them too quiet, too tense, too fucking loud with everything Izuku isn’t saying.

And then, finally—he breaks the silence.

“Alright, nerd. Spill.”

Izuku blinks up at him, wary. “Spill what?”

Katsuki crosses his arms. Stares him down.

“You haven’t used One For All in weeks.”

Izuku stiffens.

Bingo.

Katsuki narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Izuku looks away. Shrugs. Too casual. “I just—haven’t needed to.”

“Bullshit.”

Izuku’s fingers twitch.

Katsuki leans forward, voice lower now, careful. “You’re scared.”

Izuku visibly flinches.

His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“I—I’m not scared,” he lies, but his voice is too thin, too shaky, too fucking obvious.

Katsuki exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.

“Izu.”

That’s all it takes. One word. One softened, exhausted, unbearably fond version of his name.

Izuku cracks.

His shoulders hunch. His hands ball into fists.

And then—barely above a whisper—

“No one ever taught me how.”

Katsuki goes still.

Izuku lets out a sharp, shuddering breath.

“All Might…” He hesitates, throat tight, words catching. “He never—he never taught me how to use it without breaking my bones.”

Katsuki’s stomach drops.

Izuku doesn’t look at him. He stares down at his hands like they belong to someone else.

“He just told me to figure it out,” he says, voice bitter, so unlike him it makes Katsuki’s skin prickle. “Said he believed in me. Said I would get there eventually. But he never—he never showed me.”

Katsuki can barely breathe.

He’d assumed. Of course he had.

Toshinori fucking Yagi was supposed to be the greatest hero of all time.

Of course he taught Izuku. Of course he guided him. Of course he gave him everything he needed to succeed.

Except.

He didn’t.

And now—Katsuki understands.

Why Izuku hesitates. Why he doesn’t trust himself. Why he’s so fucking scared to use his own power.

Because no one ever taught him how.

And the only one who could have—died before he could even try.

Katsuki lets out a slow, measured exhale.

“We’re going to Aizawa tomorrow.”

Izuku looks at him, startled. “What?”

Katsuki’s gaze is firm. Unshakable.

“We’re getting you a real fucking teacher.”

Aizawa is tired.

That’s his first thought when Katsuki and Izuku march into his office, unannounced, determined as hell about something he isn’t prepared for.

He blinks at them. Leans back in his chair.

“What.”

Katsuki crosses his arms. “Deku’s got something to say.”

Izuku fidgets. Hesitates. Looks at the floor.

Aizawa waits.

And then—too quiet, too small, too fucking revealing—

“All Might never taught me how to use my quirk.”

Silence.

Aizawa’s eyes narrow.

Katsuki watches closely.

For a long moment, Aizawa doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

And then, flatly—

“Explain.”

Izuku’s jaw tightens.

And then, slowly, he does.

About how Toshinori never really explained the mechanics of One For All.
About how he was expected to figure it out on his own.
About how he was only ever given encouragement, not actual fucking instruction.
About how he doesn’t even know about All For One because Toshinori never told him.

And with every word—Aizawa’s expression hardens.

When Izuku finishes, there’s another long, heavy pause.

And then—very, very carefully—

“You mean to tell me that Toshinori Yagi entrusted you with one of the most dangerous quirks in history—without actually teaching you how to use it?”

Izuku nods, stiff.

Aizawa inhales sharply through his nose.

Katsuki clenches his fists. “We need a solution.”

Aizawa rubs his temples. Looks more exhausted than ever.

And then—after a long, deliberate pause—

“I know where we start.”

Izuku perks up. “You—you do?”

Aizawa nods. “Meditation.”

Izuku blinks. “What?”

Aizawa sighs. Gives him a pointed look.

“You don’t even know about the vestiges, do you?”

Izuku frowns. “The—what?”

Aizawa sighs harder.

Katsuki grits his teeth.

“You mean to tell me that dumbass didn’t even tell him about the ghosts in his head?”

Izuku startles. “Ghosts??”

Aizawa gives them both a long, tired look.

And then—flatly, begrudgingly, reluctantly—

“I’ll explain. But you’re both going to hate it.”

Izuku is still reeling.

There are ghosts in his head.

Ghosts.

And no one ever told him.

No one ever fucking told him.

He’s barely processing the words coming out of Aizawa’s mouth.

Meanwhile, Katsuki is glaring at their teacher like he, too, just found out he’s got ghosts living rent-free in his skull.

“You mean to tell me,” Katsuki grinds out, voice tight with barely restrained rage, “that dumbass skeleton didn’t just forget to teach him how to use the damn quirk—he also neglected to mention he’s got a goddamn council of dead people living in his brain?”

Izuku lets out a strangled sound.

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Bakugo,” he sighs, voice dry. “I only found out about One For All because Principal Nezu deemed it necessary for me to be in the loop after Kamino.” His gaze flickers to Izuku, eyes narrowed. “I just assumed you knew about the vestiges.”

Izuku shakes his head, feeling like the ground beneath him is tilting.

“No. No, I—I didn’t. I never—” He cuts himself off, pressing a hand over his mouth.

Katsuki sees it.

That look. That realization.

This isn’t just about One For All anymore.

This is about everything.

Izuku has spent the last two years of his life thinking Toshinori Yagi had done his best for him.

That he’d been given the tools to succeed.

That he was just too slow. Too weak. Too behind.

But now—now, the truth is staring him in the face.

He wasn’t the failure.

He was set up to fail.

“Fucking hell.” Katsuki exhales, stepping closer to him. “Breathe, nerd.”

Izuku sucks in a shuddering breath.

His head is spinning.

Ghosts. He has ghosts in his fucking head.

Aizawa sighs again, rubbing his temples. “We’re getting off-track. The point is—this actually explains a lot.”

Izuku’s stomach clenches. “What do you mean?”

Aizawa gives him a slow, assessing look.

“I always thought you were reckless to a fault,” he says plainly. “That you ignored self-preservation and pushed yourself too hard because you thought you had something to prove.” He leans back in his chair. “Turns out you weren’t being reckless. You just never had a real teacher.”

Izuku’s breath stutters.

And for the first time—he lets himself feel it.

The anger.

The betrayal.

The resentment curling hot and poisonous in his gut.

Katsuki sees it, too. His mouth presses into a thin line.

Aizawa keeps talking, calm and composed.

“But we can fix that. Starting now.”

Izuku snaps his head up. “H—how?”

Aizawa folds his hands together.

“Your first lesson is meditation.”

Silence.

Katsuki scowls. “That’s it?”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow. “You have a better idea?”

Katsuki opens his mouth. Closes it. Glares.

Izuku is still stuck on the word. “Meditation?”

Aizawa nods. “You need to learn how to connect with the vestiges. If you want to understand One For All—if you want to figure out how to control it properly—you have to start with them.”

Izuku lets out a slow breath.

He’s not sure he can do this.

But he’s willing to try.

Meditation isn’t easy.

Izuku tries.

Again. And again. And again.

Between his classes, his training, the crushing weight of catching up on three months of schoolwork, and the constant scrutiny of his friends—

He’s exhausted.

And Katsuki is always there.

Helping him with schoolwork. Making sure he eats. Keeping an eye on him every second of the day.

And, most of all—sitting with him during every single attempt at meditation.

“Okay, nerd. Try again.”

Izuku exhales. Shuts his eyes. Tries to focus.

And—nothing.

No voices. No connection. No anything.

He lets out a frustrated groan, running his hands through his hair.

“This is stupid.”

Katsuki tilts his head, watching him. “You’re overthinking it.”

“Of course I’m overthinking it!” Izuku snaps, throwing up his hands. “You’re asking me to find a way to talk to a bunch of dead people who’ve been living in my brain without me knowing—how am I not supposed to overthink it?”

Katsuki smirks.

“Nerd, you’re the only person I know who can make talking to dead guys sound like an academic problem.”

Izuku glares.

Katsuki leans back, stretching his arms behind his head. “It’s gonna take time. Just keep at it.”

Izuku grumbles, crossing his arms. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one sitting here with your legs cramping, failing over and over and over again.”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow.

“You think I wouldn’t be losing my shit if I found out I had a bunch of past lives taking up space in my head?” He scoffs. “If it were me, I’d be threatening to fight them one by one.”

Izuku snorts, despite himself.

Katsuki’s grin softens.

And Izuku breathes.

Because even if this is frustrating—Katsuki is here.

Katsuki is always here.

And that’s enough.

For now.

It happens on a good day.

A rare day.

A quiet day.

No assignments looming. No overwhelming pressure. Just peace.

And Katsuki—Katsuki, doing something undeniably sweet in front of everyone.

It had been small.

Just an offhanded comment. A moment of care.

But it had left a warm feeling in Izuku’s chest.

And later, when he sits down to meditate—

For the first time—

His mind is clear.

And then—

The world around him shifts.

Izuku doesn’t notice it at first.

The shift. The weight. The world stretching and pulling at the edges of his vision until—

He’s somewhere else.

The air is thick, charged. A vast nothingness stretches out before him, infinite, unknowable.

And in front of him—they stand.

Figures silhouetted in the dark, some more solid than others. Watching him. Waiting.

A presence shifts at his side, and Izuku knows before he turns.

Toshinori.

"What is this?" Izuku breathes, voice wavering. His heart pounds, hands curling into fists. "Where—where am I?"

Toshinori’s expression is tight, unreadable.

"You’ve finally made contact."

Izuku’s stomach twists.

"Contact? With who? With—"

"Us."

The voice isn’t Toshinori’s. It’s deep, steady, weighted with something ancient.

Izuku snaps his gaze forward.

The first user steps forward, eyes steady, voice calm.

"You are in the core of One For All, Izuku Midoriya."

Izuku feels his breath leave him.

The first user continues.

"We are the remnants. The vestiges. Those who carried this power before you."

Izuku’s knees nearly buckle.

"This isn’t just a quirk," he whispers. "It’s—"

"A legacy," the first user finishes.

Izuku staggers back.

His thoughts spiral, heart hammering against his ribs.

"Why—why are you showing me this? Why now? Why didn’t All Might ever—"

Toshinori sighs. "I thought I had more time."

Izuku stiffens. His gaze sharpens.

"More time for what?"

A long silence.

Then—

The second user steps forward.

"To tell you the truth."

Izuku’s stomach drops.

"The truth?" His voice is shaking now.

The first user’s expression doesn’t waver.

"One For All exists for one reason."

The void seems to press in closer.

"To defeat All For One."

Izuku stares.

"Wh-what?"

"He is alive, Izuku."

Izuku stops breathing.

The first user’s voice is steady.

"He was never defeated."

"No—no, that’s not—"

Izuku can’t speak. Can’t think.

All For One. The name—the ghost of it—wraps around his throat like a noose.

His vision blurs. His stomach churns.

"Toshinori said—he said he won, that he stopped him, that—"

"He tried."

The second user crosses his arms, expression unreadable.

"But he never finished it."

Izuku’s body feels distant. Numb. Detached from the weight of this moment.

"You’re lying."

The first user sighs.

"I’m sorry."

"No."

His hands shake.

"No, this—this isn’t fair! I didn’t—"

His breath catches.

"I didn’t sign up for this."

The second user tilts his head.

"Did you think this was just power? A gift?"

Izuku’s chest clenches.

"I—"

The second user steps closer.

"You have to fight him, kid."

Izuku’s vision sways.

"You’re the last user."

The world tilts.

His hands tremble.

His stomach churns.

"I—"

His voice breaks.

"I can’t do this."

Toshinori’s expression tightens.

"You can."

"I CAN’T!"

The words explode from him, sharp, raw, frayed at the edges.

"I CAN’T EVEN USE THIS POWER PROPERLY! I BREAK EVERY TIME! I—I CAN’T EVEN THROW A DAMN PUNCH RIGHT! HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO STOP THE STRONGEST VILLAIN IN HISTORY?!"

His chest heaves. His head spins.

The fifth user, Banjo, steps forward.

"Then you learn."

Izuku staggers back.

Banjo’s grin is sharp, knowing.

"You’ve been using One For All wrong, kid."

Izuku’s breath catches.

The sixth user nods.

"Your body isn’t built for 100%. Not yet. You have to work with it, not against it."

"How?" Izuku breathes.

The first user meets his gaze.

"You stop fighting like you’re borrowing power."

Izuku’s fingers twitch.

"You start fighting like it’s yours."

And then—

The world shifts.

Izuku wakes up gasping.

Staggering. Shaking. Mind spinning.

And then—

He runs.

The common room is loud, full, buzzing with voices—

Until Izuku stumbles in.

And then—

Silence.

But Izuku doesn’t notice.

His breath is ragged, uneven, his hands clenching at his hair, his chest rising and falling too fast.

"I have to save the world."

Silence.

The words hang there.

Ochako’s eyes widen.

"What?"

Izuku paces.

"I have to fight All For One!"

A collective gasp.

"He’s still alive! He—he was never defeated! He’s waiting, planning, and—and I HAVE TO STOP HIM!"

His voice rises, sharp, panicked, frayed at the edges.

"I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW UNTIL JUST NOW! I—I CAN’T EVEN USE MY QUIRK PROPERLY! I BREAK EVERY TIME! HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO—"

And then—

Hands.

On his wrists, prying them from his hair. Warm, grounding.

A forehead pressed against his.

"Breathe, Izu."

Izuku stops.

Katsuki’s hands are steady, firm, warm against his skin.

"You did it."

Izuku’s breath hitches.

"You made contact with them. That means you’re doing it already, baby."

His voice is low, steady, unwavering.

"You CAN do this."

Izuku’s chest tightens.

"And I’ll be right beside you."

And then—

"So will we."

Izuku turns.

And the room erupts.

Voices pile over each other—

"We’re with you, Midoriya!"

"You think you’re gonna fight alone, dumbass?!"

"You’re never alone!"

Izuku can’t breathe.

But then—Katsuki is holding him, grounding him, keeping him together.

"See, nerd?"

Katsuki smirks against his temple.

"You’re never alone."

And for the first time—

Izuku believes him.

The class settles, the frantic energy tapering into a sharp, tense quiet.

Izuku still feels like he can’t breathe.

His hands are shaking, his heart pounding against his ribs, his mind running too fast—but Katsuki is here.

Katsuki is here, holding his wrists, steady and sure, pressing their foreheads together like it’s the only thing keeping Izuku from spinning off the face of the Earth.

"Breathe, Izu."

Izuku inhales sharply.

"You’re safe." Katsuki’s voice is soft, just for him. "You can talk. Just breathe first."

Izuku closes his eyes.

It takes a moment, but he lets himself settle.

And then—he speaks.

"One For All..." His voice is raw, quiet, like he doesn’t know how to say it, how to explain something so impossibly big.

"It’s a quirk that was passed down. From user to user. Until me."

The class listens, silent, waiting.

"It belonged to All Might."

Iida inhales sharply. Ochako’s hand clenches against her chest.

Izuku swallows hard. "It—it was never just a strength quirk. I thought—All Might always said it was just power, just raw strength, but..."

His breath shudders.

"It’s not. It’s a collection. It’s everyone who came before me."

Shinsou’s brow furrows. "Like—what? The quirks? The people?"

Izuku nods. "Both. I—I spoke to them. I saw them." His voice falters. "They—they told me the truth."

He takes another breath.

And then—he says it.

"All For One is still alive."

A sharp, collective intake of breath.

Momo’s hand flies to her mouth. Denki pales.

Iida’s voice shakes, but he forces himself to ask. "Are—are you sure?"

"Yes." Izuku grips his arms, fingernails digging into his skin. "He was never defeated. He’s just waiting, planning, biding his time—"

"For you."

The voice is Katsuki’s.

Izuku flinches.

And suddenly, the weight of it is suffocating again.

"For me," he whispers.

Ochako’s voice is small. "Izuku..."

"One For All exists for one reason," he forces out. "To stop him. To stop All For One. And I..."

His voice shakes.

"I’m the last user."

The room goes impossibly still.

Denki blinks, like he can’t quite process the words. "Last—what do you mean, last?"

Izuku swallows. "It—it’s too strong. No one without a quirk could ever handle it again. If I try to pass it on, it’ll kill whoever takes it."

Jirou lets out a soft, horrified noise.

"This is it," Izuku whispers, voice barely there. "One For All dies with me."

Silence.

And then—

Katsuki’s grip tightens on his wrists.

"Izu."

Izuku snaps back to the present.

Katsuki’s eyes are sharp, steady, grounding.

"Say it, nerd. Say what’s been running through that damn head of yours since you heard that."

Izuku sucks in a breath.

"I can’t do this."

Katsuki’s jaw tightens. "Bullshit."

"I CAN’T!" Izuku yells, voice raw, cracking.

"I break every time, Katsuki! I—I have never once used this power without hurting myself! I can’t—I can’t even punch right! I can’t even—"

His voice cracks.

"I’m not good enough."

Katsuki lets out a sharp breath.

And then—his hands are on Izuku’s face, thumbs pressing into his cheeks, grounding him.

"You listen to me, nerd."

His voice is firm, steady, unshakable.

"You are good enough."

Izuku’s breath catches.

Katsuki doesn’t look away.

"You will figure this out. And I’ll be with you. Every step. Every fight. Every damn second."

His fingers tighten.

"You’re not doing this alone."

Izuku’s throat closes.

And then—

"None of us are letting you do this alone."

The voice is Momo’s.

Izuku turns.

And—the whole class is staring at him, determination burning in their eyes.

Ochako’s voice is fierce, unwavering. "We’re not going anywhere, Deku. You’re stuck with us."

Iida nods. "Your fight is our fight."

Kirishima grins, a sharp, wild thing. "Damn right! We’re heroes, aren’t we? You think we’re just gonna sit back and let you take this on alone?!"

Denki fists his hands, eyes blazing. "I don’t care if he’s the strongest villain in history, we’ll fight him together!"

Jirou steps forward. "You’re our friend, Midoriya. Whatever comes next, we’re with you. Always."

Sero grins. "Hell yeah. Ride or die, dude."

Shinsou scoffs, crossing his arms. "Idiots, the lot of you." Then—a smirk. "Guess I’m in, too."

Izuku can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

They—they mean it.

He can see it in their eyes.

And then—Katsuki speaks again.

His voice is low, warm, something steady and sure that Izuku can wrap himself in.

"See, nerd?"

Katsuki presses their foreheads together again, smirking against his skin.

"You’re never alone."

And for the first time—

Izuku believes him.

The common room settles into a different kind of silence.

Not tense. Not heavy.

Something solid. Resolute.

Izuku feels like he’s still shaking, still drowning in the weight of everything he just said, everything they just learned. But he’s not drowning alone.

For the first time, he’s being held up.

By them.

By Katsuki.

Katsuki hasn’t let go.

Even now, with the weight of the room pressing in around them, Katsuki’s hands stay firm on his face, grounding, steady.

"You alright now, nerd?" Katsuki’s voice isn’t soft, but it’s not sharp either. It’s steady, and that’s what Izuku needs.

He nods. Slow, hesitant.

Katsuki doesn’t believe it.

"You’re still shaking, dumbass."

Izuku laughs, breathless, sharp. "I—I just found out I have to save the world, Kacchan.** Excuse me for—for losing my shit for a second."

Katsuki’s grip tightens, just a little.

"Yeah, well. You’re not doing it alone."

Izuku’s throat closes up.

Denki clears his throat, rocking on his heels. "So, uh. Just to be clear—our childhood hero, our Symbol of Peace, the most powerful man we’ve ever known, gave you a god-tier quirk..."

He gestures vaguely. "And didn’t tell you jackshit about how to use it?"

Izuku flushes. "He—he thought I would figure it out naturally."

"That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard."

"Yeah, no offense, Midoriya," Jirou adds, "but that’s like handing a newborn a sword and expecting them to master it through instinct."

Momo nods, arms crossed, calculating. "You were expected to fight against the strongest villain in history without any proper training?"

Izuku doesn’t answer.

That’s answer enough.

The room is quiet for a beat.

And then—Katsuki exhales sharply.

"Okay. Enough."

Everyone turns to him.

"You all heard what nerd-for-brains just said. He has to train, yeah? Well, then we better start figuring that shit out."

Shinsou snorts. "You volunteering, Bakugo?"

Katsuki snorts right back. "Like hell. I’ve been training this idiot since we were four, you think I’m stopping now?"

Izuku swallows hard.

Katsuki’s eyes meet his, and there’s something steady there, something unmovable, something so painfully Katsuki it makes his chest ache.

"I got you, nerd."

Izuku nods.

Later, when the class finally disperses, when the reality of everything sets in, Izuku and Katsuki sit in their dorm, side by side, knees brushing.

Neither of them speak for a long time.

Izuku feels like his body is too small to contain everything inside him.

The responsibility. The fear. The future.

The love.

God. The love.

He’s never felt it so sharply before. Never felt it so solid beneath his feet.

His hands fidget in his lap.

Katsuki notices. He always notices.

"What’s goin’ on in that overworked brain of yours?"

Izuku laughs, breathless, bitter.

"I’m terrified."

Katsuki exhales through his nose. "Yeah. That tracks."

Izuku’s throat tightens.

"I don’t—I don’t know if I can do this, Kacchan."

"You can."

"What if I can’t?"

Katsuki shifts, tilting Izuku’s chin up with two fingers. "Then we figure out another way."

Izuku’s eyes widen.

Katsuki’s expression is calm, even, steady.

"But you can."

Izuku swallows. "I... don’t want to let you down."

Katsuki’s hand shifts, palm against his cheek.

"Dumbass." His thumb traces soft against Izuku’s skin. "You never could."

Izuku leans into the touch without thinking.

Katsuki exhales, pressing a kiss against his forehead. "Rest, nerd. Tomorrow, we train."

And Izuku believes him.

The next morning, Katsuki drags Izuku straight to Aizawa.

"Problem child." Aizawa sips his coffee, unimpressed. "Bakugo. What is it this time?"

Izuku rubs the back of his neck, glancing at Katsuki.

Katsuki grunts. "He’s an idiot."

Aizawa raises a brow. "Not exactly new information."

"No, he’s a different kind of idiot." Katsuki crosses his arms. "He doesn’t know how to use his damn quirk."

Aizawa blinks.

Izuku winces. "That’s...not entirely fair."

Katsuki snaps a glare at him. "What part of ‘you weren’t trained properly’ is unfair, dumbass?"

Izuku shrinks a little.

Aizawa sighs, rubbing his temples. "Okay. Explain."

Izuku sucks in a breath.

And then—he explains everything.

The lack of training. The lack of real understanding. The things Toshinori never told him, never prepared him for.

The way he’s been winging it since day one.

When he’s finished, Aizawa is silent.

Then—he exhales sharply.

"I see."

Izuku fidgets. "Sensei, I—"

"That explains a lot, actually."

Izuku blinks.

Aizawa leans forward.

"Toshinori was always focused on building you up as a hero. I thought—he had a plan. That he was guiding you." His expression tightens. "But he wasn’t."

Izuku drops his gaze.

Aizawa sighs. "Alright. Then we start from the ground up."

Izuku’s head snaps up. "Wait—really?"

Aizawa’s expression softens. Just a little.

"You think I’m gonna throw you to the wolves now?"

Katsuki grins. "That’d be irresponsible."

Aizawa gives him a flat look. "You are the wolves."

Katsuki laughs.

Izuku smiles.

For the first time, things feel possible.

The training ground is empty except for the three of them.

The sky overhead is a muted gray, thick with the scent of ozone, the distant rumble of a storm just barely rolling in. The air is heavy—like the weight in Izuku’s chest.

He clenches his fists.

"Okay, nerd. You ready?"

Katsuki stands across from him, arms loose, stance calm but prepared. He’s not underestimating Izuku.

Not anymore.

Izuku nods. His chest feels tight, but this is different. This is control. This is the first step.

Aizawa watches from the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "You go too far, Midoriya, and I’ll shut it down."

Izuku nods again.

"And don’t do anything stupid, dumbass." Katsuki’s voice is sharp, but there’s an undertone of something else.

Izuku almost smiles.

He inhales deeply.

And then—he reaches.

Not for power, not for brute strength, not for the mindless surge of energy he’s always let take control. He reaches for precision.

He reaches for them.

For the voices in his head, the remnants of One For All, the ones who have guided him even when he didn’t know they were there.

And for the first time, they answer.

A flicker. A whisper. Gentle, but firm.

And suddenly—he understands.

He lets the energy flow, not grip him. He controls it. He lets it settle in his limbs instead of exploding outward.

"Holy shit."

Katsuki’s voice cuts through the air.

Izuku opens his eyes.

And his body—it’s glowing.

Not erratic, not wild, not sparking dangerously at his fingertips—controlled. Even.

For the first time—it doesn’t hurt.

Katsuki stares. His mouth opens, then closes.

Then—he grins.

"You did it, nerd."

Izuku grins back. "Yeah."

Then—Katsuki lunges.

Izuku reacts immediately. He ducks, his movements sharper than they’ve ever been, flowing instead of forcing.

His fist connects with Katsuki’s forearm, and Katsuki grunts at the impact but grins wider.

"Damn, okay."

He doesn’t give Izuku time to celebrate—he counters immediately, forcing Izuku to move again, to react, to dodge and shift and use the quirk instead of letting it use him.

And for the first time, Izuku doesn’t panic.

He moves. Effortless. Controlled.

And when he lands a hit—**a real, solid hit—**he doesn’t break.

Aizawa watches from the side, arms still crossed, but this time, there’s something softer in his expression.

He doesn’t have to use his quirk.

Not once.

Izuku laughs, breathless, exhilarated.

He can do this.

He can do this.

Katsuki laughs too.

"Took you long enough, dumbass."

Izuku grins. "Shut up, Kacchan."

And for the first time in forever—

It feels real. It feels right.

They’re not fighting against his power anymore.

They’re fighting with it.

Izuku had been planning this for weeks.

Katsuki was always the one giving. Always the one reaching, pulling, holding, grounding. Always the one steadying Izuku when the world threatened to swallow him whole.

And now, Izuku is clear-headed for the first time in a long, long time.

The weight of One For All no longer crushes him—it lifts him. The pain he once drowned in no longer drags him under. He isn’t running from something anymore.

And now—now, he can give back.

So he spends the entire day devoted to Kacchan.

Not in some obvious, grand gesture kind of way. Not in some orchestrated, elaborate display. Katsuki would hate that.

No—this is for him. For Kacchan, in all the ways that matter.

It’s little things. Intentional things.

Izuku wakes up early to sneak into the kitchen before Katsuki can even rub the sleep from his eyes. He makes breakfast just the way Kacchan likes it. Not too sweet, not too greasy, simple but good.

Katsuki steps into the kitchen, hair a mess, rubbing at his bare stomach with a yawn. He blinks when he sees the plate waiting for him.

"What the hell is this?"

Izuku grins, setting down his own chopsticks. "Breakfast, obviously."

"Yeah, no shit." Katsuki drops into the chair across from him, eyeing the food like it might be poisoned. "But why?"

Izuku just tilts his head. "Because I wanted to."

Katsuki’s cheeks tinge the faintest pink.

And that’s just the start of it.

The whole day is a slow, deliberate thing. A day where Izuku makes everything about Katsuki without ever saying it outright.

They go on patrol together, but Izuku lets Katsuki pick the route.

They stop for coffee, and Izuku orders Kacchan’s favorite without asking.

They go to the arcade after, and Izuku stands behind Katsuki at the punching game, watching with genuine admiration as he obliterates every record.

"You’re such a show-off, Kacchan."

"Damn right."

But Izuku is watching him. Really watching him.

The way his muscles tense before every hit, the way he grins when he wins, the way his golden eyes light up when he turns around and sees Izuku staring at him like he’s the most incredible thing in the world.

And for the first time in forever, Katsuki doesn’t know what to do with himself.

By the time the sun starts to set, Katsuki’s whole body is buzzing.

Because something is different. Izuku is different.

Not in the way he had been before—not the reckless, drugged-out, spinning-out Izuku that Katsuki had fought tooth and nail to bring back.

No—this is Izuku, awake. Alive. Fully, completely here.

And he’s looking at Katsuki like he hung the goddamn sun.

By the time they’re back in their dorm, Katsuki feels like he’s going to explode.

Izuku closes the door behind them, stepping in close, close, so close.

And then—his hands.

They are everywhere.

Not rushed. Not greedy. Just reverent.

Soft fingertips trace Katsuki’s forearm, glide up his bicep, skim his collarbone, brush against his pulse.

He’s memorizing him.

Like he’s trying to map him out.

Katsuki swallows hard.

"What the hell are you doin’, nerd?" His voice is hoarse, rougher than he intended.

Izuku just hums, eyes dark and intent and unbearably, unbelievably soft.

"Making up for lost time."

Katsuki’s breath catches.

Because Izuku isn’t just touching him. He’s worshipping him.

Slow, deliberate.

Fingertips tracing the curve of muscle, pausing over every scar, every mark.

Katsuki’s breath stutters when Izuku presses his lips to the ridge of an old burn on his shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything—just lets the warmth sink in.

And then—Izuku shifts lower.

Lower.

Katsuki’s hands fly to Izuku’s shoulders, gripping tight. "The fuck are you—"

Izuku looks up at him through thick lashes.

And grins.

Something mischievous. Something self-satisfied.

Katsuki’s whole goddamn brain short-circuits.

"Izuku, I swear to god—"

But Izuku just laughs.

And Katsuki’s never been more fucked in his life.

—

Later, much later, Katsuki is a boneless, mindless, half-breathing mess.

He stares at the ceiling, still trying to understand what the hell just happened.

Izuku is grinning like a menace, still smug, still wild with it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Katsuki grabs him.

Yanks him up, kisses him deep, steals the breath right out of his lungs.

"Not fucking done with you, nerd." His voice is wrecked, raw.

Izuku just chuckles, head tilting back, baring his throat.

Katsuki growls.

And then—he devours him.

Claiming him. Marking him.

Izuku is his.

And for the first time, he doesn’t have to fight for it.

Izuku is giving himself freely.

And Katsuki—Katsuki takes him with joy.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six:  One For All, Two For Trauma, Three For Sneaking Out at 3AM

The first morning in Aizawa’s apartment, Izuku wakes to the sound of running water and a low murmur of conversation. He blinks slowly, still curled under the blanket, feeling the warmth of another body next to him.

Katsuki.

It isn’t a surprise. They’d shared a bed plenty of times before—even before everything. But it still settles something deep in his chest, something fragile but solid. A quiet certainty that Kacchan’s still here.

The voices drift in from the kitchen. He recognizes Aizawa’s gravelly tone, slow and unhurried, mixing with the sharp-edged grumble of Katsuki.

Izuku listens without moving.

"You two need a structured regimen," Aizawa is saying, the scrape of a coffee mug against the table punctuating his words. "I’m not letting either of you burn yourselves out."

"Like I’d let that happen," Katsuki scoffs. "You know me, old man. I train like a fucking beast, but I don’t go overboard."

A beat of silence.

Aizawa snorts. "That’s a goddamn lie."

Izuku almost laughs.

There’s the rustling of paper, the clicking of a pen. "You’re both staying here all summer," Aizawa continues. "That means you follow my rules. Training starts at dawn. Recovery periods are mandatory—no exceptions."

There’s a pause, then Katsuki’s voice, quieter now.

"…And if he overdoes it?"

Izuku’s chest tightens.

Aizawa sighs. "Then I shut him down before he breaks himself."

A lump forms in Izuku’s throat. He swallows hard and pushes himself upright, rubbing at his eyes before swinging his legs off the bed. He won’t let them talk about him like he’s some fragile thing. Not anymore.

He steps into the kitchen, voice still hoarse from sleep.

"I can handle myself, you know."

Katsuki’s head snaps up, eyes immediately scanning him. A quick check, just to make sure he’s okay, before his usual scowl settles in place.

"Tch. Finally up, nerd? Thought you were gonna sleep all goddamn day."

Izuku ignores him and flops into the chair across from Aizawa, glancing down at the stack of training plans spread across the table. "So… what’s the plan?"

Aizawa watches him, gaze unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, he slides one of the papers toward him.

"Train smarter, not harder," he says simply.

And that’s how it starts.

The days fall into a rhythm—sparring, recovery, training, growth.

Izuku is unrelenting. Obsessed. But this time, not in a way that self-destructs. He’s learning how to control One For All, how to use it without breaking himself.

And Katsuki—Katsuki is evolving with him.

Their fights are something else entirely now.

One moment, Izuku is a blur of movement— shifting through the air like a ghost, flickering out of reach before appearing again ten feet away.

The next, Katsuki is twisting mid-air, a burning streak of light, his explosions carrying him with a precision he’s never had before.

Their battles are chaos and art, violence and precision.

And one night, after a particularly brutal session, Katsuki stumbles back, panting—grinning like a fucking madman.

He flexes his fingers. A spark ignites in his palm. It’s different. Tighter. Focused.

Then—he moves.

Not just with an explosion.

With it.

Izuku watches, awestruck, as Katsuki becomes the explosion itself—his body spinning, twisting, a comet blazing across the sky.

When he lands, skidding to a stop, triumphant and breathless, he looks over at Izuku.

Izuku stares at him.

Then—he laughs.

"Holy shit, Kacchan."

Katsuki, still high on adrenaline, smirks. "Yeah, nerd. I know."

But the summer isn’t just about training.

It’s about learning.

And Aizawa teaches them both more than either of them expected.

There are long nights spent in the living room, the scent of tea and lingering exhaustion settling between them as Aizawa goes over tactics, real-world hero work, the things UA doesn’t teach them.

And sometimes, in the quiet moments, Aizawa shares pieces of himself, too.

One night, Katsuki is half-asleep, head resting against Izuku’s shoulder, when Aizawa suddenly mutters,

"You remind me of him."

Izuku blinks. "Who?"

Aizawa exhales, eyes distant. "Oboro, an old friend. He had big dreams too. Wanted to save everyone. Pushed himself too damn hard."

Silence settles between them.

Then—quiet, but firm, Katsuki speaks.

"We won’t break."

Aizawa looks at them.

"No," he murmurs. "I don’t think you will."

And for the first time, Izuku believes it.

Despite all the progress, there’s one thing that doesn’t change.

Izuku still won’t use One For All at full power.

He pulls his punches, holds himself back.

And Aizawa notices.

One day, after sparring, Aizawa stops him, voice sharp.

"Midoriya. You’re hesitating."

Izuku stiffens. "I—I’m not—"

"Bullshit."

Katsuki frowns. "What’s wrong, Izu?"

Izuku’s fists clench. "I just—" His voice shakes. "The last time I tried, it nearly broke me."

Aizawa’s eyes soften, but his voice stays firm. "You’re not the same as you were then. You’re stronger now. Smarter. And we’re here."

A pause.

Then—soft, steady, grounding.

Katsuki steps forward, brushing his fingers against Izuku’s wrist.

"You can do it." His voice is low, sure. "I’m right here. I got your back."

Izuku exhales.

And for the first time—he lets go.

The sky is a bruised shade of purple, summer heat clinging thick to the air as Katsuki stands across from Izuku, muscles burning from the past hour of combat drills. They’ve been sparring non-stop since morning, One For All’s ever-growing power clashing against the sheer force of Katsuki’s explosions.

But today, Izuku is using Blackwhip constantly.

"You keep cheating, nerd!" Katsuki growls, twisting mid-air as a tendril of black energy lashes toward his wrist, snapping like a goddamn whip. He blasts it away, but another coil of inky darkness is already wrapping around his leg.

Izuku grins, stance low, eyes wild with adrenaline. "You’re getting slow, Kacchan!"

The second the words leave his mouth, Katsuki snarls, twisting in mid-air, blasting his palm downward for propulsion— but Blackwhip yanks him back.

He crashes into the ground hard enough to send dust flying.

Izuku moves in fast—too fast. He’s already there, a flicker of green lightning streaking toward him, another tendril curling out like a viper ready to strike.

But Katsuki’s had enough of this shit.

His teeth grit, frustration boiling over into raw instinct.

No more getting trapped. No more being slowed down.

And in that second—he stops fighting against Blackwhip.

Instead, he uses it.

Izuku’s tendril tightens around his forearm—and instead of blasting it away, Katsuki uses it as leverage.

He twists.

The explosion that follows isn’t just a detonation.

It’s a chain reaction.

One explosion, then another, then another—building, compounding, linking together in rapid succession. Instead of a single blast, it snakes along his body, wrapping him in propulsion and speed.

Izuku barely has time to register the change before Katsuki is on him.

One moment, Blackwhip is restraining him.

The next—Katsuki is gone.

No, not gone—he’s everywhere.

His explosions arc in a chain reaction, each one launching him forward in jagged, unpredictable bursts, impossible to track, impossible to hold.

The first hit lands against Izuku’s ribs.

The second—his shoulder.

By the third, Izuku can’t even tell where Katsuki is anymore.

He’s a moving target, a living explosion, an unchained force of destruction.

"What the hell?!" Izuku yells, reeling as another strike grazes past his defenses. He tries to lash out with Blackwhip again, but it can’t catch him—he’s too fast, too erratic.

Then, Katsuki comes in for the finisher.

A final burst of energy, a rapid series of explosions chaining into each other, spinning his body like a corkscrew through the air.

He crashes into Izuku like a goddamn comet.

BOOM.

The impact sends them both flying.

When the dust settles, Katsuki is the one standing.

Izuku groans from the ground, gasping for breath. "…Ow."

Katsuki, still buzzing from the rush of adrenaline, plants his hands on his hips, smirking down at him.

"Try wrapping your fucking tendrils around me now, Deku."

Izuku wheezes. "What the hell was that?"

Katsuki rolls his shoulders, feeling the lingering sparks still crackling along his palms.

"New move, dumbass." He exhales sharply. "Blasting Chain."

Izuku blinks up at him, then laughs.

"Kacchan, you literally just became Blackwhip with explosions."

Katsuki glares. "Shut the fuck up."

Izuku, still wheezing but grinning ear to ear, extends a hand toward him.

"Do it again."

And Katsuki does.

It clicked the first time someone tried to hold him down.

Not the kind of hold you break with brute force—no. The kind that wanted to restrain him. Coil around him like a leash. Wrap him up like he was some fucking problem to contain.

Blackwhip. Binding cloth. Tentacle. Didn’t matter what it was.

The moment he felt tension tighten around his limbs, something in his brain snapped into place.

They wanted to stop him?

Fine.

He’d use it.

He didn’t fight against it. He moved with it. Let the pull build, let the tension coil—and then set it off with a blast so sharp it ripped him forward, not away. Let the momentum chain. Let it feed itself. One explosion, then another, and another, and another—until he wasn’t being pulled anymore, he was tearing through the air like a fucking bullet.

He named it Blasting Chain later. Like that mattered.

To him, it was instinct. Muscle memory now. Movement born from fury and desperation. The need to never be caged again.

Compared to Cluster—this wasn’t about sustained motion. It wasn’t smooth or clean or flashy.

It was jagged.

Violent.

Short bursts in impossible angles. Aerial direction changes so fast his spine screamed. It didn’t matter. Pain was fuel. Shock was cover.

You try to trap him, you give him an anchor.

You try to hold him, you give him a weapon.

And fuck—he could feel it. That rhythm. That chain reaction, each blast feeding into the next. Faster, harder, hotter. Like his own version of Full Cowling, only louder, rougher, with the stench of scorched earth clinging to his boots.

The more he moved, the more energy he had. The more energy he had, the faster he moved.

And the faster he moved?

The harder it was to touch him.

He wasn’t just evading.

He was untouchable.

And if you were dumb enough to reach for him mid-chain?

You’d burn.

From that day on, Izuku and Katsuki’s fights change.

They push each other harder. Izuku refines his sub-quirks while Katsuki hones Blasting Chain, turning it from an instinctive counter-move into a precise, deadly technique.

One night, after an especially brutal session, Katsuki lies on his back in the training yard, staring at the stars.

Izuku flops beside him, sweaty and breathless.

"You’re insane, you know that?" Izuku murmurs, voice light with exhaustion.

Katsuki smirks, eyes still on the sky.

"Yeah? So are you, nerd."

They lie there for a long time, side by side, chests rising and falling in sync.

Then, after a moment—Izuku turns his head, watching him.

Softly, almost shyly, he murmurs,

"…I think I love you even more when you do shit like that."

Katsuki snorts, eyes slipping closed, a small, private smile tugging at his lips.

"Damn right you do."

It’s halfway throught their summer when it finally happens.

Izuku doesn’t realize what happened at first.

Not consciously.

One second, he’s dodging—fast, fluid, instinctive. The next, Katsuki is already there, already seen through the feint, already firing at full power.

The explosion hits before he can react.

Heat sears through his left shoulder like a brand, and the force of the blast rips him off his feet. His body twists in mid-air, the world tilting—the ground rushes up too fast.

Then—impact.

The crack is sickening.

Pain explodes through his arm, white-hot and unbearable.

He doesn’t register the scream as his own.

Everything happens at once.

Katsuki is on him immediately. Aizawa is right there, quirk primed.

And Izuku is clutching his arm, shaking, trying to bite back the waves of agony flooding his body.

"Fuck—fuck—" His breath is ragged, torn, every movement sending blinding pain through his shoulder and down to his fingertips.

Katsuki is pale as death, crouched beside him, hands hovering but not touching, not yet, not until Izuku lets him.

"Shit, shit—fuck, Izu—" His voice is too tight, too small, and that alone makes the panic claw harder at Izuku’s ribs.

Aizawa assesses fast.

Burns—second degree at least.
Left humerus—completely fractured.

His voice is firm. "We’re going to the hospital."

"No."

The word rips out before Izuku even thinks.

Aizawa and Katsuki both freeze.

"Nerd, your fucking arm is—"

"No, please, I can handle it, I can—"

His breathing is erratic, wrong. The pain is blinding, but the fear—the fear is worse.

Katsuki sees it instantly.

"Izu—"

"Don’t take me there." Izuku’s voice cracks, trembling, frantic. "Please, Kacchan, Sensei, please—I can’t—"

Aizawa’s brows furrow. "Izuku, you’re injured. You need—"

"I can’t take anything."

Silence.

Horrible, ringing silence.

Izuku’s chest is heaving, pain and terror clawing at his throat.

Katsuki understands first. Of course he does.

His hands curl into white-knuckled fists.

"Shit."

Izuku won’t meet his eyes. "If I take pain meds, I—I don’t know if—" His voice hitches, crumbles. "I can’t do it again. I can’t go back."

Katsuki’s heart breaks in real-time.

It isn't a choice.

Izuku fights it, begs at first, voice cracking, body trembling under the sheer weight of agony. But his arm is broken clean in half. The fracture is too bad, the pain too much. He’s burning up from the inside out.

Katsuki and Aizawa aren’t listening this time.

"No! No, please, I—"

"Nerd, stop!" Katsuki snaps, voice raw, desperate. His hands tighten where they hover over Izuku’s shaking shoulders, but he won’t force him down. Not unless he has to. "This isn’t a debate, you’re going. You can’t fix this on your own."

Izuku’s chest heaves, too tight, too frantic. His face is flushed, sweaty, burning, and he knows—he knows he needs to go.

But God, he can’t.

His fingers curl into the dirt. "Please, Aizawa-sensei, Kacchan—please, I’ll—I’ll handle it, I swear, just—"

Aizawa cuts him off. "Midoriya." His voice is stern, steady, unshaken. "Breathe."

Izuku tries. He fails.

"I can't—I can't take them again." His voice wobbles, small and wrecked. "Please—don’t make me."

Katsuki watches him, watches the way Izuku’s whole body shudders, the way his uninjured hand digs into his own skin.

And suddenly, he gets it.

It’s not the hospital. Not the injury.

It’s the medication.

The very thought of it is sending Izuku spiraling.

Katsuki’s throat closes.

"Izu."

Izuku shakes his head violently. "Kacchan, you don’t get it, I—I can’t go back there, I can’t feel like that again, I can’t—"

Katsuki grabs his face. Not rough, not forceful. Just firm. Just grounding.

"Izuku, look at me."

Green eyes snap up, wide and unfocused, glistening with unshed tears.

Katsuki doesn’t blink.

"You’re not going back," he says. Slow, deliberate. "You hear me? You’re not going back there, you’re not gonna fall again, because we’re not gonna fucking let you."

Izuku shudders, breath catching, choking.

"But—but the meds, Kacchan, the way they feel—"

"I’ll keep them," Katsuki says immediately. "I’ll be the one to hold onto them, I’ll give you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it. Just like before."

Izuku’s lip trembles.

Aizawa, who’s been silent, calculating, watching them closely, finally speaks.

"Midoriya," he says, calm but unyielding. "You can’t heal from this alone. I know it’s terrifying, I know what you’re afraid of, but this is different. This time, you’re not doing this alone."

Izuku knows he’s right.

He knows.

But that doesn’t make it any easier.

The last time he let himself rely on something to dull the pain, he almost died.

Katsuki sees the war in his eyes. His own heart is pounding, throat tight, rage curling under his skin—not at Izuku, but at the fucking situation.

Izuku is panicking, unraveling, struggling against the inevitable.

So Katsuki does the only thing he can do.

He leans in close, forehead pressed to Izuku’s, voice steady, warm, sure.

"You trust me, don’t you?"

Izuku freezes.

His chest is still heaving, his arm still screaming in agony, but his body goes still.

Katsuki’s fingers curl against his jaw, thumb brushing against his cheekbone, grounding him.

"I won’t let this take you again, Izuku. I swear."

Izuku's breath shakes.

And then—after too many seconds of agonizing silence—he nods.

Katsuki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

"Good."

And then—they go.

The Hospital.

Izuku hates it here.

He hates the sterile white, the stinging antiseptic, the fucking fluorescent lights.

His body aches—his arm reset, his burns dressed, his muscles locked with tension.

But what he hates most—what makes his hands shake and his throat close— is the tiny paper cup sitting on the tray beside his hospital bed.

Two pills.

Small. White. Harmless.

And yet, they may as well be poison.

Katsuki is right there. Always.

Sitting in the rigid plastic chair beside him, arms crossed, eyes locked onto Izuku’s every micro-expression.

"You don’t have to take them," Katsuki says. "But you should. You’re in pain, Izu."

Izuku swallows hard.

His throat is dry.

"I know." His voice isn’t much more than a whisper.

Katsuki waits.

Izuku stares at the cup. His fingertips hover over it, hesitant, unsure.

He doesn’t want to touch it.

But the pain—God, it’s bad.

Aizawa’s voice cuts through the tension.

"You don’t have to take all of it," he says. Measured, careful. "One pill might be enough."

Izuku's fingers twitch.

Katsuki sees it.

So he makes it easier.

He reaches over, takes the cup himself, tips one pill into his palm.

Then, very gently, he offers it to Izuku.

"Just one."

Izuku hesitates.

But then, he nods.

Slowly, hesitantly, he takes the pill from Katsuki’s palm.

He swallows it dry.

And that’s it.

That’s all.

The moment feels too big.

Katsuki sees the way Izuku’s throat bobs, the way he clenches his jaw as if waiting for something to go wrong.

It won’t.

Because this is different.

This time, he’s not alone.

And he never will be again.

Izuku doesn’t have to stay.

It’s a relief and a curse.

The moment the doctor clears him—after his arm is set and secured in a cast, after the burn on his shoulder is properly dressed, after Aizawa signs off on the discharge paperwork—Katsuki is already grabbing his stuff, ready to get them the hell out of there.

Izuku is exhausted.

But restless.

Because he can’t train for the next three weeks.

Because he’s supposed to be getting stronger.

And now, he can’t.

The drive back to UA is silent.

Katsuki keeps glancing at him. Every couple of minutes, his eyes flick over. Izuku knows he’s watching. Knows he’s making sure he’s okay.

It’s sweet.

It’s suffocating.

It’s Katsuki.

Izuku stares out the window, scowling at nothing. His arm throbs beneath the sling.

This isn’t how things were supposed to go.

He’s supposed to be getting stronger, pushing himself, mastering One for All.

Not sitting on the fucking sidelines.

Katsuki finally breaks the silence.

"You can still work on the quirks, nerd."

Izuku’s brow twitches. "You think I don’t know that?"

Katsuki shrugs, eyes still on the road. "Then stop pouting about it."

"I’m not pouting."

"You’re pouting."

Izuku scowls. "I just—I don’t want to waste time."

Katsuki’s jaw flexes.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell Izuku to shut up and let himself recover like a normal person.

Because they both know there’s no time.

And the proof of that comes only days later.

And the world keeps turning, and burning.

The first attack happens overseas.

At first, it’s just another headline.

"A MASSIVE PRISON BREAK IN EUROPE—"

"UNKNOWN PERPETRATOR BEHIND MULTIPLE HIGH-PROFILE VILLAIN ESCAPES—"

"MASS DESTRUCTION IN FRANCE—"

But then, it happens again.

And again.

And again.

Izuku watches the reports like a man drowning.

The name no one has spoken in years starts appearing on every screen.

All for One.

At first, it’s just whispers.

Speculation.

Theories.

But then, the footage starts.

And there’s no mistaking him.

The devastation is widespread, merciless, absolute.

Every day, he gets closer.

Every night, Izuku lies awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling like he’s suffocating.

Katsuki doesn’t leave his side.

Not once.

Not when the news anchors start sounding scared.

Not when the headlines shift from "unknown villain" to "confirmed All for One sighting."

Not when Izuku starts shaking every time he turns on the TV.

Katsuki sees it.

Sees the way Izuku grips the fabric of his hoodie too tight, the way his breathing quickens, the way his entire body tenses at every mention of that name.

One night, he grabs the remote.

Turns the TV off.

"Enough."

Izuku’s eyes snap up, wide and startled.

Katsuki meets his gaze, firm and unyielding.

"It’s not happening tonight."

Izuku swallows hard.

His hand is still clenched in his hoodie, fingers curled too tight.

Katsuki watches him for a moment longer, then reaches out, pries Izuku’s fingers loose.

Holds them gently.

"You’re not ready yet."

Izuku’s breath hitches.

He knows.

God, he knows.

And that’s what makes it so much worse.

Because he’s supposed to be training.

But he’s sidelined.

Because his body is still too weak.

Because he’s still recovering.

And now—the clock is running out.

"What if I don’t get strong enough in time?" Izuku whispers.

Katsuki’s grip on his hand tightens.

"Then we fight anyway."

Izuku’s breath shudders.

He turns his head, presses his forehead into Katsuki’s shoulder, lets his eyes squeeze shut.

He’s scared.

And for once, he doesn’t try to hide it.

Because Katsuki is there.

And he’s not leaving.

Not ever.

Summer Ends with little fanfare.

It’s both a relief and a frustration when the cast is removed.

Izuku flexes his fingers as Recovery Girl inspects his arm, adjusting his wrist, pressing along the bone to check for weakness. The dull ache is still there—nothing compared to what it had been, but noticeable.

“It’s healed enough to remove the cast, but you need to take it easy for a few more weeks, Midoriya,” she says sternly, giving him a pointed look over her glasses. “I know you, and I know exactly what you’re thinking. Don’t push yourself too soon, or you’ll be back in here with a fresh break.”

Izuku sighs. He already knows this.

But hearing it out loud makes his chest tight.

Katsuki is standing against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk.

He doesn’t say anything—not until they’re walking back through UA’s halls, side by side.

“You heard her, nerd. No dumbass shit.”

Izuku scowls. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

He does.

But it doesn’t mean he’ll accept it.

Because he needs to be training.

All for One is getting closer every day.

And he’s still not ready.

The first thing Izuku notices when he walks into the common room is that everyone stops what they’re doing.

He hates it.

The way they all turn to look at him, the way their expressions shift from casual to careful.

Like he’s fragile.

Like he’s going to break again.

“Hey, Deku!” Uraraka is the first to greet him, smiling bright, waving him over. “How’s the arm? Are you okay?”

Izuku forces a smile.

They mean well. He knows that.

“I’m fine, really. Cast is off now, so I’ll be back to training soon.”

Iida steps forward, adjusting his glasses, voice serious. “Recovery Girl told you to be careful, correct? I trust you’re following her guidance?”

Izuku bites the inside of his cheek.

God, he can’t even say anything without them all hovering.

“I’ll be fine, Iida,” he says, too even.

Kirishima steps in, grinning wide, nudging Katsuki’s shoulder. “Guess Blasty’s got his sparring partner back, huh? Bet you’ve been losing your mind.”