Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Katsuki hates hospitals. They reek of antiseptic and death. Walls are too sickly white, ceilings are always littered with horrible fluorescent light tiles, and the constant sound of his own shitty pulse makes him nauseous.

The fleshy, sewn up thing inside of his chest doesn’t even feel like it belongs to him, anymore. The pulmonary surgeons have poked and prodded around at the shredded organ so much it’s probably unrecognizable from the shriveled thing he died with. A part of Katsuki thinks he might just be waiting for this one to fail him too.

He tries to be a decent patient, this time. The nurses are overworked. None of the attending physicians look like they’ve seen the inside of their own homes in days, and Katsuki is only one of many, many unlucky fuckers to require medical attention right now. He’s better at biting his tongue, but he’s been caught and scolded a handful of times for fiddling with the bedside equipment just so he might find some fucking reprieve from the incessant beeping of his stupid, barely functional heart rate. It’s the worst sound. ‘I can’t stand the fuckin’ beeps,’ had been his sorry excuse, ‘can’t you turn this shit off? If I flatline I’ll at least get some decent fuckin’ sleep.’

The nurse didn’t find that funny. She warned him there’d be restraints in his future. In the end, he’d resorted to ripping off the ill-fitting aid in his ear and letting the beeps drown into a muddy hum in the background, hiding childishly from the metronome of his pulse that sounded more like the waning of a clock.

Some hero.

And there’s Izuku. The worst part of the hospital is always Izuku.

Back at school, in the med bay, it was like this too. He and Izuku have always been frequent fliers, experts in destroying their bodies, but even the briefest visits unearthed a side of Izuku that Katsuki wasn’t ready to reconcile with. The kind of thing he’d been fond to ignore. Back when it was easier to glare at his big, stupidly expressive eyes than address what he saw in them.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, how intensely Izuku hates to see Katsuki hurt. It’s harder to ignore after Shigaraki spit out the rotten gift of his mangled corpse at Izuku’s feet like an eager dog.

The only thing about you that interests me, Katsuki shuts his eyes, tight. Like that’s ever worked to muffle the ugly, mutated voice in his head. In his nightmares. Is how you’re closer to Izuku Midoriya than anyone else.

He doesn’t know what the fuck to make of that.

Katsuki squirms. His good arm stretches over his eyes and he huffs a long, steady breath outwards, attempting to keep his shitty heart calm. He doesn’t want to have to explain to a nurse, again, why his stupid, dumb fucking pulse elevates so wildly in the middle of the night. Why the fucking nerd always has something to do with it.

And it’s finally quiet, in the hospital. Dark enough without the overhead lights that the entire wing feels calm and his body doesn’t twitch uncomfortably at the constant surveillance he’s under during the day. It’s quiet, and he’s alone.

Every day that he’s been out of surgery, that’s about the moment Izuku shows up.

He’s less and less unprepared for the sound of his door being opened at this hour, the mechanical click from the handle and the heavy, low squeak of the panel shifting slowly ajar. It’s been about a week, now. Even the first time, Katsuki had a hard time feeling the shock he tells himself he maybe should have.

Instead, like every other time, he feels relief.

He senses Izuku more than he hears him. Muffled and faint still, he makes out the familiar voice anyway, a cautious; “Kacchan?” And Katsuki un-smushes his eyes from the crevice of his elbow, lifting the weight of his arm to his forehead to peer at the mop of unruly green hair and intensely concerned eyes twisted around the half-opened door to his room, waiting for acknowledgement. Izuku visibly relaxes when their eyes meet, un-tensing his splintering grip on the edge of the door. Katsuki wonders what he might’ve done if he hadn’t confirmed movement. “Oh,” he mumbles, slithering into the open space and carefully clicking the door shut. “I thought… thought you might’ve been sleeping.”

“M’not,” Katsuki mutters dumbly. More accurately he’d say that he can’t, but he doesn’t think he needs to. Izuku can’t either. Not without this.

Izuku pads the same path to his bed, scuffing the floor with his hospital-issued slippers, and Katsuki takes the time to adjust his hearing aid to a normal level. The constant beep returns, but Izuku’s muttering will drown it out anyway, he figures. He doesn’t miss the pause Izuku takes, or the eyes that fixate intently on the motion at his ear, visibly bothered by the shit state of his hearing. Christ, he purses his lips, unwilling to contend with the way he’s looking at him. He’s the one that’s gotta deal with going deaf, he oughta be more upset about it than the nerd.

Frustrated, he asks, “What.”

Izuku shifts onto the bedside, comfortable by Katsuki’s shins. “Nothing. I… you had it turned off?”

“Just… down. Machine sounds were pissing me off.”

Doing his best to look unaffected, Izuku nods. It’s quiet again, unnervingly without his constant stream of consciousness spilling into the air, until Izuku adjusts his bent leg over the bed to angle himself toward Katsuki, and even in the silence he hears too much in the way he’s being looked at. There’s too much there. The nerd’s thoughts are just, fucking loud.

The first time Izuku came into his room like this, a day or two post-surgery, he’d been more of a wreck. Teary-eyed and sniffling and begging Katsuki to let him stay awhile. Katsuki didn’t know how to explain to him that he’d been the first thing on his mind when he woke up, alive, so he just said—okay. Yes. Alright.

He’d been the last thing on his mind when he died, too, but he doesn’t know how to explain that either.

Again, like he doesn’t already know what Izuku wants, he asks, quieter, “What?”

“Can…”

Wordlessly, Katsuki shifts to the far side of his bed, which isn’t much further at all in the modest space of his cot, but it’s enough. In theory, their bodies are too bulky to share the smidgen of room, but Izuku’s always been good at making himself smaller than he should. That’s Katsuki’s fault.

They’re touching. That’s… Katsuki’s fault too. He didn’t fight it the first time their gangly limbs brushed when Izuku found his spot slumped half-fetally into the slot facing Katsuki’s abdomen, and hasn’t bothered to fight it since.

It doesn’t bother him. Should it bother him? Katsuki glances at the mass of boy at his hip, and sees only the scraggled mess of deep green hair, his unruly scalp, blinking once. He can feel Izuku’s knees against his shins. It doesn’t bother him. His stupid hair is so goddamn messy. His good hand twitches, fingers flexing for something.

Izuku shifts, makes himself comfortable. As much as he can be, given. It furthers the gentle tangle of their knees. A bit. It doesn’t bother him.

Katsuki’s breathing settles and he finds it alarming he hadn’t noticed the shakiness of it until this moment. Until—

Izuku sighs. Softly. Just so softly. Katsuki’s heart feels weird. He wants to ask the doctors if they fucked it up or something, but they’ll probably just keep him here longer. He doesn’t like hospitals.

“They’re supposed to clear me. Tomorrow,” Izuku says, and his mumbling is even less coherent when his face is downturned. “For discharge.”

“I know.” A bubble lodges in his throat when Izuku stretches his neck stupidly to peer at him, curious. Green eyes big and blinking. God. Annoying. Katsuki twists his lips, muttering, “I heard, or whatever. Some nurse mentioned it.” He’d asked. Specifically.

“Oh. Right.” He flops back in place, and it’s hard to place the tone of his voice as anything other than hollow. “Well, it’s, good, I guess. Yeah. It’s good news.”

“You tryna’ convince me or yourself?” Katsuki frowns when there’s no immediate response, and nudges the bend of his knee to the nearest part of Izuku. “Hey. What’s the matter, huh? It is good. You’re tellin’ me you ain’t dying to get outta’ this fuckin’ place?”

“I am.”

“What’s with the goddamn moping, then?”

“I just—” Izuku pauses, quick and sharp. His head tilts back and up for the briefest second to lock eyes with Katsuki’s, and even though he ducks back to the mattress a moment later, the tight furrow of his brows doesn’t go unnoticed. He huffs, “When are you going to be cleared?”

Katsuki stares bizarrely at the dark green scalp in his face’s absence, lip curling in irritation. “Who gives a fuck? The second I can go, I’m going. What’s that gotta’ do with anything?”

Izuku doesn’t respond for a while. Normally, he’d demand something quicker, but Katuski just recently learned patience as a skill, albeit a shitty one to have. It’s a pain having this need to be the best at everything. Then, finally, quietly; “I just want to know.”

That doesn’t satisfy him. At all. “Well, I don’t fuckin’ know yet,” Katsuki mutters. “They said soon. I’m obviously stable. If I can just avoid cardiac arrest for a few more days they can probably trust me not to drop dead the second I leave.”

Izuku stills. The solid mass of him is eerily tense, and Katsuki swallows a wince at the shift in the air. He didn’t—he wasn’t trying to—

“That’s not…” Izuku’s whisper is unstable. A bit cold. “That isn’t funny, Kacchan.”

Katsuki chews on the corner of his lip, fighting a full body flinch at the sound of his voice. That’s fair. That’s more than fair.

They wouldn’t let him see the footage. The rational part of him understands why no one will show him the carnage Izuku unleashed in the wake of his death, that it’s all a bit too raw for his freshly stitched heart to endure. Sure. He fucking understands, hypothetically, why he can’t look at it. His stupid heart will fucking explode. Again. Into a million bloody chunks. Hardly something he’d like to put on Izuku. Again.

But. God. What he’s heard—

Kirishima, bless his shitty hair, gave him the gist of it. After Katsuki wore him down. Hospital sympathy points, or whatever. And the near-death-post-death-back-to-life shit. Whatever. He’ll feel bad for abusing their friendship status and Kirishima’s emotional distress for intel later, but he’d needed to know.

“I—I know,” his voice shrinks, hiding the new hoarseness of his throat. He’s tense too, but not as stiff as Izuku, limbs pulled into tight cords. “It’s not. Sorry.”

For a second, all Katsuki can see, and hear, are the shallow intakes of Izuku’s breaths. In his curled form, it’s easy to track the movement, the steady push and pull of his diaphragm as he slowly comes back down to a regular state, returning from whatever depths of his own head he’d sunk into just then.

He imagines it looks a lot like the floating coffin from his own dreams. He always ends up back there.

“Sorry,” Katsuki mumbles again. Izuku just wags his head a few times against his spot on the mattress, but doesn’t lift it. And he shifts, adjusting himself. Closer by an inch or two. Katsuki can’t tell if it’s purposeful or not.

It’s quiet again, for another few minutes, maybe. Izuku’s breathing is deep and sturdy, like it should be, and Katsuki fascinates himself with counting the upturned curls sticking out from the nearest side of his head. Jesus, he needs a haircut. A better one, than the small trim around his stitches just above his right ear. Or, just something to tame the wavy strands, for once in his life. He can’t imagine Auntie Inko or him ever had much of a clue what to do with all of it, the way his hair always flopped messily over his forehead for as long as Katsuki can remember. A light breath passes through his nose, picturing the nerd in one of his fitness headbands. He’d probably wear it. If Katsuki asked him to.

“They, uhm…” Izuku starts suddenly, and Katsuki glances at his fidgeting fingers, where his wrists are curled by his chest. “They said I could go back. To UA. Er, stay enrolled, I guess. The faculty.”

Katsuki blinks. “What.”

“They said—”

“I heard you. I just don’t know what the fuck you mean.” He lowers his voice, trying to keep very, very calm. “Why would that—why would that even be a question? Obviously you’re going back, Izuku.”

Scarred hands go still. In a quiet, calculated voice, he asks, “Why is that obvious?”

Katsuki’s eye twitches. An unpleasant swarm flutters in his gut, and tightens like a fist. “What the hell are you talking about? You—you’re not gonna give up on UA, you fucking—what the fuck? You earned—”

“I don’t,” Izuku breathes out, harsh, gripping the wrinkled, sterile-white sheets. “Have a quirk.”

“So?”

“So?” Something in his voice sounds especially pained, offended enough that he jerks his head up fully, and there’s so much emotion plain on his face that Katsuki doesn’t know where to start, or how to look away. He locks on the incredulous squint of his eyes. “Kacchan. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like—” he huffs, shaking out the scruff of his hair once. “I’m quirkless. Don’t act like that doesn’t change things. I don’t need that from you.”

Katsuki feels that he’s walking the thinnest line, and he knows there’s a weight on that word between them that he placed himself. He can’t undo that.

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t change things,” Katsuki glances down, away, forcing himself to maintain even breaths. It wouldn’t be the time for his heart monitor to betray him. “But you’re still…” he grunts, frustrated. “It’s not even gone, yet. Fuckin’, you’d have found a way into that school, quirk or not, Izuku. S’posed to fuckin’ be there, alright?”

He can feel Izuku staring at him. He’s always been able to tell when those big, shiny green eyes are watching him, to the point where he barely lets off any reaction anymore. His whole life, really. His whole fucking life, he’s been aware of Izuku.

“Is that really… what you think?”

“Why would I lie about that?” He mutters, shifting in his spot. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Izuku shuts his mouth. A curious frown tips the corner of his lips down. “I hadn’t…” he trails off, looking and sounding horribly lost. “I hadn’t actually thought about it yet. Until they said I could, I didn’t think about what I would do… after…”

“You’re going back,” Katsuki whispers. “You have to go back. With me.”

Pain flashes briefly on his face, and he turns, dropping his head back down. Quietly, he mumbles out, “I don’t know what to do. Just wanted to tell you what they said.”

“Obviously you can, Izuku, that’s not—”

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”

Katsuki scoffs. “Nothin’ to talk about.”

Faintly, from where Izuku curled himself back onto his side, Katsuki can just make out something that sounds like ‘there is’, before he manages to shuffle closer, sliding their legs against one another again. “Can we sleep now?” He yawns softly. “‘M tired.”

Sighing, Katsuki slides himself down a few inches, to the center of his flattened pillow. His chin is, somehow, just above the stray strands of Izuku’s head. Somehow. They end up this way. It’s how they make do in the small confines of the bed. Because Izuku sleeps better with the physical proof of Katsuki’s beating heart an arms length away. And Katsuki sleeps better when Izuku sleeps better, or something.

Or something. His working hand flexes. Izuku’s cleared tomorrow, Izuku’s cleared tomorrow, Izuku’sgonetomorrowIzuku’sgonetomorrow—

“Yeah. You make yourself tired when you work yourself up.”

“Mn. Fighting with Kacchan makes me tired.”

Katsuki flicks a thick curl off his forehead in lieu of flicking his actual, thick skull, pleased when Izuku makes a sleepy noise of protest. “Dork. Go to sleep already.”

“Okay.” Izuku sniffs. “G’night, Kacchan.”

He tries to remember what it was like before. Back at his dorm, he had a routine. Katsuki liked his routines. He had a bedtime routine. Izuku wasn’t a part of that routine. But—

Katsuki swallows. His stupid heart is doing stupid weird shit. He can’t ask anyone about it or they’ll keep him here forever. He can’t be here forever. Izuku will be cleared tomorrow.

Strained, Katsuki whispers back, “Night.”

✶

Katsuki wakes to a slight, strange pressure on his chest and panic rolls swiftly through him, uncertain dread cloying his lungs. The feeling isn’t weighty or particularly unpleasant, but it is present, which is enough to be cause for concern when it hadn’t been there when he fell asleep. And, he has a stupid, shitty heart, and his surgeons have instilled enough fear in him to justify believing random instances of pressure might very well be the start of something worse.

That fear lasts all of a few seconds. Katsuki squints, then blinks, then stares. Izuku’s large hand is splayed flat over the center of his chest, palm pressed starkly to the exact site of his newest surgical scar hidden beneath his nemaki. The dead weight of his limb is heavy in an obvious way. Persistent. Katsuki’s brain whirs. When had he done that? Izuku himself is pleasantly knocked out, slumped into Katsuki’s space a bit more boldly than he’s used to.

It’s not like they haven’t woken up—close, before. The cot’s small. Katsuki’s had his face buried in Izuku’s hair or a kneecap incessantly prodding against his thigh in the early hours—something they’ve simultaneously neglected to acknowledge, after separating, because… there’s no need. It’s bound to happen. Izuku’s as aware as he is of that risk in sharing the space. Obviously. He’s gotten over it. But—

Izuku’s hands aren’t usually, on him. They’re usually very carefully curled by his chin, like he’s caught in a prayer. Katsuki breathes very, very normally. Very calmly and slow. Every rise and fall of his chest pushes at the slight weight of Izuku’s scarred, crooked fingers. They look so, intentional, there. Katsuki frowns, gently chewing the inside of his lip.

His eyes wander to the marred skin of his wrist, up Izuku’s forearm and the shoulder stretched to clutch at Katsuki. Izuku’s chest works in even, steady compressions, and Katsuki can see the matching, soft breaths push from the relaxed part of his lips. There’s an insistent weight of his forehead pressed to Katsuki’s arm, and from his angle above, Izuku has never looked so peaceful.

Katsuki’s brain feels fuzzy, looking at him. The stressful pinch between his eyebrows is gone, emotions smoothed over in sleep, and he might as well be drooling from his slack mouth. He looks younger. He looks more like the little boy from Katsuki’s childhood than he has in so, so long.

His ear is throbbing. It takes Katsuki a second to realize it’s his own heartbeat constricting the flow of his shitty eustachian tube, the most damaged bits of him competing to make him the most uncomfortable. He glances from Izuku’s squished cheek to his firm hand. The ache in his chest is so much fucking worse, he determines.

Eugh, he swallows and turns to the one window on his far right, fuck. The thin slats of the blinds do a shitty job at keeping the light out, spilling in even lines on the tiled floor. A nurse will be in soon, to check on him.

And Izuku will be cleared today.

Katsuki closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there for, but he’s jittery all over. He’s almost surprised his buzzing doesn’t wake Izuku, but the damn nerd is so ridiculously deep in sleep it’s kind of fucking endearing. A bit annoying, that he can find such comfort in these sterile walls. A bit weird. A bit curious that it happens the one time he’s got his damn nerdy fingers feeling at Katsuki’s pulse all night.

Whatever fucking works, he guesses. Katsuki ignores the faint, flushed feeling on his neck.

By the time the nurse does come in, Katsuki sort of recognizes he can’t blame anyone but himself.

Nurse Yukimura isn’t as surprised as she oughta be, finding Izuku in Katsuki’s bed. He’s had the most interaction with her of all the clinical staff in his time here, picked up her name after nurse pigtails didn’t go over so well, long term, and she’d threatened to call him sparky for the duration of his stay. It’s not Katsuki’s fault the lady wears her damn hair in the same, spiky black pigtails shooting from the sides of her skull every day.

She’s alright, though. A little bitchy. Scolds him for messing with his machines, and his intravenous tubes once. Snuck him an extra cup of strawberry jelly when he got the shit news about his ears. Always kicks his parents out precisely before he gets overstimulated by their emotional fits. And, a few mornings ago, caught Izuku Midoriya slipping sheepishly from the edge of her patient’s single bed.

Katsuki purses his lips, twisting them unsurely. It’s a little different this time.

Nurse pigta—Yukimura, enters quietly the way she always does. He’s pretty sure it’s purposeful. He’s pretty sure she’s aware Izuku’s in here every morning before she arrives, and the flat, knowing tilt of her head as she takes in the pair of them is enough confirmation. Warmth unfortunately creeps back up Katsuki’s neck, spreading into a light blush over his cheeks. His brows pull together tightly.

She glances skeptically at the sleeping mass of Izuku, and what was once a question on her face melts into careful concern when she shifts her stare pointedly to the hand star-fished over his heart. Katsuki follows the trail of her eyes, rolling his lips once to unstick them.

Pushing a substantial bit of his pride aside, he gives her a weary look. Yesterday, she’d been the one to let Izuku’s discharge date slip. Katsuki mouthes, silently, “Twenty?”

She matches his stare with a tired squint. The hand on his chest feels so, heavy. Tamping down the beginnings of a sigh, Yukimura reaches for the edge of his door. “Fifteen,” she mouthes back.

The corner of his mouth twitches. She gives Izuku and his hand one last long look before she retreats as quietly as she came, door latching with a faint click.

Katsuki takes the opportunity to sigh, out loud. He settles back onto his pillow and stares down, blinking in near fascination. Fucking peaceful nerd. How tired were you?

“Oi. Izuku,” he half whispers. His heart’s not that into waking him up.

Izuku responds with precisely nothing. There’s a weird, terrible sense of discomfort buzzing across Katsuki’s skin at the thought of disturbing him. He wishes the idiot would just wake up on his own, so he wouldn’t have to feel so bad.

Grunting under his breath, Katsuki decides to take a different approach, wriggling the trapped weight of his arm from the slot between his side and the top of Izuku’s forehead, displacing his comfortable spot. Izuku does, in fact, react to this, shutting his mouth into a frown and huffing a throaty noise of displeasure. Beneath Katsuki’s freed arm, he nudges his skull into the side of his pec in his shoulder’s absence.

Which does not. Help. Anything. “Idiot,” he blows out a breath, warmth prickling his skin. His elbow lowers, and Izuku’s sleep-tangled hair is right beneath his palm. He pats his skull. Gentler than he expects to. “Hey. Izuku. Fuckin’ wake up.”

“Mmnnph.”

“Wake up.”

Izuku finally moves, squirming in his spot, breathing shifting to a conscious pattern. “Nngh, tired,” he mumbles indistinctly, barely letting out a yawn. “K’ccha’,”

Heart does weird shit. Ignore. “Yeah. I know.” He nudges his knee, turns the hand in his hair over to prod his knuckles softly against the top of his head. Izuku makes another sleep-addled sound. “We got, like, ten minutes. So you gotta’ get up.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Yeah.”

Izuku lets out a closed-mouth whine. He mutters something unintelligible from where he’s burrowed at Katsuki’s side, and lifts his head back and up with a lazy jerk of his neck. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, one squinted to adjust to the light in the room, and there’s a reddish mark on his cheek where his face had been squished most of the night.

And he’s pouting. Izuku is pouting at him. “Fine. M’up.”

Katsuki can’t really look at him, for some reason. “Yeah, okay,” he scoffs, averting his eyes from his face and letting his hand slip from his hair. “G’morning, nerd.”

Izuku yawns again. “Mm. Morning. M’so tired. Kacchan’s not tired?” Katsuki never knows if Izuku expects a real answer with that kind of mumbling, if he’s only talking to himself.

Before he can, Izuku fumbles to lift himself up, and must finally notice where the weight of his left palm is settled, because he goes very quiet. And very still. Now, he’s awake.

Katsuki watches him blink, watches him process. Lifting the hand from his chest makes Katsuki feel… odd. Izuku does it cautiously, and uses those same fingers to rub at his tired eyes, and that furrow from before returns. “I—um.” Izuku fidgets when he sits up, darting an unsure glance from Katsuki’s chest, to his face, down to the scarred ridges of his fingers. “Sorry. I hope you slept. Okay, I mean. I hope you slept okay.”

Katsuki tilts, lifting the edge of a brow. “Slept fine.”

“Oh. Good.” He itches softly at the side of his neck, then rubs his palm over the back, glancing skittishly at the door. “I guess I should… probably… since I’m, y’know… today…”

“Are you going home?”

Izuku pauses, closing and opening his mouth. “Aren’t… you going to? A few days at least?”

“No. Fuck no.” Katsuki shakes his head. “I’ve had more than enough family time cooped up here as it is. Going back to the new dorms with everyone.” He frowns, and adds, quieter, “You should, too.”

The hand falls from his neck to his lap. “Kacchan,” he murmurs. “I don’t know if…”

“I do. I know that you should,” Katsuki urges, sitting himself up straighter. “That you can. Doesn’t that… doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

It’s maybe a little unfair. Izuku’s always valued Katsuki’s opinion higher than most. Than the rest, really. More than he maybe should. He can’t decide if it’s wrong to use that to his advantage, if it’s for Izuku’s sake. For his own best interest, in Katsuki’s mind. It falls somewhere in the middle of his morally gray scale.

“It does,” Izuku whispers, his eyes shifting. “But I don’t want to be there if you’re… until…”

Oh. Katsuki inhales. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Fine. Then you wait for me.”

“Okay.”

“But then you’re going back.”

“Okay, Kacchan.”

Izuku leaves a few minutes later, well over the fifteen minute mark. Yukimura doesn’t bring up the incident and neither does Katsuki, when she returns to take his vitals. She says he’s doing well.

Izuku is cleared in the afternoon. He has a fat list of new medications and creams for his banged-up body, but the nation’s teenage savior is otherwise free to go. Let loose into the world with only a spark left of the power he’d used to save it.

There’s something wrong with that.

He’s smiling, though. Thanking the doctors and the nurses and the reception staff and every intern he can find, bowing profusely like an idiot. Katsuki pretends it’s his first time seeing him for the day when he and his mom drop by his room before leaving. Pretends his heart doesn’t clench and twist in every weird way when they hug. And when his arms tighten around him, he pretends it’s Izuku that does it first.

Katsuki turns his hearing aid all the way down when he’s gone. He really hates hospitals.

✶

Nurse Yukimura peeks her head in three days later, around lunchtime, fonder than usual. He thinks, at first, she’s going to offer him another cup of stolen jelly, but she smiles instead, and says, “Good news, Sparky.”

They’re clearing him—hecanseeIzuku—tomorrow.

✶

It rained in Musutafu today. The pavement is wet beneath Katsuki’s feet and the air still smells muggy and damp. The semi-replica of his rebuilt academy is odd to be in front of, slightly imperfect, but there’s a few memories at the old grounds he’s glad to let wither and die. He hikes the duffel bag over his working shoulder, stifling a grimace at the throbbing ache in his upper body at the jerky movement.

The entrance to the second-year common room springs open before he touches it. He spots a flash of pink in his narrowed vision and dies a little inside. Fucking shitty hair.

“Ah! Gotcha!” Ashido grabs the sides of his cheeks and squeezes them between newly manicured, pink fingers, stomping in place, aggressively squealing. “Welcome home! Welcome ho-ome!”

“That’s crazy.”

Katsuki’s eye twitches. He grits out, “What. The fuck.”

“Yoooo!” Kaminari’s head appears behind her shoulder, and he curves a shitty grin over his lips, reaching both hands out and pinching the air. “Me next, Kacchan.”

Discomfort swirls in his chest. He snarls, “Fuck off, pikachu. Don’t call me—”

“Hey. Bakugou. Bro. Shh. Not too loud, yeah?” Kirishima calmly extrapolates Ashido’s hands from his face, picking her up by the hips and setting her off to the side like a common paper weight. She sways happily in her new spot. Kaminari, in the short glance Katsuki spares, has his arms restrained by thick strands of tape. Sero offers him a gentle wave he doesn’t return. Kirishima gives him a stupidly big, shark-toothed grin and hauls him inside by the neck. “Sorry, man. I had to tell ‘em. It’s chill, we’re chilling, I swear. We’ll calm down. It’s just, you know. We missed you!”

“Fuckin’ whatever,” Katsuki grumbles, attempting to shrug him off with his bag-saddled shoulder. “Get off me.”

Out of his bindings, Kaminari sniffles, “It’s like hearing an angel’s voice again. We are so back.”

“Shut the fuck up—”

“K.. ‘cchan?”

Katsuki stills, nerves tingling. His neck twists toward the soft sound, and his heartbeat chases after itself, racing uselessly in his  good ear. Izuku sits in a slump on the far end of one of the couches in the modest lounge to the side, and Katsuki’s eyebrows twitch in a strange, subtle twist of an emotion he can’t quite place when the horrid yellow blanket draped over him slips from his shoulders and pools on his lap.

“Oh,” Katsuki croaks. Izuku rubs his big ass eyes too roughly. Trying to wake himself up too quickly. Fucking idiot. Katsuki’s throat feels so weird. “You’re here.”

Izuku nods sleepily. Katsuki feels a bizarre urge to move in his direction.

Behind him, Kaminari snorts. Kirishima silences him with a bullshit hand gesture Katsuki doesn’t bother reading much into, and says, “‘Course he is! Pretty sick timing, you and Midoriya gettin’ back on the same day.”

“Imagine tha—” Kaminari coughs. Chokes on his spit. Sero pats his back like he hadn’t just rattled his spine.

Ashido flops backward onto the couch by Izuku’s legs, who, to his credit, barely flinches. “Awh, ya’ woke him up.” She pouts. “No fair. Thought ya’ were gonna’ hafta’ carry him for making him wait so patiently for you to get here. Boo. You ruined it, loud mouth.”

Izuku dips his head to the side, angling his mouth into a twist. “Didnt wait that long…” he mumbles, like he’s… embarrassed, or some shit. “And Kacchan can’t carry me. No strenuous activity.”

“Oi, fuck you. Could lift you if I wanted to,” Katsuki demands, shoving out of Kirishima’s way with his uninjured side and stomping to his spot on the couch, glaring unsurely at his sorry state. Izuku blinks up at him, sleepy sheen still coating the usual brights of his eyes. There’s an unsavory depth lurking beneath his lashes that shouldn’t be there, shadowy hollows above his cheeks that don’t belong. Katsuki’s frown deepens, and his voice dips. “S’wrong with you? You look like hell. You forget to sleep or something?”

Momentarily, Izuku’s eyes widen. Then his expression tightens and falls into something flat. “No.” He shakes his head briskly, veers his eyes elsewhere. “No. It’s not that.”

Katsuki’s lip curls. “Yeah. Bullshit.” He reaches for the closest limb of Izuku’s with his non-fucked hand and yanks, satisfied by the resulting noise of muffled shock he receives in return. “Bedtime, fuckin’ nerd.”

“K-Kacchan—” Izuku huffs once, then sighs, scrabbling to grab his ugly blanket before he’s pulled too far away. “Okay. Okay. I can—Kacchan! You can’t carry that! Give it to me!”

“No. Shut up.”

“Kacchan.”

“Uh, okay,” someone coughs. Katsuki manages to drag Izuku to the edge of the common area before Kirishima interrupts, and he’s forced to pause to acknowledge, he supposes, the small group of others who had also eagerly awaited his return. In their own, shitty way. Katsuki stares impatiently over his shoulder. Ashido has her entire face in her arm and Kaminari conveniently has tape all the way around his mouth. Sero rocks on his feet beside him, whistling. Kirishima scratches at the back of his neck, unsurely, chuckling weakly, “So, you’re… calling it a night, then?”

Izuku opens his mouth. Easily, Katsuki says first, “Yeah. Izuku needs to sleep.”

“Ah. For sure, man! You guys rest,” Kirishima finishes with a crooked smile, and Kaminari claws at the binding on his lips. “We’ll uh… we’ll catch up with you tomorrow, yeah?”

Katsuki grunts, “I guess.”

Izuku nudges him, frowning. “Kacchan.”

“Whatever. Bye.”

Katsuki holds onto the teal-green fabric of Izuku’s jacket sleeve longer than necessary. Longer than he knows what to do with, once he’s up against the dull, silvery reflection in the elevator doors, suddenly unsure. He just—grabbed him. He didn’t think this far. It was easy, in the hospital, suspended in their limbo state, knowing what Izuku wanted from him. Needed, in the aftermath.

Aren’t they still in the aftermath?

Is that all it is?

“You could’ve been a little nicer about that,” Izuku murmurs then, reaching across Katsuki to press the open button when he makes no move to do it himself. “They waited up for you. Kirishima-kun missed you a lot.”

“He’s fine. He knows I—” Katsuki trails off, inhaling. The elevator doors spread and he tugs pointlessly at Izuku’s coat to pull him inside. “He knows what he needs to know.”

“Hmph.”

When Katsuki’s distracted, Izuku sneakily lifts the thick strap of his bag off his shoulder and snags the bulky thing into his own arms quicker than Katsuki can register a blink. “Oi! Fuckin’, gimme that—fucker—” he grabs at it, snarling, but Izuku hugs the bag protectively to his chest and tightens the grip of his arms, dodging his attempts.

Izuku narrows his eyes at him, muttering like he’s the annoyed one. “This is so heavy, Kacchan.”

“So? You think I can’t carry my own shit?”

Izuku doesn’t answer him. Not directly. He angles himself slightly away to keep Katsuki from stealing his shit back, mumbling all the while that he shouldn’t be straining himself, and he’s still healing, or some shit—which Katsuki finds rich coming from the boy who wrote the fucking book on overextension. Fucking hypocritical nerd.

Irked, because his shoulder does feel immensely lighter and that is annoying as fuck, Katsuki ignores his incoherent ramblings and jabs the button marked with a fresh ‘three’. Izuku notices, pausing. He asks, “Third floor?”

“That’s my floor.”

“Oh. But, mine’s on the second… and…”

Katsuki’s face twists. Something in his chest does too. “Okay?” Fuckfuckfuckfuck. “So, fucking, give me my shit and go to your room if you—if you wanna be alone so fucking bad. I don’t—” need? Care? He can’t get himself to say either. His stomach turns over on itself, curdling. “Whatever.”

“Wuh’… what?” Izuku sounds oddly stricken, whispering like the wind is knocked squarely from his chest. He shakes his head, rigidly, tense all over. “No, no, I don’t wanna be alone. Please don’t make me be alone.”

Katsuki eyes him skeptically. “The fuck are you saying?”

“I—um.” Izuku blinks, dumbly. “Stay with me? In my dorm. Kacchan can sleep in my dorm. I already set my bed up. And got my sheets. So it’s… ready? And Kacchan’s isn’t so it would be easier for tonight I think because we’re both tired so could… can we instead, just… please?”

Katsuki burns, inside and out. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. He doesn’t understand why his body is screaming at him from different angles now. He coughs out a quiet breath while he adjusts to push the nearest floor to bring them back down, whispering because he doesn’t trust his voice, “You’re so stupid. Okay. Fine. Your room.”

The way Izuku sags in relief does something weird to his brain. Katsuki’s fingers unclench from his sides, unsure exactly when they’d bunched into fists.

Izuku’s room is decidedly, odd, for Katsuki to step into. Rarely during their time in the original dorms did they ever find themselves in each other's spaces. Katsuki is relieved to notice the amount of All Might superfan memorabilia has decreased dramatically. He imagines, unfortunately, the little fanboy just hasn’t had enough time in his few hours back to get his entire collection on display. God. They are so sleeping in Katsuki’s room from now on.

The thought makes him feel a bit tingly. He pushes it aside.

Standing numbly in the center of his room, Katsuki watches Izuku deposit his things on the floor by the corner of his bed with an alarming amount of care. When he straightens up, he’s still got the blanket from downstairs in his fingers, leaving a patented All Might-yellow pool of fabric beside him. It reminds Katsuki too much of the little boy from his favorite sleepovers, draped head-to-toe in tri-colored superhero pajamas and a matching blanket cape, watching him build their pillow fort with rapt admiration and telling him he’s ‘amazing, Kacchan!’

“Kacchan?” Katsuki’s so lost in his head he doesn’t respond when Izuku tilts like a puppy. The soft concern on his face worsens the feeling. Sock-clad feet pad over, and Izuku inspects him cautiously, looking him up and down, all over the faraway glaze on his face. “Kacchan, not funny. Say something. What’s…”

A heartbeat passes. A thick, bloody one.

Then, Katsuki’s uninjured arm winds around Izuku’s unsuspecting neck, and hauls him into his chest.

Izuku goes so still. Silent. “I,” Katsuki swallows, and he’s sure Izuku can hear it from where he’s got him pressed against the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Missed you.”

Two beats. And then, strong arms fly around his waist and lock like steel whips behind him, blanket forgotten on the floor. Slithered between his casted arm and his ribs, Izuku squeezes him so tight he has to stifle a wheeze. But it’s good. It’s good. God, it’s so fucking good. He does release a shaky breath, letting his head fall and his muscles sag, and where Katsuki allows himself to slacken, Izuku tenses his grip to make up the difference, keeping them both stable.

Katsuki wrenches his eyes shut. Over his shoulder, he can just feel short, slow pants of breath coming from Izuku. “Yeah.” Izuku nods to nothing in particular, voice thick with emotion. “Me too. Hated it. Couldn’t—didn’t sleep well.”

“Knew you weren’t sleeping.”

“I didn’t forget. I tried. Just couldn’t.”

“Yeah?” Katsuki croaks. “Why’s that?”

Izuku huffs loudly, makes a ridiculous, almost petulant sort of sound. “Don’t make fun of me. You said you missed me.”

“M’not making fun, stupid,” Katsuki mumbles into his shoulder, cheeks tinged with pink, warm. God. He said that. “Just wanna know why you can’t sleep.”

“Because Kacchan’s not with me.”

Warmth turns to searing heat on his face. He can’t tell which heartbeat belongs to who, the way their chests are smushed together like this. He imagines the rickety, uneven rhythm comes from the mess of his own organ, though. Which can’t be good. But he can’t fathom separating.

He whispers, “I’m here.”

“Okay,” Izuku exhales. “Stay, please.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki squeezes the arm wound around his neck, leaning into the crook of his shoulder. It feels so plain and simple to him, his being here. Just, close to him. Anything else seems wrong. And bothers him. He breathes, “Obviously, Izuku.”

✶

Izuku kind of forgot what it meant to sleep through the night.

Decent rest feels so jarring, he wakes up before Kacchan does in pure disconnect with his body’s normal routine for the first time in—hm, ever. It’s the first time this has ever happened. Bizarre.

As kids, Kacchan woke with the sun at sleepovers like daylight personally challenged him, like he couldn’t lose to the passage of time. Auntie Mitsuki joked that he had to be up so early to annoy as many people as possible in a single day, the same way he couldn’t wait to be born a few days earlier than his due date to wreak havoc on the world, as was his birth right, apparently. Izuku thinks there might be something to the impatience of it. Someone like Kacchan, destined for greatness, should want to be productive in that way. Funny, though, how little of a morning person he actually is. Izuku’s mouth twitches. He’s really quite grumpy about the choice he makes.

It’s so odd. For all their time spent sharing a cot in the hospital, sleep stolen between the late nights and sneaking out in the early mornings before Kacchan’s unimpressed nurse could find them, ah—together, like that, only resulted in a handful of good, restful hours. It was… different, in the hospital. It had felt more dire than comfortable.

Not like this. He hasn’t slept like this in—

Hm. Huh. Kacchan’s still asleep. One corner of his lip upturns fondly. Maybe he’s never slept this well.

Kacchan’s resting on his back, which is good. No strain on his chest or awkward pressure on his healing muscles. Good. Smart. Kacchan is so smart even in his sleep. Izuku’s the one with the squirming problem. Clearly. He gets Kacchan back within his grasp and can’t seem to help slithering his ugly, possessive palm to the warm target of his heart. Bad. Not smart. Izuku is so dumb even in his sleep. He can’t move it though. Something sharp and awful and grating screams, no! no! bad! can’t! don’t! in his head the instant he tries like the familiar grip of danger-sense over his muscles, and Izuku’s expression flattens at the irritating irony.

Well, fine. Izuku opts instead to lessen the weight of his hand to a lighter press, just a graze, appeasing the animal part of his brain that apparently needs to feel Kacchan’s entire heartbeat or perish, and simultaneously the part that’s too terrified of hurting him.

Peeking once at his face, Izuku steals a few, long seconds to ponder the state of Kacchan’s unconscious expression. It’s weird. Every sharp, pale feature, smoothed out in sleep. Even the soft pink of his lips are free of snarls and frowns, parted just a sliver for peaceful breaths to pass through. It’s—weird. It’s making Izuku feel strange and jittery and a bit over-spoiled, that he should get to see him this way.

Izuku pulls his eyes away. Nudging back into his spot, a new blush forms on his cheeks. Kacchan’s arm, the left one, uncasted—Izuku reminds, heart tugging— is tucked lazily under the crook of Izuku’s neck. He’s not sure when that happened, exactly, but he’s so aware of it now.

Kacchan must be so tired. Logically, Izuku’s brain can work through it. He’d only just been discharged yesterday. Kirishima-kun and the rest of his friends had probably been, a lot, for him. Izuku hadn’t gotten a decent wink of sleep these past few days apart, but he’d at least been home. And, frankly, by Kacchan’s standards, they’d been up much past his usual bedtime.

And, there was that—thing, last night. Izuku bites his lip. He imagines that display of emotion exhausted Kacchan.

Izuku wonders if he’s allowed to think about it.

He wonders, he wonders, he wonders.

There’s a shift in the rhythm of the pulse under his hand, just slight, and Izuku carefully waits in anticipation when a fresh, awakened inhale pushes from Kacchan’s chest. They’re out of the hospital, so Izuku isn’t sure what to expect anymore. Doesn’t know what he’s allowed to want.

He also doesn’t particularly know what to do when Kacchan rolls his neck toward Izuku’s head, allowing his face to be caught in the thick tangle of waves at the top, inhaling then exhaling. Then inhaling again. Then, sniffing. Izuku blinks. He’s sniffing his hair. The arm under his neck moves and a tired hand settles lazily onto his scalp, patting nonsensically. The action is so fresh with sleep and uncoordinated it makes something in Izuku’s chest lurch. Barely distinct, Kacchan mumbles against him, “Mn. ‘erry blossoms.”

“W-what?” Izuku whispers. He breathes out an unsure laugh. “Good morning, Kacchan.”

“Y’smell like cherry blossoms.” Kacchan sniffs him again, voice thick with sleep and untamed rasp. He demands, “Explain.”

“Oh, um. Ashido-san. I used her shampoo earlier. Yesterday. Before you got here.” He quickly corrects, “I mean, she let me! She offered! I didn’t just, sneak in or take it, or—”

“The fuck did’ya need to do that for?” Kacchan grumbles. “Didn’t you bring your own shit?”

“No, I—well, yes. I have most of my things,” Izuku murmurs, shrinking a bit. “I forgot some stuff, I guess. I… kind of packed in a hurry. Wasn’t thinking.”

Kacchan doesn’t respond immediately. Izuku busies himself with the fascinating texture of his cotton t-shirt, plucking at the minuscule fibers. He has yet to say anything about his hand placement, so Izuku doesn’t bother moving it.

The fingers in his hair scratch almost mindlessly at his scalp. It feels so nice his eyes flutter. “Idiot,” he mutters, soft. “Smell like pink flowers.”

“Mm. Better than the rain.”

Implication sits heavy and unsaid, and that’s fine. Kacchan keeps scratching at his roots, gently enough that the gesture can go on undetected and unexplained, Izuku thinks, if he doesn’t make any sudden movements that might alert Kacchan to what he’s doing. Izuku feels a bit like a placated dog, too afraid to let himself sigh.

Eventually it does cease, and Izuku makes an involuntary, aborted sound of displeasure that sounds awfully close to a whine at the loss. He bites his tongue in feeble embarrassment when Kacchan stills, then huffs out a terribly amused breath. He says, “Dork. M’hungry. Let’s go get breakfast.”

Izuku perks up. All the way up. The hand in his hair slips away when he props his upper body up by the bend of his elbow, smile pulling at his lips. Eager eyes scatter over the unprepared canvas of Kacchan’s face below him. “You’ll cook?”

Kacchan’s looking at him strangely. A bit flustered, beneath his pinched frown. “Like I’m gonna’ let you poison us. Obviously, asshole.”

“So mean.”

“Shut up. Cookin’ for you, ain’t I?”

Izuku’s pout twists back into a smile, and he nods happily. He can’t recall the last time Kacchan had made food for him, specifically. The snacks he’d make for the two of them as kids in the Bakugou household, maybe, that always tasted better than they really should have.

Satisfied, Kacchan shoves him off gently, disengaging the palm from his chest with little more than a long, weighted glance. Izuku stands first, stretching the repeated soreness in his muscles. The healers did a number on him, but there’s only so much their quirks are capable of with the level of damage his body took. The pain was always going to have long-term effects.

He doesn’t really care about any of that. Comfort is the least of what the War took from him.

Izuku peers at Kacchan, mid-stretch, and freezes. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed now, feet planted on the ground, and his eyes are squeezed shut. Tight. His good hand is holding the cast on his forearm, and his breathing is measured, pained. Dread coils in Izuku’s throat, flares in angry bursts in his ears, urging him to move, move, movemovemove—

Eyes closed, Kacchan says, low, “Don’t. Izuku.” Izuku doesn’t compute. Kacchan blinks open, tense, taking in his flinching stature, staring beneath his lashes. “Don’t. It’s—fine. Fuckin’—flexed it wrong. Pinched a nerve or something. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“I know my damn body,” he snaps. “If I say it’s fucking fine then it’s fine.” Grunting, he takes a steadying breath and stands, releasing his cast and turning sharply toward Izuku, who can’t seem to hide his discomfort. Distaste sits sourly on his tongue, in his veins. Pain on Kacchan is so—it makes him so—“Oi. Quit it. I’m not having that shit from you. I actually have a sense of self-preservation, dickhead.”

Izuku shakes his head. He doesn’t want to argue with him like this, doesn’t want to point out all the ways they’re on two terrible sides of the same coin when it comes to pushing themselves too far for different reasons, because he can’t imagine Kacchan reacting all that well, in this moment. He doesn’t want to start a fight. Instead, he just angles his head to the floor and mutters, quietly, “It’s not about that, and you know it.”

He hears Kacchan click his tongue, then sigh. Footsteps pad toward him, and a finger gently flicks his forehead. “It doesn’t matter. You gotta start trusting me.”

The frown is immediate. “I do trust you.”

“You should.”

“I do,” Izuku affirms, pulling his head up to meet red. He adds, “Still have to worry. Have to.”

Expression hard, Kacchan searches his face for a moment, flickering between his eyes. His gaze narrows on something, intent, before he breaks off with a huff. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath that includes ‘stupid’ and ‘never worry about your damn self’, but Izuku doesn’t press on it. No fighting.

They take turns in Izuku’s bathroom, and stop at Kacchan’s floor to drop his things and a fresh set of sheets for his dorm bed. Each make quick work of scrubbing themselves in the baths, quieter than they’ve ever been. Eyes avoiding.

Izuku uses Kacchan’s shampoo. It smells like cinnamon. Spice. Warm.

The dorms are quiet. Unnaturally so. It’s after ten that they find themselves alone in the common area, calmly abandoned of any and all of their classmates. Izuku knows, as of yesterday from Kacchan’s friends, they’ve been enlisted to help the rehabilitation efforts at some of the major destruction sites from the War. Classes are still suspended, and the students have been itching to do something helpful, for the time being.

He understands the feeling.

When Izuku tells Kacchan this, he grunts. “Thank fuck. Gonna’ lose it if I had to deal with everybody’s shit this morning.”

“Mnn. No. Bad,” Izuku hums. “Can’t get riled up, Kacchan. Bad for you.”

“Fuck you.”

Breakfast is pleasant.

Kacchan makes them both rice with omelettes, after throwing a palpable fit over the self-proclaimed ‘shitty-ass’ stock of ingredients in the kitchen, but Izuku thinks he makes do quite well. He even manages to scrounge up a bundle of chives. Izuku sways behind his shoulder like an eager gnat, watching raptly, thrilled when Kacchan shoves the bowl of cracked eggs and a pair of chopsticks at his chest and orders him to ‘whisk, nerd’. There’s the issue of his right arm, stuck in a cast, which Izuku bites his tongue not to comment on, but Kacchan seems undeterred, using his non-dominant hand like it’s simply, nothing at all. Izuku is awe-stricken.

Kacchan’s the best. Kacchan glares at him, but there’s a reddish tint on his cheeks. Oh, he said that out loud.

Kacchan drowns his entire plate in hot sauce. Izuku douses his. Eating meals at the Bakugou’s as a child changed his palate forever, shifting his tolerance for spice. Kacchan told him to get used to it, so he did. Kacchan tells him to jump, he asks; how high?

“Well?”

“Hm?” Izuku pauses his munching, tilting in his spot where a bite of omelette is raised to his mouth. He chews and gulps. “Oh! Thank you.”

“No, dipshit.” Kacchan tosses a bite into his own mouth, rolling his eyes. “Is it good?”

“Of course it’s good. I think you should cook all my meals.”

“I think you should learn how to cook.”

Izuku stuffs another bite into his mouth and shakes his head. “Mm-mn.”

Kacchan snorts. They finish their meal in relative silence, through the sounds of slow chewing and the occasional matching glance. Izuku doesn’t really know what it means, when they do that.

It’s nice, though. It’s so nice, having this, with Kacchan. Whatever this is. It’s almost unbearable how necessary it feels to be close to him.

Izuku does the dishes without complaint and without request. Kacchan lingers in the kitchen doorway while Izuku wipes the counters down, and then disappears wordlessly, which makes Izuku panic for the exact fifteen-to-twenty seconds that he isn’t in his direct line of sight.

His immediate and oncoming freak-out is quelled when he rushes into the living area, and Kacchan is sat calmly on the far cushion of one of the couches, TV remote in hand. He says, flatly, “We’re watching a movie.”

So that’s that.

Izuku does his best to ignore the persistent nag in the back of his head that tells him he’s doing something wrong, being indulgent in a way he doesn’t deserve. There are so many things he didn’t do right, people he didn’t save. Little boys with itchy skin and terrible fathers and evil, evil, evil hands reaching in the failed place of a hero’s.

Beautiful boys with flashy quirks and scarred chests and arms that don’t work right because of Izuku.

And yet, he gets to sit here, with Kacchan. He’s supposed to pretend that’s okay. That’s all good and fine, to let his classmates clean up the mess he hadn’t been strong enough to contain. He should be doing more. Jesus, the ember, it’s fading by the minute—he’s—he has to be useful to somebody. Has to atone. Has to prove he was ever worthy of the borrowed power he couldn’t even manage to keep. Something ticks in his head. Tick, tick, tick. Hands of a clock. Cold rushes over him, prompting a shiver. Would All Might have…? Would Kacchan—?

I don’t regret it, I don’t regret it, I don’tIdon’tIdon’t.

“Hey. You cold?” Kacchan nudges him. They’re close enough to share the majority of one bluish cushion, limbs brushing if they shift too far. Which… Izuku doesn’t know how that happened. Really.

The ringing in Izuku’s ears stops dead, but he still stares numbly at the screen. The film Kacchan chose has been on for at least fifteen minutes, and Izuku hasn’t digested a lick of it yet. Mutely, he nods.

Kacchan sighs. Izuku’s brow lifts in curiosity when an arm shoots out haphazardly for the back cushion behind him. He can’t tell if he’s disappointed or just disturbed with himself when a quilted blanket brushes by his head and drops over his lap. Kacchan adjusts the material over his legs with a frown, taking a little less than half for himself. “You need to speak up. Can feel your ass shivering. Bothering the shit outta’ me.”

“Sorry,” Izuku whispers, hunkering lower in his spot to rest the crown of his head on the cushy backing. “Thank you.”

Kacchan does the same, slouching, crossing one arm over his chest. Going so far as to kick his feet up over the coffee table. So impolite. Izuku hums fondly to himself. He tries to follow the plot of the made-for-TV flick, but the low-stakes drama writing is so awful he can’t make himself focus. It’s a bit odd watching anything other than the Go Beyond: Plus Ultra! series with him, and the egregious spin-offs, but he knows why Kacchan chose something so mindless. So completely disconnected from hero society. Kacchan can be so thoughtful.

The movie does suck, though.

Izuku turns his cheek, chin slumped at his shoulder. The side of Kacchan's face is so fascinating. Pale, chiseled cheeks that only reveal a boyish squish when he twists his mouth up sourly. Jaw set in a firm, strong line, even in posture so uncouth. It’s a bit funny to him, how much calmer he feels now than a few minutes ago. How much warmer. Kacchan’s hair dries fast, he notes, trailing his eyes over the blunt, blonde tufts, looks soft. Hm. Izuku wonders.

Kacchan definitely feels him staring. His head is twenty centimeters away at best. Izuku takes his chances anyway. He never got to do this, before. Always had to steal his moments of admiration with caution, weighing the cost of Kacchan’s attention for a shiny new concussion. Stars in his eyes either way, really.

Without looking over, Kacchan says, “Pay attention.”

“I am.”

Kacchan matches his pose, head falling to the side to meet his eyes. “The movie, Izuku. The movie.”

Izuku sniffs. He likes that. His name. He likes when Kacchan says his name. He can’t believe Kacchan calls him by his given name, now. How odd, to ask the world to call him Deku, and the boy who’d started it all won’t, anymore.

Huh. It’s so much warmer in here. Kacchan’s kind of like a furnace. No wonder his hair dries quickly. Amazing. Izuku’s is still a bit damp in some spots. It smells like cinnamon. Yum. “But it sucks.”

Kacchan scoffs. “Fuck you. You suck.” Izuku’s mouth twitches, horribly amused. “You just can’t be fucked to watch anything that doesn’t have All Might’s wrinkled face in it. Fanboy.”

“I don’t remember you wanting to watch anything else growing up.”

Rolling his eyes, Kacchan tsks, “Still not as bad as you.”

Slyly, Izuku smiles. He murmurs, “Fanboy.”

“Fuckin’—shut up,” Kacchan groans loudly. It’s an amusing sound until a firm hand clasps over Izuku’s head, and his stomach does a full flip, gut swooping when narrowed, ruby eyes draw near, their faces closer than before. Izuku blinks dazedly when his skull is turned back to the TV, and the scene playing on screen registers as blurs of moving colors rather than any distinct shapes. Kacchan tells him, again, “Watch the damn movie.”

Izuku parts his mouth to dispute. The fingers in his hair scratch at his scalp. Izuku shuts his mouth. Thoughts blank, he manages, “Mmkay.”

He’s not watching the damn movie. Izuku’s mind is elsewhere, zoning in and out each time Kacchan’s slender fingers resume their slow, cautious scrape at the crown of his head, so unsure at first, testing. Discovering. Then adapting. Izuku thought, this morning… he’d thought that was a fluke. He’d thought… he’s thinking… he’s not really thinking. His mind is scooped pleasantly empty.

His body too, recognizes this, sagging in the relief he didn’t realize he was searching for. Placated again. He leans into the touch, magnetized, and it takes great restraint to keep his heavy eyes pulled forward, when he can feel the quiet weight of Kacchan’s gaze observing him.

Until, he says, “You like this.”

It’s not framed as a question, but Izuku chews on his bottom lip, and nods. A bit dreadful. He still has this feeling prickling under his skin, waiting flinchingly for the other shoe to drop, that this is all some great and terrible trick his mind is playing on him. Old habits he hasn’t learned to let go of, yet. It’s not Kacchan’s fault. His brain’s always been his own greatest enemy. “You don’t… you can stop,” Izuku dares to shift his cheek, and finds Kacchan looking at him with such intense curiosity, he has no idea what to do with it. “If you don’t want to.”

“Yeah. I know.” The swirls in his hair are making Izuku’s skin buzz with pleasant shivers. Warm spice floods his nose. Their faces are close, tilted toward each other like this. Kacchan seems unbothered by it. “Why would I do something I don’t wanna’ do?”

Izuku blinks a few times. Then hums. “You wouldn’t.”

“That’s right.”

He adjusts himself, curling his knees sideways onto the couch in front of him. Briefly, Kacchan’s eyes flick toward the movement. “Do I still have to watch the movie?”

Kacchan’s mouth quirks. “This shit sucks. Can you handle Smash Might re-runs? I’d rather turn my brain off to that kiddie shit.”

Breathily, Izuku laughs. Light, feathery. He corrects, “Super Smash Might, Kacchan. He’s super.”

“Dumbass cartoon name. Whatever.”

“Your favorite cartoon.”

“Our.”

“Who made who come over every Saturday morning to watch, though?”

The fingers in his scalp jostle his skull. “Irrelevant.” Kacchan huffs, “D’ya wanna watch or not, fucker?”

With a faint, pleased smile, Izuku settles back down, and he nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I can watch that.” He’d do anything Kacchan wanted to do, really. Whatever he wanted. Like when he was five years old and dragged from his home with sleep still caked in the corners of his eyes to watch the newest episode at Kacchan’s house because he had the better TV. Izuku was so happy then, to be a part of his routine.

Kacchan tilts for the screen. He has to disconnect his one working hand from Izuku’s head to reach for the remote, and Izuku watches impatiently as he switches from the awful air-brushed drama to the network airing marathon re-runs of the beloved children’s cartoon nearly every hour of the day.

He sets the remote off to the side and eyes the non-subtle expression on his face, lifting a pale brow. “What?”

Izuku glances at his hand. At his rosy eyes. His hand, again. He slinks further in his spot, tilts the scruff of his hair a bit more in Kacchan’s direction like an offering, and pleads up at him questioningly under the hoods of his eyes.

Kacchan’s features pinch in a way he’s never seen before, not in the angry way he’s used to. Curiously, his throat works over a swallow, and he breathes out, “Spoiled.” Then, he slides his fingers through the back of Izuku’s curls, and the fresh combing of Kacchan’s blunt nails makes him tamp down an active groan bubbling from his chest.

Kacchan’s hands are so nice. “Mm..hm,” he nods in agreement, picturing Kacchan’s pale, slender wrists, delicate fingers. For someone with such a rough, and—forgive him—explosive—quirk, it’s a marvel he has such soft skin. Scarred, now, but not calloused, not roughened in that way, like Izuku’s over-broken, mangled fingers. The nitroglycerin in his sweat protects him as much as it gifts him shining power. He’s incredible. “S’okay though. Right?”

“Yeah.” Kacchan’s voice is quieter now. “It’s okay.”

Their heads have fallen back to their spots tilted toward each other, but their eyes have shifted lazily to Super Smash Might’s season two finale, All Might’s booming laughter echoing over civilians cheering his successful defeat of the series’ largest villain thus far; Earthshatter. His quirk let him create fissures in the earth’s raw, ground materials, honing it to penetrate deep enough into the earth’s crust to disrupt the natural state of the tectonic plates beneath. Izuku remembers the stakes feeling much heavier, back then.

They must doze off around the same time, since neither of them notice.

A quarter or so into the third season of Super Smash Might, Izuku guesses. Somewhere around there. The cartoon is still playing when he wakes up, suspiciously much further in the season’s arc than he expects, and the lighting in the living area is also, suspiciously, different.

Izuku sniffs. He pulls his hand off Kacchan’s chest—because, God, of course it’s there—and rubs at his tired face, his mouth, furiously at the sleepy crust in his eyes. He registers that he’s turned to his side, and his head has fallen into Kacchan’s shoulder, at some point. Oh. There’s a soft weight on top of his head that he’s pretty sure belongs to Kacchan’s cheek. Izuku flushes. And Kacchan’s fingers are still tangled at the back of—

“Good morning.”

“H-hah!” Izuku yelps, whipping his head toward the sound, and that wakes Kacchan up. He stiffens next to him, fingers tightening as they both straighten in their spots. Todoroki blinks unaffectedly, sat straight and proper in one of the single armchairs, balancing an ankle on his opposite knee. “Oh! Jesus, Todoroki-kun. H-hi. You—ah—I didn’t know you were… here?”

Kacchan disentangles the hand from his hair to grip tightly onto the couch, sputtering angrily, “The fuck, you maniac? What’s your problem?”

Todoroki tilts in confusion. He has a mug of something warm and steaming sloshing softly against the porcelain in his hands. Tea, likely. He’s dressed in his traditional loungewear, untied hip-length kimono loose over his under clothes, a white towel from the baths around his neck. “I don’t have a problem. Did I wake you two up? I thought I was being quiet.”

Izuku gives an unsure laugh. “Ah… no… you didn’t. Just, surprised us.”

Kacchan gives an incredulous snarl. “Creepy fuck. The hell are you gettin’ at, watching us fuckin’ sleep?”

Todoroki blinks. Flatly, he offers, “You’re in the shared living room.”

“Well,” Izuku murmurs. “That’s fair.”

“The hell it is,” Kacchan scoffs. Izuku tries to smile weakly at him, but it comes out something more like a wince. So grouchy.

Izuku takes a sweep around the area, craning his neck. Only two lamps are on, and there’s a single under light coming from the kitchen. He doesn’t see any of their other classmates around. Clearing his throat, Izuku asks, “Um. Todoroki-kun, it’s not really… morning, is it? We couldn’t have slept that long? Where is everyone?”

“Oh, no. It’s definitely evening. Almost six.” Todoroki shrugs, blowing lightly at the steam billowing over his mug. “Everyone else is here. We were relieved a few hours ago. Kind of a long day. Think everyone went straight to their dorms.”

“Oh.” Izuku blinks at his lap. Kacchan is silent next to him. “I see.”

Todoroki adds, “We were all pretty surprised to see you. Both.” Izuku’s stare burns holes into the quilt on his legs. The quilt they’d been sharing. “Iida and Kirishima shooed everyone away, though. Should probably thank them.”

Izuku croaks, “Oh. That’s… thoughtful. Of them. Will do.”

With a grunt, Kacchan pushes himself to stand, letting his corner of the blanket flutter to the side. He has a twisted frown on his face, and the lights are low so Izuku can’t tell all that well, looking up at him, but there’s a faint sheen of redness striped over the top of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose that isn’t normally there. “Like hell,” he mumbles, rolling the tendon in his neck from sleeping at such an awkward angle, and flashing a calculated glance at the length of Izuku. “I’m making dinner. We missed lunch and I’m hungry as fuck. D’you want anything in particular?”

Izuku parts his mouth like a fish for a moment. Dumbly. Then, “Let me help?”

“No. I’m faster on my own. What do you want.”

“Something fried.”

“We’re having salmon,” Kacchan replies, monotone, and walks off.

Izuku slumps. He mutters, “Why ask?”

“Don’t fuckin’ complain!” Kacchan calls. As he passes Todoroki’s chair, who’s watching with an unreadably straight face, he says, “I’m not making any for you. So don’t expect any.”

“I already ate. Thank you, though.”

“I wasn’t offering!”

Izuku catches the corner of Todoroki’s mouth twitch in amusement against the lip of his mug when he takes a quiet sip, just as Kacchan disappears into the kitchen, flipping on the overhead lights.

Sighing, Izuku falls back into the couch, shaking his head lightly. “You’re so good at that. Baiting him.”

Todoroki murmurs, “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Right.”

The sounds of cupboards opening and shutting momentarily shift Izuku’s gaze. He can hear Kacchan fiddling with pans and cutlery, likely muttering in annoyance about the still too-poor state of ingredients and protein choices stocked in the communal fridge. They’ll have to shop soon. Kacchan’s diet is so high maintenance.

“You should know,” Todoroki starts, balancing the cup on his knee. “I did not come down here to watch you two sleep. As entertaining as it was.”

Izuku flicks his eyes to him. He’s trying to avoid imagining the implications of everyone else finding that just as intriguing as Todoroki. If not much, much more so. He exhales. “Do you mind if I ask why you did, then?”

“Not at all.” He smiles, in that half, barely lilted way of his, and nods toward the flickering animation on the TV. “I wanted to watch the All Might cartoon.”

Thin brows shoot up. Fondly, Izuku laughs. “Really? Why? I mean… I used to love it, of course. I still think it’s… great, I just. I’m surprised? I didn’t think you watched cartoons?”

Todoroki shakes his head gently. His eyes are on the screen, glued to the episode where All Might saves an entire village from a group of villains with weather type quirks. “I don’t. Never seen it before. I wasn’t allowed to watch anything like this.”

Izuku’s face twists up. He pushes his tongue under his teeth, managing the irritation blooming in his chest. “Oh. I’m sorry. That’s so…”

“Ridiculous?” Todoroki offers, dryly. “Yeah. No All Might propaganda in my house. I only saw his movies for the first time last year, with you guys.” Izuku watches him take in the animated scene with a careful, almost boyish curiosity. “I did get to see him on the news sometimes. Watching him in action was so…” he trails off. “Well, you know. Surreal.”

“Yeah. I know. The feeling is hard to forget.”

Izuku glances at the animated version of his hero, his mentor, and feels a dull ache in his chest at the weakened spark in his veins connecting them. The power he trusted him with, nearly gone. All Might smiles brightly on screen, and Izuku swallows hard. I’m sorry. I think you made the wrong choice.

He whispers, “Kacchan and I watched this every weekend at his house. Every Saturday morning. Seven-thirty.” Biting his lip, he adds, “I actually… um. Didn’t finish the last season. Kacchan might’ve. We weren’t really talking. I mean, I saw him every day? But he didn’t want anything to do with me, like that. I just… I don’t know. I couldn’t watch it anymore. We’d only ever seen it together.”

The tune of the season’s outro starts, and Izuku cracks a weak smile from the corner of his mouth at the montage of poses, and lighthearted animations of the superhero. Kacchan always made them watch until the very, very end, to catch the twenty second preview of the next episode after the music ended.

He finishes, “This was the first time I’ve watched it in years.”

Izuku doesn’t know exactly why he tells him this. He can hear Kacchan searing something hot in the kitchen, moving about in smooth, practiced motions, probably. It feels so strange, to be even this far from him, after being so attached. So close. It’s getting to him, maybe.

Calmly, Todoroki hums. “It’s good. I can see why you both liked it so much. My dad thought all cartoons were a waste of time. I only really ever wanted to watch this one, so I don’t know about the rest. But I like it.” He adds, “Must mean something that you’re watching it now, though.”

Izuku nods, slowly. “It does.” His brows pull together, furrowing. “I mean, it does? Doesn’t it?”

“I think so.”

Izuku comprehends it for a moment. He watches Todoroki’s gaze mellow into something so wonderfully innocent, indulging the flashy animation. He says, “For you, too.”

Todoroki blinks over at him, poking a brow up like this is the first time this possibility has ever occurred to him. “Yeah. I guess so,” he murmurs, then takes a second to run his multi-colored eyes over the length of Izuku’s form, lingering on the blanket at his waist, and flicking back up his face. Izuku doesn’t super care for the twinge of interest sparking in his gaze. “I would love to ask you something, Midoriya.”

“I’m sure,” Izuku mumbles. He sighs. “You and everyone else, I bet.”

“You’d win that bet.” Todoroki leans back, and with his ankle still propped on his knee like that, Izuku feels like he’s being gently interrogated. Or in the office of a very kind, very blunt therapist. “You and Bakugou are getting on well. Really well. I feel like you didn’t mention how well when we talked in the hospital. Is this new?”

“Is what new,” Izuku asks, carefully flat. “Things have been better between us for a while now. Everyone knows that.” His knee bounces. He resists the urge to glance at the kitchen.

“Right. And the cuddling?”

Right. Izuku purses his lips tight. He almost forgot that Todoroki never learned subtlety in all the seventeen years of his life. Not an ounce.

Right. And the cuddling. That’s what that is. Izuku wonders what Kacchan would say. If he asked him, are we cuddling? would he admit to his face; yes.

Would he admit he wanted it?

“It’s…” Izuku swallows a thick lump in his throat. “Recent. Yes.”

“I see. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Todoroki tilts, and gives him a small, bemused smile. Almost sympathetic. “You looked comfortable, that’s all.” He taps the handle of his cooled mug, adding just after Izuku releases a tense breath, “Oh, Kaminari did take a photo of you two earlier. Do you have your phone back, yet? It’s a nice picture. You should have it before Bakugou destroys it. Or him.”

He squeaks, “Seriously?” That’s too much to process. Izuku falls back with an exhausted groan, too tired to properly blanch. “Ungh.”

Izuku can’t be sure, but he swears he hears the faintest sniffle of a snicker come from his direction. He doesn’t check. Instead he covers his face with his arm and releases a low whine.

Then, from further away, “Izuku! Come eat!”

He sighs. Obliging Kacchan, he stands, stretching. Passing by Todoroki, he asks, “Are you, um, staying out here, then?”

“Yeah. For a little while, I think.”

“Izuku!”

“So loud, Kacchan,” he mutters. “Okay. Well, thanks, for… just thanks. Skip the season three episode nineteen special. It’s a crossover and All Might’s barely in it. I think the budget got scrapped because it’s terrible.”

Todoroki says nothing for a moment, which isn’t unusual for him, but then he nods, slowly. “Okay.” He huffs something like a laugh, which is unusual. “It’s… I’m really glad that you’re here, Midoriya.”

Izuku thinks of Kacchan telling him he should be here. Promising him he knew that. He seemed so sure of himself. Izuku doesn’t know if he's ready to believe that yet, but he believes in Kacchan. That’ll have to be good enough.

I’m here, he thinks, what now?

✶✶✶