Chapter Text
👍.
The sky was offensively blue, its sickening clarity contrasting with the destruction below. Staring at the endless horizon—the rolling clouds, the searing, sun-yellow glow—he realised he hadn’t stopped to admire the world’s beauty enough. If only he could change that.
It was a little difficult, considering he was on his last leg.
He chuckled—or tried to—drawing in a rattling breath as he lay in an ever-expanding pool of blood.
The gritty air was inescapable, every breath thick with dust. It coated his throat, the grey particles clinging to his open wounds.
It was humbling.
He lay there, unable to move, so far removed from the ongoing battle that the only thing he could hear was silence. No screams, no explosions of dust as people were reduced to ashes, no lingering sense of camaraderie.
Nothing.
The lingering adrenaline faded, his mind drifting, clinging weakly to reality as it wandered—like clouds—to earlier thoughts. He had imagined his death before: a moment of glory, where the world basked in his greatness. An awe-inspiring spectacle in which he would fall, but be remembered forever—immortalised as an undefeatable foe.
Now he was dying, and there was no glorious battle—yet he felt a sickening sense of contentment.
Despite the unfairness of it all, and the haze clouding his mind, Bakugou felt lighter—relieved of a weight he had carried for years.
He had apologised to Deku. He had saved All Might. His overactive mind, for once, was at rest.
The stinging regret of ending the greatest hero in history was soothed by the righting of his ultimate wrong—a life for a life. Because heroism had been All Might’s entire life.
Lying on the empty battlefield, littered with rubble, discarded among the stones like just another piece of debris, Bakugou waited for the cliché rush of memories to flood his mind.
They never came.
He wondered if that meant he had nothing worth remembering—his grand life plan cut short.
His eyes flickered, trembling, until at last he let them close.
And so Bakugou died with a smile on his face.
Death was said to be cold—terrifying, soul-shaking. But Katsuki would disagree.
He felt warm. Safe. Off guard for the first time in years, as if he instinctively knew nothing could reach him here.
He drifted into a quiet, content sleep, cocooned in gentle warmth