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There was something wrong with the nerd. Katsuki could see it despite the smile the idiot plastered on his face in front of the rest of the class. A dark shadow had taken up residence behind those viridian eyes. It wasn’t abnormal. All of them had some weight resting on their shoulders since the war ended. They would never be the same people they were a year ago. But the difference between Izuku and everyone else is that the freckled boy was trying to shoulder everyone else's burdens without processing his own. It’s like he’s running away from all the memories of the war, but it wouldn’t stop them from catching up with him in time.
Katsuki hated how clearly he could see it—how blind the others were to it.
Izuku was drowning right in front of them, sinking deeper and deeper into the rapid currents of grief and guilt, and no one could see it. The boy who saved the world, who gave his body, bones, and blood so that they could see the next sunrise, was slipping away. They had survived the war, but would they be able to get through what came after? Every cell in Katsuki’s body was screaming to reach for him, to drag him back to shore. But the words—the right, fucking words—were stuck in his throat like ash.
Movie nights had become a common thing in the weeks that followed the aftermath of the war. No one wanted to admit that they couldn’t sleep—the memories of what they went through and witnessed kept them up all night. So despite curfew, there was a silent agreement that they would gather in the common room, turn on a movie, and sit in silence. Some of them are actually watching the movie, and some are sitting with their demons, but in the safety of their class’s company.
Katsuki didn’t even know what movie they had turned on—some cheesy romantic comedy Ashido had picked for them. The common room was completely full tonight. The explosive blonde chalked it up to the storm that was raging outside. He could see the way that everyone flinched when the bright flash of light reflected through the windows. The way that the pace of their breathing changed when the thunder shook the building. Katsuki hated the rain—but he hated it even more now when he remembered the final moments before his heart burst.
Katsuki sat on his own in an armchair, scanning the room and monitoring every minuscule movement that happened. In the days after the countless surgeries and healing quirks, he realized that he’d become hypervigilant over every single thing. The smallest sound, the tiniest movement would send alarms blaring in his head. So while the doctors healed as much as they could of his fragile heart and his shattered arm, they couldn’t heal the mental wounds that continued to bleed as each second ticked by.
There was a bright flash of light from outside the dorms, followed immediately by a loud—bang. The building shook with the lightning strikes close proximity. There were a few yelps and startled jolts, but Katsuki’s eyes immediately turned to Izuku’s. The boy’s body was glowing bright with green lightning; a faint layer of ozone permeated the air. But it was his eyes that concerned Katsuki the most. It was just for a second, if you weren’t looking, you’d miss it, but Izuku’s eyes locked with his, and the mask slipped—showing Katsuki the utterly terrified greenette behind the facade.
In an instant, it was like he snapped back into himself, the green lightning leaving his skin. Katsuki watched as he laughed it off, running his fingers over the back of his head. The others accepted his excuses. Whether they were blind to his pain or simply terrified of confronting it, they left the door closed, uncertain of how to help him shoulder the burden behind it.
But Katsuki saw it. Saw the same boy he grew up with—the same one he fought beside and died for—crying for help. The movie continued with a hint of anxiety falling over all of them. Katsuki couldn’t pay attention to whatever movie was playing anymore. Instead, he couldn’t look away from the barely noticeable shake in Izuku’s frame with each breath. He was watching him drown on dry land, and no one else even noticed.
Katsuki couldn’t sleep that night. As soon as the credits started rolling, Izuku booked it out of the common room back to his dorm. Most of the class was still groggy after falling asleep mid-way through the movie, so they didn’t notice the fast escape the scarred boy made. In the dark, behind his own eyelids, it was Izuku’s eyes that found him—wide with terror that was less like fear and more like drowning, a silent plea forever ingraining itself into Katsuki’s memory.
When the clock struck 2 a.m., Katsuki knew there was no use in trying to sleep—it wouldn’t happen. Not when that gnawing feeling of going to check on Izuku kept eating at him. So he pulled himself out of bed, slower than he would like, but the stitches on his chest would start to pull if he moved too fast. He carefully pulled a black sweatshirt over his sling, leaving it underneath his clothes, with his good arm peaking out through the sleeves.
He silently made his way through the dark hallways into the elevator. The silence should make him uneasy, but within the silence, you can hear the soft snores and steady breathing of his friends. A lot of them slept with their doors open after an incident of Kaminari sneaking into Katsuki’s dorm after a nightmare and almost getting his head blown off.
Izuku’s door was closed, which automatically set red alarms blaring in Katsuki’s head. Out of everyone, Izuku was the person people liked to check on the most, even more than Katsuki. It probably had to do with the nerd’s need to try to carry everything himself, which is exactly what he was trying to do now. Katsuki was the one who knew him best—he had said so when he begged to go looking for Izuku when he went off on his own. That’s why he ignored the shut door as a sign that perhaps Izuku didn’t want any company and barged right in.
A cold chill kissed his skin, causing goosebumps to run down his spine. The All Might themed curtains billowed with the breeze rushing in from the open balcony doors. Katsuki was proud that panic wasn’t the first emotion he felt when he stepped into Izuku’s room. Not only was the security on UA so intense that he wouldn’t be able to breathe a second outside the gate before dozens of Pro Heroes were alerted, but Katsuki had a strong feeling within his damaged heart that Izuku wouldn’t just up and leave—wouldn’t up and leave him.
No—Katsuki had an idea where the greenette ran off to. He went and closed the balcony doors so that the temperature didn’t drop anymore and headed back to the elevator. This time, he hit the button for the roof.
When the doors pulled open, he could see Izuku’s curly head from the window of the entrance to the roof. Katsuki made no effort in trying to stay hidden; the door burst open and slammed shut in his typical fashion. Izuku didn’t even flinch.
That pulled Katsuki to a stop, midway over to the other. After seeing the petrified look on his face in the common area earlier during the class’s movie night, he assumed that any loud noise would put him on high alert. But it was like Izuku knew just by the sound of the way he opened the door, followed by his footprints, that it was Katsuki. He didn’t turn around to face him, though, and that only caused Katsuki’s concern anger to spike.
“Turn around,” Katsuki spoke. Not a question but an order. That was the only thing that would get through the self-sacrificial idiot's head. He watched the other’s shoulders hitch up before he slowly spun on his heel to face Katsuki. At the beginning of their time at UA—no, their entire life—Katsuki knew the Midoriya’s to be crybabies. The blank, broken look on Izuku’s face was a hundred times worse than the familiar flood of tears that Katsuki was used to seeing. He’d take getting his heart blown to pieces over and over again if it got that look off of the freckled boy’s face.
Izuku even dared to try and smile at Katsuki, like he wouldn’t be able to see right through it. “Kacchan, I’m fine. I was just getting some air. You should be getting some rest—” Katsuki didn’t even wait for him to finish before cutting him off.
“You’re a shitty liar, Izuku.”
A tiny crack appeared through the nerd’s mask. His smile slipped slightly before straining back up. “I really am fine,” Izuku tried to deflect.
“Bullshit,” the blonde spits. “You’re not fine. Don’t lie—not to me.”
That shuts him up. Another crack appears in the form of the wet shine in the emerald eyes that stared back at him. Izuku looks like he’s struggling to keep the smile on his face. As if the task was taking all of his effort to appear that he’s fine.
“We fought in a war. People died—I died.” He saw Izuku flinch at that statement. “You went against the greatest villain to walk the planet, and you think I’ll believe you when you say you’re okay?” He steps closer, trying to ignore the sting when Izuku takes a step back in response. “I’m not fine,” Katsuki admits. “I’m not fine, and you’re not fine. Stop fucking acting like you are. You think carrying that alone makes you strong?”
Izuku was shaking his head now, silent tears streaming down his face. Katsuki didn’t care if he bruised his own pride and made himself look like a helpless idiot; he took another step forward so that he was toe-to-toe with the other. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop carrying everything on your own?” Katsuki softened his voice when he saw how much the other was trembling. “I’m right here.”
That made the first sob break through. The dam had cracked and burst open, choked sobs were the only thing that could be heard over the wind. “You almost weren’t,” Izuku sobbed. He scrubbed at his face with his scarred arms, irritating the still-healing new injury on the right side of his face. Katsuki tried not to scowl at the fact that the injury took Izuku’s familiar freckles with it.
“You were dead because I wasn’t there. It was m-my fault Shigaraki shattered your arm, and now you might not be able to use your quirk again—” He tried to go on but was stopped as another strangled sob came through his lips. Katsuki watched as the other’s chest heaved, trying to suck in air, but would get interrupted by a gasp or sob. Scarred and mangled hands dug into his eyes. “How do I have the right to fall apart when everyone needs me to be strong?”
Katsuki didn’t think—he just moved.
His left arm reached out, pulling Izuku’s hands away from his eyes. Izuku only had a second to show a flash of confusion before Katsuki was pulling him into his chest. And even if Katsuki’s chest was still raw and healing from the surgeries done to his heart, he didn’t feel any pain—he felt more at ease right here with Izuku against his chest.
Katsuki buried his own tears into the green curls that smelled like home. “You have the right because I need you. Not the new Symbol of Peace. Not the martyr or the Hero Deku. You, Izuku. Just you. The stupid nerd I've known my whole life.” He could feel his shirt becoming damp with the tears that Izuku cried into him, but he didn’t care. “I don’t need you to be anything other than yourself—not with me.”
Izuku’s shaky hands wrapped around Katsuki’s waist, pulling them even closer together. They were becoming one merged, grieving soul that was mourning the innocence of youth they would never get back.
Izuku wasn’t verbally responding yet; the only thing coming out of his mouth was choked gasps and sobs. That didn’t matter; he would keep talking until the words bled dry. Katsuki had made Izuku chase after him their entire lives, when really it was Katsuki who was the one on the other’s heels the whole time.
“I spent years pushing you away, years of being an angry brat that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. The one time I finally started reaching back to you, I died.” He felt Izuku’s body flinch against him at every mention of his death. “I’m not gonna make the same mistake twice.”
He let those words sit in the air. Let the weight of them try to wash away the guilt and misplaced blame Izuku was putting on himself. Moments passed when Katsuki felt Izuku begin to speak against his chest. “I’m not a hero.”
That statement made Katsuki’s already fragile heart throb in pain. He knows he was a piece of shit their entire life—knows that nothing he does will ever atone for all the misery he caused the other. But he could damn well try.
“You are—” Katsuki couldn’t even get two words out before Izuku was cutting him off. “I’m not!”
His declaration echoed through the air, shaking the already tense air surrounding them. The tears seemed like they had been replaced with swells of anger because Izuku was yelling now. “I failed, I couldn’t s-save him. I killed him. I’m a murderer—I feel disgusting in my own skin.” His hands left Katsuki’s waist to start clawing at his bare arms (because the idiot came out without a jacket in just a shitty t-shirt), leaving red scratch marks on his already scarred skin.
Katsuki didn’t hesitate. He caught Izuku’s wrists with a single hand, his grip firm but not painful, pinning them gently against his own chest, trapping them between their bodies. “Stop,” he pleaded, his voice a low, rough scrape. “Stop hurting yourself. You didn’t fail, you ended a war.”
“I ended a person!” Izuku cried, the words ripped from a place of pure agony. He struggled weakly against his hold, not to escape, but because the truth was a live wire electrifying his veins. “I felt it, Kacchan. He was just a kid, the ghost of the boy he used to be. Tenko—and he was just scared and alone. He was right there, and I couldn’t save him. All that power, and the only thing I could do in the end was kill him.”
Katsuki’s mind flashed to the final moment. He couldn’t remember much. The nurses told him he had broken out of the hospital and blasted himself through Kurogiri’s warp portal to the battlefield. All to give Izuku that last push—to be at his side, like somewhere instinctually, Katsuki knew that Izuku needed him. He didn’t offer empty promises or fake forgiveness; Izuku didn’t need to be forgiven by him for anything. He offered understanding, forged in the same fire that Katsuki’s pain was burning in.
“You gave him mercy,” Katsuki spoke, holding Izuku’s frantic gaze. “Ballsack face had already killed that kid a long time ago. What was left—wasn’t a person, ‘Zuku. That was a prison of pain. You didn’t kill him—you set him free. There’s a difference.”
“It doesn’t feel different,” Izuku whispered, the fight finally draining out of him, leaving him boneless and trembling. His forehead dropped against Katsuki’s collarbone. “It just feels heavy. And dirty. And everyone is celebrating, calling me a hero, and I want to scream because I don’t feel like one. I feel like a weapon that got used and now doesn’t know where to rest.”
“Then rest here,” Katsuki said, the words leaving him in a rush, more a plea than a demand. He released Izuku’s wrists to cup the back of his head, fingers tangling in sweat-damp curls. He held him through the renewed, shuddering sobs. “Just breathe, idiot. I’ve got you.”
He didn’t offer more platitudes. He just held on. A solid, warm anchor in the cold night, his own silent tears continuing to soak into green hair. He held Izuku until the violent tremors subsided into exhausted shivers. Until the sobs quieted into ragged, wet gasps. The wind bit at them, but Katsuki’s body was a shield that would keep anything from touching them.
Eventually, Izuku went limp against him, utterly spent. “C’mon,” Katsuki murmured, his voice hoarse. “We can’t stay out here all night. You’re freezing, idiot.” He shrugged out of his own sweatshirt and shoved it over the mop of hair before Izuku could protest. The fabric swallowed him with residual warmth. Izuku’s fingers clutched at the ends of the sleeves weakly.
Katsuki kept his good arm around Izuku’s shoulders, steering them back toward the dorm. Izuku moved like a ghost, steps silent and pliant. They didn’t speak—not on the elevator ride down to Katsuki’s floor, and not a word spoken when he pulled the other into his room. The silence shared between them was no longer charged with confrontation, but thick with a shared, unspoken exhaustion.
His room was stark, utilitarian, but warm. Katsuki sat Izuku on the edge of his bed. “Lie down,” he instructed, not unkindly. Izuku obeyed without protest, curling onto his side, staring blankly at the wall. Katsuki toed off his shoes, moving carefully onto the bed behind Izuku, resting on his good side. There was a careful foot of space between them on the narrow mattress, but even in the dark, Katsuki could tell the nerd wasn’t sleeping yet.
Instead, Izuku was trembling again, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the cold this time. Katsuki watched the rigidness of his form for a long moment. Then, with a quiet huff of surrender, he closed the distance. Lying his casted arm carefully around Izuku’s waist, he pulled him back, spooning against him, chest to spine. Izuku stiffened for just a heartbeat, then melted, a broken sigh escaping him as he sank into the warmth of Katsuki’s body.
Katsuki tucked his forehead against the nape of Izuku’s neck. The silence here was different—soft and secret; theirs alone. He could feel Izuku’s heartbeat gradually slowing from its frantic flutter to a weary, heavy rhythm.
“You’re not a weapon,” Katsuki whispered into the dark. “You’re a person. A person who got hurt. A person who was put into a terrible situation. That doesn’t make you a monster, it makes you human.” He felt Izuku take a shaky, deep breath. “And you’re not alone in it. Not anymore.”
Minutes stretched. The tension in Izuku’s body was slowly seeping away, replaced by a profound wave of sleepiness. Just when Katsuki thought he might have fallen asleep, Izuku spoke, his voice a thread of sound in the dark.
“You said—you said you’re not fine either.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an offering. A reflection of a mirror in a hesitant hand reaching back.
Katsuki closed his eyes. He could lie. He could grunt and change the subject—completely shut down like he usually did. But that would break the fragile trust he’d fought so hard to build. In the seconds before his death, he made a promise if he ever got another chance—he’d do better.
“No, I’m not fine,” he admitted, the words rough in his throat. “Sometimes, I hear my own heartbeat in the quiet, and it sounds wrong, like an echo of it stopping. I dream about the seconds before my heart gave out. I dream about—” He faltered, not knowing if he should bring up what he saw on the livestream that led to him demolishing his way to Izuku’s side—the bloodied stumps—the desperate attempt at standing. He faltered, his arm tightening minutely around Izuku’s middle. “I dream about you during the battle. You’re hurt, and I can’t get to you.”
Izuku leaned more against Katsuki, a steady weight that showed that he was listening. The simple touch undid him. The last of his defenses, already shattered that evening, crumbled to dust and was swept away—the same as Izuku’s. The truth he’s been screaming in the silence since they brought Izuku back from fighting on his own. Not an argument or a weapon, but a simple, undeniable fact.
“The person that I care about the most in this stupid fucking world is torturing himself for saving the world. He’s drowning right before my eyes when I just got him back. And I can’t—”
It’s not an explicit confession. That wasn’t something Katsuki, not yet at least, when he’s still learning to be a better person—a better friend. His admission did ring through the room; it settled into the sheets, into the space between their bodies, a quiet shift they both felt. Izuku went perfectly still, his breath catching.
Then, slowly, he turned in Katsuki’s arms. In the faint moonlight from the window, his eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and searching. There was no disbelief this time, just a deep, aching wonder. He brought a scarred hand up, his touch feather-light as his fingertips traced the line of Katsuki’s jaw. The way Izuku looked at him with such reverence made his face heat.
“Kacchan…”
“You don’t have to say it back,” Katsuki rushed out, his delicate heart hammering against his ribs. “I just wanted you to know. Know that’s why I’m here and why I’ll always be here.”
Izuku’s eyes wandered, scanning all over Katsuki’s face. It should make him uncomfortable how those emerald eyes felt like they were staring deep into his soul. But it didn’t—because it was Izuku. He could see all the fragmented and bruised parts of him and still keep it safe.
“What you said—in the hospital—did you mean it?”
I guess we thought we’d be competing and I’d be on your heels for the rest of our lives.
Katsuki’s breath hitched. Of all the things he expected, this quiet, vulnerable reference to that fragile, raw moment wasn’t it. “Every word,” he said, his voice gravel-rough. “I meant every damn word.”
Izuku’s thumb brushed over the arch of his cheekbone, a touch so tender it made Katsuki’s chest ache. “You said you’d be on my heels.” His voice was a whisper, barely more than a thought voiced aloud. “But you’re not behind me, Kacchan. You never have been. Not really.”
Katsuki blinked, confused. The old script demanded defensiveness, but he was too raw, too open beneath Izuku’s gaze.
“You’re here,” Izuku continued, his eyes glimmering. “Right beside me. You always have been. Even when you were yelling, even when you were pushing me away… You were the only one who never looked away. You were the only one who ever really saw me. Before the quirk, after. The hero and… and the mess.” A single, clear tear traced a path through the dust and dried salt on his cheek. “And I’ve been so… so stupidly in love with you for so long, I didn’t know how to see anything else.”
The world didn’t stop. It narrowed. It funneled down to the space between their bodies, to the feel of Izuku’s thumb on his skin, to the words that were not an echo of his own confession, but the foundation it had been built upon all along.
Katsuki’s delicate heart didn’t just hammer; it soared, a painful, glorious ache. He’d bared his soul, and instead of finding judgment or pity, he’d found a mirror. A reflection of a love that was older, deeper, and had endured every stupid thing he’d ever done.
“Izuku,” he breathed, the name a prayer—a curse—everything.
He didn’t kiss him. Not yet. The moment was too vast, too sacred for that. Instead, he brought his own hand up, covering the one on his face, lacing their scarred fingers together. He pressed their joined hands against his own pounding heart.
“You’re the only one who sees me, too,” he confessed, the last of his walls turning to dust. “The angry, fucking mess. The failure. The one who died. You see it, and you—you don’t flinch. You just stay.” He took a shuddering breath. “So I’ll stay, too. However, you need me. As a rival, as a friend, as… whatever this is. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”
This time, the words hung in the air not as a shocking admission, but as a solemn vow. An inevitable truth finally spoken into existence.
Izuku’s answer was a soft, broken sound—half a sob, half a laugh. He finally closed the last inch between them, not for a kiss, but to press his forehead against Katsuki’s. Their noses brushed. They breathed the same air, warm and shared.
“I love you, Kacchan,” he whispered, the words a direct current, sealing the circuit between them. “I always have.”
And then, because words had finally run dry and there was nothing left to do but feel—Izuku leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic or desperate. It wasn’t like the crashing, world-ending collisions they were used to. It was soft—a slow, searching press of lips, a little clumsy with inexperience, achingly tender. It was a coming home. A silent conversation in a language only they understood.
I’m here. I see you. I choose you. Every single time.
Katsuki kissed him back, his hand sliding from Izuku’s to cradle the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the curls there. He poured every unspoken promise into it—every apology, every thank you, every tomorrow he wanted to be by his side. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling.
“I’m still not fine,” Izuku whispered, his eyes still closed.
Because this wasn’t a fairytale where love fixes everything.
“I know,” Katsuki murmured back, his thumb stroking the line of Izuku’s jaw. “Me neither.”
“But we’re here.”
“Yeah. We’re here.”
They settled back into the quiet darkness, wrapped around each other. The ghosts didn’t vanish. The guilt didn’t dissolve. But for the first time since the war, the weight felt shared. The future didn’t feel like a burden to bear alone, but a path to walk side-by-side. They had survived the war. And now, holding onto each other, they’ll be able survive whatever comes after.