Chapter Text
The world stopped.
Not metaphorically. Not the way people said it when something surprised them… it just stopped. The wind forgot how to move, the curtains froze in midair, the crickets beyond the window disappeared, even Katsuki's heartbeat seemed to lose its rhythm, hanging somewhere between one beat and the next as though his body itself refused to believe what it had just heard.
No. His breathing caught so sharply it hurt. No fucking way. His fingers slowly tightened against his knees until his knuckles turned white.
That voice.
God… that voice. He could've picked it out of a thousand crowded streets. He could've found it buried beneath explosions, beneath sirens, beneath collapsing buildings, beneath the end of the fucking world.
He would've known that voice anywhere.
His entire body trembled. He wanted to look—every instinct screamed at him to look—but terror rooted him to the floor. Because what if he did? What if he lifted his head… and there was no one there? What if grief had finally become so unbearable that it had learned how to speak in Izuku's voice?
He didn't think he could survive losing him twice.
A shaky breath escaped him. "Katsuki." His name, soft and gentle… the way only one person had ever said it.
Not "Bakugo."
Not "Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight."
Just— "Katsuki."
His eyes slammed shut as another tear escaped before he could stop it. "I've finally lost my mind," the words left him as a broken whisper, "haven't I?"
Silence answered him. Then—
"No." The voice was closer now. "No... I don't think you have."
His heart lurched so violently it almost hurt. That little awkward pause, the nervous way Izuku always corrected himself, the tiny laugh hidden beneath every sentence—nobody could fake that. Not even Himiko Toga.
Katsuki's hands slowly fell away from his face as his breathing had become ragged and unsteady. He still couldn't look because he was so deathly afraid of what he would see—more afraid than he'd ever been facing a villain—because if this wasn't real… he didn't know if there would be enough of him left to stand back up afterward.
Another quiet breeze drifted through the open window. "Kacchan." This time… the voice cracked, just a little, like the person saying it had been crying, too.
That was enough. Katsuki finally lifted his head, slowly and painfully, as though looking too quickly might frighten the image away, and when his eyes reached the windowsill, everything inside him shattered.
Izuku.
He was there.
Actually there.
Perched carefully on the open windowsill exactly the way he'd done a hundred times before, as though climbing into a room in the middle of the night was the most natural thing in the world. One leg hung awkwardly inside the bedroom while the other remained folded on the sill, his knee tucked close against his chest as if he needed the support just to stay upright. His shoulders leaned against the frame of the window, exhaustion pulling at every line of his body until it looked like the only thing keeping him conscious was sheer, stubborn determination.
He looked… god, he looked awful. His green curls were tangled with dried blood and dust, matted in places where sweat had dried against his forehead. Fresh bandages wrapped around his ribs beneath the torn remains of his shirt, already stained through with patches of faded crimson despite someone's obvious attempt to stop the bleeding. Bruises climbed the length of his neck before disappearing beneath the collar of his costume, angry shades of violet and blue blooming beneath pale skin. His right forearm was splinted crudely, one hand wrapped so heavily he couldn't even fully close it, and there were fresh stitches disappearing beneath the edge of his jaw where a villain's blade had nearly found something far worse.
He wasn't actively bleeding anymore, but every breath looked painful. Every inhale lifted his shoulders just a little too carefully before settling again with visible effort. He should've been in Recovery Girl's ward. He should've been asleep. He should've been anywhere except here, and yet… here he was smiling in the window.
It wasn't big and bright like Katsuki remembered it. It was tired, fragile, barely there, but it was unmistakably Izuku's.
The same smile Katsuki had watched survive scraped knees, broken bones, impossible odds, and years of heartbreak.
The corners of Izuku's eyes shimmered with tears that refused to fall. They clung stubbornly to his lashes, making his emerald eyes sparkle beneath the moonlight until they looked almost unreal. His cheeks were streaked with the evidence that he'd already cried before he'd ever reached the window, but somehow he'd still managed to smile anyway.
Like seeing Katsuki made every step here worth it.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them could. Katsuki simply forgot how. Forgot what words even were. He only stared, his crimson eyes searching desperately across Izuku's face as though trying to memorize him all over again.
Every bruise became proof that he was alive. Every scrape, every stitch, every shaky breath was somehow more beautiful than any perfect dream Katsuki had tortured himself with over the last six months because pain meant he was here. It meant he was real. It meant Katsuki wasn't imagining the rise and fall of his chest or the tears gathering beneath tired green eyes.
Izuku stared back with exactly the same desperation, like if he blinked Katsuki might disappear.
Neither of them dared risk it. Not after six months. Not after letters left unanswered. Not after rooftops. Not after tonight. Not after believing, if only for a little while… that this might be the last time they'd ever see each other.
The distance between them couldn't have been more than six feet, but it felt like an entire lifetime.
The wind wandered gently between them, carrying the scent of rain through the open window and into the shattered room. It slipped through Izuku's unruly curls before brushing softly against Katsuki's face, as though the night itself had become the only thing brave enough to cross the space neither of them could.
For one impossibly fragile moment… the entire world seemed to understand that nothing—not time, not grief, not guilt, not even hope itself—was allowed to interrupt two boys who had finally found each other again.
At first, Katsuki didn't realize he was moving. One moment he was sitting against the footboard, the next… he was standing, slowly and carefully as though any sudden movement might frighten Izuku back into the night.
His knees nearly gave out beneath him, stiff from sitting on the floor for so long, but he barely noticed. Every muscle in his body felt impossibly heavy, every heartbeat thundering so loudly that he was amazed he could still hear the wind outside the window. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, trembling with the effort it took not to reach for the boy sitting only a few feet away.
Neither of them looked anywhere else, not for a second. Katsuki drank him in with a desperation that bordered on reverence, his eyes tracing every bruise, every bandage, every exhausted line carved into Izuku's face. He searched him the way a starving man searched the horizon for the first glimpse of land, terrified that if he looked away for even a millisecond, the miracle before him would dissolve into smoke.
He couldn't stop cataloging the evidence of his existence—the tiny scar beneath Izuku's chin, the way one stubborn curl refused to stay out of his eyes, the faint rise and fall of his chest that proved he was breathing.
Izuku looked at him exactly the same way, like he was memorizing him. Like he'd spent six months terrified he'd forgotten the shape of Katsuki's face.
His smile had disappeared, not because he was unhappy, but because it had become too much. His eyes shimmered with fresh tears as they wandered over Katsuki's features with quiet disbelief, lingering on the tracks tears had carved down his cheeks, on the swollen redness around his eyes, on the scratches decorating his hands from where he'd destroyed two bedrooms with his own explosions. There was so much grief written across Katsuki's face that Izuku's expression softened into something unbearably tender.
He looked… heartbroken, but not for himself. For Katsuki, and the realization made Katsuki's chest ache. Even now. Even after everything. Izuku was still looking at him like his first instinct was to make sure Katsuki was okay.
God, he really hadn't changed.
Neither of them spoke. Words suddenly felt too small and too fragile. Anything either of them said now threatened to crack whatever impossible spell had settled over the room, and neither of them was willing to risk it. They had spent six months speaking through letters, through silence, through memories, through guilt. Somehow, simply looking at each other said more than language ever could. And while they both knew that it couldn’t have been more than a few hours since seeing each other on that rooftop, it felt like seeing the sun for the first time after being in the dark for years.
Then, Izuku shifted. It was barely noticeable, just a careful shift of his weight as he prepared to climb fully into the room, but Katsuki saw the pain before Izuku could hide it. His shoulders tensed as one hand instinctively pressed against the bandages wrapped around his ribs, his jaw tightening against whatever agony shot through his body. The faint smile he'd been wearing wavered for only a heartbeat before he forced another careful breath into aching lungs, determined to make it the rest of the way inside.
He was trying so hard.
Slowly, Izuku lowered his weight from the windowsill, keeping one hand wrapped tightly around the frame while his feet searched for solid ground. Every movement was painstakingly deliberate, as though his body had forgotten how to belong to him after the fight. His injured leg trembled violently the moment it accepted his weight, but he stubbornly kept going anyway.
His eyes never left Katsuki's, not once. It was almost enough to distract him from the pain. His second foot finally reached the floor, and for one hopeful second… he was standing completely unsupported by anything but sheer will and determination.
Then his knee gave out, and the strength disappeared from his body so suddenly it looked less like stumbling and more like someone had quietly pulled the strings keeping him upright. His vision flickered with pain, his hand slipped from the window frame, and his body tipped sideways before he could even think to catch himself.
"Kac—"
Katsuki was already there. He didn't even remember crossing the room. One moment there had been six feet between them, the next… he caught him.
One arm slid instinctively beneath Izuku's arm and across the breadth of his back, catching him firmly before he could collapse to the floor. Katsuki's grip was impossibly secure without being forceful, holding just enough of Izuku's weight to stop the fall while being painstakingly careful of the bruises and bandages hidden beneath his torn shirt.
His other hand moved without permission, without thought or hesitation. It came up to cradle the back of Izuku's head.
His palm settled gently against soft curls. His fingers threaded instinctively through green hair that had grown longer than he remembered, slipping carefully between tangled strands until they rested against Izuku's scalp. He didn't grip, he simply… held him, protected him, shielded the back of his head from ever reaching the floor.
The movement was so natural it startled him, as though his body had remembered something his heart had been denied for far too long.
Izuku froze. Not because of the pain, but because of the touch. His breath caught somewhere between surprise and relief, and for one suspended heartbeat neither of them moved. Katsuki could feel every shallow inhale against his chest, every tiny tremor running through Izuku's exhausted body as adrenaline finally surrendered to reality.
Their faces were suddenly close, painfully close. Close enough for Katsuki to see the tiny freckles scattered across Izuku's nose. Close enough to notice how swollen his eyelids were from crying. Close enough to count the individual lashes clumped together by tears. Close enough to feel the warmth of Izuku's breath ghost across his skin.
They stared at each other, neither blinking or speaking.
Katsuki's hand remained buried in those impossibly familiar curls, his thumb brushing almost imperceptibly against the side of Izuku's head. He hadn't realized how desperately he'd missed this until now. The sensation was achingly familiar, like rediscovering a language he'd been born speaking but had forgotten somewhere along the way.
Izuku didn't pull away. He didn't apologize. He didn't insist he was okay. Instead… his shoulders finally sagged. Not from weakness, but from surrender, the kind that only happened when someone realized they no longer had to hold themselves together.
Very slowly, almost cautiously, Izuku leaned the rest of his weight into Katsuki's arm, and his forehead dipped forward until it rested lightly against Katsuki's shoulder. The hand not wrapped in bandages slowly found the front of Katsuki's costume. His fingers curled into the fabric, tentatively at first, then tighter, like he was afraid Katsuki might disappear if he loosened his grip.
Katsuki's arm around his back tightened instinctively, drawing him just a fraction closer without jostling his injuries. His other hand never left Izuku's hair, his fingers continuing to comb gently through tangled curls with slow, absent strokes that neither of them had consciously chosen.
It wasn't romantic, not yet. It was something older, something infinitely deeper. It was instinct. It was home. It was every unsaid thing Katsuki and Izuku held inside for 16 years.
Izuku buried his face a little farther against Katsuki's shoulder, his breathing faltered, then Katsuki felt it. A warm tear slipping through his shirt, followed by another, and another.
Still… he never released him, not even for a second. After all the distance and letters and broken promises, words could wait. For now, being held was enough for both of them.
Izuku's composure lasted exactly three seconds before it shattered. The sob that escaped him wasn't loud or dramatic—it was exhausted. The kind of sound that came from someone whose body had been holding itself together through nothing but determination, only to discover—far too suddenly—that it didn't have to anymore.
His grip on Katsuki's shirt tightened until his knuckles turned white and his shoulders shook violently as every breath caught halfway into his lungs before breaking apart into another quiet, uneven sob.
Katsuki didn't say anything… there wasn't anything to say. He simply held him, one hand still buried carefully in green curls while the other remained wrapped securely around Izuku's back, supporting as much of his weight as possible.
Slowly… he felt Izuku's legs begin to tremble. Not from emotion, but from pure exhaustion. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, muscles finally surrendering after hours of abuse. Katsuki noticed immediately.
"I've got you." The words were instinctive. He shifted his grip carefully, tightening the arm around Izuku's back while making sure not to jar his ribs. Every movement was painfully deliberate, as though he were handling something impossibly fragile. He didn't rush him, he simply followed the slow collapse of Izuku's body until both of their knees touched the floor together.
Izuku never fought him, never apologized, he just… let himself be lowered. The moment his knees touched the hardwood, another shaky breath escaped him as though standing had been hurting far more than he'd admitted. His forehead remained resting against Katsuki's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut while he struggled to steady his breathing. The only sounds filling the ruined bedroom were Izuku's uneven breaths and the occasional crackle of settling wood somewhere behind them.
Eventually, Katsuki spoke. "Easy." His voice was softer than Izuku had heard it in years. "So damn stubborn..." There wasn't any irritation behind the words, only worry.
Katsuki carefully slipped his hand from the back of Izuku's head, replacing it with his shoulder as support while he slowly shifted their positions. One hand stayed firmly around Izuku's waist, refusing to let him fall, as Katsuki guided him backward a few careful inches at a time until his back met the wall beneath the open window.
The cool surface seemed to steal a tiny breath from Izuku. He winced, tried to hide it and failed.
"There." Katsuki crouched in front of him. "Don't move."
Izuku blinked. "...Okay."
For the first time since he'd climbed through the window… Katsuki looked—really looked. Not at Izuku's face, but at everything else.
His eyes dropped to the shredded remains of the costume. There was barely enough fabric left to call it clothing. Blackened tears stretched across the chest and shoulders where explosions and debris had ripped through it, while dried blood had stiffened entire sections into dark crimson patches. The utility straps had been snapped clean through, one hanging uselessly at Izuku's side, and whatever armor had once protected him had long since splintered into cracked fragments barely clinging to the fabric.
Katsuki's jaw tightened. "This has to come off."
Izuku looked down. "Oh." He sounded almost surprised. "Yeah."
"It'll hurt."
"I figured."
Katsuki waited. "...Can I?"
Izuku looked back up at him. There wasn't a hint of hesitation, he simply nodded. "Yeah."
Very carefully… Katsuki reached for the torn collar. His fingers were almost painfully gentle as he worked the ruined fabric away from bruised skin, taking advantage of every rip already carved into it instead of forcing anything over fresh injuries. Every inch of movement earned another sharp inhale from Izuku, whose jaw remained clenched so tightly Katsuki thought he might crack a tooth before making a sound.
"Easy."
"I'm trying."
"I know."
The remains of the costume slid from one shoulder, then the other, and by the time Katsuki had worked the shredded fabric away from Izuku's upper body… he couldn't breathe.
"Jesus Christ, Izuku." His voice barely existed.
The bruising was catastrophic. Deep purples and sickly blues spread across Izuku's ribs, shoulders, and chest in violent blooms that disappeared beneath hastily wrapped bandages already soaked through in places. Fresh abrasions crossed his collarbones, while angry burns and cuts layered over older scars until it became difficult to tell where one injury ended and another began.
But that wasn't what made Katsuki's stomach turn. His left shoulder sat wrong, not dramatically, but just enough. It hung lower than the other, the joint visibly displaced beneath bruised skin.
Katsuki swallowed hard. "Izuku."
"I know."
"You knew?"
"Yeah."
His gaze shifted lower to his right arm. His forearm had swollen beneath a crude splint assembled from broken pieces of support gear and strips of torn cape. Blood had seeped through the wrappings before drying into dark rust-colored stains, and the bruising around his wrist suggested he'd kept using it long after it should've stopped working.
It was broken… badly.
"Damn it." Izuku's eyes stayed on Katsuki, watching him curiously as Katsuki continued his examination, fingertips hovering instead of touching whenever he found another injury. Another bruise. Another cut. Another place where Izuku had obviously kept fighting despite every rational reason to stop.
Then… he noticed them. They were faint now, already beginning to disappear, but still prevalent enough. Thin, dark lines stretched beneath Izuku's skin, spiderwebbing across his ribs, shoulder, and abdomen like shadows left behind by lightning. They weren't bruises. They were something stranger—almost like impressions pressed into muscle itself.
The remnants of blackwhip. Evidence of a quirk that had spent hours holding together a body that should've collapsed long before the battle ended.
Katsuki remembered watching it. Watching those tendrils wrap tighter every time Izuku stumbled, every time another part of him failed.
His stomach twisted violently. "You were literally holding yourself together."
Izuku looked down at the fading marks. "I guess."
"Knew it."
"It was easier than falling apart."
Katsuki closed his eyes, and for one brief second… he couldn't look at him. When he finally did, Izuku was still watching him. The curiosity hadn't left, if anything, it had grown. He tilted his head slightly. Studying Katsuki's expression the same way he used to study new hero costumes or impossible battle strategies, as though he were trying to solve something.
Katsuki noticed. "What?"
Izuku blinked. "Nothing."
"Bullshit." A tiny smile tugged weakly at the corner of Izuku's mouth.
"You're different."
Katsuki frowned. "Different how?"
"I don't know." His eyes searched Katsuki's face. "You've been looking at me for..." he glanced briefly toward the broken clock lying across the floor. "...a while." Another pause. "Usually people stop looking."
The sentence hit Katsuki harder than any punch ever had. Izuku said it so casually, like it was simply something he'd come to expect. Katsuki didn't—he couldn't—not now, not ever again.
He reached for another strip of ruined fabric, carefully moving it aside so he could see the damage beneath Izuku's ribs.
His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. "What're you doing here, Izuku?"
Izuku's eyes lifted from where Katsuki's hands hovered carefully over his bruised ribs. "Do you not want me here?"
Katsuki froze. His head snapped up so fast it almost looked painful. "What?"
Izuku immediately looked away. "I mean," his fingers fidgeted weakly against the floor beside him. "You asked what I was doing here." His voice grew quieter. "So I just..." A small shrug. "...thought maybe..."
He couldn't even finish the sentence.
Katsuki stared at him for exactly one heartbeat before realization hit him like an explosion. "No." The word came out immediately. "No, no—fuck, that's not what I meant."
Izuku looked back at him, confusion blossoming across his face. Katsuki scrubbed a frustrated hand over his face before letting out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a groan.
"Izuku," He shook his head. "I wasn't asking why you came because I didn't want you here." His voice softened. "I was asking because I couldn't figure out how the hell you ended up climbing through my window."
Izuku blinked. "Oh." The single syllable carried enough embarrassment to make Katsuki want to laugh and cry at the same time. "I thought," Izuku rubbed absently at his sleeve. "...never mind."
"No." Katsuki pointed at him. "Don't do that."
"What?"
"That." Izuku frowned. "'Never mind.'" Katsuki sighed. "You don't get to decide what I meant before I actually say it."
A tiny, sheepish smile flickered across Izuku's face. "Sorry."
"There it is."
"What?"
"The apologizing."
Izuku's smile disappeared just as quickly. "...Right."
Katsuki shook his head. "We're gonna work on that."
Before Izuku could ask what that meant, Katsuki's eyes drifted around the destroyed bedroom. Drawers had been ripped out, glass littered the floor, books were scattered everywhere, and one dresser had collapsed onto its side, spilling clothes halfway across the room. Then—near the broken desk, half-buried beneath splintered wood and a shattered picture frame, sat a white plastic box with a faded red cross across the lid.
Katsuki reached across the floor, stretching just enough to hook two fingers through the handle before dragging it back toward them. The lid snapped open, it was mostly full, and Katsuki thanked whatever luck he had. He immediately started sorting through gauze, antiseptic, wraps, scissors—
"I need to look at that shoulder."
Izuku visibly tensed. "Okay."
"It has to go back in."
"I figured." Katsuki met his eyes. "This is gonna hurt."
Izuku laughed quietly. "Yeah."
Katsuki hesitated before speaking again. "If you need to yell—"
Izuku shook his head almost immediately. "I can't."
Katsuki frowned. "What?"
"I don't," Izuku glanced toward the shattered bedroom door before looking back at him. "I don't want anyone else to know I'm here yet."
The words settled heavily between them. Katsuki studied him for another second before giving a small nod. "Okay." His eyes dropped briefly toward the first aid kit before finding Izuku's again. "Then bite down on something."
He reached beside them, grabbing the corner of the shredded fabric from Izuku's ruined costume and rolling it into a thick bundle. Carefully, he held it out, and Izuku took it without a word, tucking the fabric between his teeth before looking back at Katsuki.
His emerald eyes never left him as Katsuki gave a tiny nod. "Keep looking at me." Izuku nodded once.
Katsuki took one slow breath, then—one quick movement, and a sickening clunk echoed through the room as the joint slid back into place.
Izuku's entire body seized. His eyes flew impossibly wide as the pain ripped through him, every muscle locking so violently it looked like he might come apart at the seams. The muffled cry that tore free was swallowed by the fabric clenched between his teeth, tears springing instantly to his eyes as his broken arm instinctively tried to move with the rest of him before another wave of agony crashed through it.
Almost instinctively… his head dropped forward. It landed against Katsuki's shoulder with enough force to tell him just how hard Izuku had been fighting to stay still, and before Katsuki even realized he'd moved, one hand had already found the back of Izuku's head. His fingers slipped gently into tangled green curls, cradling him there without a second thought.
"Hey." His voice came quietly. "Hey..." Izuku shook uncontrollably against him. "I know." Katsuki's hand remained steady against the back of his head. "I know."
For several long seconds, Izuku couldn't breathe. His shoulders trembled violently beneath Katsuki's hand as he fought to pull air back into his lungs, every instinct still trying to keep the cry trapped behind clenched teeth.
"Breathe." Katsuki spoke softly. "You've got it."
It took a few seconds before air rushed painfully back into Izuku's lungs. He sagged heavily against Katsuki's shoulder with a ragged gasp, the makeshift bite cloth falling uselessly into his lap as another wave of tears escaped him.
"Ow."
Katsuki actually snorted. "Yeah."
"I hate you."
"You don't."
"No." A weak laugh escaped Izuku through the tears. "I really don't."
Katsuki reached for fresh gauze, carefully cleaning another cut stretching across Izuku's side. The antiseptic stung immediately and Izuku hissed between his teeth in response.
"Sorry."
"You've apologized four times in the last five minutes."
"Sorry."
"Five."
Despite himself and his current state… Izuku smiled. It disappeared as quickly as it came when Katsuki uncovered another bruise blooming across his ribs. "Jesus."
There was barely any uninjured skin left. Every inch of Izuku looked like evidence. Evidence of six months. Evidence of every rooftop. Every villain. Every sleepless night. Every sacrifice.
Katsuki's hands remained busy, replacing blood-soaked bandages with clean ones, carefully wrapping fresh gauze around cuts that should have been treated hours ago as he tried not to think about the instances that put them there.
He couldn't stop looking or imagining what each injury had cost. What lengths Izuku had gone to protect a random stranger. What limits he put his body through just to win another fight.
Finally… very quietly… he spoke again, his voice barely recognizable to himself. "I thought the world needed you."
Izuku looked over. "What?"
Katsuki didn't meet his eyes. "I thought..." his jaw tightened. "...you weren't coming back." Another bandage, another bruise, another reminder. "I figured," he laughed bitterly, "you'd decided."
Izuku frowned. "Decided what?"
"That you weren't allowed to." Katsuki finally looked up. "I thought you were gonna stay gone until you'd fulfilled some prophecy or bullshit." The words came out rough and angrier than he'd intended. "As long as there was one more villain. One more person to save. One more city to rebuild. One more thing only Izuku Midoriya could fix," his voice cracked. "I thought you'd keep choosing that over yourself."
The only sound was the soft rustle of the gauze as Katsuki continued wrapping it around Izuku’s battered torso. His hands weren’t made for this—they never had been. These hands were built to destroy. Hands that had spent years creating explosions powerful enough to level buildings, shatter concrete, and send villains crashing through steel. Every scar across his palms had been earned through violence. Every callus had been carved there by combat.
Healing had never belonged to him, and yet… as his fingers adjusted another bandage with painstaking care, taking extra time to smooth the edges so they wouldn’t catch against torn skin, he realized he never wanted anything more than for these hands to become the thing Izuku needed.
Not fists. Not weapons. Just something gentle enough to put him back together.
"I thought," Katsuki continued, "you'd keep running until there wasn't anything left of you." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I thought I'd hear about it on the news one day. 'Masked Vigilante Hero Dies Saving Thousands.'" A hollow laugh escaped him. "Everybody'd call you a legend. They'd build statues. They'd write books. They'd tell kids how brave you were." His thumb pressed absentmindedly against the edge of fresh gauze. “And I'd..." his voice finally shattered, any composure he had leaving his body. "I'd be standing there wondering why nobody bothered saving you."
The sentence barely reached the end before it broke apart. His head lowered… he couldn’t look at Izuku anymore because if he did, he knew he’d lose whatever little control he had left.
The room became painfully still. Even the wind drifting through the broken window seemed to quiet itself around them. Katsuki stared down at the bandages around Izuku’s ribs without really seeing them.
His hands rested there motionless. The gauze was secure, the tape had already been smoothed into place—there was nothing left to fix. Nothing left for his hands to distract themselves with.
Slowly… he forced himself to look back up, only to realize Izuku had never looked away. Those familiar green eyes were still resting on him with quiet unwavering attention, listening to every word like each one mattered.
Katsuki’s own vision blurred at the sign, his crimson eyes burning with tears he was too exhausted to fight anymore.
"I thought that was how this ended." His expression twisted with quiet heartbreak. "With you saving the whole damn world right up until it finally killed you."
Another silence stretched between them long enough that Katsuki wondered if he’d already said too much… or maybe not enough.
He rubbed absentmindedly at the dried blood still staining the side of his thumb before finally admitting the trust he’s been too afraid to speak aloud for months.
"I really thought that I'd never see you climb through my window again."
The confession lingered in the air between them. Not angry anymore, not even accusatory, just heartbreak… and months of it. Months spent waiting for footsteps that never came. Months spent staring out an open window every night, convincing himself he wasn't hoping while praying to every god he'd never believed in that somehow… Izuku Midoriya would prove him wrong.
Katsuki let the silence linger for another minute. Not because he was finished talking, but because he wasn't sure he trusted himself to keep going. He reached for one last strip of gauze instead, carefully wrapping it around the cuts scattered across Izuku's forearm. His fingers worked with practiced precision, smoothing every edge flat, checking each knot twice before tying it off. Once it was secure, he moved to the smaller cuts along Izuku's neck, dabbing away dried blood with a damp cloth before pressing fresh ointment over each one. Every injury he treated felt like another question he didn't know how to ask.
Izuku never pulled away. He barely moved at all. He simply sat with his back against the wall, watching Katsuki's face instead of his hands. Watching every tiny change in expression. Every twitch of his jaw. Every time his brows pulled together. Every time he swallowed words before they reached his mouth.
Katsuki noticed. "Quit looking at me like that."
Izuku tilted his head slightly. "Like what?"
"Like you're trying to figure out what's wrong."
A tiny, tired smile flickered across Izuku's lips. "I already know what's wrong."
Katsuki let out a humorless laugh. "Do you?"
"I hurt you." The answer came so quickly it stole the next sentence right out of Katsuki's mouth. "I know I did." Another strip of tape disappeared beneath Katsuki's thumb. "I know—"
"No." Katsuki finally looked up. "You know you left." His voice stayed frustratingly calm. "You don't know what that did."
Izuku opened his mouth, but Katsuki didn't let him speak. "You stood there after I spilled every goddamn thing I've spent my whole life choking back." His breathing deepened. "I told you I loved you. I told you I wasn't asking you to save the world… I was just asking you to stay alive." His hands kept moving, almost mechanically now, cleaning another shallow scrape beneath Izuku's collarbone. "And then you looked me in the eye and walked away."
Izuku lowered his gaze. "Kacchan—"
"No." The word wasn't sharp, it was tired. "So answer me." Katsuki finally sat back on his heels, the first aid kit forgotten beside his knee. "Because I still don't get it." His crimson eyes searched Izuku's face. "I've replayed that rooftop so many damn times I know every word you said. You told me the world needed One For All. You told me people needed you. You told me you didn't get to be selfish." His jaw clenched. "You made it sound like loving me was something you couldn't afford."
Izuku's face crumpled almost immediately. "I never meant—"
"I know what you meant." Katsuki cut him off again. "But that's what I heard." The words came faster now, less guarded. "Do you have any idea what it felt like standing there watching you leave again?" His eyes burned. "I couldn't chase you. I couldn't stop you. I couldn't drag you back. So I just… stood there. I stood there while the person I've loved since we were brats walked away from me for the third damn time."
The room fell silent again. Katsuki scrubbed both hands over his face before dropping them into his lap. "When you disappeared the first time..." his voice had gone quiet again. "I told myself not to wait. I told myself you made your choice. I told myself if I kept looking out that stupid window every night, I was gonna drive myself insane." A weak smile crossed his face. "...Didn't stop me, though."
Every night—every single damn night he'd leave the window unlocked. Even in the rain. Even when the cold made the room unbearable. Because some irrational part of him kept insisting that maybe… tonight. Maybe tonight would be different.
"So when I finally found you," he shook his head slowly. "I didn't know whether to grab you..." his voice cracked. "...or scream at you."
Another long silence settled over them. Katsuki looked down at his bloodstained hands. Then quietly, almost helplessly, he asked again.
"So tell me." His eyes lifted to meet Izuku's. "Why?"
The single word carried everything the others hadn't.
Why come back?
Why now?
Why after making him believe goodbye was permanent?
Why after looking him in the eye and choosing the world over him one last time?
Katsuki's shoulders slumped as though the question itself weighed too much to carry.
"You don't get it." His voice had become little more than a whisper. "I would've understood if you never came back." Izuku's head snapped up. Katsuki continued before he could interrupt. "I would've hated it. I would've spent the rest of my life angry. I probably would've spent the rest of my life loving you anyway." A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "But I would've understood."
His expression fell again. "What I can't understand," his eyes searched Izuku's with quiet desperation, "is why you left me on that rooftop only to climb back through my window a couple hours later."
He leaned forward slightly, close enough that Izuku could see every exhausted crack in his expression.
"So tell me the truth. No hero answer. No All Might answer. No saving-the-world bullshit." His voice broke on the last sentence. "I don't want the answer One For All would've given me." He held Izuku's gaze without looking away. "I want yours."
And for the first time since Izuku had climbed into the room… Katsuki fell completely silent. He didn't interrupt. He didn't fill the space. He simply waited, because after six months… after chases and letters and rooftops and three impossible goodbyes… he needed Izuku Midoriya—not the hero, not the symbol, not the successor—to finally tell him why he'd come home.
The silence stretched. Not awkward or empty, just... full. Full of everything Katsuki had finally said and full of everything Izuku still hadn't.
Izuku lowered his eyes to his lap. His fingers worried absentmindedly at his torn costume in his lap, the movement slow and distracted. His breathing had finally steadied, though every inhale still pulled painfully against freshly wrapped ribs. Katsuki watched him think, watched the familiar crease settle between his brows, and knew exactly what was happening.
He was searching for the right words, just like he always did, and Katsuki gave him the time. He reached down, quietly closing the first aid kit before pushing it aside with his foot. Most of the injuries he could realistically treat had been cleaned and bandaged now. The rest would have to wait until Izuku finally let someone with actual medical training look at him.
"Hang on." Izuku didn't respond. He was still staring at the floor. Katsuki planted one hand against the hardwood and slowly stood. The movement had barely begun—
"Kacchan," his voice cracked. Katsuki looked down just in time to see Izuku lurch forward, and without thinking or stopping to consider the consequences, he reached for him.
His left hand shot out first. The shoulder Katsuki had only moments ago forced back into place stretched farther than it ever should have, and before Katsuki could stop him, trembling fingers closed desperately around his wrist.
The pain was immediate and it flooded across Izuku's face before he could hide it. His breath caught sharply in his throat and his entire arm shook from the strain, his fingers tightening instinctively instead of letting go as a quiet, strangled sound escaped between clenched teeth.
"Shit." Katsuki was back on the floor before the word had even finished leaving his mouth. One knee hit the hardwood hard enough to sting. "Izuku." His voice was gentle now, far gentler than it had been seconds earlier. "Easy." He immediately caught Izuku's forearm with his free hand, carefully supporting the injured shoulder so the joint wouldn't bear any more weight. "What're you doing?"
Izuku blinked, and for a second, he looked almost confused by his own actions, then his grip tightened again. "I..." his voice barely existed. "I thought you were leaving."
The confession landed somewhere deep beneath Katsuki's ribs, small, quiet, and terrified. Terrified enough that he'd reached out with an arm that had only just been put back together. Enough that the pain hadn't mattered.
Katsuki felt something inside his chest twist painfully. "No." The word came immediately, firm and certain. "No." He shook his head once. "I'm not leaving." Izuku's eyes searched his face as though trying to decide whether he believed him. "I was just gonna grab you something to wear." His thumb brushed gently across the back of Izuku's hand. "That's it. I'm not going anywhere."
Not this time. Not again.
The room fell quiet, and slowly… almost reluctantly… Izuku loosened his grip. His fingers slid away from Katsuki's wrist one by one until his hand finally settled back into his lap.
"Sorry."
Katsuki sighed. "Quit apologizing." A tiny, embarrassed smile crossed Izuku's face before disappearing again.
Katsuki waited another second anyway, just to make sure, and only after he was certain Izuku wasn't about to try standing did he push himself back to his feet.
This time, he never turned his back. He backed carefully toward the destroyed dresser instead, keeping his eyes on Izuku the entire time. His hand reached behind him, feeling blindly through overturned drawers and scattered piles of clothes until his fingers finally brushed soft cotton. He tugged out the first clean black T-shirt he found, followed by a pair of gray sweatpants half-buried beneath a hoodie.
The entire time… his eyes never left Izuku, almost as if he were afraid that if he looked away, the window would be empty again.
He stepped back over the debris and crouched once more, setting the clothes carefully beside Izuku before sitting back on his heels.
Neither of them spoke and the quiet returned. Only the sound of rain beginning to patter softly against the windows filled the room.
Katsuki didn't rush him, didn't repeat the question… he'd already asked it. Now… he simply waited.
Izuku stared at the folded T-shirt resting beside him. His fingers drifted slowly over the fabric before falling still again.
When he finally spoke… his voice was barely more than a whisper. "I read your letter."
Katsuki stopped breathing. Every muscle in his body went perfectly still. Even the rain seemed to disappear beyond the pounding suddenly filling his ears.
Izuku never looked up, he just kept staring at the shirt in his lap. "I read your letter." He repeated it more quietly this time, as though those four words alone explained everything.
Katsuki didn't say anything. He couldn't. The words I read your letter settled over the room like fresh snowfall, soft enough to be almost silent and yet heavy enough to bury everything else beneath them.
The rain continued tapping gently against the open window, the breeze stirring the curtains behind him, but Katsuki barely registered any of it. He simply watched Izuku, waiting, afraid that if he spoke too soon the moment would disappear before he could understand it.
Izuku didn't meet his eyes at first. His fingers curled around the folded letter resting in his lap, tracing absentmindedly over every crease the paper had earned from being carried against his chest through explosions, rain, blood, and rubble. The envelope had become worn around the edges, softened by sweat and trembling hands, and Katsuki realized with a painful ache that Izuku had protected it almost as carefully as he'd protected One For All.
When Izuku finally spoke again, his voice was quiet enough that Katsuki had to lean forward to catch every word.
"After I left the rooftop, I didn't make it very far. I kept telling myself I just needed to put more distance between us. One more block. One more rooftop. One more building. I don't even remember where I was going anymore, my body kind of just... stopped listening to me. I found an abandoned factory—at least, I think it was a factory. I honestly couldn't tell you why I went inside. I think I just saw four walls and decided they were good enough."
A small, humorless laugh escaped him before fading just as quickly.
"I collapsed. I didn't choose to stop, my legs just gave out underneath me. I hit the concrete so hard I remember hearing my shoulder slam against the floor, and after that... I couldn't move anymore. My shoulder was already dislocated, my arm barely worked, every breath felt like someone was driving glass into my ribs, and I remember trying to push myself back up before realizing my body had already made the decision for me."
His gaze drifted toward the open window, but it wasn't seeing the bedroom anymore. It was somewhere else entirely. "I just... laid there. I don't know for how long. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe an hour. Time stopped making much sense. Part of the roof had collapsed years ago, and there were these huge holes overhead where the steel beams had rusted through and when I looked up, I could see the stars. They kept disappearing every time the clouds drifted over them, and I remember thinking how strange it was that the sky could still look so beautiful when everything hurt so much." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the letter.
"And then..." He swallowed hard. "I started thinking about you. Not the fight or All For One or One For All. Just... you. I kept replaying the rooftop over and over again. Every word you said. Every word I said. Every expression on your face. The way you looked at me when you told me you loved me. The way your voice sounded when you asked me to stay. The way you cried."
His voice cracked.
"I couldn't stop asking myself the same questions. What if that was the last time I ever saw Kacchan? What if I'm really running straight toward my own death? What if tomorrow comes... and I never get to come back? What if I never get another chance to tell him everything I should've said?" A tear slipped silently down his cheek.
"I'd spent six months convincing myself that dying was just... part of the job. That if it happened, it happened… I made peace with that a long time ago. But lying there on the brink of death... all I could think about was the fact that if I died the next day... the last memory I'd ever have of you would be watching you cry while I walked away from you, and I realized I wasn't scared of dying. I was terrified that I'd never see you again."
The room had become impossibly still. Katsuki had forgotten to breathe, the air kept catching in his throat.
Izuku looked down at the letter again, brushing his thumb gently across Katsuki's familiar handwriting. "So... I finally opened it. I remember thinking that if those were going to be the last words I'd ever get from you, then I wanted to know what they were. I wanted to know everything you'd been carrying by yourself."
He smiled then, and it was heartbreak in its gentlest form. "I read every single word." His thumb continued tracing the paper as though he could still feel the ink beneath it. "I read every confession. Every apology. Every dream you wrote down. You wrote about grocery shopping together. About lazy mornings. About movie nights. About growing old. About waking up beside me. About building an ordinary life that neither of us ever thought we'd get to have.” Tears were beginning to form in his eyes, the moonlight catching them just enough to shine against the brilliant green.
“You wrote about all the little moments most people never even think about... and somehow those were the things that broke me the most. They weren't grand gestures. They weren't dramatic promises. They were just... a future. A future where I got to exist as Izuku instead of a symbol."
His breathing faltered. "And then I got to the parts where you talked about loving me." He laughed softly through another tear. "I don't think anyone has ever loved me the way you do."
The words barely made it out before his voice broke again. "I had to stop reading three different times because I couldn't see the pages anymore. I kept crying so hard the words blurred together, and every time I wiped my eyes, I realized I wasn't crying because I was sad." He looked up at Katsuki. "I was crying because you meant every single word."
Another tear rolled down his face. "And then I got angry." He shook his head immediately. "Not at you." His hand tightened around the folded paper until his knuckles whitened. "At myself."
The confession came out in a whisper. "I kept thinking... You've loved him since you were a little kid. You've spent your whole life wondering what it would feel like to hear him say those words. He's standing in front of you telling you he loves you, handing you every piece of his heart... a-and you still walked away."
He closed his eyes for a moment, visibly struggling to steady his breathing before continuing. "I understood why the hero left that rooftop. I understood every reason I gave you. I still do. But... for the first time in six months, I realized that the person who walked away wasn't just me. It was the part of me that only knows how to sacrifice itself. The part that believes everyone deserves saving except Izuku Midoriya."
He opened his eyes again. "But lying on that floor... r-reading your letter... I realized something that scared me even more than dying." His voice became almost impossibly soft. "I realized I couldn't bear the thought of going another day without knowing what it felt like to choose the life you were asking me to have."
Another long silence settled over the room.
"So I stood up." He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Well... eventually." The smallest smile appeared. "It took a while." His hand drifted unconsciously toward his shoulder. "It hurt more than I thought a person was even able to hurt." The smile disappeared again. "But none of it mattered anymore."
His eyes found Katsuki's. "I wasn't walking toward All For One anymore." His voice barely rose above a whisper. "I was walking toward you." He looked toward the open window behind Katsuki, his expression softening with the memory.
"I came here first. I climbed all the way up to your balcony because I knew exactly where your room was... and when I got there..." He smiled sadly. "...the window was closed." His shoulders slumped ever so slightly. "I remember just standing there. I stared at it for what felt like forever. I thought I'd missed my chance. I thought maybe you'd gone to sleep... or maybe you didn't want to see me anymore. I actually turned around. I really was going to leave."
His eyes shimmered again. "And then... my window opened." His entire expression changed into relief. "And I saw you." His voice became almost reverent. "I saw you standing here. I saw what was left of my room. I watched you walk over to the window and sit on the floor like you'd done it a hundred times before. I couldn't hear everything because the wind kept stealing pieces of your voice, but I heard enough. I heard you say you were tired of pretending I wasn't coming home. I heard you tell an empty room that you loved me. I watched you leave the window open..." his lips trembled. "...just like you promised."
He looked back at Katsuki, tears glistening openly in exhausted green eyes. "I stood outside listening for a long time because I needed to know if you still meant it. If the letter still meant it. If everything you said on that rooftop was still true after I broke your heart. I needed to know if you still loved me... even after I walked away."
He fell silent. The question lingered between them without asking itself aloud, and Katsuki… still hadn't answered. Not because Katsuki didn't want to answer, but because he couldn't.
The question settled somewhere deep inside his chest, heavy enough to steal the air from his lungs, wrapping itself around every fear he'd spent years burying beneath anger, pride, and words he never let himself say. He simply stared at Izuku, his lips parted ever so slightly as though the answer was already there, waiting to be spoken, only to discover that his entire mind had gone blank. Everything he'd rehearsed during six months of sleepless nights, six months of staring through an open window into an empty sky, six months of talking to a room that never answered him, disappeared the moment Izuku asked if he had meant it.
He couldn't believe… that that was the question.
Not after everything. Not after the rooftop. Not after the letter. Not after climbing halfway across the city with broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and enough blood on his clothes to make Katsuki's stomach turn.
Izuku still wasn't sure.
The realization struck Katsuki harder than any explosion ever had. After every confession, after every tear, after ripping his own heart open and placing it in Izuku's hands… Izuku still believed there was a chance none of it had been real.
Something inside Katsuki cracked all over again. Izuku watched him carefully. He'd always been able to read Katsuki better than anyone else, but tonight he couldn't. There was too much grief behind crimson eyes. Too much exhaustion. Too much love.
The silence stretched long enough for uncertainty to begin creeping back into emerald eyes, quiet and insidious, slipping into every space Katsuki's silence left behind. Izuku's fingers tightened almost unconsciously around the worn envelope resting in his lap, wrinkling the paper beneath trembling fingertips as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the room.
"Kacchan?" His voice was barely audible, tentative and careful, like he was afraid speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thing existed between them. "I..." He stopped. His throat worked around words that refused to come. Then, after gathering what little courage he still had left, he tried again.
"Did you mean it?" The question floated through the room so quietly it almost disappeared beneath the sound of rain tapping gently against the open window. "I know you said it." A slow, uneven breath escaped him. "And I know..." his thumb traced another crease in the folded letter. "...I know you wrote it." His eyes lingered on Katsuki's handwriting for another heartbeat before finally lifting to meet his gaze. "But… did you mean it?"
Another silence settled between them, longer this time and heavier… painfully so. Izuku lowered his eyes again before continuing, each sentence sounding as though it physically hurt to say aloud.
"I need to know if... if everything you wrote in your letter was true." His breathing faltered. "If everything you told me on that rooftop..." his lips trembled. "...was true." Another tear slipped silently down his cheek, tracing the curve of bruised skin before disappearing beneath the collar of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. "I need to know if..." he laughed quietly. The sound was so painfully small it barely deserved to be called laughter. "...if you still love me."
His shoulders sagged beneath the fresh bandages Katsuki had so carefully wrapped around him only minutes before. The ruined costume pooled around his waist couldn't hide the exhaustion written into every line of his body, nor the way pain still lingered in every breath he took.
"Because," his eyes drifted downward to his own hands. For a long moment he simply stared at them. The hands that had once filled notebooks with observations about heroes. The hands that used to shake from excitement instead of trauma. The hands Katsuki remembered grabbing onto his sleeve as children whenever they crossed a busy street.
He barely recognized them anymore. Scar tissue crossed his knuckles in uneven lines. Fresh cuts disappeared beneath clean white bandages. Burns had faded into pale, shiny patches of scarred skin. His nails were cracked and his palms were rough. They looked less like the hands of a sixteen-year-old high school student… and more like someone who'd spent years surviving a war.
"I'm not," he swallowed hard. "I'm not the same Izuku that left UA." His voice became almost impossibly quiet. "I don't… I don't think he exists anymore." The confession lingered between them. Not dramatic or exaggerated, just devastatingly honest.
"I've spent six months watching people die." His fingers slowly curled into his palms. "I've carried children out of burning buildings. I've held strangers while they bled to death. I've sat beside people whose names I never learned because they were already dead before I could even ask."
His breathing became uneven again. "I remember every face." Every word grew heavier, slower, like he had to physically carry each memory into the room before he could speak it aloud. "I remember every person I couldn't reach. Every call I arrived too late to answer. Every villain I couldn't stop. Every life that slipped through my fingers because..." his eyes squeezed shut. "...because I wasn't enough." The words cracked apart on their way out as another tear rolled slowly down his cheek.
"I carry all of them with me." His hand drifted toward one of the older scars stretching across his ribs, his fingertips lingering there. "They're here." He touched another scar running along his forearm. "And here." Then his hand rested gently over the fresh bandages around the shoulder Katsuki had only moments ago forced back into place. "And here."
A broken laugh escaped him. "So many places," he shook his head slowly, "that I don't think there's a part of me left that isn't marked by something." He looked back up, green eyes shimmering beneath swollen lashes. "I'm covered in scars. My hands won't stop shaking. I barely sleep, and when I do," his voice cracked. "I wake up hearing people screaming." His eyes drifted somewhere far away again. "I still hear buildings collapsing. I still hear people calling for help. I still hear..."
He stopped himself, the pain behind his words becoming too much to even speak out loud.
"I don't even remember what it feels like to be sixteen anymore." The sentence left the room impossibly quiet. "I've spent so long trying to become someone strong enough to save everyone, that I don't know how to be the boy you fell in love with."
A long silence followed.
"So…" his breathing hitched again. "...can you?" The question barely existed. "Can you really..." His eyes searched Katsuki's face with a vulnerability so complete it made him look younger and older all at once. "...stand to love someone like me?"
No one moved. The rain whispered softly against the window, the curtains lifted and settled with the evening breeze, and somewhere deep within the dorm building, old pipes groaned behind the walls. Katsuki didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to one boy sitting against a wall wrapped in fresh bandages and self-loathing. To one boy who genuinely believed love had conditions. That it could expire. That it could be earned.
Slowly… almost cautiously… Katsuki lifted one hand. It only made it halfway before stopping. His fingers curled slightly, not because he didn't want to touch him. God… he'd wanted to touch him for years. He'd imagined this more nights than he could count. Holding his hand, brushing his hair back, kissing him, simply existing close enough that touching him wouldn't have to be an accident anymore.
But there was still a frightened part of him—small now, quieter than it used to be, but still breathing—that whispered he might be doing something wrong. That maybe he wasn't allowed. That maybe Izuku would pull away. That maybe wanting this made him selfish.
Those fears had ruled him for years, and he'd only just begun learning how to silence them.
Tonight… he chose not to listen.
Carefully—painstakingly—he closed the remaining distance. The backs of his fingers brushed lightly across Izuku's cheek first, almost asking permission before his palm settled there completely. His touch was impossibly gentle, warm against cool skin, his callused thumb resting just beneath Izuku's eye where another tear had begun to fall.
He caught it before it reached his jaw.
His hand fit there so naturally it almost hurt, as though it had always belonged there. As thought it was a piece of a cruel puzzle that he was only now able to solve.
Katsuki didn't rush to answer. Instead...he looked—really looked. He traced every inch of Izuku's face with quiet reverence. The faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. The healing split in his lip. The dark circles beneath tired green eyes. The bruises. The freckles. The scars. Every mark, every perfect imperfection, every piece of him that Izuku seemed convinced had made him less worthy of love.
Katsuki saw none of it as damage, only evidence. Evidence that against every impossible odd… Izuku had survived long enough to come home. A small smile slowly found its way onto his face, soft, tender, and almost impossibly gentle.
"Izuku," his voice was steadier than it had been all night. Not because he wasn't emotional anymore, but because he'd never been more certain of anything in his entire life. "You're as beautiful..." His thumb stroked slowly across Izuku's cheek, wiping away another tear with the same tenderness someone might use to handle fragile glass. "...as the day I lost you."
The words hung between them, then Katsuki's smile wavered. He shook his head once. "No." His forehead dipped just a fraction closer. "That's not right." Another gentle stroke across his cheek. "You're even more beautiful."
His own eyes shimmered now, not with uncertainty, but with awe. "Because every scar I see," his gaze drifted across the marks Izuku had spent the last several minutes apologizing for, "is proof that you survived. They're proof that you kept coming back."
His thumb rested lightly against the scar beneath Izuku's eye. "I don't love you despite any of this." His voice broke with quiet conviction. "I love every piece of you. The boy who used to follow me around with a notebook. The idiot who jumped in front of a sludge villain without a quirk. The hero who walked away from UA. And the man sitting in front of me now."
He rested his forehead gently against Izuku's, close enough that their breaths mingled between them. "You don't have to become someone easier to love." His eyes slipped closed for just a second. "You never did." When he opened them again… they were filled with nothing but certainty. "You just..." his smile returned, small enough to almost disappear. "...have to let me."
Izuku broke. There wasn't another word for it. It wasn't loud. It wasn't sudden. It was the slow, devastating collapse of something that had been holding far too much weight for far too long.
For six months, he'd survived because he'd convinced himself of one simple truth. That no matter how much people cared… no matter how much they begged… no matter how desperately they reached for him… eventually—they would stop. Eventually they'd realize he wasn't worth the effort. Eventually they'd see what he saw every morning in cracked mirrors and puddles of rainwater. A body held together by scars. A hero who had failed to save everyone.A boy who kept choosing sacrifice over the people who loved him.
He had built walls around that belief until they became stronger than concrete. He stopped answering calls because eventually they would stop calling. He stopped reading messages because eventually they would stop sending them. He stopped imagining a future because eventually he'd die before he ever reached it.
It hurt less that way, or… he'd convinced himself it did.
Now—Katsuki's hand rested against his cheek, warm, steady, and real, and every single wall Izuku had spent six months building cracked all at once. Not because Katsuki had argued with him. Not because he'd tried to convince him.
Because he'd looked every scar in the face… and loved him anyway, not despite them. Because they were part of him. Because they proved he'd survived. Because they proved… at the end of the day… that he'd come home.
Izuku felt another tear fall, then another, then another. He didn't bother wiping them away anymore. He couldn't… his entire body had started shaking. Not from pain. Not from exhaustion. From relief. Pure, overwhelming relief.
His breathing hitched so violently he almost couldn't catch the next one, his chest tightening until it physically ached beneath the fresh bandages Katsuki had wrapped around him. Every thought he'd spent months repeating to himself—the endless litany of you're too broken, you're too selfish, you're too damaged, you're too late—began unraveling one thread at a time until there was nothing left to hold them together.
"Kacchan..." his voice shattered on the name. He tried again, but nothing came out. His lips trembled helplessly. "I..." Another sob escaped him before the sentence could. Katsuki didn't interrupt, didn't rush him, he simply kept his hand where it was, his thumb absentmindedly brushing away tears almost as quickly as new ones replaced them.
Izuku laughed, or tried to, but it came out sounding painfully close to another cry.
"I..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I spent..." His breathing faltered again. "I spent six months trying so hard not to need anybody." His forehead slowly rested against Katsuki's. "So that..." Another broken breath. "...so that when everyone finally gave up on me..." His voice disappeared completely. "...it wouldn't hurt."
The confession hung between them, raw and unprotected… the ugliest truth he'd carried all this time.
"I kept waiting..." Another tear slid down his cheek. "...for you to hate me." His shoulders shook harder. "I thought..." His words dissolved into another sob. "...I thought I deserved it."
Katsuki's heart cracked clean in two. Without thinking, he closed the tiny distance still separating them. His free hand settled gently over Izuku's, careful of the bandages wrapped around swollen knuckles.
"Izuku." His voice was barely more than a breath. "I don't think I could hate you if I lived a thousand years."
Izuku looked up, those exhausted green eyes searching Katsuki's face one more time. Not because he doubted him anymore, but because he wanted to memorize this. The certainty, the softness, the way Katsuki looked at him like he'd just placed the stars themselves into his hands.
Slowly… almost shyly… Izuku leaned forward. Only an inch, then stopped, his forehead remained resting against Katsuki's.
"So," his voice was impossibly small, "it's really okay?"
Katsuki smiled through tears. "What is?"
"To stay."
The words hit Katsuki harder than any confession ever could. Not to date. Not to kiss. Not even to love you. Just—to stay, as though Izuku still couldn't imagine asking for anything bigger.
Katsuki let out the softest, most disbelieving laugh of his life. He shook his head once. "You idiot." There wasn't an ounce of cruelty in it, only affection so overwhelming it threatened to spill out of him. "You never had to ask." He lifted his hand once more, brushing a stubborn curl away from Izuku's forehead before letting his fingertips linger there. "You were always supposed to stay."
Izuku closed his eyes. Another tear escaped, but this one felt different. Not born from grief or guilt or fear… but hope. Real hope. The kind he'd spent six months convincing himself he'd never feel again.
When he opened his eyes, they were impossibly close. Close enough for Katsuki to see every freckle dusting his cheeks. Close enough for Izuku to notice the tears still clinging stubbornly to Katsuki's lashes.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. The room seemed to understand that words had carried them as far as they could. Everything that remained… could only be felt.
Izuku searched Katsuki's face one last time, silently asking a question he no longer knew how to voice, and Katsuki answered it without speaking.
He closed the final inch between them.
The kiss was impossibly gentle. Not an explosion or a wildfire—it was the first ray of sunlight breaking through after a season that had forgotten spring existed. It felt like standing on a shoreline after surviving a shipwreck and realizing the tide had carried you home instead of farther out to sea. It was quiet enough to be mistaken for a whisper, but powerful enough to rewrite every lonely night that had come before it.
Their lips met with almost painful tenderness. Both of them trembled. Not because they were uncertain, but because they had wanted this—needed this—for so impossibly long that neither of them quite knew how to exist inside the moment now that it had finally arrived.
Katsuki's hand remained against Izuku's cheek, his thumb resting just beneath his eye as though he were afraid to lose contact for even a second. Izuku's fingers found the front of Katsuki's shirt again—not clutching desperately this time, but holding on with quiet certainty, like someone finally discovering solid ground after months spent drowning.
The kiss deepened only by the smallest degree, not with urgency, but with trust. It was two people learning the shape of a promise. Every heartbeat seemed to fold another year of longing into the space between them. The distance created by childhood pride, by misunderstandings, by wars, by letters never sent, by six months of empty windows and unanswered phones, seemed to dissolve like morning frost beneath the rising sun.
It felt as though the universe itself had paused to witness two stars finally finding the same orbit after spending years circling each other from opposite ends of the sky.
Izuku felt another tear slip free, Katsuki did too, but neither of them cared. The tears mixed between them, unnoticed, and for the first time in either of their lives, neither of them was trying to be brave. Neither of them was pretending. Neither of them was carrying the world.
They were simply… here. Together.
The kiss lingered. Not because either of them was trying to make up for lost time, but because neither of them could bear to be the first one to let go.
Eventually, their lungs decided for them. They parted only as much as they had to, foreheads remaining together, noses still brushing with every shaky breath they drew. The space between them was barely enough for air to exist, and even then it felt reluctant to come between them.
Neither of them opened their eyes immediately. They stayed there, breathing the same quiet air, the rhythm of one heartbeat gradually finding the rhythm of the other.
When Izuku finally looked up, his eyes were still wet. "So," his voice came out hoarse, "that's what it feels like."
Katsuki smiled—a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes without permission. "What?"
Izuku laughed softly, wonder replacing sorrow. "Coming home."
Katsuki's own eyes filled again. He rested his forehead a little more firmly against Izuku's, smiling through tears that he made no attempt to hide. "Yeah." One simple word. One lifetime of meaning.
"Welcome home, Izuku"