Work Text:
Izuku is, to put it lightly, bummed out. To put it more accurately, he’s devastated.
So devastated, in fact, that getting out of bed has earned a place on his “Things I Can Achieve on My Good Days” list-- the one he made with his therapist. In the endless weeks since he was discharged from the hospital, Izuku has been drifting through life in a kind of liminal haze.
On one hand, he saved the actual fucking world.
On the other, he couldn’t save Tenko from his death spiral.
He achieved his lifelong dream of becoming a hero, got to live it, feel it, breathe it, and now he’ll never get to do it again.
He knows he should be happy. He won. He lived. That’s a luxury some people didn’t have when the dust cleared after Shigaraki and All for One were finally gone. Hell, Kacchan literally died. Others did too-- and stayed dead.
But he’s not happy. And pretending to be is exhausting.
So far, he’s done a decent job keeping up appearances. Even his closest friends haven’t said anything, and when they do give him a worried look, Izuku deflects with some weak excuse about “recovery.” They accept it and move on.
Most days, he can summon just enough energy to shuffle out of his dorm and sit in the common room, quietly listening to his friends talk. Their voices are comforting, proof that they survived. Mina and Ochako started semi-regular movie nights a few weeks ago, and Izuku is grateful for the sense of normalcy... and for the fact that the dark room lets him drop his plastered-on smile for a while.
It’s not that Izuku thinks he’ll never get over this. Logically, he knows he will. He lived without a quirk before; he can learn to do it again. He was stubborn enough to apply to U.A. before he even met All Might. But the wound is still raw, aching in a way that feels fresh every time he breathes.
It’s the kind of pain that comes from losing something right when you’d begun to trust it would stay. He can’t decide whether to mourn everything he’s lost or to rage at the universe’s cruel sense of humor. If he dwells on it too long, tears start to burn behind his eyes, so he forces himself to keep a lid on it. And for the most part, it works.
The only problem is Kacchan.
He can’t hide anything from him.
Izuku is convinced they’ve somehow unlocked a soul-bonded, telepathic link forged during their final battle. They’ve never been more in sync, more attuned to each other. And while Izuku is secretly thrilled by this new closeness, it’s also incredibly inconvenient at the moment. Because Kacchan sees straight through him.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Kacchan’s tear-filled confession at his hospital bedside, his vow to compete side by side with Izuku forever, had been a pivotal change in their relationship. That moment had pulled them into something raw and unguarded, built on honesty and trust. They had faced the living embodiments of death itself together, after all.
He still remembers the moments just after the battle: the two of them stumbling toward each other, collapsing into an embrace just to stay upright. Waiting in the silent aftermath, clinging to each other until the medics arrived. The weeks that followed, sharing a hospital cot more often than their separate beds. And even after being discharged, some nights still ended with Kacchan sleeping against his back, Izuku’s hand loosely gripping his wrist.
So now, every fake smile Izuku puts on for the world, for his friends, for the illusion of normalcy, is met with what he’s dubbed the “Kacchan-scowl.”
It started showing up again when they began training his other quirks. That quiet frown paired with a sharp, thoughtful gaze, one that sees too much. Izuku’s been seeing it a lot more recently. And every time, what follows is always so pointedly exactly what Izuku needs in the moment. He has half a mind to be spooked by how well Katsuki can read him.
One quick, subtle grimace, and Kacchan is there, dropping down beside him, pressing a quirk-warmed palm against the aching joints in his hand. A small sigh from Izuku, and Kacchan steers the conversation away from talk of hero careers. A glance out the window at the rain, and Kacchan wordlessly tugs Izuku’s head to rest against his chest.
That last one happens a lot.
Because it’s the image of Kacchan-- limp, pale, bleeding out-- that still haunts Izuku most. The sight lingers behind his eyelids whenever he closes them. In the chaos of that moment, he hadn’t had time to process the horror. Just the flood of impossible relief when Kacchan stood up again, alive, meeting Izuku’s gaze across the battlefield right when he desperately needed him.
Izuku is certain he would have died without that light, Kacchan’s light, guiding him through the darkness.
And now, he’s starving for it.
Being near Kacchan soothes something deep inside him. It’s a balm for his frayed nerves, a song that calms the noise in his head. A deep, steady breath in an otherwise breathless world. And he knows Kacchan feels it too. This closeness is for both of them, a shared anchor in the aftermath. Izuku suspects it’s just as much for the blonde’s sake as it is for his own.
***
They’re sitting in the common room. It’s another rainy evening. They’ve decided to make apple cider to go along with whatever movie’s been chosen for tonight.
Mina, Kaminari, and Kirishima are sprawled across a pile of pillows and blankets, playing Go Fish. Jirou, Momo, and Ochako sit at the kitchen island, arranging a platter of snacks. Izuku is slumped against the back of the couch, melting into the soft cushions, half-listening to the chatter.
Kacchan sits next to him, one leg tucked up on the couch, the other brushing the floor, talking with Todoroki and Sero about something or other.
When Katsuki glances over his shoulder, his red eyes lock with Izuku’s. It’s only when their eyes meet that Izuku realizes he’s been zoning out again. Without missing a beat in the conversation, Katsuki reaches a hand back, grabs a fistful of Izuku’s shirt, and gives a gentle tug, an unspoken order to come closer.
Izuku doesn’t bother resisting.
He leans forward, pressing his ear to the warmth of Katsuki’s back, his shoulders curling inward as he settles. Katsuki shifts slightly, angling himself so Izuku can rest comfortably, and keeps talking as if nothing happened.
By now, the rest of their class barely blinks at the sight. They’ve all found their own versions of closeness, friendships or otherwise, that aren’t much different. Everyone’s coping in their own way, leaning on one another for stability.
Izuku lets his eyes fall shut. Katsuki’s voice is a low hum beneath his ear, vibrating softly through muscle and bone. It’s a steady, grounding baritone that Izuku doesn’t bother to decipher. His voice is deeper when he isn’t yelling, Izuku thinks. The quiet gaps in conversation draw Izuku’s attention to the steady beat of Katsuki’s heart, and he lets that rhythm lull him into a half-sleep.
He isn’t sure how long he stays that way, half-dreaming, but eventually he stirs when he feels himself being moved. Katsuki has leaned back against the armrest, pulling Izuku with him so he’s lying against his chest now. Izuku blinks sleepily, adjusting so he doesn’t bump Katsuki’s bad arm, then lets himself sink back into drowsiness.
He hasn’t been sleeping well. Not that many people know, aside from a certain Izuku-specific psychic.
Nightmares plague him when he finally does fall asleep. Visions of blood, rubble, and losing everything all over again. Even when exhaustion drags him under, his mind runs in anxious loops around his return to quirklessness. The only relief comes when Katsuki is next to him. It doesn’t stop the nightmares, but it makes waking up bearable. Katsuki’s presence-- his warmth, his steady breathing-- grounds him enough to drift back to sleep instead of lying awake, haunted.
Pressed against him now, Izuku feels the noise in his mind quiet. His focus narrows to the rise and fall of Katsuki’s chest, a very much alive chest, and the reminder pulls Izuku firmly back into the present.
He’s alive. Kacchan’s alive. And they’re here.
A strong hand slides through Izuku’s curls, fingers gently tracing along his scalp. The touch stays there, slow and rhythmic, and Izuku feels his muscles loosen one by one. The tension he’s been holding in his shoulders melts away.
The movie plays softly in the background, little more than white noise.
“Hey, ‘Zuku,” Katsuki murmurs, his voice so low that only Izuku can hear.
“Hm?” Izuku answers drowsily.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Izuku frowns against Katsuki’s chest. Of course he knows. “Mm.”
A gentle flick to the forehead follows. Izuku groans in protest, cracking one eye open to glare up at him. Katsuki’s unimpressed expression says everything: You’ve got to talk about it eventually. Might as well talk to me.
Izuku huffs out a breath, closing his eyes again and giving a tiny nod-- Fine.
Katsuki says nothing more. He just hums softly and resumes running his fingers through Izuku’s hair.
***
Hours later, Izuku is slumped in his oversized beanbag chair when his door cracks open. The clock reads midnight. Katsuki slips inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies Izuku in the dim light.
Izuku doesn’t greet him. He’s too focused on the small rubber ball he’s tossing from one hand to the other, the one the hospital nurses gave him to strengthen his grip. The ball makes a satisfying little plunk each time it lands in his scarred palms.
Katsuki drags over the desk chair and plops into it backward, his arms draped over the backrest, chin resting on his forearms. From that position, right between Izuku’s legs, level with his line of sight, there’s no escaping the Kacchan-scowl.
But Katsuki doesn’t push. He just sits there, quietly watching.
The silence stretches. The soft rhythm of the ball hitting his palm fills the room.
Izuku can feel the bitterness bubbling under his skin, rising slow and sharp. He tosses the ball a little harder. The feeling is ugly and foreign; he hates it. He’s supposed to be the positive one, the one who keeps smiling no matter what. But the war took more than his dream. It took his innocence, too.
Wasn’t it enough that his body had been broken again and again? That he’d watched people bleed and die? Now he had to carry this endless ache, too?
The thought twists in his chest, and his scowl deepens.
Without warning, Izuku sits up, grips the rubber ball, and hurls it at his bed as hard as he can. It bounces off the pillow, thunks to the floor, and rolls under the frame.
Katsuki just watches, unimpressed but not surprised. He’s waiting.
Leftover crackles of One for All energy flicker faintly up Izuku’s arm, the ghost of something that isn’t there anymore, and that’s his breaking point.
“Do you know what’s really just… so great about all of this?” Izuku’s voice is sharp, bitter, trembling with exhaustion. “Here I am, at U.A., in the hero course.” He laughs, the sound empty. “And there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever get to be a hero.”
He’s pacing now, arms tight at his sides, anger bleeding through every motion. Katsuki spins the chair slowly to follow his path, saying nothing, eyes intently observing.
“I made so many sacrifices,” Izuku says, his fists clenching. “I had the worst villain in history and his deranged protégé locked onto me wherever I went. I went on the run to keep everyone safe. No one else had to do that.”
He stops, staring up at one of his All Might posters. The grin that once gave him courage now feels bittersweet and hollow. “I got to live my wildest dream. My idol became my mentor. I finally got a quirk. His quirk,” Izuku points to the poster, turning to the blonde sitting in his desk chair, “I had the chance to live my dream. But then I got all this... stupid baggage.”
His voice cracks. He rakes both hands through his hair, pulling hard. “I inherited this decades-long war between One for All and All for One. I carried it. I ended it. I won. Everyone gets to move on.” His arms drop to his sides, his voice small now. “But I don’t. The only way to win was to lose everything that made me a hero.”
Tears spill over, hot and angry, tracing down his cheeks. “I’d do it all again, a hundred times if I had to. I don’t regret it.” He swallows hard. “But I am... so angry... Kacchan.”
His voice breaks as he collapses onto his bed, breath catching. “I’m so angry. I just want to scream.” His body starts shaking, breaths coming too fast. “It’s so--”
Katsuki moves before Izuku finishes the sentence. In one swift motion, he’s off the chair and crossing the floor. He wraps his arms around Izuku without hesitation, pulling him close.
Izuku clutches the fabric of Katsuki’s shirt like it’s the only thing holding him to the earth. And then, finally, he breaks.
The weeks of forced smiles, the endless gratitude from friends, teachers, strangers. It all crashes down. They thank him for saving them, for giving up his dream, for carrying a burden they’ll never understand. And deep down, Izuku hates himself for the flicker of resentment that comes with each thank you. For the guilt of wishing someone did understand.
He’s jealous, too, ashamedly so. His classmates get to move forward, to become heroes. But Izuku, the one who saved them all, won’t.
Katsuki’s hold is the only shelter from the storm inside him. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t shush him-- He just stays. He knows what Izuku lost, and he feels it too. He’s the only one who hasn’t said “thank you.” Because he knows that’s not what Izuku needs.
What Izuku needs is someone to say, I’m so sorry.
The sobs come harder now, wracking his entire body. Guilt, shame, anger, grief, they surge together, a violent current he can’t contain. He isn’t angry at his friends or his teachers, not really. They’re reminders of why he did it. Who he did it for. But that doesn’t erase the injustice of it all.
He paid for peace in blood, sweat, and tears. And though it was worth it, he’s not sure he’ll ever truly feel at peace himself. Every attempt to fake normalcy only deepens the ache.
Katsuki tightens his grip, grounding him as the world tilts and blurs. Time stretches, warps; Izuku has no idea how long they stay like that. All that exists is the rhythm of Katsuki’s chest rising and falling and the steady heartbeat beneath his ear.
When Izuku finally starts to calm, Katsuki mutters quietly, voice low and rough, “It’s so fucking stupid. Out of all the goddamn people in the world to lose their quirk... ” He shakes his head. “You’ve got every right to be angry. I’m pissed as hell, and it’s not even me.”
He pulls back just enough to climb onto the bed, settling against the headboard. With a small jerk of his chin, he silently tells Izuku to move. Izuku climbs up after him, curling between Katsuki’s legs, his arms wrapping around the blonde’s torso. He presses his cheek against Katsuki’s abdomen, closing his eyes as Katsuki’s fingers trace gentle circles across his back.
“You were always the hero between us,” Katsuki says quietly. “Made me feel like shit sometimes, knowing I had this crazy quirk but nothing to back it up with. Heroism came to you so naturally. I couldn’t figure out how.”
A few more tears slip free, soft this time. Izuku’s anger cools into a deep, tired melancholy.
“You can still be a hero, Izuku,” Katsuki says reverently. “You’re so stupidly, thoroughly heroic it’d be offensive to the damn universe if you weren’t. You’ll be a hero right alongside us, just to spite that wrinkly old bastard. Get fucked, All for One. And your little bitch-ass demon-prince wannabe.”
Despite himself, Izuku lets out a small, shaky laugh. “And how do you plan to manage that, Kacchan? Gonna give me a strand of your hair to eat?”
“Oi,” Katsuki snaps, glaring. “Don’t get smart with me. I’ll figure something out.”
Izuku exhales, the tension in his chest easing for the first time in weeks. He tightens his hold on Katsuki’s shirt, curling closer into the warmth of his body. His nerves are still raw, his emotions heavy, but Katsuki’s steady presence keeps him grounded.
Katsuki sighs softly, then reaches out. His hand cups Izuku’s chin, tilting it up until their eyes meet. The intensity in Katsuki’s gaze nearly undoes him.
“Izuku,” Katsuki says quietly, “you’re allowed to be weak sometimes, y’know?”
Izuku frowns, trying to look away, but Katsuki doesn’t let him.
“No. Don’t do that.” Katsuki’s tone softens, but his grip is firm. “You don’t have to be the bigger person just because you think you should be. You’re allowed to be pissed, to hurt. You’re allowed to feel weak-- hell, if I had to learn that, so do you.”
He lets out a rough laugh, shaking his head. “I meant what I said back then. I’m the one who steps in when you can’t do it alone. And right now, you shouldn’t have to.”'
“Kacchan... ” Izuku’s voice wavers. He sits back on his calves, drawing a shaky breath. “I can’t pretend I’m okay anymore. I’m tired of it.”
Katsuki’s expression relaxes. His eyes soften, as if he’s relieved that Izuku is finally being honest. He listens, silent, patient.
“I can’t talk to anyone else,” Izuku continues. “No one gets it. I can’t talk to Mom. She’s too relieved I’m not going into hero work anymore. I can’t talk to All Might, it just brings everything back. I know everyone fought their own battles, but... ”
He meets Katsuki’s gaze again, voice small. “You’re the only one who understands.”
Katsuki nods once. “Yeah.”
“And I almost lost you,” Izuku whispers. “The person closest to me... the only person who could ever understand. The only person I want to understand.”
His hand lifts, hesitant, but Katsuki grabs it immediately, tugging him forward into a fierce embrace. Izuku goes willingly, curling into Katsuki’s lap and wrapping his arms around his neck.
“You idiot,” Katsuki murmurs, voice trembling just enough to betray him. “You should know by now that I’m the best. I don’t lose. Total victories only.”
Izuku nods wordlessly, eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed.
They stay like that for a long time. Long after their classmates return to their dorms. Long after the hallway lights dim.
Eventually, Katsuki reaches over and switches off the lamp. The room plunges into darkness, lit only by thin slices of streetlight cutting through the curtains.
Izuku shivers at the cold loss of Katsuki’s touch when he moves, but the blonde leans back, meeting his gaze again. Katsuki’s face is half-shadowed, his eyes catching the faint light like burning embers.
Wordlessly, Katsuki raises a hand, brushing his thumb across the scar on Izuku’s cheek.
They both lean in at the same time, meeting halfway in a soft, trembling kiss.
The touch says everything words can’t-- the fear of losing each other, the relief of still being here, the years of tension and pain unraveling into something fragile and new.
Izuku pours his need into the kiss: his frustration, his grief, his desperate longing for connection. Katsuki answers with quiet promise, pressing his devotion into every breath. I’m here. I’ll stay. Izuku lets himself get swept up in the kiss, tugging the blonde closer to drink in the comfort of his closeness. He takes in a few deep breaths, the scent of Katsuki's laundry detergent and hints of leftover cologne calming him. Tears spill from Izuku’s eyes again, feeling raw and vulnerable, but Katsuki wipes them away with steady fingers, tracing the back of his neck.
When they part, Katsuki keeps his hand in Izuku’s hair. The other twines gently with Izuku’s, placed flat against his chest.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere, nerd,” he says softly. “Not for anything.”
Izuku leans forward until their foreheads touch. “Good.”
Katsuki pulls back slightly, peeling the duvet back. They settle under the covers together, breathing syncing into a quiet rhythm.
The room is quiet now. Peaceful in a way Izuku hasn’t felt in months. The only sound is their breathing, slow and steady, weaving together into one rhythm. The faint glow from the streetlights filters through the curtains, painting soft yellow across Katsuki’s face.
Izuku watches him for a long moment. Katsuki’s features are relaxed in the dim light, his usual sharp edges softened into something achingly human. His chest rises and falls against Izuku’s cheek, each breath a reminder that they’re both still here. Alive. Together.
For the first time since the war, the silence doesn’t feel heavy. It feels safe.
Izuku shifts slightly, tucking himself closer until their legs are tangled, foreheads still resting together. The air between them hums with quiet understanding, nothing left to prove, nothing left unsaid.
He can still feel the ghost of the kiss lingering between them, the warmth of Katsuki’s lips and the promise they carried. It wasn’t grand or dramatic; it didn’t need to be. It was real. Honest. It spoke in a language they’d both learned through battle and loss, one built on trust, pain, and survival.
Katsuki’s hand slides up to cradle the back of Izuku’s head again, fingers threading through his hair. He’s gentle, careful. “Go to sleep, dumbass,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection.
Izuku smiles faintly against his chest. “You too, Kacchan.”
A quiet grunt in response. Soft, but unmistakably fond.
Izuku lets his eyes close. The tension that’s lived in his body for so long finally begins to release, muscle by muscle, until all that’s left is the steady beat of Katsuki’s heart beneath his ear. The ache in his chest doesn’t vanish, but it eases. He knows it will come back, the grief and the anger, but for tonight it feels lighter. Manageable. Shared.
Katsuki’s thumb traces lazy circles against the back of his neck, a steady rhythm that matches the beat of his own heart. Izuku feels himself drifting, consciousness slipping softly away.
Just before sleep takes him, he hears Katsuki barely whisper: “Always got your back, Deku. Always.”
For the first time in months, Izuku dreams of nothing at all.