Work Text:
Katsuki Bakugo is focused; he has a plan. He has spent the last eighteen years of his life working towards this very moment as he sets foot onto the platform, breathing in that polluted New York air that isn’t any less stale than the air inside the LIIR train. His duffel bag rests on his shoulders that ache from the long journey across the country, and it only grounds him more. He has finally made it, this is where his life finally begins and he can chase his dreams, his very big dreams that seem oh so very small in a city where buildings brush the sky. Katsuki Bakugo is focused, he has a plan, and he will chase it.
It is 2 am and a boy with green hair, long sleeves, and freckles is currently gunning it down Lipsenard Street, Katsuki hot on his tail. He should be asleep, following his strict night routine that has him tucked into bed by ten pm and dreaming thirty minutes later. He would get up at five am seven hours after and prepare to jog through Central Park, each step on the pavement grounding him. Four hours later will find himself in his first engineering seminar of the year, of which Katsuki completed the reading for at the start of the summer. He has a plan, or so he did, because the enigma that is Izuku Midoriya will unknowingly take that plan, chew it up, and spit it out.
Unlike back home, Katsuki doesn’t have the privilege of looking up at the night sky to count the stars because New York is too bright and too loud, and the people are too absorbed in the vibrant streets, the city that breathes, to care about the lack of the celestial. Katsuki chooses to look down at Izuku instead, at the constellation carefully painted on his face, and he no longer misses home.
“I saw on Reddit this store, Silver Age Comics, is open 24/7, and they’ve got the sickest vintage All Might trading cards, it’s the only one in the country! God bless New York,” and god bless it indeed because Katsuki has never seen a smile so blinding, so bright. Izuku took one look at the 19x27 poster he put up on his side of the room that very same day, the only guilty pleasure Katsuki promised himself he would continue to indulge in during college, and immediately sucked Katsuki into his orbit with the never-ending monologue about everything All Might. Maybe Katsuki can add one more guilty pleasure to that list because his roommate’s green eyes and freckled cheeks look nothing short of pleasurable and Katsuki is feeling extremely guilty.
Now, as they sit on the bean bags in the basement of the store, passing back and forth a disposable cart they know they shouldn’t be using down here, flipping through the catalogues, Katsuki will attempt to learn more about this boy.
“Where are you from?”
“Where are you from?” Izuku will parrot back, followed by “You look a little mixed, are you Wasian? I mean, I’ve never met another All Might fan before, and it’s super old, and well Japanese, so are you… from Japan?”
Katsuki will nod in reply and explain how his Japanese mother got swept off her feet by a Texan expat, fell in love in Okasa, got married in Dallas, and built a home in Houston where he will be born, raised, and never leave until he decides to make the biggest decision of his life and move to New York City for college. Izuku will hum in agreement, in intrigue, ooo and ahh at the right places, and Katsuki will revel in the attention because a story he thought was boring up till now will translate as the most fascinating phenomenon Izuku has ever heard, if his facial expressions and little comments are anything to go by.
It is nearing 5 am now and Katsuki will not mourn his morning jog because as they leave the store, pinky fingers interlinked, he discovers the little contact shared with Izuku is enough to ground him for now.
Towards the end of orientation where first impressions are starting to stick everybody in their building believes Izuku Midoriya is an enigma. Katsuki is not everybody, as to him Izuku is nothing encrypted, nothing mysterious. He will become an open book, dialogue-heavy, full of interests and questions and thoughts and debates. The scripture that is Izuku has so much to say and Katsuki wants to listen. Unbeknownst to him, Katsuki will spend the rest of his life dissecting each chapter, every paragraph, every line and every word. He will read, and read, and read it over, and over again until the words are burned into his mind, and despite what his friends will come to think Katsuki will never regret picking up this book.
Always the last to arrive, and the first to leave, Katsuki notices. He has been doing this a lot lately, noticing. The way people seem to gravitate towards Izuku, lured in by intrigue. Katsuki can’t for the life of him blame them, because he too was victim to that magnetic pull.
After Katsuki, the following victims will come in the form of two girls, absolutely infatuated with each other, one with a round face and cheery nature, the other with a calculating gaze and symmetrical space buns. The four of them will form something of a quartet, anchored by Izuku.
Katsuki will learn that New York is populated by the ambitious, it was the only thing that everyone here had in common. Ambition and atheism: “Ambition is my only religion,” Toga will grin proudly, cheeks flushed by all the beers she swore she could outdrink Katsuki with. Katsuki isn’t fairing any better because he vehemently agrees, clenched fist banging the table and slightly sloshing their drinks on the already sticky table, “exactly.”
If Katsuki was a little more sober, he might have noticed, since that seems to be his favourite activity as of late, how Izuku tensed a little beside him, usually vibrant green eyes clouding over briefly. Ochako however, who is visibly less drunk than the other two blondes, will notice and quirk a brow in a silent question, are you okay?
Izuku will not respond, instead, he will tug his sleeves down a little lower, and return his now clear gaze to Katsuki.
The awkward filler between the end of first semester finals and when students flee the city for winter break, is where Katsuki will experience the first crack. Most residents of Lipsenard Street would have packed their bags and headed home to family, or somewhere hot with friends, seeking refuge from the frosty New York winter. Katsuki however, used to the hot Texan summers will decide to stay in the dorms over winter and experience Christmas in the city. Izuku must have shared the same sentiment, as he decided to stay behind too.
The pair will lounge together on their now double bed, singles pushed together to make room for a gaming setup on the other side of the room, no other reason, when Katsuki will nudge Izuku’s side with socked feet and ask “Oi, Zuku, you heading home for break?”
Izuku in response will get this faraway look in his eyes that makes Katsuki sit up a little straighter because he believes what Izuku is about to say will be important, and he wants to pay attention.
Izuku will particularly not notice, or simply choose to ignore, the way the energy has shifted in the room, the air now stifling. “I don’t really have anywhere to go,” he says, eyes meeting Katsuki’s briefly before he averts them, forcing a smile onto his face. “This is kind of home now, I guess.”
Katsuki at that last part releases a breath he didn’t know was holding, and instead of prodding will yet again take comfort in the fact that this little world they have spent the past four months or so building is enough for Izuku to consider home.
Katsuki will also look back at this particular chapter and kick himself for not prodding, he should have known better. He should have asked more questions, demanded more answers, but for now Katsuki will be a little selfish and revel in the excited thump of his heartbeat, and return his gaze to his comic.
“Okay. Let’s stay home together.” Because he was home, and home was Izuku.
Katsuki will come out of this break feeling like a fraud, an aspiring architect who built a house, not a home. He renovated a haunted house and slapped a white picket fence on it and Izuku who did not know any better, or maybe he did, moved in, Katsuki in tow. Katsuki did not know Izuku was the original owner of the house, and he most definitely did not know of Izuku’s ghosts that haunted the freckled boy. He is given a preview of one when he walks backwards into their shared dorm cradling two bowls of Katsudon, that Katsuki wanted to surprise Izuku with on Christmas Eve for dinner before they have their Seasonal All Might marathon, and is so startled by the sight before him the bowls slip from his grasp and fall to the floor, the deafening crack of the ceramic the only noise in the room apart from Izuku’s laboured breathing.
“Katsuki, I- I’m sorry” Izuku winces as he applies pressure to his right forearm with a tea towel once white, now a bloody red, blood on the towel, blood on his arm, on their sheets, dripping onto the floor, blood everywhere. “It was an accident, there’s been an accident I- I was just trying to-” another wince, this time followed by tears slipping from Izuku’s eyes that finally jumpstart Katsuki back into action.
“Hey, hey, Izuku, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Katsuki says, pleads, manifests as he frantically makes his way over to Izuku, socked feet stepping over their meal on the floor now trickling its way over to Izuku’s blood on the floor, Izuku’s blood is on the floor, meeting in the middle but not mixing as if it is oil and water, they are oil and water, oil and blood, “Let’s — let’s get you to a hospital.”
At the mention of a hospital Izuku shakes his head, curls that should bounce now matted to his forehead with sweat, “No- no hospital,” and Katsuki almost gets mad because haah what do you mean no hospital stupid nerd?? Your blood is on our sheets and on the floor and-
“I’m sorry, Katsuki, I need you to take me to Toshinori’s.”
That’s how Katsuki helps Izuku into the taxi, and he gives the driver the address in a crushed, muted voice, whilst Katsuki’s is stuck in his throat because he has never heard Izuku sound like this and he hates it. Tucking Izuku into his side Katsuki tries to focus on anything but the erratic beat of his heart, but finds the winces Izuku allows himself to let out are far more painful.
Katsuki tips the driver heavily in apology for the stray drops of Izuku’s blood, oh god, that dripped onto the carpet of the taxi and Izuku is already striding towards an ornate brownstone, already leaving him behind.
“Hey! Izuku, wait!” And Izuku will spin around swiftly causing Katsuki’s steps to a halt, and look at him with pleading eyes.
“Please, wait here-”
“Fuck I will!” Katsuki runs his hand through his hair, now sticking up in every direction from the number of times he’s done so this evening, and he realises he’s wasting time because now the two are stood across from each other, looking so out of place in this rich neighbourhood, with Izuku’s blood now dripping onto the pavement and Katsuki’s boiling in his veins. “I’m coming with you, you- I- fuck Izuku, let me come with you.”
The fight leaves Izuku as fast as it arrived and that in itself is distressing, he pads up the stairs of Toshinori’s perron ringing the buzzer three times in succession. A tall skinny man with blonde hair opens the door no more than 10 seconds later, at which Izuku immediately says “I’m sorry.”
Toshinori takes one look at Izuku, pays Katsuki no attention and ushers Izuku down the stairs to the basement which houses what looks like a clinic. Katsuki follows suit and bristles when he unravels the red towel from Izuku’s arm “Jesus Christ, Izuku!” And promptly steers Katsuki to the waiting room where he will sit down and wait. Oh my god, Katsuki will think, as he replays the past 45 catastrophic minutes in his mind, with his head cradled in the palm of his hands. Oh god, oh god, oh god.
He waited almost an hour before Toshinori called him in, the most excruciating hour of his life as he paced the narrow halls outside the in-house clinic. He made hesitant steps forward, before realising he’s Katsuki Bakugo and Katsuki Bakugo is no bitch, and Izuku, his Izuku is bloody and behind that door, and needs him so fucking hell Katsuki move faster.
“You can take him home,” Toshinori said. He looked angry, no he looked defeated, and with a snap, he peeled off his bloody gloves and turned to Izuku, “Izuku, my boy, go to the waiting room.”
Izuku, who Katsuki’s attention was drawn to, had gauze wrapped tightly around his forearm, and nodded meekly, not meeting Katsuki’s eyes before he scurried out of the room, which pissed him off to no end, no he wasn’t having that “Oi! Izuku wait-”
“You must be Katsuki,” Toshinori cut him off, shutting the door, which blocked his path to Izuku, and he was quickly losing his patience.
“Yeah, who the fuck are you? What kind of clinic is this- why didn’t Izuku want to go to the hospital?” Katsuki replied in one breath, the adrenaline fading and leaving him feeling tired and confused and he just wants to know how the fuck did we get here.
With a heavy sigh, Toshinori asks a question that will knock the wind out of Katsuki’s chest.
“Has Izuku seemed suicidal to you?”
“What the fuck? No.” Katsuki shoots back immediately, a nauseating feeling engulfing him whole. “Izuku isn’t suicidal. He said there had been an accident,” because fuck, he said it was an accident. “It was an accident, right?”
Toshinori runs his fingers through his hair, biting his lip in contemplation, “He says it was but – I don’t know. Yes. No. I don’t know, I can’t tell.” With that, he gets up and makes his way across the room to scrub Izuku’s blood that seeped through the gloves out of his fingernails.
Katsuki follows suit and eyes the crimson trickling down the drain before snapping his eyes back to Toshinori. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t tell? Did he not tell you how he got injured? Listen, old man, if you’re going to keep wasting my time, I’m gonna go get Izuku and find out for myself!”
“I think he did it on purpose, Katsuki. That cut – it was deep. Too deep for it to be done by scissors nicking your skin or something of the sort. If he had gone to the ER – which you guys really should have done – they would have hospitalised him. Which is probably why he decided to come here.” He was practically speaking aloud to himself now. “You know he cuts himself, don’t you?”
For a while, Katsuki couldn’t answer. No, he thought, then said aloud, breaths coming out short. Katsuki needed to sit down again.
“Has he seemed different to you at all? Depressed?” Toshinori asked. “Is he eating regularly? Sleeping? Does he seem restless?”
And Katsuki turns on his feet and makes his way back to the chair, slumping down in it with a distressed sigh. Has Izuku seemed depressed? He’s always fucking smiling. He—
And oh, their conversation only three weeks prior suddenly crashes into Katsuki’s mind like some horror highlight reel, and now he can feel the sweat on his palms, his throat is closing in, vision blurring, chest tight and this room is too hot all of a sudden, too suffocating and he the scent of antiseptic and iron is suddenly too much for Katsuki to handle.
Ignoring Toshinori’s cry to wait, Katsuki books it out of the clinic into the waiting area, where Izuku is sat curled in on himself, expression blank, lifeless. Until he notices Katsuki’s presence and then shoots up to face him.
They stand across from each other in the hall in silence, the sound of each other’s breathing the only noise in the room. Katsuki allows himself ten seconds to count three of Izuku’s breaths, praising a god he did not believe in that Izuku is in front of him, chest rising and falling, right arm no longer tainted red. And then he looks at Izuku’s left arm, covered in a black compression sleeve, always covered in that sleeve.
Katsuki looks at his left, then his right, then his left, and his right again. Back and forth he goes, between the sleeved arm and one wrapped in medical gauze, until that nauseating feeling returns tenfold.
“I’m sorry.” Izuku murmurs,
“Shut up.” Katsuki will reply, and then make the first step towards Izuku, and another, until he’s closing the distance and pulling Izuku into his chest where he will wrap his arms around Izuku’s firm shoulders, planting a firm kiss on his forehead. He can feel Izuku inhale at that, and it’s as if the oxygen went into Katsuki instead.
They will stay like this for a little while whilst Katsuki prays to an empty sky.
Izuku Midoriya had no plan. He was taught at a very young age to put the fate of his life in God’s hands.
Katsuki Bakugo will try his hardest to cradle it with the utmost care, but he is no god. This will become very apparent.
It’s nearing midnight as the two finally exit Toshinori’s house, fingers interlinked. Izuku loves Katsuki’s hands, still remembers how delightfully deceived he felt when he held them for the first time, realising how soft his palms were, betraying Katsuki’s rough-looking exterior.
He loved especially how they were nothing like Brother Tomura’s, which were flaky, harsh and piercing. Hands that left a phantom touch on every crevice of his skin, leaving prints invisible to everyone but Izuku, prints that will not wash away no matter how hard he scrubs, will not scrape no matter how hard his razor tries—
“Izuku,” Katsuki says, pulling him out of his thoughts and oh yes, he is here in New York, on 63rd Street between Madison and Fifth Avenue, with his hand in Katsuki’s, not Brother Tomura’s, and this reminder will put a smile on his face, the first one on this Christmas Eve. “Do you want to do something crazy?”
Katsuki’s suggestion will come with that feral grin Izuku has come to love so much and it will stir something in Izuku’s chest, pumping blood through his decrepit heart, and he will nod with such enthusiasm that his green curls once full of life again will bounce.
Hand in hand, running with abandon, Katsuki would lead Izuku up thirteen blocks, laboured breaths fogging with the frosty winter air, and Izuku would feel so warm despite the lack of a hoodie or coat. Katsuki abruptly stops and eyes their surroundings with a mischievous glint in his eye whilst Izuku admires Katsuki. The tone of his skin, pale from the lack of sun during the cold months, contrasts sharply with the smooth, defined plane of his nose. His red eyes, always vibrant and almost glowing in the night, add a striking intensity to his appearance.
“Aha! Over here.” Katsuki says, moving behind Izuku and placing two hands on each shoulder, ushering him forward.
“Huh? Kacchan, what are we doing?” Izuku asks in a curious tone.
And oh, how he loves to use that nickname. Two weeks after moving into the dorms that August found the boys in the laundry room, trying to figure out how to work the machines. Well, it didn’t take Izuku long at all, he’s pretty savvy at housework from all the chores he had to do in the monastery. Katsuki however, wasn’t fairing very well.
“Fuck this stupid machine, how am I supposed to know which tray to pour the fucking fabric softener?” Katsuki will grunt in frustration, making him giggle before taking the cup and pouring it into the right dispenser drawer. He would then turn to pluck the first item of clothing off Katsuki’s hamper, ever the helpful Izuku, but before he can put it in the machine Katsuki reaches for it. “Wait-”
But Katsuki’s too late because Izuku’s already eyeing the tiny white label on the inside collar, stitched seamlessly, that reads ‘Kacchan,’ and oh my god, “Kacchan?!” Izuku chortles, face turning strawberry with his barely contained laughs.
Katsuki snatches the shirt with atch, and look at that, he’s also blushing up a storm. “Not a word, nerd.”
“What? I wasn’t even going to say anything,” and Izuku pauses, shoulders vibrating with silent laughter before he teases, “Kacchan.”
Laundry now forgotten, Katsuki would chase Izuku around the stale room using the shirt that caused all this as a makeshift whip and trying to smack Izuku with it. Once the laughter has died down and they are sat on top of the buzzing machines, catching their breath, Katsuki would admit his mother was worried he might misplace his clothes, or other students would mistake them for theirs, so she took it upon herself to hand stitch a name label onto every item of clothing. He explains so with ears tinged red and eyebrows furrowed as if he is grumpy about this fact but the quirk of his lips betray him.
Izuku revelled in the fact that Katsuki had a mother who cared for him so deeply, and came from such a loving home. He would then adapt this nickname to his regular vocabulary (to Katsuki’s dismay, but secretly delight), to serve as his own personal reminder that his Katsuki is loved, because he deserves nothing but the sort.
He also enjoyed the way Katsuki’s cheeks would tinge pink anytime he used that nickname, just like now as they are both stood before The Museum of Modern Art.
“Have you seen Night at the Museum?” Katsuki asks, and he thinks he knows where this is going.
“Are we breaking in?” Izuku counters, feeding off Katsuki’s sudden reckless energy, to which Katsuki replies “Well, I didn’t bring you here to stare at the fucking building. Now come on, I’m freezing my balls off.”
And that’s how the pair will spend the first 2 hours of their Christmas morning chasing each other through exhibits akin to a time machine. Sneaking shy glances at each other in the 1980s on the second floor, brushing shoulders in the 1940s on the third, linking fingers in the 1920s on the fourth, then settling in the 1880s on the fifth floor, Katsuki sat down with his back against the wall, Izuku in his front, back against Katsuki’s chest.
They sit across from Gogh’s The Starry Night, the first constellation of stars Izuku has seen in a long, long, time, not since he left South Dakota.
Now, Izuku is no idiot, he knows why Katsuki has brought him here, and as they sit in a shared comfortable silence he tries to understand why. Katsuki is the most driven person Izuku has met, truly made for this city. He sees it in the way Katsuki never misses a lecture, always reads ahead, studies in his free time, actively pursuing his dream of becoming a world-renowned architect. Katsuki’s dreams are bigger than the buildings he will bring to life in the future, and Izuku for the life of him doesn’t understand why he could put said future in jeopardy, would be so reckless and break into the MoMA of all places, just to lift Izuku’s spirits.
And it’s not like Izuku tried to stop him. No, in the four months Izuku has known Katsuki Bakugo he has learnt the act of being selfish, allowing himself to enjoy things he only read about in storybooks Brother Tomura would sneak in for him back at the monastery. So Izuku, nestled in the gift that is his Katsuki, will enjoy this abnormally perfect Christmas morning, where they both gaze at The Starry Night and let the stress of that evening prior wash away.
Katsuki Bakugo is a liar, and a fucking asshole. He lied to Toshinori when he told him he wasn’t aware Izuku cuts himself, and he’s a fucking asshole because there had always been this inkling in the back of his mind, that something was very wrong and he did nothing about it.
During Thanksgiving that year, Toga had invited Katsuki, Izuku, and Ochako over to her step-brother’s pretentious penthouse in the Upper East Side for dinner, or Friendsgiving, Ochako had excitedly dubbed it. It was incredibly large, and Katsuki wondered why Toga chose to live in the shitty dorms instead of here, but apparently her stepfather is a fucking asshole –
“And fuck that Enji asshole, he treats Touya like shit!” – he had overheard the girl full of moxie rant to her girlfriend, to which Ochako replied, “fuck yeah! Eat the rich!”
Taking advantage of the hot tub on the terrace, Ochako suggested they go for a dip, but Izuku said he’d pass, muttering some excuse about eating too much at dinner, and Toga must have agreed because the two were in a food coma on her humongous couch, TV on in the background for white noise, as the Dallas Cowboys absolutely bent the 49ers over and showed San Francisco who’s daddy.
So, to say the least, Katsuki was in a pretty good fucking mood. Until Ochako decided to open her mouth. “Have you noticed how Izuku always wears long sleeves?”
He grunted in response, of course he had noticed. It was difficult not to, especially on the hot days during the last remnants of summer before fall took over New York, but he had never let himself wonder why. Much of his friendship, with Izuku, it often seemed, was not letting himself ask the questions he knew he ought to because he was afraid of the answers.
The silence continued for a moment before Ochako continued, “Toga had a friend who wore long sleeves all the time. His name was Jin, he used to cut himself.”
Katsuki got lost in thought as he recalled a boy in his class during his Sophomore year of high school who used to cut himself too. Kirishima, he recalls, then feels a pit in his stomach when he remembers Kirishima stopped coming to school at some point during Junior year.
“Why?” Katsuki asked Ochako, water sloshing between the two as Katsuki allowed his gaze to gravitate back to a sleeping Izuku through the glass terrace door, who despite having about 5 inches on her, was obviously Toga’s little spoon.
“I don’t know,” Ochako sighed. “He had a lot of problems.”
He waited, but it seemed Ochako had nothing more to say on the matter.
So yeah, Katsuki was a fucking liar, and as he gazed at The Starry Night, chin resting atop Izuku’s fluffy curls, he made a promise to himself that he would no longer be afraid, because no answer to a question could be scarier than the thought of losing Izuku.
Izuku is 25 now and ‘I am far too old’ he thinks to himself, ‘to be getting scolded like this.’
“Then stop cutting yourself!” Toshinori exclaims, and christ, he said that out loud didn’t he?
See, Toshinori and Izuku have an interesting relationship, have had one for the past 8 years, and it began a year after Izuku’s 16th birthday, the day before he was due to turn 17. It was also the day his saviour Shota Aizawa had died.
Mr Aizawa laid in a hospital bed— sickle cell is cruel – his husband Yamada, soon to be widower, cradling his fragile hands to his chest. Hands that had saved Izuku, hands that tried to replace the violating prints Brother Tomura had left in his wake with a kinder, more gentle, fatherly touch. Hands that made him his first-ever bowl of Katsudon, which would soon become Izuku’s favourite. Hands that gave Izuku his first-ever haircut, green locks that once reached his lower back, were snipped off with care and precision.
“Hair holds memories,” the social worker had said. “How much do you want me to cut off?”
“All of it,” Izuku replied, then felt guilty for doing so, because it caused Aizawa to get that worrisome look in his eyes once again before he quickly masked it.
“Whatever you want, kid.”
And that’s how it always was in the almost 12 months he was in Aizawa’s care.
With every week that passed by, Izuku’s hair grew, buzzcut long gone, better memories now lined in his curls. “Mr Aizawa, could you come with me to the comic store again?”
“Whatever you want, kid.”
On a Saturday afternoon, “Mr Aizawa, may we attend Sunday mass tomorrow morning?”
“Whatever you want, kid.”
On a Tuesday evening, “Mr Aizawa, could we watch some All Might reruns?”
“Whatever you want, kid.”
On a Thursday night, when Izuku is not blessed with the luxury of sleep, and apparently neither is the social worker, “Mr Aizawa, you’re up as well? Would you like to play some Scrabble?”
“Whatever you want, kid.”
It was always whatever Izuku wanted, uttered in a soft tone, with a small smile on his face. He misses Aizawa, and he knows Toshinori does too. It’s probably why he gets so mad every time Izuku has to go to the clinic, because Aizawa left Toshinori one responsibility, and that responsibility was Izuku. ‘How unfortunate’, Izuku will think to himself, as he looks at the worry lines on Toshinori’s forehead, that have become much more prominent in the past eight years they have known each other.
“Izuku, my boy.” Toshinori says, “Please, just not your legs. You’re already starting to lose feeling in them, and no do not lie and tell me they feel fine, before I call Katsuki down here to talk some sense into you.”
And Izuku hates when Toshinori tries to use Katsuki against him, as if he too is Katsuki’s responsibility. He hates it, being viewed as something broken. Like glass shards, left on the floor, for the people around him to clean up.
Izuku had started off college with a promise to himself to start fresh. He would not let his broken glass shards, dangerous, untouchable and hard to clean up, anyone’s problem but his own. He would not be looked at with pity, or fear.
But he will. Exactly what he had hoped to avoid will occur, hell, he basically threw his glass shards at Katsuki’s socked feet that one Christmas Eve, and the blonde will delicately pick each shard up with his soft palms, trying to piece them back together. But Katsuki will get cut, and bleed, and bleed all over my glass, his blood (the pain I caused), was now all over my glass (my conscience) and fuck Izuku, you promised not to get people's blood on your broken glass.
“Are you even listening to me?” Toshinori says, waving a palm in Izuku’s face.
“Sorry,” Izuku mutters, “Katsuki’s not in the city right now anyways. He has that consulting thing in Paris, remember?”
“Ah, so is that why you’ve got more cuts than usual this week?” And isn’t Izuku’s life so silly, such a fucking joke, that him and his doctor? Caretaker? Friend? Can make banter about such topics? “You miss him, don’t you.”
And of course, he does. Izuku misses Katsuki so much every time he’s away, and recently it’s become a common occurrence. Katsuki Bakugo, aged 25, has broken into the architectural world with a bang and being so used to Katsuki’s attention the past eight years, so selfish with it, Izuku is not faring well with these recent developments.
I mean, it’s not like Izuku isn’t doing his big one either. Speed-running law school and passing the bar with a remarkable 320, Izuku also at the age of 25, is one of the most sought-after lawyers in New York City. Notably, only New York City— Paris, Shanghai, Dubai and the like do not demand Izuku the way they do Katsuki.
Regardless, the wonder duo, which The New York Times had dubbed the pair, were making significant strides in this city, for Izuku, the world, for Katsuki. And Izuku was so proud of his counterpart, having been by his side through it all.
So yeah, Izuku was feeling a little bit too old to be getting scolded right now.
With a hum, Toshinori continued, “You know, he would always want you to reach out during your bad days. He hates not being in the city, being close to you.”
And Izuku sighs in agreement because he knows it’s true, he just doesn’t want to be a bother. He’s done so much bothering, always bothering, causing everyone stress, and worry. Izuku is tired. Izuku is tired for them. But he can’t stop, he doesn’t know how. Hurting himself is all he knows; all he was raised to do. You can’t just unlearn those things.
Noticing Izuku isn’t really in the mood for this conversation, Toshinori sits down across from him and perks up, changing the subject. “Izuku, you know, I am receiving an award this weekend!”
At this, Izuku sits up a little straighter, allowing a genuine smile onto his face, “really? What for?” And Toshinori will explain in detail a medical-related research project he completed earlier in the year that received a lot of positive remarks, and Izuku will listen intently, feeling so happy and grateful for Toshinori because, despite their disagreements, about Izuku’s habits, he really does find something similar to a father in the man.
“The ceremony is a black-tie event, you should come, and bring Katsuki! You can invite Ochako and Toga as well, if you’d like.” Toshinori finishes. With a wink, he adds “Technically you’re only allowed a singular plus one, but I’m sure they could bend the rules for the man of the hour.”
Izuku feels excited and is about to express it before he remembers himself. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to invite me and my friends Toshinori, I don’t want you to feel like you have to spend even more time with your weird patient who already makes your life so difficult.”
“You’re not just my weird patient Izuku, you’re also my weird friend,” Toshinori replied, with a soft look on his face. Yet again, he was reminded of Aizawa. “Or at least I hope you are.”
And Izuku giggled, a smile so bright and beautiful and rare in this clinic, “of course I am,” Izuku said. “I’m honoured to be your weird friend.”
In the ten years Katsuki had known Izuku, there was a brief, very brief period of time during which Katsuki did not want to ask questions because he was afraid of the answers he could get. Emphasis on brief because after their first Christmas shared together, though not as many as Katsuki would have hoped for, an ‘accident’ had happened, which would drastically change their short relationship as they knew it.
What Katsuki did not expect, however, was that he would ask, and ask, and ask and receive no answers in return.
Katsuki knows about every event, every activity, everything Izuku-related post when they first met that moving-in day at NYU. He knows every throwaway fact about Izuku, that aren’t really throwaway facts to him, because everything about Izuku is important and should be paid attention to in detail. Hell, Katsuki has even made minor edits on Izuku’s Wikipedia page (which he must never find out about thank you), which notably only has information on the boy starting from his college career. He so desperately wishes he could fill in that 18-year gap, wishes he knew even a bit about the boy from before they met.
All Katsuki knows, is that Izuku’s parents are dead, and he was in the foster system at some point. He recalls their first argument, seven months after they met, two months after Katsuki took Izuku to Toshinori’s for the first time.
“I just don’t understand why you do this Izuku, I want to understand so I can help you” Katsuki pleads. He was supposed to be visiting his uncle up in Newark, for the whole weekend, but decided to come back early that Saturday night. Izuku clearly wasn’t expecting him back so soon, because what he walked into was Izuku sitting on the floor of their dorm, back against the wall, razor abandoned on his thigh where fresh cuts sat beneath.
Katsuki was hit with nauseating Deja Vu, and for a moment he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Izuku just lay there, eyes shut, abnormally still, with blood on his legs and his breaths were so shallow Katsuki almost feared he might be dead.
Izuku was wearing shorts for the first time, always only in long baggy pants or sweatpants, and Katsuki’s eyes widened when his gaze landed on his bare legs. There was barely any real skin left, most of it grafted poorly, tinged a darker tan than the rest of Izuku. And as if that wasn’t enough, there were so many cuts, some old and faded, a lot fresh and steal healing.
This sight brought Katsuki back to reality as he took a step forward, which seemed to stir Izuku from his personal hell, and then jumped up, razor clattering to the floor. “K-Kacchan?!” An array of emotions flitted across Izuku’s face: confusion, embarrassment, and finally shame.
Katsuki dumped his duffel bag on the floor, ordered Izuku to clean himself up, then text Katsuki once he was done, and booked it to the roof where he allowed himself one cigarette, and then fuck maybe another, before he got the text from Izuku.
With renewed vigour, Katsuki braced himself for a long and hard conversation. This was it; he could finally learn the source of Izuku’s pain, and figure out how to get rid of it. But Izuku was not on the same page.
“It’s nothing, Kacchan,” Izuku had replied when Katsuki asked why he cuts himself.
“Bullshit! Your legs look like they have hundreds of cuts all over. If I raise your sleeves right now, I’ll probably find something similar. What about that is nothing to you, you dumbass!”
Izuku looked startled for a second, before he snarled his lips and bared fangs at Katsuki for the first time, “It’s none of your business, Katsuki, so just leave it!”
“How the fuck isn’t it my business when you’re basically throwing this shit in my face!” And oh, that must have been the wrong thing to say because Izuku’s face immediately dropped, and he looked like he had seen a ghost.
Scrubbing his hands down his face, Katsuki, unbeknownst to the change in Izuku’s demeanour, continued “Goddamnit, Izuku, you’re scaring me! I just, just tell me what to do. Tell me how to help, how to fix you—”
“I’m not a problem. Certainly not yours, and I don’t need fixing.” Izuku interrupted in a low tone, voice and body shaking with irrational rage, “So drop it, Katsuki.”
He could do nothing but gape in return, feeling betrayed because he thought they were different. It had only been seven months of knowing each other but Katsuki felt a certain level of entitlement when it came to Izuku. Their relationship was special, or so Katsuki had thought, because he did not understand how they could have spent nearly 200 nights curled in on each other, awake deep into the night as the city that never sleeps suggests, sharing giggles, thoughts, ideas, and dreams but nightmares were the limit.
And Katsuki did not want to understand, because after taking a few deep breaths, he did not believe that to be true. Izuku needed him, needed his help, looked like he needed saving, and Katsuki is never one to back down from a challenge, certainly not one that involves his other half.
So, this would mark the first of countless arguments to plague their long, not long enough, relationship.
Which brings them to the present; Katsuki is 28 and he lives in a pretentious penthouse on the Upper East Side, but at least it’s one he designed himself, for him and Izuku. It has three bedrooms, one for Katsuki, one for Izuku, and a guest bedroom for whenever Katsuki’s parents are in the city, or Toga and Ochako come over and are too lazy to go back to their apartment — which is literally on the floor below, Katsuki cannot stand those girls (he loves them dearly).
Despite Izuku having his own room, for the past 4 and a half years that they have lived in their house, he has spent every night in Katsuki’s, an arrangement he is more than pleased with. However, they have had yet another argument, regarding Izuku’s still persisting habits and this one is very, very bad.
Izuku is starting to lose all function in his legs, and he’s not even 30. Something terrible had happened to Izuku when he was younger, that neither Katsuki nor Toshinori, Ochako nor Toga know about, and the outcome required Izuku to have surgery on his legs. He had explained as much during a winter in their junior year of college, when Izuku was stood brushing his teeth next to Katsuki in the dorm bathrooms, and suddenly collapsed.
Katsuki was so startled that he nearly bit the head of his toothbrush off. This was more serious than Toshinori could handle, so Katsuki begged Izuku to let him take him to the hospital, but again – “No! Please, Katsuki, no hospital.”
And so, Katsuki heaved all 195 pounds of Izuku, fuck he’s heavier than he looks, onto his back and piggybacked him all the way into the taxi, whispering prayers of “you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, Toshinori will help, I will help” in response to Izuku’s “Katsuki, my legs, my legs, they hurt.”
It was nearing midnight when they arrived, and since Katsuki at least had the bright idea of calling ahead amidst the chaos in his mind, Toshinori was waiting outside for them upon their arrival. He offered to help carry Izuku in as well, but “Haah?! What the fuck is your skinny ass going to help with old man— just hold open the door!”
Making his way down to the basement swiftly, Katsuki had carefully placed Izuku on the bed in the clinic and kneeled by his side – gone are the days his presence was limited to the waiting room – and allowed Izuku to squeeze onto Katsuki’s palm as he writhed in pain, Katsuki wishing that all of it could transfer to him instead.
Toshinori ended up having to give Izuku anaesthesia to numb the pain, whilst he ran scans and tried to figure out the issue with what limited medical equipment he had here. Katsuki, did what he could to help, following his strict orders of pass me this, bring me that, because any instructions given that could help Izuku, Katsuki would follow to the tee.
“Aizawa had mentioned you had undergone a procedure related to your legs, but Izuku, my boy, he did not emphasise how dire the consequences could become.” Toshinori began 4 hours later after injecting Izuku with fuck knows what, him finally waking back up, and feeling a lot less pain.
It was almost four in the morning; Katsuki had a lecture at eight. He was tired, but he did not allow himself to acknowledge this because the green-haired boy whose head was cradled in his lap must be far worse off. “What the fuck do you mean by that?! It’s so late, god, please just explain what’s wrong with him.”
And that was the issue, Toshinori was not quite sure. Izuku was experiencing bad nerve damage in his legs, and for some reason, it was only growing worse. The fact that he cuts down there most definitely does not help.
Izuku inhaled deeply, and upon exhaling moved to sit up. He stared back and forth between the two, with hazy viridian eyes, and then “I got hit by a car when I was 15. They ran over my legs, twice. I had to get surgery, and the doctors did what they could, but they did warn me of the possibility that one day I might not be able to walk again.”
This was the first time Izuku had brought up his past, and Katsuki was trying his hardest to not be afraid. “All my medical records before Aizawa are lost, so I don’t have much information on the procedure itself, just what I can remember.”
Toshinori, whose lips were pressed into a thin line, expression grave, squeezed out despite the way his throat had narrowed, “Izuku, we need to take you to a hospital.”
This conversation did not go well. And it is a similar conversation that will occur 10 years later, in the present, in their shared living room where a screaming match will occur, Katsuki stood up, Izuku sat down, because he can’t stand up, it hurts too much, yet he refuses to seek proper medical fucking attention. Izuku is nearly 30 yet this tantrum is so child-like, and Katsuki tells him as much with harsh, frustrated, tired words that he needs to get his act together and help him help his damn self!
Izuku grows very still, and it reminds Katsuki of their first argument, but this time Izuku does not reprimand Katsuki in a chilling tone. Instead, he stands up, and it kills him to do so, because god his legs feel like he’s already knee-deep in hell, and he makes the long, excruciating journey across the hall, away from Katsuki’s bedroom, limping towards his own, where he will sleep for the first time in four years.
Katsuki watches him walk away and does not say a word.
Sleep, obviously, does not visit Katsuki that night and so once the clock strikes 2 am he says fuck it and makes his way to his garage, taking out his motorcycle and gunning it to his Uncle Kudo’s place. He should get there in about 30 minutes, but he makes it in 15 and rings the doorbell of his condo 4 times in succession. To Katsuki’s surprise, it wasn’t Kudo that opened the door. “Katsuki? It’s late, are you okay? Is everything alright?”
“Yoichi,” Katsuki nods hello, or rather grunts. “Is Kudo home?” and speak of the devil he shall appear, because as if it pains the man to let his boyfriend out of his sight for one second, fuck is that what my friends think of me? That’s so lame, Kudo, like a shadow, appears behind Yoichi, “Kirby, did you really need to ring the doorbell 4 fucking times?”
Yoichi yawns, “Language, my love” to which Kudo replies, “Sorry sweetheart, go back to bed” and Katsuki should have just stayed home.
“Stop fucking calling me that. Now are you going to let me in?” Katsuki says tiredly, before Kudo swings the door open giving Katsuki room to enter. Despite being his uncle, Kudo is only eight years older than him, making him 36. This means that Kudo was something like an older brother to Katsuki growing up, before his parents packed up and moved him across the country from Dallas to New Jersey.
The nickname had come from Katsuki, age 6, learning what ‘initials’ were, and attempting to say his own around a mouthful of rocky road ice cream— “I’m Kerbee!”— he had exclaimed loudly, at which Kudo immediately doubled over in laughter, so now he had yet another embarrassing nickname to add to this ever-growing fucking list.
“Never gonna happen, now what’s up?” Kudo replied, and after taking a closer look at Katsuki in the glow of the entryway uplighting, which Katsuki fitted in himself actually, he noticed the crease in his brown, bloodshot eyes, and shifty stature. “I’ll get the beers.”
Kudo listened to Katsuki rant about their fight, specifically not offering up any advice because that isn’t what Katsuki came for, he came because he needed comfort and the one person who he usually sought it from had walked away from him, and Katsuki had let him.
Four, or maybe six beers later, Katsuki feels a little lighter, and knows that come morning he will return to their house, wake Izuku up and carry him back to their bed, and they will work it out because they always do, Katsuki will not let this time be any different. But for now, he lets the conversation stray with his uncle.
“Gay people just never have it easy man,” Kudo chuckles wistfully, but Katsuki just lets out a sharp “Ha!” followed by “Good thing I’m not gay,” and Kudo immediately pinches the bridge of his nose because not this again.
“Katsuki,” Kudo said, “you’re in a relationship, a serious relationship, with a man. That is the very definition of gay.”
“I’m not in a relationship with a man,” Katsuki will reply, hearing how absurd the words were, “I’m in a relationship with Izuku.”
“Who is a man,” Kudo counters.
“He is Izuku, my Izuku. That is the simplest way I can explain it.” Katsuki finishes.
“Nothing simple about that.”
And Katsuki does not bother continuing, he has argued enough today, he is tired, and makes his way to the guest bedroom.
Izuku slams the door shut behind him and immediately falls to the floor. He sits there for a moment, feeling too much, feeling nothing at all. He will crawl, because his legs hurt, he cannot stand, using the strength in his arms to push his useless body 7 metres across the room, to the bathroom. This takes so much effort, Izuku is in so much pain, that once he finally gets there, he will lay his forehead and seek refuge from the cold tiles of the bathroom floor.
He will think about his argument with Katsuki, and will be reminded of how trapped he is. Trapped in a body he hates, with a past he hates, and how he will never be able to change either. He will want to cry, from frustration and pain, but he hasn’t really cried since what happened with Brother Tomura, after which he told himself unless he could help it, he would never cry again.
He will pull himself into a sitting position, and breathe, reaching under the sink for his mini travel bag, full of sharp razors, that bring comfort and reprieve. He hears the elevator to their penthouse run and is somewhat glad Katsuki is no longer near him in this state. He pulls off his shirt and stares at his mangled, scarred arms. Izuku is running out of space to cut, he has been at this for nearly twenty years after all.
Swallowing, Izuku will pick up his razor, adding violent strokes to his doomed canvas. My life, he will think, my life. But he won’t be able to think beyond this, and he will keep repeating the words to himself – part chant, part curse, part reassurance – as he slips into that other world he visits when he is in such pain, that world he knows is never far from his own but that he can never remember after: My life.
Brother Tomura was Izuku’s favourite amongst the brothers. He can’t really remember how he got here, but he’s been in the monastery for as long as he can remember. Brother Tomura used to tell him that little boys, like him, and the rest of the boys in this home, were a reward from God and that Izuku was special.
Brother Tomura would lay that calloused palm on a seven-year-old Izuku’s cheek, and tell him how special he was, after all, Izuku was much brighter than the other boys, much more adept at housework, and always smiling, always cheery. He loved to garden, and would sometimes let Izuku join him, teaching him about the flora and fauna, always teaching him.
Izuku loved living at the monastery, and he especially loved Brother Tomura. So much so that little Izuku, one Sunday morning before mass, decided to sneak into Brother Chisaki’s office, to steal some seeds. He wanted to attempt growing a plant of his own, and bring life into this world for the first time. He wanted to do it for Brother Tomura, to show him how much he loved him. Izuku knew the eighth commandment recites “you should not steal,” but if it was going to make the Brother happy, then surely God would forgive him.
Izuku knew Brother Chisaki always left his office unlocked, and so he scanned the hallways to make sure no one was around, before going on his tippy toes to press the door handle open. Izuku made his way over to the shelves lined with different seeds for different plants and grabbed a small bag labelled ‘Carnations’, “The flower of God,” Brother Tomura had told him. Turning around and ready to make his leave, Izuku was so startled by the figure looming over him he dropped the bag, seeds clattering everywhere.
“B-brother Chi-“but Izuku could barely get a word out before he felt a hot palm strike his cheek, neck-snapping to his right with the amount of force used. Brother Chisaki looked livid, and Izuku knew he had made a huge mistake, one he would pay for as Brother Chisaki would strike a match and brandish Izuku’s forearm, his hands, the same hands that held the seeds that were supposed to bring life. The seeds that were going to bring forth the Flower of God. Those same hands were now sweltering, the scent of burnt flesh filling the room as Brother Chisaki held him down and told him that hands of God do not steal, and the fire will purify them.
Word of what happened must have spread, because it now seemed that every Brother but Tomura, absolutely loathedIzuku. For the rest of his time spent at that monastery, Izuku would be subjected to random searches, ‘to make sure you haven’t stolen anything, you see’, they would say, as the Brothers would put their holy hands, on unholy places, places a child should never be touched.
This was how Izuku’s little life began, my life, he will think, my life.
Izuku spent the night on the bathroom floor, not because he wanted to but because he was too tired to get up. This was going to be one of his very bad days, he could tell, in the way the rain made his wounds hurt, rain that reminded him of Katsuki because that boy hates the rain. Dawn was approaching, if the way the rising sun began to brighten the blue night sky was any sign.
Izuku sprawled out on the floor, head tilted towards the floor-to-ceiling windows in this bathroom, will look at the clouds in the heavens, and beg. He will beg, murmurs of please, please oh god, please, leaving his lips, but what exactly he is begging for, Izuku does not know.
He hears the elevator run, and for a brief moment Izuku knows putting the fate of his life in God’s hands was the right choice. He hears the pad of Katsuki’s footsteps, quickly approaching his bedroom, his bedroom that he had never slept in, and thinks that maybe he should get up, he does not want to worry Katsuki after all. But his body will not listen to his mind, and so he will simply wait.
Katsuki would open the bathroom door, and see a ghost on the floor, and kick himself because he did not build a home. He will approach slowly, descending to the ground, and lay parallel next to Izuku. And Izuku will look at Katsuki, but see a mirror image of himself, his counterpart, looking as tired as he feels. And it’s this image that killsIzuku, because he is sucking the life out of Katsuki, and Izuku wants to save him.
So Izuku says, “I’ll tell you,” And for the first time in nearly 12 years, he sheds a tear on behalf of someone else.
“Izuku dear, I know the other Brothers do not treat you well.” Brother Tomura would say, as he wiped the blood dripping down Izuku’s thighs in the bathroom. “Would you like to go somewhere better with me?”
And Izuku, age eight, who has not spoken a word for the past year, will open his mouth, and condemn himself to a life sentence full of suffering.
“Yes.”
Brother Tomura would flee the monastery, with a green-haired boy forty years his junior in hand, declaring promises of a bright future together, where they would move into a house, with a white picket fence, and a huge garden in the backyard. All Izuku needed to do was follow, and obey.
Come late summer, the pair would hitchhike their way to South Dakota, Wyoming in the rear-view mirror. Izuku was so excited to move into his new home with the man he loved, so excited to plant all the seeds he could, leaving the lashings of the devils in that monastery behind him.
What he did not know was that home was a motel room, and the seeds being planted were in the form of countless men, thrusting into Izuku, until they let out a big shout and slumped over.
Brother Tomura had said this would only be temporary, that it would just be one more client. They needed the money, so they could go somewhere better. One more obese man with a ring on his finger, that would slip the white-haired man a Benjamin before letting him into Izuku’s home, to plant his seed.
Over and over again, this went on for weeks, and then months, and then years, until Izuku will turn 13 and realise this was not something normal, something someone he loved would doom him to. So, he begged Brother Tomura in tears, after a man had been especially rough, leaving Izuku so sore he could barely move his lower body, please, don’t let more people into our home.
And Brother Tomura was not evil, Izuku had loved him after all. So, he picked Izuku up, carried him to the small bathroom inside the motel room, and sat him down on the closed lid of the toilet seat. He reached into his pocket, and brought out salvation, holding a sharp razor blade. “This will help you, Izuku,” Brother Tomura had said, “you can now bleed out your sorrows.”
This would turn into something of an addiction for Izuku.
Katsuki doesn’t dare interrupt, listening with rapt attention as he hears the story of a boy who was robbed of his childhood, innocence, and adolescence. Katsuki lies parallel to Izuku on that bathroom floor and grieves the life Izuku deserved to live.
Izuku is turning 15 today, and Brother Tomura says he has a gift for him. The little flame of hope Izuku has for a better life will spark, but his lover will suffocate it as he undresses and then tells Izuku to follow suit. Sensing Izuku’s distress, Brother Tomura will tuck Izuku into his side and explain that when two people are in love, they do things like kiss and lie in bed together. He promises it will be different than the clients, because they are in love, and Izuku does not know any better, so he nods once.
The person who taught him how to bring life into this world, taught him to flirt with death, will plant yet another seed in Izuku, but this one is the most rotten of all and will leave the soil barren.
Izuku has turned 15 today, and he knows this relationship is not one full of love, and this house is not a home.
“-Ku… Izuku!” what?
“Izuku! Wake up!” Tomura whispers shrieking, shaking Izuku ferociously. It’s so dark, and Izuku can’t see much save for the dim glow of the moonlight cascading through the sheer curtains. “We need to go, now.”
Brother Tomura looks angry, stressed, and panicked. Izuku has never seen the man look anything but collected, so this sight makes a sick feeling unfurl in his stomach.
Izuku will hurry to put on his red shoes, but Brother Tomura is in such haste— “No time for that, now, c’mon” – that he will yank Izuku by the wrist, who is clad in nothing but cotton sleep shorts, the only pair he owns. The white-haired man swings open the motel room door before gunning it across the parking lot, Izuku in tow. The chilly night air is biting, but not as bad as the piercing sting of the concrete on his bare feet.
They are quickly approaching a long row of cars when Izuku hears the angels sing. His breath hitches, and he quickly stops in his tracks, much to Brother Tomura’s annoyance.
“Izuku, stop this immediately! We haven’t much time, we must go, we will find a new home, you would like that, yes?” Izuku shakes his head vehemently in disagreement, big green eyes wide and terrified. This earns him a slap; the first time Brother Tomura ever strikes him.
The sound of police sirens is getting louder now and Izuku doesn’t want to go with Brother Tomura, he doesn’t want to garden anymore, so he will yank his hand away and run as fast as his sore legs will take him, closer and closer to the angels singing, the hues of blue and red that promise retribution. And Izuku can see them now, the queue of police cars heading towards the lot from the horizon, and he runs, and runs, fighting with the prickly concrete, pleading with it to propel him faster.
Just 200 metres, Izuku, 200 more metres and you will be saved,
His breathing is erratic, his chest starting to burn,
140 metres, c’mon, Izuku,
He’s lost feeling in his toes now,
90 metres, only 90 left,
Screams of help will escape from his mouth,
40 metres, you’re so close Izuku,
“Help! Help!!!”
20 metres,
Izuku is momentarily blinded by a light coming from his left, and God truly must be coming to rescue him, coming at him full speed in a stolen Toyota Camry, Brother Tomura in the driver’s seat—
There’s no time for him to react before the car crashes into him from his side, Izuku’s legs taking the brunt of the impact. Knocked to the ground, vision hazy, Izuku will have one last view of the South Dakota stars, before Brother Tomura reverses, then runs over his legs a second time, and the stars will go out, painting the world black.
It’s dark, and Izuku can’t breathe. His eyes are squeezed shut, his legs ache, and suddenly he is 15 again in South Dakota, and he doesn’t know who he is, “Who am I?” Izuku will whimper into the void, “Who am I?”
And he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if God replied, Katsuki’s whispered incantation. “You are Izuku Midoriya. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You are someone Toshinori Yagi considers a son. You are the friend of Ochako Uraraka, of Toga Himiko. You are a New Yorker, and you live on the Upper East Side. You are a huge All Might nerd, who can recite almost every quote from memory. You are extremely bright, effortlessly so.”
“You’re a bad cook, but a great baker. You write me lovely messages whenever I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way.”
“You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Cravath, Swaine & Moore. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a philosopher. You’re a realist.”
“You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.”
On and on Katsuki talks, chanting back to himself, until Izuku blinks open muted green eyes, meeting crimson. “And who are you?” he asks, looking at the man who is holding him as they lay intertwined on the bathroom floor. The man who is describing someone he doesn’t recognise, someone who seems to have so much, someone who seems like such an enviable, beloved person. “Who are you?”
The man has an answer to this question as well. “I’m Katsuki Bakugo,” he says. “And I will never let you go."
Izuku Midoriya’s history of abuse has created fertile soil for infections. He has contracted venereal diseases from customers, his self-inflicted wounds have led to septicaemia, and his severely damaged legs, which have suffered from vascular ulcers and osteomyelitis for years, will now require amputation.
As the doctor finished delivering the diagnosis, the sterile air seemed to freeze in the room, the only sound left being the echoing beep of Izuku’s heart monitor. Katsuki and Toshinori, Ochako and Toga flank Izuku’s sides, all too stunned to speak.
Then abruptly, a sound broke the silence – a sharp, disjointed laugh that came from somewhere deep and hollow within Izuku. It started as a soft, almost hesitant chuckle, but quickly escalated into a jagged, discordant laughter that echoed off the hospital walls. Izuku’s viridian eyes were wide and unblinking, but there was no trace of mirth in them, only an unsettling vacancy. He threw his head back, the laugh ripping from his throat with a force that made his entire body tremble. It was a chilling, inhuman sound, so frightening and unfitting for the freckled boy, that it made the hairs on the back of Katsuki’s neck stand on end.
His laughter stopped as abruptly as it started, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Izuku’s eyes locked onto Katsuki’s with a cold, eerie calmness, his lips curving into a grim smile.
“Amputation,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but tinged with an unsettling edge, “they want to amputate my legs.”
And Katsuki will not know how to reply, the echoes of Izuku’s hollow laughter still replaying in his head like a broken record. Katsuki will not know what to do, how to save the boy in front of him.
Looking back to the doctor, Izuku steeled his gaze and said he refused.
The next four years of Izuku’s life will house the most amount of pain Katsuki has ever felt.
He has to watch the boy he loves, has loved, for the past 14 years, start falling ill at night with fevers and numbness. Izuku will begin to hallucinate his demons, the ghost of Brother Tomura becoming a resident of their house.
Izuku has been confined to a wheelchair during this time, Katsuki always at his back pushing him forward. He has had to take an indefinite leave off work to care for Izuku, to reassure him when he wakes up in a cold sweat in the dark of the night that Brother Tomura is not here, he is dead, was shot at the crime scene. To help Izuku into the shower, and wash his hair, despite the fact that “Kacchan, it’s my legs that don’t work – not my hands,” but Katsuki will simply tch, and resume his careful motions, massaging the shampoo into Izuku’s curls. To hide Izuku’s razors, that multiply in every crevice of their house, as if a ghost keeps replacing them. To wheel Izuku down to the floor below for family dinners with Ochako and Toga, where they will all chatter, and laugh, and ignore the elephant in the room that Izuku is slowly dying before their eyes and he will not let anybody help him. To take him on walks to Silver Aged Comics, where they shared their first night together, talking about everything and nothing.
They are on one of those walks now, it is late May and the spring air is crisp and refreshing. A 32-year-old Katsuki will inhale with each step, as a 31-year-old Izuku exhales in front of him from his chair, and Izuku will acknowledge to Katsuki that he has never wanted to admit that he is disabled because it means that Brother Tomura took something from him that he can never reclaim – that Izuku must accept an imperfect life if he agrees to the leg amputations Toshinori keeps recommending.
The decision is rational, but Izuku will remain petulant for another 6 years until he is 37, Katsuki having just turned 38, when he decides the toll Izuku’s wellbeing, or lack thereof, is just too much, too heavy, on Katsuki, and Izuku has spent more of his life being selfish than he has not. Seeing his partner grow tired of hiding how dejected and worried he is over Izuku finally convinces him to amputate his legs, and by Thanksgiving— no longer Friendsgiving, because they are all family now – he is able to sit at the table in between Katsuki and Toshinori, across from Ochako and Toga, and Kudo and Yoichi, and Touya and Takami and feel blessed for the first time in a long time that the laughter is easy and carefree, and no longer plagued by Izuku’s fate.
A year later, Katsuki will resume work and his eyes will become vibrant again, and Izuku will only cut sparingly now, bad days occurring every month or so instead of weeks, and Katsuki will be so, so proud of Izuku, proud of his progress, and also proud of himself. Proud that he has stuck by Izuku for the past 20 years, met his demons and banished them to hell.
Katsuki will build Izuku a home, a large one just outside of the city, with enough bedrooms for the kids they will have, and a big garden, a real one this time, where Izuku can untaint the act of gardening, and replace nauseating memories with cheerful ones.
He will spend 3 years building this home, to surprise Izuku with it on his 41st birthday, along with the emerald and ruby encrusted ring weighing heavy in his pocket.
Katsuki is driving back from their soon-to-be home, with Toga in the passenger seat, as she tagged along to help set up for their little housewarming party, where Katsuki will pop the big question. They are on their way to pick up Izuku and Ochako, and the ring in Katsuki’s pocket is such a comforting weight, one of his closest friends is sitting next to him singing her heart out to Tame Impala, and Katsuki can’t help but hum along, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, a grateful smile on his face.
The sun has almost completely set, painting the sky indigo hues, and the roof of his maroon Cayman coupe is down. The wind in his hair, blood pumping in his veins, and Katsuki is driving towards his bright future with Izuku. It’s about a 30-minute drive, a little faster if he hurries, but he doesn’t because the drive itself is pretty. And when he crosses the final large intersection, he doesn’t even see the truck coming toward him, barrelling into traffic against the light, and by the time he feels it, a tremendous crush crumpling the passenger-seat side of the car, where Toga is sitting next to him, he is already aloft, being ejected into the air.
Katsuki shouts, or he thinks he does, and then in an instant, he sees a flash of Izuku, of Izuku sat on the bean bags at Silver Age Comics coughing after a blinker, of Izuku against Vogh’s Starry night, of Izuku in bed beside him, green curls tickling his nose, of Izuku’s back, as he chased him down Lipsenard street.
His ears, his head, fill with the roar of pleating metal, of exploding glass, of his own useless howls.
The last image in Katsuki’s head is of a future that could have been, in their home that Katsuki worked hard to build after countless trials and errors. It is the last image he sees before his heart is punctured by rebar, no longer beating.
The Shard, New York, is a project Katsuki had been working on for the majority of his career. A sister to its London counterpart, however far more impressive. Standing 7 metres taller than the One World Trade Center, Katsuki’s magnum opus will brush the heavens, as if the building itself yearns for the touch of its creator. Izuku will attend the opening, black suit fitted, with slacks loose enough for his prosthetics, tie knotted to perfection, because Katsuki would want Izuku to look perfect regardless of the fact he is no longer around to help him knot it, so Izuku will learn on his own.
He will nod in agreement with every ‘Katsuki was brilliant, wasn’t he?’, and smile wistfully at every work story shared.
It has been exactly 9 weeks since he lost one of his best friends, Toga, and his life partner, Katsuki, but stood on the terrace floor of the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere —a building his Katsuki had built —he feels their presence in the skies.
The crowd will hush, and Izuku will hold onto the microphone with his left hand, an emerald and ruby cut ring reinforcing his grip.
“Katsuki Bakugo had a plan,” Izuku starts, “he arrived at the Tandon School of Engineering at the age of 18 with a dream bigger than the building we stand on. Falling in love with Katsuki was falling in love with New York. A city where the skies lack stars, not because of the light pollution, but because they all walk the streets below us. Katsuki was my favourite star to look at in this city, and this city breathed life into me. His legacy will not be limited to this skyscraper only, but Katsuki will be remembered in Paris, in Shanghai, in Dubai. Katsuki will be remembered in the way his designs have rewritten the world, in the way his craftsmanship will inspire generations to come.”
Izuku looks up to the night sky, and he swears he can see a light twinkling down at him. “Katsuki will live on: maybe he is the feisty Pomeranian that has begun to sit outside my neighbour’s house, offering little licks of love when I reach my hand to it; maybe he is that Carnation that suddenly bloomed on the Dianthus bush I thought had died long ago; maybe he is that cloud, that breeze, that mist. It isn’t only that he died, or how he died; it is what he died believing.”
“And so I will try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.”