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Katsuki’s chest hurts. Nothing unbearable. Just a light ache that’s been easy to ignore all day while he was focused on other tasks. It’s only now that he’s sitting down to eat that it registers with him as real pain.
“Hey, man. Thanks for the food,” Kirishima says, arm slung around Katsuki’s shoulder from where he sits next to him.
“Your cooking is always so good, Bakugou!” comes Ashido’s approval, her faced flushed a darker shade of pink from the spicy broth. “I dunno how you do it. It’s not fair!”
Katsuki smirks. “Not fair, huh? Gimme that bowl.”
Ashido sticks her tongue out, picking up her meal and holding it protectively to her chest.
All of their class is sat around the table after a hard week of reconstruction work—not that Katsuki’s allowed to do much with them. At most, he sweeps up garbage and hands out food. Redirects civilians away from danger zones. That kinda thing. Lame, boring. But it was the only way his parents, doctors, and teachers allowed him back into the field, so be it.
He tries to help in other ways. And no one’s banned him from the kitchen yet.
On the other end of the table, Sero is chatting away with Shinsou and Todoroki. Todoroki has his mouth full, cheeks puffed up, listening intently to whatever Sero’s yapping about and nodding in intervals.
One, two, three. One, two, three. Yeah, the idiot’s definitely timing them. Katsuki shakes his head with a private smile.
Shinsou interjects with his own comments now and then. Katsuki can’t hear it from his side of the table, but he must be pretty fucking funny if the twitch of Todoroki’s eyebrow is any indication. It’s so hard to get that bitch to laugh these days. (Katsuki would know.)
Izuku sits directly across from him, between Iida and Uraraka, who are having a conversation over his head. Katsuki doesn’t know why they wouldn’t just fucking sit next to each other instead of blowing Izuku’s poor ears out, but the nerd looks unbothered, eating his food with a slight smile on his face.
Katsuki slides one foot out of his house slippers and nudges Izuku’s shin with his toes under the table. Izuku looks up. His smile widens into something ear to ear and beautiful, stretching his scar, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Katsuki mouths, “You okay?” gesturing between the two idiots on either side of Izuku with his pinky.
Izuku nods. Traps Katsuki’s foot between his legs and squeezes lightly. “Thanks, Kacchan.”
The long hours spent over hot stove, the steam from a warm meal, and the feeling that he’s begun to recognize as happiness dancing around in his ribcage. It all makes him tired. Not in a bad way. Just in that way he gets after a long workout. The kind where he knows if he puts his head down and goes to sleep, he will be out within seconds of his head touching his pillow.
They’re still sitting at the table. His bowl of noodles is half-finished and getting cold. Kaminari says something dumb somewhere to his left, and Katsuki can’t muster the energy to correct him.
Katsuki hums happily as he slides a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants, where he carries his card. A little worse for wear, stained, crumpled. But he fixed it to the best of his ability. Got it signed and laminated. The familiar ritual—touching the card, closing his palm around it—loosens something in his throat.
He pushes his food to the side and puts his cheek down on the table. Closes his eyes with a smile on his face as he lets the buzz of class 2A wash over him.
Just five minutes…
—
Clean up after dinner is an unusually quiet affair. One glare and a few hand motions from Iida, gesturing to Kacchan’s sleeping form, is enough to get everyone to work in muted silence to put the dishes away.
Hushed conversations move upstairs, careful footsteps light all around as the last members of the class make their way to their rooms, until it’s just Izuku left in the common area.
Izuku, and Kacchan.
He’s still sleeping on the dining table.
Kacchan’s not exactly a light sleeper, but it’s uncommon for him to let himself be out of it for so long in front of everybody else. Though—Izuku admits with a warm feeling in his chest—Kacchan’s changed a lot lately. He smiles more, the way Izuku remembers him. The way he always knew Kacchan was, could be.
He asked All Might for an autograph and then showed it off to Izuku with a bright grin. He let his parents hug him when he was discharged from the hospital. He let Izuku help him with his tie and his jacket and with carrying his bag.
The thought that Kacchan would let himself fall asleep with their friends around, smile on his face, fills Izuku with indescribable contentedness.
Still, it doesn’t look comfortable. His neck must be cramping, and the side of his face with his stitches is pressed to the table.
Izuku tentatively taps his shoulder. Once, twice.
Nothing.
“Kacchan…? Wanna sleep in your bed?”
Letting himself indulge, Izuku brushes a hand through Kacchan’s hair. Oh. It’s so soft. Softer than Izuku imagined. Softer than he remembers it being.
It’s a selfish thought. Horrible, guilt-inducing. Makes Izuku feel like trash for thinking it but—
But.
In the privacy of his own mind, it can’t hurt anyone, right? Is it so bad that Izuku imagines himself doing this when Kacchan is awake. Having Kacchan’s head in his lap. Kacchan’s beautiful red eyes blinking up at him.
Izuku would put one hand on Kacchan’s chest to feel his heartbeat, the other carding through his bangs, tucking tufts of hair behind his ear. He won’t let himself go that far right now, but he has thought about it. Tracing Kacchan’s lobe, the soft shell. Putting his thumb to the corner of Kacchan’s mouth to catch his slight smile.
In his mind, Kacchan would use the moment to bite him. He’d turn his head and clamp his teeth around Izuku’s hand.
“Ow, ow, ow. Kacchan, that hurts!” he’d say, even though it really doesn’t.
“That’s what you get, nerd.”
Izuku wants to know what it would be like to have that. To know the weight of Kacchan’s body splayed across his own. To playfully slap his arm, or to gently hold his cheek. Feel Kacchan’s breathing, slow and steady, under his palm.
The absurdity of the fantasy is that Izuku has let himself be deluded into thinking it’s not so impossible anymore. That he could—Kacchan would let him.
Kacchan might even be happy about it. Receptive. Smiling.
The feeling is so big, too big for Izuku’s chest. A happiness he doesn’t know what to do with. He’s wanted so little of Kacchan for so long, been denied of it, his friendship, his reciprocated admiration, that having all of him now, so easily, is unreal.
Sometimes, Izuku feels like he’s in a dream. Ever since All Might told him he can be a hero, he’s been a dream. And it’s like one dream has replaced another.
Sometimes, Izuku feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He sits down to Kacchan’s left, putting his own head on the table facing him.
Kacchan’s so still, like this. It’s uncanny. So unlike Kacchan’s usual self, loud and animated. Making his presence known. There’s been less of that lately, as well, and Izuku’s head is spinning trying to put all these new pieces of Kacchan together. Reconciling the past and the present. Wondering what the future will look like.
A future with Kacchan in his life.
Kacchan’s mouth is slightly open, though he’s not snoring like he usually does.
Izuku frowns.
Not snoring, not moving, not waking up to the hustle and bustle of the class.
It’s dark, and Izuku can’t see that well, but—
His lips. Kacchan’s lips.
A jolt of fear travels down his spine. Sick to his stomach, Izuku brings a trembling hand up to feel Kacchan’s face. Still warm, he’s still warm, and his cheek is as soft as Izuku imagined and.
Kacchan’s not breathing.
Fuck. Fuck.
Izuku mouth opens in a silent scream.
His lungs aren’t working, not aiding him and his shaky, useless hands in asking for help. He stumbles out of his chair, and it falls down behind him with a loud thud.
Kacchan. Kacchan isn’t breathing. His lips might be blue, though Izuku can’t be sure. His skin was warm. Kacchan’s been sleeping for thirty minutes now.
No.
Not sleeping.
Dead. Dying. Not breathing.
Izuku can’t get his own breathing to work, so he summons the embers and punches the wall as hard as he can.
CPR. Kacchan needs CPR. It can’t be too late.
He needs to get Kacchan on his back, so he does. Somehow. With tremors that he can’t tamp down wracking through his body, with ears ringing to the sound of his own arrhythmic heartbeat, with choked up cotton in his throat.
No, no, no. This can’t be happening. It can’t be real. Kacchan’s fine. He was just resting. He would have said. If he was feeling bad, he would have done something about it. He knows how bad Izuku needs him. Kacchan wouldn’t leave him like this, he wouldn’t. He’s fine.
Elbows locked. Shoulders directly over hands, centred on Kacchan’s chest. Two inches deep, allowing Kacchan’s chest to return to normal position after each compression. 100 to 120 per minute, thirty at a time.
Izuku’s busted hand bleeds into Kacchan’s pristine white t-shirt, ruining the All Might design. One thread of thought is dedicated to keeping count. The other, Izuku is using to imagine Kacchan getting mad at him after he wakes up.
Sitting up and yelling at Izuku for dirtying his shirt.
“Shitty Deku! How am I supposed to get this out without fucking up All Might’s colours? You’re so useless.”
“So useless you let me die. Can’t ever save me, huh? Not in battle, and not even in here where there’s nothing stopping you. I should have left you behind.”
Tilt the chin. Pinch the nose, breathe in, seal over Kacchan’s mouth with his own lips. Two breaths, one second each. Feel the chest rise and allow air to exit before giving the next one. (Kacchan’s lips are chapped and dry. This isn’t how Izuku wanted to find out.)
More, more. Kacchan’s not moving.
“Keep up the compressions, Deku-kun!”
Distantly, Izuku registers the noise. Except it can’t be that distant because Uraraka’s shadow is right here.
When did the lights turn on?
Frantic voices. Somebody shouts. Another wails. The cries shake Izuku to his core, making this all real.
No, it has to be a bad dream. It can’t be, it can’t.
Kacchan’s ribs crack under Izuku’s hands.
Hands grip under Izuku’s armpits and drag him away by force. He kicks and screams, still silent, still not breathing, still useless.
Kirishima tears Kacchan’s shirt apart. Kacchan’s going to be so mad when he wakes up.
When. When.
Todoroki attaches the pads of the AED to either side of Kacchan’s chest.
“CLEAR,” he yells. Kacchan’s body twitches. Kirishima restarts the CPR.
Izuku finally manages to break free of his captor with a punch to their throat.
“Midoriya!” somebody shouts.
Izuku flinches in their direction, an acknowledging whimper escaping his mouth. The first sound he’s made since—
His mind goes blank.
—
“How is he?”
“Still out.”
“Who’s going to tell him?”
“Don’t you think he saw with his own eyes?”
Izuku blinks his eyes open to the sound of Todoroki’s question. He’s never heard him sound so tired before. So angry.
So—
Izuku gasps, throat closing up. “Ka—”
He can’t finish the thought. It hurts. It hurts.
“Deku-kun…”
Uraraka is kneeling next to him on the floor, holding his hand. Her eyes and nose are red, tear tracks blotching up her face.
The dorms are silent. Izuku drags himself into a sitting position, hugging his knees. Todoroki plops down next to him. Squeezes his other hand.
“No,” Izuku whispers.
Todoroki tips his head to the side until his forehead rests against Izuku’s temple.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “They—um. His body—”
Izuku flinches. Todoroki’s voice is thick, quiet, more subdued than ever.
“He’s at the hospital now,” Uraraka finishes for him. “With his parents.”
Letting himself fall apart is not easy. Izuku doesn’t deserve it. But his body sags into Todoroki’s against his will, limbs uncooperative.
Kacchan.
Kacchan would know what to do if their situations were reversed.
Izuku’s always been the useless one.
Todoroki and Uraraka shuffle around him. He goes weightless as he’s pulled to his feet.
Gravity kicks back in with a whispered, ‘release,’ from Uraraka. For a moment, Izuku hopes that will wake him up. Like in dreams where he’s being chased. Running and running and running, until he can’t breathe, until he falls off a cliff with a silent scream, body jerking in his bed to accommodate the fear and adrenaline.
Izuku’s muscles tense. His feet land with a gentle thump.
“We need to get to the hospital, okay?” Uraraka says. “Everyone else is there.”
It’s real. The pain in his hand, the sound of Kacchan’s ribs cracking, the silence as Izuku was hoping to hear him breathe; gasp and come back to life and bring the light with him.
Todoroki nods. “All Might is waiting for us in his car.”
Izuku buries his face in his hands, begging to whoever is willing to listen.
Somebody please. Save Kacchan.
Bring him back.
Izuku needs him.
“Let’s go, Midoriya.”
Getting from Heights Alliance to where All Might’s car is parked takes years.
In reality, it’s a two minute walk. Kacchan used to love racing the distance.
Izuku’s dragging his feet as much as he can. If they—if they go to the hospital, he’ll see Kacchan again.
How long was Izuku out? Kacchan is probably being kept in a. In a cold, dark place. Sheet over his head.
Cold, cold, cold.
All Might steps out of the car when they get there, and he starts running when he sees Izuku. He shouldn’t be. He only just stopped needing a wheelchair a couple of weeks ago. All Might should be resting or—
Or he’ll die too. Like Kacchan. Both of Izuku’s heroes. No, no, no, Izuku can’t lose him too.
“All Might!”
“Young Midoriya.”
His frail body folds around Izuku, holding him up. Izuku thinks he might fall, but All Might’s strength keeps them both upright. Sobs wrack through Izuku’s body, his tears soaking All Might’s shirt.
“S-sorry,” he tries to make out between hiccups. “A-all might. Ka— I…”
“I know, kid. I’m sorry.”
The wobbly quality of All Might’s voice brings Izuku to his knees, and All Might goes with him, his hand closed around the back of Izuku’s head.
They need to go. Izuku’s holding them back.
He glances up. Finds Todoroki and Uraraka already sat in the back of the vehicle. Izuku can’t make out their faces, but their shoulders are shaking too.
He rises on unsteady feet and wipes his face with the inside of his ‘Monday’ shirt.
Today is Friday.
Kacchan died on a Friday, and Izuku’s not even wearing the right shirt.
Digging half-moons into his palm, knuckles creaking, Izuku swallows. It goes down thick and unwanted, sharded glass to his throat.
“I’m ready,” he lies. “Let’s go.”
The moon follows them on the way to the hospital, and Izuku keeps his gaze locked onto it.
He can’t help but think Kacchan would have preferred the sun if he could choose.