Chapter Text
The hospital room was quiet in the early morning light, the kind of soft silence that felt sacred. Mitsuki Bakugou lay back against the pillows, her hair damp with sweat, arms trembling but steady as she held her newborn son against her chest.
Masaru stood beside her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder, the other gently brushing the baby's pale blond hair. The boy hadn’t cried—he’d come into the world glaring, fists curled tightly, as if daring the universe to try him.
Then it began.
A soft pulse of heat, right at the center of his collarbones.
Masaru leaned forward just as Mitsuki whispered, “Something’s happening…”
Right before their eyes, the soul mark manifested.
It began with a brilliant golden center, the color of molten sunlight, glowing steadily just above his tiny heartbeat. From that core, streaks of vibrant orange spiraled outward in perfect symmetry, fading into rich red as they expanded—like petals of flame. Together, the colors formed the radiant shape of a supernova, bright and burning across the middle of his collarbones.
Then came the trails—delicate swirls shaped like shooting stars, branching from the starburst and following the dip of his chest, as if the explosion was still echoing across his tiny body.
the soul mark looked celestial.
Mitsuki inhaled sharply, her grip tightening. “Masaru,” she breathed, voice shaking. “Look at him.”
Masaru blinked hard, his eyes fixed on the infant’s chest. Then he smiled—and a tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. “He’s… he’s beautiful.”
They looked at each other then.
And the smile faded—just slightly.
Because they both knew.
Neither of them bore this mark.
It wasn’t a match to either of their soul patterns. No golden star. No supernova. No constellation of comet trails. It was utterly foreign. Utterly not theirs.
Masaru’s hand slowly moved to rest over Mitsuki’s. “What do we do?”
Before she could answer, one of the nurses—older, seasoned—stepped forward, tablet already in hand. “This is a unique manifestation,” she said, voice cautious but curious. “It’ll be entered into the Soul Center’s live registry now. A mark this defined likely means he’s already matched. Possibly a soul-son bond. Maybe even more than one. We’ll know within the hour.”
Mitsuki flinched. Her hold on Katsuki tightened. “Wait.”
The nurse glanced up, frowning. “Ma’am, we’re required to report all new soul mark manifestations. Especially one this rare. The Center will arrange contact with any matched soulmates immediately.”
Masaru stepped in, voice steady. “Let’s not rush.”
The nurse’s gaze sharpened. “Sir—”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. Thick. Heavy. Lined with fresh yen notes. “This doesn’t need to be reported. Not yet. Not today.”
The nurse’s expression darkened. “You understand what you’re asking me to do.”
“I’m asking you to let a newborn stay with his parents,” Masaru said. “hebwon't manifest his soulbonds till he's 5 years old.Till then, you can't prove that he's not ours.”
Mitsuki looked down at the golden star blooming on her son’s skin, and then back up with fierce, wild eyes. “He is ours.”
The nurse didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then, silently, she closed the tablet without submitting the report. Her gloved fingers brushed once over Katsuki’s chest, lingering on the glow.
“He won’t stay quiet forever,” she said softly. “Marks like this… they call out.”
But the envelope disappeared into her pocket.
And no data was sent.
Masaru reached for Mitsuki’s hand and held it as she cradled their son—not marked by them, but meant for someone else, and yet...
“I’m not giving him up,” she whispered, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
Neither did Masaru.
Neither ever would.
That day, they decided katsuki was their little shining star.
And they made sure to show their love for all the world to see.
The Bakugo residence buzzed with quiet opulence: marble countertops, gleaming floors, and towering windows that drank in sunlight. Mitsuki stood in front of the hallway mirror, brushing a light gloss over her lips when her phone rang.
She answered on speaker as Masaru walked by with a mug of green tea in hand.
“Mrs. Bakugo?” came the voice of Katsuki’s kindergarten teacher. “Please come pick up your son.”
Mitsuki’s heart dropped. “What happened? Is he hurt?”
“No, no—nothing like that! He’s... safe. He just—he just manifested his Quirk. It’s beautiful. But we’d prefer you see it for yourselves.”
Masaru had stopped mid-sip. Mitsuki blinked at him.
“He got his Quirk?” they said together, barely containing their excitement.
Within ten minutes, they were pulling up to the pristine kindergarten building, breathless and eager. The front door opened before they even knocked. A staff member waved them in with wide eyes and a stunned smile.
“He’s in the back garden,” the woman whispered. “You’re going to want to see this.”
They stepped into the small courtyard, and the sight made Mitsuki freeze.
There, in the middle of the garden, stood Katsuki. His little hands were out to his sides, fists clenched in fascination, as tiny bursts of light bloomed around his body. Fireworks—gentle and shimmering—popped quietly in the air like glowing seedlings. They sparkled orange, casting a soft golden light against his pale skin and fluffy blond hair.
Each time a spark flared to life, it made a delicate *ping!* like a distant bell, and for just a moment, the air around him shimmered with warmth.
Masaru blinked. “He’s sparkling.”
“Literally sparkling,” Mitsuki whispered, her voice catching.
Katsuki turned toward them, grinning proudly. “Mama! Papa! Look!” One of the sparks arced from his wrist and fizzled gently into the air like a shooting star.
Masaru was the first to laugh—choked, awestruck—and knelt down to catch his son in his arms.
“Oh, my god, Katsuki. You’re amazing.”
The staff around them clapped softly, still stunned. Mitsuki knelt beside them and kissed his temple. “You’re really our little star, huh?”
The warm glow around him flared brighter for a heartbeat.
Later that week, a visit to a top-tier Quirk Specialist confirmed what they had only guessed: Katsuki’s body contained microscopic sweat glands specialized to secrete nitroglycerin, which he could detonate at will. The doctor’s face held a rare mixture of fear and admiration as he read through the scans.
“Your son can produce controlled explosions from anywhere on his body,” he explained. “And they’ll only get stronger as he ages. This... is a once-in-a-generation Quirk.”
Masaru looked over at Mitsuki. Her eyes were shining.
“Strong... and beautiful,” she whispered.
The doctor added, “It’s an advanced form of both your Quirks. An elegant combination of combustion and ignition. And it resonates unusually well with his soulmark.”
Their gaze drifted to the boy, who was playing on the floor with sparking fingers, tiny orange flares casting shadows over his golden soulmark.
“Like a supernova,” Masaru murmured.
Mitsuki took his hand.
And for a moment, they forgot the lie they were living—the one they’d paid for in silence and secrecy. In that moment, they saw only their son, glowing with light he had forged from love, blood, and fate.
Katsuki’s fifth birthday was quiet, private.
Just the three of them, as it had always been. Mitsuki baked the cake herself—lemon and strawberry, Katsuki’s favorite. Masaru wrapped the gifts in red paper adorned with tiny gold stars. The living room glowed with soft lights and warm music, flickering like the warmth they built around their only child.
They hadn’t invited anyone. They never did. Katsuki was theirs. Entirely. And they were enough for each other.
After dinner, Katsuki sat on the soft carpet near the fireplace, legs tucked under him as he unwrapped his gifts. He was radiant in the firelight, still warm from laughter and sugar. Mitsuki sat behind him, brushing his hair gently as she helped him go through the gifts. Masaru watched with quiet joy.
Then it happened.
A pulse of warmth, like the flare of a rising star, lit up the room.
Mitsuki froze. Her hand stilled in Katsuki’s hair.
A shimmering trail unfurled across his skin, glowing beneath the fabric of his shirt. From the center of his collarbones, a swirl of vivid red emerged, coiling downward like a ribbon of fire. It arched elegantly, descending to the center of his small chest over his heart where it bloomed—half into a brilliant red flame, pulsing with life, and half into a crystal-blue snowflake, glittering with slivers of silver, falling downward in frozen sparkles.
The mark shimmered.
An intertwined soulmark.
Mitsuki gasped. Masaru leaned in, stunned silent.
“That’s... it’s a romantic bond,” Mitsuki breathed, tears springing to her eyes. “Only bonded soulmates share a mark like that.”
“It’s beautiful,” Masaru murmured, stepping closer.
They were overwhelmed with pride. Their little boy—already extraordinary—was chosen by the universe. A perfect match for his brilliance.
But the joy was fleeting.
As Katsuki leaned forward to pick up a toy, his shirt shifted—and the soft firelight revealed something else.
On the back of his shoulders, hidden until now, lay a constellation of soulmarks. Faint at first glance, but unmistakable. Scattered, varied, each shaped uniquely.
Mitsuki stared, eyes widening in disbelief.
Masaru’s mouth parted, but no words came.
None of the marks were theirs.
Not a single one.
“No,” Mitsuki whispered, shaking her head. “That’s not... we’re his soulbounds. He’s ours.”
Masaru turned away, hands tightening at his sides. “There must be a mistake. We raised him. We love him.”
They had poured everything into this child. Their pride. Their devotion. Their future. They had molded their lives around him—had kept him, even when the bond didn’t appear in infancy, even when the possibility first arose that he wasn’t soul-tethered to them.
Now the universe had confirmed it.
He wasn’t theirs.
Not by fate.
Not by soul.
Katsuki turned to look at them, glowing faintly, sleepy and content. “Mama? Papa?”
Mitsuki dropped to her knees, pulling him into her arms with a trembling smile. “Yes, baby. We’re right here.”
Masaru joined her, wrapping them both up tightly, fiercely.
“You’re our star,” he said softly into Katsuki’s hair. “No one’s going to take you from us.”
And so, that night, as their son slept soundly in the nest of their arms, they made their choice.
The next morning, a discreet phone call was made. The kind of call that cost a lot of money—and bought silence.
The soulmarks were never reported to the Soul Center.
Not the glittering fire-and-snow of a romantic bond.
Not the constaltion of unknown soulmates.
Instead, they fabricated one. A fake, nondescript mark—simple and untraceable. A swirling shape that only they claimed to bear. They created a new identity for their family, one that would bind Katsuki to them alone.
No one would come looking.
No one would take him away.
Mitsuki and Masaru knew—deep down—that they were stealing something precious. That somewhere out there, hearts would ache for a bond that never came.
But their love—possessive, consuming, absolute—drowned out guilt.
He was their son.
And they would keep him.
Even if it meant caging him.
They told him gently, sweetly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“There are rules, baby,” Mitsuki had whispered into his hair one night after bath time, as she buttoned his high-collared pajama top all the way to his throat. “Just little ones. Just to keep you safe.”
“Okay,” Katsuki had said, blinking up at her with those molten eyes—so bright, so trusting. “What kind of rules?”
Masaru joined her, crouching beside the bed. “Simple ones, bud. Never show your soulmarks to anyone.”
“Never?” he asked, a tiny wrinkle forming between his brows.
“Not even your friends,” Mitsuki said. “That’s our family’s rule.”
Masaru offered a smile, soft and reassuring. “Some people don’t have marks, or only have one. They might get sad or confused. And your marks are special. They’re... private.”
“Very special,” Mitsuki added. “They’re just for us.”
“And if someone asks about your soulmarks?” Masaru prompted.
Katsuki’s voice was a chirp. “I say I only have soulparents. That’s you two!”
They beamed.
“That’s right,” Mitsuki said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re our good boy.”
From then on, the rules were sewn into everything.
Clothes were carefully selected: always with high collars that rose past his collarbones, long sleeves that sat snug over his shoulders. A few custom pieces came double-lined, designed to mask any occasional glow that shimmered from his chest when he got emotional—excited, happy, or when his quirk flared bright in his skin.
They told him it was fashion.
And it was. He was a beautiful child. Bright and golden and curious. Their little star.
They gave him the world.
Private tutors in everything he showed even a passing interest in: violin, piano, digital art, sculpting, gourmet baking. When he said he liked calligraphy, they found him a retired artist from Kyoto who taught only by word-of-mouth.
When he said he wanted to learn to fight, they enrolled him in two dojos. When he said he wanted to make his own clothes, they let him design a full seasonal collection, and had it hand-sewn and photographed by professionals.
He wanted to tag along to fashion shows? Of course. Red carpet events? He sat in front-row seats. He shook hands with top heroes, models, designers. Everyone who met him said he was brilliant. Talented. Sweet. Polite. A perfect child.
They were proud of him—endlessly so. And terrified.
Because beneath all the gifts and glitter and genius, there was a single gnawing fear:
What if it wasn’t enough?
What if he grew up and realized the truth?
What if he left?
They couldn’t bear the thought.
So they gave him more. Everything. Anything.
And in return, Katsuki gave them his heart.
He clung to them. Waited for them to come home. He greeted them with his drawings, his songs, his freshly baked cookies. He dragged them into the lounge to watch him perform a new piano piece. He beamed when they praised him, when they told him he was their little star, the most perfect boy in the world.
He was happy. He truly was.
They were doing everything right.
Inko still visited now and then, her presence a familiar comfort. She and Mitsuki had been soulbond sisters since childhood—an unshakable thread that had tied them together through marriages, motherhood, and everything in between. Mitsuki still loved her. That love never faded.
Even now, sitting across the dinner table with a wine glass in hand, listening to Inko talk about her son, that love pulsed steady in her chest.
But tonight, dread sat quietly beside it.
They sat around the dining table. The kids were laughing in the living room, Katsuki’s voice ringing bright as firelight. Masaru was finishing up dishes. Inko, warm and chatty, pulled a small photo binder from her purse—something she hadn’t done in years.
“I finally got the Center to identify the last of Izuku’s soulparents,” she said, practically glowing. “It took some time, but they confirmed it last week.”
“Oh?” Mitsuki managed, the smile on her face tight as thread.
“Yagi Toshinori. Isn’t that amazing?” Inko sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Izuku said he could feel the bound the moment he saw him.'' Izuku’s marks were stabilizing. His bonds were coming into place. The soul center always makes sure to pair parental bounds first. They help the soul stabilize and ground itself easier. Siblings and friends bonds are second. And romantic pairs last.
“He’s lucky,” Inko added, unaware of the storm she’d stirred. “Most kids don’t get their soulparents confirmed so early. His foundation is strong. That’s what the counselor said—it’ll help stabilize his other bonds as he grows.”
She flipped open a photo binder she’d brought, full of casual snapshots: Izuku playing with a cat, learning to write his name, hugging a gift box.
“And look,” Inko said, flipping to the next page, her voice light. “This is izuku's soulmark.”
She turned the photo to them with pride.
And their world tilted.
They had seen it before.
They saw it every time they helped Katsuki dress.
It was one of the soulmarks always haunting them.
Mitsuki’s heart thudded too loud in her ears.
Masaru’s hand on the table went still.
“Anyway, I just thought I’d show you something kind of funny. There’s a mark we can’t identify yet. No one’s claimed it. The Center hasn’t matched it either.”
Mitsuki’s breath caught.
“It’s been glowing more lately. Especially when he gets excited,” Inko went on softly. “I just... I don’t know. It feels like something important. perhese the person behind it isn't born yet''
Mitsuki nodded once, slowly.
“Well,” Inko said, gently turning the page, “this one hasn’t shown up on anyone’s registry yet. But I think whoever it belongs to... it’s going to matter a lot to Izuku.”
Masaru looked away.
Mitsuki felt her throat tighten.
There was a sound in the hallway—two boys laughing. Katsuki’s voice, bright and clear, and Izuku’s lighter one tumbling after it.
When Mitsuki glanced up, she saw Katsuki leaning just slightly into view, eyes fixed on the photo book with a kind of quiet curiosity. His gaze was calm but searching. A silent stare. Wide, fascinated. Something ancient in that child’s gaze.
Wonder.
Recognition.
She smiled at him gently. “Katsuki, go help Izuku set up that game you wanted to show him, okay?”
He nodded and padded off.
Inko watched him go. “They’re close. I’m really glad. I think Izuku needs a friend like him.”
Mitsuki barely managed to nod again.
Later that night, when Inko left with a hug and a soft thank-you, the house fell too quiet. Masaru sat on the edge of their bed, staring at the floor.
“He saw it,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Mitsuki whispered.
“What if he asks?”
“He won’t. Not yet.”
She sat beside him, pressing her hand to her mouth. Her mind spun with worry, fear, and guilt—but under all of that, a steady ache.
Because no matter what they did—no matter how much they tried to keep their little star safe and loved—fate was moving anyway.
And it was a cruel joke. How mitsuki's and inko's children share siblings bonds just like them when Mitsuki herself isn't bound to her son.
They didn’t pull away from Inko.
They didn’t separate the boys.
If they couldn’t be brothers by soul, they could be friends by choice. A thin thread of mercy.
And sometimes, when Katsuki laughed with Izuku, a sound like pure sunlight, they wondered: are they doing the right thing?
Mitsuki knew—deep in her bones, the way only soulbonded people knew—that something inevitable was coming.
And love alone might not be enough to stop it.
Everything started going downhill sometime after Katsuki turned twelve.
No one noticed at first. They were none the wiser.
The decline was slow—gentle, even. If there had been a moment to stop it, it passed without anyone realizing.
It started with music lessons.
One Wednesday afternoon, Mitsuki leaned out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Katsuki, aren’t you leaving soon? You’ll be late.”
He was sitting on the living room floor, notebook and textbooks spread out in front of him. His pencil was still. “I think I’m going to skip today,” he said, not looking up.
Mitsuki blinked. “Skip? You’ve never skipped.”
“I’m just tired.” His voice was flat but careful, practiced. “I’ll go next week.”
She didn’t push. Not that time.
But next week came, and he didn’t get up to change. Didn’t glance toward the piano room. Mitsuki stood near the door, waiting for him to say something. He did, eventually.
“I don’t think I can keep doing all three. Music, training, school… it’s a lot.” He scratched the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes. “If I want to make it into U.A., I have to prioritize.”
Mitsuki swallowed her protest. She nodded once. “Okay. If that’s what you need.”
He gave a short hum of agreement and returned to whatever he was doing, quiet and distant.
From that day on, the grand piano in their house sat untouched.
By the end of the month, a thin film of dust coated the black lacquered lid.
Art followed soon after.
He used to draw—constantly. The margins of his homework were filled with doodles. His favorite tool was the drawing tablet Masaru bought him on his birthday, Katsuki would spend hours hunched over it, layering digital color, drawing costume mockups and imagining battle-ready fabric functions like he was mapping the inside of a star.
Masaru loved it, too. They used to stay up late together, watching hero reruns and arguing about cape lengths and material strength. “Design’s half the battle,” Masaru would say, handing Katsuki another reference book. And Katsuki believed him.
But then, one day, the tablet stayed in its case. And then the next. And then a week passed. A month.
One evening, Mitsuki slid a box across the table—a sleek new set of high-end pens, still in their wrap.
“They just came out,” she said. “You’d love the line quality.”
Katsuki blinked, then offered a quick, polite smile. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll try them later.”
But he never did. The pens stayed where she left them.
A few days later, Masaru walked in with a folded sample of reinforced mesh—lightweight, heat-resistant, with flexible plating around the seams.
“I thought this might work for your hero suit,” he said, placing it beside Katsuki’s sketchbook. “Good for movement. And it’d look sick under those gauntlets we talked about.”
Katsuki looked up briefly from his notes, nodded once “Looks cool.”
“No ideas?” Masaru prompted, a hopeful edge in his voice.
Katsuki hesitated. “I’ve just got too much homework. I’ll mess with it later.”
Masaru lingered in the doorway a moment longer, then gave a quiet “Alright, no rush,” before leaving him to it.
But the swatch stayed untouched.
So did the sketchbook.
The drawer full of half-finished concepts remained closed.
By the time he turned thirteen, it became harder to ignore.
Katsuki had always been intense, focused—but now, the brightness in him had dimmed. He barely spoke at dinner. He no longer wandered into the kitchen to experiment with flavors or challenge Masaru to spice duels. Cooking had once been a joy, a shared ritual between the three of them. Now he only came downstairs when Mitsuki called him for a meal.
He stopped accompanying them to events or even simple company meetings where he used to observe costume fittings with sparkling eyes. Now, he stayed home. Always with the same excuse: homework, training, fatigue. But they never saw the homework. And he hadn’t submitted a sketch in months.
Most days, he barely left the house. His world shrank to his bedroom, school, the training area, and the faint echo of who he used to be.
Sometimes, he went out—rarely, briefly—with Izuku Midoriya.
Izuku had bloomed late, manifesting his Quirk only a few months prior. They trained together occasionally under the watchful eye of Yagi Toshinori, Izuku’s soul parent, who seemed to be experienced with quirks. It was one of the few things that made him smile anymore: sparring, running drills, exploring the abilities of his quirk.
Still, the signs were there.
Katsuki was anti-social, withdrawn, distracted. Undoubtedly depressed.
The early symptoms were undeniable to anyone who knew what to look for. First stage of Soul Core Syndrome.
A condition where the soul begins to weather, unraveling from within due to a lack of essential soul bonds. They are thankful that souls can live up 20 years without bounding. Katsuki still has time.
Their love was selfish, possessive—twisted into something tight and suffocating. They loved him, yes. Fiercely. But they loved him in a way that clutched, that gripped, that would rather see him flicker out quietly in their arms than shine too brightly in someone else’s.
Katsuki didn’t expect anything when he came down for breakfast. Honestly, he almost didn’t come down at all.
He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes when Mitsuki said, far too casually, “There’s something waiting for you in the living room.”
Masaru looked suspiciously pleased. Too pleased. Katsuki narrowed his eyes.
“What’d you do?”
“Just go look, brat,” Mitsuki said with a grin, nudging him forward with her foot. “And be nice.”
Cautious, groggy, and thoroughly unimpressed, he wandered toward the living room.
Then he heard it.
A *mew*.
Sharp. Questioning. Followed by a shuffle and a soft scratch.
He blinked, stepped around the couch—
There it was. A cardboard box with holes in the top, sitting in the middle of the rug like a trap.
“…what the hell?”
Masaru laughed from the hallway. “You always did like surprises.”
Katsuki crouched, lifting the flap.
Orange fur. Giant paws. Glowing golden eyes. A chirp.
The kitten launched herself at him like a heat-seeking missile.
“Whoa—hey!”
She scrambled up his hoodie, flopped across his chest, and immediately started purring like she’d been waiting to do that her whole life.
Katsuki froze.
Mitsuki leaned over the back of the couch, grinning. “They said she was Maine Coon. She’s gonna get huge.”
“She already is.” Katsuki looked down at the living heating pad attached to him. “What the hell is this?”
“She’s yours,” Masaru said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We thought maybe… you’d like a companion. You used to like animals.”
“I still do,” he mumbled, scratching behind her ear before he realized what he was doing. She chirped and leaned into his hand like a little furnace.
He was quiet for a second. “...Missie.”
Masaru tilted his head. “Huh?”
“Her name,” Katsuki said, holding her gently like something fragile. “Missie.”
From that day on, Missie ruled the Bakugo household with unapologetic fluff.
She followed Katsuki everywhere, cried outside his door if he closed it, and refused to eat unless he was nearby. She refused anyone else’s touch (Masaru called it rude, Mitsuki called it karma), but curled against Katsuki like a magnet every time he sat down.
He fed her on time. Brushed her, even when she bit the comb. Took her on little walks in the backyard, even if she just ended up sprawled under the sun.
And in doing so… he took care of himself too.
He got out of bed when her meows turned into yowls. He came down for meals. He made it to the piano when Mitsuki asked for her favorite song. He sketched with Masaru, just one more design. He let them dress him up again—only for a few minutes—but didn’t complain.
He still smiled at them, genuine and kind and loving.
He still loved them. Even when his soul kept telling him he needs someone else.
Things get worse after the sludge incident.
Izuku saved him.
Not a pro hero. Not even All Might. It's Izuku—awkward, still learning how to carry his new strength—who charges forward like he’s done it a hundred times. Like his soul remembers something even Izuku doesn’t.
Fate had decided, katsuki thinks, this is one of your soul bonds. He will save you now.
After the incident, he changes.
He’s more tired. More silent and withdraw.
First, it’s just sleeping through his alarm.
Then through breakfast.
Then, one day, Mitsuki has to shake him awake for school, and he looks at her with dull eyes and asks, “What time is it?”
The next morning, he turns off his alarm and goes right back to sleep. Only stirs sometime after sunset.
By the end of the month, he doesn’t go to school at all.
They don’t force him to go. They can't bring themselves to.
But Katsuki—brilliant, relentless Katsuki—still refuses to fall behind.
He keeps studying. He completes assignments from home. His middle school graduation exams? Aced weeks early. He trains, but not out of joy. Out of something like fear. Desperation. Like he knows he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t get into U.A.
He never asks to find his soulmates.
It takes Izuku a week to finally work up the nerve.
He’s stood outside the Bakugo household four times now, phone clutched in hand, heart pounding like One for All’s backlash after a misfire. Each time, he’d turned back. Convinced himself that maybe Katsuki needed space. That maybe he’d be mad.
But Katsuki hasn’t come to school since the incident. Not even once.
So on the fifth try, Izuku rings the doorbell.
Masaru answers, and when he sees who it is, his face twists into something between surprise and guilt. “He’s upstairs,” he says, after a beat. “Don’t stay long if he says no.”
Izuku nods, heart thudding, and makes his way up to the room that used to feel like home.
The door’s cracked open, barely. He knocks once, twice, and hears the faint rustle of sheets.
“What?” comes Katsuki’s voice—quiet, rough, tired.
Izuku pushes the door open just enough to peek in. “It’s me.”
Katsuki is lying on his side, blanket half-twisted around him, hair a mess. Missie, his massive orange cat, sprawls on his chest like a fuzzy crown. It glares at izuku like he's personally offended her. It adds on his nevers.
For a second, Katsuki just blinks at him. Then, softly, “You came.”
“Yeah,” Izuku says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. “I was… I mean, I was worried. You haven’t been at school, and I just—wanted to see if you were okay.”
Katsuki shrugs, barely moving. “I’m fine.”
Izuku looks around. The room’s clean, but too still. Like no one’s lived in it for a while. “You don’t look fine.”
“Don’t start,” Katsuki mutters, eyes slipping shut. “I’m still graduating. I’ll make it to U.A.”
Izuku doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he sits on the floor beside the bed, back against the frame. Like old times. When they used to hang out after school, drawing up hero ideas and arguing over costumes.
“You used to talk to me,” Izuku says after a moment. “Before… before middle school got bad. Before you started pulling away.”
Katsuki doesn’t answer. Just breathes.
Missie yawns and shifts, her big tail curling protectively over his shoulder.
“I missed you,” Izuku continues, quieter now. “Even when you didn’t want to be around me. I never stopped… caring.”
Something flickers in Katsuki’s expression. Shame, maybe. Regret.
“I’ll see you at U.A.,” Izuku says finally, voice firm despite the ache in his chest. “Promise me, Katsuki.”
At that, Katsuki opens his eyes. Looks at him for a long moment. Then, just barely, nods.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I promise.”
It’s not everything.
But it’s something.
And for Izuku, that’s enough—for now.