Chapter Text
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Izuku
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The gates of U.A. look different now.
They’re the same steel and shine as before the war, but standing in front of them feels like standing at the edge of something enormous and hollow. The morning sun hits the metal just right, and for a second Izuku thinks the reflection looks too bright, too sharp—like the whole campus is pretending to be fine.
Just like the rest of them.
Izuku steps through the gates with his bag slung over one shoulder, the weight of it digging into the muscle above his collarbone. He barely notices. His fingers twitch against the strap, thumb brushing the rough fabric in a soothing repetition. The slight buzz of One For All flares under his skin, a faint hum he used to feel proud of.
Now it scares him.
Every spark, every flicker, every tiny surge sends a tremor down his spine.
What if it fades? What if it breaks again? What if he breaks it?
He swallows hard and pretends his hands aren’t shaking.
The dorms are quiet when he reaches them. Too quiet. No laughter spilling out from open windows, no Kaminari music blaring through half the building, no shouting matches between Iida and Mina about curfew. Just empty halls, sunlight drifting through dust in the air, and the faint echoes of steps that aren’t really there.
Ghosts.
His mind supplies the word uninvited.
The war left shadows everywhere. Izuku feels them brushing against him with every step he takes.
His room is exactly how he left it, neat but cluttered in the corners—hero notebooks stacked against the wall, a half-finished All Might figure on his desk, a folded blanket on the bed that still smells faintly like the calming detergent Recovery Girl recommended for anxiety. He sets his bag down carefully, like it might shatter.
He breathes in.
Out.
In.
Out.
It doesn’t help.
The twitch comes again—a pulse that runs from his shoulder to his elbow, like a loose wire sparking. Izuku’s breath stutters. He grabs his wrist, squeezing hard enough to leave marks.
“Not again… please, not again.” His voice is small. Pathetic. He hates how it sounds.
He tries to focus on the room. On the clock ticking. On the window. On the way his curtains flutter slightly from the vent.
But the pressure in his chest grows. His breaths shorten. His eyes burn.
Not here. Not the first day back. Not—
His vision blurs, heart racing too fast, too loud. The room tilts at the edges, and he folds onto the floor beside his bed before his knees give out. His hand grips the fabric of his shirt like he’s holding himself together.
He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the first tear splashes onto his knee.
“Just breathe,” he whispers, but the words don’t reach him.
His hands won’t stop shaking.
They won’t—
His door knocks. Sharp. Familiar.
Izuku freezes.
“Deku,” a voice says—rough, irritated, but strangely low. “Open the damn door.”
Kacchan.
Of course.
Of course he’d show up now, when Izuku is a mess, when he can’t even breathe right, when—
Another knock. Harder.
“I can hear you freaking out in there.”
Izuku doesn’t think he meant to say it out loud.
He hesitates only a moment before forcing his voice out, thin and cracked.
“…K-Kacchan?”
“Who the hell else?”
Katsuki’s voice edges between annoyance and something softer that makes Izuku’s chest twist.
“Open up.”
Izuku drags himself toward the door. His limbs feel too heavy. The room sways for a moment, but he manages to unlock it before stepping aside.
Katsuki pushes the door open immediately.
He’s still in his travel clothes, hair messy from the morning wind, eyes sharp and tired—so tired they look bruised. A muscle in his jaw jumps when he sees Izuku’s red face, the tremor in his hands, the way he’s leaning on the wall like he needs it to keep from collapsing.
Katsuki’s expression shifts. Not dramatically—he’s Katsuki, after all. But just enough for Izuku to notice.
The anger drops.
The exhaustion cracks.
Something protective edges in its place.
“…shit,” Katsuki mutters, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind him. “Sit down before you fall over.”
Izuku sinks to the floor because there’s no point pretending he wasn’t already there moments ago. Katsuki crouches in front of him, elbows resting on his knees, looking him over with the intensity of someone cataloging every bruise and tremble.
“What happened?” Katsuki asks quietly.
Izuku tries to speak, but his throat closes. His vision tightens.
“I—I don’t know. I got here, and it was quiet, and then my quirk—my arm— it felt strange, like it was gonna—like I was going to—”
“Lose it?” Katsuki finishes, eyes narrowing—not at him, but at something Izuku can’t see.
Izuku nods once. His breath hitches on the inhale.
Katsuki exhales through his nose, long and controlled, the way he does when he’s trying not to panic himself. He shifts closer and sits beside Izuku, shoulder brushing his.
“Hey.” He nudges Izuku lightly. “Look at me.”
Izuku does. Slowly.
Katsuki’s eyes are steady in a way Izuku hasn’t seen since before the war.
“You’re fine,” he says. No softness, no hesitation—just truth spoken like he’s daring the universe to argue.
“You’re here. You’re breathing. Your quirk’s not going anywhere.”
Izuku swallows. His throat aches.
“But what if—”
“Deku.” Katsuki cuts in, firm. “You’re fine.”
The words shouldn’t help.
But they do.
Izuku’s shoulders sag. His breath comes easier. His fingers relax against the fabric of his pants. The storm inside him quiets—not fully, not completely, but enough to breathe without gasping.
Katsuki stays sitting beside him, legs stretched out, their arms brushing every time one of them breathes. He doesn’t tell Izuku to get up. He doesn’t make a speech. He just… stays.
The silence between them isn’t heavy.
It feels grounding. Solid.
Izuku closes his eyes.
And then—without him noticing—his head tips, just slightly, until it rests against Katsuki’s shoulder.
He expects Katsuki to stiffen. To shrug him off. To shove him and say something explosive.
Instead, Katsuki lets out a long breath, almost like relief, and shifts closer so Izuku’s head fits more comfortably there.
Izuku’s breathing evens out. The tension drains from his muscles. His eyelashes flutter once, twice, then still.
Katsuki glances down.
“Seriously?” he mutters, but his voice is quieter than the room.
Izuku doesn’t hear it.
He’s already asleep.
Katsuki leans his head back against the wall. His eyes close—but don’t fully stay shut. Every few seconds, they flick toward Izuku’s sleeping face as if checking he’s still there, still breathing, still okay.
Morning light spills through the window and settles over them.
Katsuki stays.
Just like he always does.
───────
Katsuki
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He hates mornings.
Not the sunlight, not the alarm bells, not even the fact that everyone else seems to be moving on like the war was just a bad dream. He hates mornings because mornings force him to face things he can’t fix, things he can’t punch away, things he can’t burn out with an explosion.
And this morning, he’s sitting on the floor of Izuku’s room, head leaned back against the wall, looking down at the boy curled against his shoulder like he belongs there—and honestly, Katsuki doesn’t know what to do with it.
Deku’s small, fragile even after all the training, all the battles, all the quirk upgrades. His fingers twitch every few seconds against his jeans, his lips parted slightly as he breathes, and Katsuki’s chest tightens. Not from anger. Not from irritation. But from something sharp and twisting he’s not sure he wants to name yet.
Dammit.
He shifts his shoulder slightly so Izuku isn’t resting on a bone. That small, careful movement makes Deku twitch but he doesn’t wake. Katsuki watches the rise and fall of his chest, the tension slowly leaving his shoulders. The panic from earlier—the almost-breakdown—has faded into sleep. Peace. Temporary, but enough.
Katsuki breathes out slowly.
He shouldn’t feel… responsible. He should let the teachers handle this. Let Recovery Girl handle it. But he can’t. Not now, not after everything.
Deku’s breathing is steady, but Katsuki knows better. He’s seen Deku fight through exhaustion, through pain, through terror. He’s seen him nearly lose himself more times than he wants to count. And the thought of letting him face this alone—letting him crumble without being there—makes Katsuki clench his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white.
He shouldn’t care this much. He shouldn’t.
But he does.
The small weight of Deku’s head against his shoulder isn’t just sleep. It’s trust. Vulnerability. A silent plea that says, stay with me. don’t leave. help me breathe again.
And Katsuki… he will.
He shifts slightly again, just enough to let Deku breathe comfortably, then settles back. His eyes drift toward the window. The sunlight cuts across the floor in pale strips, but Katsuki doesn’t notice it. He can’t. His focus is all on Deku—every rise and fall of his chest, every twitch of his fingers, every little sound he makes in his sleep.
“Damn it,” Katsuki mutters under his breath. “I can’t believe this.”
Not because Deku’s asleep on him. Not because he feels a weird, hollow pull in his chest at seeing him like this. No, Katsuki hates it because it’s scary. Because he knows what it feels like to wake up from nightmares. Because he knows how fragile life can be, how fragile people can be, and how much he hates seeing Deku like this—so small, so human, so… breakable.
He swallows hard. His jaw ticks. He’s quiet. That’s what Katsuki does. He’s not good at talking about this stuff. He’s not good at feelings. But he can stay. He can breathe. He can be here. That’s enough for now.
Hours pass. Sunlight slides across the room, touching their arms, their shoulders, their intertwined limbs. Katsuki doesn’t move. He can’t move. Not because he’s trapped. Because if he moves, if he shifts wrong, Deku might wake, and Katsuki… he just can’t risk it. He can’t risk leaving him alone again, even for a second.
Finally, a faint stir. Deku shifts in his sleep, murmuring something soft and incoherent. Katsuki stiffens but doesn’t pull away. Deku breathes out a soft whimper and shifts closer, as if seeking the safety Katsuki didn’t know he was giving.
Katsuki’s heart pounds. Not fast, not in panic—but in a way that makes him aware of every breath, every heartbeat. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He wants to say something. He wants to—God, don’t screw this up.
But no words come. Words aren’t necessary. He’s here. That’s enough. He can’t fix everything, can’t heal every scar, can’t make the nightmares disappear. But he can stay. He can hold. He can guard. And that will have to be enough.
Deku shifts again and hums softly, snuggling just a little closer to him. Katsuki feels a warmth he can’t name. Not pride. Not relief. Something softer, deeper. His own shoulders loosen slightly. His hands unclench. His chest doesn’t ache as much.
He knows the moment won’t last. He knows the quiet will end. He knows the world will intrude again. But right now? Right now, he’s the only thing Deku has. And Deku is the only thing he wants to protect.
For the first time in a long time, Katsuki doesn’t think about the war. Doesn’t think about hero duties. Doesn’t think about the expectations weighing on his shoulders. He only thinks about the small, fragile boy asleep against him. And the way his chest would cave in if anything ever hurt him again.
Hours pass, sun climbing higher. The dorms are still quiet, still full of ghosts. But for once, the ghosts don’t matter. Not while Deku is here. Not while Katsuki is here.
He leans back further against the wall, careful not to wake him, and closes his eyes.
He stays until morning.
Because he promised himself he would. And because… he doesn’t want to leave.