Chapter Text
Volume I: Borrowed Time
Chapter 1 — After the War, What Remains
The war ended, and the world kept moving.
That was the cruelest part.
Izuku Midoriya learned that in pieces—small, humiliating moments that stacked on top of each other until they pressed the air out of his lungs. The first time he realized it was when the news cycle shifted. One day it was memorials and casualty counts, faces of the dead scrolling across screens in somber silence. The next, it was reconstruction projects, hero rankings, sponsorships resuming as if nothing had cracked open.
The city learned how to forget.
Izuku did not.
UA reopened in stages. Some buildings were still under repair, tarps stretched across shattered windows, scorch marks staining concrete that no amount of cleaning could erase. The dorms were quieter. Whole rooms stayed empty, their doors sealed shut like unspoken prayers. Class 3-A—what remained of it—returned to a version of routine that felt like a mockery of the word.
Training resumed.
Izuku stopped attending.
He sat on the edge of his bed most mornings, hands resting uselessly in his lap, staring at the faint green lines etched into his palms. They were scars now. Nothing more. No spark. No warmth. No power humming beneath his skin.
One For All was gone.
The doctors had said it gently, as if softness could cushion the blow. His body had simply… reached its limit. The embers burned out. There was no residual power left to cultivate, no dormant strength waiting to be reawakened. What remained was muscle memory, pain, and a lifetime of habits that no longer had a purpose.
Izuku nodded through the explanations. Thanked them. Apologized.
He was good at that.
What he wasn’t good at was sitting in a room full of future heroes and pretending he still belonged.
“You’re still enrolled,” Aizawa told him flatly during their first post-war meeting.
Izuku stood across from the desk, shoulders stiff. “For now.”
Aizawa’s tired eyes narrowed. “You earned your place here.”
Izuku almost laughed.
Earned. Past tense.
“I can’t train,” Izuku said. “I can’t fight. I can’t—”
“You can think,” Aizawa interrupted. “You can analyze. You can adapt.”
“And get in the way,” Izuku finished quietly.
Aizawa stared at him for a long moment. “You’ve never been in the way.”
Izuku looked down.
The conversation ended there, unresolved and heavy. Like everything else.
Katsuki refused to give him space.
Izuku noticed it immediately—the way Katsuki hovered at the edges of his day. Showing up outside his room with coffee he didn’t ask for. Dropping into the seat beside him during lectures, close enough that their knees brushed. Waiting after class, arms crossed, eyes sharp, like he was daring Izuku to disappear.
It would have been easier if Katsuki had been angry.
Instead, he was… careful.
“You gonna eat that?” Katsuki asked one afternoon, nodding at Izuku’s untouched lunch tray.
Izuku didn’t look up from the table. “No.”
Katsuki reached for it automatically, then paused. Slowly, he pulled his hand back. “You should.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Izuku’s grip tightened around his fork. “Why do you care?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Katsuki stilled.
“Because it’s you,” he said, like the answer was obvious.
Izuku scoffed. “That’s not a reason.”
Katsuki’s jaw clenched. “It is to me.”
Izuku finally looked at him. Really looked. Katsuki had lost weight since the war—muscle carved sharp by stress and sleepless nights. His eyes were always scanning, always alert, like he was still waiting for the next attack.
Izuku hated that he was the reason for that look sometimes.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Izuku said.
“Doing what?”
“Following me around like I’m fragile.”
Katsuki bristled. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Izuku interrupted. His voice was calm, detached. Too calm. “You talk to me like I might break.”
“That’s because you’re hurting,” Katsuki snapped.
Izuku smiled thinly. “So are you. Funny how no one treats you like glass.”
Katsuki opened his mouth, then closed it.
The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Izuku stood abruptly, tray scraping against the table. “I’m done.”
“With lunch?” Katsuki asked.
“With this,” Izuku said, gesturing vaguely between them.
He walked away without waiting for a response.
The numbness didn’t last.
It cracked slowly, like ice under pressure.
At first, Izuku simply stopped engaging. He answered questions with single words. Avoided eye contact. Skipped training sessions without explanation. Katsuki followed him anyway—sat outside his room, knocked until Izuku acknowledged him, lingered in doorways like a ghost refusing to move on.
“You don’t have to stay,” Izuku told him one night, voice flat.
Katsuki leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Yeah, I do.”
“No,” Izuku said. “You don’t.”
Katsuki’s eyes flashed. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Izuku laughed, sharp and humorless. “Since when? You’ve always decided what I get to do.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
Katsuki stiffened. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Izuku asked. His chest felt tight, breath shallow. “You decided I was weak. You decided I was annoying. You decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
“That was years ago,” Katsuki growled.
“And now?” Izuku pressed. “Now you decide you feel bad about it, so you stick around to make yourself feel better.”
Katsuki stepped closer. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you?” Izuku demanded.
The question came out louder than he meant it to. Raw. Exposed.
Katsuki hesitated.
That pause was all it took.
Izuku’s expression hardened instantly. “Right. That’s what I thought.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t know what to do with me now,” Izuku continued, voice cutting. “I’m not your rival anymore. I’m not your equal. I’m just… here.”
Katsuki’s fists clenched. “You’re still you.”
Izuku shook his head. “You don’t get it.”
“Then make me get it!” Katsuki shouted.
Izuku flinched—then recovered, anger flaring hot and fast.
“I don’t want you here,” Izuku said.
The words were deliberate.
Precise.
Cruel.
Katsuki froze.
Izuku felt something twist in his chest, sharp and nauseating, but he didn’t stop.
“You should be training,” Izuku continued. “Becoming the best. Not wasting your time on someone who can’t keep up.”
Katsuki stared at him, eyes wide with something dangerously close to hurt.
“You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.
Izuku met his gaze and lied. “I do.”
Katsuki swallowed hard. “Say it again.”
Izuku didn’t hesitate. “I don’t want you here.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Katsuki stepped back like Izuku had struck him.
“Fine,” he said, voice tight. “I hear you.”
He turned and walked away.
Izuku closed the door and leaned his forehead against it, heart pounding, hands shaking.
He told himself this was necessary.
He told himself this was mercy.
Katsuki didn’t stop showing up.
That, more than anything else, made Izuku angry.
He told himself he wanted Katsuki gone. That pushing him away was the right thing to do. That distance was mercy. But every morning when Izuku opened his door and found Katsuki leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, expression guarded like he was bracing for impact, something sharp twisted in Izuku’s chest.
“You’re blocking the door,” Izuku said flatly.
Katsuki straightened. “Morning to you too.”
Izuku brushed past him without another word.
They walked together anyway.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
The campus buzzed with activity as students prepared for joint training exercises. Quirks crackled in the air, loud and alive. Izuku kept his eyes forward, jaw clenched, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. Every sound felt like a reminder of what he no longer was.
“You don’t have to come,” Katsuki said eventually.
Izuku scoffed. “You keep saying that. You never mean it.”
Katsuki glanced at him. “I do.”
“Then stop following me.”
Katsuki stopped walking.
Izuku took three steps before he realized. He turned, irritation flaring. “What—”
“I’m not following you,” Katsuki said. “I’m walking with you.”
“There’s a difference,” Izuku snapped.
Katsuki’s eyes hardened. “Only if you make one.”
Izuku stared at him, something ugly boiling under his skin. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“No,” Katsuki said immediately. “I don’t.”
Izuku laughed, sharp and mirthless. “Figures.”
He turned away again, shoulders tense, expecting Katsuki to follow.
He did.
The first real fracture happened during class.
Aizawa was reviewing post-war combat analysis, projecting footage from the final battle across the screen. Izuku sat rigid in his seat, nails digging into his palms. Every movement on the screen felt personal—every punch thrown, every sacrifice made.
“That maneuver,” Aizawa said, pausing the footage. “Midoriya’s call. It saved lives.”
The room murmured.
Izuku’s stomach churned.
“And you can see here,” Aizawa continued, “how Bakugo followed through without hesitation.”
Izuku felt Katsuki glance at him.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa said. “Your thoughts?”
Izuku swallowed. “It was… obvious.”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “Obvious?”
“I mean,” Izuku continued, voice tightening, “anyone would have done the same thing.”
Katsuki’s head snapped toward him.
“That’s not true,” Kirishima said quietly.
Izuku shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
Aizawa studied him for a long moment. “It does.”
Izuku looked away.
After class, Katsuki grabbed his wrist before he could leave.
“Don’t,” Izuku warned.
“You don’t get to erase yourself,” Katsuki said lowly.
Izuku yanked his arm free. “Watch me.”
The cruelty crept in slowly after that.
At first, it was dismissive comments. Sarcasm edged sharp enough to draw blood.
“You should go train,” Izuku said one evening when Katsuki lingered outside his room. “You’re wasting potential just standing there.”
“Funny,” Katsuki replied. “I could say the same about you.”
Izuku smiled thinly. “At least I know I’m useless.”
The words hit harder than Izuku expected.
Katsuki went still. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” Izuku asked. “It’s true.”
Katsuki’s voice dropped. “You don’t believe that.”
Izuku tilted his head. “Don’t I?”
Katsuki searched his face, frustration and fear warring in his eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Yes,” Izuku said.
The honesty startled them both.
“I am,” Izuku continued, heart pounding. “Because if I don’t push you away, you’ll stay. And if you stay, you’ll realize how pathetic this is.”
Katsuki’s fists trembled. “You think I care about pathetic?”
“I think you care about winning,” Izuku shot back. “And there’s nothing to win here.”
Katsuki stepped closer. “You’re not a fight to win.”
Izuku’s voice cracked despite himself. “Then why won’t you leave?”
The question hung heavy between them.
Katsuki’s expression softened, just for a second. “Because I don’t want a world where you’re not in it.”
Izuku’s breath hitched.
He recovered fast.
“Then you’re an idiot,” Izuku said coldly.
Katsuki recoiled like he’d been slapped.
Sleep became difficult.
Izuku lay awake at night, replaying every conversation, every look on Katsuki’s face when his words landed. He told himself this pain was necessary. That Katsuki would be better off once he stopped caring.
But Katsuki didn’t stop.
He started bringing food again. Leaving it outside Izuku’s door when Izuku refused to answer. Sitting on the floor in the hallway, back against the wall, waiting.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Izuku said one night, opening the door just long enough to glare at him.
Katsuki looked up. “You gonna eat?”
Izuku kicked the container aside. “I said stop.”
Food spilled across the floor.
Katsuki flinched—not at the mess, but at Izuku.
“…You didn’t have to do that,” Katsuki said quietly.
Izuku’s chest tightened. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t listen otherwise.”
Katsuki stood slowly. “You want me gone that badly?”
“Yes,” Izuku said without hesitation.
Katsuki stared at him, eyes glassy. “You’re lying.”
Izuku felt something inside him tear.
“Get out of my life,” Izuku said.
The words tasted like ash.
Katsuki didn’t move for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
“Okay,” he said.
He walked away.
Izuku closed the door and slid down it, breathing hard.
He waited for relief.
It didn’t come.
Days passed.
Katsuki kept his distance—physically, at least. He stopped waiting outside Izuku’s room. Stopped walking him to class. But Izuku could feel his presence anyway, like a phantom limb.
They shared space without speaking.
And when they did speak, Izuku made sure it hurt.
“You don’t have to protect me anymore,” Izuku said during a group discussion. “I’m not your responsibility.”
“I never said you were,” Katsuki replied.
“You act like it.”
Katsuki’s voice sharpened. “Because you act like you want to disappear.”
“Maybe I do.”
The room went quiet.
Katsuki stared at him, horror flickering across his face. “Don’t say that.”
Izuku shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like I matter.”
“That’s enough,” Aizawa snapped.
But the damage was done.
The breaking point came late one night.
Izuku found Katsuki in the common room, sitting alone, staring at nothing. He looked smaller somehow. Tired in a way that scared Izuku.
“You should go to bed,” Izuku said.
Katsuki didn’t look up. “Why?”
“Because you’re exhausted.”
Katsuki laughed weakly. “So you do notice.”
Izuku stiffened. “Don’t twist this.”
Katsuki finally looked at him. “Then tell me what you want.”
Izuku hesitated.
Then, deliberately, he chose the cruelest option.
“I want you to stop pretending you care,” Izuku said. “You don’t love me. You love the version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.”
The words landed like a gunshot.
Katsuki’s face went white.
“…What?” he whispered.
Izuku forced himself to keep going. “You were always chasing strength. I was just part of that. Now I’m not. So let it go.”
Katsuki stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly. “You don’t get to tell me what I feel.”
“I just did.”
Katsuki’s eyes burned. “You’re wrong.”
“Prove it.”
The challenge hung between them.
Katsuki opened his mouth—then closed it.
The silence stretched.
Izuku felt sick.
“…That’s what I thought,” Izuku said quietly.
Katsuki stared at him like he was seeing him for the first time.
“You’re not protecting me,” Katsuki said hoarsely. “You’re destroying us.”
Izuku swallowed hard. “There was no ‘us.’”
Katsuki shook his head slowly. “You really believe that?”
“Yes,” Izuku lied.
Katsuki’s shoulders sagged.
“Then I don’t know how to reach you,” he said.
Izuku said nothing.
Katsuki turned away.
This time, Izuku knew he wouldn’t come back the same.
Izuku lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling.
He had done what he set out to do.
Katsuki was finally pulling away.
The victory felt hollow.
To be continued...