Part three to a fic Iâm working on. King of devastation and yearning. I apologize in advance for the tears, you have been warned. Post CH431: *insert Katsuki âI just canât get it out of my headâ*
ACT III â What Friends See
Katsuki knows somethingâs wrong the second the doorbell rings. He sits staring blankly at the TV in his living room, nursing an untouched protein bar in his hand. The screen flickers with muted colors he hasnât processed in minutes. No one comes over unannounced. Not anymore. Not unless theyâre dead or dying.
Same response heâs given the ring for weeks now. He always stands, moves on autopilot and retreats toward his bedroom and presses play on the stereo systemâloud, aching, enough to drown out thought. He usually ducks into the confines of his bed sheets, rubbing his knuckles against his sternum like that can physically hold him together.
The only person with a key to his apartment hasnât come looking for him.
The knocking starts five seconds later.
âBAKUGO!â Kaminariâs voice bleeds through the door, loud and cheerful and already annoying. âOpen up, man, we know youâre home.â
Katsuki is on his feet and shuffling to the door before he can even register his actions, he slams the heel of his palm against the door frame in surprise and exhaustion as he exhales sharply through his nose. The lock clicks open before Katsuki can stop himself.
They spill in like a fucking hurricane.
Mina firstâeyes sharp, already scanning the entirety of the apartment that you can view from the genkan. Sero behind her, taking in the chaos with a raised brow. Kaminari kicks off his shoes and barrels straight toward the kitchen, stopping short when he sees the counter.
ââŚDude,â he says. âIs thatââ
Not hidden. Not cleaned up. Lining the counter, clustered on the table, a couple tipped over on their sides like casualties from Katsukiâs jittery hands. Empty. All of them.
The apartment smells stale. Sour. Wrong.
This place is usually immaculate. Katsukiâs control manifests in clean lines, organized shelves, nothing out of place. He keeps his home clean like he does everything else in his life, with an aggressive fervor, obsessive and controlled. A space where everything makes sense.
Minaâs mouth presses into a thin line. âOkay,â she says carefully. âSo this wasnât us.â
Sero and Denki exchange uneasy expressions towards each other, stepping carefully around the mess like the floor might crack under them. Kirishima doesnât move from his place in front of the shut door. He just watches Katsuki, arms crossed over his chest, expression soft but steady. No joke. No greeting. No hand on Katsukiâs shoulder like their usual embrace.
Thatâmore than anythingâmakes Katsukiâs skin prickle with unease, and he visibly bristles to shake off the feeling.
Denki glances at Katsuki with an eyebrow inclined up to his hairline, âYou been throwing ragers without inviting us?â he chuckles as he says it, like heâs trying to laugh it off.
Katsuki doesnât answer. He swiftly walks into his kitchen avoiding eye contact with his friends, cracks open a beer from the fridge without answering. The metal groans under his gripâtoo tight, too much pressure. He feels more than sees them scurry after him, taking posts in different positions in the kitchen.
The sound cuts through the room like a gun shot. He lifts it to his lips and takes a big chug anyway, his chin angling back as his throat works around the liquid. He doesnât look at anyone.
Silence drops like a curtain. Heavy and thick.
Mina shifts, clearly uncomfortable. She tries to fill it, because thatâs what she does.
âSo!â she says too brightly. âDid you guys see that interview? With Deku and Ochako? It seems like theyâre like⌠trying things out? Kinda cute, honestly.â
The can crumples in Katsukiâs hand as he grinds his teeth. Beer spills over his knuckles, cold and sharp. He doesnât notice until it drips onto the floor.
No one breathes. Denkiâs teasing grin vanishes quickly, eyebrows bunching in confusion. Seroâs gaze darts away to anywhere but the mess on his floor. Minaâs eyes widen, a gasp caught in her throat, immediate regret flashing across her face.
âOh,â she says softly. âOh, Katsââ
âIâm happy for them,â Katsuki grits out, it feels painful, burns up his throat like bile.
The words come out flat. Automatic. He takes a sip from the ruined can like nothing happened, molding his features back into neutral.
âI said Iâm happy for them.â Katsuki turns his gaze away, brushing his thumb along the rim of the can heâs holding, avoiding eye contact. He braces himself for one of them to joke, maybe Denki or Kaminari, for a lecture that he doesnât want to hear.
He realizes theyâre watching him, not the TV or the mess. Distantly, he understands that maybe this is what it looks like from the outside.
Kirishima, whoâs been quiet this whole time, finally speaks. He uncrosses his arms from across his bulky chest, stance relaxed with his wrists angled outward, like heâs trying to show a stray animal heâs trustworthy. Katsukiâs never been intimidated by him, but he bristles under his gaze, turning his gaze to the floor. Kirishimaâs voice is calm. Too calm.
Katsukiâs jaw tightens, grits out through his teeth, âWhat.â
Kirishima doesnât yell. Doesnât accuse. That makes it worse. He just looks at Katsuki like heâs trying to understand something that doesnât add up.
Katsuki slams the can down onto the island counter in front of him, cheap beer sloshing across the surface. âIâve already told you Iâm fucking fine.â
Kirishima doesnât flinch, he just steps closerâjust enough to make Katsuki aware of him. âYou donât look happy.â
Katsuki scoffs, eyes sliding past him to another wall. He takes in a breath, lets it fester as it fills his rib cage, he blows it out through his teeth, lips pursed, he doesnât feel the calm envelop him like it usually would. Not the way it did in his anger management classes that he ended up taking seriously, at his request. âThatâs your problem.â
Kirishimaâs gaze flickers to their friends on the sidelines, the room stays dead quiet. He thinks he sees Mina nod her head in support.
âNo,â Kirishima says gently. âI donât think it isâ
Katsuki laughs sharply, mean and ugly. Heâs gripping the edge of the counter now, spine ramrod straight as he tries to burn his gaze onto the sleek surface. âIâm happy for them,â he repeats, louder this time. Like volume might make it real. âI wanted this. I told him to go after someone special. You were there. This is good. This is whatâs supposed to happen.â
No one interrupts him. That somehow makes it worse.
Kirishima finally crosses his arms over his chest again, leaning the bottom of his back against the counter opposite of him. âYouâre lying,â Kirishima says simply.
Just truth, stated plainly.
Katsuki feels his nose scrunch, sniffing quietly before tilting his jaw upwards in defense. âNo, Iâm not.â
Kirishima exhales slowly. âIâve known you forever, man. We all have. I see it. Youâve been drinking like this. Skipping meals. Not hanging out even during lunch. You donât collab on missions anymore. You just stay cooped up in here. Staring at your phone like its gonna give you back what you lost.â
Katsukiâs fingers flex around the can, releasing his death grip on it, he slips his hands into the pockets of his sweats, turns a fierce glare to meet Kirishimaâs gaze head on. He subtly rubs his sweating palms against the fabric of the inside of his pockets, feels his ears burn hot as Kirishimaâs gaze flicks down to register the movement. âItâs nothing.â
âNothing?â Kirishima shakes his head, tilting it to the side to rake his gaze carefully up Katsukiâs tense posture. âYou let him go like you didnât care. Like it didnât hurt. And now youâre sitting here pretending youâre happy while youâre falling apart.â
Katsuki looks around at the space of the kitchen, eyes flicking back and forth between the people he has come to call friends. Mina crosses her arms, biting her lipâKatsuki recognizes the glistening of her bright eyes and decidedly ignores it. Denki stares at the floor, fingers strong from constant guitar melodies now grappling and twisting the bottom of his shirt. Sero shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, like he wants to leave but knows he shouldnât.
âI did what I thought was right,â Katsuki snaps, clenching his fists in the pockets of his pants as Kirishima pushes off the ledge of the counter, standing tall with an air of tranquility. Katsuki glares at the floor, unable to keep his gaze any longer. Ashamed.
âAnd maybe it was,â Kirishima says softly. âBut youâre not thinking about you. Or him. Youâre thinking about whether you can survive without him. About how it looks if youâre strong alone.â
His hand comes down on Katsukiâs shoulderâfirm, grounding, feels the same even after 8 years. He didnât even realize him coming around the counter, and Katsuki takes in a deep shuddering breath, quietly shaking his head against the comfort.
âThatâs not how people live.â
Katsukiâs vision blurs. âIâI justââ
âYou just want him to be happy. I know,â Kirishima tilts his head to the side, trying to catch Katsukiâs eyes. âBut if you keep ignoring how much this hurts.. youâre gonna wake up one day and realize what you missed.â
The words hit harder than any explosion heâs ever thrownâquiet, precise, devastating.
His knees buckle, pulling his hands out of his pockets to steady himself against the counter once again. Palms pressed flat against the surface, breaths coming in faster than normal.
Katsuki looks around his apartment from across the bar countertopâat the bottles, the mess, the life heâs been sleepwalking throughâand for the first time, he doesnât have an answer ready. He doesnât feel like the hero prodigy everyone has always told him he is.
âIâm fine,â he says, breath hitching around the words, because thatâs all he has left.
They donât argue with him.
They just busy themselves quietly, rushing around him, grabbing snacks and cans of soda to clatter on the coffee table in front of the TV. Mina quietly presses her hand to his forearm and delicately wraps her fingers around the thickness of it. She guides him along towards the living room, pushing a soda into his empty hand and pressing his shoulder down until he collapses onto the sofa. His breath shudders violently before he leans his head back against the couch cushions and stares blankly at the chaos around him.
They stay longer than they usually would, reclining where they land, talking about nothing, watching him out of the corner of their eyes like theyâre afraid he might shatter if they leave. He doesnât think he can do that either. Still hasnât let a single tear slip amongst his devastation at his loss. Hasnât made a dent to his punching bags or the reinforced walls of his private training room, not even silent jealousy can get him out of this form.
He can barely track their conversations, stews silently in his corner of the couch, eyes unseeing as he lets their words wash over him in comfort. He thinks the conversation goes quiet at some point, Denki murmuring to the others thought he got over him after high schoolâfeels Mina stiffen and inhale deeply somewhere to the left of him. Katsuki swallows stiffly, throat tight. He didnât speak, didnât move from his position. His mind looped around all the ways heâd let things slip past him, all the moments he could have said more, done things differently. His fingers flexed around the soda in his palm.
He still hasnât cracked open his can, it burns in his palm despite the coolness it had coming out of the fridge. They werenât his to enjoy, the knowledge of who brought them over sits heavily in his chest. He feels hollow despite their presence. Feels smaller than ever, sitting in his own apartment, surrounded by friends who knew a little, but not enough, and yet somehow managed to see everything.
Eventually, Katsuki kicks them out.
âGet the hell out,â he grumbles. âYouâre loud.â
Normally, theyâd knock out on his couch or wherever else they landed. Normally, Mina would steal a blanket and snuggle up to Kirishima, Denki would fall asleep mid-sentence with a can of beer in his hand, Sero would claim the floor like itâs a privilege to rest upon. He has a guest bedroom, but they always seem to prefer to rest in the presence of comfort that they so easily exude as a group.
Denki huffs quietly at Katsuki holding the door openâa silent âor elseâ etched into the twitch of Katsukiâs eyebrowâraps his knuckles against the door frame in goodbye and slants a small smile at him. Sero bumps his elbow against Katsukiâs, murmuring something about being there if he needs him. Mina brushes her fingers against the scar underneath his eye, like sheâs trying to brush away his despair.
Kirishima lingers behind the others before he comes to stand directly in front of Katsuki, hands on his hips and demanding eye contactâthe weight in the air feels heavy on his shoulders. Katsuki glances back into his home, feels his spine hunch inwardsâbrushes the palms of his hands against the sides of his sweats. âIt⌠it didnât feel like it was supposed to hurt this much,â he breathes out quietly, almost to himself.
Kirishima softens, as much as he can for a man made out of pure muscles, takes a small step closer nodding his head. He rests his palm heavily on Katsukiâs shoulder, like heâs trying to absorb the weight that suddenly has grasped his chest in a tight grip. âMaybe you did. But you can still fix it. You just have to decide youâre done running first. If you keep telling yourself itâs fine without listening to how much it actually hurtsâŚ,â he swallows briefly, and Katsuki looks forward to face himâdesperate to catch the rest of his words. âRealizing what you lost? Thatâll hurt worse than this.â
The door clicks shut behind them.
The silence is immediate. Crushing.
Katsuki stands there for a long moment, palm pressed up against the door behind his stiffened spine, chest tight like the weight of the room is physically pressing in on all sides. The apartment feels smaller, colder, emptier, the echoes of voices linger like ghosts. Every bottle on the counter, every knocked over soda can, every small trace of noise from only a few minutes agoâitâs all screaming at him, reflecting the chaos inside his own head. Heâs trembling before he can tell his body to stop, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor as if it might swallow him whole.
His chest heaves harshly, shallow breaths pushing past his mouth that feel like theyâre tearing him apart from the inside, being scraped up his throat like daggers. His fingers flex against the wood, trembling without permission, the weight of everythingâeverything heâs held in, everything heâs shoved down like a hero shouldâslides deep into the crevices of his bones.
It hits him in fragments as his knees threaten to crumble underneath him.
The thought of him, smiling at her, hand curled into hers and laughing like Katsuki wasnât part of the picture. The moments heâs missed because he decided it wasnât his place to fight for them, to stake his claim, to make him feel special. The gnawing, hollow ache of realizing heâs let someone else occupy the space that should have been his own to fight for. The guilt, he carries it like the heaviness of the billboards with advertisements surrounding the city, gossips and rumors, the stuff that the rest of the population thrives on that heâs never taken an interest in. Heâs afraid that in finally stepping into his own truth, he might trample something already fragile. Something that isnât his to ruin because of his own obsession, his own inability to let go.
The thought doesnât make him flinch. Doesnât make him retreat. It twists harder and harder against his lungs, like his ribs could snap under the pressure. He wants to run, wants to crush the guilt in the palms of his hands before it spreadsâbut he cant. He cant.
He slides down the door, letting gravity take over his trembling state, until heâs sitting on the floor, back pressed flat against the wood of the door. His knees come up instinctively, arms wrapping around them to pull them to his chest. He bows his head into the comfort of his own cavern between chest and legs, curling himself tight like he might vanish if heâs small enough for the world.
And for the first time since that nightâ
He cries. The first tear slides down. Then another, and they donât stop. He surrenders to a release he hasnât allowed himself in weeks, the residue of an anger he didnât know heâd been holding.
Just small, sharp betrayals, breath hitching in an uneven rhythm, chest burning, tears spilling down his face like his body finally ran out of ways to hold it all inâweeks of numbness spilling out in a slow, aching river. His hands tremble around his knees, he presses his fist to his mouth, biting down hard enough to hurt, like the pain might keep him together.
But it doesnât. Izukuâs name lodges in his throat, unspoken for weeks on end. Starved. Screaming without a sound to flow amongst the wind.
The guilt sits heavy above the ache. He sees flashes in his mindâevery time he encouraged Izuku to keep moving, that heâll be right on his heels to surpass him, every time he let himself step back and pretend he wasnât desperate for more, every day he stayed silent while his life kept on moving without him.
He cries for the absence, for the hope he let slip into the middle of his being, for the boy heâs loved longer than he can admit. For the weight of silence he carried alone. His breath shakes as he exhales, hot and ragged. His tears soak into his forearms, dampening the sleeves of his shirt.
The apartment bears witness to his silent anguish. For once, it doesnât demand he hold it together. Doesnât echo his own steel-clad obsession and resolve back at him. Heâs allowed to just exist here, raw and broken with no mask, no duty, no status, no hero to uphold.
And somewhere deep beneath the layers of guilt and the ache, beneath the self-loathing for what he might have ruinedâboth for himself or for his personâa small flicker stirs in the caverns beneath his sternum.
Quiet. Fragile. Almost laughable in its weaknessâbut it exists. That maybe it isnât too late. Maybe he can still do right by the person he loves. Maybe he can push forward, not as the number five hero, not as the flawless, untouchable Bakugo Katsuki, but as someone willing to be seen.
When the tears finally stop, Katsuki is exhausted in a way no fight has ever made him. After the last tremor passes, he lifts his head from his knees slowly, wipes his face with the back of his handânose congested and throat still tightâand stares past the empty, cluttered room, to the dim glow of the city outside. It begins to feel less like a cage to his own anguish, and more like a threshold.
Tomorrow, heâll get up.
Heâll put the mask back on.
Tonight, he lets himself break, lets himself feel every sharp corner of the heart heâs kept blocked on every side by a brick tower. And in that raw, quiet despair, the question fizzles in his chest, sharper than any explosion heâs ever been capable of creating: Can I fix this?