#kingofyearning

ACT I — The Night After

Katsuki doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies on top of his bed like it’s a slab, boots still on, jacket tossed somewhere on the floor where it landed hours ago. The room smells faintly like smoke and metal and something sour he doesn’t want to name. His phone buzzed earlier—agency messages, patrol updates, Kirishima asking if he got home alright—but he turned it face down and let it die.

The silence presses in. It’s the kind that makes his ears ring. The most put together hero on paper, and the most emotionally wrecked idiot alone in his apartment after midnight.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it aches, replaying the night over and over like a punishment he can’t stop himself from administering.

Izuku’s face, soft with surprise in the glances Katsuki allowed himself to take through the rearview mirror. The way his eyes lit up when Katsuki spoke. The way he smiled like Katsuki had handed him permission instead of a goodbye.

Katsuki swallows.

He remembers exactly how his voice sounded—steady. Convincing. Like he hadn’t just split himself open wide. Like he hadn’t already decided this was how it had to end.

Giving special treatment to everyone means that no one is really special to you.

The words echo now, grotesque in their vulnerable clarity. The hope that Izuku would parse the meaning, see the words that he really meant. Except he could feel the gears turning beneath those curls, and knew better than to keep holding onto hope. He understood, but his attention was on someone else. Someone that wasn’t Katsuki.

Katsuki rolls onto his side and reaches blindly for the bottle on his nightstand. He doesn’t even remember buying it. Some cheap sake he picked up on autopilot after driving Kirishima and Mina home, because the idea of going home sober felt unbearable.

He never drinks. He hates the loss of control. Hates anything that dulls his edge. But tonight, he twists the cap off with shaking fingers and takes a long pull anyway.

It burns as he guzzles it down his throat. He welcomes it.

The alcohol settles heavy and useless in his gut, doing nothing to quiet his thoughts. If anything, it loosens them—lets them roam where he’s spent years keeping them caged. Enough to feel Izuku’s absence ache sharper in his ribs.

Izuku laughing during training back in their UA days. Izuku standing too close, shoulder brushing his as they stood side by side after a fight. Izuku standing outside his door with red-rimmed eyes after a nightmare, looking guilty and hopeful. Izuku looking at him like he’s waiting for something Katsuki never gave.

Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the dark.

He doesn’t cry. His body refuses to give him that relief.

Instead, his chest feels tight, compressed, like someone stacked concrete blocks on his ribs and dared him to breathe anyway. His heart keeps slamming against his sternum, loud and frantic, and no matter how many times he exhales, it doesn’t slow.

Sleep doesn’t come to rest over his eyes. Neither does it punch him in the face.

Every time he closes his eyes, Izuku is there—standing on the sidewalk, turning back, hesitating. Like he’s waiting for Katsuki to say something different. Like maybe this time, Katsuki will stop him. He remembers his hand twitching to do just that. Like he might just tell him everything. Like he might just say, Don’t go. Stay.

But Katsuki never does. And Izuku never turned back.

His eyes snap open each time with his teeth grinding and his hands curled into fists, sheets twisted like he’s been fighting something in his sleep. His wrists twists stiffly to stare at the bottle of alcohol slosh around in its confinement. He doesn’t bother checking the clock anymore.

At some point before dawn, he sits up abruptly and drains the rest of the bottle, throat working as he forces it down. His hands feel numb. His thoughts don’t.

He stares at the wall until the sky outside the window begins to pale.

Morning comes whether he’s ready or not.

He calls in sick.

The words feel foreign on his tongue. He’s never given himself the luxury—injured, exhausted, bleeding, it never mattered. He showed up. He always showed up. It’s what heroes do.

But today, the idea of putting on his gear feels impossible. The heavy weight of it, the expectation, the way Izuku used to stand beside him—

He hangs up before they can ask questions.

Then he does it again the next day.

And the next.

Three days off of his hero duties. An indulgence he’s never allowed himself. An emptiness he doesn’t know what to do with. Time loses its shape in the form of bottles. He scrambled through his alcohol cupboard to look for some, unwilling to face anyone outside of his apartment. The irony in the fact that none were purchased by him isn’t lost on him. Gifts. Dusting away for years.

He forgets to eat. He forgets to shower. He sits on the floor with his back against the couch, bottle replaced by another he doesn’t remember opening, staring at nothing while his mind chews itself raw.

The apartment feels too quiet without Izuku’s voice echoing in it, without the imagined presence Katsuki never admitted he carried with him everywhere. He’d gotten so used to that constant awareness, that certainty. Izuku was always there. Even when he wasn’t standing side by side with him, he was always there.

And now—

Now Katsuki is alone with the consequences of a choice he made sober, clear-headed, and convinced it was the right thing to do. That’s the part that hurts the most.

He didn’t miss a sign. He didn’t misunderstand. He didn’t hesitate because he was scared. He chose this.

He encouraged Izuku to move on because he thought love was something you stepped aside for. Because he thought wanting him was selfish. Because he believed that Izuku deserved more than a life orbiting Katsuki’s sharp edges.

Katsuki presses the heel of his hand into his eyes until sparks flare behind his lids. “Idiot,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t know who he means.

He tries to sleep again sometime late in the afternoon. Lies down properly in his bed this time. Pulls the blanket over himself like that might trick his body into rest. Contorts his body into a tight ball, and releases his muscles like they taught him in physical therapy. It doesn’t work.

His thoughts spiral—what Izuku might be doing, who he might be with, whether he smiled the way he always does, whether he hesitated at all after Katsuki said goodbye. The stupid hope that he’d turn around, and see Katsuki the way he sees him.

Because there’s only ever been Izuku, even when Izuku wasn’t his to have. He reaches over for the bottle on his bedside table and takes a longer pull of the drink.

The idea that Izuku might have taken him at his word makes something hollow open up inside him. Katsuki turns onto his other side, curling inward, gripping his own forearm hard enough to bruise. Always crawling back to the same thoughts, because he always goes back. Even after everything, even after Izuku leaves him standing alone with his hand raised and waving like a fool, to chase a future Katsuki doesn’t fit into.

He doesn’t cry. He glances to the side at the speaker system he has set up in a corner of his room, quietly replaying that damn Hozier cover and silently agrees that he too has dreamt of him every night this week. He just lies there, breathing shallow, heart aching, waiting for a sleep that refuses to come.

Over the last seven months I have accidentally built a BKDK display system with its own internal lore. Every figure has a reason for existing. Most of those reasons were “THIS REPRESENTS A VERY IMPORTANT EMOTIONAL MOMENT IN THE GOD DAMN STORY LINE”. Or “Bakugo looks so fucking sick in this pose I need him immediately”. And also “well… I have to get his boyfriend to match”. And therefore could not be argued with.

Featured:

💥 Final Push Scene bkdk (my pride and joy)

🥦 Tiny baby bkdk children

💥 Bakugo (that I like to call Upside Down, Twinkle-in-His-Eye, About-to-Die, “Can I Still Catch Up to You?” Bakugo) because apparently yearning can overcome gravity

🧡💚 Very Gay Men that absolutely belong together and therefore could not be separated

🥦 Various emotional support Dekus

💥 More Bakugos than any one person should reasonably own (and lots more incoming…)

Rules:

* do not judge my book collection

* do not judge the horrendous purse bowl

* do not judge anything beyond bkdk bc im in room development okayy🥲

* do not judge the sad homeless smiskis (housing development pending)

* do not ask me how much ive spent

* audits have been conducted and i did not enjoy the results

* placement suggestions are WELCOME!!

I also own a giant fucking All Might with oiled-up ass cheeks but he was excluded from these photos for the sake of maintaining the BKDK narrative.

Anyway. Welcome to the shrine. 😭💥🥦

ACT II — Hollow Victories

Katsuki goes back to work because that’s what he’s always done.

The uniform fits the same. The explosions still answer his call. The streets still open for him like they always have. None of it feels real.

He moves through patrol like he’s underwater, vision narrowed, sounds dulled. His eyes track the streets out of habit more than awareness—rooftops, windows, alleyways—muscle memory carrying him where his mind refuses to stay. His body will move before his mind ever catches up if it needs to. And yet, Izuku keeps slipping in anyway.

It’s stupid, the things his brain latches onto. Not the big moments. Not the fights or the speeches or the way Izuku always ran headlong into danger with that feral determination Katsuki used to despise.

It’s the small things.

Izuku nudging his shoulder during patrol briefings, leaning in like they shared a secret. Izuku asking questions Katsuki pretended to hate answering, only to get visibly pleased when Katsuki explained anyway. Izuku smiling at him like Katsuki was the first person he wanted to tell anything to.

Moments Katsuki had catalogued as theirs. Moments he thought made him special.

He lands on the corner of a rooftop, surprised with himself as he didn’t remember activating his quirk to blast through the sky and freezes for half a second, expecting—stupidly—to hear footsteps behind him. Expecting Izuku to be there, breathless and grinning, saying something earnest and irritating and warm.

There’s nothing. Just wind. Just concrete. Just the echo of something he already lost.

“Dynamight!”

The shout snaps him back into focus. A group of civilians below wave when they spot him, phones already raised, excitement crackling in the air. Kids point, toothy grins with some of the front missing. Someone cheers his name further in the distance.

He raises a hand automatically. The gesture feels hollow. Feels the same as it did that night. Foolish, inconsequential, useless.

His eyes focus on a plume of smoke coming from a block over, he rolls his shoulders and bursts forth with his quirk not just from his palms anymore, but redirecting the force of it through his back and legs. He calls in the situation swiftly to his team, not listening for them to give him the go ahead or if his quirk is compatible against the villains or not.

The dispersed recoil throughout his body is a familiar sensation now after almost a decade, and once he locks eyes on the villain causing mayhem amongst a small grocery store, his lips curl up for the first time in a week. Mean, nasty, teeth bared, this is the kind of hero Katsuki indulges in being from time to time.

He resolves the incident quickly—efficient, clean, textbook Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight. The villain is restrained, the area secured, the adrenaline fades like it always does.

Usually, there’s a high that comes after. A sharp, electric satisfaction—he wonders briefly how Izuku managed being a livewire with One for All. He’d turn, expect Izuku’s eyes shining with pride, the new suit glinting in the sun, that unspoken we did it hanging between them.

Instead, there’s no one to turn to. The absence is loud. Louder than the sheer screams of “good job, Dynamight!” or “did you see how fast he took ‘em down?” from the civilians standing too close for comfort behind some other hero’s barricade. Before, he would give a cocky grin that his fans would eat up, maybe answer a question or two for the press, but that sense of victory no longer pertains to him. He takes to the sky again.

Someone is speaking in his intercoms from his team, telling him to show his face to the masses on the street. Best Jeanist used to tell him it made people feel safer, a tapestry of trust, an unspoken “I am here” that heroes tended to give when walking alongside the rest of the population. He doesn’t think he’d be able to give that sort of presence today, not with the scowl permanently etched onto his features. As he moves through the skyline amongst the city, he starts noticing them everywhere.

Screens in storefront windows.

Magazine covers at kiosks.

Electronic billboards stretched across buildings too tall to ignore.

NEW COUPLE ON THE RISE?

DEKU AND URAVITY: HEROES AND HEARTS ALIGN

Izuku’s smile is the same one Katsuki remembers. Soft. Open. The kind that made his chest ache even when he pretended not to notice. Uraraka stands close, comfortable, hand curled into Izuku’s sleeve like she belongs there.

Maybe she does.

Katsuki looks away too late.

The words stick anyway.

He keeps running into them—headlines, murmurs, fans whispering excitedly about “they look so cute together” and “did you see they were spotted at that ice cream place?” like it’s harmless, like it doesn’t carve something out of him every time. Somehow, it’s worse than when his actual heart touched the air of the Coffin in the Sky made for Shigaraki. He wonders if this time it might actually give out and stay out.

He tells himself this is what he wanted. He made this happen.

Still, every victory tastes like ash. He can’t outwork any of the signs glaring him dead in the face. Can’t be louder than them, even though his wrists ache with the crackles of an explosion. Wishes he could lift his hand and pulse his quirk out at one of the billboards. Just once.

His phone vibrates in his pocket mid-patrol. He falters from his momentum in the sky, grunts gruffly and changes his trajectory to land with a heavy thump of his boots.

He almost ignores it.

Almost.

The name on the screen makes his chest tighten, breath caught in his throat as he stands on the ledge of some building. His glove is hanging from between his teeth from where he pulled it off, he clenches his jaw to stop it from dropping in awe. Chasing after his glove in the wind of high buildings would just be the cherry on top of his day.

Deku:

hey! r u free for lunch today?

Katsuki stares at the message longer than he should. His thumb hovers over the screen, indecisive, heart beating too fast for something so small.

Lunch. Like nothing’s changed.

Like Katsuki didn’t draw a line and call it mercy.

For a second—just one—he imagines saying yes. Imagines sitting across from Izuku at a table, hearing him talk too fast, seeing the way his hands move when he’s excited. Imagines leaning his chin against his palm, tracking every beat of his eyebrow movements, the curve of his lips as he laughs about some comment one of his students made. Imagines pretending this doesn’t hurt.

He types.

Deletes.

Types again.

Katsuki:

Can’t today.

He sends it before he can reconsider.

The reply comes fast.

Deku:

oh okay! another time then.

Katsuki locks his phone and shoves it back into his utility belt like it burned him.

He harshly shoves his hand back into his glove, grits his teeth against the frigid air, and jumps off the ledge in a free fall knowing his explosions will catch him. Another time. He doesn’t know what that means anymore.

The days blur after that. He quietly requests to his team that they don't schedule him for patrol at the same time as Izuku. He claims it’s because Deku the Hero needs to work on being more independent, that he needs to work with other heroes, needs to adapt to his suit without Dynamight in his ear telling him all the things he’s doing wrong or right. He denies to himself that it’s because proximity hurts too much. His ears burned after he stomped out of his agency’s office. He doesn’t care to listen to the whispers or face the stares of the people that work around him.

Patrol. Appearances. Interviews he barely listens to. People praising him for being sharper, more focused, more dangerous than ever.

They don’t see the truth.

They don’t see how his eyes keep drifting to empty spaces where Izuku used to stand. How he keeps turning at the end of fights, instinct screaming for a presence that isn’t there anymore.

How every win feels unfinished. Even after proving himself to the world, garnering respect and freedom in how he moves through the streets. No longer hearing whispers of “was rabid at that sports festival” or “Deku is friends with him?”. Even after getting shouts of encouragement or common greetings from the civilians he’s sworn to protect—despite it being a well known fact to not get too close while he’s working. He’s achieved everything he’s ever wanted—even comfortable with just holding his title of Japan’s Number Five Hero—but the praise feels hollow now.

At night, he sits alone in his apartment, staring at the wall, the city lights bleeding through the massive windows of his apartment. The bottles accumulate on the counter—silent proof of a habit he never meant to form. He doesn’t drink to forget. He drinks because being sober means remembering everything.

Izuku’s laugh, the loud and care-free one he seemed to let run longer and uglier around Katsuki.

Izuku’s faith in him, the constant approval and praise that would drip from his tongue in earnest.

Izuku’s partnership, always standing shoulder to shoulder after a win, toe to toe during an argument in a way no one else could ever hope to come to with Katsuki’s fierce bullheadedness.

The way Katsuki thought he had more time. Victory was supposed to mean something. But what’s the point of standing at the top if there’s no one beside you?

Katsuki closes his eyes and exhales slowly, chest tight, jaw clenched.

He keeps moving forward. Because that’s what heroes do.

I’m talking Figures (yes, CAPITAL F). Shelving units. Display planning and symbolism. Emotional support Bakugo’s. Deku lore. The whole nine yards.

Every time I thought I was done, another figure would show up and I’d go “WAIT THIS ONE REPRESENTS A VERY IMPORTANT EMOTIONAL MOMENT IN THE VISUAL STORYLINE AND I NEED ITTT”.

ACT III — What Friends See

Katsuki knows something’s 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 hasn’t processed in minutes. No one comes over unannounced. Not anymore. Not unless they’re dead or dying.

He doesn’t answer it.

Same response he’s given the ring for weeks now. He always stands, moves on autopilot and retreats toward his bedroom and presses play on the stereo system—loud, 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 hasn’t come looking for him.

The knocking starts five seconds later.

“BAKUGO!” Kaminari’s voice bleeds through the door, loud and cheerful and already annoying. “Open up, man, we know you’re home.”

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 first—eyes 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.

“…Dude,” he says. “Is that—”

Bottles.

Not hidden. Not cleaned up. Lining the counter, clustered on the table, a couple tipped over on their sides like casualties from Katsuki’s jittery hands. Empty. All of them.

The apartment smells stale. Sour. Wrong.

This place is usually immaculate. Katsuki’s 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.

This doesn’t.

Mina’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Okay,” she says carefully. “So this wasn’t us.”

Sero and Denki exchange uneasy expressions towards each other, stepping carefully around the mess like the floor might crack under them. Kirishima doesn’t 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 Katsuki’s shoulder like their usual embrace.

That—more than anything—makes Katsuki’s 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, “You been throwing ragers without inviting us?” he chuckles as he says it, like he’s trying to laugh it off.

Katsuki doesn’t 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 grip—too 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 doesn’t look at anyone.

Silence drops like a curtain. Heavy and thick.

Mina shifts, clearly uncomfortable. She tries to fill it, because that’s what she does.

“So!” she says too brightly. “Did you guys see that interview? With Deku and Ochako? It seems like they’re like… trying things out? Kinda cute, honestly.”

The can crumples in Katsuki’s hand as he grinds his teeth. Beer spills over his knuckles, cold and sharp. He doesn’t notice until it drips onto the floor.

No one breathes. Denki’s teasing grin vanishes quickly, eyebrows bunching in confusion. Sero’s gaze darts away to anywhere but the mess on his floor. Mina’s eyes widen, a gasp caught in her throat, immediate regret flashing across her face.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Oh, Kats—”

“I’m happy for them,” 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.

“I said I’m happy for them.” Katsuki turns his gaze away, brushing his thumb along the rim of the can he’s holding, avoiding eye contact. He braces himself for one of them to joke, maybe Denki or Kaminari, for a lecture that he doesn’t want to hear.

He realizes they’re watching him, not the TV or the mess. Distantly, he understands that maybe this is what it looks like from the outside.

Kirishima, who’s been quiet this whole time, finally speaks. He uncrosses his arms from across his bulky chest, stance relaxed with his wrists angled outward, like he’s trying to show a stray animal he’s trustworthy. Katsuki’s never been intimidated by him, but he bristles under his gaze, turning his gaze to the floor. Kirishima’s voice is calm. Too calm.

“Bro.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens, grits out through his teeth, “What.”

“Are you?”

Kirishima doesn’t yell. Doesn’t accuse. That makes it worse. He just looks at Katsuki like he’s trying to understand something that doesn’t add up.

Katsuki slams the can down onto the island counter in front of him, cheap beer sloshing across the surface. “I’ve already told you I’m fucking fine.”

Kirishima doesn’t flinch, he just steps closer—just enough to make Katsuki aware of him. “You don’t look happy.”

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 doesn’t 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. “That’s your problem.”

Kirishima’s gaze flickers to their friends on the sidelines, the room stays dead quiet. He thinks he sees Mina nod her head in support.

“No,” Kirishima says gently. “I don’t think it is”

Katsuki laughs sharply, mean and ugly. He’s gripping the edge of the counter now, spine ramrod straight as he tries to burn his gaze onto the sleek surface. “I’m happy for them,” he repeats, louder this time. Like volume might make it real. “I wanted this. I told him to go after someone special. You were there. This is good. This is what’s supposed to happen.”

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. “You’re lying,” Kirishima says simply.

The words land heavy.

No explosion.

No argument.

Just truth, stated plainly.

Katsuki feels his nose scrunch, sniffing quietly before tilting his jaw upwards in defense. “No, I’m not.”

Kirishima exhales slowly. ”I’ve known you forever, man. We all have. I see it. You’ve been drinking like this. Skipping meals. Not hanging out even during lunch. You don’t collab on missions anymore. You just stay cooped up in here. Staring at your phone like its gonna give you back what you lost.”

Katsuki’s 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 Kirishima’s gaze head on. He subtly rubs his sweating palms against the fabric of the inside of his pockets, feels his ears burn hot as Kirishima’s gaze flicks down to register the movement. “It’s nothing.”

”Nothing?” Kirishima shakes his head, tilting it to the side to rake his gaze carefully up Katsuki’s tense posture. “You let him go like you didn’t care. Like it didn’t hurt. And now you’re sitting here pretending you’re happy while you’re falling apart.”

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 lip—Katsuki 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 shouldn’t.

“I did what I thought was right,” 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.

”And maybe it was,” Kirishima says softly. “But you’re not thinking about you. Or him. You’re thinking about whether you can survive without him. About how it looks if you’re strong alone.”

His hand comes down on Katsuki’s shoulder—firm, grounding, feels the same even after 8 years. He didn’t even realize him coming around the counter, and Katsuki takes in a deep shuddering breath, quietly shaking his head against the comfort.

”That’s not how people live.”

Katsuki’s vision blurs. “I—I just—“

”You just want him to be happy. I know,” Kirishima tilts his head to the side, trying to catch Katsuki’s eyes. “But if you keep ignoring how much this hurts.. you’re gonna wake up one day and realize what you missed.”

The words hit harder than any explosion he’s ever thrown—quiet, 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 countertop—at the bottles, the mess, the life he’s been sleepwalking through—and for the first time, he doesn’t have an answer ready. He doesn’t feel like the hero prodigy everyone has always told him he is.

“I’m fine,” he says, breath hitching around the words, because that’s all he has left.

The room stays quiet.

They don’t argue with him.

They don’t push.

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 they’re afraid he might shatter if they leave. He doesn’t think he can do that either. Still hasn’t let a single tear slip amongst his devastation at his loss. Hasn’t 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 school—feels Mina stiffen and inhale deeply somewhere to the left of him. Katsuki swallows stiffly, throat tight. He didn’t speak, didn’t move from his position. His mind looped around all the ways he’d 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 hasn’t cracked open his can, it burns in his palm despite the coolness it had coming out of the fridge. They weren’t 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.

“Get the hell out,” he grumbles. “You’re loud.”

Normally, they’d 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 it’s 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.

Tonight, they hesitate.

Denki huffs quietly at Katsuki holding the door open—a silent “or else” etched into the twitch of Katsuki’s eyebrow—raps his knuckles against the door frame in goodbye and slants a small smile at him. Sero bumps his elbow against Katsuki’s, murmuring something about being there if he needs him. Mina brushes her fingers against the scar underneath his eye, like she’s 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 contact—the weight in the air feels heavy on his shoulders. Katsuki glances back into his home, feels his spine hunch inwards—brushes the palms of his hands against the sides of his sweats. “It… it didn’t feel like it was supposed to hurt this much,” 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 Katsuki’s shoulder, like he’s trying to absorb the weight that suddenly has grasped his chest in a tight grip. “Maybe you did. But you can still fix it. You just have to decide you’re done running first. If you keep telling yourself it’s fine without listening to how much it actually hurts…,” he swallows briefly, and Katsuki looks forward to face him—desperate to catch the rest of his words. “Realizing what you lost? That’ll hurt worse than this.”

Then they leave.

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 ago—it’s all screaming at him, reflecting the chaos inside his own head. He’s 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 they’re 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 everything—everything he’s held in, everything he’s shoved down like a hero should—slides 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 wasn’t part of the picture. The moments he’s missed because he decided it wasn’t his place to fight for them, to stake his claim, to make him feel special. The gnawing, hollow ache of realizing he’s 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 he’s never taken an interest in. He’s afraid that in finally stepping into his own truth, he might trample something already fragile. Something that isn’t his to ruin because of his own obsession, his own inability to let go.

And yet.

The thought doesn’t make him flinch. Doesn’t 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 spreads—but he cant. He cant.

Something gives.

He slides down the door, letting gravity take over his trembling state, until he’s 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 he’s small enough for the world.

And for the first time since that night—

He cries. The first tear slides down. Then another, and they don’t stop. He surrenders to a release he hasn’t allowed himself in weeks, the residue of an anger he didn’t know he’d been holding.

It’s not loud.

Not dramatic.

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 in—weeks 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 doesn’t. Izuku’s 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 mind—every time he encouraged Izuku to keep moving, that he’ll be right on his heels to surpass him, every time he let himself step back and pretend he wasn’t 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 he’s 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 doesn’t demand he hold it together. Doesn’t echo his own steel-clad obsession and resolve back at him. He’s 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 ruined—both for himself or for his person—a small flicker stirs in the caverns beneath his sternum.

Quiet. Fragile. Almost laughable in its weakness—but it exists. That maybe it isn’t 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 hand—nose congested and throat still tight—and 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, he’ll get up.

He’ll clean.

He’ll put the mask back on.

But tonight—

Act III .5 — Resolve without Action

Katsuki doesn’t sleep much.

He drifts in and out of it in shallow stretches, never long enough for his body to fully settle into rest, never deep enough for his thoughts to let go. When morning comes, it feels abrupt—too loud, too bright, like the world didn’t get the memo that something inside of him cracked the night before.

Work doesn’t care, because that’s the life of a hero.

He gets up at his usual time, showers, dresses himself in his comfy civilian clothes to just be able to walk down to his car and go. He moves through the routine with the kind of muscle memory that doesn’t require thought. His head throbs faintly—he’s unsure if it’s from the alcohol or the loss of hydration from the tears—not enough to slow him down, just enough to remind him that rest was never really an option.

He scrolls through his notifications quickly on his way down the elevator, emails, messages from the agency, some texts from everyone that showed up last night. He doesn’t read through those.

At the agency, he shows up exactly as he always has: sharp, focused, systematic. He handles patrol without hesitation, instincts clean and precise. Civilians barely register more than they need to. His timing is perfect, his control is flawless, no one could accuse him of being distracted.

And he isn’t. Not really.

But between calls—between the quiet stretches where there’s nothing to explode, no one to save and nowhere to be—his mind drifts back to the same words, uninvited but steady.

Don’t waste more time thinking about what’s right. Just… think about him.

The simplicity of it irritates him at first. Katsuki has never been allowed simplicity where Izuku is concerned. Everything between them has always been layered, heavy with consequence, tangled in expectations and history and other people’s feelings.

Uraraka’s face surfaces, unwanted. The way she looks at Izuku like the ground beneath her feet is solid because he exists. Katsuki’s jaw tightens, he grips the railing at the top of some building, like it could ever actually prevent him from falling. The guilt follows immediately, sharp and unwelcome. The idea that wanting something for himself might mean taking it from someone else makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t have a word for.

He shoves it down and keeps moving, onto the next building, in the sky above the streets, anywhere and nowhere. This district is Katsuki’s, these streets call him by name, and sometimes they call his name too—with the same sort of reverence and awe that Katsuki does.

The other line creeps in, quieter but more dangerous.

Realizing what you lost because you didn’t try? That’ll hurt worse than this.

That one doesn’t leave.

It lingers through the rest of the day—through paperwork, through training, through the mechanical act of being excellent at what he does. It doesn’t demand anything from him. It doesn’t tell him what to do. It just sits there, solid and patient, like a truth that will still be waiting whenever he’s ready to look at it.

He doesn’t reach out to Kirishima.

But the words stay anyway, grounding him in a way he doesn’t entirely understand. Like someone set a hand between his shoulder blades and didn’t push—just reminded him he wasn’t about to tip over at the gentle ruffle of a feather.

When he finally gets home, the apartment is quiet.

Too quiet, maybe. But manageable.

He drops his keys onto the counter and exhales, long and slow, toes off his heavy boots at the genkan first, before moving through the space. He doesn’t turn on the TV, doesn’t bother with music. He ends up standing in front of the display case without fully meaning to, gaze snagging on the familiar rectangle inside.

The All Might card.

Still in its acrylic casing that he put on it after he finally got his signature, after the war, after his death. It’s still a little scuffed at the edges. The stain near the corner hasn’t faded with time, no matter how carefully he’s kept it and how much he cleaned it with a microfiber towel and the precision that he does everything. He remembers when it happened—shoving it into his pocket during the war without thinking, like muscle memory, like instinct. As if carrying it meant something. As if it tethered him to something solid. To someone.

He opens the case and pulls out the card.

The card feels lighter than he expects when he holds it, worn smooth by years of being kept close and never examined too hard. He doesn’t linger on the memory of pulling it alongside Izuku when they were kids, but it presses in anyway—the shock, the laughter, the brief, electric feeling that wanting had been allowed back then. That it had been simple.

He doesn’t think about it much when he threads it onto his keyring.

Doesn’t narrate the choice. Doesn’t justify it.

It just makes sense.

Later, when he lies down, the day finally catching up to him, his thoughts drift—not spiraling, not sharp. Just present. Izuku’s face surfaces again, softer this time. Not tied to fear or regret. Just… there. Familiar. Steady.

He doesn’t decide anything.

But when sleep finally takes him, it’s with the quiet understanding that life doesn’t feel frozen anymore. That wanting might still exist. That tomorrow will come whether he’s ready or not—and maybe, just maybe, that won’t be the worst thing..

Waking comes with the knowledge of purpose. The agency insists.

They always do.

A mandatory rest day, once a week—non-negotiable after the war, after everything. Katsuki only agreed on his own terms: he stays on call. Phone on. Gear ready. Close enough that if something goes wrong, he can be there in minutes.

They never call.

Villain activity has slowed to a crawl, the world held together by people like Izuku—relentless, tireless, still moving forward even when everyone else wants to stop and breathe. Katsuki tries not to think too hard about that as he wakes up later than usual, the apartment still wrapped in quiet.

It doesn’t feel like rest. It feels like being left alone with too much space.

He starts with the mess.

Empty bottles first—beer, soda, sake—glass and metal clinking too loud in the recycling bin. Then dishes. Soap. Heat. Dry rags. Stack. The rhythm of it steadies him, even as his mind drifts. He wipes down counters, clears stray wrappers, straightens things that don’t need straightening. When he lifts one of the couch cushions to retrieve something that fell between them, a notebook slips free and hits the floor.

He freezes.

Green cover. Bent corner. The spine cracked from use.

One of Izuku’s old hero analysis notebooks.

Katsuki stares at it for a long moment, jaw tight. He reaches down and flips it open despite himself—dense handwriting, diagrams, margin notes scribbled over each other like Izuku never knew when to stop thinking. There’s nothing new inside. Nothing Katsuki hasn’t seen before.

Still, he closes it carefully and sets it on the coffee table instead of putting it away.

Laundry comes next.

He sorts without thinking until his hands pause on a familiar shirt—soft from too many washes, faintly oversized. Izuku’s. Left behind weeks ago, forgotten in the quiet way things get forgotten when you assume you’ll be back soon.

Katsuki doesn’t bring it to his face.

Doesn’t need to.

The awareness is there anyway, sharp and uninvited, lodged beneath his ribs. He tosses it into the washer with more force than necessary and slams the lid shut, irritation flaring hot and useless. He keeps moving.

The gym doesn’t help, but he goes anyway. Forces his body through the motions, weights clanking, sweat burning his eyes. His form is perfect out of habit, but his focus slips in the spaces between reps. His mind keeps cataloging absences instead of counting.

The couch that feels too big now.

The fridge stocked differently.

The extra toothbrush in the cupboard.

The quiet that doesn’t settle—it just waits.

At some point, sitting on the bench in the gym with his elbows braced on his knees, Katsuki exhales hard and finally lets the truth surface.

This still hurts.

Accepting it didn’t dull the edge or make the ache smaller. Letting Izuku go—telling himself it was right, that it was necessary—didn’t cauterize anything. It just taught him how to live around the pain.

And that’s when the other realization hits, slow and unavoidable.

Wanting didn’t disappear just because it was inconvenient.

It didn’t vanish because it made things complicated. Because it might hurt other people. Because it scared the hell out of him. Wanting didn’t care about timing or logic or what he told himself he should feel.

It was still there.

Quiet. Persistent. Unmoved by his attempts to outrun it.

Katsuki sits with that longer than he expects to.

He doesn’t make a vow. But something inside him settles—not into peace, but into certainty. The kind that doesn’t need noise or witnesses.

This isn’t something he can ignore his way out of.

Later, back home, his keys land on the counter with a familiar clink. The All Might card clacks gently on the table before going still. Katsuki watches it for a second longer than necessary, then turns away.

His phone stays silent.

Sleep comes in waves, but Katsuki wakes on time. Work goes as it always does. Villains. Scaring kittens back down trees to safety. Reports in. He does his job with the same brutal efficiency that’s kept him at the top even when everything else feels like it’s slipping out of reach. The absences press against the back of his skull in warning, he lets them slip in and out freely. They don’t slow him down this time.

Afterward, the work day runs down to an unsatisfying finish and he goes to the grocery store.

It’s routine, muscle memory. Cart down the same aisles, hand grabbing the same brands without looking. Protein. Rice. Vegetables. Things that last—things that make sense. He moves through the space like he belongs there, like nothing inside him has shifted at all.

The truth is quieter than that.

On the drive home, the city hums around him—late afternoon traffic, the low sun glinting off windshields. When he reaches for his keys at a red light, the motion catches his eye.

The keychain swings once.

Twice.

The All Might card—creased, protected, worn—glinting faintly in the light before settling against the steering column.

Katsuki doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even come close.

He just watches it for a second longer than necessary, breath steady, hands relaxed on the wheel.

And the thought arrives fully formed, solid as a locked door:

He’d let it hurt again if it meant he tried.

Not if it worked.

Not if he won.

Not even if Izuku chose him back.

Just—if he tried.

The realization doesn’t knock the wind out of him. It doesn’t spiral. It doesn’t demand anything yet. It simply exists, heavy and undeniable, settling into place like it’s been waiting for him to stop running.

He wants him.

He wants him enough to risk the ache. Enough to step into the mess. Enough to live with the answer, whatever it turns out to be.

That’s it.

No action follows. The phone doesn’t need to be lifted. No message typed and deleted. Katsuki turns onto his street, parks in the garage, unloads groceries, slots them neatly into cabinets like nothing has changed.

But everything has.

Hiis phone buzzes while he’s putting away leftovers.

Kirishima:

heads up! hero gala’s officially confirmed. end of the week. your going, right?

Katsuki exhales through his nose, staring at the screen.

Another buzz, barely a second later.

Mom:

Dad finished your suit.

You better not have changed measurements since the last time I tailored you, Katsuki.

I am NOT fixing it last minute again.

He scoffs despite himself, shaking his head as he sets the phone down on the counter.

The gala.

The suit.

The timing.

It feels less like coincidence and more like the world nudging him in the ribs, subtle but insistent. Not forcing. Just… presenting.

Katsuki looks around his apartment—clean now, ordered, quieter in a way that feels intentional instead of empty. His keys rest on the counter, the card still visible where he left them.

He doesn’t reach for his phone.

Not yet.

But for the first time, the thought of seeing Izuku again doesn’t make him fold inward.

It sharpens him.

And somewhere between the steady beat of his pulse and the quiet hum of the city outside, Katsuki understands something else, just as clearly:

Stay tuned for updates! I promise they’re coming sooner than you know it.. 💥