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Chapter Text

Izuku Midoriya has been stood up.

He looks down at his watch, just to make sure. Two minutes have passed since he last checked, the minute hand inching reluctantly towards the next hour. Hm. He’ll give it another seven minutes before he lets himself feel disappointed.

“Watch out!”

Izuku ducks without thinking, a blast of heat searing his ears as it soars over his head. He winces as he hears a crash and the distinct creak and sizzle of warping metal as the projectile ostensibly makes contact with the bleachers behind him. He straightens up, shooting an unimpressed look at the first-year student who flings his smoking hand behind his back. 

“Sorry, sir!"

“Akio,” Izuku responds evenly, absentmindedly brushing burning embers out of his hair. The student swallows. “Would you like to repeat the instructions I gave to you before we started training?”

Akio grins, lopsided and sheepish, scratching the back of his head. “Look where I’m shooting before I shoot?”

Izuku gives him a fond, exasperated look. “Well, at least your memory is in working order. Lilya,” he says, looking at the kind-hearted, pink-haired student he had paired Akio with, “why don’t you go and help Sora and Kairi with their hand-to-hand?”

Lilya leaves with a supportive, slightly pitying smile in the direction of her friend. Akio makes an aborted noise, looking between her and Izuku. “Wha-? Mr. Midoriya, how am I meant to train without a partner?”

Izuku looks down at his watch. Ah, there it is. The wave of disappointment. He puts on a pleasant, reassuring smile, and says, knowing in his heart that he has nothing to be waiting for anymore, “Let’s see if we can’t improve that aim of yours together.”

Akio deflates, his hand smoking slightly at his side. His hair defies the laws of physics, sagging like the ears of a sad puppy.

Izuku puts his notebook down and slides out of his suit jacket. He rolls the cuffs of his shirt-sleeves up to his elbows, his fingers brushing his watch as he unbuttons the left wrist-cuff. He hesitates, looking down at his wrist again. Another noxious throb in his chest, as the minute hand passes twelve o’clock. Well and truly stood up by over an hour. He takes the watch off and shoves it under his discarded jacket. 

Letting Akio throw flaming projectiles at him like a live catapult should, theoretically, distract him from the disappointment churning in his gut, but Izuku feels the irony keenly as he dodges the next shot, instinct ingrained in him after years of training with - and fighting against - Katsuki. And that’s the real crux of the issue, isn’t it? Katsuki. One too many nights of Izuku bemoaning the kid who reminded him of “Kacchan, but if you were too scared to actually hit anyone,” had Katsuki groaning and telling him to “shut up, nerd, as if I’d ever be a chicken like him. Give me two hours and I’ll turn him into a fucking sniper.” But here Izuku is a fortnight later, Pro Hero-less, after rearranging his entire day to fit Katsuki in and tiring his class to exhaustion before 1pm, after which they will be too tired to appreciate the - detailed, insightful! - lesson he prepared for his favourite Hero Studies class. And what’s most embarrassing? This isn’t even the first time he’s been stood up by Katsuki in the last fortnight. This is the rescheduled rescheduled lesson.

But he doesn’t blame Katsuki. He’s living the life of an active Pro-Hero now; unpredictable, dangerous, and exhausting. There’s just no aligning a regimented school day with that kind of schedule. Their worlds just don’t fit.

It takes Izuku another minute of instructing Akio and pretending to dodge a too-wide shot before he hears it. A distant roar. A distant, rapidly approaching, familiar roar. Izuku whips his head just in time to see the fiery outline of a familiar silhouette shoot across the skyline at a steady decline, aiming right for the training ground.

Izuku grins, the disappointment fizzling in his gut. “Kacchan!”

Katsuki lands in a plume of dust, knees bending into the landing in what Izuku thinks of as his peak hero pose, the dust settling around him as his hair falls, framing his face in a golden halo. Is it hot out here? Izuku feels flushed.

Katsuki’s face is impassive as he steadies and approaches the grounds. “Hey nerd,” he greets. As he gets closer, Izuku clearly sees the black smudges across his forehead, and the strange, green goo that clings to the black and orange material across his chest. 

Izuku grins and meets him halfway. “Kacchan! You made it.”

“Am I late?” He glances over Izuku’s shoulder at the class, who are suspiciously quiet behind him.

“It’s fine!” Izuku dismisses, waving his hands. “We still have about an hour before they break for lunch. Ah, did you check in with the front office?” 

Katsuki gives him a deadpan stare. “Do I look like I had time to check in at the front office?”

“Kacchan,” Izuku sighs, looking back over his shoulder. Class 1-B isn’t even pretending to train anymore, openly gawking and whispering amongst themselves. He turns back to Katsuki and bounces on the balls of his feet. “I’ll be right back. Go and get started with them for me? And, uh,” Izuku lowers his voice, “Akio? He’s the black-haired kid with the smoking hands.” Izuku looks pointedly in Akio’s direction. Akio’s face pales.

Katsuki snorts and walks past him. “Don’t worry. I’ll whip them into shape before you even get back.”

Izuku watches the firm line of Katsuki’s back as he storms towards his class. Against the beige background of the training grounds, his dark figure is accentuated, the dramatic tapering of his waist nearly offensive. No, definitely offensive. His shoulders look broader than Izuku remembers them last.

He shakes his head and turns on his heel, exiting the training grounds and making his way to the front office. He has no doubt that by the time he officially checks Katsuki in as a guest, his class will be falling over themselves to impress him. 

He knows the feeling.

***

Izuku stands at the edge of the training field with a smile stretched across his face. His class is working double-time, still in their pairs and groups of three, adorable determined expressions on their faces as they try to implement whatever feedback Katsuki has given them. They look so small compared to Katsuki’s towering frame, and Izuku thinks, not for the first time, if they looked this young when they fought in the war. Is this how Aizawa felt, watching them train to fight in a war they had no business fighting in? He’s never quite had the courage to ask the man.

As Izuku watches, Katsuki stalks to the next pair, his left arm swinging in a fierce march, his right arm plastered to his side. Ah, it’s Akio’s pair. The poor kid looks cornered; perhaps he knows that he is the real reason Katsuki is here? Izuku wouldn’t put it past him. In terms of powers in 1-B, Akio’s is closest to Katsuki’s by far. 

Knowing that Katsuki will not be leaving Akio’s side for a while, Izuku finally brings himself to join back in with his class, helping the other groups train while Katsuki sticks with Akio’s pair. The familiar tenor of his voice accompanies Izuku through the next forty minutes of the lesson, a reassuring - if occasionally abrasive - presence as he trains the rest of the class. By the time the training session ends, everyone is a little more dishevelled than they were before, covered in a sheen of sweat and the dust of the training grounds. Even Izuku has unbuttoned his collar, letting the breeze travel across his collarbone.

“Alright, 1-B! That’s enough for today!” A chorus of relieved groans echo around him. He motions for the class to gather around him, and they slowly comply, standing in a loose circle around him, varying states of tired, bruised, and singed. “Thank you all for your hard work today. You tried especially hard to respond to Dynamight's feedback, and your efforts are paying off. I’m proud of you all,” Izuku says, smiling around at the class before landing on Akio. “Please thank Pro Hero Dynamight for taking time out of his busy schedule to come and train you all today.”

Katsuki shuffles, right arm pressed tight to his side as a chorus of thank-you’s surrounds him. He nods, his left hand reaching up to tweak his nose. Izuku glances at his right arm again, noting the strange stiffness of his stance, just as Katsuki says, “You all did good today. Don’t forget anything I taught you, or I’ll tell Mr. Midoriya to kick your ass.”

“Ah -” Izuku sighs as the class laughs. He gives Katsuki a pointed look. “Alright everyone,” he calls, waiting for the laughter to diffuse. “Hit the showers, and make sure you drink plenty of water during lunch. Well done today!” He watches the class disperse, waiting until the last of the students has left the grounds before he turns back to Katsuki. A fine sheen of sweat shines on his brow, just like the rest of them, though Izuku doesn't think he’s done much in the way of being active in the last hour beyond pointing and shouting advice. In fact, the pallour of his skin is a little pale. “Kacchan, are you feeling alright?”

Katsuki grunts. “I’m fine. Where’re the teacher’s showers?”

Izuku blushes. “Ah, they’re down the hall from the students’ locker rooms. I’ll show you.” As they exit the training grounds and re-enter the building, Izuku can’t help but glance back at Katsuki. For a moment, his face looks younger, twisted into a perpetual scowl. Izuku looks back ahead with a sad smile. “It feels a little strange, huh? Walking down this corridor together again.”

Katsuki glances at him. “... yeah.” After a shared silence, he continues, a little quieter. “It’s not bad, though.”

Izuku looks to him in surprise. His smile turns fond, dimpling at the corners. “Yeah. I think I like it better now.”

Katsuki looks away from him, steps faltering slightly before he grunts and picks up the pace. Izuku watches his back and smiles wider. Yeah. He definitely likes it better now.

After another minute of walking - or in Kacchan’s case, stalking - Izuku calls out, “Next door on your left.” Katsuki grunts, his steps faltering once more as he jerks to a stop in front of the door, gripping the edge of the doorframe. Izuku makes a soft sound. “Katsuki, are you sure you’re -”

Katsuki looks over his shoulder with a scowl as he pushes the door open. “I said i’m fine. Just - give me five minutes. Go do whatever the fuck teachers do in their period off.” Izuku jerks as Katsuki slams the door in his face.

Well. Izuku looks down at his sweaty, sticky forearms, covered in a layer of dust. Teachers shower in their downtime, too, Izuku doesn’t say, and sighs, turning on his heel and taking his dusty, sweaty self to the break room. 

“You look like shit, kid,” Vlad says as Izuku enters the break room. 

“Sorry,” Izuku winces, sitting down in a plastic lunch chair. “Just finished training with 1-B. And Dynamight.”

“Oh yeah? The brat turned up this time?”

Izuku winces. He maybe slightly regrets venting to Vlad the last time Katsuki was a no-show.

Vlad looks across the room at the closed door. “And where is he now? Too cool to say hi to his old teacher?”

“He’s showering,” Izuku defends. 

Vlad gives him a strange look, glancing across his dusty form, before shrugging and biting into his foot-long sub. 

Izuku occupies himself with finishing his lesson notes. He updates his progress log for each student, smiling a little as he updates Akio’s. He may not be a “sniper”, but his accuracy and confidence were both notably stronger by the end of the lesson. A swell of pride wells up in him, not just for Akio, but Katsuki too. When Izuku looks back up, nearly fifteen minutes have passed, the break room filled with a couple more teachers but still, notably, absent of one Bakugou Katsuki.

Izuku frowns, worry curdling in his gut. He abandons his half-completed notebook at the lunch table and makes his way back to the teacher’s showers, but hesitates in front of the door. It’s not like he’s never seen Katsuki naked before - though the idea brings an embarrassing flush to his cheeks - but he had made it pretty clear that he wanted some space. Izuku glances up and down the corridor before pressing his ear to the door. Nothing much except the sound of his own heartbeat in his ear. Was the soundproofing always this good? Why is the soundproofing this good? With a determined set to his jaw, Izuku pushes the door open and steps inside. 

He hears the shower immediately, echoing from around the corner of the changing area. For a split second, it inexplicably brings him relief. He didn’t leave. He steps forward into the changing area, and that relief is immediately shattered when he spots Katsuki’s hero costume bundled in a heap on the floor. Grease, dirt, green goo.

And blood.

There’s too much of it. It’s soaked into the black of his uniform, a huge gash cutting the fabric open. And under the pile of bloodied, tattered, soiled hero costume, bright red bandages ooze against the tile.

“Kacchan?” Izuku calls out, loud and wavering. His voice echoes back at him.

Heart racing in his throat, Izuku sprints around the corner. Blood, gods, a whole trail of it stretching down the corridor to the last stall. He skids to a stop in front of the stall, and -

Katsuki leans forward against the shower wall, arm braced against the tile as he pants, his side sliced open from ribs to waist. 

“Kacchan!” Izuku wails, just as Katsuki’s knees give out from under him.

Izuku catches him easily. Hot water soaks his shirt, his hair, drips into his eyes as he lowers Katsuki to a kneeling position. Blood soaks into his damp shirt sleeves from where it oozes steadily from the laceration, dripping to the tiles and swirling around them in the shower water. “Hold on, fuck.” The rest of Izuku’s clothes are drenched in an instant as he leans through the spray to turn the water off. The quiet is startling, Katsuki’s panting breaths allowed to echo against the tiles.

“M’fine,” he slurs, pressing his forehead against the wall.

“You are not,” Izuku hisses. He grabs a towel from the hook outside the stall and presses it firmly to Katsuki’s side, grabbing Katsuki’s slippery hand and guiding it to hold the towel in place. “Gods, you’re so stupid, Kacchan! How long have you been bleeding? How were you injured? Why did you get into the fucking shower?” Katsuki winces as Izuku presses down a little too firmly, and Izuku startles, easing off. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Katsuki’s lips are scarily pale when he licks them. "Couldn't cancel again,” he rasps, eyes closed. “Didn’t wanna … didn’t wanna disappoint you.”

All at once, Izuku’s panicked anger dissolves, leaving an aching, heartbroken mess behind. “Kacchan,” he murmurs, the air rushing out of him. He grips Katsuki’s hand, feeling breathless, unmoored. “I would have understood. I would have been glad to know you cancelled because you were looking after yourself. Your health is more important than anything else.”

Katsuki squints one eye open, the ghost of a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Nah. Y’get this kicked puppy look. Not worth it.”

Izuku glares at him. He pushes down on Katsuki’s hand again. “Not funny,” he grumbles. “Just - hold this here. I need to grab my phone and call Recovery Girl. She’s going to have a field day, having to heal you even after you’ve graduated …”

Katsuki closes his eyes. “Might wanna let her know that the blade was poisoned.”

“Kacchan!”

Chapter Text

The sight of Katsuki bleeding out leaves Izuku out of sorts for the rest of the day. By the time evening rolls around, he’s exhausted, half-heartedly nibbling at lukewarm leftovers straight from the tupperware container while he watches the evening news. He doesn’t even check to see if he’s finished the pasta before he gives up, leaving the container on his tiny coffee table and throwing his legs up on the couch to bury himself in the hard cushions. The light of the television flares orange-bright with each explosion as the news replays footage from Katsuki’s patrol. Izuku lets out a long, shuddery breath and closes his eyes.

He opens them on the next breath. It is quiet and dark, both quieter and darker than he expects it to be. He spins around in confusion, the dust of freshly turned soil and rubble pluming around him. “Is everyone alri -”

He sees the feet first. Bright orange soles stark against the blackened dirt. His eyes travel up the form, past hero gear and battered gauntlets, to stall on the chest. His chest. His -

Izuku staggers forward. The world sways, like shifting waves on the ocean, like the ground is a liquid storm and he is floundering, lost at sea. He staggers until he can see it. The ragged hole in the chest. His chest. Where the rest of the chest should be there are only pieces of deep red viscera and bone sticking out between irregular shreds of flesh and blackened slivers of fabric. As he watches, blood spurts up at irregular intervals like spitting rain, falling with a sickening splat against the blood-soaked tatters of the hero costume. His hero costume. 

His lungs constrict with sound he cannot make. Blood in his ears. Blood on the ground. He falls to his knees, sinking into the fresh-turned soil, soft like a new grave. Crawls up to the body. Hands on the chest, keep pressure, keep it closed. Blood soaking into the white cuffs of his sleeves. Ragged bits of viscera squelching under his fingers. Cover the hole. Keep him whole. 

His eyes travel up the form. His form. Past the neck, up the jawline. Blood on the lips. Blood everywhere. Eyes travel up, up, up, to meet the eyes. His eyes. One covered in blood, congealed, bulging at the corners where the blood pools. The other wide open, glassy like a marble shoved into the socket.

The eye swivels and looks at him. Izuku jerks, but a firm hand grips his wrist, pulling him close. A grin stretches over pale lips.

“I waited for you,” the lips say.

Izuku wakes with a scream. He flails, legs kicking into nothing, and suddenly he’s rolling off the couch and crashing hard to the ground, a pained gasp punched out of him as his back slams against the floor. He curls up onto his side, hissing at the pull in his back, and squeezes his eyes shut.

A bloody hole. Lifeless eyes. Blood and wet bits of flesh on his hands. He can still feel it, still see it, gods - 

His eyes burn. He knuckles them, tries in vain to shake the dream - the memory - the dream off. He curls tighter and the pain in his back flares, and suddenly his eyes fill with tears, and he’s crying. Proper sobs wracking through his body, gasping for breath, the air too thin. His lungs burn with the strain. He wraps his arms around himself, across his chest, but the hole is there, gaping wide, filled to the brim with a deep, dark blackness, a guilt that eats away at him until he’s as hollow as the image burned against the backs of his eyelids.

As the sobs subside, the hollowness grows. All he can think of is Kacchan’s dead body. Kacchan, bleeding out in the shower because he didn’t want to make Izuku wait for him like Izuku made him wait when he needed him most. 

Izuku fumbles blindly for his phone. He finds it shoved under the coffee table, probably pushed there in his flailing panic. He wipes the tears from his eyes and types in the passcode with trembling hands. It’s easy to find Katsuki’s contact details after that, muscle memory, and before he knows it the call is ringing through. He clutches the phone to his ear, stuttered breaths hitching around his tears, and hears the call connect.

Chapter Text

“What,” Kacchan grunts as he answers the phone, voice gravelly from sleep. A wave of relief washes over Izuku. He clutches the phone harder against his ear and tries to respond, but all he manages is a hitched breath, his lungs burning for air. “Izuku?” Katsuki’s voice is alert, the gravel gone. “What’s wrong?”

Izuku shakes his head. His breaths are too fast. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He hears a hiss over the line, then, “Hey. You’re okay. Just breathe, yeah? C’mon, with me.” He breathes in, exaggerated and slow. Izuku presses his palm into his eyes and tries to follow. Katsuki is here. He’s talking, he’s breathing. No bloody, gaping chest. His voice is carefully soft in Izuku’s ear as he talks him through his breathing, and eventually Izuku is able to keep pace, his lungs expanding a little more with each breath, the anxiety uncoiling from his chest like a reluctant snake. 

“Sorry,” he eventually manages, his voice wrecked.

Kacchan huffs. “Nothing to be sorry for, idiot. Feeling better?”

Izuku rubs his stinging eyes. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause over the line, just soft breathing, before he hears, “You wanna talk about it or something? Been a while since you. You know.”

“No. No, it’s. I’m fine. Thanks, Kacchan. You can go back to sleep now.”

Another pause, heavier this time. He hears a soft inhalation. “This is because of today, isn’t it?” Izuku can’t bring himself to lie. He tucks his knees up and presses his forehead against them. A heavy exhale vibrates against his ear, and then, “Hold on. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Izuku’s head shoots up. “Huh? Wait, Kacchan -”

He looks down at his phone in disbelief. He hung up on him!

Izuku types a hurried message. You really don’t need to come over! Please look after yourself. You need to rest.

Five minutes pass without a reply. Izuku groans in frustration, tipping his head back against the side of the couch. His limbs are still shaky, a fine tremor running throughout his body. He squeezes his eyes shut. He imagines Katsuki, groggy and drained from healing with Recovery Girl, driving in the dark to his apartment at two in the morning. He should never have called him.

He manages to pull himself up onto the couch and at least make himself look casual and like he wasn’t huddled in a ball on the floor having a freakout. He wipes his face with the end of his t-shirt (the spare he keeps at work when he needs a quick change of clothes, his white button-down still in a plastic bag in his backpack, covered in blood), trying to hide the tear tracks, though he knows there’s no hiding his red, puffy eyes or his dark circles. He uses the black screen of his phone to look at himself. Yeah, there’s definitely no hiding the eyes. His hair is even worse than usual, a proper nest. He runs his hand through it and winces as his fingers tug at the knots. His hand is still shaking when he detangles it from his hair. 

He jumps when the buzzer for the intercom sounds. Has it already been twenty minutes? He gets up on shaky legs to buzz Katsuki in, then collapses back onto the couch, bringing his legs up under him. He wraps his arms around himself like if he holds on tight enough the shaking will stop. 

A minute later he hears a knock at the door. “It’s open!”

Nothing happens for a long second. Then the door swings open with a slow, ominous creak to reveal Katsuki’s disbelieving scowl, as if he didn’t expect it to actually open. “Are you fucking serious?” He growls from the doorway. “First you don’t check who’s buzzing to be let in, and then you leave your front door unlocked? Are you trying to get mugged?”

Izuku rolls his eyes. “I knew you were coming.”

Katsuki steps through the door and closes it behind him. He takes a pointed second to lock the door. “Yeah, me and the thousands of weirdos who still stalk you.” He toes off his shoes, his tank top gaping under the arms, exposing the sides of his pecs. Izuku quickly looks away. “You’d think two separate attempts at fans breaking into your apartment in the last six months would make you more cautious, but I guess I overestimated how many brian cells you have.”

Izuku lays his head against the back of the couch, wrapping his arms tighter around his torso. “You and Ochako did a pretty good job at scaring everyone off.” 

Katsuki huffs and straightens up. He locks eyes with Izuku, and something in the tense anger of him deflates, his eyes softening. He walks up to Izuku, looking down at him from the back of the couch. His eyes travel down Izuku’s body, from his bloodshot eyes, to his trembling arms wrapped around his torso, to the legs tucked up under him on the couch. Izuku spends his own time looking, seeing the colour to Katsuki’s cheeks, the life in them. 

“You look like shit,” Katsuki eventually observes.

“Thanks. You look good.” Izuku immediately flushes. “Better, you look better.”

Katsuki’s gaze stutters, sliding away from Izuku. “Uh, yeah. Do you want tea? I'm making tea.”

“Ah, you don’t need to …” Katsuki disappears into the adjoining kitchen. Izuku hides his burning cheeks in the back of the couch and regrets the last twenty minutes of his life. He hears the kettle begin to boil, the sounds of drawers opening and mugs clinking together. After a couple minutes, soft feet pad his way, and the hard edge of a warm mug knocks gently into the top of his head. “C’mon, loser. It’s chamomile.” 

Izuku blinks as the overhead light floods his vision. His hands are still shaking when he takes the mug, though the tremors are less now. Katsuki’s face turns blank as he notices. Izuku quickly takes the mug and clutches it to his chest. “Thanks.”

Katsuki carries his own mug and sits next to him with a long, draw-out sigh. He stares into his matching mug of chamomile. After a while, his face carefully blank, he says, “Sorry for worrying you. Didn’t mean to trigger your PTSD.”

Izuku looks down at his lap. “You don’t need to apologise for getting hurt, Kacchan.”

“Nah. I shouldn’t have let it get that bad.” He shrugs, gazing down at the coffee table. Izuku notices his expression change and follows his gaze. Ah, his half-eaten leftovers. Huh. The container is fuller than he remembers it being. Katsuki glances at him from the corner of his eye and demands, a little gruffly, “Drink your tea.”

Izuku takes a dutiful sip. His teeth chatter against the rim of the mug. Katsuki winces, and sits back against the couch, throwing his arm over the back of it. He gestures to the spot beside him. “C’mere.”

Izuku’s cheeks heat. “I’m okay, thanks.”

Katsuki glares at him.

Izuku sighs and scoots closer. Katsuki drapes his arm over his shoulders, and the immediate solid warmth of him grounds something in Izuku. His next breath shudders out of him, and he presses closer, letting his arm rest against Katsuki’s side. “Thanks.”

Katsuki grunts.

They drink their tea, and Katsuki puts the TV back on, changing the channel from the news to an inane sitcom. He turns the volume down too low to hear any of the jokes. Izuku’s trembling subsides with the passing of each slow minute, Katsuki’s warmth seeping into him as the figures on the screen argue and laugh about things he can’t quite catch. Izuku puts their empty mugs down and snuggles automatically back into Kacchan’s side. His head is heavy. He blinks, long and slow, and rests a hand over Katsuki’s chest. Katsuki tenses. “Sorry,” Izuku startles, pulling his hand away with an embarrassed flush. 

Katsuki clears his throat. “It’s fine. You can … hang on.” Katsuki shifts, resting his back on the arm of the couch, half-lounging. He tugs at Izuku’s arm, and he squeaks as he’s suddenly sprawled half on top of Katsuki. Katsuki grunts and readjusts them, guiding Izuku’s head to rest on his chest, and. Oh. His heartbeat is loud and clear in his ear, the thrum of it fluttering against Izuku’s cheek. He curls a hand into Kacchan’s tank top.

Katsuki slowly relaxes under him. “Okay?”

Izuku nods against his chest. Katsuki huffs a soft sound, and Izuku feels an arm drape over his back. He closes his eyes and soaks in the living, breathing warmth of him. Katsuki’s breaths slow, but never stop, his chest rising and falling deeply under Izuku’s cheek, and their breaths begin to match, their bodies moving in tandem.

But a last kernel of guilt still sits heavily in his gut. After a while, he makes himself say, “Sorry for waking you and making you drive all this way.”

Katsuki huffs under him. “You didn’t make me do anything, idiot. Go to sleep.”

Oh, is that what he’s doing? Izuku closes his eyes again, and his body acquiesces, his hand curled in Kacchan’s tank top, no longer shaking.