5 missed calls
Izuku … Sunday 1:34 AM
Izuku … Sunday 1:41 AM
Izuku … Sunday 1:45 AM
Izuku … Sunday 2:02 AM
Izuku … Sunday 2:30 AM
Katsuki woke up around the second or third ring of the third call, and then—once he was awake enough to register that it was Izuku calling him, he sat upright and curled into a fetal position against his headboard. He watched his phone buzz and light up with a picture he attached to Izuku's contact info in a moment of affection-driven insanity. Izuku was sleeping, limbs tangled with Katsuki's, his freckles stark against winter-pale skin and white sheets. He should change it. Or delete in entirely. Exes—or whatever they technically were—didn't get photos unnecessarily added to their contact information. When the phone finally stopped buzzing, it felt darker and quieter in his lonely apartment than it had felt since Izuku left. And then it started back up.
Incoming call…
Izuku
It rang twice before his willpower crumbled. Maybe he wanted to apologize. Maybe he wanted to be together for real this time. So he answered on the third ring.
"Hello?" He hated how he sounded like a confused, old man who'd never used a telephone.
"Katsuki," Izuku said. He breathed his name like a prayer and warmth pooled in Katsuki's stomach instantly.
"H-hi." Katsuki was hardly able to remain coherent, much less casual. He was almost afraid he was dreaming.
"Come over."
"It's three in the morning," he said, in lieu of a definitive answer. If Ashido were here—and thank god she wasn't—she would be warning him about booty calls and "u up?" texts and all the other dumb shit she read in her stupid magazines.
"It's been too long. I miss you so much," he said, and now that he was speaking more than two words in a sentence, Katsuki could hear the obvious slur and the tripping cadence of his words.
"You're drunk," Katsuki said, trying not to sound accusatory. Izuku let out a breathy chuckle.
"Guilty. But only a little. I'm celebrating a long weekend."
Katsuki faintly heard sheets rustling and springs creaking. He was in bed, and this was a shameless booty call.
"Izuku, I told you. I don't want to be just a late night hook up."
"We used to hook up in the daytime too. And mornings. Morning were always fun."
Katsuki could hear the faint smile in his words and it twisted like a knife in his back.
"This isn't a joke to me," Katsuki snapped, his composure waning. He was so tired and frustrated and lonely, and Izuku was laughing at him. Katsuki sighed away from his phone, so Izuku wouldn't hear it. It felt like his rib cage was too small to house his internal organs, everything pressing in on him.
"I want you," Izuku said, but it was half-hearted, a last attempt at getting his way.
"That's…" Katsuki started, knowing what he wanted to say but afraid to actually put it out into the universe. He took a deep breath. He felt like he was facing a firing squad instead of talking on the phone to someone he'd known literally his entire life.
"That's not enough. I'm in love with you and," he huffed a breath and realized he was starting to cry, the pain in his chest was worse than any villain attack he could remember. "I'm not even mad at you for not feeling the same way, but please stop calling me. I won't answer anymore."
He was being brutally honest with himself. How could he fault Izuku for not loving him back? He was loud and abrasive and a bully. That was his natural setting. Who was he kidding with all that supportive patience? He would be hard to love on the best day, nevermind the worst.
"Ka—"
Katsuki hung up. He didn't want to hear Izuku feel sorry for him, or try to negotiate some kind of truce. Katsuki felt brittle and empty and he was so glad he had Saturdays off because he didn't want to get out of bed for anything tomorrow—today, he thought. It was past three am.
He woke up at noon, an odd and incredibly disorienting thing for him. Even more disorienting, he woke to the sound of his doorbell buzzing incessantly. His first thought was that it was Izuku, and it had him burrowing under the safety of his comforter.
He entertained the idea of disregarding whoever it was completely and going back to sleep, but the bell was impossible to ignore. When he finally got a bit closer to the door he could hear his mom screaming profanities in the hall. He'd completely forgotten they were supposed to meet for lunch an hour ago. He heaved an enormous sigh and opened the door.
"What the fu—" she started, but cut herself off. She seemed to physically jolt at the sight of him, and Katsuki remembered he'd spent a fair amount of time blubbering into his sheets before he fell asleep last night. The embarrassment flooded him and he couldn't look at her. He didn't cry. It wasn't a part of the Bakugo genetic makeup as far as he and his mom were concerned. They were in uncharted territory, and he just wanted her to get on with her lecture and leave him in peace to wallow.
And then, to his surprise, he was pulled into a bone-crushing hug. He couldn't remember the last time his mother hugged him, and he couldn't remember ever needing one so bad. He hadn't been touched since Izuku left, and he hadn't realized how much he missed the feel of someone comforting him. Before he knew it, his head was buried in his mom's neck even though he was a whole head taller than her. She patted his back in a way he'd only ever associated with Auntie Inko when he was young, and still in her good graces. After what felt like a lifetime, he extricated himself from her motherly embrace, and let out a long, shaky sigh. If she noticed how wet her shoulder was, she didn't comment on it. Her eyebrows pinched in concern, and she cupped his cheek.
"Tell me about him. What happened with Izuku?"
He didn't know how she knew. Maybe it was because she was so familiar with that odd Midoriya Magic that affected her so when her best friend was around. Maybe this was just something they shared, like their ugly tempers and their blonde hair, and she was the only one who understood it. Maybe she paid more attention to gossip magazines than he realized. Either way, they settled on the couch, and he told her every sordid detail, the little cracks in his heart splintering further all the while.
JUNEIzuku was doing his best to bury any and all things Kacchan. He took extra shifts at his agency, planned out his lessons plans for the rest of the year, and did sprints up and down his block instead of sleeping or thinking. He'd work himself until he was so tired, dreaming wasn't an option. When he was sleeping, he couldn't stop his thoughts from running wild, and his wild thoughts always made a beeline for Kacchan.
He now knew how utterly exhausting it was to be a functioning adult running on less than three hours of sleep a night—he didn't know how Shinso and Aizawa did it constantly. He still wasn't speaking to Aizawa, aside from the occasional chilly, yet polite, exchanges that revolved entirely around work and classes and student schedules. What was the point in speaking to him, anyway? He didn't want to hear anything Aizawa had to say about him or Kacchan. There was nothing to say anymore, aside from I told you so, and Izuku would rather set himself on fire than hear that.
Izuku was nodding off in the teachers lounge, desperately trying to maintain consciousness by going over the reading material for his lesson that day, when Shinso leaned in the doorway and cleared his throat.
"What?"
"You look like shit," he said, blunt as usual.
"I look the same way I always do," Izuku said, giving up on his notes and tossing them away. He leaned his head back on the couch and took a deep breath.
"When's the last time you slept, or brushed your hair?"
May, he thought, but he'd never say that. He did sleep every night. He just didn't sleep for long. And he'd been too busy lately for a haircut. He didn't care about the bags under his eyes, or the fact that his hair was nearly to his shoulders and so unruly it was mildly off-putting. Who was he trying to impress? The only person he regularly saw outside of work was his therapist, and she was more concerned about the mess within that without. At least now his appearance matched his insides.
"I sleep enough," he said, gruff and groggy.
"Midoriya, I've been in a committed relationship with insomnia since I was five years old. It's not as easy as I make it look."
"Congratulations," he drawled. "Any other fun facts you'd like to share?"
"Aizawa wants to talk to you."
That got Izuku's attention. He sat up, ramrod straight.
"Why?" He asked, and it was a frantic screech.
"He's worried about you, dumbass. I am too. He's in his classroom," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, waiting for Izuku to get off the couch before he went about his day.
Izuku walked to Aizawa's classroom with the same amount of fear and trepidation as a man walking to the gallows. He honestly didn't know if he could handle another lecture, but it'd be worse if he just didn't show up. Izuku took a deep breath before he faced the firing squad, and opened the door.
"You wanted to see me?"
Aizawa nodded, and motioned for him to take a seat. Izuku grimaced at the available seating—the students' desks. It felt like a power play, being forced to sit in a child's desk as a superior chided him. He was too tired to protest, so he took the seat directly facing Aizawa's desk.
"Midoriya," Aizawa started, but Izuku held up a hand.
"I'm really not up to a lecture right now, and I have to prepare for class soon."
"Shinso tells me that you're so prepared for classes you have them planned out for the rest of the semester," he said, barreling on despite Izuku's near-plea to spare him. Izuku shrugged.
"I've had some extra time on my hands. Getting my priorities straight." He stared at his hands, fidgeting and knotting together under the desk. He wouldn't look at Aizawa's disappointed gaze for anything.
"You haven't been sleeping. You're dead on your feet."
How was this not a lecture? Izuku fidgeted some more, his eyebrows furrowing in frustration.
"I'm fine," he grit out around a sigh.
"You're not, and if anything I said in December contributed to that, I'm sorry."
"It doesn't matter," Izuku said, quiet.
"If you're in pain, it matters. Don't suffer in silence, kid," he said, and something about his exact wording was incredibly familiar.
"Joke told you to say that, didn't she?"
She said something similar when he was sixteen. When it became painfully obvious that Izuku's fear of fire went beyond what anyone would call healthy avoidance, she sat him down, and they made a plan to confront it.
"She mentioned that you're much more sensitive and secretive than you appear on the surface. I didn't know that, and I'm sorry." He said it again. He'd never heard Aizawa apologize to anyone, and here he was saying it twice. The ugly, twisted emotion in his gut roiled, and he wanted to let it out.
"I don't know what to do," he said, desperate and depressed and so emotional he could visibly see Aizawa recoil.
"What's wrong?" He spoke slowly, tempered. He was good at that—at being steady in the face of a disaster.
"I fucked up. I really, really fucked up, and now I'm alone and I don't know how to make it better."
"You're not alone. You and I are going to sit here and figure out what you need, and then you're going to go home and sleep. Shinso and I won't let you be alone because we're like family and we care about you."
"I didn't know," he said lamely, and the tears he'd been fighting for a month finally spilled over, and he was so embarrassed he couldn't do anything other than bury his head in his hands and hide.
AUGUSTIzuku was feeling better, and when he wasn't, he refused to beat himself up over it. He'd started hanging out with Shinso on their days off. They rode their bikes in the park, or cuddled with cats at Shinso's favorite cafe. Izuku decided he'd never been happier than when a cat willingly chose his lap as its preferred place to sleep. The lulling purr vibrated in his very soul. Despite his cat allergy, he spent a fair amount of time there without Shinso as well. It was impossible to feel bad surrounded by furry animals.
He'd filled his time with all the things he used to say he'd do, but never got around to actually doing it, little hobbies and activities here and there. He took a cooking class, but was politely asked to leave when the completely inedible meal he made set the class kitchen on fire. He tried knitting too, because his therapist suggested it. He wasn't good at it, but he made Aizawa and Shinso matching hats and scarves. They were good sports about it, and promised to wear them at least once when it got cold out.
Really, the best hobby he'd picked up was painting. He found that he was really good at it. He'd always enjoyed drawing in his hero notebooks when he was younger, but he never thought he had any real talent for it. He was good at painting. He found himself painting the illustrations from The Little Prince a lot—a brilliant orange fox on a grassy knoll, the prince and his flock of birds, the baobabs and the tiny volcanoes, the expanse of space he occupied on his little asteroid. He wanted to show them to Kacchan, but he couldn't, so he didn't show them to anyone.
Kacchan was still on his mind far too often, and it still hurt to think of him, but Izuku was coming to terms with the fact that he wasn't ready to be in a relationship the way Kacchan wanted. He could admit now that he had strong feelings for Kacchan—he might even love him, but he used Kacchan to feel better about himself. He used Kacchan's love to ignore the fact that he didn't love himself, and Kacchan never deserved to be used.
He was done with lying to himself, done feeding the ugly thing inside him that told him he didn't deserve anything but misery. His therapist told him that it was like being afraid of the dark. No one actually fears the darkness, they fear what could be lurking within. She told Izuku to turn on the lights, to look that ugly thing in the face, and name it because hiding from it only made it stronger.
He named it Deku, because Deku was a part of him. Deku was a scared, Quirkless child. Deku was a hateful monster. But Deku could also be loved, and make friends, and allow himself to be taken care of. Deku could listen to purring cats all day, and make something beautiful from a blank canvas.
It was a slow, agonizing process, this telling the truth. He shared his feelings of inadequacy with his mom and Shinso and even Ms. Joke. Like lancing a boil, every time he spoke about it, the festering infection lessened, and so did his pain. He found Kacchan at the heart of this pain, an untouchable, indelible ache. He wanted to call him. He wanted so desperately to find him and tell him everything, to spill his guts and beg his forgiveness—but he'd missed his chance for that and he had to stand on his now. Someday, he would be okay enough to apologize to both Shindo and Kacchan for all the pain he caused them, but he wasn't ready for that yet. Baby steps. He had to be kind to himself.
SEPTEMBERKatsuki only went to Iida's birthday because he figured Izuku would be there and Katsuki was a masochistic idiot and he just wanted an excuse to stare at him for a little while.
He spent the evening sulking in a corner trying to deduce if Shinso and Izuku came together. He hated that he was even remotely surprised that Izuku could start whatever they ended with someone else so quickly. It really drove home the fact that what they had wasn't as special for Izuku as it was for Katsuki. He remembered what he said at the bar so long ago, before they ever even touched each other, and not believing it. It could have been anyone. The thought burrowed inside his already aching chest, digging the hole a little deeper, a little wider.
Katsuki at least had enough pride to admit what he was doing was the right thing. He deserved someone who reciprocated his feelings. It was a painful lesson to learn, but he figured he was better off knowing it. That's what he told himself every time his loneliness threatened to swallow him whole, everytime his hands itched to call Izuku.
He was zoning out so hard, he barely registered Izuku standing in front of him until he uttered a soft, "Hi."
Katsuki jolted, caught off guard, the warm liquid in the bottle of beer he'd had a vice grip on sloshing around.
"Hey," he said, subtly looking for the exit.
"It's been a while. You look good," Izuku said, his smile looking hollower than normal, or maybe Katsuki just imagined that. He was desperate to think Izuku missed him too, but that was unrealistic. Izuku didn't miss him, he missed the crutch he provided.
"You look good too." His hair was longer, even more shaggy than when they were kids. His freckles were darker and more numerous along his cheeks, like he'd spent a lot of time out in the sun this summer. Katsuki shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable with the impromptu staring contest happening.
"I was getting ready to head out so… I'm gonna go do that now," Katsuki said, pointing in the general direction he planned on walking toward to make his escape. He'd only been able to take a step before Izuku grabbed his hand.
"Wait," he said, and then added, "Please."
Katsuki couldn't look at him because his heart was suddenly inside his throat and his stomach felt like it was going to fall out his ass.
"How are you?" he asked, smiling awkwardly, like it hurt his face to keep it up. Katsuki noticed he was still holding his hand. Izuku noticed it too and let it drop, and the absence of his skin on his physically hurt.
"I'm great," Katsuki lied. A small lie between them hardly mattered at that point.
"I've got a lot of free time lately and I—" Izuku stopped, clearly unsure of the destination he wanted this conversation to reach. "Can I see you again?" Izuku asked, sheepish.
Katsuki remembered all the times he was the one asking that question. How many times over the years had he asked to see Izuku, only to be turned down or outright ignored. Now the tables were turned, but somehow Katsuki was still the only one feeling like shit.
"Not a good idea," he mumbled. Katsuki abandoned his half-drunk beer on a table and shoved his hands in his pockets so Izuku wouldn't see him ball his hands into fists.
"Oh. Well, if that changes—"
"I'll call you," Katsuki said quickly, just so he could extricate himself from this situation. He tried to calmly walk to the exit, but he felt like he was only seconds away from using his Quirk to blast himself away from his pain.