Katsuki should’ve seen this coming.
Should have spotted the signs like blaring-red lights, but he didn’t. Doesn’t really matter anymore. Never really did.
But when Izuku’s had a stressful day, an anxious day—one full of heightened nerves and crawling skin and suddenly he’s not breathing as much as he should—he seeks out his Kacchan.
What he wants—what he needs—is to be close.
It’s like a security blanket—or some sh*t like it. A place and time consisting of only the two of them offers the greatest comfort in the world to him when he’s overthought the day, his brain overtired.
And Katsuki knows why it’s him that Izuku choses to find comfort in. Ever since the war ended, and even during the war—after he apologized—it’s because Katsuki kept showing up. He was always there, right by his side. Hell, he even rushed straight to Izuku’s hospital room the second he woke up, just to make sure the idiot was okay.
Because he had to be.
Or else Katsuki wouldn’t be.
Anyway, the freak loses himself in Katsuki. He knows he must have played some part in this pavlovian response of his because when Izuku would always come home after a long day, come back to Katsuki, he always knew how to make him feel better. Just something slow and sweet and only them. Just so Izuku could f*ckin’ forget all his worries for a second and focus only on Katsuki.
“Just focus on me, Izuku.”
Now, Katsuki can tell when Izuku walks in the door what kind of evening he’s about to have. Can tell that whatever he was in the middle of doing is gonna have to wait.
He can tell because Izuku comes in, presence like a flighty rabbit. His hands are fidgeting, he’s biting his lip, and the moment he finds Katsuki, his eyes are locking on like missiles. Itching to just touch him, he immediately grabs at his hands, their fingers lacing and his body coming in close, almost suffocating Katsuki with his presence. His mouth finds Katsuki’s own seconds later.
Izuku seeks Katsuki like a lifeline.
“Kacchan,” he breathes, letting himself and his worries go. He’s trying to forget it all.
Katsuki gasps from the intensity of Izuku’s emotions playing out on his body. His hands are ripping off his clothes and he’s pushing him onto the couch. Strong hands convey the tension racking Izuku’s frame. He’s ready to let it go.
He reaches out, bringing Izuku closer, touching him where he’s sensitive to anchor him in the moment, to show him what he’s watching for. What he should be paying attention to. With his mouth, he follows Izuku’s body, lighting him up until he’s ready to take over, and then Izuku’s prepping Katsuki for his entrance.
As he slides in, Katsuki peeks between closed eyes, and he sees an Izuku who’s already found peace. Happy and distracted and wholly in the moment.
Izuku’s ready to fall.
To fall into Katsuki.
~~~
“What was it this time?” he asks once his breath catches up to him.
He’s sticky and sweaty and he’s giving his heart a run for its money. Izuku’s breathing is still labored as he lays on Katsuki’s chest. In the time it takes him to respond, Katsuki runs a hand through his green curls, his thumb lightly brushing over the scar that claims Izuku’s forehead. It’s the only part that never grew back.
He doesn’t move when he speaks. Almost with a sigh, he says,
“Tenko.”
That’s all he says, but Katsuki immediately understands.
This is just one of the many days where Izuku gets it in his head that he isn’t an actual hero. Thinks he doesn’t deserve the title of one.
Katsuki’s feeble heart burns in his chest with a conviction too strong.
“f*ckin’ who—”
“No one,” Izuku stops him. Usually, it’s some jackass with a loud mouth who’s the source of Izuku’s self-doubt. Can be an unassuming comment like “It sucks you couldn’t save him,” or an asinine “A real hero wouldn’t have killed him.”
Like the f*cking asshole who said that could even do a fouth of what Izuku did that day.
If you asked Katsuki what it’s like to be a hero who saves the world, some days he’d be inclined to say it sucks ass. Sure there’s the good, but there’s also the bad, and all of it rests solely on your shoulders.
It’s always your fault, no matter how many times you try to prove to them it isn’t.
“Just me today,” Izuku whispers to Katsuki’s abdomen. He’s pointedly not meeting his eyes, focusing instead on one of Katsuki’s belly scars, fingers tracing the edges, dragging over the bubbled surface. “I like this one,” he says, still speaking to his stomach, “It’s from when you sav—”
“Izuku.” Katsuki has to stop him there. He shifts their bodies, reaching to cup Izuku’s jaw with both hands, bringing his attention to him. He knows what he’s gonna say. Gonna say something about Katsuki saving him and how that makes him a hero. Shouldn’t be sayin’ anything like that. Shouldn’t even think it. “Don’t.” Izuku’s eyes don’t shy away, but they do shine with unshed tears. It f*cking tears Katsuki’s heart to pieces when Izuku’s hurt and upset like this. He doesn’t deserve to feel this way when he put so much into saving the world. Put so much into being the best hero he could be.
The best the world’s ever seen.
Katsuki always has to remind him.
“You are a hero. Every bit as much as All Might, you’re a hero, Izuku.”
He sniffles in Katsuki’s hold. “I know, Kacchan. I know you always tell me that, but I just—I just feel—that maybe I—”
“There is no maybe, Izuku. You did everything you could to save Shigaraki. You tried everything and in the end you succeeded. You helped him see the hand that All for One had in his life.” He pets Izuku’s hair, brushing it back as he wipes the tear stains off his cheeks, paying special attention to the scar that mars his right one. “That guy didn’t want a future. Up until the end, he wanted to destroy, and even once he saw how much of that dream wasn’t his own, it was all he knew of himself. He had nothing else to live for. So he destroyed and that included himself.”
Izuku lets out a choked sob, crushing into Katsuki’s throat, letting his emotions fall through him now that he’s gotten some of his restlessness from harboring all this in his head out of his system.
“Even if his body had to disappear with One for All, his soul was freed.” Katsuki hugs the crying boy in his arms tighter. “You freed him, Izuku.”
Shuddering in his hold, Katsuki holds him until most of the tremors pass, and even then he holds him still.
“I know, Kacchan,” he chokes out, “It just hurts,” he wails, “It hurts to think I messed up and could have done more.” His grip tightens on Katsuki’s shoulders like he’ll never let go.
Katsuki hopes he never does.
“I know, Izuku.”
He’ll feel Izuku’s pain, beckon it into his own body and out of Izuku’s until he feels it no more. Until he can feel somewhat whole again, and like he deserves to be happy, despite everything he’s been through.
“No one f*ckin’ tells you how much it hurts to be a hero,” he whispers into Izuku’s hair.
They don’t tell you about the pain. They don’t tell you about the loss—how you lose yourself.
They don’t tell you what happens when you save the day.
