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Katsuki spills his guts to Fat Gum over convenience store cup ramen. It’s three in the morning on a Tuesday— or Wednesday, however time works. Katsuki doesn’t like being up late enough that the blur between days becomes an issue. He works best when he’s early to bed, early to rise. But being a newbie sidekick means that he’ll take his hours whenever he can get them.
But this is beyond working hours. Neither Fat Gum nor Katsuki are supposed to be in the office; there’s no work to be done, no streets to be patrolled. But Katsuki’s been in a funk for the past week, the past three years, if he’s being honest with himself.
And that’s something he’s been doing recently, being honest with himself. It stings. Hurts almost as bad as the ache in his arms when he overuses his quirk. But there isn’t a Recovery Girl for his fucking thoughts and feelings. He just has to muck through them himself.
Fat Gum held him back when it was time for him to go home. Katsuki tried to shrug him off, tell the old man that he had more important places to be, but Fat Gum has this way of his where he looks directly at you and traps you in his gaze. He sticks his nose in places it doesn’t belong, just as any half decent hero should. And so Katsuki sat down and then after an hour of saying absolutely nothing, spilled his fucking guts out.
The last words are bitter on Katsuki’s tongue. He fills his mouth with the now-shitty ramen, the noodles having sat too long in the steaming broth and now overcooked and soggy, to get rid of the taste of his words, but all it does is make Katsuki’s stomach roll and tumble. He knows it’s all in his head, these feelings. And his head fucking sucks. His head has always been a bad place, but it wasn’t until midway through his first year at UA did he ever realize how bad it was.
He thought it was normal to always be angry at the world. His mother was a firecracker in all the wrong ways, and his father had been desensitized enough that Katsuki’s attitude barely bothered him. But then Deku left.
And everything came crumbling down.
To be honest, everything was already in shambles, but Deku’s absence took off whatever rose-colored lenses he had shoved on his face since he was a kid and exposed everything he didn’t want to see. Everything he didn’t want to admit.
It was a lot of shit.
“Are you going to apologize?” Fat Gum asks. “You haven’t done that, have you?”
Katsuki is eighteen now, with enough behavioral and hormonal therapy under his belt to not let rage get the better of him. But he’s tired and his meds are wearing off and this ramen sucks and Fat Gum just asked if he’s apologized. As if Katsuki doesn’t flit away every time he passes by Deku. As if he isn’t a fucking coward. As if he can actually think about Deku and not feel so raw and vulnerable that a strong breeze has the power to blow him away.
Katsuki squeezes his hands around the ramen cup and it explodes in a mess of salty soup and rubbery noodles. He realizes his actions are inappropriate a second after it happens, and he’s quick to clean up, apologizes hard under his breath. His therapist would be proud of him.
Fat Gum helps him clean up, nodding off his apologies. “Touchy subject, huh?”
Katsuki scowls. “You’re not my therapist, old man.” It’s a bit too late for that bite, considering that Fat Gum just learned more about Katsuki in the past thirty minutes than his therapist did in a year.
“Nope. Just your boss.” Fat Gum lightly touches his back. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“I don’t know why I told you all this,” Katsuki says. He takes a step away from Fat Gum and the exhaustion hits him with the full force of All Might Detroit Smashing a building until it’s nothing but dust and rubble and an insurance claim to be filled. He rubs at his eyes, his body heavy with the movement. “I’m going to go home now.”
“Think about what I said, okay? It might do you some good.”
Katsuki doesn’t reply. By the time he’s home, he’s barely lucid enough to take a shower. When he’s clean, he hits his bed face first and passes out. The best part of the entire night is the fact that he doesn’t dream.
When Katsuki used to think about being a hero, it never was about others. Saving others, being an inspiration, was always second (or third, or fuck, last) to the power. It was nothing to the rush of adrenaline and dopamine that flooded his system every time his hands sparked. It was nothing to everyone looking at him with awe and telling him that one day, he’d be great.
The bubble popped slowly, and then all at once.
Katsuki meets semi-regularly with the people who were there to pick him up when he burst. He doesn’t blow them off, but it’s hard to find a time that works with all of their busy sidekick schedules. Shit’s grueling and they’re all aiming for the top.
Katsuki enters the American style diner using the side entrance and makes a beeline to the corner booth they always get. He hasn’t looked at the non-stop slew of messages that make up the group chat, so he isn’t sure who is going to be there. He sees the curly, frizzy pink mess of Mina’s hair first, and then Eijirou’s gelled mess, chunks of red standing pin straight. Katsuki puts his hand on the back of the booth seat and starts to slide in.
Then he sees Uraraka and freezes.
Uraraka takes a moment to see him, but Katsuki knows exactly when she does because she stops herself mid-speech, a fry between her fingers. Her eyes flare with anger first, and then flit towards Eijirou and Mina with betrayal. “You didn’t tell me he’d be here.”
She doesn’t even bother naming Katsuki. She hasn’t talked to him directly since their second year and Deku told their group of friends the truth— or at least whatever he was willing to share. He doesn’t hold it against her, but her anger is a monster, vicious and hungry for a kill. Tsuyu at least was polite enough to tell him to his face that she would not continue their friendship post graduation. And Iida awkwardly dances between still holding up his neutrality as their former class president and being Deku’s friend.
Todoroki refuses to talk to him, and when he is forced to, it’s usually followed by his fists or his quirk. Katsuki has a thick scar on the side of his left abdomen from where Todoroki’s ice impaled him during their second year. He’d been almost suspended and Katsuki was left not being able to handle solid foods for a week.
Eijirou laughs an awkward laugh, stilted and half-caught between his uneasy breaths. “Uh, I didn’t know he would be here, to be honest.”
Mina pouts and when she speaks her voice is a grating sound. It’s her I’m disappointed in you voice, reserved for when someone in their friend group does something exponentially dumb. It’s not often that Katsuki is on the receiving end of it. “Katsuki, you didn’t tell us you were going to be here.”
“I wouldn’t invite you if I knew he’d be here,” Eijirou rushes out to placate Uraraka. Eijirou’s words are a bandaid without adhesive, just something to keep the peace that never fully settled over their class after they all got their asses handed to them by Deku wearing a Shiketsu uniform, fucking prissy hat and all. They split into three fractions after that: those that hated Katsuki, those that didn’t, and those in between.
Katsuki makes a point not to hang out with people who hate him. It’s easy, most of the time, because they are trying to achieve the same goal.
“I’m leaving,” Uraraka says. She stands up with enough force to rock the table, making Eijirou and Mina grab onto their drinks to stop them from spilling. “Let me know how much I owe you or whatever.” She leaves in a storm, not even looking at Katsuki as she gathers her stuff and flees.
Katsuki can’t help but watch her leave. He’s used to people thinking he’s rude, sure. Annoying, that’s fine. But outright hate? It’s a hurt that gets worse time and time again, like repeated bee stings. He wonders when his time is going to run out and the whole hive is going to come out and send him into anaphylactic shock.
They don’t talk until Katsuki’s food (a milkshake) arrives. The air is thick with tension, and Katsuki knows that both of his friends are upset at him for showing up unannounced. He wasn’t expecting this. He’s never had to broadcast his attendance before.
“Next time, you text us you’re showing up,” Mina finally says, leaning over the table and tapping Katsuki on the top of his head. “Okay? Just so this can never happen again.”
“Well how was I supposed to know you fucking hang out with Uraraka when you’re not with me,” Katsuki bites out his words and satisfaction floods his system when he sees Mina flinch. His words hurt, just as he wanted them to. It’s easy, being mean.
The regret kicks in a second later.
“Sorry, that was mean,” Katsuki backtracks. It’s easier to push people away, easier to show his fangs and bite. But he’s working on it. Uraraka wasn’t the only one surprised by the interaction, and Katsuki is still trying to find his footing. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Mina scrunches her nose up. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I’ll call you next time, to confirm things,” Eijirou says, deflecting the best he can. It’s a wonder he still hangs out with Katsuki, still likes him despite everything. Katsuki didn’t truly consider him a friend until their third and final year at UA was winding down. And despite it all, Eijirou stayed.
It’s a wonder that Katsuki knows he doesn’t deserve.
“She, like, has to forgive you one of these days,” Eijirou says a few minutes later. “I mean, you’ve apologized already haven’t you?”
Katsuki freezes for half a second, but Eijirou has known him long enough, has watched him long enough, to tell.
“Katsuki,” Eijirou says, soft and calm. Like Katsuki’s a cat he’s scared away.
Mina hisses her words out. “Katsuki please tell me you’ve apologized. C’mon. You said you would.”
He didn’t. Katsuki doesn’t make promises he can’t keep, but telling Mina that would only make her more upset.
“She’s not going to accept it,” Katsuki says. An excuse. “So what’s the fucking point? None of them are ever going to accept it.”
Eijirou frowns. Katsuki doesn’t have to be looking at him to know it. He reaches across the table and grasps Katsuki’s hand with rough fingers and an even rougher grip. “Sometimes there is no point, but you do it anyway. You have to do it anyway.”
Katsuki huffs and breaks his hand out of the grip. He pushes his half-drunk milkshake away from him, appetite destroyed by his own fucking thoughts.
“This is his route,” Katsuki says, staring at the electronic document Fat Gum just handed over. They’re in the break room again because Fat Gum said the meeting wasn’t important enough to fill it with all the pomp and circumstance his office commands. Fat Gum rarely uses his office though, so it’s not a good measurement of seriousness.
Coincidentally, no one else is in the break room, even though Katsuki knows everyone is due for a meal break sometime around now.
Fat Gum smiles, that little shit. “Whose?”
“Kinetic’s,” Katsuki spits.
Katsuki regrets that little heart-to-heart two weeks ago. He regrets signing onto this agency six months ago. He should have found somewhere else with a less nosy boss. Maybe it’s not too late to start looking for a transfer— or maybe it’s high time to make his fully fledged hero debut. This sidekick shit was only ever a formality, a way to ease into the industry. If he had it his way, Katsuki would have blazed onto the hero scene the second graduation was over.
But there are proper ways to do things. Rules and regulations and red tape. So Katsuki pushes the document back to Fat Gum.
“This is your route now,” Fat Gum says, pushing the document back to Katsuki. “I’m not arguing with you. I’m not your friend speaking. I’m your boss. Did you forget that?”
Katsuki fumes. He hates when people decide to make his troubles theirs. He hates when people worm their way into their lives and try to change things for the better. If Katsuki wanted the change, he’d do it him-fucking-self.
But he’s not going to yell at Fat Gum. He’s not going to lose his temper at all, in fact. He’s not the same hormonal imbalance of a teenager that he once was. He takes a deep breath, cursing the therapist he works with when it actually works as a calming technique, and then says: “What if I don’t want to do it.”
“Well then that’s a different story. I’m not going to force you to do anything.”
Katsuki nods. He looks at the document again— it’s not even that big of a change, just more on the west side of town than the north. Had he and Deku really been so close in patrolling patterns? “Okay.”
“So you don’t want this new patrolling route?” Fat Gum asks. Katsuki wants to know how he found out Deku’s route. The only reason Katsuki himself knows it is because Uraraka let it slip to Eijirou before Katsuki ruined their meal, and everything that Eijirou knows will end up becoming Katsuki’s knowledge as well. “What’s your choice?”
Katsuki shoves the document back to Fat Gum. “I’m not going to talk to him.”
“Never said you have to.”
“Good.”
Two days into the new route, Katsuki sees him. He thought it would be a big moment, like in the movies where the world stops for just two people to look and stare and process. In reality, Deku crosses his path en route to a call they both received, and Katsuki stumbles over his own two feet.
Even though Katsuki knows how to fall, has been trained in taking the hits and standing back up, his ankle rolls underneath him. It’s a dull pain, one that he knows is going to become sharp and twisted once he puts some thought behind it.
Deku freezes as well, eyes wide. His hero uniform is a forest green, and his cowl is off his head, allowing his hair to succumb to the humidity that the early fall weather hasn’t managed to shake off. There’s a pale bruise on his cheek, slightly discolored and faded in a way that suggests it’s almost healed.
Katsuki straightens himself up and ah, there’s the pain. He grits his teeth together. This is far from the worst injury he’s gotten, but it’s always the little things like papercuts and funny bones and dumb ass ankles that manage to hurt the most. “I’m fine,” Katsuki says. His voice is rough and low.
Deku continues to stare.
“I said I’m fine,” Katsuki repeats, and before he can do anything stupid, he turns away and blasts off to the address given on the notification. Deku arrives a moment after he does, but it’s easy to pretend they don’t know each other when there’s a million and a half other duties to take care of.
Almost too easy.
Even half a block away from the fire, the heat blazes across Katsuki’s face in uncomfortably warm gusts of air. He got the call for the house fire ten minutes ago, but by the time Katsuki showed it, there was nothing to be done. Everyone in the building was evacuated, and all the people with the skills to put out a fire were hard at work. He was shooed away, told to go back to his patrol route, before he could even open his mouth and ask what needed to be done.
It was by chance that Deku and Katsuki arrived at the exact same time. By chance they were excused together. And by design they watch the fire from the same rooftop, half a block away. Katsuki’s design.
Deku has his back to Katsuki and for a moment, Katsuki just stares. Deku is still short, but all thick, sinewy muscles now. He stands up straight, his shoulders pressed back like he’s giving a speech to an impassioned crowd. He looks grand, every inch the face of the new heroics generation that they used to dream of being.
He has to say something, he knows this. This is his chance.
But where does he start?
“Deku,” Katsuki starts. A name is better than nothing, gives him a few moments to quickly collect his thoughts.
Deku spins to face him, his eyes a toxic green. He tenses, his entire body a string held up by nothing but sheer stress. “Don’t call me that,” he states, the words clear yet void of any emotion. “Don’t ever call me that again.”
Fuck. Why did Katsuki never realize that calling him Deku would be awful, a painful reminder of Katsuki’s unrelenting bullying. (But you do realize, a voice in the back of his head says, evil and taunting and right. You don’t call him Deku in front of anybody. Only to his face.)
“I’m sorry,” Katsuki rushes out, and when the apology is hanging in the air between the two of them, it’s easier to apologize for as much as he can. He apologizes for the nickname, apologizes for the bullying, apologizes for being an ass, apologizes for everything that he can think of. It’s a mess, a tangle of words that are more word salad than comprehensive and through-out, but it’s something. “I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Katsuki finishes. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness— this was never about being forgiven. This is about… this is about something else.
“I just want you to know I’m sorry.”
De— Izuku’s lips form a tight line. He nods, a quick and violent movement. When he speaks, his voice is soft, as if he doesn’t want to be heard. “That’s not enough, you coming back and saying sorry. After years.”
Shame curls in Katsuki’s chest, hot and stunning. He should have done this sooner, but he couldn’t. He had his own shit to work out before he could even think about approaching Izuku and apologizing. Yet, still, this is well overdue. “I… know. I know.”
“Stay away from me.”
There’s nothing hard or fast about Izuku’s words. He speaks his words as if he’s tired of it all, tired of Katsuki, tired of putting up with the entire world fighting against him.
And it’s the emptiness in his words that shatters Katsuki. There was always this naive thought, lodged in between the small and old fond memories he has of Izuku and him, that Izuku would always be there. It’s why Katsuki pushed him into the ground so much, because he knew— or thought he knew— that Izuku would always pick himself up and keep up with him. Even at a different school, leading a totally separate life, they were always tangential to each other. They were growing apart, but in tandem. They graduated mere days after each other, joined agencies in the same city. Katsuki rose in the unofficial sidekick rankings and then there was Izuku, distant and untouchable, but there nonetheless.
Izuku was always there.
“Goodbye, Katsuki,” Izuku says. It’s a closure, the ending of an overwritten chapter of their lives. Izuku leaves without another word, without another look. He blasts off in a haze of green lightning. Katsuki tracks his movements until he’s nothing more than a spark on the horizon.
Katsuki collapses onto the floor of the rooftop. The fire is almost gone by now, reduced to a pile of harmless embers. Katsuki watches the fire until it too disappears into nothing. Save for a rare and extremely unethical time traveling quirk, there is no way to go back into the past and slap sense into his younger self. No way to take back all the words, all the hate, all the hurt. All there is to do is move forward.
And moving forward is the hardest part.