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Praying for Sparks

Chapter Text


praying for sparks


in that dark


where tinder is heart,


where tender is not.













It’s been seven years. Four years of relentless torture by the hands of the League of villains. Three years on the streets as a vigilante. The long stretches of near-starvation and the countless injuries he survived, the mental strain of years of torture and the physical trauma of constant combat for nearly two full years have done Katsuki in. Perhaps permanently.

He looks small on the bed, his head looking too big for his bony, narrow shoulders, and his ribs jut out from his flesh like concentric rings. His arms and legs are twig-thin like you could snap them if you accidentally stepped on them. 

He sits cross-legged on a white hospital bed, softer than anything he’s had for years. Apart from the restraints, they gave him some gloves and put some flame-retardant substance on the inside of them to prevent him from accidentally setting off an explosion. His Quirk is a bit… fickle, nowadays. 

He fidgets with the restraints around his wrists to resist the urge to take off the gloves as his rotten red eyes flick to Aizawa, who is seated in the corner, watching Katsuki carefully. When his eyes meet Aizawa’s they immediately flit back to the restraints, which he continues to fidget with to no end. 

The hospital decided to physically restrain him after he nearly blew a nurse’s face off in the midst of a panic attack. They said he was ‘a little more than unpredictable.’ And then they decided that he needs a chaperone whenever he has visitors. Of course, it had to be Aizawa, his old teacher. Of course, it had to be one of his most prominent reminders of just how far he’d fallen. 

He wishes he could apologize to the nurse — he hadn’t meant to harm her. He didn’t want to harm her, it was just that she was the exact height and build of Toga and his mind was still muddled from the sedatives. He hopes her burns aren’t too bad. He wishes he could apologize. 

He hears exactly when his visitors come down the hall. He hears two sets of footsteps, accompanied by what sounds like a fifth foot that has a metallic clang to it. A cane, perhaps. It must be All Might — he’d seen his old teacher on TV, hunched over his cane like a decrepit old man (although he doesn’t actually know how old All Might is). All Might’s footsteps are slow and careful, and beside him are the footsteps of another man — someone very big and very tall who clomps about like a farmer. Katsuki doesn’t recognize the steps. A lump forms in his throat. 

“Who’s coming?” He asks Aizawa, his voice tiny. 

“All Might and Deku.”



It’s Deku’s green head that pokes through the door, his eyes bright like emeralds. Good god, he’s tall, taller than the fucking doorframe. His face is blank, his lips pulled into a slight pout as they always do when resting (that hasn’t changed, at least).

“Please sit down, Yagi,” Deku says, pulling a chair for All Might and his voice is hoarse and deep and absolutely nothing, nothing like the pink-cheeked teen Katsuki knew all those years ago.

Katsuki has only ever seen Deku with that mask on when he was blowing through hordes of villains — he can’t bring himself to look Deku in the eyes now. His head drops, gaze fixing on the restraints once more. 

All Might gives a proper old man groan as he sits down, resting the cane against his knee. 

“Deku. All Might,” Katsuki answers stiffly. 

“Kacchan,” Deku answers, just as stiff. 

“Young Bakugo,” All Might answers, a bit more genial. 

While ardently avoiding staring at Deku’s face, he catches sight of his heavy black combat boots, scuffed with use. The soles are thick. ( He heard on the TV that Deku uses iron soles to add extra power to his kicks.) His legs look like fucking tree trunks as well, bulked up with black knee pads that extend across his entire leg and open at the back. (He heard that Deku suffered injuries to his shin when kicking a piece of metal and now wears extra padding as a result.) 

“I saw you on TV,” Katsuki says simply. “You’re an amazing hero.” 

Deku inhales sharply. “Thank you,” he says simply, his voice so stern that it stings. 

“If I told you that seven years ago, you would’ve burst out crying,” Katsuki comments. 

“I’m not fourteen anymore, Kacchan,” Deku states. “I’m not a crybaby.”

His voice is flat as he says it, but it feels like a personal jab. That’s when he finally understands the cold, flat tone of Deku’s voice, the blank look on his face. Deku’s moved on — he’s defied all of Katsuki’s expectations and become the number one hero, a dream Katsuki did nothing but attempt to snuff when they were little. 

He feels stupid for having expected any sympathy from the boy he relentlessly bullied into their teenage years, the boy who his memory has followed around and stuck to like a leech. All the reporters talk about when they speak of Deku is how his ‘best friend’ vanished when he was fifteen. 

It must drive him mad. 

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Deku suddenly interjects his thoughts. A lie, Katsuki thinks. 

“Your parents will probably receive clearance to visit you tomorrow — they really missed you, Katsuki. Your mother nearly fainted when I told her you were safe.”

The corner of Katsuki’s mouth twitches towards a weak smile — god, he can’t believe how much he misses them, his incessantly nagging, caring mother and spineless but well-meaning father. He misses how they’d fight, throwing things at each other but never enough to hurt each other — and on the occasions that they’d actually fight, his father would always come into his room to comfort him before he went to bed. 

He remembers how they’d hugged and kissed him when he got accepted into U.A., how he shrugged them off. He wishes he hadn’t. 

“And- And Mom — my mother, Inko? You should’ve seen her face — she burst into tears…” Deku trails off. 

Auntie Inko. She remembers how she would always have treats for him when he visited, how she slowly grew distant after Izuku was found to be quirkless and Katsuki turned from friend to bully. He wants to apologize to her. 

And he wants to apologize to Deku, too, but he hasn’t the slightest idea what to say. His words are gone. He speaks in shows of violence now, in threats and in brutality. 

Katsuki,” Deku uses his given name, hissing the word like it’s something foul. I hate you, Katsuki expects him to say. Why couldn’t you have just died?

“Why won’t you look at me?”

And he doesn’t have an answer. He stares at Deku’s midsection, the dark green stubble on the bottom of Deku’s chin skirting the edges of his vision. He keeps Deku’s face just a hair’s length away from his field of sight. 

“I’m sorry,” Katsuki whispers, voice quiet as a church mouse. 

The skin of Deku’s hands pops with scars and veins as he flexes them, his fists clenching and unclenching. His chest is broad and muscled like a mountain cat, his arms packed with burl like a bodybuilder’s. His chest begins to rise and fall rapidly with short, tight breaths. Deku’s (notably large) hands continue to flex. 

That’s when Katsuki considers the possibility that Aizawa doesn’t need to be here for Deku’s or even All Might’s safety. He’s the number one hero, for fuck’s sake. Deku could crush Katsuki’s skull in his hand. He could cave in his ribcage with his boot. He could snap each and every one of his twig-thin limbs with ease. 

But he wouldn’t, Katsuki tries to tell himself, but as he stares at Deku’s twitching fingers, he wonders how easy it would be for Deku to snap his neck. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Katsuki’s heart rate picks up. "I'm sorry-"

“Katsuki, that’s not an answer!” Deku suddenly snaps, making Katsuki jump. 

He tries to look Deku in the eye, his gaze drawing up and catching a square jaw full of stubble, a straight nose, and cheekbones that sit high on his face, features that have sharpened with the years. And he sees the smattering of freckles over Deku’s nose and cheeks, the four nearly identical freckles on each cheek uncanny. 

And his eyes, which shine like emeralds only for a moment before Deku blinks, and they’ve hardened to the deep shade of jade. They’re big as they've always been and ringed with dark bruises and — he can’t find the word. Sad, no — angry. It comes to him suddenly, almost startlingly so.

Sullen and bitter as cyanide.  

Katsuki’s heart drops into the pit of his stomach as his gaze drops back to Deku’s feet. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he whimpers. 

Deku inhales sharply, and the sound of the single step he takes forward before Aizawa leaps out of his seat to stop him echoes in Katsuki’s ears for hours. 

“That’s enough, Midoriya,” Aizawa commands, and the air seems to stand still. Katsuki fiddles with the restraints, wishing that they would let him curl up under the bed and never come out. 

“Young Midoriya, let’s speak in the hall,” All Might says, his hand clamped around Deku’s wrist. Deku’s hands are trembling, but Katsuki still can’t bring himself to look at Deku — Izuku’s face. He’s sure if he did, he’d see it twisted with rage. 

Izuku leaves, All Might tottering after him, and Aizawa closing the door behind him. Katsuki doesn’t calm down — he sits there, cross-legged, his heart racing at the speed of light hours after Izuku leaves, that one step taken against him echoing in his skull like a gong. He wishes Aizawa and All Might hadn’t stopped Deku. 

He deserves it, after all. 
















Thanks so much for reading!



Chapter Text









Outside the hospital room, his former homeroom teacher has no patience for him.

“What the hell was that, Midoriya?” Aizawa lashes out.

“I-” he starts, opening his mouth to defend himself, but nothing comes out. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t be too harsh on him, Aizawa,” Yagi insists. “You know how hard he’s been taking all of this.”

“That doesn’t excuse your behavior, Midoriya,” Aizawa retorts. “If you can’t keep your cool in such a calm, controlled environment, how will you fare when you’re rescuing civilians in incredibly dangerous, high-stress situations?”

Actually, incredibly dangerous, high-stress situations are just about the only time he feels normal. Calm unnerves him, sets him on edge. Anything could go wrong at any time — he can’t just relax

“Give him a break,” Yagi interjects. “He’s been on his feet for two days, and he hasn’t been able to relax for weeks now.”

For years, actually. 

“Then you should take a break, Midoriya. I’ll handle it, I’ll tell the brass you’re going on break for a week or two for the sake of your own mental health,” Aizawa offers. 

“No, I don’t think that’d help,” he says. A ‘break’ won’t fix what’s wrong with me. “Don’t worry about me — once I get back to the usual regime of fighting villains, I’ll be fine. All this investigative and conspiracy stuff has been messing with me.”

“Overworking yourself will only—” Yagi starts, but Izuku cuts him off sharply. 

“I’m not overworking myself!” He snaps, voice rising. The older men fall silent. “I… I-I need this job, okay?"

Hero work is his only respite.

Aizawa sighs, heavy with disappointment. “No one should need this , Midoriya." He gestures vaguely to the air. "Take a break — it doesn’t have to be a long one, but drowning yourself in work isn’t going to help at all. Trust me. I learned the hard way.”

Aizawa stalks off without another word, the echo of his shoes in the hallway pressing at Izuku’s temples. God, his head fucking hurts. 

“Young Midoriya,” Yagi says calmly, gripping his cane. “You should take Aizawa’s advice.”

“Ugh, not you, too!” The young man groans, rubbing at his temples. “I don’t need a break, okay! I’m fine! I’m perfectly fine !”

“You looked just about ready to punch Young Bakugo in there.”

“No, that wasn’t it, I just- I don’t know!” He throws his hands up, exasperated as the anger simmering in his skin melts away. He buries his face in his hands. “Why wouldn’t he look at me!?” 

Yagi’s eyes close as he nods with a solemn look of understanding. Izuku follows him, ranting as the old man makes slow steps towards the elevators, aided by his cane. 

“Does he hate me? Does he hate me because I- I failed him?” Izuku stammers, hands curling and unfurling, eager for that All Might stress ball that his mother gave him years ago. Over the years, he’s long squished all the filling out of the poor thing, but he still keeps it. 

“I highly doubt it,” Yagi answers calmly. “But you could always ask him yourself.”

“No- no, I couldn’t,” Izuku whimpers. “I- I- He- He either hates me or- or-”

“-or what?”

“He’s scared of me,” he hiccups, the realization settling into his bones like ice, freezing his blood. “He- He looked so scared, and he jumped when I snapped at him — god, why did I snap at him!?” 

Izuku groans, tugging at his hair until it hurts, hoping a tuft of it will come out and bleed.

“Hey, didn’t I tell you to stop doing that?” Yagi swats at his hands, and he drops them obediently. “I doubt that he’s scared of you personally.” His pitch drops. “People who have suffered severely as Young Bakugo learn to fear everything.”

A pit sinks deep into his stomach. It’s my fault, Izuku thinks. I couldn’t save him. 

They enter the elevator and Izuku has it take them to the parking lot beneath the hospital. It’s empty and cold, the misty winter air biting Izuku’s skin. 

He sees where Tsukauchi’s car is parked with Sansa Tamakawa in the passenger’s seat. Yagi waves at them, hobbling over to the parked car. Izuku opens the door for him and takes his cane as the lock click open, and Yagi shuffles inside. He takes his cane back. 

“Get some rest, Young Midoriya,” he says just before Izuku closes the door. “Take a day or two off. It’ll do you wonders.”

“I will,” the hero lies.

Yagi is headed back to the police station to brief them on some things — mainly, how they’re going to release the news to the media and avoid a total shitstorm. It’ll probably be a shitstorm anyway. What he’s really worried about are the inevitable questions that reporters will have, questions he’s not sure he can answer. 

His hands are still trembling as he walks over to where his car waits on the uppermost level of the garage. The wind is cool on his face, which feels red-hot like a furnace. His cheeks are burning. He’s sure that he looks like a tomato. 

He leans against the railing at the edge of the car park and tries to practice what the U.A. school counselor told him all those years ago. He inhales deeply — four in — and exhales; four out. Four in, four out. It does nothing to lessen the frustrated rage bubbling up in him. 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen!

His rage blinds him for a moment. He roars, his fist flying. He hears the shatter of concrete, and when he opens his eyes and his fist is sitting in a three inch-dent into one of the concrete pillars, leaving a spiderweb of cracks. He's torn open his knuckles, the raw bone and nerve exposed. The concrete cracks and the cracks widen, a chunk of concrete falling to the ground and landing on top of someone’s car with a metal-crunching thud. 

Oh… that’s not good. 

He cradles his injured hand towards his chest as he fumbles with his keys, mashing the buttons until the car chirps unlocked. He hurries inside, slamming the door behind him. He rests his hands on the steering wheel and then pauses, staring at the blood slipping down the back of his right hand. 

He sighs, slumping forward to rest his forehead against the wheel. He doesn’t know how long he stays there. He tries to breathe but with every beat of his pulse he feels the sting of the exposed wound, and he wonders, 

How did it get this bad?

Eventually, he turns on the engine and drives off, Katsuki’s quiet (so, so quiet) voice whispering in his head. 

“I’m sorry… I-I’m sorry.”

He brushes off the thought, but the noise is persistent, whispering in his ear again and again as if Katsuki was in the seat behind him. He turns to check, but no one is there. He groans. 

The fucking auditory hallucinations are back. Great . How absolutely wonderful

“I’m sorry,” Katsuki whispers in his head . “I-I’m sorry.” 

He shouldn’t be hearing them anymore. They first started in his second year when they were playing as Heroes vs Villains. Dark Shadow had Kaminari by the throat, and that’s when he heard a voice he hadn’t heard in months. 

“Don’t come, Deku!”  

Katsuki’s voice — but Katsuki wasn’t there. No one could hear the voice but him, but it persisted until he couldn’t sleep, for the sound of Katsuki’s screaming would permeate the walls. 

But Katsuki’s here now. He’s safe. Izuku can finally finish grieving because he no longer has to grieve. Katsuki’s alive. 

So why do the voices, the anger, the frustration, the anxiety — why does it all remain ? Why isn’t he over it by now? Why does he still feel like tearing the steering wheel off of the car and letting the car run off of a cliff? Why isn’t he better ?!

“This isn’t supposed to happen, goddammit!” He yells, thumping the steering wheel. His heart is racing. 

Time , he thinks. I just need time. I just need time, and I’ll be fine. I just need time to fix what is wrong with me. 


I just need time , he thought, even though he knew he was lying.












Thanks so much for reading!



Chapter Text







He sees Izuku on the news again. This time it’s not a live feed of him taking down villains, it’s reporters talking about it with worry creased into their brows. A blurry photo of Deku looming over a villain’s limp body is tucked away in the corner as they speak.

“With the recent news about Katsuki Bakugo, many have taken to considering what that means for the hero world,” the brunette news reporter says, her face unusually stern as she speaks. Katsuki flinches at the sound of his own name. He considers changing the channel — but their conversation compels him to stay and listen. 

Just a day ago, Pro Hero Deku confirmed to news correspondents that no, he’s not taking a break. His fans remark at his incredible fortitude and loyalty to his hero work, but others don’t think this is such a good move,” the curly-haired reporter with white ram horns spiraling from his temples adds. “Some critics of the hero believe that the strain of these recent events is affecting Deku’s hero work and that the Hero Public Safety Commission should mandate that he takes at least a few days of leave.”

Katsuki remembers Deku’s hands, curling and unfurling anxiously, how the muscles in his arms and neck seemed to pull taut, how stiff and upright his posture was. He understands where the reporters are coming from. They think he’s shaken after this whole ordeal — his childhood friend, who supposedly was dead, just suddenly wasn’t. Katsuki might as well have just sprung back to life. 

“These fears have been confirmed with Deku’s most recent handling of a dangerous villain,” the female reporter says. “When subduing some petty thieves with dangerous quirks in a crowded shopping center, Deku showed us just how brutally effective he can be if he so wishes. Of the three villains involved, one had their back broken, two had a broken wrist, and one had their arm intentionally broken by Deku himself.”

The show a blurry clip of Deku fighting on the screen — he looms over a villain who he has pinned by his knee face-first to the ground. Katsuki watches, blank-faced as Deku snaps back the villain’s arm. Onlookers in the background gasp as they hear the crack of bone. The villain cries out as the wound begins to swell with blood. Deku does not linger for even a moment before rising to his feet and rocketing off on his Quirk towards the remaining villains. The clip ends. 

“Now, most of Deku’s fans argue that he did what he thought was necessary to avoid further damages or casualties in such a crowded area — and I have to agree. There were three other villains to apprehend here, and Deku was acting alone. He wanted to dispatch each of these villains as quickly as he could and he wasn’t risking letting them get back up,” the ram-horned reporter says. 

“And I’m firmly on the other side of the argument. We’ve seen Deku incapacitate many villains with less force countless times. He’s not a very aggressive Hero — he uses the bare minimum amount of force more often than not, especially against lesser criminals like these petty thieves. Why would he change it up now?” The fanged woman asks. “It’s clear that the recent events, at the very least, have affected how he approaches hero work, but it’s unclear if this change is good or not.”

“I think that everyone is just overreacting — this is good! This means that Deku is learning from the previous generation’s mistakes. He’s not going easy on them anymore and going too easy on villains is what led to Katsuki Bakugo’s disappearance in the first place!” her coworker insists. 

Katsuki turns off the TV. He need not see any more. He thinks about Deku, the volume of his yell when he finally snapped. He’s still not sure what Deku would’ve done if Aizawa had not stopped him back then. Deku never raised his voice when they were little, but then again, the Deku he met two days ago was absolutely nothing like the Deku he knew when they were little.

The Deku he knew was a tiny, gangly child with brilliantly bright green eyes that followed Katsuki around like a stray cat and stuck to him like a barnacle. The Deku he knew seven years ago was bright-eyed and hopeful and fiercely determined, anxious but incredibly eager and utterly fearless. 

And when he tries to reconcile that image of a fifteen-year-old Deku with the man he met two days ago, the sheer mental whiplash of it all gives him a headache. 

Seven years have come and gone — he guesses it must be the universe twisted idea of a joke. Katsuki Bakugo, the irate hero prodigy, and Izuku Midoriya, the anxious and powerless aspirant now in each other’s shoes. Katsuki, thin as a toothpick and unable to use his quirk, and Izuku Midoriya, now one of the strongest men alive, his temper vicious. 

Katsuki almost laughs before the sheer depressing realization of it sets in. 

What happened to Deku?

He’ll have to ask his parents, he thinks. They’re visiting him today after being granted proper clearance only yesterday. He hears their footsteps down the hall — his father tiptoes like a mouse, while his mother stomps about like she has a personal vendetta against the ground. 

He rubs at his eyes and pulls his eyelids wide open to look awake. He tries to pull the corners of his mouth into a smile to look happy. He tries to swallow his nervousness — he’s glad for the gloves because considering how profusely the rest of him is sweating, he’s sure he’d have blown up the bed by now. Sweat drips down the back of his neck. 

As soon as his mother steps into the room, her garnet eyes meeting Katsuki’s, she bursts into tears (something he has never, ever, ever seen her do). She claps her hands over her mouth as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing. 

In the end, he doesn’t have to force the smile as he whispers out;

“Hi, Mom.”

And then his ribcage is being crushed in the combined embrace of his mother and father, his mother murmuring affectionate obscenities and his father simply weeping. His mother pulls back, touching his cheek, his forehead, his nose, his chin, his jaw, his neck and shoulders, his arms and his hands as if to verify that he is, in fact, here. 

“Katsuki,” his mother sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks by the bucketful, like Auntie Inko used to do. Tears well in his eyes, although Katsuki’s not sure how they got there. He just smiles, however shakily, and melts into his mother’s touch. 

“My boy, my boy, my boy…” His father murmurs, ruffling his hair and patting his shoulders and arms like he expects his hands to slip through Katsuki’s body like a ghost’s. He drowns in their embraces, reveling in the warmth and softness of their touch, but the firmness of their grip, as if he’ll disappear if they ever let go. He doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him without the intention of hurting him. 

“I-I missed you,” he whimpers, tears slipping down his cheeks, his voice tiny. 

“We missed you too, Katsuki,” Dad answers, and his mom kisses his forehead oh-so-gently, something he hasn’t felt since he was small. 


“I love you,” his Mom says, and Katsuki bursts into tears.











Thanks so much for reading!

Chapter Text






There’s something festering in his chest, burning both hot and cold as it scorches his lungs and freezes all his veins. 

Ignore them. News reporters don’t know shit. 

During his debut year all those news reporters would talk about was his relationship with Shoto — non-existent after I so royally fucked it up at graduation — and Katsuki. 

Katsuki, Katsuki, Katsuki

Always Katsuki. 

Everything seemed to end up coming back to him. 

“I-I’m sorry…” 

(The sheer whiplash he’d felt at hearing the sound of his former friend’s tiny voice when he had been so familiar with his coarse growling and yells pinned him to the spot, freezing him down to his very nerves.)

He lets the pow-pow-pow of his fists hitting the punching bag before him drown out the noise. It isn’t real — he knows this, but he keeps glancing over his shoulder to check. 

Stop it, you damn idiot. 

His knuckles sting with each and every blow. He grits his teeth and focuses on the pain, vision tunneling until it’s just a pinprick focused at the point of impact. 

“I’m sorry…” 

His eyes dart to the hallway — nothing. 

The voices of the news reporters intermingle with his thoughts — god, their voices are so annoying, gritting against his eardrums. 

“Some critics of the hero believe that the strain of these recent events is affecting Deku’s hero work…” 

The bandages on his right hand are red, blooming vermillion stains along his knuckles. He does not relent. The pow-pow-pow of every brutal impact is not loud enough. 

“... the Hero Public Safety Commission should mandate that he takes at least a few days of leave…”

They don’t know what they’re talking about. He’s the strongest he’s ever been, the fastest, the best. He’s done nothing but hone his skills for seven straight years. 

He throws his weight into a straight punch. The bag swings like a pendulum, the ceiling fixture creaking.

“...These fears have been confirmed with Deku’s most recent handling of a dangerous villain…”

Who are they to tell him how to do his job!? He scowls, frustration flaring as he hooks with his left fist. The bag swings to the ceiling. The ceiling mount wails and groans.

“...Deku showed us just how brutally effective he can be if he so wishes…”

A sweeping roundhouse kick, throwing all three hundred and eighty pounds of his weight into the heavy bag, and the hook snaps off with a screeching crack. The heavy bag goes soaring across the room. The flat screen TV shatters on impact with a rain of glass shards. The sound is like the tinkling wind chimes to him. 

The house is silent for a moment. No reporters, no Katsuki. For a moment, stillness.

Katsuki wails, “I’m sorry!” 

He nearly jumps out of his skin, stumbling back a step as his head swivels, scanning the room for someone that just isn’t there. That’s when he notices her. 

His mother, standing in the doorway, eyes wide and face pale as bone.

He hadn’t even heard her come in over the thundering of his heart, whirring like helicopter blades in his chest. His cheeks are warm. His face is probably scarlet by now, but his frustration quickly melts away to shame. 

His mother stands there, arms stiff at her side. Her wide eyes narrow as they flick between Izuku and the punching bag laying among the ruin of the T.V. Her lips are set in a grim line, eyes steely.  

“Izukun…” she starts, her voice a whisper. 

“…What the hell!?”

He flinches. His mother doesn’t curse often, but god, it’s scary when she does.

“Hi, Mom,” he mumbles, tucking his right hand behind his back. She’ll flip if she sees the bandages. “I-I didn’t realize you were coming.” 

“I was worried , Izukun,” she explains. “And it looks like I was right to do so!” 

“I’m fine, Mom,” he lies, forcing a smile. “Is this about what the media’s going on about? It’s fine — it’ll blow over in a week.” 

“I don’t care about the media circus,” she says. “I’m worried about you , Izukun!” 

“I’m fine,” he lies, teeth gritting. 

Maybe if I say it, it’ll become true. 

His mother is touching his hand, squeezing it gently as he stands there, frozen. He doesn’t even know when she made it across the room. He can feel it, ice creeping over his heart. His mind is drifting away.

“Have you been sleeping well?” she asks, deflecting his lie. 

“‘Been sleeping fine.” 

“You have bags under your eyes.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

She sighs. “Have the pills been working?”

He’s silent.

“Okay, I’ll assume that’s a ‘no.’” She says. “ Why not? —Do you need new ones?” 

He shakes his head. “Mom, I-I haven’t been taking them…”

His mother frowns, staring at his ruined hand. 

“Why are you so ashamed to need help?” Her voice wavers, brimming with a quiet frustration.

Her hand is so small, so soft again his calloused palms and scarred knuckles. 

“It’s okay to not be okay, Izukun… No one can do everything themselves, least of all you.” 

—because you’re weak, he thinks.

“Why don’t you take the pills? You never seem to sleep well without them.” 

“Because I- they-” make me feel like an invalid. Like I’m something broken. Like I’m use-

“Deku means someone who can’t do anything!” Katsuki finishes for him, and he jumps and whips his head around to face him. 

It’s just plaster and drywall from the wreckage of what used to be a ceiling mount.


“I-I’m fine , Mom!” He snaps just a little bit too harshly. His mother gives a baffled, shocked look, and he realizes that he’s losing his handle. He needs her out. He needs her out so that he can destroy some pillows and punch holes in drywall. 

“Is that all?” He asks tiredly. His body feels numb. “Did you come here just to pester me about my sleeping habits?”

“No, also to pester you about your eating habits," she grins.

He rolls his eyes and groans, but his mother just smiles. “Toshinori and I are going for brunch! You should come!” 

“I don’t know why you’d ever think I’m eating too little,” he scoffs. 

“Izukun, you weigh as much as three men but each as much as one,” she retorts. “And you’re a growing boy, aren’t you? How tall are you now?”

“Six feet, seven inches,” he mumbles.

“No wonder you no longer fit into any clothes. Or any houses, for that matter.”

He thinks about how whenever he wears his boots he unfailingly hits his head on the top of every single doorway. He’s finally hit the height that he's as tall the standard doorframe. He had to demolish all the doorframes in his house and rebuild them a foot taller and a few inches wider to accommodate. 

“It’s a cafe in Kyoto,” she continues. “I’ve heard that fluffy pancakes are their speciality.”

His head hurts. Katsuki is moaning from somewhere upstairs. “Mom, I-” 

“You can’t use work as an excuse this time, Izukun.”

His empty head echoes with the sound of his own voice rattling about his skull like a marble. His vacant skull tells his Mom that ‘Sure, I’ll go,’ and ‘Yes, I’ll be there by ten.’ 

His own tongue is a foreign object in his mouth, moving as his throat makes random sounds that become words. His Mom tells him to watch his health and his lips tell her that ‘I will, you don’t need to worry about me,’ but he isn’t listening at all.

“You’re useless,” Katsuki hisses from within the cave of his empty skull, dark and cold and wet like a bog. He curls up in the far corner of his mind and screams his throat out, clawing and kicking and scratching at the underside of his scalp. 

“Deku means someone who can’t do anything!”

But on the outside, he’s saying goodbye to his mother and walking her to her car, waving as she drives off. His joints move with wailing creaks. His elbows and knees bend on rusty hinges. His eyes are wide open but see nothing. A robot, set upon a task and completing those meaningless motions emotionlessly.

Because Izuku is gone — he's in that far-away place in his mind. He’s that small child that watched videos of All Might online on loop curled up underneath an All Might blanket and clutching an All Might plush.

That child watches All Might say 'It's fine now — why? Because I am here!' while the hollow shell of himself goes into the kitchen, picks up a knife, and engraves his thighs. 












Thanks so much for reading!

Chapter Text





Deku doesn’t visit again.

Katsuki is torn between relief that he’s stayed away and guilt for feeling so. It churns in his stomach and makes it even harder to get any food into him, so he tucks it away and compartmentalizes it in the furthest corner of his mind. Just for now — as the doctors keep telling him, he has to focus on getting ‘better.’

Whatever the hell that means.

Days slip by slowly at first, crawling along like an ancient tortoise, but he settles into a routine and soon enough, two weeks have gone by. 

His parents visit him every damn day — although he’s nowhere near as annoyed by that as he would’ve been seven years ago. It’s nice, knowing that there are at least two people in the world willing to visit him during the weekends, bearing gifts of the spiciest ramen and rice dishes they could get their hands on. 

On Friday, he's practically salivating like Pavlov’s dog just hearing footsteps coming down the hall, but to his surprise, he has a third visitor.

Her jade hair is speckled with silver strands, short and portly, with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She’s carrying a tote bag and offers it up with a kindly grin. 

Her smile stops his heart. 

“Good morning, Katsuki!” Inko Midoriya chirps. “I brought you spicy katsudon!” 

“Auntie Inko…” He’s not sure to be excited or withdrawn. By all means, this woman should hate him. He tormented her son for a whole decade. But she's smiling. 

She looks so much older now. Sure, it’s been seven years, but she seems older than that. There are smile lines etched into her cheeks, and frown lines burrowed deep into her forehead. She still has those apple cheeks, plump like Deku’s once were. 

“It’s been too long, Katsuki!” she says, her voice laden with a kindness that makes him ache for his childhood again. She stretches her arms, and he’s all too happy to fall into them. Her embrace is just so warm, like a blanket of sunbeams wrapping around him. She smells like mint and lavender. 

“Now, Mitsuki told me that you’ve worked up quite the appetite recently, so I made katsudon! — you seemed to love it when you were younger.” She opens the bag, revealing a bento box that’s perfumed with spices.

“Who wouldn’t love your katsudon?” He takes the bag, greedily digging the bento out. The spices alone are burning his nostrils — this must be what heaven smells like, he thinks. 

“Why, thank you!” Her smiling face is like a small sun. It reminds him of—


—his mouth goes dry. He almost loses his appetite entirely as his stomach churns. 

Don’t think about him, just don’t think about it— 

“If you ask nicely, I might bring more,” she says. “Toshinori likes my cooking but can’t eat much, so I usually have a lot of leftovers.”

“Why don’t you give it to Deku?” His mother asks innocently. 


Her smile dims. “He never takes them. He doesn’t want any ‘handouts,’ in his words.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t call your cooking ‘handouts,’” he mumbles as he cracks open the lid of the bento. Delicious steam wafts up to his nose.

“Thank you, Katsuki,” she repeats. “Izukun never thought so either, but he… he hasn’t really been himself lately.” 

Katsuki pauses, chopsticks in hand. There’s an awful feeling in his gut. He thinks he’s lost his appetite. All feels is (a very odd feeling of) worry rolling through him, a heavy carpet of dread falling on him like ash. A question weighs heavy on his tongue. 

Fuck it. 

“How so?” He asks, kicking himself mentally.

“He’s just been—” she sighs, biting her lip. “—distant? Cold? I don't know. He’s — he’s shutting me out. He’s shutting everyone out.”

An uneasy stillness falls. 

“You’ve grown so much, Katsuki. You and Izukun both. And he’s changed, sometimes more than even he's realized,” she says sadly. “When I look at old pictures of you two together, I hardly recognize either of you.”

A mountain of a man with a square jaw covered in dark, bristly stubble, eyes hard as stone. A stringy, ungainly four-year-old with a head full of wild curls that sat with green eyes wide and his face pale as paper as everyone in kindergarten laughed at him. 

Somehow, they’re both the same person.

“Has Izukun visited you?” Auntie Inko asks.

He shakes his head. “No, not for two weeks.” She sighs. 

“That’s a shame,” she murmurs. “I think you two could help each other more than you could know.” 

“I doubt it,” Katsuki answers. “He’s the Number One Hero, and I’m…” 

...I’m nothing compared to him.

"That’s not what I mean."

Her voice is wavering, yet sharp.

“I remember when he was little, he’d cry every time I dropped him off at kindergarten — but then he met you, and he was suddenly ecstatic to go to kindergarten and play with the ‘scary blond boy.’” She gives a wistful smile. “You were so close back then. You brought him out of his shell.” 

That must’ve been decades ago. He doubts Deku remembers it at all. All he remembers is a puppy-eyed kid who would always follow him around despite Katsuki’s best attempts to shake him off. Eventually, Katsuki had stopped trying.

Auntie Inko whispers, “I think he might need someone to do that for him again.” 

His heart feels like it weighs a ton in his chest, pressing on his lungs and ribs. Despite not having said a word, it feels like he’s made a promise. He’s not even sure that he’ll be able to keep it. 

Deku’s the Number One hero. What the hell can Katsuki do for him

He sets the chopsticks down, back into the bento box. He’s lost his appetite. His eyes drift to the TV behind Inko’s head, fixing there. His heart drops out of his chest.

“What is it?” Auntie Inko follows his gaze to the T.V., wherein the headline scrolls by in big black letters. 


“Oh…” Inko mumbles, voicing dropping an octave as her apple cheeks pale. “Oh, no…” 

“You know about this?” He asks, heartbeat quickening as he remembers the words of the reporters on T.V. a few days ago. Public outcry must’ve forced their hand. 

“The Public Hero Safety Commission suspended him for two weeks,” she relays with a heavy sigh. “I called him about, and he threw a fit over the phone.” 

“He’s furious, but I think — I hope — that this will help him. He doesn’t realize it, but needs this break,” she continues. Her voice crescendos. “He absolutely refuses to take breaks! He’s always working, working, working-!” 

She goes quiet again. “He wouldn’t even take a day off to join us for Christmas…” Her eyes shine glossily, a thin sheen of water as they tear up. 

“He'll burn out.” Katsuki’s hands ball into fists, gripping the sheets beneath him tight.

“Oh, but he already has. He’s running on fumes,” Auntie Inko insists. “And he refuses to let anyone help him.”












Thanks so much for reading!

Chapter Text





When he returns, the house is dark and empty as an abandoned church. The perpetually closed drapes are like the dusty stained-glass windows. The unused sofas and extra chairs at the dinner table are the rotting wooden pews. The landline phone is the bell tower that used to ring out, calling everyone to the church come Sunday morning. He can see it. The vast arching ceiling is imitated by the open-floor plan that turns his kitchen, dining room, living room, and gym into one giant room. Expansive. Impressive. 

“I-I’m sorry…”


“I’m sorry…”

But an abandoned church implies that this place was once sacred, once packed to bursting with people on a Sunday service. He doesn’t think he’s ever had visitors besides his mother and Yagi. 

The draft usually goes unnoticed, but today it chills him to the bone. The house is — for the first time in the four and a half years he’s lived in it — crushingly lonely. The draft bites his skin and the wind blows through the open windows with a low howl. Katsuki’s voice is a whisper.

“Don’t come, Deku….” 

He kicks off his boots, leaving them strewn against the hardwood before shuffling over to the ring of sofas and collapsing on one of the couches. A headache sets in, fogging all of his thoughts as it throbs. His chest is an echoing cavern where his heart was gouged out from. The pain is the only thing he can feel.

He slumps forward, face buried in his hands. His head is pounding. His fingers tangle in his hair, tugging sharply at the roots. 

“I’m sorry…” 

As Katsuki continues to whisper from some far-off corner in the house, voice hovering over his thoughts, he wonders what Katsuki was apologizing for. Was it a reflex, a nervous reaction? Was he apologizing for his silence? For simply being? Why would he apologize?

It’s all his fault, after all. 


Uraraka commented on how much ‘Deku’ sounded like ‘I can do it’ on their very first day of school at U.A. Before it had given him hope. Now it’s just a hollow reminder of his failures. 


Because Uraraka was wrong.

“I’m sorry…”

He can’t do anything.

“Don’t come...”

And Katsuki was right.

“I-I’m sorry…” 

Katsuki was right. He can’t do anything.

“Don’t come, Deku...”

Katsuki was right. A Quirkless loser like him can never be a hero. 

“Don’t come, Deku.”

Katsuki was right! Even the Hero Public Safety Commission said so!

“Don’t come!”

He’s useless!




Izuku jerks upright as Katsuki’s voice crescendos into a scream.

“I’m sorry! I-I’m sorry!” 

He clasps his hands over his ears, crying out as the yells burn against his eardrums.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t come, Deku— Don’t come!”

Over and over and over again, skipping and looping like a broken record player. The voice scratches and skips with a screeching whine.

“Don’t-! Don’t- Come, Deku-! Don’t— I’m sorry! I-I’m sorry!” 

Two weeks of leave. 

He’s not sure he can survive. 

Yagi and his Mom give him hell for it, but they don’t understand — he needs his job. For seven years all he’s done is train and work because it’s the only time his head is silent, the only time he isn’t constantly plagued by Katsuki. 

Katsuki, Katsuki, always Katsuki. 

Katsuki whispering, Katsuki hissing, Katsuki yelling, Katsuki screaming, Katsuki crying— 

Katsuki dying. 

“I’m sorry!” Katsuki sobs from behind him. He doesn’t turn around. He grips his thighs, feeling his blunt nails dig into his skin, feeling bruises forming under his fingers. 

It hurts.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry-!”

He focuses on the pain. Pain is real. Pain is tangible. He focuses on the pain, trying to force his brain to think. How is he going to stave off his demons for two whole weeks? How is he going to repair his reputation?

“Don’t come, Deku!” 

Fuck, he can’t ponder this while sober. 

Pointedly ignoring the brief apparition of burning red eyes that dart at the edge of his vision for a moment and then vanish, he lumbers into the kitchen. He grabs a glass from one of the cabinets and a bottle of cheap whiskey. Now’s not the time to waste good whiskey. 

“I-I’m sorry!” 

He pours himself a generous amount and takes a swig. It’s definitely not how you’re supposed to drink whiskey, judging but the way it burns all the way down his throat, but he can’t find it in him to care. The pain is good. Pain is real. Pain is tangible. 

“Don’t come, Deku!” 

Why did he listen to Katsuki on that terrible night seven years ago?

“Don’t come!”

Why didn’t he follow him?

“I-I’m sorry!” 

Why didn’t he save him? 

“Don’t come, Deku! Don’t come, Deku! Don’t come! Don’t!” 

Why is he so useless!? 

The glass shatters against the cupboard.

He hadn’t even realized that he had thrown it, momentarily blinded by his rage. His hands are shaking. 

I need another drink.

He gets another glass, fills it, and downs the entire thing in three gulps. 

“What can you even do? You’re totally Quirkless,” Katsuki hisses, echoing his words from their childhood. Funny. He can’t remember large swaths of his time at U.A. but Katsuki’s words have stuck with him for the better part of two decades. Ha-ha.

“Nothing, I guess,” he mumbles, burping as he finishes his second glass. “I can’t do fucking anything.” 

But Katsuki doesn’t reply because by the third drink, his voice is nothing but a dull throb at his temples. 

It’s all your fault.

By the fifth drink, Katsuki is gone, as well as most of his inhibitions. He considers stopping, if only because he knows he’s going to have the worst hangover when he wakes up. He thinks better of it, drowning what remains of his good sense in a sixth drink.

It’s all your fault. 

One more drink become two more, which become four more, and by the twelfth drink he comes up with the- the most brilliant idea. 

He staggers into the garage, which has pretty much just become a dumping ground for things he’s not sure what to do with. It takes a while to locate them and his legs keep fumbling beneath him, but he manages to haul out a massive bag of charcoal and a jug of gasoline to the patio behind the house. 

Out on the smooth cobblestone patio, there’s a fire pit ringed with big rocks that he’s never touched. He dumps all the charcoal into the pit, a cloud of dark dust flying up in his face. He coughs. Next, he unscrews the cap from the gasoline and disembowels the entire thing onto the small mountain of charcoal.

He detours back into the house to retrieve a lighter and, more importantly, his hero suit. The wind is glacial, raking at his skin with its long claws. He’s far too drunk to care. He throws the jade hero suit onto the top of the charcoal and gasoline mountain. He spills the last dregs of gasoline in the jug on top of the suit, smiling stupidly.

A tiny orange flame dances on the lighter. So small, yet so potent, he thinks as he watches the flame dance, fluttering about like a butterfly, and a big dumb grin is plastered on his face, and he knows it’s a terrifically bad idea, but he just laughs giddily because he can't find it in him to care because who cares?!

The hero chucks the lighter into the flames and watches it all explode.

Yes, Izuku thinks. This was a brilliant idea. 

Because he’s not a hero anymore. The Commission suspended his licence — said it was temporary, but he knows better. The temporary suspension would turn into an indefinite suspension and then into a permanent termination of his licence. The Hero Public Safety Commission cares about nothing more than saving face. 

He doesn’t need the suit anymore. He might as well burn it. His career is over. 

His nose wrinkles at the acrid stench that seems to singe his nostrils. The charcoal goes pop and crackle as it splits apart in the heat and crumbles. Golden embers explode from the fire pit, darting into the air before vanishing just as quickly. 

The wind rakes through his hair with a low yawn, yanking the flames dangerously close to the house, but he can’t find it in him to care. The pungent smell of burning fabric and plastic covers the place. It will reek for weeks, but he can’t find it in him to care. 

Tiger-orange flames lick high into the sky — orange like Katsuki’s gloves, like his explosions — tongues of flame lash angrily against the clouds like tangerine whips. He wonders what would happen if he wandered into the flames right now. Would it hurt, or would his pain be over quickly? 

He feels the tethers of his mind snapping, drifting away like a balloon. He feels the cavern of his chest grow cold as the sputtering flames of his hope flicker out and finally die. 

His custom-made, thousand-dollar hero suit is right there, amid flames, and he just can’t find it in him to care. 

He ends up finishing the entire bottle of whiskey. And then another. And after a briefing vomiting session, another . He drinks and drinks and drinks, as if somehow alcohol will wipe away his sins. He drowns the guilt and shame and fear that he’s carried for seven years in beer and whiskey until he feels nothing, nothing at all. 

His career is right there, amid flames, burning, and there is nothing left in him to care.











Thanks so much for reading!

Chapter Text









After seven years, he’s finally going home. 

Katsuki doesn’t really believe it. It’s been a month since he was checked into this hospital, and now it felt like something akin to ‘home.’ He’s never stayed in one place for more than a week, never familiarized with any place the way he’s grown accustomed to the cream-colored hallways and green-and-white checkered floors.

He was sure that he heard his mother say, ‘You’re being discharged, Katsuki,’ but it doesn’t really hit him until there are nurses instructing him to change out of his scrubs and into the loose sweatpants and sweater that his mother brought from home. It doesn’t hit him until he’s exchanging soft slippers for store-bought sneakers with bright orange flame decals (which he finds more exciting than he should). It doesn’t hit him until he’s outside the hospital doors, standing under the black awning as white snow drifts down from the heavens like powdered sugar.

His father squeezes his hand, his smile inconceivably warm as he says, “Let’s go, Katsuki.” 

He’s…. He’s going home.

Pale flint-grey clouds that muffle sunlight brighten the pewter sky as ice falls in delicate flakes. They tickle with their cold touch as they land on his skin and then disappear. He sticks out his tongue for the sake of it, feeling frosty snowflakes melt as soon as they reach his tongue. 

Snowflakes catch on his hair as they make their way through the parking lot and he feels like a three-year-old again, clutching both his parent’s hands as they walked to the first day of preschool. 

When he closes his eyes, he can almost go back to that careless time, when his biggest worry was the gangly green-eyed toddler who would always follow him around. 

His father drives, and his mother gently combs through his fine blond hair with her fingers as he rests his head in her lap. She hums absentmindedly throughout the drive, the sound of it vibrating through her chest and stomach. 

He never realized how much he missed those things, small things. The warmth of a loving embrace. The kindness of a gentle touch. 

When they finally arrive at home, the condominium complex is almost exactly the same as he remembers it. The carpet’s new. Some wallpaper is different and there are new locks and doorknobs, but it still reeks of ramen and pork. He glances a block down and he sees the apartment complexes Izuku and his mother used to live in. 

“Inko moved in with All Might a few years ago,” his mother comments when she catches him staring. “And Izuku lives on his own now.”

“Oh,” he replies, and he’s not sure why it sounds so sad.

The condo is exactly how he remembers it, even the faint smell of burnt sugar lingering in the air.  Some things on the mantle are new — holiday cards, his Student ID from U.A., some new pictures. There are scuff marks all over the hardwood floor, he quietly observes. 

“Why'd you move all the furniture?” He asks.

His father’s eyes widen in momentary surprise. “How did you-” he tracks Katsuki's gaze, fixed on the scuff marks following the legs of the couch and tables. “We thought it’d be easier if your home still looked like you remembered it.”

His eyes burn. He gives a small smile and whispers, “Thank you.” His father smiles in kind. 

“Do you want dinner or will you head straight to bed?” His mother asks as he yawns.

“I think I’ll just go to bed,” he murmurs, ambling through the hall toward his bedroom. The decal reading ‘KATSUKI’ in blocky orange letters on the door and the blackened handprint he left under the doorknob when he was four are still there. 

The bedroom looks exactly as it did, somehow left untouched for seven years.

There are limited-edition All-Might figurines and rare hero-trading cards set up on the shelves. The black and orange flame quilt is still on the bed, with the duffel bag that he took to the summer training camp seven years ago sitting atop it. It feels like he’s walking into the past, into a simpler time. 

He lays back on the bed, sprawled out like a starfish as he stares at the reason he let none of his friends into his bedroom — the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling and high on the walls, decorating his room in a chaotic, bright array. 

“Sweet dreams, Katsuki,” his mother says softly. “I love you.” 

“Love you too,” he murmurs back. The lights switch off. 

The glow-in-the-dark stars are faint neon green in the darkness, their outlines stark against the black walls and ceiling. Their pale light is oddly calming, comforting, settling the churning in his stomach and anxiety knotting in his chest. 

It is silent, so quiet that he can hear his heart beat, near inaudibly, but constantly. His eyelids grow heavy as he lays utterly still, save for the rise and fall of his chest, on the bed. 

The stars are bright but gentle, leading him into midnight with the tenderest hand.











You’ve already made him cry… stop it! I won’t let you!”


Deku’s eyes are emeralds, watering as he brings trembling fists up to his face. He’s so small, like an ant beneath Katsuki’s sneaker.


“So Deku, the Quirkless wonder, thinks he can play hero, huh?” 


His fists crackle and burn as he slams them together. 


“Why don’t you just give up?”


Deku’s nose is bleeding, his face covered in dark bruises, but he just stands back up, swaying on his feet. His scarred hands ball into fists.






“You’ve already made him cry… stop it! I won’t let you!” 


Deku’s eyes are clouded peridots. He’s taller, taller than Katsuki, but he’s still just a pebble. His left arm is bent and crooked in all the wrong ways and his bloody right arm hangs uselessly by his side.


“So Deku, the Quirkless wonder, thinks he can play hero, huh?” 


His fists crackle and burn as he slams them together. 


“Why don’t you just give up?”


Blood pours down Deku’s face, dripping over his eyes, and his right arm is covered purpling bruises and skin peels off in bloody sheets. But he just stands back up, swaying on his feet. His scarred hands ball into fists.






“You’ve already made him cry… stop it! I won’t let you!” 


Deku’s eyes are jades, opaque and flat. He’s a giant now, his curls wild like a mane of thorns. His hands are more scar tissue than skin.


“So Deku, the Quirkless wonder, thinks he can play hero, huh?” 


His fists crackle and burn as he slams them together. 


“Why don’t you just give up?”


Blood spills from Deku’s lips, from his eyes, from his ears. It drips down his chin and stains his mossy hero suit, turning it black as tar. It pools at his feet, but he just stands back up, swaying on his feet. His trembling, scarred hands ball into fists.






“You’ve already made him cry…"


Deku’s eyes are green agates, cloudy and dark and opaque, his half-lidded gaze utterly unreadable. Paparazzi cameras flash around him. His hair shadows his face. 


“So Deku, the Quirkless wonder, thinks he can play hero, huh?” 

His fists crackle and burn as he slams them together. Bloody tear-tracks have dried onto Deku’s face.


“Why don’t you just give up?”


Deku’s legs crumple beneath him. 


Faceless men and women drape medals over his neck, pin silver ribbons to his hero suit, adhere pins to his chest; they stack awards around him until it becomes a cage of silver and gold figurines; they plaster gold stars to his face, ignoring his tears of blood— the stickers, the stars, the silver statues, the pins, the platitudes, the ribbons, rewards, and golden medals say;


The #1 Hero.


But Deku stands back up, swaying on his feet. His trembling, bloody hands ball into fists. Blood drips down his cheeks. He inhales.


Deku screams.











Katsuki wakes with clammy palms, his heart racing at a hundred miles per hour. His neck is slick with sweat. He hopes he doesn’t accidentally blow anything up. 

He shuffles out of bed, swaying on his feet. He glances at the clock, which flashes ‘6:00 AM’ in blocky red digits. The sun hasn’t even risen yet. He tip-toes into the living room on a cat’s silent feet, but to his surprise, the lights in the kitchen are on.

No midnight snack, I guess.

He sees the shadow of his mother pacing back and forth in the kitchen. He peeks in and sees her on the phone, her face flushed pink with rage.

“Holy shit, have you asked the police…? Because he’s a hero? Oh, fuck off — cops are so goddamn useless nowadays!” his mother rages. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, he can handle himself…? Then you know who to blame! Go to the Commission — this is their fault, isn’t it…?”

His mother pauses, listening to the other person on the phone for the moment. “Okay, I will. And remember, Inko — I’m always here if you need someone to talk to or just…. A shoulder to cry on, 'kay…? 'kay, bye.” 

She hangs up and sets the phone on the counter, sighing heavily.  

“Was that Auntie Inko?” His mother jumps at the sound of his voice. She sighs.


Katsuki pauses for a moment.

“What’s happened to Deku?”

His mother gives a faint, rueful grin. “Might be too smart for your own good, kid — you could tell we were talking about him?”

He nods mutely.

“Well, Izuku hasn’t been responding to his mother for a few days now,” she explains. “And he hasn’t been home in a week.” 

His stomach bottoms out with dread.

“Inko called to ask if I’d see him or heard from him,” she continues. “Katsuki, if you hear from Izuku, tell me, ‘kay?”

He nods, wringing his hands to keep them from shaking. 

“Don’t get too worried about it. Izuku’s a grown-ass man,” his mother assures. “It isn’t the first time he’s completely dropped off the radar, either. He’ll be fine.” 

Yeah, Katsuki assures himself. He’ll be fine. He’s the Number One Hero. He’ll be fine. 

He’ll be fine, Katsuki told himself, but his gut churned in sharp disagreement.












Thanks so much for reading!

Chapter Text









Sunlight burns Izuku’s half-lidded eyes. His tongue is dry, lips chapped and cracked. 

He hears a bzzt.

He blinks at the sudden sound, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes with the back of his palms, flakes of crusted rheum falling off his lashes. He sits up, wincing at the soreness in his muscles and the pain lancing up his thighs. 

He looks around, taking in the dingy motel room around him, the yellow paint peeling off the drywall, carpet covered in questionable stains. His shirt is notably absent and so are his pants, his wallet, and probably his phone. 

His scattered memory can only come up with the knowledge that he left his house around midnight on a Tuesday with the full intention of drinking enough to give him a three-day hangover. And it seems that he succeeded. Somehow, he ended up in a random motel missing half of his clothes and possessions. 

Well, his shirt is hanging off the bathroom door knob. A box of disposable razor blades is tossed haphazardly onto the floor. His hoodie’s on the floor, next to his phone, which inches along the carpet as it vibrates. There’s a puddle of what looks to be dried vomit near the edge of the bed.

He shuffles off the bed and stumbles into the bathroom, fire stinging his inner thighs. Old tiles crack and teeter under his feet. He glances at his reflection in the cracked mirror, a mountain of a man covered in grizzled scars, face covered with unseemly scruff and his hair an unkempt mess.

Ah, he realizes quietly. There’s blood on my thighs. 

He pulls up his briefs to reveal at least two dozen light lacerations, small cuts torn jaggedly across his thighs, the blood now crusted and dry, the wounds scabbed over. That explains the razor blades, at least. It might also explain the questionable stains. 

He gets some towels from a closet, dampens it with water, and wipes down his legs, scraping away a layer of grime and blood and revealing raw wounds underneath. Some scabs come off, beads of ruby blood appearing on the glistening wounds.

He’s lucky enough to find a first-aid kit in the room, though it’s missing some essentials, it has a roll of bandages, so he cleans his cuts and wraps bandages tight around his thighs, packing the wounds. Then he sets about recollecting himself. He retrieves his shirt and his hoodie and gingerly pulls his pants back on. 

His phone’s vibrating when he picks it up. Someone’s calling, and, much to his dismay, it’s his mother. He rejects the call, his heart numb as the caller ID ‘Mom <3’ fades from the screen. It’s Thursday. There’s an entire four days vanished from his memory.

It’s strange. He feels so numb, so cold, even as pain electrifies his legs with every step, even with the cold leaving his fingers frostbitten when he steps outside. He… he can’t feel anything, anything at all. He’s pretty sure that he had a terrific meltdown last night, judging by the destroyed state of his thighs, but he’s so far from caring. 

It’s not like anyone else cares, either, he thinks. It’s not like I’m a hero anymore. 

He takes the subway back home, thankful for the app on his phone that allows him to pay online. He pulls his hoodie low over his head, slumps his shoulders, and shuffles along timidly, and he blends into the crowd seamlessly despite his height. No one gives him a second glance. 

He walks the rest of the way home, but as he approaches the driveway, he sees a car that’s not his. It’s his mother’s. 


Of course she’d march right up to his house just because he ignored her once. That’s exactly like her. He scowls, but forces it back down, stuffing his heart into the very pit of his stomach, his face blank as a slate. 

He retrieves the spare house key under the welcome mat, inhaling shakily. 

It’s just Mom. 

He opens the door. He hears a shrill cry. 


He winces, her voice drilling at the headache throbbing at his temples. 

“Where have you been!?” His mother throws her arms around him, but it causes the fabric around his thighs to shift and rub against his wounds painfully. He bites his tongue to keep from whimpering and gently shoves her off of him. 

“Morning, Mom,” he mutters. 

“Izukun, it’s 3 PM,” she corrects. “Did you just wake up?” 

“Afternoon, then.” 

“Where were you for the past week?” Mom asks, her brow knitted and forehead furrowed with deep lines. 

“Does it matter?” He sighs. 

“What? O-of course it does! I couldn’t contact you for a week!” 

“Four days.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” she snaps. “Why didn’t you pick up?!”

“I lost my phone,” he lies through his teeth. Mom narrows her eyes skeptically. 

“And you couldn’t have told me you were going on a four-day trip?”

“And why in hell would I do that?”

“I don’t know, because I’m your mom?”

“Do I look like a child to you?!” He spits. “I don’t have to tell you shit.” 

She stiffens, aghast, with her hand on her chest. “Izuku!” 

“My career is fucking over, ” he snarls. “But god forbid I try to do something fun for once!”

“Drinking?” His mother scoffs. “That’s where you’ve been? Again?”

The disdain, the disappointment in her voice makes a part of him want to curl up in a grave and die.

“Not this again, Izukun, please,” she pleads. “This is exactly what happened before.”

A memory presses at the back of his mind, begging him not to make the same mistakes again. He stuffs it back into his stomach. 

“Deku means someone who can’t do anything…”

“You binge drink and disappear for days at a time and I worry myself sick wondering if you’re passed out at a bar or dead in a ditch!” She explains, her voice wavering, her lower lip trembling.

“And whose fault is that, mother!?” He snaps. “I didn’t fucking ask for you to nag me!”

Her face falls. 

“I’m a grown fucking man, mother! I can do whatever the fuck I want, and I don’t need your approval!” He raves, his voice rising into a yell. “If I want to drink myself into a fucking three-day hangover, I can do that! I can do that because I’m a fucking adult and you can’t control me!”

His mother’s eyes are glistening. He does not stop. Words rush over his tongue like a river to a cliff. He cannot stop. Each word is bitter as tar on his tongue, but he can’t stop.

“And ‘Deku’ means someone who can’t do anything…”

“You did that to yourself! Leave me alone , you fucking hag! ” He explodes. “I didn’t ask for you to fucking nag me! I didn’t ask for your help! ” 


“I didn’t ask for you to be my mother!”


Mom goes silent, lips pressed into a harsh frown, her face pale as paper. Her chin wrinkles, her lower lip tremulous. She grips the edge of her skirt, her hands shaking. Tears well in her big emerald eyes. His eyes.

“Fine, Izuku.” Tears roll down her cheeks. “If that’s how you feel, I- I won’t nag you anymore.”

His chest is hollow as a skull.

“Mom, I-”

No, Izuku.” Her eyes are hard as steel despite the crocodile tears on her cheeks. “It’s clear that you- you don’t want me in your life.” 

“Deku, the Quirkless wonder…” 

“No, Mom, I-” but he can’t speak. The words that had flowed so freely, so fiery, are now stuck in his throat.

“It’s fine. I’ll try to stay out of your life from now on. No visits, no phone calls. You are an adult, after all. You can handle yourself.” She picks up her purse, packs up her stuff. 

The stars are falling from the sky. Hell is frozen as his heart. His mother is crying.

And it’s all his fault.

His mother smiles at him as she stands in the doorway, purse in one hand, the other on the doorknob. “Take care of yourself, Izuku.”

“I-” he finds his voice again. “I can’t promise that.”

Her smile hurts. Her eyes narrow softly with a kind gaze, but her brow is slanted sadly, looking pained.

“I love you, Izuku.” 

And then his mother is gone.

The house is silent — the dark and desolate house, full of ghosts that only he hears, stained with blood that only he sees. A ghost moans. 

“‘Deku’ means someone who can’t do anything…” 

And he is truly, terribly, thoroughly alone. 

His back hits the wall, his legs folding underneath him as he slides to the floor. His heart stutters in his chest. The shame comes first, clogging up his throat with apologies and cries. 

I made my own mother cry. 

The sadness comes second, surging up in a tsunami, so sudden and severe he doesn’t even see that he’s drowning.

I made Mom cry.

He lets out a wail as he buries his face in his hands. 

“I-I’m so fucking- so fucking useless,” he whimpers, voice quiet at first. “Mom was- was only trying to help and I- I made her cry.”

A sob tears out of his throat.

“Why did I yell at her!?” He shouts, demanding answers of himself. “Why am I so fucking useless!?” 

“Why don’t you take a dive off of the roof…?”

“She only wanted to help…!” He screams. “And I made her cry!” 

“Deku, the Quirkless wonder…”

“Why do I- Why am I like this?”

“‘Deku’ means someone who can’t do anything…” 

“Why am I- Why-” he sobs. “Why am I so useless?!” 

He’s fourteen again, collapsing at the base of a mountain, chest caving, blood pouring off him like a fountain. Tears stream from his eyes, wailing twisted cries of agony, fear, frustration— 

“It’s all your fault, Deku,” Katsuki whispers. 

“It is,” he whimpers, wiping rapidly at his eyes. “It is — it’s my fault that Kacchan- I couldn’t save Kacchan.”

“‘Deku’ means someone who can’t do anything.”

“And the Commission fucking benched me and I made my Mom cry, and I- I can’t- I-” he gasps for breath in-between his sobs. “I- I can’t do anything right!” 

“Why don’t you take a dive off of the roof…?”

Katsuki voice cuts sharp against his cries, his hissing voice venomous as a snake’s.

“Pray for a Quirk in your next life…” 

He forces himself to his feet, hiccuping and sobbing, and lumbers into the kitchen. Even after a glass of the strongest liquor he owns, Katsuki is still whispering, taunting him. Crying out to him.

“Don’t come, Deku.”

He closes his eyes and prays that the world will stop spinning.

“I’m sorry!”

He clasps his hands over his ears, letting out a low whine to drown out the noise, but Katsuki’s voice persists.

“And ‘Deku’ means someone who can’t do anything!”  

“Go away, go away, go away!” He whimpers.

“Why don’t you take a dive off the roof!?”

He fills another glass and downs it swiftly. His throat burns and his eyes water, but he cannot stop. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Go away, go away, go away!” He cries out.

“Don’t come, Deku!”

"Go away!"

Katsuki's voice echoes throughout the house, originating from more places than one. The Katsukis’ voices overlap and muddle until the sound is deafening, until Izuku is screaming, trying to drown it out.

“Someone who can’t do anything!” 

“Don’t come, Deku!”

He fumbles for the bottles of vodka, whiskey, and sake, downing each and every one in a blur of glugging and a burning throat. 

“Don’t come, Deku.” 

“I’m sorry!”

“Deku is someone who can’t do anything!”

He paces back and forth. He plugs his ears. 

“Why don’t you take a dive off the roof!”

He plays music. He sings. 

“And ‘Deku’ means someone who can’t do anything!”  

He screams

“It’s your fault!”

He screams, and it is not enough!

“Why don’t you just die?!” 

The world is melting and tilting, teetering on its side as he mishandles a bottle of champagne, struggling to get the cork off. The bottle slips from his hands and shatters. Jade shards scatter across the floor.

It’s quiet — one blissful moment. 

“Don’t come, Deku!” 

Katsuki’s screaming tears at his eardrums, but there was that one moment of silence. He grabs a glass, hurls it to the floor. It shatters with a shriek. The tinkling cacophony of the shards falling to the ground drowns out their voices.

“It’s all your fault!”

He grabs another bottle and pitches it at a cabinet, leaving a wine-red stain against the dark wood. 

“Why don’t you just die!?”  

His mind unravels, splitting at seams and ripping apart. His eardrums explode, his sanity splintering into a thousand jagged pieces. His psyche unspools like a ball of yarn, strewn over the floor in bloody strings. His heart catches fire, exploding out of his chest in a firestorm.  


He throws open the cupboard doors, grabbing wine glasses and shot glasses and mugs and flinging them indiscriminately. More and more and more and more until all he can hear is the screeching of glass breaking into a thousand shards as he shatters bottles and he shatters vases and he shatters fine china and he shatters windows and mirrors and skin and blood and bone- 

It’s all your fault It’s all your fault It’s all your fault It’s a  l  your f  It’s all your fault It’s all your fault It’s all your fault It’s all you  r fault It’s all your fault I     t’s all your   fault It’s all your fault It’s all your fault It’s all your fault It’s all your fault   It’s all your fau  It’s all your fault It’s all your fault It’s all your fault It’s   your fault It’s all your fault  It’s all your fault It’s all yOUR FAULT I  T’S ALL YOUR  FAULT IT’S ALL YOU R FAULT IT’S ALL YOUR FA ULT I T’S ALL YOUR FAULT 




I T 


A L L 

Y O U R 

F   A   U   L   T



















Thanks so much for reading!

Chapter Text









Katsuki’s parents spoil him to hell and back. 

He doesn’t even have to ask for anything. He implies that his quilt’s a bit too thin for his liking, and then his mother buys him a massive fluffy duvet covered in fireworks. His skin breaks out into an awful rash after taking a shower, and without even saying anything, his father replaces the soaps with sulfur-free sensitive-skin body washes. He offhandedly mentions that his laptop is seven years old, and there’s a new one, still in the box, sitting on his bed. 

He stares at it for a while, cross-legged on the opposite side of the bed. A new laptop. For years, he used old, half-broken phones that he thrifted or stole, their screens shattered and displays fuzzy. And now he’s got a brand-new laptop. 

He opens it. The thing is fucking razor thin — well, that’s an exaggeration, but it’s hardly the size of a notebook. The bottom cover, the keyboard, is covered in soft fabric. He gingerly opens it-

The keyboard fucking snaps off. 

What the hell? What kind of shitty product breaks as soon as it’s out of the box — oh, it’s reattached. The keyboard slips back into place at the base of the screen with a click. Seems magnetic. He turns it over in his hands, staring at the wide black screen, the grey keyboard. 

He spends the next hour or so just figuring out how it works — for one, the screen doesn’t stay open like most laptops; it has a kickstand in the back. The buttons, including the power button, are on top of the screen instead of on the side of the keyboard. The long charging cord plugs into the side of the screen. After fiddling with the setup for a bit, he realizes that the keyboard detaches to allow the laptop to convert into a tablet. 

He goes through the system set up, creating a new email address and setting passwords and preferences — in an hour, he’s aimlessly browsing the internet, unsure of what exactly to do with this new device. He hasn’t had a proper computer available to him for years. 

So he just catches up on the workings of the world that he missed (or couldn’t be bothered to care about) in the past seven years. Class 1-A has graduated (except for that shitty grape-head) and all become successful Pro-Heroes.

He tries not to let his jealousy upset his stomach.

Glasses Kid recently partnered up with a shoe company to release his own signature brand of sneakers and running shoes. He founded a charity, apparently, and hands out millions of yen on a monthly basis. The media’s fucking eating it up, calling him ‘the kindest man in the world.’

Shitty Hair got his own shade of hair dye and a bajillion magazine interviews, ask well as another trillion magazine covers where he’s in various states of undress (because it’s fucking impossible for him to keep his shirt on, apparently). 

(Katsuki tries not to let his heart shrivel and die when he sees pictures of Ei and that electric idiot together.)

Round Face is apparently the fan favorite of the hero world. “People are drawn to her amiable and cheerful personality,” one article says, which might explain the buttload of interview videos she’s appeared in, always giggling and smiling like a fool. On hero forums, her fans speculate about her relationship — they were dating? — with Glasses Kid.

Half-and-Half is at the Number Five spot, and after the whole media circus, people are expecting him to take the Number One spot after Deku. Oh, Deku.

Number One Hero for four years running (holy shit) after obtaining the title in his debut year (again, holy shit) and never letting go. A spitting image of All Might in a world still reeling from his loss, his unwavering presence and sheer effectiveness a comfort to civilians (at least, that’s what this article says). 

But combined with the whole media circus around Katsuki’s own rescue and his recent behavior, his approval ratings have been dropping. Some say he rendered the villain whose back he broke quadriplegic — hero forums are in flames as they debate if he was justified or not. 

And he’s dropped in rank. He dropped out of the top five. From Number One to Number Seven. Seven places. 

The hero news websites and daytime talk shows are already talking about it, raving on and on — and Deku’s still on leave, so he can’t even do anything about it. 

Katsuki remembers Deku, bright-eyed, eager, urgent, burning with the same wild ambition that Katsuki once had. 

I’m gonna become the Number One Hero! 

And now, that dream, like Katsuki’s, was laying in pieces...


I think he might need someone to do that for him again.


He stands up, possessed by a sudden, urgent compulsion. He moves without thinking, legs marching out his bedroom of their own accord. It’s a bad idea, really, but he can’t find it in him to stop.

“What is it, Katsuki?” his mother asks as he bursts into the living room and abruptly grabs the landline phone. 

“What’s Deku’s phone number?”

“Why?” She scoffs. “You worried about him? Inko said he came back home on Thursday. Said he’s fine… Or least, somewhat. She was pretty vague about it.” 

“Doesn’t matter, what is it?” He snaps.

“Fine, it’s +81-412-2XX-XXXX ,” she huffs. “Grumpy little shit.”

“Hag,” he shoots back. She smiles. 

He punches in the number. The phone rings. And rings. 

And rings.

“Hey, I’m not able to come to the phone right now, leave a message.” It beeps. 

Shit. He tries again. 

It rings and rings and rings — “Hey, I’m not able to come to th-” — he hangs up and tries again.

"Hey, I’m not able to-” He hangs up. Tries again. 

It rings. And rings and rings. And rings. He almost hangs up again.

And then he hears a click. Katsuki holds his breath. It’s dead silent. His heart hammers in his chest. His mouth is dry and cracked as desert sand.

“The fuck is it?” Deku mumbles over the phone. 

His heart stutters in his chest. What the fuck am I doing? What do I say?

“Hi, D-Deku,” he starts. Don’t be scared. It’s just Deku.


“Ye- yeah… It’s Katsuki.”

“Why’d ya call m’?” Deku garbles, each word running into each other like a slurry. He must be drunk.

He’s not sure why. “I was worried.”

“What…? Why?” 

“I saw the hero rankings.” 

“Ah, s’you saw that…” Deku slurs, sounding grim. “Guess e’eryone’s seen it by now…”

Deku’s silent for a long, long time, a minute trickling by slowly as syrup. 

And then Katsuki hears crying. 

“You-you were right, Kacchan,” Deku whimpers. “I can’t do anything.”

“No, no I wasn’t,” he whispers. “You became the Number One Hero. I ended up being the one who couldn’t do shit.” 

“I’m no-not even a hero anymore, Kacchan!” 

“Suspensions aren’t permanent.” 

“It doesn’t matter!” Deku shrieks. “I-I’m not Number One anymore, and I-I-” Deku cuts off sharply, gasping for breath like a drowning man. Katsuki hears torn sobs over the phone, a warbling cry. 

“It’s all my fault, is all my fault, all my fault, my fault, my fault, my fault my fault my fault-” He loops in a whisper, a mantra, an undeniable fact. 

“Deku, are you okay?” 

“My fault my fault my fault-” 

“Deku, can you hear me?” 



Deku falls silent. 

“Izu… ku…?” He whispers. All he can hear on the line is heavy, ragged breathing, like the rattling of chains. 

“I… should’ve… listened…” 

“Izuku? What are you talking about?” 

“Dive off… the roof…” 

Why don’t you take a dive off the roof and pray for a Quirk in your next life!?

Katsuki’s blood goes cold. 

“Izuku- Izuku, listen to me — that was years ago. I was an insecure idiot and I tried to make myself feel better by making you feel words. I was a dumbass. It was a dumb thing I said.” 


“Izuku? Izuku, please don’t hurt yourself.” Keep him talking. Talking means he’s alive.

“Too late for that …”


“Shut up!” 

Katsuki’s jaw clicks shut, his hands clammy and cold, heart pounding. 

“It-It hurts, Kacchan… It hurts s’much… I want it to stop. Make it stop!” 

“Izuku, what’s wrong?” 

“I should’ve listened!"  

“Izuku, what’s wrong!? No one can help you unless you tell someone what’s wrong.” 

He hears a crash, the tinkling screech of something delicate shatter. Deku says nothing, humming absentmindedly. 


“Don’ worry,” Deku says, his voice calm, controlled, as if he was stating a fact, something he knew with complete certainty. “‘Shouldn’ waste energy worryin’ ‘bout me. Not worth it. Besides—”  

“—It’ll be over soon.”

The line goes dead. Panic explodes in his chest.

“Mom!” He cries. “Mom, we have to go!”

“What is it?”

“We need to get to Deku’s house, now!” 

“Why? What did he say?”

“We have to go! And call Auntie Inko!” 

His mother’s face falls. “What’s happened to Izuku?” 

Words burn in his throat. His skin brittle and cold, his face pale as a sheet. 


“He’s going to kill himself.” 
















Thanks so much for reading! 

Chapter Text



















It’s your fault.

I know. 

It’s your fault.

I know. 

It’s your fault. 

I know.







Means someone


Can’t do




Anything at all. 







̶̦̱̞̲̠̠̜͌̊̄͑̽͑̇̚“̷̨̡̛̼̮͎̝̤̯̮̰̈́̆̍͑̃̌̋̚͠D̸͓̉͊͌̅́̄͌̐̌͑̋͠ͅo̶̡̝̝̘̜͖̲̭̜̿̾̑̇̏͑͒͝n̷͎̟̈́̀͠’̸̡̪͙̘͍̝͔̍͌̃̊̎͊̅͂͆̚͘͜͝t̵̛̛͕̳̓͆̽̎̊̾̏͗̏́́͘ ̶͇̟̠͈͉̗͔̦͈͎͇͛͒͜͜c̶̢̧̡̥̫̟̗̲̖̤͖͓̦̄͛̑̈́͒͝͝ö̶̻́͋̏͋̽̐̓́͝m̴̢̛͙̭͕̰̃͊̔̎̽͘͜e̴̡͕͇͉̰̭̩̫̹̯͍̖̝̽́͜͜,̶̣̺̤̤͎̂̄ ̴̳̤̞̥͖͙̗̩͔͖́͛͋̅̏̏̃̅̅̓̐̒͜͜͝͝D̶̥͋̓̅ę̸̤̼͉͕̯̪̲̼̫̕k̸͉͉̳͔̥̏̊͗̈́̉̏̀̾͗͌́u”







This is your fault.






̴̡͉͕̥̲̞̗̠̬̟̪̭͚̻̭͛̓͛̄͛̍̓̇̾͝͝“̴̣̥͓̖͕̬̓͊͛̇͊̏͑̿̌̀̈̚͝͝I̴͔̟̙̝̥̙͓͉̾'̵̛̞͍͇̘̇͊̐͛̈́̅̍̃̋͛̾̚̚m̷͉̰͈̣̰̼̜̩̩̺͕̆̈́̒ ̶̗̥̘̟̃̈́̅͒̆̒̐̚͝͝s̶̖̿ǒ̸̖̤̈̐͆̒̆̂̉͘ŗ̴̢̡̠͎̇̉̐͜r̵̢̧̻͙̯̥͖̦̩͙͎̂̓̌̔́̈̑͠͠ÿ̷̜̱͐̔͜!̶̳̰͔̳̎̋̕"̴̬͎͇̜̂̓̾͗́̔̆̇̽̅́̾̕͝* 




















He can’t .


He can’t .


He can’t!

He can’t!

He can’t breathe!






A brown bottle has all the answers.

An orange tube has the cure.

It just takes one, maybe two pills

It just takes one, maybe two drinks

Maybe three, maybe four, maybe five

Maybe six maybe seven maybe eight maybe nine

Maybe ten maybe eleven maybe twelve maybe thirteen maybe fourteen maybe fifteen

Maybe sixteen maybe seventeen maybe eighteen maybe nineteen maybe twenty maybe twenty-one maybe twenty-two maybe twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty forty fifty sixty seventy eight nine ten eleven twelve— 


"̸͉̘̩̻̯̰̽̉Ĭ̸͓͝t̴̢̩͓̒̒́̃́͐̄̒͂̉̋͝͝'̷̨̛̹̘̣̙͎̠̠͔̺̼̺̖͈̰̄̈́̀s̵̢͈̹̞̖̺̱͉͇̙̜̰͕̽͂͗̐ͅ ̸̢̞̹̖͉͕̘̯̟̜̘̞̻̐̇̀̍̔̕y̶̯̘͔̻͍̦͕̻͓̠͒̆̅͛̒̓̅͜ŏ̵̰͕̙̳̻͈̌̈̉̃̔͂̎́̈́̃̚͜ů̸͇̝̣̭̹̂͑͒̂̾̈́ͅr̷̢̛͉̦̙̞͎̲̠̗͙̠̞͉͌̈̇͑̏̀͐͒̈́̋͘ͅͅ ̷̡͔̯̳̱͉̭̥̹̗̞̞̻͈̦̒̉̂͠f̷̤̖̼͙͓͉̺͚̜̞͔̭̓́̒́̕͝ä̷͉́̃̔͑̉̿̑̈ú̴̺͙͕̓̀̃̈́̅̆͂̄̇͗͌͘͘͠l̸̨̛̗̗̙̣͙͍̥͈̯̗̰t̸̳̩̄͆̂̌͑̇͝!̶̨̨̺̪͎̅͆̃͂͂͜"̴͖͉͙͈̣̣͙̙̻̻̞͋̇̂́͂̓̊






He has a new crunchy new carpet

It tinkles where he walks

Turns red where he walks

Hurts where he walks

But it’s okay.

He deserves it, this pain. 

He deserves it.

He deserves it.

He deserves it. He deserves it.

He deserves it. He deserves it. He deserves it.

He deserves it because










It’s your fault                                          

                                                                       It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.                                                                       

                                                           It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.                                         

                               It’s your fault.

      I t's your fault.

It’s your fa   ult.                                      

                        It’s your fault .

It’s your fault.                 

          I it's your fault.

It’s your fault.           

           It’s your fault.

 It’s your fault.  

    It’s your fault

I it's your fault.

It’s your fault .

It’s your fault.


It’s all your fault .






















Katsuki died that day. 


It's your turn.






















Thanks so much for reading!