Work Text:
Izuku sits by a hospital bed, all alone. The room is quiet. The doctors and nurses have left and closed the door behind them.
Their apologies and condolences are still suspended in the air, echoing loudly between his ears.
Izuku stares at the covered body before him and sees a hand peeking out of the blanket. Without thinking, he reaches for it.
It's still warm.
Izuku squeezes, as hard as he could, his fingers digging into that pale flesh, deep enough to leave marks, perhaps even unwittingly breaking some bones.
And yet, no matter what he does, the hand won't squeeze back.
Time passes. Izuku can't tell how long he's been sitting there, but the hospital room had grown dark and the hand he was holding had become quite cold.
Suddenly, the door slides open. Izuku turns around just in time for arms to wrap around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.
"I'm sorry I'm late," a familiar voice rumbles against the crown of his head. "I tried to leave as soon as I got the news but one of the villains we apprehended from the raid got free and I was ordered to chase him down… fuck, I should've let someone else handle it, I should've been here when she—" his voice cracked. "I'm so sorry."
Izuku doesn't say anything as he settles against that pillowy chest he knew so well.
It's warm. So warm. Izuku shifts and presses his ear closer until he hears the steady beat of a living heart.
Alive. This body is /alive./
But the one on the bed isn't.
"Deku?"
A hand guides his chin up, and Izuku sees the face of the man he loves.
"Kacchan," he whispers. His voice sounds strange in his ears. It's weak and distant like he's shouting across a void and his own words are echoing back to him. "She's gone."
Izuku sees his husband's face fall into despair as he looks at the covered body on the bed. Then his gaze drops to the pale hand still trapped in Izuku's white-knuckled grip.
"Deku," Katsuki whispers, his hand sliding over Izuku's. "Let her go."
Izuku holds on more tightly, the stubborn part of him still hoping for a miracle. He believes he's owed at least one. After everything he had done. After everyone he had saved and lost.
Just one more miracle, he barters.
But the hand remains limp and cold in his grasp.
"Izuku." Katsuki cups his cheeks, forcing him to meet his pained gaze. "You need to let her go."
Izuku closes his eyes. His free hand curls over his chest. It's getting a little hard to breathe.
"Why?" He asks.
Why did this happen?
How could it happen?
His mom was one of the strongest people he knew.
The last time Izuku saw her, Inko was at her peak of health, strong enough to bake Izuku a whole cake for his birthday almost a month ago.
Strawberry cream. Izuku's favorite.
But just that morning, Inko left Izuku a voice message, informing him that she was going to the hospital for a check-up.
Her heart felt strange, she said. But she told him not to worry.
People her age had odd chest pains all the time. She's a retired nurse. She knows what she's talking about.
"I'll be fine, honey," she insisted. "I'll see you this weekend!"
That was the last time Izuku heard her voice.
The next call he received came from the hospital a few hours later. Izuku had been in the middle of an important meeting when his phone rang. He almost didn't answer it at first.
The doctor on the other end of the call told him that his mom was in the ICU.
Massive heart attack. Multi-organ failure. She was rapidly declining.
The doctor's words didn't make any sense.
Failure? Declining?
But she was his mom.
She was one of the strongest people he knew.
She’ll be fine.
She said so herself.
But the doctor insisted that Izuku should go to the hospital as soon as possible.
"We've done everything we could, but it all happened so quickly. We don't know how long we can keep her stable," he explained.
He was joking.
He had to be.
She was going to be fine.
She said so herself. She said they'll see each other again that weekend.
And his mom never lies.
But Izuku arrived at the hospital a few minutes too late.
He didn't get to say goodbye.
"Hey, let's get some air."
Katsuki lifts him back to his feet. The movement knocks his mom's hand from Izuku's grasp, but before he could reach for it again, Katsuki quickly steers him towards the door.
Outside, a nurse tries to approach them with paperwork but Katsuki waves her away.
"Later," he grumbles, snaking an arm around Izuku's waist, pulling him close.
"But sir we need to—"
"I don't care what you fucking need!" he snaps angrily. "We'll deal with all that shit later. Get the hell out of our way before I explode that damn chart!"
Izuku sees the nurse trembling in fear. On another day, he would have felt sorry for her; after all, she was just trying to do her job. She didn't deserve that kind of treatment.
But at the moment, Izuku feels too numb to care.
They pass through the lobby and Izuku spots the hospital cafe, still open. He pauses when he sees one of the cakes on display.
Strawberry cream. Izuku's favorite.
"Deku?" Katsuki follows his gaze and seems to understand instantly. "Let's get you somewhere quiet first, okay?" He nudges him towards the door. Izuku lets himself be dragged away.
They step outside and make their way to the park across the street. It’s almost dusk and thankfully, there was no one there. Still, Katsuki sets Izuku down on the most secluded bench in the area.
The air is crisp and cool. Colder now, as the season shifts to autumn. It’s quiet—well, quiet enough for a haven in the middle of a busy city. Izuku can hear the distant honks of passing cars and the noise of a commercial news chopper overhead.
Telltale sounds of people going through their daily lives.
The world did not stop when Midoriya Inko died, even if Izuku felt it did.
Katsuki takes off his jacket and drapes it over Izuku's shoulders, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead before he runs back to the hospital cafe.
Izuku watches his husband until he disappears beyond the hospital doors. Then he turns his gaze to the sky.
There is an ache inside him that he can't explain. It's nothing like the pain from shredded flesh or broken bones. There was no sharpness to this one, no sting or burn—just an inexplicable hurt steeped into his very soul, ebbing and flaring with every breath he takes.
He wants to scream, but the lump in his throat barely lets him speak.
Katsuki returns with a small box in hand. He sits beside Izuku, and Izuku immediately melts against him, his body hungry for warmth. He rests his head on Katsuki's shoulder.
“Do you wanna eat it now?”
Izuku closes his eyes and hums. When he opens them again, there’s a perfect slice of strawberry cream cake in front of him.
Katsuki takes a piece and raises the fork to Izuku’s lips. Izuku frowns.
“I can feed myself, Kacchan.”
“I know,” Katsuki replies, still not giving him the fork.
Izuku sees the look on his husband’s face and understands. He takes a bite.
It was delicious, which didn’t make any sense.
His mom was gone. The world should be cold and gray. Food should taste like cardboard in his mouth.
But this cake was delicious. Almost as good as the one his mom baked for him. She promised to give Katsuki the recipe. Did he receive it? Was it written down somewhere in her house? Will they find it once they go there and start packing up everything she’s owned since she was alive?
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Izuku shakes his head and swallows.
“No.”
That was a lie. He wants to talk, he just couldn’t find the words.
So he lets silence settle between them instead. Izuku holds on to the sound of Katsuki’s breathing and the feeling of his calloused thumb running over Izuku’s knuckles as he gently but firmly squeezes Izuku’s hand.
A simple gesture, but it’s enough to ground him; to keep him from drowning in the ocean of things he wished he had told his mom before she left.
To say that he’s been blindsided was an understatement. A child never likes to think of a parent’s death no matter how inevitable it is, but in Izuku’s case, he honestly thought his mom would outlive him.
Dying young was an occupational hazard many pro-heroes faced. Izuku only knew a handful who reached the age of retirement.
A part of him wonders if his mom is relieved, wherever she is now. She always did say that Izuku dying before she did was her greatest fear.
A mother should never have to bury her child, she had said. It’s not the natural order of things. It’s not how things are meant to be.
But how was /her/ death natural or fair? Midoriya Inko was only in her early sixties. She lived a reasonably peaceful life. Gran Torino had been much older when he died. By all accounts, Inko still had decades ahead of her, decades she could’ve spent by Izuku’s side.
A rustle catches his attention. He searches for its source and finds a nest on a low branch right above them. He watches the mother bird tend to her cluster of hatchlings.
The ache in his chest grows.
"She never got to meet them.”
"Meet who?"
"The kids," Izuku replies, watching the hatchlings chirp excitedly when the mother bird brings them a dead cricket to eat.
They were supposed to have dinner at the Bakugous' house that upcoming weekend. He and Katsuki had intended to tell their parents about their plan to adopt Katsuma and Mahoro, a pair of siblings they had saved from a human trafficking ring they busted last month.
“She would’ve loved them so much.”
“And they would’ve loved her too,” Katsuki adds. “I bet she would have been their favorite grandma.”
Izuku chuckles drily. “Really? I think Mahoro and Auntie Mitsuki will get along well. She’s a lot like you.”
Katsuki snorts. “As if. The old hag and I never get along. She’s fucking crazy.”
Izuku closes his eyes and rests his head back on Katsuki’s shoulder. “But you love her anyway.”
Katsuki grows silent.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I do. And I loved Auntie Inko too. I owe her so much, for forgiving me for everything I had done to you; for giving me her blessing.” He squeezes Izuku’s hand. Their wedding rings gleam under the moonlight.
“I never got to tell her that.”
Izuku hums and squeezes his hand back. “I’m sure she knew, Kacchan. Mom loved you almost as much as I do.”
“I just wish that I—that we,” Katsuki’s voice breaks. “I wish we had more time.” Izuku opens his eyes and meets his husband’s watery gaze. He can see it, that same havoc sea of repressed emotions building behind cracking walls. Inko might not be Katsuki’s mother, but she had been his mom all the same. He hurts as much as Izuku does.
He has lost as much as Izuku did.
Izuku doesn’t know why he finds comfort in this—realizing that the pain he felt wasn’t something he felt alone.
Perhaps there’s some truth behind the saying “Misery loves company.”
Or maybe he’s just relieved that the person he loves most in the world understands what he’s going through.
"When your heart breaks, pray for rain."
Katsuki frowns at him, confused. "What?"
"That's something she told me once,” Izuku answers, looking up. “When you feel like crying, pray that it’ll rain so you can cry as much as you need to without the world seeing your tears.”
Katsuki follows his gaze to the cloudless sky.
The hour grows late. The evening breeze turns cold.
Everyone else should be rushing home by now, eager to return to their loved ones and families.
Maybe a few will feel a strange tugging in their chest and pick up the phone.
“Hey mom,” they’ll say. “I know this came out of nowhere but I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
They don’t know what compelled them to call. They don’t know about the two men seated on a park bench across town.
The men who are sharing a perfect slice of strawberry cream cake between them.
They look up at the clear night sky, the stars gleaming brightly above them.
And together, they pray for rain.