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Katsuki comes to the roof often.
It’s become a habit over the past few months. He doesn’t want to call it an escape because that would mean that he’s running away from something, and he’d be caught dead before caught running away.
Ironic, though, wasn’t it? He wallowed in his regret, his anger, and followed the scent of his mistakes onto the roof where the worst of them all taunted him at the edge. A command, spewed in acrid insecurity. Superiority. Cruelty.
He tossed a pebble over his shoulder and didn’t turn around to watch. He’d done that the first week, then grown tired of watching the tiny stones disappear over the edge and not being able to follow them. Well, able was the wrong word. It wouldn’t take much to walk over and throw himself off if he so wanted to. When he wanted to.
The edge taunted him with a sneer, and the cold wind grappled on his shirt, pulling him toward open air. He grabbed a pebble and threw it again.
It had become a habit, coming up here when the thoughts in his head got too loud. When the noise of his classmates' incessant babbling became too much. When he found himself falling into his own mind, drowning in the darkness that awaited him. This is where he came.
His place was on the furthest edge, looking west. He’d started skipping classes just to sit here and watch the sun set. Those days were cold as winter drew near, and his ears rang from the reprimands of his teachers, but he never stopped coming. It was calm. Stable. Nothing pressured him. And still the edge called him.
He remembered big, round eyes glistening above an assortment of freckles. A lip that trembled and shoulders that hunched up, a figure that flinched when Katsuki raised his hand. The version of Izuku he remembered was so far from the boy he saw now strolling through the halls with his head high and his voice unapologetic as he rambled to Round Face and Class Rep about who knows what. Katsuki watched him often, following in his steps, feeling a heaviness set deep in his limbs as he followed alone, hands in his pockets, head down. This was how it had always been meant to be, how his life would have gone if he had decided not to be the person he’d been in middle school.
If deep down, he wasn’t always destined to be a villain.
The sun had set hours ago. It was the first time Katsuki had stayed out this late. Stars twinkled in the sky, and there were no clouds to be seen to the horizon. He was alone. The world was watching.
The paper in his hands was neatly folded. He’d cut it from a school notebook, following the edges and smoothing out the lines. He’d had to redo it more times than he could count, nervous blasts from his palms turning the paper brown and then black until the words written on it were nothing but incomprehensible giggles. It was like his Quirk was trying to be rid of the evidence, ward off the rotting weakness in him. Just like it always had.
He’d rewritten them enough times that the letter was ingrained in his brain. The thought of it made every thrum of his heart feel heavy. He was glad to be rid of it soon.
“Is this what you felt like?” he asked no one in particular, whispering the question where the wind could pick it up and whisk it away. “Did you ever think about doing it?”
Well, Izuku, here we are. Only this time our roles are reversed. I wonder if you’ll try to save me this time.
A section of his letter was for his parents. His heart ached at the thought of leaving him, and he knew they’d spent the rest of their lives wondering what they did wrong. What they had missed.
They had missed all of it, missed how he had grown into a terror to be around. A heartless asshole who hurt and tore down people around him. They had missed the signs that he was nothing but. . . Nothing but. . .
Nothing but a villain.
They’d understand it was for the best. With heroes like his classmates going out into the hero world in just a few short years, the world would do fine. He left them messages, too. Told them not to blame themselves because if there’s one thing the people in U.A’s hero course had in common, it was their adamant desire to take everything on their plate. Every disaster, every attack, every mistake.
This wasn’t a mistake. He’d made sure to let them know. This was Katsuki’s choice. He wanted to be gone.
He brushed a hand over his cheeks, feeling warm tears smear over his palm. Once, he might have thought them a sign of weakness. Then he had seen the strongest person he knew cry, over and over again. Seen him rise into his fear and doubt and flourish. No, these tears weren’t cowardly, but they came from one.
They deserved a proper goodbye. He knew he should have gone to them, told them what he was going to do. Let them make their peace.
But they’d try to stop him. Pin him down, call the teachers. And he’d have to explain to his parents how he failed them because they failed him, and he’d have to stare his teachers in the eye and see their pity and their disappointment. And he’d have to look at Izuku, who looked up at him like he was a shining star and not a black hole tearing apart everything U.A was meant to be.
No. It had to be like this.
Katsuki took his time, pulling off his shoes and setting him over the note to keep it from flying away. He pulled his tie from around his neck, smiling a little at the thought that he’d never worn it properly. Perhaps they’d put him in a properly tied tie at his funeral. He wondered if his mother would tie it.
He set the tie next to his shoes and rose. The cold air of the night was brisk against his skin, and cold fingers slithered under his open collar. Sweat coated his palms, like his body was getting ready to fly him into the air. Not tonight. No, tonight he would fall.
Aizawa-sensei would blame himself.
Katsuki stepped closer to the edge.
Their teacher had taken it upon himself to protect the class, to take every student under his wing. He had even looked at Katsuki with that confusing mix of disdain and unyielding care that made his stomach twist and his heart race. He and All Might would take it the hardest and probably blame themselves. He’d said all he could in the letter to ease their guilt. There was nothing more he could do.
Kirishima would lose it.
Katsuki’s foot faltered, but he continued to the edge and came to a stop. The wind picked up and billowed his shirt, pushing him toward the drop.
Kirishima would hate him for this. For leaving him, for not letting him help. He wouldn’t understand that there was nothing to be done with a hopeless case like Katsuki. No matter how much guidance he gave, no matter how many bro hugs he received, the rot was set deep in Katsuki’s bones, and all he would ever do was make everyone around him sick.
His best friend would hate him and still be there for the others. Kaminari wouldn’t smile for weeks. Sero probably wouldn’t leave his room. Mina would try to arrange them get-togethers, but no one would have the energy to go.
The street lights of U.A shone golden in the air. In the distance, the lights from Musutafu made the stars dim. He wondered if his parents were asleep. If they were waking up to their morning routines when they got the call. Who would call, anyway? Aizawa? All Might? Nedzu? Did it matter when the news wouldn’t change?
He stepped onto the edge.
The ground was a dizzying distance away. He faced the view with a small smile. With the air blowing around him and his clothes loose and unrestrained, it almost felt like he was stretching his wings, preparing. A swan dive.
How ironic.
Izuku would never call himself a hero after this.
Katsuki’s step faltered.
He’d never call himself a hero once the news was broken to the class. One For All would be a curse instead of a gift; he’d make it out to be a thing he didn’t deserve. Because if he couldn’t save Katsuki with his Quirk, what was the use of having one?
No, Izuku, Katsuki thought. You’re wrong. You’re not a hero.
The stars twinkled. The moon was yet to rise over the horizon.
“You’re my hero,” he whispered his confession to the wind. The wind replied, wrapping around him as he tilted forward. Weighless bliss came over his body, and he closed his eyes.
“Kacchan?”
Katsuki’s eyes blew open, and his head whipped around.
Izuku stood on the roof, eyes wide and frightened like a child’s. He was wearing nothing but his night clothes, a pale blue T-shirt, and dark shorts. His hair was rumpled, like he’d clambered out of bed, and his cheeks were red. Like he’d run here. Like he’d known.
Katsuki didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t need to. Izuku looked at the edge just inches behind his heels, then looked back up at him. “What are you doing?”
A lump was stuck in his throat. He had it all written out in the letters; he knew every word by heart, and yet here, staring into his childhood best friend’s eyes, he was mute.
Izuku took a step forward. Katsuki took an inch back. Both froze.
Izuku’s hand was halfway outstretched. He was breathing in short bursts, eyes flicking between Katsuki and the edge behind him. “Don’t. . . Kacchan, you. . .”
And Katsuki couldn’t help but smile, a weak, pitiful thing. Just like he was.
“You’re always following me, aren’t you, nerd?”
The night waited silently, letting years pass in seconds. Nothing moved as Izuku’s eyes flicked to the neatly put-away shoe and tie and the letter folded beneath them. It was like watching a weight crush him, curling his strong shoulders and breaking his spirit. Katsuki had seen it before. He had been the reason for it, far too many times before.
“I’m sorry.”
It came out in a broken, choked voice he’d learned to recognize as his own. He hid it behind insults and a bravado that was made by pushing others down. But that weak, fragile voice was his, and he hated how the version of himself he hated, the truest version he could show anyone, made Izuku flinch.
“You weren’t meant to see this.”
He could feel the air behind him, felt the night reaching out to pull him into the darkness. He wanted to follow. He was going to. But he had to apologize first.
“I told you to do it,” he said, a sob building up deep in his chest. “I didn’t mean it, not even then, but. . . I was too much of a coward to face the fact that you were more of a hero then than I would ever amount to be.” Izuku was shaking his head, taking another step forward, and Katsuki held out his palm, halting him. He shook his head, and tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Kacchan, please,” Izuku tried, his voice quiet like trying to coax an animal or direct someone to diffuse a bomb. Katsuki was a bomb that needed to be diffused. Only he had gone far beyond diffusing. Destruction was inevitable. “Get away from the ledge.”
“All Might was right to choose you,” Katsuki continued. The wind was picking up. The night was mad. He had promised to belong to it tonight. But before all else, he would always belong to Izuku. “You were the right person for One For All. You’re a hero. You’re my hero, you hear me?”
You’re my hero. But it’s no longer up to you to save me.
“Kacchan.” Izuku was crying now. Somehow, that was all Katsuki knew how to make him do.
“You’re better than the best of us, Izu,” Katsuki said, and leaning back on the old nickname felt so easy. Like he’d always been meant to use it. How many years had he lost to calling Izuku worthless when he could have been calling him this? “You’re strong. You’re true. You inspire people.” Tears dripped down his chin to his neck. “You inspire me. But you can’t fix something that’s fundamentally broken.”
“You’re not broken,” Izuku sobbed, stepping forward again. He was close, almost to Katsuki’s things. He couldn’t let this go on longer. “You’re Kacchan, you’re. . . You’re the strongest person I know. You’re amazing. So please, get down from the edge. We’ll go inside, I’ll—We’ll just sit down and talk, okay? Please, Kacchan.”
Katsuki said nothing, just stared into those big, green eyes. Ingrained every detail in his brain in case death let him keep something from his life.
“You’ll be great, Deku,” he whispered. Cold arms wrapped around him, pulling him back. The wind whistled. Katsuki stepped off the ledge.
There was a flash of turquoise, a scream that ripped through the air. A hand reached out, close enough for him to grab, and for a moment, he was back at the river, soaked to his knees in the water, staring up at innocent, selfless eyes. An outstretched hand. He wants to grab it. He should have all those years ago.
It’s too late now.
Still, as the hand missed and he fell over the edge, he let himself reach out. He stared into the green eyes, at the outstretched fingers, and let himself imagine. What life would have been like if he had left the river with Izuku’s hand in his. Would the rot inside him have been healed? Would it have festered under his skin, proof that no matter his choice that day, he was destined for nothing but harm? Would he have amounted to something, been a hero, a friend? Could he have become a hero?
Katsuki wasn't a dreamer. But for a moment, he let himself imagine.