Chapter Text
"The first morning of vacation arrived at U.A. with a silence that felt almost physical.
Katsuki woke up at five thirty, as always, and for a moment he lay in the large bed of his apartment, staring at the dark ceiling while listening to… nothing. Just the icy silence of December and the heavy sound of his own breathing.
It was Saturday.
Classes had ended on Friday afternoon. The students had already left the campus, returning to their homes, families, year-end trips. U.A. was entering that strange state of pause – empty hallways, dormant buildings, life suspended.
And, more importantly:
The Brew& Co. didn't open on Saturdays.
No coffee to leave.
No office to discreetly reach by six forty-five.
No excuse to cross the campus before dawn.
The absence of the ritual hurt more than Katsuki had expected.
In the last few days, as the holidays approached, a dull anxiety had been building in his chest. Tuesday and Thursday coffee had become a reference point, an anchor. Something small, concrete, that he could do without invading, without demanding. A silent gesture that said, without words: I'm still here.
Now, with the start of the holidays, that anchor had simply vanished.
He got up,his feet meeting the cold floor of the high-end apartment he had never really called home. Shower. Clothes. Mechanical movement. Everything automatic.
The apartment was spacious, modern, expensive. Large windows, minimalist furniture, a privileged view of the still-sleeping city. A place any magazine would call a dream.
But there was nothing there that was truly his.
No photos. No mementos. No signs of shared life. Just his hero jacket hanging behind the door and a half-forgotten suitcase in the corner of the bedroom.
Functional.Impersonal. Empty.
That's how the last eight months had been.
Empty spaces. Empty silences. A life that felt more like waiting than existing.
The memory came without asking for permission.
The "here" was their old apartment, their home.
The photos on the walls, graduation, the agency's inauguration, family birthdays. The plants Izuku insisted on caring for and that Katsuki pretended to hate (but never let die). The books scattered over every possible surface. The constant smell of coffee, the lotion Izuku used, the cake his mom sent on holidays.
Life.
There had been life there.
Here, only absence.
Katsuki took a deep breath, forcefully pushing the thought away. Staying still wasn't an option. Stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant sinking.
He grabbed his thickest coat and left.
The icy December air hit him full force when he left the building.Without thinking too much, he started to run.
The surroundings of U.A. were strangely quiet on that Saturday morning. The snow from the previous week still covered the lawns, dirty at the edges of the paths, untouched in the open spaces. The sky was a metallic gray, heavy, promising more cold.
Katsuki ran with no defined destination, skirting the academy's walls, passing along the outer paths he knew by heart. The sound of his own footsteps crushing the snow was too loud in the morning silence.
Without the coffee ritual, his mind was left free, and that was dangerous.
What if I hadn't said those things?
What if I had stayed?
What if, when he told me to leave, I had refused to go?
Useless questions. Katsuki knew that. The past was an immutable country, its borders fixed by acts and words that couldn't be undone. He'd learned that lesson brutally and definitively over the last eight months. You couldn't go back in time. You could only try to build something new on the wreckage.
But, God, how he wanted to go back. How he'd give anything to be in that room again, that night, and do things differently. To listen instead of explode. To speak instead of attack. To stay instead of leave.
He slowed down as he passed the administrative building, his gaze automatically rising to the windows of Izuku's office.
Dark.
Of course they were.Izuku would be at home. Or with his mother. With people. With warmth. With something that resembled a real Christmas.
Katsuki had no plans for Christmas.
His mother had called.Insisted. Sent too many messages.
"Come home."
"Don't be alone."
He hadn't replied.
Going home would mean facing tables that were too full, chairs that were too empty, traditions that would scream the name of the one who wasn't there.
It would be worse than being alone in the neutral silence of his own apartment.
Better the void than the constant reminder of what had been lost.
He stopped near the U.A. gates, panting, the vapor of his breath rising in the cold air. On the other side of the walls, Musutafu was beginning to wake up. Cars. Lights. People going about their lives.
And him there.
An international-level hero, standing before an empty campus, orbiting the absence of someone who might never want to see him again.
The irony was bitter.
Katsuki Bakugou, who always charged ahead without hesitation, was now measuring steps, schedules, silences. Leaving coffee and waiting. Waiting without knowing if there would be a response.
"You're humiliating yourself," his mind whispered, in the rough voice that sounded like his own but older, more tired. "The great Bakugou Katsuki, begging for crumbs."
He clenched his teeth.
It wasn't humiliation.
It was responsibility.
He had broken something precious. And fixing broken things required patience, consistency, and time. It required swallowing his pride and doing what was right, not what was easy.
The coffee had just been the beginning.
Now, with the holidays, he needed to find another way.
Another plan.
And this time, he didn't intend to give up."
The last teachers' meeting before the holidays was the following Monday. Katsuki arrived early, as he always did for any professional commitment, and positioned himself near the window, away from the main table. He watched the other teachers arrive – Aizawa with his sleeping bag as if expecting to fall asleep at any moment, Present Mic with his usual enthusiasm slightly dampened by end-of-semester fatigue, Midnight with a tired but genuine smile.
He was looking for a specific silhouette. And when the door opened and Izuku entered, followed by Iida gesturing animatedly about something related to next semester's schedule, Katsuki's heart gave a dull thud against his ribs.
He looks tired, was the first thought, quick and involuntary. Thinner. The bags under his eyes are deeper. He's not sleeping.
The second thought was more complex, a mix of guilt and a pang of something primitive and possessive: I should be there. I should be the reason he sleeps well, not the reason he doesn't sleep.
Izuku didn't look at him. He sat down next to Aizawa, opened a folder, and began reviewing some papers. But Katsuki noticed the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped the pen a little tighter than necessary. He knew Katsuki was in the room. Felt his presence.
Good, Katsuki thought, with bitter satisfaction. Let him feel it. Let him know I'm here. That I'm not going to disappear just because classes are over.
The meeting was long and full of bureaucratic details – performance reviews, curriculum planning for the next year, budgets, reports. Katsuki participated when necessary, his contributions short and to the point as always. His lectures on offensive tactics and crisis management had been, as the principal repeated several times – exceptionally well received –. The students admired him, feared him, and learned from him – the perfect triad, in Katsuki's opinion.
But his focus was divided. While Principal Nezu spoke about goals for the next semester, Katsuki's eyes wandered to the other side of the room, to the back of Izuku's neck, to the familiar curve of his neck, to the disobedient green curls that insisted on escaping from what was supposed to be a professional hairstyle.
I remember burying my face there, he thought, the memory hitting him with an almost physical intensity. After a particularly difficult mission. He smelled of sweat, dust, exhaustion. But also of himself. And I just breathed, feeling his heartbeat against my skin, and for a moment, everything was right in the world.
Now, he was five meters away, and he might as well have been on the other side of a chasm.
At the end of the meeting, as everyone stood up, gathered their belongings, and began to leave, Katsuki saw his chance. Izuku lingered, talking to Aizawa about something, his profile lit by the gray light coming through the window.
Katsuki approached. Not directly – that would be invasive. But on a path that would naturally cross Izuku's as he left.
He timed it. Waited. When Izuku finally turned and started walking towards the door, Katsuki was there, half a step away.
Their eyes met. For a second, just one, the world shrank to that point: Izuku's green eyes, wide, tired, full of a complex history of pain and resilience. Katsuki saw his own reflection in them – small, distant, like a castaway in a green sea.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just nodded his head, an almost imperceptible movement, and said, in a voice softer than he intended:
"Merry Christmas, Deku."
Not Izuku. Not Midoriya. It was Deku, the name that had been an insult, then a nickname, then a term of endearment, then… what was it now? A memory? A hope? An admission that, no matter what, he still saw Izuku as he always had – as his Deku.
He saw the impact of the words in Izuku's eyes. A tremor. A quick flash of something – surprise? Anger? Nostalgia? – that was quickly smothered. Izuku opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded his head in return, an equally minimal gesture.
"To you too, Katsuki," he murmured, and his voice was low, hoarse, laden with unnamed emotions.
And then they passed each other, continuing on their opposite paths.
It was an interaction of less than five seconds. Two phrases. Two names that carried the weight of a whole life.
But for Katsuki, it was a victory.
Because he hadn't run away. He hadn't avoided it. He had gone to him, offered an acknowledgement, a wish of goodwill. And Izuku had responded. Not with anger. Not with indifference. With a nod and his first name, which, however neutral, was still a recognition.
He left the administrative building with his heart pounding, but not from anxiety. From something that felt like… renewed determination.
The game wasn't over because classes had ended. It had just changed fields.
And Katsuki Bakugou had never been good at giving up.
The following days were an exercise in patience and tactical creativity. Without the structure of classes, without fixed schedules, Katsuki could no longer rely on predictable patterns to find Izuku. He had to be more strategic. More… present.
He started showing up.
Not in an obvious or invasive way. But if he knew – through casual conversations with other teachers, through U.A.'s public schedule, through the simple knowledge born from years of friendship and relationship – that Izuku would be in a certain place, Katsuki made sure to be there too.
On Tuesday, he learned that Izuku would be in the campus library, reviewing some rare volumes on the history of Quirks for an article he was writing. Katsuki had no reason at all to be in the library. His research was almost all practical, not theoretical. But he went.
He arrived an hour after Izuku, chose a table in the same hall but not the same row. Pulled out a random book on 19th-century battle strategies and pretended to read. In reality, he spent two hours watching Izuku.
He watched the way he leaned over the books, his reading glasses pushed to the tip of his nose (something Katsuki had always found annoyingly cute). The way he chewed the end of his pen when he was concentrating. The way his fingers traced the lines of text, as if he could absorb knowledge through touch.
It was painful. It was like watching a precious painting through bulletproof glass – you could see the beauty, but you couldn't touch it, couldn't be part of it.
Izuku knew he was there. Katsuki saw the exact moment he realized – a slight pause in turning a page, a quick glance over his glasses, then a meticulous return to the book. But he didn't leave. He didn't run away. Just… continued. Accepted the presence.
Another small step forward.
On Wednesday, Katsuki went to training room Beta, knowing Izuku often passed by there even outside of class hours. Not to really train – not anymore – but to keep his body occupied while his mind tried to keep up.
He didn't enter the same room. That would be a clear invasion. Instead, he used the adjacent space, separated by a glass wall overlooking the complex's internal corridor.
On the other side, Izuku was alone.
He was wearing only his U.A.school suit, the jacket open, the tie loose around his neck.
He wasn't training heavily. He was doing slow stretches, some basic exercises, more out of habit than necessity.
At times, he stopped to organize equipment, align weights, adjust details that didn't really need adjusting.
It was a strangely intimate sight.
How many times had Katsuki seen him like this?
Not the hero, not the model student, but Izuku in the space between one thing and another. Existing in the silence. Organizing the world around him because the one inside seemed out of control.
This time, though, they were two solitaries.
Separated by a glass wall…and by eight months of unresolved things.
At one point, Izuku stopped. He ran a hand over his face, took a deep breath, as if more tired than he should be. Then, he raised his gaze.
His eyes met Katsuki's through the glass.
No nod.
No surprise.
Just a sustained look.
Maybe three seconds.
Three seconds long enough for Katsuki's chest to tighten. Long enough for him to have the distinct feeling of being truly seen – not as a hero, not as a problem, but as a presence.
Then Izuku looked away, adjusted his tie automatically, and went back to putting away the equipment, as if nothing had happened.
But it had.
It was only three seconds.
Three seconds in which Katsuki felt, for the first time since he had returned, that he wasn't being avoided.
What do you see, Izuku? he thought, watching him finish tidying the space.
The man who hurt you?
The hero who faced All for one?
The fool trying to redeem himself too late?
Or just someone you haven't yet decided if you can erase from your life?
Katsuki had no answer.
But the simple fact that Izuku hadn't turned away, hadn't pretended he didn't exist, already meant something.
It was little.
But it was ground gained.
On Thursday, Katsuki made a bolder decision. He went to the classroom building where Izuku taught his Fundamentals of Heroism classes. Classes were over, the hallways were deserted, the rooms empty and silent.
He stopped at the door of classroom 1-A. The place was iconic – where it all began, where their class of heroes was forged. Where his rivalry with Izuku had turned into something more complex, deeper.
The door was ajar. He pushed it open and entered.
The room was as always – the desks arranged in rows, the blackboard clean, the late afternoon light coming in through the high windows, illuminating dust particles dancing in the air.
It was easy to imagine the students there, the ghosts of their own adolescences: Iida gesticulating, Uraraka laughing, Todoroki with his impassive expression, himself with his feet on the desk, Izuku sitting a few desks away, scribbling furiously.
He walked to the chair that had been Izuku's. Not the actual desk – those had been swapped many times over the years – but the approximate spot. Sat down. The seat was cold, impersonal. But for a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine what Izuku saw from here. The teacher at the front. The classmates around. And him, Katsuki, always on the periphery, always a point of reference.
I was his magnetic north, he thought, with sudden clarity. Even when I rejected him, even when we fought, even when I tried to push him away, he always had me as a reference. His compass always pointed to me. And mine… mine always pointed to him too, even when I was too proud to admit it.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made him open his eyes. It was a familiar rhythm – neither fast nor slow, but determined, with a slight drag of the left foot that Izuku had had since he was injured in the final battle.
Katsuki didn't stand up. Didn't run away. Just sat there, waiting.
The door opened fully, and Izuku appeared in the doorway, a stack of papers in his arms. He stopped, froze, his eyes widening as he saw Katsuki sitting in his old chair.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air in the room felt charged, heavy with memories and unspoken words.
Izuku was the first to break the silence.
"What are you doing here?"
The question came too neutral to be casual. There was no anger in his voice, no surprise. Just weariness. A controlled tone, carefully polished, like someone who had already spent too much energy on that subject in the past.
Katsuki held his gaze, deliberately keeping his posture calm.
"Remembering."
Izuku raised an eyebrow, a small, almost automatic gesture.
"Remembering what,exactly?"
"How it was." Katsuki made a brief gesture with his hand, encompassing the empty room. "Before everything turned into… this."
Izuku let out a short exhale through his nose, devoid of any humor. His fingers tightened on the papers he held, the knuckles turning slightly white.
"Things didn't 'turn into this'. They arrived exactly where they were always going to go."
The sentence wasn't aggressive. It was factual. And that hit Katsuki harder than any shout.
"I know." Katsuki replied, after a second too long of silence. His voice came out lower. "I know I was the one who pushed everything to that point. I'm trying… not to repeat the same mistakes."
Izuku finally lifted his gaze fully.
And that's when Katsuki saw it.
Not raw hurt. Not open anger.
Exhaustion.
The kind of weariness that comes from someone who has already cried, already shouted, already waited and now just manages what's left.
"Trying doesn't erase what's already been done." Izuku said. "Nor does it fix it."
Katsuki felt the weight of those words settling in his chest.
"No." he agreed. "But it can stop me from breaking more things."
Izuku looked away, as if that answer didn't merit a reply. He shifted the papers under his arm and turned partially, already ending the conversation before even verbalizing it.
"It's too late to go back to how it was."
Katsuki got up from the chair, the movement slow, calculated. He didn't take a step toward him. Didn't try to invade that space that clearly no longer belonged to him.
"I don't want to go back to how it was." he replied. "I want to build something that doesn't crumble at the first mistake."
Izuku let out a short, dry laugh.
"You were always too optimistic when it comes to this."
"And you were always too stubborn."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Izuku closed his eyes for a second– just one – as if deciding if that conversation was worth the drain. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled once more.
"I have to go." he said. "I need to pack my things. Tomorrow I'm going to my mom's house."
Katsuki nodded.
"Say hi to Inko."He paused briefly. "And to All Might."
Izuku hesitated for a moment, his back already turned.
"I will."
He left the room without looking back.
The footsteps echoed in the empty hallway,each one sounding like a clear reminder: he was still there… but far away.
Katsuki remained standing, staring at the space where Izuku had been seconds before.
Nothing is too late,he had said.
Now,for the first time, he truly feared he might be wrong.
Friday was the last day before the actual Christmas break. Katsuki learned, through campus gossip, that Izuku would leave on Saturday morning to spend Christmas week with his mother and All Might at their house on the outskirts of Musutafu.
He had no plans to intrude. He wasn't going to show up at the train station. He wasn't going to attempt a 'casual encounter'. Izuku deserved that time with family, away from the complication that was Katsuki.
But he couldn't let Izuku leave without… something. A sign. A memento. Something that said: I'm still here. I still care. Christmas doesn't change that.
So, on Friday afternoon, after making sure Izuku was in a meeting with Nezu, Katsuki went to his office.
The door, as always, was unlocked. (Izuku really needed to be more careful about security, Katsuki thought with a mix of irritation and affection.) He entered, closing the door behind him.
The office was impeccably organized, as was typical of Izuku. Stacks of paper perfectly aligned, books organized by subject, the chair pushed under the desk.
There was a single personal touch: a small framed photo on top of a shelf. Katsuki approached to see. It was an old photo, of him and Izuku as children, maybe six or seven years old, smiling with missing teeth, arms around each other's shoulders. It had been taken by Inko on one of the many days Katsuki practically lived at the Midoriya house.
He felt a lump in his throat. Why would Izuku keep that photo? Why have it in his office, where he could see it every day, even after everything?
Because he remembers too, a part of him whispered, with a stubborn spark of hope. Because the past still matters to him too.
He didn't touch the photo. Instead, he went to the desk. In the center, where the mouse pad would normally be, there was now an empty space. Izuku had probably already packed his belongings for the holidays.
Katsuki took something out of his pocket. It wasn't coffee – not this time. It was a small package, simple, in brown paper tied with string. Inside, there was nothing of material value – just a few small things, insignificant to anyone else, but that he knew Izuku would understand.
A chewed wooden pencil tip, the kind Izuku always gnawed on during classes. Katsuki had kept it, years ago, after Izuku dropped it. Why? He didn't even know. Just that at the time, it seemed important.
A button from a U.A. uniform jacket – the first button Izuku had lost during an intense training session in their first year. Katsuki had found it later, kept it, and never returned it.
A small, smooth green pebble, the color of Izuku's eyes, that Katsuki had picked up on the beach during a mission in Okinawa. He remembered thinking, at the time, This matches him.
Nothing of value. Just fragments of a shared history. Things that said: I remember you. I remember us. I didn't throw everything away.
He placed the package in the exact center of the desk, where the coffee would normally be. Next to it, he placed a single card, without an envelope, with just two words written in his rough, angular handwriting:
To remember.
He didn't sign it. He didn't need to.
He took one last look around the office, his eyes landing again on the photo of the smiling children. Two boys who had no idea what the future held for them, how much they would hurt each other, how much they would love each other.
"Merry Christmas, Deku," he whispered to the empty room.
And then he left, closing the door softly behind him, leaving his gift – his silent confession, his offering of memory – on Izuku's desk.
Saturday dawned cold and clear, a rare winter sun day that made the snow glisten like scattered diamonds. Katsuki woke up early, as always, and did something he hadn't done in months: made coffee for himself in his own kitchen.
As the coffee maker bubbled, he stood at the window, looking out at the sleeping city. Somewhere, Izuku would be getting ready, grabbing his suitcase, heading to the station. In a few hours, he'd be in Inko's cozy house, surrounded by family love, the Christmas spirit, the normality Katsuki so envied and from which he had excluded himself.
He felt a pang of self-pity, but quickly rejected it. This solitude was of his own making. He had chosen to leave. He had chosen to stay away. He had chosen this self-imposed exile.
The coffee finished. He poured a mug, black and strong, no sugar – the complete opposite of what Izuku drank. Sat at the small kitchen table and drank it, staring at the empty wall in front of him.
What would Izuku do when he found the package? Open it? Throw it away without looking? Keep it, undecided? And the things inside – would he recognize them? Remember the pencil, the button, the pebble?
He'll remember, Katsuki thought, with a conviction that came from the deepest part of his being. Izuku never forgets anything. Especially not the things that matter.
The question was: did those things still matter to him? Or were they just relics of a dead time, fossils of an extinct feeling?
Silence settled in the apartment, heavier than before.
Katsuki finished the coffee in one gulp, ignoring the bitter aftertaste left in the bottom of the mug. Got up, took it to the sink and washed it with mechanical, almost automatic movements. Rinsed it, shook off the excess water and placed it in the dish rack – upside down.
He stopped.
He stared at the mug for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Izuku always did that.
Said it was so dust wouldn't gather inside. Katsuki had never argued. He had just adopted the habit, without realizing when it had stopped being Izuku's and become theirs.
Now, it was just another surviving habit in an empty apartment.
Katsuki ran a hand over his face, took a deep breath, and stepped away from the sink.
Christmas was coming.
And for the first time in a long time, he had no idea if he could make it through the whole thing without crumbling.
Even in my solitary habits, you are here, Katsuki thought, with a mixture of exasperation and love. You've marked me, Izuku Midoriya. In ways I don't even fully understand myself.
The day passed slowly. He trained – an exhausting session in the training room that left his muscles burning and his mind empty of everything except physical effort. Took a long shower. Ate a simple meal.
In the afternoon, he decided to go out. Walk through the city, mingle with the last-minute Christmas shopping crowd, feel the frenetic holiday energy without being part of it.
Musutafu was decorated with lights, garlands, and Christmas trees in every square. Stores played Christmas carols, people carried colorful packages, children laughed pointing at decorations. It was a spectacle of collective joy, and Katsuki felt like a spectator watching a film in a language he didn't understand.
He passed by the Brew & Co. The café was closed, a sign on the door wishing customers a "Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New Year". He stopped for a moment, looking through the glass into the dark interior. He remembered the blue-haired attendant, her understanding smile when he ordered milk and caramel coffee.
"It's for Coordinator Midoriya," he said the first time. "Leave it on his desk, please."
She asked if he wanted to leave a note. "No," he replied. "Just the coffee. He'll know."
And Izuku had known. Drank it. Accepted the gesture, even without accepting the man behind it.
Maybe it had always been like this between them – gestures instead of words, actions instead of explanations. Maybe it was the only language they truly shared, deep down.
He kept walking, aimlessly, just moving. He passed the building of his old hero agency, now run by a younger team. He passed the park where he and Izuku used to run on Sunday mornings. He passed the restaurant where they celebrated their first successful mission as an official duo.
Every place a memory. Every memory a knife.
When the sun began to set, painting Musutafu's sky in deep shades of orange and purple, Katsuki slowed his run. His still-warm body contrasted with the cold December air, the vapor of his breath rising in short clouds in front of him.
He only realized where he was when he slowed his pace to almost a stop.
The U.A. gates were just ahead.
Katsuki frowned slightly,confused for a second. It wasn't the way back to his apartment building. If he went two more blocks, he'd go straight to the luxury building where he lived – the apartment too big, too quiet, that waited for him every night.
But his feet had gone somewhere else.
As if they knew before he did.
The campus appeared wrapped in soft, almost discreet lighting. At the main gate, a huge wreath announced the approaching Christmas, small lights blinking slowly in the twilight. It was a simple detail, but it clashed with the emptiness around it.
Katsuki passed through the gate without much thought. The gesture was automatic, almost a reflex. The sound of his sneakers on the stone path echoed too loudly in that silence.
U.A.was practically deserted.
Classes had ended on Friday.
Most students had already left, the dormitories were largely empty, and the few remaining teachers had retired early. The campus, which normally vibrated with voices, Quirk explosions, and hurried footsteps, now seemed suspended in time.
He kept walking, still in running mode, but his mind beginning to drift. He passed the training field, the main building, the path he had taken so many times without thinking.
Until he realized where he was going.
The administrative block.
Katsuki slowed his pace again, his heart beating a little heavier in his chest – not from physical effort, but from the belated recognition of his own impulse.
Izuku's office was there.
The window was dark, as it obviously would be. Izuku had already left.
Probably at his mother's house, wrapped in human warmth, homemade food, and that gentle normality Katsuki had always felt was too distant for him to offer.
He stopped under the window, his hands on his hips for a few seconds before shoving them into his coat pockets. The sweat was beginning to cool on his skin, making the cold more evident.
Above him, the sky was slowly darkening. The first stars appeared shyly, small and too distant to really matter.
Katsuki didn't expect anything to happen.
He didn't expect the light to come on.
He didn't expect Izuku to appear.
He didn't expect an idiotic movie miracle.
Still, he stayed.
Maybe because, no matter how much he told himself he was moving forward, some part of him still gravitated towards the same places. Towards the same absences.
It was irritating.
It was pathetic.
It was honest.
After a few seconds – or minutes, he wouldn't be able to tell – Katsuki took a deep breath, looked away from the dark window, and took a step back.
He didn't live there.
Izuku wasn't there.
And standing still wouldn't change that.
"Merry Christmas, Deku," he murmured again, the words disappearing into the cold air like vapor.
And then, something caught his attention. In the office window, reflected against the dark glass, he saw a small light blinking. A faint, intermittent green light.
He stood still, confused. The office was empty. There shouldn't be any lights.
Unless…
His breath caught. Unless Izuku hadn't left yet. Unless he was still there.
Or unless he had come back.
Without thinking, Katsuki ran into the building, took the stairs two at a time, and ran down the hallway to Izuku's office door. Stopped, panting, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
What did he expect to find? Izuku sitting at the desk, the package open before him, waiting for Katsuki? It was a fantasy. An illusion of a lonely, hopeful heart.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. It was probably just an electronic device left on. A charger with an indicator light. Something mundane.
But even so… he had to know.
He turned the knob and pushed the door.
The office was in semi-darkness, lit only by the faint city light coming through the window. And on the desk, exactly where Katsuki had left it, was the small brown paper package.
But open.
The string was undone, the paper carefully unfolded. And the things inside – the pencil piece, the button, the green pebble – were aligned in a perfect row on the desk, like artifacts in a museum.
And next to them, there was something new. Something that hadn't been there before.
A single ceramic mug, simple, unadorned. And inside it, a dark liquid that still gave off a slight steam.
Katsuki approached slowly, his heart pounding in his temples. He smelled it. Coffee. Black. Strong. Exactly how he drank it.
And next to the mug, a small piece of paper, folded in half. With slightly trembling hands, Katsuki picked it up and opened it.
The handwriting was familiar – messy but legible, with rounded letters he would recognize anywhere.
"I remember."
And below, almost like an afterthought hesitation:
"Merry Christmas, Katsuki Bakugou."
Katsuki stood still, the paper in his hand, staring at the words as if they might disappear at any moment. The air left his lungs in a shaky sigh, and he felt something warm and heavy rising in his throat – an emotion so strong it almost knocked him over.
He remembered. Not just the things – the pencil, the button, the pebble – but the meaning behind them. The story they told. The boy he was, the man he became, the love that had always been there, even when it was difficult, even when it was painful.
And he had responded. Not with spoken words, not with a dramatic encounter. With coffee. With a mug left on a dark desk. With a silent confession that echoed his own.
I remember.
Katsuki sat down in Izuku's chair, picked up the mug and drank. The coffee was strong, bitter, perfect. Exactly how he liked it.
He looked at the small relics lined up on the desk, then at the paper with Izuku's handwriting, then at the dark window reflecting his own face – a face that, for the first time in eight months, was not just laden with pain and regret, but with something that looked like… hope.
Izuku remembered.
And if he remembered, then maybe, just maybe, he could also forgive.
The holiday week stretched ahead, long and empty. The future was uncertain, full of obstacles and old pains that still needed to be healed.
But in that moment, alone in Izuku's dark office, with the taste of bitter coffee on his tongue and the words "I remember" burning in his mind, Katsuki Bakugou allowed himself to believe.
Believe that the threads that bound them, though stretched almost to breaking, were not cut.
Believe that the map he was drawing – coffee on Tuesdays and Thursdays, presence without demand, patience instead of explosion – was leading somewhere.
It was a fragile thread of hope. A thread that could snap with a wrong move, a wrong word, one more explosion of his temper.
But it was a start.
It was all he needed.
He finished the coffee, washed the mug carefully and left it upside down on the plastic draining board of the office's small sink. Collected the small relics – the pencil, the button, the pebble – and put them back in the brown paper, folding it carefully. Took Izuku's note and put it in his breast pocket, over his heart.
He took one last look around the office, his eyes landing on the photo of the smiling children.
"We're going to be okay, Deku," he murmured to the silent room. "I'm going to make it right this time."
And then he left, closing the door softly behind him, leaving the office dark and empty, but now charged with the unspoken promise of a new beginning.
Outside, the December night was cold and clear, the stars shining like frozen diamonds in the velvet of the sky. The campus was silent, at peace, waiting for the new year.
Katsuki walked back to his apartment, his steps lighter than they had been in months. The weight on his shoulders was still there – the regret, the guilt, the fear – but now there was something else. Something that felt like… possibility.
Izuku remembered.
And for Katsuki Bakugou, who had spent eight months in a self-imposed exile, surrounded by the silence of his regret, that was more than enough.
It was a star in the dark.
It was a beginning.
And, for the first time since he returned from the United States, Katsuki felt that perhaps, just perhaps, Christmas could bring a gift after all.
Not a wrapped present, not a sudden miracle.
But the chance to continue.
And for a man who had almost lost everything, it was the only gift that really mattered.
Katsuki's apartment smelled of recent cleaning and emptiness. He locked the door behind him, leaned against it for a moment, and closed his eyes, letting the image of Izuku's office – the open package, the coffee mug, the note – burn into his retinas. I remember. Two words that weighed more than any explosion he had ever conjured.
When he opened his eyes, the reality of his solitary space enveloped him again. The gray sofa, the turned-off television, the tiny, impeccably clean kitchen. A transient apartment. A place to wait, not to live.
He was taking off his coat when a familiar knock on the door made him stop. It wasn't the soft knock of a neighbor or the hesitant knock of a delivery person. It was a solid, rhythmic knock that echoed with a confidence only one person had.
Kirishima.
Katsuki sighed, a mixture of irritation and relief. Irritation because he wasn't in the mood for company. Relief because, deep down, the prospect of spending the night alone with his thoughts and the newly discovered spark of hope was frightening. It trembled inside him, fragile as crystal, and he feared a moment of solitude would crush it.
He opened the door.
Eijiro Kirishima was outside, with a shopping bag in one hand and a bottle of something in the other. He wore a faded red hoodie and a smile that was both sympathetic and challenging.
"Don't tell me you're going to mope alone on a Friday night," Kirishima said, walking past him uninvited, as he always did.
"I was going to 'mope,' as you say, in peace," Katsuki grumbled, closing the door. But there was no real heat in the complaint.
Kirishima was already in the kitchen, putting the bag on the counter. "Brought food. That loaded ramen you like from Ichiraku. And drinks." He held up the bottle. A decent Japanese whiskey, not the cheap mix Kaminari always brought.
Katsuki approached, crossing his arms. "Why?"
Kirishima stopped taking the containers out of the bag and looked at him. His red eyes, usually full of unshakable enthusiasm, were serious.
"Because you're my best friend, and you're going through a shitty time. And because I know if I leave you, you'll spend Christmas alone with a bottle of water and a combat ration, pretending you're training."
"Not pretending. I am training."
"Yeah. And avoiding living." Kirishima opened the ramen container, and the rich aroma of pork broth and miso filled the small kitchen. It was a smell that would normally make Katsuki's mouth water. Today, he just watched. "So? How are things? Operation 'Coffee and Patience'? With the holidays, you're without your main prop, huh?"
Katsuki took two lowball glasses from the cupboard and placed them on the table with a sharp click. "It's not a 'prop'."
"Sorry. Ritual. Strategy. Whatever." Kirishima served the ramen into two bowls. "So? What are you going to do now that you don't have Tuesdays and Thursdays? Can't just stand still, man. Stillness is death, you always said."
Katsuki sat at the table, picking up the chopsticks. The warmth of the bowl was comforting in his hands.
"I know what I said." He took a bite, buying time. How to explain what had happened in the office? The words "I remember" seemed too sacred, too fragile to share. "He… he got the things."
Kirishima froze, a piece of pork halfway to his mouth. "Things? What things?"
"Things I left. In his office. Before he went to his mom's."
"What kind of things?"
"Nothing important. Just… memories." Katsuki avoided his gaze, focusing on his ramen. "Stuff from when we were younger."
A long silence. Then Kirishima carefully set his chopsticks down. "Dude… that's… either really good or really creepy. How did he react?"
Katsuki thought of the black coffee, the clean mug, the note. The bitter taste was still on his tongue. "He… left a response."
"What?"
"Doesn't matter." The reply was quicker and harsher than he intended. He wasn't ready to open that up yet. It was still his. "He responded. That's what matters."
Kirishima studied him for a moment, then nodded, respecting the boundary.
"Okay. Okay, that's something. It's a sign. But what now? The holidays are almost three weeks. You have a month and a half in the country before the… the US thing." He said the last words carefully, as if treading on a minefield.
There was also the matter of the United States.
The invitation wasn't small, nor symbolic. Katsuki had been formally approached to become an active hero on American soil, integrated into one of the major international agencies in New York. A high-level contract. Global recognition. Status. Operational power on a worldwide scale.
It wasn't an internship.
It wasn't a diplomatic visit.
It was a change of axis.
If he accepted, he'd be spending years outside Japan, operating under another flag, another system, another logic. His name would cease to be just a pillar of the new Japanese generation and become an international asset.
A meteoric rise.
Nezu had been clear from the start: U.A. was never a professional obligation for Katsuki. He wasn't a teacher. He never had been. He was an active hero, with his own agency, his own name established in Japan and abroad. The lectures, the occasional training, the presence on campus – all that was invitation, collaboration, not a contract.
If he wanted to keep showing up, the doors would be open.
If he wanted to disappear for a while, no one would stop him.
The decision had always been solely his.
But the question that gnawed at him had nothing to do with career.
It wasn't about status.
It wasn't about recognition.
It wasn't about power or legacy.
It was about belonging.
Was U.A. still a place where he existed – or was it just a space that constantly reminded him of who he had lost?
Because, eight months ago, when Izuku said "go away", Katsuki hadn't lost a job.
He had lost an axis.
And now, with an international invitation on the table and Japan still there, intact, the doubt wasn't about where to go.
It was about where he had already been expelled from without realizing it.
It was about belonging.
Was this still his place?
Or had he lost it eight months ago, the moment Izuku said "go away" and he, too hurt and too proud, actually went?
Accepting the United States meant much more than professional growth. It meant distance. A whole ocean between him and everything he had broken – and perhaps, irremediably, lost.
A clean exit.
A plausible justification.
A fresh start without ghosts…or the best-packaged cowardice ever offered to him.
Katsuki knew that if he accepted, he wouldn't just be changing countries.
He'd be giving up.
"Haven't decided yet," Katsuki murmured, stabbing a piece of boiled egg. "There's time."
"There's time, but not infinite," Kirishima pointed out, his voice soft but firm. "And you can't make that decision based only on… on hope, Katsuki. It has to be based on what's real. On what he's showing, not on what you're hoping for."
Katsuki felt a flash of anger – the old, familiar, defensive kind.
"I know the damn difference, Ei. I'm not a sentimental idiot."
"I'm not saying you are," Kirishima raised his hands in peace. "Just being your friend and telling the truth to your face, like I always do. You're rebuilding yourself because of him. And that's amazing, man, really. The Bakugou from a year ago would never do that. But you have to rebuild yourself for you too. Because if you do everything thinking only of him, and in the end… if in the end it doesn't work out…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
If it doesn't work out, you'll fall apart again. And this time, maybe you won't be able to get up.
Katsuki knew he was right. Every coffee left, every discreet appearance, every silent gesture – all were arrows shot towards Izuku. But what about the bow? And the archer? What would be left of him if the arrow missed the target?
"I don't know how to do it any other way," he admitted, the anger giving way to a deep exhaustion. "I hurt him. I broke something. So I fix it. It's simple."
"Nothing between you two was ever simple, Katsuki." Kirishima picked up the whiskey bottle and filled the two glasses. "And fixing isn't just about gestures. It's about real change. And you're changing, I see it. But the question is: is it change for good, or is it just… a Christmas performance?"
Katsuki picked up his glass, swirling the amber liquid. The question was fair. He'd asked himself the same thing countless times in the silence of his apartment. Was his current patience – a new trait, or just a temporary disguise? His restraint – growth, or just another form of control?
"I don't know," he finally said, the honesty coming out as a sigh. "I just know I need to try. I need to know I did everything I could. And if it's just a performance… well, at least it'll have been a long and painful one. That has to be worth something."
Kirishima smiled, a sad and understanding smile.
"Always dramatic,huh? No middle ground." He clinked his glass against Katsuki's. "To trying, then. And to my stubborn-as-hell friend."
They drank. The whiskey burned smoothly in Katsuki's throat, a warmth that spread through his cold chest.
"And Christmas?" Kirishima asked after a moment. "What are you going to do? Mina and I are going to my parents' house. There's room in the car. There'll be too much food, my mom piling your plate, my dad wanting to watch all your battle clips on YouTube again… complete chaos. Come."
The image was tempting. Warm. Loud. Full of life. Everything his apartment wasn't. Everything Inko's house probably was for Izuku.
But he shook his head.
"No."
"Katsuki…"
"No, Ei." He looked at his friend. "Thanks. Seriously. But… I need to stay here. I need to… process. And if…"
"If he shows up?" Kirishima finished, his voice soft.
Katsuki didn't confirm, nor deny. Just shrugged. The possibility, however remote, was there. Planted by the note, by the coffee mug left in the darkness. I remember. And if remembering was the first step to… something more? What if Izuku decided to come back before New Year's, to look for him, to talk?
He knew it was fantasy. Izuku would probably spend the whole week with his family, immersed in domestic coziness, far from the emotional mess that was Katsuki. But still… hope, once ignited, was a stubborn flame.
"Alright," Kirishima said, getting up and taking the bowls to the sink. "I won't force you. But the offer stands until Christmas morning, okay? If you change your mind, call me." He dried his hands and looked at Katsuki, his expression serious. "And if you stay here… take it easy, man. Drink your whiskey, watch a bad action movie, don't stew. You took a step. He responded. That's good. Now breathe."
Katsuki nodded, a short movement.
"I'm breathing."
Kirishima gave his shoulder a firm pat.
"That's it.Now I'm gonna bounce, leave you with your deep thoughts and your expensive whiskey. Call me if you need anything. And merry Christmas, man."
"Merry Christmas, Ei."
Kirishima left, closing the door with a soft click. Silence descended on the apartment again, but now it was a different silence. Less empty. More charged.
Katsuki finished his whiskey, took the bottle and his glass to the living room and let himself fall onto the sofa. The gray fabric was rough under his fingers. He leaned back, stretching his arms over the backrest, and let his head fall back, his eyes fixed on the smooth white ceiling.
The whiskey warmed his veins, loosening the rigid edges of his thoughts. The conversation with Kirishima echoed in his mind. Christmas performance. Real change. You have to rebuild yourself for you too.
He wanted to believe it was real change. That the man who left coffee in silence was a better man than the one who exploded and fled. But deep down, in the darkest and most honest place within himself, he was afraid. Afraid that under enough pressure, the new patience would crack and the old Katsuki – impulsive, arrogant, destructive – would emerge again.
Now, at 11:47 PM on Christmas Eve, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the rustic table beside him and an empty glass in his hands, Katsuki watched the snow fall outside. The neighborhood was quiet, most people already home with their families, their traditions, their loves.
As if the alcohol and solitude had made a silent pact against him, the memory came.
Not the fight.
That one was too easy. Too clear. An open wound he already knew by heart – the raised tone, the burning throat, the sound of his own name spat out like an accusation. The moment everything crumbled had contours too defined to be relived now.
That didn't require effort. It had never gone away. He could close his eyes and see Izuku's face that night not the anger, which was common, but the exhaustion. The resignation. That deep weariness that said "I've given up trying". That was a knife he twisted in his own guts every night.
What emerged was what came before.
What pushed everything,slowly and inevitably, toward the abyss.
It wasn't a complete memory. Katsuki didn't see faces clearly, couldn't piece together a logical sequence. It was like trying to grasp smoke with his hands. Everything came in fragments, disconnected sensations his body recognized before his mind could organize them.
The smell of burnt oil mixed with cold asphalt.
An artificial light too harsh for the time of night.
The nagging feeling of something out of place, a subtle alert lodged in the back of his neck before there was even a clear reason.
And, above all, the anger.
Not the explosion. Not yet.
It was the other kind.The one that settles slowly. Heavy. Silent. The one that doesn't shout – it watches. The one that doesn't attack – it waits.
Katsuki tightened his fingers around the glass, feeling it protest under the unconscious force. The low crack was almost satisfying. His body remembered. It always remembered. Remembered the tension in his shoulders, so intense it ached by the end of the day.
Remembered the locked jaw, to the point of waking up with a headache. Remembered the creeping discomfort that had a name, that spread like rust started as a chill down his spine when he received a certain notification on his phone, grew into a knot in his stomach when he heard a specific tone of voice, exploded into insomnia in the early hours when his brain, traitorous, began connecting dots that perhaps didn't even exist.
He remembered feeling… measured.
As if someone had placed an invisible ruler beside him.
As if, suddenly, it wasn't enough to be who he was.
And that was the most perverse part of all, the ruler wasn't from Izuku. It never had been. Izuku was the only person in his whole life who had never tried to measure him.
Who never placed expectations beyond "be yourself". Who looked at Katsuki Bakugou in all his intensity, explosiveness, and stubbornness and saw… home. Saw a haven. Saw the place where he snuggled at night and woke up in the morning.
The ruler was from somewhere else.
The name came, cutting through the air of his mind like a shard of glass.
Shindo.