Archive of Our Own ^beta

After the war, there are quite a few things that Izuku no longer remembers.

The therapist at UA had a name for it. Repression. 

A defense mechanism, he’d said, one that shields the mind from itself, from the weight of what it can’t bear to hold. The man had explained it with a soft, practiced voice, using careful words. He tells Izuku that it was his unconscious protecting him. That these memories aren’t gone. They’re just out of reach for now.

Izuku had nodded at the time, his hands twisting in his lap, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be healed.

Some things, he supposed, were better forgotten.

But not everything had disappeared.

There were things he could never forget, no matter how much his mind tried to.

He would never forget his friends. How they had stood by him, even when he couldn’t stand on his own. The way their voices had filled the quiet spaces after the war, stubborn and steady, refusing to let him drift too far into the loneliness he carried. They had held him together, even when he felt like he was falling apart.

He would never forget his mother. The way she had looked at him when he came home, her face pale, her eyes wide with a fear that hadn’t faded even after she saw he was alive. She had cried, and cried, and cried, hands trembling as they clutched at him like he might disappear again. 

And Kacchan.

Izuku would never forget him lying on the ground, body still, face slack, a gaping hole where his heart should have been.

Sometimes, the memory didn’t feel real. 

It felt like something that had happened to someone else, like a story he’d read in a book and absorbed too deeply. Other times, it felt too real, too vivid to be anything but true. And there were moments, brief and fleeting, when the memory gave him details he wasn’t even sure had happened. 

But it didn’t matter. Whether it was real or not.

Because now, there was something else, something that wasn’t a memory, something he knew with a clarity.

He was losing One for All.

He could feel it slipping away, piece by piece, no matter how tightly he tried to hold on to it.

At first, he’d tried to ignore it, convincing himself it was for the best. A delay in his movements, a hesitation in the power’s response. Moments where he reached for the strength that had always been there, only to find it faltering, faint.

It wasn’t enough to stop him, not yet. But it was enough to remind him, constantly, that it wouldn’t last.

He didn’t need a therapist to tell him what that meant.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not All Might, not his friends. 

Katsuki knew, in his way. Of course he did. He wasn’t stupid, and Izuku couldn’t hide things from him for long. But Katsuki didn’t know just how little was left. How the embers, once bright and fierce, were now faint and flickering, how Izuku started wondering what it would feel like when they went out completely.

He and Katsuki always walk back home together now.

Months after graduation, it had become a habit, one Katsuki had fought for. 

They belonged to different agencies, Dynamight with Best Jeanist, Izuku still shadowing All Might. Their paths didn’t need to cross, but Katsuki had made sure they did. Izuku didn’t know what he had said or done to make it happen, but their patrol routes had been adjusted to align at the end of the night.

It wasn’t something they talked about.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy, not anymore. It stretched comfortably. Izuku didn’t need to fill the silence with words, and Katsuki never asked him to. Still, there were moments, like now, when the silence felt louder than it should.

The air was sharp and cold, carrying with it the quiet promise of winter. 

The neighborhood’s usual hum was muted tonight, the streets stretched in a stillness that didn’t feel eerie so much as heavy. Katsuki walked a step ahead, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, the faint sound of his boots scuffing against the pavement.

Izuku trailed behind, breath visible in small puffs.

Then, he sneezed for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Are you serious right now?”

“I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re not. You sound like a goddamn kazoo.”

Katsuki didn’t look any better. His hero uniform was barely visible beneath the thick black coat he’d thrown over it, the edges of his scarf poking out as it hung loose around his neck. His shoulders were hunched slightly, the cold working against him in a way that Izuku knew Katsuki would never admit out loud.

Izuku, by comparison, was underdressed. His own coat wasn’t quite thick enough, his gloves too thin. He should’ve thought about it, should’ve dressed better, but he hadn’t expected the cold to bite this much. Now, with the wind pressing against his cheeks and his nose burning from the constant sneezing, he was regretting it.

Katsuki turned his head slightly, sharp eyes flicking to Izuku. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, Izuku thought he might say something more, but he just huffed and kept walking.

Katsuki hated the winter. Izuku had known that for years. His quirk didn’t work as well in the cold.

Izuku opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat when Katsuki stopped walking and shrugged out of his scarf. 

He held it out. “Here.”

“I don’t need-” 

“Just take it, dumbass. You’re no good to anyone if you’re sneezing your head off all night.”

Izuku hesitated for only a moment before taking the scarf, the wool warm from Katsuki’s body heat. 

He wrapped it around his neck, “Thanks.”

Katsuki didn’t reply. He just started walking again, his pace brisk.

Izuku spotted it first.

A small flash of white against the gray of the street, nearly swallowed by the dim light. 

He blinked, wondering if the cold was playing tricks on him, but the shape moved, unmistakably alive. It was a cat. Snowy fur thick and unkempt, its tail flicking lazily as it prowled near a stack of crates by a closed convenience store. If it had been snowing, he might have missed it entirely.

He tugged at Katsuki’s coat without thinking, then, he pointed.

Katsuki raised a brow, his expression shifting from annoyed to mildly curious. 

“What?”

“Do you remember when we were kids?”

It was all he needed to say.

Katsuki’s face shifted slightly, his brow furrowing for a heartbeat before his mouth twitched into a smirk. 

“Yeah,” Katsuki muttered, his eyes flicking to the cat. “We used to chase the damn things everywhere.”

Izuku let out a small laugh. He felt something warm stir in his chest, a faint glow that didn’t come from the embers of One for All but from somewhere deeper, older. Memories like these were rare treasures, untouched by the shadows that often crept into his mind. They were his guilty pleasures, the moments he replayed when the world grew too heavy.

“The old women in the neighborhood hated us for it,” Katsuki continued, “Kept calling us brats, said we were stressing the cats out.”

Izuku grinned despite himself, his cheeks burning slightly from the cold. 

“Do you remember the time your mom chased after us with a broom?”

“Hell yeah, I remember. She was pissed because you got me to climb the fence after that one black cat.”

“I wasn’t the one who broke the flowerpot.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Katsuki shot back, the smirk still playing on his lips. “She blamed me anyway. You’re lucky I didn’t shove you into the river that day.”

“We hid out at the park for hours after that.”

“You’re the one who made us go home,” Katsuki muttered, tilting his head slightly as if he could still see the park from here, all those years ago. “Kept whining about how you were starving.”

“I was hungry.”

Katsuki hummed at the memory. Izuku watched him, nudged him. 

Katsuki stumbled, just slightly. 

“Bet I can catch it first, Kacchan.” 

Katsuki blinked, caught off guard, before his scowl deepened. “Are you serious right now?”

“Come on, Kacchan. What, afraid you’ll lose?”

“I’m not chasing some dumb cat around,” He jabbed a finger toward Izuku, “You’re already sneezing like an idiot. You’re gonna catch a cold at this rate, and I’m not dragging your sorry ass home when you pass out.”

Izuku shrugged, walking past him. 

“Oh, so you’re just a wimp then.”

“What the hell did you just say?”

Izuku glanced back over his shoulder, his grin widening. “You heard me.”

The reaction was immediate.

“Fine!” he barked, his voice loud enough to make Izuku’s grin falter for just a second. “You want a fight? You got one!”

Before Izuku could say another word, Katsuki took off, his boots pounding against the pavement as he darted toward the cat. Its yellow eyes flashed once before it darted disappearing down a narrow alley. Izuku felt the heat of excitement rise in his chest as his legs moved before he could think, chasing after Katsuki.

Izuku knew that Katsuki’s quirk was useless right now, too late at night, too quiet a neighborhood. If he used an explosion, half the city would wake up, and he would have to deal with Best Jeanist’s lectures. 

But Izuku?

Izuku crouched low, his hands brushing the ground, and the faint hum of green electricity crackled around him like a second heartbeat. He grinned as float kicked in, body lightening until the ground barely seemed to hold him. Then he zipped forward, the street lights flickering in his peripheral vision as he shot past Katsuki in a blur.

“The fuck?! ”

Izuku’s laughter echoed through the alley, bright and unrestrained. 

He glanced back for a second. “What’s wrong, Kacchan? Can’t keep up?”

“You dirty cheater! ” Katsuki bellowed, “Fight like a real man, you goddamn nerd!”

Izuku didn’t answer, his grin widening as he surged forward. 

The wind bit at his cheeks, the green crackle of One for All a warm hum in his veins, and for a fleeting moment, it didn’t matter that the embers were fading. It didn’t matter that the power felt thinner every time he reached for it.

What mattered was this. And for just a little while, nothing else existed, but this.

Izuku could hear Katsuki closing the gap behind him.

“You’re gonna get it, Izuku!” 

Katsuki shouted, his voice full of mock fury, though it wasn’t really a threat. Izuku didn’t look back, but he could hear it, the way Katsuki’s voice broke into breathless laughter, much like his. He could picture Katsuki’s face even without turning, head thrown back, teeth bared in a grin that was half feral, half joy.

The cat darted ahead.

Izuku was almost there, so close he could see the twitch of the cat’s tail as it darted toward a narrow corner-

Float disappears.

His feet hit the ground harder than they should have, his momentum faltering as he stumbled. The fizzling out was abrupt, and for one brief, searing second, panic clawed at his chest. Izuku’s breath hitched as understanding dawned on him. But he shook his head. 

No. Not now.

His legs moved, and he was running again, the fizzle of One for All still buzzing faintly in his ears. His stride was uneven at first, his heart pounding too fast, but then he saw Katsuki out of the corner of his eye, catching up.

Katsuki didn’t say anything, just fell into step beside Izuku, pace matching his perfectly, shoulder to shoulder. 

Izuku felt the lump rise in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down. He couldn’t stop now.

He wouldn’t.

So he smiled instead. And then, he laughed, raw and shaky but real, spilling out of him like it couldn’t be helped. His legs burned, his lungs ached, and the green electricity around him sparked and faded, stubborn and faint. But he kept going. 

“What? Tired already, Izuku?”

“Never.”

And with that, he pushed harder, his feet hitting the pavement in perfect time with Katsuki’s.

They watched as the cat climbed a tree. It perched there, high above the ground, white fur blending into the branches. It blinked lazily down at him, as if mocking him for trying. Izuku tilted his head, a smirk pulling at his lips. 

“Got you now.”

Izuku lifted a gloved hand toward the branches, instinctive, easy, like second nature. Blackwhip had always come when he called for it, surging forward with a strength that felt endless.

Nothing came.

His hand remained empty, no tendrils curling out to meet his will. He blinked, breath curling in the cold air as he waited a moment longer. Still nothing. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something in his chest twisted. 

He laughs.

“Okay, then.”

Without hesitation, Izuku jumped, grabbing the nearest branch. His gloves slipped against the bark, the tree swaying faintly under his weight, but he held on, pulling himself up with more force than grace.

“Oi! What are you doing up there, Izuku?”

Izuku glanced back, his grin still in place, though his breath was already short from the effort. 

“What’s it look like? I’m winning.”

Katsuki’s face twisted into a scowl, though his eyes burned with concern. 

“You don’t have to climb the damn tree. You know I win if you fall on your ass, right?”

Izuku laughed again, shaking his head as he looked back up at the cat.

Izuku did have to climb. 

He had to climb because he couldn’t rely on what wasn’t there anymore. He reached again, forcing his body higher, his boots scraping against the bark. He lifted his hand, calling for blackwhip one more time. Nothing. His fingers curled into the rough surface of the branch. 

Fine. If it wasn’t coming, he would do it himself.

The crackle of green electricity flickered around his body, inconsistent, but enough. He focused it on his legs, the energy sparking as he bent his knees and pushed. His body soared through the air, weightless for a moment, his arms outstretched toward the cat.

It happened all at once.

His hands found the cat, he pulled it close to his chest, holding it tightly as his momentum shifted. 

But as he began to fall, something shifted inside him too.

The electricity around him sputtered and died.

Just like that. One for All disappears.

It wasn’t loud, it wasn't violent. There was no dramatic surge, no blaze of light. 

Just a quiet fading, a flame running out of air. 

The power slipped from his grasp, soft and steady, until there was nothing left.

There was no time to think. No time to do anything but feel the weightlessness of the fall. 

The impact should have hurt. The ground was hard beneath him, but the weight that caught him, the solid, unyielding force of Katsuki’s body slamming into his, bore the worst of the fall. Katsuki grunted as they hit the ground, arms wrapping protectively around Izuku, shielding him from the brunt of it.

The cat squirmed free, claws digging into Katsuki’s arm before it leapt away. 

“Fuck, ouch!” 

Izuku was too busy laughing.

It bubbled out of him, uncontrolled, filling the cold night air as he lay sprawled on his back. The stars above them blurred as his vision wavered, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. A moment later, Katsuki’s head hit the ground beside his, lying there too, both of them flat on their backs, staring up at the same sky.

Katsuki turned his head slightly, just enough for Izuku to feel his gaze on him. 

“Are you hurt?”

Izuku shook his head, staring at the stars. 

“It doesn’t hurt.”

Because it didn’t. 

Not the fall, not the scrape of his gloves against the bark, not even the ache in his muscles from the climb. 

The embers were gone.

And yet, he felt weightless. Floating, almost, like he was still up in the tree, caught in that moment before the fall.

Izuku turned his head, slowly. Katsuki turned too, their gazes meeting, neither of them speaking.

Katsuki’s expression was hard to read, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he shifted closer, closing the small space between them, his movements careful in a way that Katsuki almost never was. A hand reached out, rough and warm, and Izuku didn’t even realize he was crying until Katsuki’s gloved fingers brushed against his cheek. 

Izuku’s lips quivered, and before he could stop it, a sound escaped him. A soft, broken wail that climbed up his throat. Katsuki didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away or ask why. He just stayed there, close and quiet, like he understood something Izuku couldn’t bring himself to say.

Izuku swallowed hard, his chest tight, and in that moment, he knew. 

He knew that Kacchan knew.

Snow began to fall, soft and hesitant, the flakes spinning lazily in the air before settling on the ground around them. 

Izuku let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. He spread his limbs out, gloved hands brushing against the ground. His chest rose and fell as he wiped at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve.

“What size coat do you wear?”

Izuku’s eyes snapped open. He turned his head to look at Katsuki, who hadn’t moved from his spot beside him. Katsuki’s gaze was still fixed on the sky, his expression unreadable. 

“A medium,” he said, “Why? What for?”

“Just asking.”

He didn’t ask again. Katsuki wouldn’t tell him, and Izuku didn’t need him to.

The question dissolved into the snow that night.

Katsuki doesn’t bring it up again. Izuku wonders if he even remembers.

Izuku should have known better.

Because Katsuki never forgot.

Not that night. 

Not eight years later.