Chapter Text
Ochako lingered at the threshold, framed by the soft glow of sunlight streaming in from the hallway behind her. The light caught the strands of her hair, turning them into a haloed crown of chestnut and gold. In her hands, she clutched a small bouquet of wildflowers, their stems bound with a simple strip of orange ribbon, petals trembling faintly as though they carried her nerves with them.
When her gaze finally landed on Izuku, her entire expression shifted. Her eyes brightened, wide with relief, and the tension in her shoulders eased as though she’d been holding her breath for days. The smile that bloomed across her face was gentle, unsteady at the edges, but radiant nonetheless.
“Midoriya,” she uttered, her voice soft, “You’re awake.”
Her smile, tentative yet sincere, wavered the instant her gaze landed on Shoto seated at Izuku’s bedside. Something unreadable flickered across her features—hesitation, maybe uncertainty—but she masked it quickly, taking a single step further into the room. The bouquet in her hands jolted as though caught in a draft, ribbon brushing against her knuckles with each nervous shift of her grip.
“I wasn’t sure they’d let me in,” she confessed, her words spilling out a touch too quickly, eager to fill the awkward silence. Her eyes darted between Izuku and the flowers, mindful and with intent. “But… I wanted to bring you these.” She lifted the bouquet slightly, petals catching the light like shards of color against the stark white of the infirmary. “They reminded us—reminded me—of you.”
Izuku’s heart gave a painful lurch, his gaze snagging on the small bouquet. The wildflowers were simple, imperfect, yet achingly familiar—soft bursts of color that tugged him back to gentler days when the world hadn’t yet split beneath his feet. His throat constricted, breath catching as the weight of memory pressed hard against his chest, raw and unrelenting.
For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak—only stare as if the blossoms themselves might unravel him.
Before the green-haired omega could gather his words, Shoto’s hand drew back, the loss of contact almost startling in its quiet retreat. Yet the warmth of his wrist against Izuku’s neck still lingered.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Shoto said softly, rising from the chair, its legs scraping faintly against the floor as he stepped away. His presence receded like the tide easing back from the shore, leaving only its foamy trace behind. The air shifted with him, touched by the scent he carried—woodsmoke threaded with pine, clean and grounding, curling faintly into the sterile space as though reluctant to fade.
“Take your time,” the alpha assured, “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”
Izuku’s helpless gaze followed him until the door clicked shut, the sound slicing the room further into an uncomfortable silence. The space he left behind felt starkly hollow, the steady hum of the monitors suddenly louder, the sharp antiseptic clinging heavier in his lungs.
Even the bouquet in Ochako’s hands seemed to carry weight now, its presence pressing into the stillness like an unspoken question. His chest tightened, breath faltering, uncertainty thrumming through his veins until his pulse beat harshly in his ears.
Ochako moved deeper into the room, her steps careful, as if wary of disturbing the fragile air. She set the small bundle of wildflowers on the bedside table with a gentleness that made the blooms shiver against one another. Leaning closer, she let her hands rest on the edge of the table, fingertips brushing over the petals as though she, too, needed something tangible to hold onto.
“I’m glad to see you’re doing well. Despite…” she trailed off, the words catching faintly in her throat, scarcely louder than a breath. Izuku dipped his chin in the faintest of nods, the motion stiff. His throat felt scraped dry, as though speech itself might shatter what little steadiness he held.
Her gaze lingered on him, moving carefully over the lines of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders hunched inward as if bracing against an unseen weight. Her eyes dropped briefly to his hands, knuckles pale where they clutched the blanket, the fabric pulled taut as though he could anchor himself against unraveling. When her eyes lifted again, her expression had softened.
“You’ve been through so much…” she murmured, voice trembling faintly. “I didn’t know what happened at first. I… I was worried sick.”
Izuku’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze slipping from her to the blanket pooled across his lap. His fingers smoothed over the fabric in small, restless movements, trying to ground himself in its weave. The residual warmth of Shoto’s steadying touch still clung faintly to his skin.
“I… it’s been hard,” he admitted quietly. His lips parted as if to say more, then pressed closed again before the silence stretched thin. At last, he drew in a careful breath, exhaling through the ache in his chest. “But… I’m getting through it.”
Ochako nodded slowly, her gaze sympathetic as her fingers reached out, wrapping gently around the stem of one of the wildflowers she’d brought. She turned it slightly between her fingertips, as though the small motion could steady her nerves. The bloom bent delicately toward her, its faint sweetness threading through the air.
The room was suspended in a brittle quiet with the exception of the continuous hum of the monitors; a mechanical heartbeat beneath the weight of everything left unspoken. She shifted at last, her shoulders rising and falling with a quiet inhale before she cleared her throat. Her eyes lifted to his, firm but searching.
“I’ve been thinking about you… and Katsuki…” Her voice wavered just slightly, but she pressed on. “…And I was hoping we could talk?”
“Kacchan? W-What do—What did you want to talk about?”
“I… I wanted to talk about the clearing,” she began, voice soft, careful, as though treading across glass. Her fingers fidgeted with the ribbon around the flowers, twisting it in small, nervous circles. “After… after what happened, I… I spoke to Katsuki.”
Izuku’s chest tightened. His throat felt raw, and he couldn’t stop the subtle tremor that ran down his arms.
“…You did?”
She nodded, eyes dropping to the blooms for a heartbeat.
“It wasn’t easy. You know? In the clearing… He… he almost went feral. The staff—everyone—they had to restrain him to get to you. He was… so protective, Izuku. So scared, and angry, and… desperate. I’ve never seen someone like that.”
Izuku’s stomach twisted, every memory from that day pressing against him. The searing heat of Katsuki’s frustration, the tight coil of control snapping under pressure, and the weight of his own surrender—it all rose again in a heavy pulse.
Ochako lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes with something faintly pained, but still soft.
“You know, I… I was happy at first,” she admitted, a wisp of a smile flickering before it faded. “Being his… scent-match.” Her cheeks warmed faintly as she said it, though her voice trembled with honesty. “Katsuki… he’s strong and confident. His presence—it fills every room. He’s so handsome, too… He’s one of the most eligible alphas in the school, you know? And, well…” She gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “I always kind of had this little crush on him.”
The laugh broke too quickly, brittle at the edges, a sound that cracked under the weight of regret. Her fingers tightened around the ribbon binding the bouquet.
“But even with all that, something… never really felt right.”
Ochako exhaled slowly, as if letting go of a ghost she’d been carrying. Her chocolate-colored eyes glimmered, a touch of sorrow in their brightness.
“He was never really mine to begin with, huh, Izuku?” Her words were soft, tinged with sadness, with the subtle understanding of a truth she’d only just allowed herself to speak aloud.
Izuku’s gaze dropped to his hands, fists lightly pressing against the blanket. Ochako’s lips pressed together, and she paused, letting the silence stretch and settle like dust in sunlight.
“Have you… seen him since?” she asked carefully, almost hesitant, as if the answer might fracture what was left.
Izuku shook his head, voice barely audible. “…No.”
“…You haven’t?” Her eyes widened, surprise flashing like glass catching the light. She leaned forward, the bouquet shifting in her hands until the stems quivered against her palms. “But I thought he said—” Her words faltered, collapsing into a sharp exhale. “Ugh, that idiot… He’s—he’s been a mess, Izuku. Since that day in the clearing, he’s not himself. Restless. Miserable. So empty without you. He—” her voice trembled before steadying, “—he cares about you so… so much.”
Izuku’s chest constricted, his breath snagging like thread pulled too tight. Heat stung behind his eyes, and his hands curled tighter in the sheets until his knuckles ached.
“Cares about me?” His voice cracked, the whisper splintered with something raw and jagged. “Then why did he command me?” His gaze dropped, lashes trembling as though they could shield him from the memory. “Why bring you there?” The last word caught; a fracture in his throat. “That was supposed to be—” His breath broke, unsteady and small. “Ours.”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice soft but pained. “He kept saying it was instinct, that he thought I was the one… but without you by his side, Izuku, he’s… lost. He—” Her voice broke. “He misses you.”
Izuku’s heart twisted violently. Disbelief warred with the dangerous flicker of longing that clawed its way up, aching to bloom. His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing found its way past the knot in his throat.
Ochako inhaled shakily, then forced herself to meet his eyes.
“That’s why… we stopped courting. Katsuki and I—we ended it.”
The words hung between them, weighty and shocking, yet somehow inevitable. The wildflowers on the table trembled again, brushing the sterile light of the infirmary in faint motion. Izuku felt the room tilt around him, his pulse thundering in his ears. Somewhere between relief and confusion, sorrow and the tiniest spark of something else, the world seemed to wait, holding its breath with him.
“You have to talk to him, Izuku,” she said at last, her voice gentle but threaded with a steel that left no room for retreat. “You and Katsuki… this bond between you—it isn’t something you can push aside. Not forever.”
The words struck like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through Izuku until his lungs forgot how to work. His breath faltered, catching on the edge of a memory he didn’t want to revisit. The very thought of facing Katsuki scraped raw against his ribs, like reopening a wound still tender and bleeding beneath the surface.
His gaze slipped downward, unable to meet hers. The flowers sat on the nightstand like a fragile offering—stems bound with a soft orange ribbon that carried a trace of Katsuki in its memory. The colors blurred together as he swallowed hard, letting his hands rest on his lap, fingers curling slightly as he tried to steady himself against the storm of thoughts and emotions swirling just beneath the surface.
“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, the words catching in his throat, raw and frayed at the edges. His voice came out more rasp than sound, the kind that scraped on its way up. “After everything—after what’s happened—I wouldn’t even know what to say.”
Ochako’s lips pressed together, her expression shadowed by a grief that seemed to mirror his own. For a heartbeat, she only watched him—her eyes soft, searching, carrying a quiet sorrow that made it harder for him to look back at her. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reached across the narrow space between them.
Her hand found his, her fingers light at first, then firmer, grounding him. Her palm was warm against the cool tremor of his fingers, the faint quiver in her touch betraying her own uncertainty even as she tried to offer steadiness.
“You don’t have to have all the words right now,” she whispered, her voice gentle but resolute. “Just… don’t shut him out completely. He needs you, Izuku. More than he’ll ever admit.”
Her thumb brushed once, feather-soft, against his knuckles before she hesitated, her next words seemed to carry the gravity of a thousand unshed tears.
“And maybe…” her voice dipped lower, tender and fragile, “…maybe you need him too.”
When she finally drew her hand away and stood, she left behind not just flowers but the weight of expectation. She offered him a sad, bittersweet smile—one that seemed to acknowledge both surrender and hope—before slipping from the room. The door closed with a soft click that sounded far too final.
Moments later, the door eased open again, the soft hinge-cry breaking the silence. This time it was Shoto who stepped inside, the air shifting subtly with his presence. His gaze flicked once to the bouquet resting in its makeshift spot on the bedside table, then back to Izuku.
“How did it go?” Shoto’s voice was quiet, each word measured as if he were careful not to press too deeply against the storm still swirling within Izuku.
Izuku exhaled a shallow sigh, his head bowing slightly, dark viridian curls shifting forward to veil part of his face. His fingers curled into the blanket, bunching the fabric between restless, gnarled hands, as though grounding himself in the sterile cotton was the only way to keep from unraveling.
“She… wants me to talk to Kacchan.” The name caught in his throat. He hesitated, swallowing hard, and after a long, brittle pause, his voice broke smaller, almost lost beneath the hum of the machines. “But…I’m not ready.”
Shoto’s gaze lingered on him, unflinching but not unkind, as though he were parsing every unspoken thread tangled in Izuku’s turmoil. After a moment, he moved with deliberation, lowering himself into the chair at Izuku’s bedside. His face remained a mask, cool and even, but his voice carried a geniality that settled into the space between them.
“Readiness isn’t always something you feel,” he said, each word intentional, enough to cut through the antiseptic air. “Sometimes it’s something you have to do. A necessary choice to step forward… even when every fiber of your being wants to pull back. Even when it hurts.”
The words hung there, like smoke refusing to dissipate, brushing against the sore edges of Izuku’s heart. He swallowed and turned his gaze sharply away, locking on the small bouquet of wildflowers as though their fragile stems could anchor him. The orange ribbon at their base trembled faintly with the draft of the air vent, and he clung to that movement, to anything that wasn’t Shoto’s piercing truth.