So he shuts it all down. Pushes everything else to the edges. Hope. Regret. Grief. Want. All of it sealed behind gritted teeth and shaking hands and breath that tastes like dirt and blood and refusal.
Because Todoroki isn't breathing. And Katsuki still is. And he will keep breathing for both of them until something changes. Or until he falls apart trying.
But somewhere—buried beneath the chaos, beneath the screaming panic, beneath the ache in his shoulders and the fire in his chest and the grief still blooming slow and lethal behind his ribs—some part of him remembers. What this moment could have been. What it was supposed to be.
Not this. Not Todoroki slack beneath him. Not his lashes stuck to his cheeks like frostbitten thread. Not his jaw loose, tilted wrong. Not his lips this awful, waxy blue, too pale to belong to someone still alive. Not the ice-cold stillness of a mouth that won't move, of lungs that won't pull in air. This wasn't supposed to be the first time. This wasn't supposed to be how it happened.
It was supposed to be something else entirely. Something chosen. Slow. Warmed by intention.
He remembers—god, he remembers how it used to burn. That quiet, sharp-edged wanting. How it caught him off guard at first, unwelcome and uninvited—but then lingered. Stayed. Took up space in his chest like it belonged there. It lived in him like a second heartbeat—not always loud, but always there.
Not in the big moments. But in the in-betweens. The hush after sparring matches when Todoroki wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. The way his voice dropped to something quiet and unhurried when he spoke sometimes. The precise way he moved—graceful, soft, gentle—like it mattered.
It crept into Katsuki's thoughts when he wasn't looking. Soft. Reluctant. Relentless. It curled around the edges of his anger. Tangled itself in the silence after his explosions. Sat quietly in the corners of his dreams like it had always been there.
He remembers lying awake in the dark—fists clenched in his sheets, jaw tight, heart pounding, like it was trying to hammer through his ribcage, trying to force him to say it. To admit it. That he wondered what it would feel like—to kiss him. For real. To choose it. To have the other choose it too. To want it and be wanted back. Not rushed. Not stolen. Not in crisis. But mutual.
He used to imagine it with a kind of ache—not hungry, but tender. Slow. A moment stretched out between them like golden thread. A lean-in. A glance. A breath shared. A hand at the back of a neck. A pause—just long enough for it to be deliberate.
And then—the press of lips. Not urgent. Not perfect. Just real. He'd imagined Todoroki leaning in too. Quiet and sure in the way only he could be. Meeting him halfway. Not flinching. Not uncertain. Giving. Giving something small but entire. That was how it was supposed to be. A choice. A moment between two people alive and aware and burning for it.
Not urgency. Not terror. Not this. Not this. Not Katsuki on his knees in the fucking dirt—soaked to the bone. Mud smeared across his arms and streaked down his face. Blood in his mouth—sharp and bitter, and maybe it's his, maybe it's not. Mouth trembling. Lungs burning. Vision swimming. Breathing into lungs that won't breathe back.
Not Todoroki, cold and still and slack in all the wrong ways. Not his mouth soft and silent beneath Katsuki's. Not his body limp and unyielding. Not his silence—that terrible, prolonged, unnatural silence—stretching between them like a chasm Katsuki can't cross.
Not this. Not this grim mockery of intimacy—empty. One-sided. Begging. Not the ritual of a kiss turned into CPR. Not the act of breathing mistaken for closeness. Not this cold, final-seeming echo. It was never supposed to be like this. Never supposed to feel like a goodbye.
Because now—Now it's not desire. It's not longing. It's not the soft ache that used to make his heart stutter in the middle of the night. It's desperation. It's dread.
It's the kind of terror that strips a person down to instinct. That tears out thought and leaves only motion. Only the need to fix it. Only the need to undo what's already begun to happen.
This—this is Katsuki broken open. Katsuki in the mud, his spine locked and screaming, his fingers numbed to the bone. Blood on his teeth. Dirt in his throat. Silt clawing at his knees like the river still wants to drag him under.
Hands trembling from exhaustion, from panic, from rage at the world and at himself. Mouth bruised from the force of breathing, again and again, into Todoroki's mouth like he can breathe him back into existence.
This is terror—not screaming. But crawling. Up his throat like a second spine. Like something sentient. Something ancient and waiting and cruel. A scream with nowhere to go. A sound that's building and building behind his teeth— Pressing against the inside of his chest, ballooning in his ribcage—and still, he can't let it out.
Because screaming means admitting it. Means saying it out loud. Means putting shape to the fear. And he won't. He can't. Because this—this is too late, breathing down the back of his neck. He can feel it—its hand, pale and cold, already hovering just behind him. Fingertips brushing his collar. A chill blooming at the base of his skull. A whisper at the edge of now. Waiting. Reaching. Ready.
But Katsuki—Katsuki won't let it close. He won't. Not yet. Not while Todoroki's chest is still beneath his hands. Not while his mouth still fits against his. Not while there's even a chance, however thin and dying, that he can pull him back. Because if this is goodbye—he's not saying it.
Finally—a twitch. Tiny. Imperceptible at first. Katsuki almost doesn't register it. Almost thinks it's his own shaking hands playing tricks on him. A ghost reflex. A phantom spasm born from hope too stubborn to die. But then—a sound. Awful. A wet, rattling gurgle tears through the silence like a jagged blade. Not speech. Not breath. Not even truly alive. But something . It breaks the stillness. Shatters it.
And then— movement. Violent. Jarring. Todoroki's chest jerks beneath Katsuki's hands with the suddenness of a body touched by lightning—like something inside him is fighting to get out. His back arches, his spine bowing up off the ground as a full-body spasm tears through him. It doesn't look like waking. It looks like resurrection by force.
A gasp rips from Todoroki's mouth—no, not a gasp, a choke—ugly. Harsh. A stuttering, wet sound that bursts through his lips along with a lungful of river water, thick and glistening and wrong. The sound of it cracks straight down Katsuki's spine like a whip. His body seizes in place, stunned by the violence of it, the proof of it.
Todoroki's lips part, trembling. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut as another cough tears itself loose—brutal, heaving, shaking his whole body. It sounds awful. It sounds shallow. It sounds human. And it is, without question, the most beautiful fucking thing Katsuki has ever heard.
Water splashes from Todoroki's mouth, dribbling down his chin, into the hollow of his throat, soaking Katsuki's sleeves and chest and he doesn't care. He doesn't care . Because Todoroki is breathing. Alive. Fighting. And Katsuki—Katsuki almost falls backward from the force of it.
Relief doesn't ease in like a balm. It doesn't soothe. It slams into him. Like a fist to the sternum. Like a detonation in reverse. Like the world cracking open, and light flooding in too fast to bear. His breath catches in his throat. Not like before. Not panic. Something worse. Hope. Sharp-edged. Blinding.Too bright. Too much.
It feels like breaking. It feels like his ribs can't contain the way his chest expands—like everything inside him is trying to claw its way out in sheer, unbearable relief. It punches through him so hard he almost collapses on the spot. Almost forgets how to breathe himself.
Because Todoroki is here . Still here. And the sound of his breath—shaky, awful, wet and full of pain—is more precious than anything Katsuki's ever known.
He scrambles to steady him. Still shaking. Still soaked. Still gasping like he's barely survived himself. Katsuki's movements are messy—clumsy with urgency, muscles misfiring under the weight of adrenaline and aftershock. His coordination is wrecked, nerves frayed down to the quick, but he moves anyway, because Todoroki is moving, and that means he needs to be held .
His hands are everywhere, frantic and unsteady, gripping for purchase like Todoroki might slip away again if he doesn't anchor him to the earth by force. He grabs a shoulder—too hard, then softens—finds his waist—feels bones under soaked fabric—presses his palm flat against the damp curve of his spine—right there, right there —
Like that will keep him here. Like if Katsuki holds him tightly enough, Todoroki won't vanish again.
"Easy— fuck , easy , " he breathes, the words tumbling out in pieces—no rhythm, no control. Just raw sound, rough-edged and hoarse. The syllables catch on the way out, like they have to fight through a throat scraped raw from smoke, salt, screaming. He barely recognizes the voice that escapes him. Thin. Frayed. Desperate.Like it belongs to someone else entirely. Someone already grieving.
He exhales hard through his nose, presses his forehead against Todoroki's temple for half a second before instinct grabs him by the spine and moves him. He shifts—positions—rolls Todoroki carefully onto his side, hands guiding the motion like he's done this before, even if the memory of how feels distant. Muscle memory. First-aid drills. Screamed instructions from training.
Clear the airway. Let them breathe.
Katsuki holds him there—an arm braced across Todoroki's back, a hand splayed against his chest, fingers twitching with restraint he doesn't know how he's managing. And Todoroki coughs. A deep, broken hack that convulses through his body like it's trying to break him apart. It sounds horrible. Wet. Muffled. Painful. Like his lungs are tearing themselves raw just trying to work.
River water pours out of him—thick. Bubbling. Dark with silt. It splashes onto the grass, stains it black. Gushes in stuttering waves from the corners of his mouth, trailing down his chin, soaking his collar. It hits Katsuki's sleeves, seeps into the crook of his elbow, soaks the mud already clinging to his arms.
But he doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. Doesn't care. Because this—this means he's alive.
Todoroki's body seizes again—another violent, shuddering gag, more water ejected with a sickening wet cough that racks his whole frame. And Katsuki holds on. Tight. Unshaken. Even when Todoroki curls into himself, even when he lurches like his ribs might shatter from the force of it—Katsuki stays with him. A constant. A wall. A presence.
Katsuki hovers. Still kneeling. Still crumpled. Still drenched in river water and mud and blood—raw down to the bone. His body feels like it's vibrating—shaking with too much adrenaline, too much emotion, too much everything. But he stays exactly where he is.
Because he doesn't trust himself to move. Because he doesn't know what motion is safe anymore. Because he's afraid that if he so much as shifts the wrong way, this moment—this fragile, goddamn miracle of a moment—might unravel.
His hands tremble uncontrollably as they brace against Todoroki's body. One on his side, curled just above his hip. Another pressed to the center of his back. A third—he doesn't even remember moving it—is fisted in the fabric of Todoroki's sleeve, knuckles white. He doesn't know where to touch. Doesn't know if he's grounding Todoroki, or if he's just trying to keep himself from coming apart. He just knows he has to stay. Has to hold on.
And his mouth—his mouth won't stop moving. Low, rough sounds spill from him unbidden. Soft things. Strange things. Murmurs without structure. Unthinking. Unfiltered. Vulnerable. It's not even speech, not really. Just a steady stream of hushing noises—half-formed syllables, fragments of words like scaffolding too broken to stand.
"Shh—breathe, dammit—just—keep—fuck, keep breathing —"
They fall from him like prayers he doesn't remember learning. Like sounds meant for someone else's mouth. The kind you make for small, trembling things in the dark. For a child. For a wounded animal. For someone on the edge of leaving.
Katsuki hadn't known he had that voice in him. Didn't think he was capable of it. But it's there now. And he doesn't try to stop it.
Because Todoroki coughs again—violently. His chest heaves, jerking with the force of it, as though his lungs are trying to wrench themselves out. It sounds like it hurts. Like the act of breathing is tearing him apart from the inside. More water spills from the corner of his mouth—dark. Thick. Silt-streaked.
But there's a sound now. A moan—low, wet, broken. Barely more than air. And his eyes. They flutter. Lashes trembling. Lids twitching. Not open yet, but trying. And then—his fingers twitch. Small. Quick. Involuntary. But real .
And Katsuki's heart—It nearly stops. The pressure in his chest spikes like someone's hooked a live wire into his ribs. His breath stutters. His spine locks.
He reaches without thinking, instinct crashing through him like a wave. Grabs Todoroki's wrist before it can slip away—holds it. Tight. Anchored. As if the act of touching will keep him tethered. As if Katsuki can keep him here by sheer force of will.
Todoroki's skin is ice-cold. Clammy. Still frighteningly pale. But beneath it—there. A pulse. Faint. Uneven. But there. Katsuki swallows hard—his throat tight, thick with everything he hasn't said. He leans closer, voice cracking on the edge of something too big to name.
"Come on," he whispers—no, not whispers. Pleads. It scrapes out of him—raw, guttural, broken. A sound dug up from the bottom of his lungs. A voice he barely recognizes.
"Come on, you icy bastard," he squeezes Todoroki's wrist tighter, like that connection will matter , "don't go back to sleep."
Not when you just came back. Not when I just got you back.
He doesn't even realize there's water on his face. Not just river water. Not anymore. It's hot. Not cold like the rest of him. Not sharp like the wind or heavy like the river's pull. It tracks down his cheeks in trembling streaks, catching at his jaw, his chin, sliding past the corners of his mouth where his breath still hitches.
Salt. He tastes it. Doesn't know when it started. Doesn't know how long it's been happening. His face is wet with it. And it's not the water that scares him. It's that he didn't notice. Didn't feel it. His cheeks have been numb far too long for that.
He bows his head—just for a second—because he can't hold himself upright anymore. Because the world is tilting. Because Todoroki is breathing, and Katsuki doesn't know what to do with the crushing weight of that fact.
He leans forward, trembling, and presses his forehead to the slope of Todoroki's shoulder. Not hard. Not desperately. Just there. Just for a second. Just to feel him. Just to make sure this isn't some cruel hallucination. To breathe him in—damp fabric and blood and river silt and something else, something softer, beneath it all. Something alive.
Todoroki breathes. Thin. Shallow. Barely there. Like every inhale might be the last. Like the act of staying alive is fighting him. But it's there. It's there.
And he's shivering. Not just a shudder. Not a twitch or a chilled breath or a little shake of the fingers. This is violent. A full-body convulsion that ripples from his spine outward. Teeth clenched so tightly Katsuki can hear the grind of enamel. His jaw looks locked, like if it unhinges even a little, he'll unravel.
His fingers curl in on themselves—clawing weakly at his chest, at the dirt, at nothing. Like he's searching—grasping—for something to hold onto. To stay tethered. His breaths come in fractured gasps—staccato and wheezing. Every inhale is ragged, every exhale a whisper of too much. Like the very act of being alive is too heavy for his lungs to carry.
And Katsuki—Katsuki lifts his head. His own body is screaming, burning from the inside out with the strain of it all. His limbs still shake, his breath still comes in uneven bursts, but none of it matters. Because Todoroki needs help. Not later. Now.
The realization slices through the fog of relief like a siren through the night—high-pitched. Piercing. Impossible to ignore. The moment of quiet that came with Todoroki's first breath—the moment Katsuki thought might be safety—evaporates . Gone.
Replaced by something sharper. Real panic. Not the kind that's loud and immediate and violent. But the kind that creeps in on the heels of adrenaline. The kind that shows up after.After you've saved someone. After the rush is gone. When you realize they're still not okay.
He's freezing. Still soaked to the bone, skin leached of all color, lips barely reclaiming pink from the awful shade of blue they'd worn just moments ago. He's lying in the dirt, half-conscious, body curled around itself like instinct alone is keeping him from going under again.
His skin is ice-cold. His pulse, still there, but thin, like it's slipping through Katsuki's fingers even as he holds on. Katsuki's brain lights up with everything they taught him—everything he rolled his eyes at. Everything he never thought he'd need.
Get him warm. Keep him conscious. Prevent shock.
And he realizes how much he doesn't know. But it doesn't matter. Because panic is here again. Because the fight isn't over. Because Todoroki came back , and Katsuki refuses to lose him again.
" Shit—fuck—shit— "
The words tumble out of him in a raw, cracked loop. Not a curse, not even speech. Just noise. Just breath sharpened to a knife's edge. Katsuki's head whips around, eyes wide, unfocused, wild with it. His breath tears in and out of him, sharp and uneven, fogging the air in front of his mouth in short, white bursts.
Too cold. Everything is too fucking cold.
His hands hover over Todoroki's body like they don't know what they're supposed to do—shaking, twitching, unsure where to land. Touch his chest? His face? His neck? Check the pulse again? Pull him closer? Do something, do something—
But his mind blanks—wipes clean—as the panic roars up again and eclipses everything. No oxygen. No direction. Just that suffocating, scraping pressure in his lungs, his chest, his skull—and the screaming, instinctual knowledge that this isn't over. That he hasn't done enough. That Todoroki is still at risk . That he could still die right here .
His body lurches into motion before thought can catch up. Katsuki scrabbles sideways in the mud, knees and elbows sinking deep into the soaked earth, slipping as he lunges forward on all fours. His palms skid over cold sludge and jagged stone, fingers clawing at the ground like he's trying to dig something out of it. His breath comes fast and loud, the kind of breathing that hurts, all ribs and resistance, steam rising around him in thick clouds.
Get up—move—find it—
He flips over rocks, rips through clumps of grass, slaps away branches and half-buried debris with shaking hands. The wet slap of his palms against the ground echoes like gunfire in the quiet. Each heartbeat feels like a countdown. Each second lost . Each second he can't afford.
He's searching—frenzied, relentless. For his jacket. His phone. Anything. Some lifeline. Some thread of control he can grasp onto and pull this back from the edge .
But there's nothing . Just broken twigs. Waterlogged leaves. Mud and river water and empty fucking earth. Just Todoroki, still gasping, still shivering behind him. Just the sound of his own heartbeat slamming against his skull. Just his own breath clawing its way out of his lungs. No signal. No logic. No plan.
His jacket—it had everything . His phone. Gloves. A hat. His fucking brain , practically. He spins again, slipping in the muck, dirt streaking across his arms, caked into his nails.
" Where is it— " he chokes, voice raw. " Where the fuck—where did it— "
He can't finish the thought. Can't remember . Somewhere between diving in and dragging Todoroki out, he lost it. Dropped it. Left it. And now the cold is closing in again—the kind that doesn't just bite, but devours . Gnawing at the edges of Todoroki's skin, curling into the cracks of his bones.
Katsuki feels it too. In his fingers. In his chest. In the place where hope had flared, just for a moment—now flickering like a candle in wind. And still—he digs. Because stopping isn't an option. Not when Todoroki's breath still rattles. Not when his lips are still too pale. Not when he's still alive, but just barely.
Then—his eyes lift. Up. Not aimlessly. Not in wonder. Not to pray. But because there's nowhere else left to look. His breath fogs the air in front of him, ragged and sharp as knives, and still—he tilts his chin back, throat tight, pulse screaming in his ears, vision narrowing to a single, desperate axis: upward.
His gaze drags across the darkness—higher. Then higher. Until it catches. On the broken bones of the bridge above them. A ruined thing. A crooked skeleton of rusted metal and cracked cement, its frame leaning askew like a snapped limb, silhouetted black against the dim glow of the clouded sky.
It looms there, indifferent. Jagged. Gone. The place where Todoroki let go. The place he jumped from.
Katsuki's stomach twists, bile burning the back of his throat, but his eyes keep moving—past the bridge. Beyond it. To the slope. The hill. If you could call it that. It isn't a hill. It's not a trail. Not a path. It's a fucking wall. A sheer, angry scar of earth—raw and unforgiving.
The ground is torn to hell, a steep stretch of crumbling mud and exposed roots, still marred by old landslides, slick with runoff and pockmarked with jagged stone. Sharp rocks and shattered branches jut from the hillside like teeth, glinting faintly with moisture. The whole thing is tilted at a murderous angle, one wrong step from dragging a person back down by the spine.
Katsuki doesn't need to test it to know—it's barely climbable. Not in this condition. Not in the dark. Not like this. But it's all he has. Because up there —somewhere beyond the ridge—lies everything . His jacket. His phone. The dorms. The others.
Help. Warmth. Safety.
And down here—Down here is just cold. And silence. And the brutal, dead weight of a half-conscious boy who trusted gravity more than he trusted Katsuki.
Katsuki swallows, the motion jagged and dry, like choking on broken glass. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. His jaw aches from how tightly he's clenched it. He looks at Todoroki. Still curled on his side, still shivering, still fighting for every shallow breath. Then he looks back at the slope. And something deep in his gut pulls tight.
It's not meant to be climbed. Not by someone this wrecked. Not by bare, bleeding feet. Not by hands already scraped raw, by fingers stiff from cold, by shoulders still burning from the brutal swim and the impact of the fall. Not by anyone sane .
But Katsuki—Katsuki isn't anyone . And sanity stopped being a requirement the moment Todoroki let go of the railing.
His fingers curl into fists, nails biting into his palms. His knuckles crack. His jaw locks until it clicks. His legs tremble beneath him, still caked in river mud, still screaming from the effort. And still —he starts to shift forward.
Despite the cold. Despite the pain. Despite the way every tendon and bone and burned-out muscle in his body protests. Because he has no fucking choice. Todoroki is alive. And Katsuki intends to keep it that way. Even if it breaks him. Even if it takes everything.
He plants one hand on the dirt. Then the other. And with a breath that tastes like iron and fire—Katsuki gets ready to climb.
"Just—just stay here, okay?"
The words stumble out of him, raw and shivering, barely holding themselves together. He's crouched low beside Todoroki's still-trembling form, knees sinking into the cold, soaked earth, hands hovering above him like they want to do something—hold, shield, fix—but can't.
Can't even land. Can't even offer warmth that isn't there. His fingers twitch in the air above Todoroki's chest, useless and shaking. Like he could hold him down with nothing but will.
"Just— fuck —just for a minute," he chokes, the sentence fraying in the middle. His voice is coming apart. Too cold. Too raw. It scrapes through his throat like gravel, cracking beneath the weight of strain and exhaustion and something deeper—something fragile and wild and so close to grief.
"You'll be okay. I'll… I'll be right back. Okay? I'll be right back."
The second time he says it, it's softer. Almost gentle. Almost honest . But his voice breaks halfway through the promise—just a little. A skip. A crack down the middle like a glass too full. Because it sounds like lying . It feels like lying.
Because Katsuki doesn't know if Todoroki will be okay. Doesn't know if the fragile, fraying thread that just yanked him back from the brink will hold. Doesn't know if his body— that body —still shivering, still gasping. Still scalding and ice-cold at once—will keep breathing while Katsuki's gone. Or if the moment he turns his back—that thread will snap . And the stillness will come back. Permanent. Unforgiving.
But he says it anyway. Because he has to. Because what else is there to say? Because staying means letting Todoroki die from cold and shock right here. And leaving feels like betrayal. Like abandonment. Like walking away from something that already almost broke.
Todoroki doesn't answer. Doesn't even blink. His eyes—half-lidded, glassy—are fixed somewhere far away. Unfocused. Pale. Like his mind hasn't quite returned to his body. Like some part of him is still caught in the river. His lips part just enough to pull in air— barely . Every breath is a threadbare rattle. Like his lungs haven't made peace with working again. His fingers twitch. Small. Random. Involuntary spasms that barely disturb the dirt beneath him.Like his body is still trying to remember how to be alive.
And Katsuki—Katsuki swallows. Hard. Doesn't let himself sit with it. Doesn't let himself feel it. Because if he does—he won't go. He'll stay. And Todoroki will die. So he moves. He stands too fast. His knees groan in protest. His back screams. The world tilts. The blood rushes out of his head like a tide, and for a moment, he sees nothing but stars and blur.
The cold slams into his chest like a fist . And suddenly—he can't feel his fingers. Or his feet. Or his fucking face. His breath catches—ripped from his lungs like it was stolen. His whole body stutters like a machine trying to restart with dead wiring. And still— move. The word fires through him like a command. Sharp. Final. A spark in the black.
Move.
Because Todoroki is still breathing. And Katsuki has to keep it that way. Even if it means running uphill through hell. Even if it means turning his back on the one thing he just got back. Because there is no other way. There never was.
He stumbles forward. Not steps. Not strides. Not purpose. Just—stumbling. A slow-motion collapse stretched out into motion. Each step is a punishment. Every muscle in his legs trembles under the strain, tendons pulled taut and frayed from everything that's already happened—running, diving, dragging, saving.
His breath saws through his throat like broken glass—sharp, jagged, acidic . It scrapes at the soft tissue inside him, leaves fire behind with every inhale, but still—he keeps breathing. The air burns going in and freezes the second it touches his lungs. His ribs feel cracked. Like someone took a bat to them. Or maybe it was the river. Or the rock. Or the grief. Doesn't matter. They hurt . His lungs scream . His legs shake .
And his feet— fuck, his feet. He'd almost managed to forget about them. About the shoes. The ones he left behind on the bridge in the chaos. Kicked off in the panic. But the second his bare soles meet the root-strewn base of the slope—the memory returns like a second injury.
The ground is merciless. Every step is a new betrayal. Every jagged rock, every broken stick, every buried shard of ice digs in with teeth. The earth here isn't passive. It bites. Cold, wet mud slicks beneath his toes—alive with movement, slick with runoff, eager to take his footing. He tries to brace against it, to find purchase—but there is none.
The climb hasn't even started, and he's already bleeding. He knows he is. He can feel it—the sting of raw skin, the sharp burn where flesh has been torn, where sharp edges have opened new wounds. Dirt grinds into them. Soaks in. The raw scrape of open cuts pressing into cold mud.
And still—he doesn't stop. Doesn't let himself stop. Because behind him—still down there—is Todoroki. But he does glance back. Just once. His breath catches. Todoroki lies there like something left behind. Folded in on himself. Small in a way he never should be. Too still. Too pale.
Steam curls weakly off his body, a soft halo of heat that looks like smoke—like the last breath of a dying fire. His skin doesn't glow. It flickers. And that's somehow worse. Like his body is trying to stay alive but doesn't quite remember how.
Katsuki's heart lurches sideways in his chest. He doesn't call out again. Doesn't promise in full voice. Just a whisper—low. Breathless. Half for Todoroki. Half for himself. Half for the fucking sky or the birds or whoever else may listen.
"I'll be right back," he murmurs. Quieter now. To the trees. To the dark. To whatever half-deaf, indifferent gods might be overhead.
"Stay."
Stay here. Stay breathing. Stay alive.
And then—He turns. And walks. One foot forward. Then the other. Into the slope. Into the cold. Into the pain. Away. From the only person he's ever wanted to run toward.
The act of facing away from Todoroki feels wrong in his bones, like he's leaving something sacred behind, like something essential to his body has been ripped free and left shivering in the dirt. But he does it. Because he has to. Because if he doesn't go now—if he lets himself hesitate, lets himself look back again —he'll fall to his knees beside Todoroki and never get up again.
One step. Then another. One foot in front of the other. That's all it is. That's all it can be. Just motion. Simple. Mechanical. Basic enough to trick his body into forgetting it's falling apart. His heel lifts. His toes dig in. And he pulls himself up the slope one punishing inch at a time.
The first foot drags, slick with mud, barely lifting from the ground. The second lands with a squelch, cold slop seeping between his toes. His legs ache like they're made of concrete, weighted and cracked, ready to buckle. The slope rises before him, cruel and silent, as if daring him to try.
And still—he moves. Slow at first. Then slower. His breathing is ragged, hot steam spiraling from his mouth and nose, mixing with the mist, vanishing like everything else that's warm. He plants one hand against the earth and starts to climb.
Not upright—not yet. Crawling. His knees sink into the wet dirt. His palms slip against cold roots and slick rocks. He digs his fingers into the hillside, into crumbling earth that shifts and gives beneath his weight.
It's not graceful. It's not even steady. It's a scramble . A drag. A fight. Every few feet, the slope threatens to throw him back. Every handful of mud he uses to pull himself up is ready to collapse, to suck him back down into the dark with Todoroki.
But he refuses. He grits his teeth. His mouth tastes like dirt and blood. His shoulders scream from the effort. His feet are torn and bleeding, every step sparking pain up his calves.
And still—he climbs.
Through pain. Through the cold that sinks into his marrow like it's trying to make a home there. Through the white-hot sting of exposed skin slapping against wet bark and jagged stone. Through the fire of screaming nerves in his shoulders, in his calves, in the arch of his spine that keeps locking up like it's about to snap.
Through the choking weight in his throat—that thick, sour lump that's been building since he left Todoroki lying there, unmoving, barely breathing. It swells with every step. Threatens to rise. To claw its way out of his mouth in a scream or a sob or a name—But he swallows it down. Grinds his teeth. Grips the mud harder. Pushes forward.
Driven by fury. By fear. By the memory of Todoroki's lips turning blue. By the sound of his breath returning like something torn from the grave. He climbs because the alternative is death. He climbs because there's no one else coming .
Because help won't descend. Because safety isn't waiting at the bottom. It's up there . Somewhere . And Katsuki Bakugou will fucking reach it—or collapse trying.
He doesn't let himself think. Not about what he's leaving behind. Not about the body curled on the forest floor, steam still rising from skin too cold to hold it. Not about what might happen while he's gone—if Todoroki stops breathing. If his heart forgets how to beat. If his name becomes something said in past tense.
Not about what he won't be able to fix if he's too fucking late. No. No. He shuts it down. Slams the door on every thought, every fear, every what-if screaming for his attention.
He just walks. Drives his body up this hellish slope like it's being powered by a command buried in his bones. Like the act of climbing is the only thing keeping him breathing. Because it is.
Because the second he stops—the second he lets himself feel anything—he knows he won't be able to keep going. And Katsuki Bakugou—he doesn't fucking quit. Not when it hurts. Not when it's impossible. Not when it's him against the goddamn world.
And he doesn't lose people. Not to villains. Not to fate. Not to rivers or hypothermia or choices made with shaking hands and dead eyes. Not when they're his. Not Todoroki. Not this time. So he keeps climbing. Hands bleeding. Feet raw. Breath burning in his throat. Every step a silent vow:
I'm coming back. You're not dying here. I won't let you.
He doesn't bother with rest when he reaches the top. No time. No thought. Not when Todoroki's still down there, shaking and soaked and silent.
His feet hit the gravel with a slap, jarring all the way up through his knees. He stumbles—just barely—but doesn't fall. Doesn't stop. Just drops hard to one knee, breathing like he's been running for miles instead of climbing a hill. The slope behind him still gapes like a wound, slick and steep and brutal, the bridge looming skeletal behind him in the fading light.
He doesn't look back.
He reaches for the pile he left behind—his jacket, crumpled and heavy with cold air and dried river water; his shoes, stiff and half-full of gravel; and his phone, lying face-down in the dirt where it must've skidded when it fell.
He barely slows down, just scoops them up with numb, clumsy fingers—shoes dangling by their laces, jacket crisp with cold air, phone clutched like a lifeline. He grabs them all at once in shaking arms, not caring about the grit that gets on his skin, or the sting of some sharp rock slicing across his palm.
His hands are trembling so badly now it's a wonder he can hold onto anything at all. The phone wobbles between his fingers, slick with wet and grime, the screen spiderwebbed in a way he doesn't remember. A deep crack splits through the middle, bisecting the clock readout. The corner blinks red, a flashing low battery symbol overlapping a damage warning he doesn't even register.
He nearly drops it twice just trying to unlock it—his thumb keeps slipping, too cold, too slow, too shaken —but finally, finally, the homescreen comes up. He fumbles through contacts, fingers clumsy and useless, swiping wrong more than once before he finds it: Deku.
One of the only numbers he has saved besides Kirishima's. One of the only ones that matters—right now, at least. One of the only people who might pick up. One of the only ones who might know what the fuck to do. How to fix this .
Not Kirishima. He can't. Not after what happened.
He stabs the call button without hesitation, without breath. The phone is already against his ear before he realizes it. His grip goes white-knuckled, his other hand clutching the jacket to his chest like it's armor, like it'll stop him from shaking apart.
His breathing is wrecked. Shallow. Sucking in through clenched teeth. He still tastes the river in the back of his throat—mud and panic and Todoroki's name.
The line doesn't even get through a full ring. Just—click. Connection .
"Bakugou?"
Not Deku. Not Deku. The voice on the other end isn't soft or frantic or filled with nerves—it's not Midoriya's breathless stammering or the scramble of worry Katsuki half expected. No. It's Aizawa.
And it hits him like a gut punch. No warning. Just that low, rough voice crackling through the speaker like gravel and steel and exhaustion—familiar in a way that roots itself deep in Katsuki's spine, coils around his ribs and squeezes.
He goes still. The air leaves his lungs like he's taken a blow to the stomach. His hand goes slack, almost drops the phone. His fingers barely tighten in time to catch it from slipping straight through his grip.
It shouldn't be him. It wasn't supposed to be him. Deku was supposed to pick up. Deku, who'd ask too many questions and maybe cry a little, but do something. Move. React. Panic with him. Not this. Not the quiet weight of a grown-up voice. Of authority. Of reality.
There's a pause. Just long enough for Katsuki's heart to hammer once—twice—wild and hard and terrified.
"Where are you?" Aizawa again. But different now. Sharper. No longer tired in that way he usually is—half-sleeping on his feet, perpetually three blinks away from a nap. No. This isn't routine fatigue. This isn't classroom monotony.
This is alert. This is something's wrong. There's something in his voice—something razor-edged. Like he already knows. Like someone told him. Like the alarm's already been raised and now he's just trying to find the body. The tone slices straight through the haze. Straight through the adrenaline still buzzing in Katsuki's veins. Straight through the river water still dripping off his hair, cold and relentless.
Katsuki's throat seizes. For a beat too long, he doesn't speak. The words won't come. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The hill beneath him suddenly feels unstable. Like it might fall away. Like he might. The phone shakes in his hand. His other arm clutches the jacket tighter to his chest, like that might shield him from the sound of Aizawa's voice.
Because he'd prepared himself—for Deku. Fucking Deku, with his useless panic and overflowing heart and hands that shook even when he wasn't the one bleeding. Deku, who cried too easily, who worried too loud. Who Katsuki could handle.
He'd counted on that voice—high and stammering and half a second away from hysteria—because he knew how to move through that. Knew how to command it. Could yell through the noise, shove urgency into it like a blade.
"Get help." "Bring a blanket." "Todoroki's not breathing." "Move, damn it, hurry—"
He was ready to bark those words into Midoriya's panic like orders on a battlefield. Ready to funnel his terror into action. To blame someone, to burn someone. To give it away.
But Aizawa? Aizawa changes everything. Aizawa makes it real. Because that voice—flat, firm, adult—means something. Means this is no longer just Katsuki's disaster to drag behind him like a corpse on a chain. No longer just his shame to bury. His mistake to scream about in silence.
Aizawa means protocol. Reports. Accountability. Means there's going to be a reckoning. Means this moment—this failure—won't be lost in the dark where Katsuki can pretend it never happened. It'll be filed. Written down. In permanent ink. A line in some medical record. An incident report in a school database. A conversation behind closed doors where words like disciplinary action and negligence and trauma response protocol hang in the air like smoke Katsuki can't breathe through.
"Bakugou. " Firmer now. Sharper. Less patient. A warning without the rise in tone. A second away from something worse. " Where are you? "
His jaw locks. He swallows—but it sticks. Doesn't go down. His throat is raw. Too dry and too full at once. His tongue tastes like river water and failure. He looks down—at his hands, still shaking. Still clutching the jacket like a lifeline. His fingers are blue at the knuckles, his nails ragged. The weight of his shoes cuts into his wrist where the laces twist too tight.
He feels it all again—everything he'd shoved aside: the wet cling of his shirt to his back. The sting of scraped skin on his knees. The sharp bite of cold air through soaked clothes. The throbbing pulse of his feet— bare, torn up from the climb. The ache in his shoulders from hauling dead weight.
Everything hurts. Everything is still happening.
And Todoroki— Todoroki is still down there.
Still on the shore. Still too still. Still too pale. Still barely breathing, if he's breathing at all. Katsuki shuts his eyes. Not for long. Just for a second. Just long enough to stop the spin. Just long enough to swallow the scream coiled at the base of his throat. Just long enough to find the words that won't destroy him when they hit the air.
"I need help," he says. It doesn't come out the way he means it to. Not sharp, not loud, not commanding like a proper call for aid should be. It's quiet. Low and ragged, ripped straight from somewhere deep in his chest—scraped raw and bloody on the way up, as if even forming the words costs him something. His voice catches, cracks in the middle like it can't carry the weight of the second word.
He swallows. Hard. Tries again.
"Todoroki…" The name barely makes it past his lips. It hits something inside him on the way out—a jagged edge, a bruise too deep—and the syllables trip and stumble, fold in on themselves like a wound reopening. He tastes iron. Guilt. Grief.
"He—" Katsuki starts, but the words collapse on him before they form. They sputter out into nothing, just a half-cough, half-whimper shaped like silence.For a moment, there's only the sound of his own breath stuttering in and out. Too fast. Too thin.
"He fell…" he manages finally. It feels like a lie the second it hits the air.
"He fell off the bridge." A lie. The worst kind—the kind told not to protect someone else, but to shield himself. "I got him out, but he's—he's not okay." His throat tightens again, cinches around the words like a fist. He can barely get them out.
His breath shudders. The truth rises behind his teeth like bile, bitter and scorching and undeniable.Todoroki didn't fall.
He jumped.
Katsuki knows it. Feels it like a weight nailed to the center of his chest. He saw it. Saw the moment Todoroki tipped backward, arms out, eyes far away. Saw the choice. And yet—he can't say it. The words won't come. Like if he speaks them aloud, they'll settle in the air like cement and never leave. Like if someone else hears them—really hears them—it'll make it real, make it permanent. Like voicing it aloud will fix it in stone, chisel it into truth.
So he lies. Not to protect Todoroki. But because the truth is too big to carry. Because the moment he admits it—that Todoroki chose to fall—the world shifts. Becomes something colder. Crueler. Something he doesn't know how to live in. So he breathes around the ache in his throat. Lets the lie rot on his tongue.
And waits—because there's nothing else left to do. Waits for the silence. Waits for the judgment. Waits for the world to fall apart. Because he's Katsuki Bakugou. Because he was supposed to win. Because people like him aren't supposed to need help. But now—now he's asking. Now he's admitting it. And he's terrified of what comes next.
There's a pause. Not a long one. Just long enough for the silence to press against the inside of Katsuki's skull like a vice. Just long enough for the cold to creep in again, to curl around his ribs like wire.
He hears the rustle of fabric on the other end. A shift. Movement. Maybe someone standing. Maybe Aizawa's already going for his coat. Maybe he's moving toward a door. Calling for someone else. It makes his chest clench. His breath catch.
And then—
"Bakugou. "
The voice is low. Steady. Grounded like concrete beneath a collapsing sky. It doesn't waver. Doesn't rise to meet his panic. It's not laced with alarm or disbelief or condemnation. It just is —a tether, solid and cold and real, stretching through the static in Katsuki's skull like a lifeline.
"I need to know where you are."
Just that. No yelling. No assumptions. No blame. Just a demand. A necessary one. An anchor in a storm that's been swallowing him whole since the moment Todoroki tipped backwards over the railing. The words hit like a punch, but not the kind that bruises. The kind that knocks the breath loose from your lungs when you didn't know you were holding it. And Katsuki—he tries to breathe. He really does.
But what comes out isn't a breath. Not really. It's broken. Splintered. Something raw and fractured caught halfway between a sob and a gasp, scraped up his throat like it's dragging a thousand invisible knives behind it. It hitches in his chest. Cracks in his ribs. His shoulders jerk forward like the weight of it might snap him in half.
But he exhales anyway. Lets it go. And when he breathes in again—shaky, shallow, like it hurts—he speaks. Or tries to. The words are unsteady. Shaky. Twisting at the edges. And underneath them— shame. Quiet and sharp. Buried in the cracks.
"I—I don't know."
The words fall out of him jagged and ashamed, torn up on the edges. They taste like blood. Like failure. Like every second wasted is pressing Todoroki's body colder into the dirt.
"I don't know the name. It's—" he swallows, hard, the syllables trembling. "It's some commercial district. There's—there's this fucking old train bridge. Rusted to shit. Real high up. Nobody uses it. It's over a river. That's all I know."
He hates how useless he sounds. Hates that this is all he can give.
Another pause. Just a heartbeat's worth of silence. Then Aizawa's voice again, quieter now, but no less firm.
"…You mean the one that runs over the Shinano River?"
Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut so hard it hurts. The world behind his eyelids flashes white, then red, then black. His grip on the phone tightens until his knuckles ache. His other hand curls into a fist in his lap, nails biting crescent moons into his palms.
His whole body is shaking. Barely holding itself together. Not from the cold anymore—though the cold hasn't let up—but from the inside. From something deeper.
"I—" his voice catches. Again. A stutter, then a crack. "I think so? I don't—"
And then the dam breaks.
" Fuck, I don't know!"
The shout tears free like an explosion—loud and blistering, the kind of sound that doesn't ask permission. It rips through the air, raw and desperate, filled with too many emotions to name. Panic. Rage. Guilt. Helplessness. Terror.
His throat scorches from the force of it. His breath heaves in ragged bursts. The word echoes off the trees, off the silent hulks of long-abandoned buildings, off the steel and rot of the bridge above—bouncing back at him, accusing and hollow.
And all Katsuki can think is: Too slow. Too stupid. Too late. And Todoroki is still down there. Still too quiet. Still maybe dying. And he doesn't know what the fuck to do. He just needs help. Now. Right fucking now.
But on the other end—Aizawa doesn't snap. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't meet Katsuki's chaos with his own. There's no anger in his voice. No frustration. No disappointment. Just—
"Hey. Hey , Bakugou—" It's steady. Clear. Low and grounding, like the sound of gravel under steady footsteps. It cuts through the noise in Katsuki's head like a thread of steel, quiet but unbreakable.
" Breathe. " Aizawa's tone doesn't waver. It doesn't rise to meet the panic, doesn't demand calm like an order—it offers it. Like an anchor, not a command. "Calm down. You're doing everything right. Just stay on the line, okay? I can track you. We'll find you. It's going to be okay."
And that—that wrecks him. Because it's not just comfort. It's not pity. It's not meaningless reassurance spat out to plug a hole in the moment. It's belief. Unshakable. Undemanding. Unconditional. It's Aizawa—his no-bullshit, iron-clad homeroom teacher—telling him, in no uncertain terms, you're not alone. And that breaks something in Katsuki all over again.
Not like before, not the sharp, jagged shattering of panic and guilt and helpless rage—but something quieter. Deeper. Like a faultline cracking wide in his chest under the weight of too much held too long.
He clenches his jaw. Tight. Feels the burn at the corners of his eyes but doesn't let it fall. Won't. Can't. Not now. Not here. His hand curls tighter around the phone, pressing it against his ear like pressure alone might make the voice inside it more real. Might make the reassurance seep into his skin. Might keep him from coming apart entirely.
His other hand scrapes across his leg—mud-streaked, raw, bleeding. Just to feel something. Just to hold on. And then—so soft it barely makes a sound, so small it hurts to hear it—
"...Okay."
It slips out like a crack in armor. Barely a word. Just a ghost of one. Ragged. Shaky. Ground down to its thinnest edges by exhaustion and adrenaline and fear. It's not the voice of Katsuki Bakugou, top of the class, fuck-you-and-fight-me born brawler.
It's just a kid. Just a seventeen-year-old boy with no shoes, split skin, a wrecked voice, and someone else's life in his hands. It's hoarse. Whispered. Fragile in a way he never lets himself be. But it's real. The only thing he has left to give.
And Aizawa—thank fuck for him—doesn't rush the moment. Doesn't fill it with more than it can hold. Just says, firm and certain: "I'm on my way. Just—just stay where you are."
"You have to fucking hurry, " Katsuki snaps.
The words don't feel like his own. They rip out of him like shrapnel—sharp and uncontrollable, like they've been buried under his ribs too long and have finally clawed their way free. Minutes? Hours? Days? He doesn't know how long he's been carrying it. Doesn't know when the fear started or if it ever really stopped.
He doesn't even realize he's shouting until he hears his own voice bouncing back from the metal and stone around him—too loud, too raw, breaking apart as it leaves his mouth.
" You— " his voice catches, frays, wavers like a snapped wire. "You don't get it. He's gonna fucking die! "
That last word— die —it hits harder than the others. Not louder. Not even screamed. But fractured. Ripped wide open. A splintered edge of a thing, born not from anger but from something far worse: fear.
Real, gut-deep, soul-shaking fear. It breaks in his throat as it comes out. Cracks him in half. For a split second, it feels like saying it made it real. Like naming the possibility just handed it weight.
And then there's a silence on the line. Not long. Barely a breath's worth of space. But it lands like a goddamn hammer. Heavy. Final. The kind of silence that slams harder than a scream. The kind that fills up a person's lungs and chokes them on everything unsaid.
" What? " Aizawa's voice cuts through it like a blade.
No more calm. No more grounding tones. His words are steel now—sharp and alert, unsheathed in an instant. The voice of a man who knows what it means when one of his kids says something like that. The voice of a pro-hero who's seen the worst and knows the signs.
" What do you mean? " he demands. " Why would you say that? "
Katsuki stumbles. His mouth opens—but the words tangle. They won't come clean. His throat feels swollen. Closed off. Like the fear is lodged there, growing roots. His chest heaves around it. His next breath collapses inward.
"I—" It's barely a sound. Just a broken thing pushed out on air.
He's still shaking. Still barefoot and soaked through, teeth clattering in the cold. The phone is slippery in his grip, and he presses it tighter against his ear like it might hold him upright. His knees have started to ache. He's crouched, maybe, or collapsed—he's not sure when it happened.
"I don't know," he says at last. It explodes out of him, all in one breath. " I don't fucking know, okay? I just—" He sucks in air. Shaky. Unreliable. Tries again.
"I just know it. " His voice breaks again. Shreds. "I don't know how. I just fucking do. "
And it's true.
There's nothing logical in it. No observation he can point to. No diagnosis he can give. No data, no visible wound, no neat little fact to hold up and say see, this is why. There's just instinct. Just that sick, clawing certainty in the pit of his gut—dread so deep it's not even fear anymore, it's something colder. Older. A pressure behind his ribs like a premonition wrapped in barbed wire.
It hurts to hold in. Burns just to feel it. Like his chest might cave in under the weight of knowing without knowing. And it's worse than anything logical. Because logic can be argued with. Reassured. Talked down.
This—this is instinct. Pure and wordless. A silent scream in his blood that says he's hanging by a thread. That says he's not okay. That says if someone doesn't get there fast, if something doesn't change now, the thread will snap. And then there will be no pulling him back. It's like that now. That cold, hollow certainty crawling up the back of his neck like frostbite. Like grief arriving early. And this time—this time, he's terrified it's already happening. That it's already too late.
Somewhere in the blur of panic—between one gasping breath and the next, between the tremble in his spine and the ache in his skull—his knees buckle. He doesn't even register it at first. Doesn't feel the exact moment the strength bleeds out of him. Just knows, distantly, that the ground is tilting. That the brittle slats of the old train track are suddenly under him, pressing into the backs of his legs, biting into raw skin through soaked clothes.
He's sitting now. When the fuck did that happen?
His body is folding in on itself without his permission. He blinks down, as if that might help him catch up, and sees his hands still trembling in front of him. Pale and scraped and trembling so hard it looks like they're vibrating. His palms are torn open in places—scratches blooming red and angry, dirt ground deep into the wounds. Mud cakes his knuckles. His nails are cracked, fingers stiff and aching. Somewhere along the way, he must've clenched his fists too tight. Must've crawled over something sharp. Doesn't matter.
His shoes are still dangling from one hand, laces tangled around his fingers like an afterthought. His jacket and phone sit in a crumpled pile beside him—cold and useless. The screen of his phone is spiderwebbed with cracks. Flashing some alert he can't read. Can't care about. His feet—still bare, still bruised—pulse with each heartbeat. Stinging. Swollen. Every flex of his toes feels like fire under skin.
And his chest won't stop heaving. Every breath is a battle. Shallow. Shaky. Rattling like broken glass in a jar. Everything hurts.
He doesn't think he can move. Doesn't think he can go back down. Doesn't even know if he should. His body's wrecked. Wrung out. Wrung dry. Like the fight that dragged him through the river and up the hill and into this call was never really his to use—like it was borrowed. Stolen from something bigger than him.
And now? Now that something's come to collect.
The edges of his vision fuzz, dimming at the corners. His body curls tighter without meaning to, like trying to fold smaller might protect what little he has left. And it hits him—all at once—how helpless he is. How small.
"Okay…" Aizawa's voice comes quieter now—lower, but still steady. Not detached. Not clinical. But anchored. A voice shaped for edge-of-the-world moments. "Okay. Just hang in there. I'm coming, Bakugou. I'll be there soon. It's gonna be okay. No one is going to die. You hear me? No one. I promise, kid."
Kid.
The word lands with more weight than it should. Heavy. Final. Something in it unspools a tight, brittle knot in Katsuki's chest. Like a key clicking into a lock he didn't know was there. Like something cracking inside him that had been held too tightly for too long. Because he isn't a kid. Not really. Not in the ways that matter. Most of the time, he hates being called that.
And yet—he needs it. Right now. Sitting barefoot on rusted metal, scraped raw, soaked to the bone, voice wrecked and eyes stinging with something he refuses to name. Right now, he feels younger than he has in years. Small in a way he hasn't let himself be since he was too young to realize the world wouldn't catch him if he fell.
And maybe that's why hearing it— kid —from someone like Aizawa, someone calm and grounded and not fucking falling apart , cuts through him like a lifeline. Not just a command. Not just reassurance. A claim. A tether. A promise. That he's not alone. That someone else is coming. Someone who knows what to do .
Katsuki nods—sharp, desperate—but the motion feels unfinished. Empty. Then he remembers: Aizawa can't see him. His voice scrapes out of his throat, low and frayed like torn cloth. "Y-yeah…" He swallows, but it doesn't help. His tongue feels thick. His mouth tastes like riverwater and metal. "…Okay…"
He leans back slowly, like the movement is happening to him, not something he's choosing. Lets his spine touch down against the warped slats of the old track behind him. The cold metal bites through the soaked fabric of his shirt, seeping into his skin. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't care. Doesn't even really feel it. It's just another thing to carry. Another pain in a body already too full of them.
His eyes flutter closed. Just for a second. Not to sleep. Not really. Just to stop seeing. Just to not be here—on this bridge, in this moment—for a few seconds longer than his mind can hold.
His breath hitches. Not a sob. Not quite. Just the body's last desperate attempt to stay present when everything in him wants to check out . His head tips forward, then back, hitting the metal with a dull thunk he barely registers.
He wants to sleep. Just for a minute. He wants this to be over. To hand it off. To stop carrying the weight of it. Of him. To stop hearing Todoroki's silence echoing inside his chest like a second, more fragile heartbeat.
Aizawa's coming. He tells himself that again. Clings to it like a drowning man to a rope. Aizawa's coming. He'll take over. He'll know what to do. He'll handle it. Katsuki just has to hold on long enough. Just a little longer. He breathes in again—shaky, shallow, more memory than air.
And hopes, silently, fiercely, with everything in him—
That Aizawa gets there in time.