Izuku quickly looked away in hopes that Katsuki would leave and the food would grow cold.

Katsuki grabs the hot bowl and hands it to Izuku.

“Thank you.”

“Now eat.” Izuku shuffled with the chopsticks awkwardly. It was a home-cooked meal. Rice at the bottom with chicken laid across the top. “You haven’t eaten real shit in two days at least, you have to be starving and you’re dropping weight, Izu. I ain’t going to let you kill yourself off.” He frowns as he neglects eye contact with the order.

“Kacchan, I can’t.” Katsuki hums. Izuku places the bowl on the desk. He couldn’t work up the courage to eat. He was okay. He wasn’t hungry. He was good at pretending he wasn’t hungry.

“Bullshit. You haven’t eaten-”

“Kacchan, stop it! I’m fine!-”

“No, you’re fucking not, Izuku!” Katsuki stands up to get eye-to-eye with Izuku. His soft gaze quickly turned into a sneer. “I’m not stupid! Just tell me, what’s fucking wrong?” Katsuki takes his hands and places them on Izuku’s face. He brings them closer and closer.

Izuku is shocked by their closeness. It brings nervousness to him. He feels it in his chest and he fights the urge to run. “Izuku, just relax. The war is over, we won, we did it already.” Izuku feels his knees become weak and he can’t hold himself up anymore. He crumbles and falls into Katsuki’s chest.

Izuku feels the warped image of Katsuki’s face, covered in blood, half scarred forever, the dullness of the red in his eyes, the hole in his chest. It’s his fault, he let Katsuki die.

“Izuku.” His hands are pulled off his face and he’s pulled up to sit up, facing Katsuki. Katsuki’s eyes scatter his face. Izuku doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what’s happening, what to think, what was real, what was fake, what was right or wrong, he was lost. Yet, Katsuki somehow sees it. He grabs Izuku’s hand, really light. Katsuki guides it to the base of his own wrist, right under his thumb. Izuku’s breathing slows as he feels a small beating beneath Katsuki’s skin. It’s his pulse. “I’m not dead.”