Chapter Text
Katsuki's POV
Five months.
Twenty weeks.
One hundred and fifty days since the earthquake that had shattered his body and nearly destroyed his spirit.
Katsuki sat in the same examination room where he'd received devastating news twice before, Izuku beside him as always, waiting for Dr. Todoroki to deliver the verdict on his third nerve assessment.
The past three months since accepting the teaching position had been transformative. He'd started therapy in earnest, processing the trauma and rebuilding his sense of self. He'd continued PT religiously, pushing his body to recover every bit of function possible. He'd begun teaching—tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as he discovered an unexpected talent and, more surprisingly, genuine enjoyment.
But through it all, the question had lingered: would his hand ever work well enough to operate again?
"Ready?" Izuku asked softly, his hand finding Katsuki's.
"As I'll ever be," Katsuki said, though his heart was racing.
The door opened and Todoroki entered, tablet in hand, and Katsuki braced himself for more disappointing news about plateaued progress and permanent limitations.
"Bakugo," Todoroki said, settling into his chair, getting down to business almost immediately. "I'm going to be honest—I wasn't expecting much change from your last assessment. Nerve recovery typically plateaus around the four-month mark. But I wanted to do a full evaluation anyway, just to have a complete picture."
"And?" Katsuki's voice was steady despite the fear churning in his gut.
"And I'm stunned." Todoroki actually smiled—rare for him. "Let's start with the tests."
They went through the same battery of assessments. Sensation—Katsuki could feel light touch, pressure, temperature with clarity he hadn't had in months. Two-point discrimination—significantly improved. Motor function—Todoroki handed him a pen.
"Write your name."
Katsuki took the pen in his right hand. His grip was firm, controlled. He wrote: Katsuki Bakugo. The letters were neat, steady, legible. Not quite as perfect as his pre-injury handwriting, but close. So close.
"Holy shit," Katsuki breathed.
"Now pick up this bead and place it in the container."
The pincer grasp that had eluded him before. Katsuki's thumb and forefinger closed around the tiny bead—held it—transferred it smoothly to the container. No tremor. No dropping. Clean, precise movement.
"Again," Todoroki said. "Five more times."
Katsuki completed the task flawlessly, his fine motor control worlds better than the last assessment.
"Make a fist. Maximum force."
Katsuki squeezed the dynamometer. The reading climbed: 50, 60, 70, 80... 85 pounds. Nearly normal for his size and build.
"Eighty-five pounds," Todoroki read, his voice carrying undisguised amazement. "That's exceptional recovery, Bakugo. Let's test precision movements."
They spent the next twenty minutes going through increasingly complex tasks. Threading a needle—successful, though it took him longer than before. Tying surgical knots—slower than his old speed, but precise and secure. Manipulating small instruments—controlled and steady.
By the end, Todoroki was shaking his head in disbelief.
"This is remarkable," he said. "Bakugo, you've regained approximately 80-85% of your pre-injury function. That's far better than I predicted. You're in the top 5% of recovery outcomes for this type of nerve damage."
Katsuki felt like the room was spinning. "Eighty-five percent?"
"Your fine motor control is excellent. Your grip strength is near-normal. Your precision is good—not quite as fast as before, but accurate. Based on what I'm seeing—" Todoroki paused significantly. "I'm clearing you to return to surgical duties. With some accommodations."
The words landed like a bomb.
"What kind of accommodations?" Izuku asked, his hand squeezing Katsuki's tightly.
"You'll need to work slightly slower than before to maintain precision. Complex microsurgery might be challenging—your hand fatigues faster than it used to. And you'll need regular breaks during long procedures. But standard trauma surgery, vascular repair, most orthopedic work—you're capable of performing those procedures safely and effectively."
"I can operate again," Katsuki said, testing the words. "I can actually operate."
"You beat the odds," Todoroki confirmed. "Whatever you've been doing for PT, it worked. Your recovery is exceptional."
After Todoroki left with promises to file the necessary paperwork for Katsuki's surgical clearance, the exam room fell into stunned silence.
"You did it," Izuku said, his voice thick with emotion. "Katsuki, you did it. You got your hands back."
"Most of them," Katsuki corrected, flexing his right hand and marveling at the response. "Not perfect. But enough."
"Enough to operate," Izuku said. "That's what you wanted. That's what you've been fighting for."
"Yeah," Katsuki said slowly. "It is."
But something felt off. He should be ecstatic, overwhelmed with joy, ready to immediately return to trauma surgery full-time. This was the miracle he'd hoped for, the goal he'd worked toward for five months.
So why did he feel... complicated about it?
"What's wrong?" Izuku asked, always perceptive.
"Nothing's wrong. This is amazing news. I just—" Katsuki struggled to articulate the feeling. "I thought getting cleared to operate again would feel like getting my life back. Like everything returning to normal. But I don't think I want normal anymore. Does that make sense?"
"What do you want?" Izuku asked gently.
"I don't know," Katsuki admitted. "I need to think about this. About what it means. About what I want my life to look like now."
-----
Three Days Later
Katsuki stood outside the simulation lab, preparing for his first official teaching session as a faculty member. His hand was fully cleared for surgery, but he'd scheduled this teaching commitment months ago and wasn't about to back out.
Eight surgical residents waited inside—third-years, halfway through their training, eager and terrified in equal measure. Katsuki remembered being that age, that certain he knew everything and that terrified of being exposed as a fraud.
"Ready?" Dr. Aizawa asked, appearing beside him.
"Honestly? No. I've operated on hundreds of people. Why is teaching eight residents more nerve-wracking?"
"Because surgery is technical. Teaching is personal. You're not just sharing knowledge—you're shaping how they think, how they approach medicine, who they become as doctors. That's more vulnerable than any surgery." Aizawa clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll be excellent. Trust yourself."
Katsuki entered the sim lab to find eight pairs of eyes fixed on him with varying expressions of curiosity, respect, and fear. Apparently, they had heard about him before.
That was an understatement.
"I'm Dr. Bakugo," he said, jumping right in. "I'm a teaching attending specializing in trauma surgery. You've probably heard things about me—that I'm harsh, demanding, that I expect perfection. All true. But you should also know that I was seriously injured five months ago. Nerve damage. Couldn't use my right hand. Thought my surgical career was over."
He held up his hand, flexing it demonstratively. "I just got cleared to operate again three days ago. So, I understand what it feels like to be terrified you're not good enough, that you'll fail, that you'll lose everything you've worked for. I've been there. Recently."
The tension in the room shifted slightly. They were listening.
"Today we're covering trauma triage protocols for mass casualty events. Not from a textbook, but from real experience. Six months ago, I was trapped in a collapsed building during an earthquake. I performed field medicine with limited supplies, treated patients in the dark, and made life-or-death decisions with incomplete information. That's what we're going to talk about today—how to actually implement triage protocols when everything is chaos."
He pulled up the simulation scenario on the screens. "This is a building collapse scenario. Twelve casualties, varying injury severity, limited resources. You'll work in pairs to assess, prioritize, and treat. I'm going to push you hard. I'm going to question your decisions. I'm going to make you defend your choices. Not because I want you to fail, but because in real disasters, you don't have time for second-guessing. You need to trust your training and make decisions quickly. Ready?"
They nodded, some nervous, some determined.
What followed was intense. Katsuki threw scenario after scenario at them, watching how they responded, where they hesitated, what they missed. And when they made mistakes—which they inevitably did—he stopped them.
But instead of yelling like he would have years ago, he asked questions.
"Why did you prioritize that patient over this one?"
"Because his injuries looked more severe—"
"Looked. But did you assess properly? What objective measures did you use?" Katsuki pulled up the patient data. "This patient you triaged as less urgent has internal bleeding you missed. He'd die while you were treating the other one. Try again. What's your assessment process?"
He watched the resident think through it, guided him toward the right questions, and then let him arrive at the correct answer himself.
"There. That's better. Now tell me why."
By the end of the two-hour session, the residents were exhausted but engaged. They'd learned—really learned—and Katsuki could see it in how they approached the final scenarios with more confidence and better judgment.
"Good work," he said as they wrapped up. "You all improved significantly from your first attempts. That's what I want to see—not perfection, but growth. Questions?"
A hand went up—a young woman named Hado. "Dr. Bakugo, is it true you developed the disaster response protocols we studied in first year?"
"I contributed to them. They're a team effort."
"They saved my life," another resident—Amajiki—spoke quietly. "Well, my brother's life. He was in a factory accident. The first responders used your triage system. The EMTs said it made the difference in who survived. So... thank you."
Katsuki felt his throat tighten. "That's why we do this. Why we teach you to make good decisions under pressure. Because someday, you'll be the one at a disaster scene, and the protocols you learned here will save lives. That matters."
After the residents filed out, Katsuki stood in the empty sim lab, processing what had just happened.
He'd loved that. Every minute of it. The challenge of explaining complex concepts clearly. The satisfaction of seeing understanding dawn in a student's eyes. The knowledge that every surgeon he trained would save hundreds of lives over their career—multiplicative impact in a way that individual surgery never could be.
"You're a natural," Aizawa said, appearing in the doorway. "I was watching on the monitors. You found your groove about twenty minutes in and it was impressive."
"I didn't think I'd enjoy it this much," Katsuki admitted. "I thought teaching would feel like settling. Like the consolation prize for not being able to operate. But it's not. It's—" He struggled for words. "It's fulfilling in a completely different way."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Good different," Katsuki said with certainty. "Really good."
-----
Izuku's POV - One Week Later
Izuku was restocking supplies in the surgical prep area when his phone buzzed with a message from Dr. Todoroki: Major trauma incoming. Multi-vehicle accident. Multiple casualties. All hands on deck. We need you in OR 3.
His heart kicked into high gear—this was what he trained for. Mass casualty events were all hands on deck, every surgeon and surgical nurse working simultaneously.
He scrubbed in quickly, entered OR 3, and stopped short.
Katsuki was already there, in surgical attire, reviewing the incoming patient information with the other attending.
Their eyes met across the OR.
"Midoriya," Katsuki said, his voice professional but warm. "You're on my team today."
"Yes, sir," Izuku replied, warmth flooding his chest.
Their first surgery together since before the earthquake.
It has been long. Too long.
The patient arrived—a twenty-eight-year-old man with massive internal bleeding from a torn spleen and damaged liver. Critical but salvageable with immediate intervention.
"Let's move," Katsuki commanded, and the team sprang into action.
Izuku fell into the familiar rhythm immediately—anticipating Katsuki's needs, handing him instruments before he asked, maintaining the surgical field with practiced efficiency. They'd always worked well together, but five months of living together, of learning each other's patterns and preferences in every aspect of life, had made them seamless.
"Suction," Katsuki said, and Izuku had it positioned before the word was fully out.
"Retractor," and Izuku was already adjusting.
"Clamp—the smaller one—" Izuku placed it in his hand.
Katsuki's hands moved with precision and confidence, slightly slower than his pre-injury speed but no less accurate. He was teaching as he operated, explaining to the resident who was assisting.
"See how the tissue responds here? That tells us the blood supply is compromised. We need to—Midoriya, can you adjust that retractor, give me better visualization—perfect. Now watch how we repair this vessel. Small, precise movements. Don't rush. Accuracy over speed."
The surgery was complex—three hours of careful reconstruction, stopping bleeding, repairing damage. But Katsuki's hands held steady, his focus absolute, his skill undeniable.
When they finally stabilized the patient and closed, the entire OR released a collective breath.
"Good work, everyone," Katsuki said, stripping off his gloves. "Patient's stable, minimal blood loss in the last hour. He's got a solid chance."
The team dispersed to prep for the next incoming patient, leaving Katsuki and Izuku alone in the scrub room.
"That was amazing," Izuku said, scrubbing out beside him. "Katsuki, your hands—you were incredible in there."
"My hands held up better than I expected," Katsuki admitted, flexing his right hand. "Definitely fatigued toward the end—I'll need to build up endurance. But they worked. They did what I needed them to do."
"We did it," Izuku said softly. "Together. Just like before."
"Better than before," Katsuki corrected. "Before the earthquake, we were teacher and student. Now we're partners. Equals. That surgery—it felt different. Better."
"Because we've been through hell together," Izuku said. "Because we know each other completely now. Because—"
"Because I love you," Katsuki interrupted, pulling Izuku into an alcove where they had a moment of privacy. "And operating with you, saving lives with you—that's everything I didn't know I was missing before."
He kissed Izuku softly, not caring that they were still in the hospital, still on duty. Just needing to express what he was feeling. Izuku’s lips were soft as always and the immediate, familiar comfort, that coursed through his veins was a stark contrast to the rough adrenaline he felt moments ago in the OR.
Katsuki deepened the kiss almost instinctively, not harshly, but possessively, tilting his head just so. He wanted to feel it more, to absorb the warmth and life radiating from Izuku, to reassure himself with every millimeter of contact that this wasn't a dream, that the Izuku he loved was truly, physically there.
Katsuki's mind was a whirlwind of relief, and a burning, desperate love.
He poured everything into the kiss—the deep, uncomplicated devotion that had been the anchor of his life for the past few months. For Katsuki, it was a sudden, necessary exhale, a moment where his usual fiery defenses melted away to reveal the precious, fragile thing he always fought so hard to protect.
He pulled back slightly, but not entirely, keeping their foreheads pressed together, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"I need to tell you something," Katsuki said when they separated. "I got called into a meeting with Dr. Aizawa yesterday. They want to formalize my position—make me a teaching attending permanently."
"That's amazing!"
"But they're also offering me the option to return to trauma surgery full-time. Now that I'm cleared, I could go back to being a full-time surgeon if I wanted." Katsuki paused. "And I realized—I don't want that."
Izuku's eyes widened. "You don't?"
"I want both. I want to teach as my primary role—shape the next generation of surgeons, develop protocols, do research. But I also want to keep operating. Assist on complex cases. Step in when the ER is overwhelmed. Keep my skills sharp. Be the bridge between theory and practice."
"A teaching attending who still operates," Izuku said slowly. "That's brilliant. You get both worlds."
"If they'll let me structure it that way. Aizawa seemed open to it, but I wanted to talk to you first. Because it affects us—affects our relationship. If I'm teaching and operating, that's more time at the hospital. More demanding schedule."
"Katsuki," Izuku said firmly. "If teaching fulfills you, if operating still matters to you, then do both. We'll make it work. We always do."
Katsuki pulled him close again. "How did I get so lucky?"
"You didn't. You earned this. Every bit of it."
-----
Katsuki's POV - Two Weeks Later
Saturday morning, Katsuki drove them out of the city toward a destination he'd only told Izuku about the night before. The cemetery where Katsumi was buried.
"Are you sure you want me there?" Izuku had asked. "This is private, personal—"
"You're part of my life now. Part of my future. I want you to meet her. Or—meet her memory." Katsuki's hands had tightened on the steering wheel. "I need to tell her about you. And I want her to meet you. The person who did so much for me."
Now they walked through the cemetery, Katsuki navigating from memory to a small grave with a pink headstone. Katsumi Bakugo. Beloved daughter and sister. Gone too soon.
Katsuki knelt on the grass, Izuku standing supportively behind him, close but giving him space.
"Hey, Katsumi," Katsuki said quietly. "It's been a while. A lot's happened since I was here last."
He took a breath, gathering his thoughts.
"You remember I told you I was going to save lives? That I was going to become the best surgeon I could be, make sure other families didn't lose what we lost? Well, I did that. For years, I did exactly that. Became a trauma surgeon. Saved hundreds of lives. Made you proud, I hope."
His voice cracked slightly. "But then everything changed. There was an earthquake. A building collapsed. I got trapped trying to save people. Got hurt—really hurt. Nerve damage in my hand. For months, I thought my surgical career was over. Thought everything I'd worked for was gone."
Izuku's hand came to rest gently on his shoulder.
"I almost gave up, Katsumi. Almost let the grief and anger win. It felt like losing you all over again—losing the purpose I'd built my whole life around. But someone reminded me why I do this. Why saving lives matters, even when it looks different than I planned."
Katsuki reached back, taking Izuku's hand and pulling him down to kneel beside him.
"This is Izuku Midoriya. He's—he's the person I was telling you about before, though I didn't realize what he meant to me back then. He's a surgical nurse. He was with me when the building collapsed. He kept me alive down there when I was stuck in the dark. And then, after, when I was broken and angry and convinced my life was over—he stayed. Helped me recover. Loved me when I couldn't love myself. Refused to let me give up."
Izuku was already crying, tears streaming silently down his face.
"You'd like him, Katsumi. He's kind and brilliant and stubborn as hell. He sees the best in people even when they can't see it themselves. He cares so much about everyone around him that it's almost annoying. Almost." Katsuki smiled softly. "He saved me—not just from the rubble, but from myself. From giving up after. From believing my only worth was in my hands."
He squeezed Izuku's hand tightly. "I'm not the surgeon I was before. My hand works again—we got lucky, I beat the medical odds—but it's not quite the same. I'm slower now. More careful. I can't do twelve-hour surgeries anymore without my hand fatiguing. But you know what? I found something else. Teaching. I'm teaching surgical residents now. Shaping how the next generation thinks about medicine. And I'm good at it. Really good. I actually love it."
A breeze rustled through the trees, and Katsuki chose to believe it was Katsumi listening.
"I'm happy, Katsumi. For the first time since we lost you, I'm actually, genuinely happy. I still save lives—just in different ways now. I teach surgeons who'll each save hundreds of people. I develop protocols that are being used worldwide. I operate when I'm needed, when my skills can make a difference. And I have Izuku. I have love. I have a future I'm excited about."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "I hope—I really hope—that makes you happy too. That you'd be proud of who I've become. Not just the surgeon, but the teacher. The partner. The person who learned to accept help and love and build something new from the wreckage."
He bowed his head, pressing his forehead against the cold stone. "I miss you. Every day, I miss you. But I'm living now. Really living. And I think—I think that's what you'd want for me."
They sat in silence for several long minutes, both crying quietly, both processing.
Finally, Katsuki stood, pulling Izuku up with him. "Thank you for letting me share her with you."
"Thank you for trusting me with the most important part of your history," Izuku said, his voice thick. "She was lucky to have you as a brother. And you're—" His voice broke. "You're honoring her memory in the best way possible. By living. By loving. By being happy."
They stood together by Katsumi's grave, hands clasped, both understanding that this moment was significant. This was Katsuki integrating all parts of his life—past and present, grief and joy, who he was and who he'd become.
"I love you," Katsuki said quietly.
"I love you too," Izuku replied. "So much."
As they walked back to the car, Katsuki felt lighter somehow. Like he'd been carrying a weight he didn't fully understand until it was gone. Katsumi was part of his past, part of what shaped him. But Izuku was his present and his future.
And for the first time, that felt okay.
More than okay.
It felt right.
-----
One Week Later
Katsuki had been planning this for days, and he was more nervous than he'd been for any surgery.
"Wear something nice," he'd told Izuku that morning. "We're going out tonight. I have a surprise."
Now Izuku sat across from him at a corner table in an upscale restaurant—candlelight, soft music, the whole romantic setup. Katsuki had made reservations weeks ago, had planned every detail meticulously.
Izuku had clearly followed instructions, though he hadn't overthought it—which Katsuki appreciated. He was radiating a quiet, effortless elegance that made him stand out beautifully against the restaurant's rich decor. He was wearing a deep forest green turtleneck sweater made of a soft, fine knit that highlighted his build and brought out the color of his eyes. It was understated yet sophisticated. He paired it with well-fitting charcoal slacks that were sharp and clean. It was an outfit that said, 'I'm comfortable, but I respect the occasion,' perfectly capturing Izuku's sincere nature.
His hair, usually somewhat wild, was neatly combed, though a few stray curls still framed his face, softening his features. His cheeks held a healthy flush, partly from the cool air outside and partly from the sweet, shy excitement that always accompanied him.
Katsuki found Izuku almost painfully beautiful.
The light caught the high planes of Izuku's face, casting subtle shadows that defined his jawline and made his large, intelligent eyes shine with a rich emerald depth. When he smiled, the soft glow seemed to reflect off his earnest expression, making the small, almost-invisible freckles across his nose and cheeks look like dustings of gold.
For Katsuki, seeing the man who faced down the worst cases in the hospital and saved lives in a professional setting, looking this soft and handsome, created a dazzling contrast. It emphasized how lucky he was to have this quiet, intimate side of Izuku all to himself. He realized, with a sudden, intense surge of emotion, that Izuku's beauty was woven into his very essence—the kindness, the strength, and the genuine, radiant light he carried, which the restaurant's ambiance simply amplified.
He was looking at the most beautiful thing in his carefully planned universe, and it made the nervousness almost unbearable.
"Katsuki," Izuku said, looking around with wide eyes. "This is—this is really fancy. What's the occasion?"
"Just—" Katsuki took a breath. "Just us. I wanted to do something nice for you. Properly."
They ordered, made small talk, but Katsuki could feel the words building in his chest. Everything he needed to say. Everything Izuku deserved to hear.
After their entrees arrived and they'd eaten a bit, Katsuki reached across the table and took both of Izuku's hands. The gesture was significant—both of his hands, working properly, holding steady.
"I need to talk to you about something," Katsuki started. "About us."
Izuku's eyes widened slightly, nervous and hopeful at once.
"We've been together for six months," Katsuki continued, his voice steady despite his racing heart. "We said 'I love you' in a hospital room when I'd just woken up from surgery and wasn't sure if I'd ever use my hand again. We moved in together out of necessity, because I needed help with everything from getting dressed to making breakfast. We built our relationship in the worst circumstances possible—in the aftermath of trauma, during the hardest recovery of my life, while I was broken and scared and didn't know who I was anymore."
Izuku's eyes were already getting misty.
"And that's been bothering me," Katsuki said. "Because you deserve better than that. You deserve to be asked properly. You deserve romance and intention and someone who can take you on dates without needing help cutting their food. You deserve someone who chooses you not because they need you, but because they want you."
"Katsuki—" Izuku started, but Katsuki squeezed his hands gently.
"Let me finish. Please. I've been practicing this."
Izuku nodded, tears already starting to fall.
"So, I'm asking now. When I can hold both your hands without dropping them. When I can take you to dinner without assistance. When I'm choosing you not from a hospital bed but from a place of strength."
Katsuki took a deep breath. This was it.
"Izuku Midoriya—you saved my life in that collapsed building. But more than that, you saved me from giving up after. You held me through the worst parts of recovery. You loved me when I couldn't love myself. You saw value in me when all I could see was what I'd lost. You refused to let me push you away even when I tried. You taught me that my worth isn't in my hands, it's in my heart. In who I choose to be. In how I choose to love."
Izuku was crying openly now, but Katsuki pressed on.
"These past six months, and even long before that—the moment you started working at Yuuei, you've seen me at my absolute worst. You've helped me shower when I couldn't stand on my own. You've cut my food when my hand wouldn't cooperate. You've held me through nightmares and panic attacks. You've celebrated every tiny victory like it was a miracle. You've been my nurse, my caregiver, my best friend, and the love of my life."
Katsuki's own eyes were burning now, tears threatening.
"But I never properly asked. Never made it official beyond desperate confessions in a hospital bed. Never gave you the romance you deserve. So, I'm asking now."
He squeezed Izuku's hands tighter, holding his gaze.
"Izuku Midoriya, will you be my partner? Not just in the 'you live with me and help me recover' way, but in the 'I choose you every day for the rest of my life' way? Will you be my boyfriend, officially and intentionally? Will you let me take you on dates and buy you flowers and do all the romantic things I couldn't do when I could barely walk? Will you build a life with me—not the life I planned before the earthquake, but a new life? One where I teach and research and operate sometimes, and you're beside me through all of it?"
Izuku was shaking with sobs now, but nodding, trying to speak.
"I know we've been together all along," Katsuki continued, his own voice breaking. "I know this seems redundant when you've already moved in, already said 'I love you,' already committed to staying. But I needed to ask properly. Needed to do this right. Needed you to know that I'm not with you because I need help recovering. I'm with you because you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Because loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done, even when everything else was impossibly hard."
Katsuki pulled one hand back to wipe his eyes, then took Izuku's hands again.
"So, Izuku—will you officially, intentionally, romantically be mine?"
"Yes," Izuku managed to choke out through tears. "Yes, yes, of course yes. I've been yours since the moment you yelled at me for contaminating your surgical field. Maybe even before that. Katsuki, I—" He laughed through his tears. "You didn't have to ask. I was already all in. But god, I'm so glad you did. Yes. A thousand times yes."
"I was terrible to you back then," Katsuki said, smiling through his own tears.
"You were challenging," Izuku corrected, laughing wetly. "There's a difference. You pushed me to be better. Made me think harder. Saw potential in me I didn't see in myself. How could I not fall in love with you?"
Katsuki stood, moving around the table to pull Izuku up and into his arms. They kissed there in the middle of the restaurant, both crying, both laughing, both completely oblivious to the other diners watching with soft smiles.
When they finally separated, Katsuki pulled a small box from his pocket.
"I have something for you," he said, opening it to reveal a delicate silver necklace with a compass pendant.
Izuku's breath caught.
"It's a compass," Katsuki explained, his voice soft. "Because you helped me find my direction when I was completely lost. You were my true north through the worst time of my life. When I didn't know who I was or where I was going, you showed me the way forward. This is to remember that. To remember that even when things get hard—and they will get hard again—we'll always find our way back to each other."
"Katsuki," Izuku sobbed, letting him fasten the necklace. "This is—I can't—it's perfect. You're perfect."
"I'm really not," Katsuki said, sitting back down and pulling Izuku into the chair beside him instead of across the table. "But I'm trying to be worthy of you. Every day, I'm trying."
"You already are," Izuku said fiercely. "You're so worthy. You're brilliant and dedicated and you've fought so hard for your recovery. You've rebuilt yourself into someone even more amazing than before. I'm so proud of you. So incredibly proud."
They spent the rest of dinner talking about everything and nothing—about their future, their dreams, their plans. About the teaching position Katsuki had officially accepted. About Izuku's surgical nursing specialization. About where they saw themselves in a year, in five years, in a lifetime.
They walked home hand-in-hand, both glowing with happiness, both feeling like they were walking on air.
"Thank you," Izuku said as they reached their building. "For tonight. For the dinner, the necklace, the speech—all of it. That was the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me."
"You deserve romance," Katsuki said, pulling him close. "You deserve everything. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to give it to you."
"You already give me everything," Izuku said. "Your love, your trust, your future. That's all I need."
That night, lying in bed together, Katsuki felt something settle deep in his chest. A sense of rightness, of being exactly where he was supposed to be.
Six months ago, he'd thought his life was over. Thought losing surgery meant losing everything.
But he'd been wrong.
He hadn't lost everything. He'd just made room for something better.
Teaching that fulfilled him in ways surgery never had. Research that saved lives on a global scale. A partner who loved him completely, broken parts and all. A future that was different than he'd planned but infinitely more beautiful.
"I love you," he whispered into the darkness.
"I love you too," Izuku whispered back. "Always."
And Katsuki believed him.
-----
Epilogue: One Year Anniversary - Hospital Gala
Izuku's POV
One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days since the earthquake that had changed everything.
Izuku adjusted his tie in the mirror, nervous energy thrumming through him. Tonight was the annual hospital gala—the same night where he and Katsuki had shared their first kiss one year ago. Where everything had started and nearly ended all at once.
"You look great," Katsuki said, appearing behind him and wrapping his arms around Izuku's waist. "Really great."
"So do you," Izuku said, turning to take in Katsuki in his formal suit. He looked healthy, strong, fully healed. His hair was styled neatly, his eyes bright, his smile genuine. Nothing like the broken man from one year ago.
"Ready to go?" Katsuki asked.
"With you? Always."
The gala was in full swing when they arrived, the same venue as last year but somehow completely different. Last year, Izuku had been a student terrified of his feelings. Katsuki had been an emotionally closed-off surgeon running from intimacy.
Now they were partners, officially and openly. And everyone knew it.
"Dr. Bakugo! Midoriya!" Kirishima called, waving them over. "You made it!"
They were immediately surrounded by friends and colleagues. Uraraka hugged them both. Jiro raised her glass in salute. Ashido squealed about how cute they looked together. Tsu patted them both on the shoulder.
"One year since the earthquake," Kirishima said more seriously. "How are you both doing? Really?"
"Good," Katsuki said, and meant it. "Really good. Better than I ever thought I'd be."
"Your teaching is legendary," Kirishima said. "The residents actually call you 'Dr. Boom' like the pediatric kids. It's spreading through the whole hospital."
"I told them to stop that," Katsuki muttered, but he was smiling.
"You love it," Izuku teased. "Admit it."
"Maybe a little."
They mingled, talked to colleagues, accepted congratulations on Katsuki's teaching success and Izuku's completion of his surgical nursing specialization. It felt like a celebration—not just of surviving, but of thriving.
Later, Katsuki's parents found them.
"There are my boys," Mitsuki said, pulling them both into hugs. "You both look wonderful. Healthy. Happy."
"We are," Izuku said. "Really happy."
Mitsuki's eyes were suspiciously bright. "I'm so proud of you, Katsuki. Not for becoming a surgeon. For becoming someone who can accept help. Who can love and be loved. Who can adapt when life changes. You've grown into someone extraordinary."
"Mom," Katsuki's voice was rough. "Don't make me cry at the gala."
"Too late," she said, crying herself. "I'm your mother. Making you feel emotions in public is my job."
Masaru smiled fondly. "What she means is—we're proud. Of both of you. For building something beautiful out of something terrible."
As the night wore on, Katsuki pulled Izuku onto the dance floor. They moved together easily now—Katsuki's leg fully healed, no more cane, no more limping. Just two people dancing, in love, exactly where they were supposed to be.
"Last year at the night of this same gala, I kissed you in front of your apartment and then ran away because I was terrified," Katsuki said softly.
"I remember. I thought I'd ruined everything."
"You didn't ruin anything. You started everything." Katsuki pulled him closer. "And now—now I'm just terrified of how much I love you. But in a good way. In an 'I can't imagine my life without you' way."
"Me too," Izuku said. "You're it for me, Katsuki. The person I want to build everything with."
"Good," Katsuki said. "Because I'm not letting you go."
Later, they stepped out onto the balcony for fresh air, looking out over the Tokyo skyline. The same view as last year, but they were completely different people now.
"I never thought I'd say this," Katsuki said quietly, "but I'm grateful."
"For what?"
"For all of it. The earthquake. The injury. The recovery. Because it led me here. To teaching. To you. To a life I never would have chosen but is somehow better than what I planned."
"You don't miss full-time surgery?" Izuku asked carefully.
"Sometimes. But I operate enough to scratch that itch—a few times a month, when there are major traumas or complex cases that need my specific expertise. And teaching, Izuku—I love teaching. I love seeing residents understand something for the first time. Love shaping how they think about medicine. Love knowing that every surgeon I train will save hundreds of lives over their career. That's multiplicative impact. That's powerful."
"And the research?"
"The protocols we developed have been adopted in twelve countries now," Katsuki said with quiet pride. "We've probably saved thousands of lives with those. Maybe more. And I never had to be in an OR to do it."
They were quiet for a moment, both processing the year they'd survived.
"I'm happy," Katsuki said simply. "Genuinely, completely happy. Are you?"
"Happier than I've ever been," Izuku confirmed. "I get to work alongside you, learn from you, love you every single day. That's everything I wanted."
"Even when I'm impossible in the OR?"
"Especially then." Izuku grinned. "You were impossible today during that vascular repair, by the way. The resident looked terrified."
"He needed to be pushed. He's too tentative. But he'll be good once he builds confidence."
"See? Teacher." Izuku kissed him softly. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
Katsuki pulled a small box from his pocket, and Izuku's heart stuttered.
"It's not—" Katsuki said quickly. "It's not an engagement ring. Not yet. It's too soon—we've only been officially together for eighteen months. But I want you to know—someday, when the timing is right, I'm going to ask you properly. The big question."
He opened the box to reveal a simple silver ring—elegant, understated, perfect.
"This is a promise ring," Katsuki explained, his voice soft. "My promise that someday—maybe a year from now, maybe two—I'm going to ask you to marry me. And I wanted you to have time to think about your answer. To be sure. To—"
"It's yes," Izuku interrupted, tears streaming down his face. "Katsuki, I've already thought about it. Whenever you ask, however you ask, the answer is yes. It's always been yes."
"You don't want more time? To be completely sure—"
"I'm completely sure right now," Izuku said firmly. "I've never been more sure of anything. You're it. You're my person. You're my forever."
Katsuki's hands were shaking as he slid the ring onto Izuku's finger. "I love you so much. More than I knew it was possible to love someone."
"I love you too," Izuku said, pulling him into a kiss. "So much. Forever."
They stood on the balcony, holding each other, wearing promise rings that spoke of a future they'd build together. A future neither of them could have imagined a year ago, but one that was more beautiful than any plan.
"We should go back inside," Katsuki said eventually. "People will wonder where we went."
"Let them wonder," Izuku said. "I want to stay here. With you. Just for a little longer."
So, they stayed, looking out at the city, both thinking about the year that had passed and the years ahead.
Different than planned.
But perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
-----
Six Months Later
Katsuki's POV
"You're going to be late for your meeting," Izuku called from the kitchen where he was making breakfast.
"I know, I know," Katsuki said, rushing around their apartment—their apartment, officially, both their names on the lease now—trying to find his other shoe.
The meeting in question was with the administration of Yuuei Medical School. They'd reached out three weeks ago with an offer: teaching position at the university level, shaping curriculum for future doctors, potentially heading their trauma surgery program.
It was a huge opportunity. Prestigious. Career-defining.
And Katsuki wasn't sure if he wanted it.
"Found it!" Izuku appeared with the missing shoe. "Under the couch. Again. How do you keep losing shoes under the couch?"
"It's a mystery," Katsuki said, kissing him quickly. "What do you think about the Yuuei offer?"
"I think," Izuku said carefully, "that it's your decision. But I also think you should consider what makes you happy, not just what looks good on a resume."
"I'm happy here. Teaching at the hospital. Operating sometimes. Being near you." Katsuki pulled Izuku close. "But Yuuei is... it's a bigger platform. I could influence medical education on a larger scale."
"You could," Izuku agreed. "Or you could stay here and keep doing what you're doing, which is already changing lives. There's no wrong answer, Katsuki. Just different paths."
Katsuki kissed him again, longer this time. "How are you always so wise?"
"I learned from the best," Izuku said, smiling.
An hour later, Katsuki sat in a conference room at Yuuei Medical School, listening to the department head outline their vision for his role there.
"We want you to head the trauma surgery program," Dr. Nezu—the dean—explained. "Develop new curriculum, train the next generation of trauma surgeons, conduct research. You'd have significant autonomy and resources."
It was tempting. Really tempting.
"Can I think about it?" Katsuki asked.
"Of course. Take two weeks. Discuss with your partner—Midoriya, correct? I understand you two are quite the team at the hospital."
"We are," Katsuki said with a smile, his chest puffed out with pride at the mention of Izuku.
As he drove home, Katsuki thought about everything that had led him here. The earthquake. The injury. The devastating belief that his life was over. The slow, painful recovery. Finding teaching. Falling in love. Building something new from the wreckage.
He'd thought losing surgery meant losing everything.
But he'd been wrong.
He'd lost one thing and gained so much more. Teaching that fulfilled him. Research that mattered. A partner who loved him completely. A life that was rich and full and beautiful in ways he'd never imagined.
When he got home, Izuku was waiting.
"So?" Izuku asked. "How'd it go?"
"They offered me the position officially. Head of their trauma surgery program. I have two weeks to decide."
"And?"
"And I don't know," Katsuki admitted, pulling Izuku down onto the couch beside him. "It's a great opportunity. But I like what I have here. I like teaching residents at the hospital. I like operating a few times a month. I like working with you. I like our life."
"Then maybe that's your answer," Izuku said gently.
"Or maybe I'm scared of change. Again. Maybe I'm settling for comfortable instead of reaching for something bigger."
"Or," Izuku countered, "you've learned the difference between ambition for ambition's sake and choosing what actually makes you happy. That's not settling. That's wisdom."
Katsuki was quiet, processing.
"Tell me what makes you happy," Izuku prompted. "Right now, in this moment, what makes you happiest about your life?"
"You," Katsuki said immediately. "Teaching residents who actually want to learn. Operating on complex cases where my specific expertise makes a difference. Developing protocols that save lives worldwide. Coming home to you every night. Having time for a life outside work. Not being consumed by the job the way I used to be."
"And would the Yuuei position give you those things?"
"Some of them. But it would mean longer hours, more administrative work, less time in the OR, less time with you. It would be prestigious, but—" Katsuki stopped. "But I don't think it would make me happier than I am right now."
"Then you have your answer," Izuku said simply.
"I might regret it. Might wonder 'what if.'"
"Maybe. But you might also regret taking it and losing what you have here. There's no perfect choice. Just the choice that feels right for you, right now."
Katsuki pulled Izuku into his arms, holding him close. "You know what feels right? This. You. The life we've built. I don't want to sacrifice that for a fancy title."
"So don't," Izuku said. "Tell them thank you but no. Stay here. Keep teaching our residents. Keep operating when you're needed. Keep building the life that makes you happy."
"Our residents," Katsuki repeated, smiling. "I like that."
"Our life," Izuku amended. "I like that better."
Two weeks later, Katsuki declined the Yuuei offer. It was hard—turning down prestige, status, the 'next big thing' in his career. But it was also easy. Because he knew what mattered.
Not the title. Not the resume. Not the external markers of success.
But the life he'd built from the rubble of his old one. The teaching that fulfilled him. Izuku who loved him. The balance he'd finally found between work and life, ambition and contentment, striving and being present.
"No regrets?" Izuku asked that evening as they cooked dinner together in their small kitchen.
"None," Katsuki said, and meant it. "This is enough. You are enough. Everything we have—it's more than enough. It's everything."
He pulled Izuku close, kissing him softly, and thought about how far they'd both come.
Two years ago, he'd been trapped under rubble, certain he was going to die.
Now he was here. Alive. Healed. Happy. In love. Teaching. Operating sometimes. Building a life that was nothing like he'd planned but was somehow perfect.
"I love you," he said against Izuku's lips.
"I love you too," Izuku replied. "Forever."
Forever sounded pretty damn good.
Different than planned, but beautiful.
So incredibly beautiful.
Remission: the period of recovery when symptoms subside and life begins again, often better and fuller than before.
They'd found their remission.
And it was everything.