On the sixth day, Katsuki could no longer pretend.

He skipped school. For the first time in a long while—consciously. Not because he was injured or sent to recovery, but because he simply couldn’t get out of bed.

His chest hurt as if someone inside him were slowly twisting a knife. Every breath came with effort; every exhale was accompanied by a rasp. His throat was being torn apart, the coughing came in waves, leaving behind a metallic taste of blood.

He didn’t remember how many times he’d thrown up that morning.

Petals were everywhere.

On the floor.

On the sheets.

In the sink.

Yellow. Bright. Disgustingly alive.

Katsuki stared at them with a dull gaze and felt his head emptying out.

Hanahaki would kill him.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

But very soon.

He knew how it ended. Everyone did. Either confess and get an answer—or surgery that would erase the feelings along with a part of himself.

And Katsuki hated both options.

Confessing to Deku meant admitting his own weakness. Standing in front of him—this smiling, fucking hero—and saying, “I’m dying because of you.”

He’d rather die.

The surgery was no better. Living without feelings wasn’t living. It was existing. Empty. Quiet. Without pain, but without meaning.

With difficulty, Katsuki pulled himself up, holding onto the wall, and dragged himself to the shower. The hot water burned his skin, but at least for a while it dulled the cold inside.

Under the stream he coughed, folding in half, until another portion of petals slid into the drain.

He clenched his teeth.

Not now.

He wasn’t going to die in his own bathroom like some pathetic idiot.

When he came out, his phone was flashing with messages.

Kirishima:

Where are you?

You didn’t come to training.

Are you okay?

Katsuki threw the phone onto the bed.

Of course he was okay.

He was just dying.

By evening, it got worse.

Every breath burned. His vision swam, his body shook with weakness. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, and suddenly realized: he didn’t want to die like this.

Not alone.

Not with hatred.

Not with this lump in his chest.

The thought was clear and frighteningly calm.

He would go to Deku.

Not to confess.

Not to ask.

Just… to see him.