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The first petal fell during hero training.
Katsuki was mid-explosion, palm crackling when something caught in his throat. Not painful exactly but foreign. Wrong. He coughed hard once and there it was on his glove: a single green petal, vivid as spring leaves, soft as a secret, impossibly delicate against the black and orange of his hero costume.
He stared at it for three full seconds, his heart dropping into his stomach, before incinerating it with a controlled burst from his palm.
"Kacchan! You good?" Izuku's voice carried across the training ground, concerned as always, cutting through the sounds of their classmates' various quirks. That damn nickname, the one that used to make him furious and now just made his chest ache. And Katsuki's chest constricted in a way that had nothing to do with quirks, his throat tightening as he saw Deku jogging toward him.
"Fine!" he barked back, shoving the anxiety down deep where it belonged, where he'd learned to bury every inconvenient feeling since childhood. "Focus on your own damn form, Deku! That last Smash was sloppy as hell!"
Izuku stopped mid-stride, looking briefly hurt before his expression shifted to that determined furrow of his brow. "It wasn't that bad—"
"It was shit! Your follow-through is still too slow!" Katsuki turned away, ignoring how Izuku's face fell. Better to be an asshole than to let him see the fear creeping into Katsuki's eyes.
Katsuki knew exactly what was happening to him. He developed hanahaki disease. It was rare enough to be remarkable, common enough to be documented in their first-year health class. Flowers growing in your lungs because of a love the afflicted feels they have no right to have. Progressive. Potentially fatal if left untreated. Some people said it was romantic. Beautiful, even.
Katsuki thought it was the stupidest, most humiliating thing his body could have possibly done to him.
---
The second petal came that night.
Katsuki was in his dorm room, trying to study and failing miserably, when he felt that telltale tickle in his throat again. He barely made it to his bathroom before he was coughing, and this time two petals emerged, drifting into the sink like accusations.
Green. Unmistakably, brilliantly green.
"Fuck," he whispered, gripping the edge of the sink hard enough that his knuckles went white. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
His phone buzzed on his desk. A text from Deku, because of course it was.
*Hey Kacchan! Sorry if I bothered you at training today. Want to go over the homework together? I made tea! :)*
Katsuki stared at the message, at the stupid smiling emoji Deku always used, and felt something crumble inside his chest. He typed back a curt *Busy* and threw his phone onto his bed, then spent the next twenty minutes coughing up petals into his toilet.
---
By week two, he was coughing up full blooms.
After a desperate 2 AM Google search that he immediately regretted he'd discovered that they were green carnations. The internet said they were a historical symbol—a coded message used over a couple of centuries ago, a secret language for love that couldn't be spoken aloud. Some dead playwright had worn one. It meant something specific, something Katsuki's traitorous subconscious had apparently latched onto with both hands.
The websites about hanahaki were worse. They detailed the progression: petals, then partial blooms, then full flowers. Eventually, if left untreated, the roots would spread through the lungs completely. Suffocation. Death. The only cure was to be convinced you deserve to love the person or surgical removal—but the surgery removed your ability to love entirely, as well as stripped away the memories of the person that caused it.
Katsuki had thrown his phone across his dorm room when he read that, leaving a dent in the wall he'd have to explain later. He'd spent the rest of that night coughing green carnations into his pillowcase, each one a perfect, damning reminder of exactly who had caused this.
He'd been in love with Izuku Midoriya for longer than he could pinpoint—maybe since they were kids, maybe since UA, maybe during one of the thousand moments when Deku smiled at him like Katsuki had hung the moon instead of spent years trying to tear him down. Maybe it was when Izuku saved him from the sludge villain. Maybe it was when Izuku saved him from the League of Villains. Maybe it was every single time Izuku looked at him and saw something worth saving, something worth believing in, when Katsuki couldn't even believe in himself.
It didn't matter when it started. What mattered was that he had no right to love Izuku, not after everything Katsuki had done to him—and Katsuki's lungs were paying the price for feelings he should have buried years ago.
He started carrying a small plastic bag in his pocket, learned to muffle his coughs in his elbow, got very good at excusing himself right before the flowers came up. His trash can filled with green carnations every night. He burned them in small, controlled explosions before morning, watching them turn to ash like he wished he could do to his feelings.
"Bakugo, you should see Recovery Girl," Kirishima said one evening, watching him cough into his fist at dinner. The common room was loud around them, full of their classmates' chatter and laughter. "That cold's been hanging on forever, man. It's been like two weeks."
"It's not a cold," Katsuki growled, taking a sip of water to try and soothe his throat.
"Then what—" Kirishima's eyes widened as he spied the green petal that Katsuki wasn't quick enough to hide from view. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Wait. Bakugo, is that... is it han—?"
"Drop it."
"Dude." Kirishima leaned in closer, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. "That's serious. You need to—"
"I said drop it, Kirishima." Katsuki's palms sparked dangerously, small pops of explosion crackling against the table.
Kirishima held up his hands in surrender, but his eyes were full of that damn sympathy, that pity that made Katsuki want to explode something. "Okay, okay. But... man, I'm here if you need to talk."
Katsuki didn't respond, just focused on his food and tried to ignore the itch building in his throat. Across the room, he could see Izuku laughing at something Uraraka said, his whole face lit up with joy, and Katsuki had to look away before the flowers choked him right there at the dinner table.
He hated the sympathy most of all. Hated that Kirishima knew, hated that it meant he was weak, hated that there was nothing he could do about it except to suffer in silence.
---
The worst part wasn't the flowers, though. It was watching Izuku live his life, completely unaware he was killing Katsuki one petal at a time.
They were sparring one afternoon, just the two of them in Gym Gamma. Aizawa had paired them up for supplemental training, saying something about how they needed to work on their coordination as the top two students in their class. It was supposed to be an honor. It felt like torture.
Izuku was in his element, moving with a grace and power that still sometimes took Katsuki's breath away. When had the quirkless crybaby from their childhood turned into this? When had Deku become someone who could match Katsuki step for step, strength for strength, strategy for strategy?
"You're getting predictable, Kacchan!" Izuku called out, actually laughing as he dodged Katsuki's explosions with that new evasion trick of his. His track suit was torn at the shoulder, showing a glimpse of scarred skin, and his hair was wild from the force of his movements. He looked free. He looked beautiful, and Katsuki felt guilty for thinking that.
Then, he felt petals rising in his throat.
"Like hell I am!" Katsuki shot back, swallowing the petals down and lunging forward with a burst of explosions. They collided in a tangle of limbs, rolling across the training mat until Katsuki ended up pinning Izuku's shoulders down, both of them breathing hard. Katsuki's palms were pressed against the mat on either side of Izuku's head, small wisps of smoke still rising from them.
Izuku looked up at him with those huge green eyes—the same color as the flowers in Katsuki's lungs—freckles scattered across flushed cheeks, that impossibly soft smile on his face. His chest was heaving, his lips slightly parted, and he looked happy. Actually happy to be here, pinned under Katsuki, like this was fun instead of the torture it was.
"Good match," Izuku said quietly, his voice a little breathless. "You're getting even faster, Kacchan. I could barely track that last move."
‘Go jump off the roof and hope you get a quirk in your next life.’ The memory came uninvited and with it the self loathing.
Katsuki's throat seized. He felt petals rising like a tide, sharp and urgent and impossible to stop. He barely managed to roll away before he was coughing violently, turning away so Izuku wouldn't see the green blooms falling from his lips, wouldn't see how weak Katsuki had become.
"Kacchan?" Izuku's hand touched his shoulder, warm even through the fabric of his track suit, and that just made it worse. Made the flowers multiply, made his lungs constrict. "Are you okay? That's a really bad cough—"
"I'm fine!" Katsuki snarled, staggering to his feet and shoving the flowers into his pocket, ignoring the ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his lungs and everything to do with the concern in Izuku's voice. "Training's over."
"But we still have twenty minutes—"
"I said it's over!" Katsuki's voice came out rougher than he intended, harsh enough that Izuku flinched. Good. Better that than letting him see the truth.
He left before Izuku could follow, his pocket full of green carnations and his heart full of things he could never say.
---
At three weeks, the flowers were constant. Katsuki couldn't go more than an hour without coughing up petals, couldn't sleep through the night without waking up choking. His trash can was always full. His throat was raw. He'd lost weight, couldn't keep food down when half his stomach felt filled with stems and leaves.
And still, he said nothing.
Kirishima cornered him after combat training, blocking the door to the locker room with his hardened arm.
"Move," Katsuki growled.
"No." Kirishima's expression was uncharacteristically serious, his jaw set. "We need to talk."
"Like hell we do—"
"You need to tell him," Kirishima said, arms crossed. "Or get the surgery. Bakugo, you're dying."
The word hung in the air between them. Dying. It sounded so dramatic, so final. But Kirishima wasn't wrong—Katsuki had looked in the mirror that morning and barely recognized himself. Dark circles under his eyes, hollows in his cheeks, a grayish tint to his skin. He looked like an extra from a horror movie.
The surgery. Remove the flowers, remove the love, forget it all ever happened. Simple. Easy. Logical. Wake up and not remember why the sight of Izuku's smile made his chest ache. Not remember the way Deku said his name, the way he looked at Katsuki like he was something special. Not remember any of it.
"No," Katsuki said.
"Dude—"
"I said no!" His palms sparked dangerously in the space between them. Kirishima didn't even flinch—he'd been Katsuki's friend too long for that. "I'm not telling him, and I'm not getting the damn surgery. Just—just let me handle it, okay?"
"Handle it?" Kirishima's voice rose. "How are you handling it, Bakugo? By coughing up flowers until you suffocate? By pushing everyone away? By pretending like everything's fine when we all know it's not?"
"It's none of your business!"
"You're my best friend!" Kirishima's voice cracked. "You're my best friend and you're killing yourself over some—some feelings you won't even admit to! How is that fair? How is that okay?"
Katsuki felt his composure cracking, felt the flowers rising. "It's not about fair, Kirishima. It's about—" He broke off, coughing hard, and green carnations spilled from his lips onto the locker room floor. A full bloom this time, petals perfect and damning.
Kirishima's expression shifted to something painful to look at. "Bakugo..."
"Some things are worth dying for," Katsuki said quietly, looking at the flower at his feet. It was the same shade as Izuku's eyes. Of course it was.
"Not this," Kirishima said. "Not for love that if you would just talk to him—"
"No." Katsuki's voice was flat, final. "Deku doesn't—he can't. Not after everything. Not after the way I treated him for years. He sees me as a rival, maybe a friend on good days. That's it. It can't be anything more. I don't deserve it."
"You don't know that—"
"I do." Katsuki picked up the carnation, held it between his fingers. It was so delicate. So easily destroyed. "And I'm not going to ruin what we do have by dumping this shit on him. So just—let it go, Kirishima. Please."
The please did it. Kirishima's shoulders slumped in defeat. "At least see Recovery Girl. There might be something she can do to slow it down."
"Maybe," Katsuki lied. They both knew there wasn't.
---
He wasn't ready to die. Not really. He had already experienced it once during the war in their first year. Now he was eighteen and he'd just been offered a position at his top three hero agency for after graduation and he had plans, ambitions, dreams that didn't include suffocating on flowers before he turned nineteen.
So when Izuku asked him to hang out after class—just the two of them, like old times that never actually existed because their childhood had been a nightmare of Katsuki's making—Katsuki almost said no. Should have said no. Should have made an excuse, should have pushed him away, should have done anything except agree.
He said yes instead, because he was a masochist apparently, because a few more hours with Izuku were worth a few more flowers, because even if he didn't deserve it, he'd take whatever scraps of Deku's attention he could get before this disease killed him or he finally broke down and got the surgery.
"Really?" Izuku's whole face lit up, that smile that could power cities, and Katsuki had to look away before the flowers choked him right there in the classroom. "That's great! I was thinking we could just, I don't know, hang out? We used to—I mean, we never really did, but I always wanted to. Just talk, you know? Like friends."
Friends. Right. That's all they'd ever be.
"Whatever," Katsuki muttered. "But if you try to make me watch another one of your All Might documentaries, I'm leaving."
Izuku laughed, and the sound wrapped around Katsuki's heart like vines. "Deal. Dorm roof at seven?"
"Fine."
They ended up on the dorm roof at sunset, sitting on an old blanket Izuku had brought up. The city sprawled out before them, lights beginning to twinkle on as day faded to evening. It would have been romantic if it wasn't slowly killing Katsuki.
They sat close enough that their shoulders almost touched, close enough that Katsuki could feel the warmth radiating off Izuku's body, could smell his laundry detergent and that underlying scent that was just Deku. This close, Katsuki could see the new scar on Izuku's cheekbone from last week's villain attack, could count the freckles across his nose, could watch the way the sunset turned his green eyes almost golden.
Izuku was rambling about the new hero rankings that had just come out, about strategy and rescue statistics and optimal team compositions. He talked with his hands, animated and brilliant, his analytical mind working through problems that most of their classmates wouldn't even think to consider. This was the Izuku that Katsuki had fallen for—not just the powerful hero who saved the world, but the nerd who spent hours analyzing quirks and strategies, who saw patterns no one else did, who wanted to save everyone.
"And if you look at the response times in urban areas versus rural, there's this huge disparity that could be addressed with better—Kacchan, are you listening?"
Katsuki was listening. He was always listening to Deku, drinking in every word like a man dying of thirst. Which, he supposed, he kind of was. Dying, at least.
"Yeah," Katsuki managed, his throat tight with unsaid words and unspoken flowers. Green carnations blooming in his throat with every word from Izuku's lips, with every smile, with every moment of this perfect torture. "Your analysis of the support hero distribution is solid. The gaps in coverage are a real problem."
Izuku blinked, looking pleased that Katsuki had actually been paying attention. "Right? I've been thinking about specialization patterns too, and how agencies could better coordinate—"
Katsuki's chest felt like it was being crushed. The flowers were constant now, a steady pressure in his lungs, stems wrapping around his ribs. He couldn't do this much longer. Couldn't keep pretending everything was fine when he was drowning in green carnations, couldn't keep sitting here next to Izuku and acting like his heart wasn't being shredded.
He needed to leave, before he died a second time right in front of Izuku. "Deku, I—"
The coughing fit hit before he could finish. Violent, wracking, unstoppable. Worse than ever before. Petals spilled from his lips—dozens of them, green and perfect and damning. Full blooms came next, carnations tumbling onto the blanket between them, onto Katsuki's lap, falling like rain. He couldn't stop, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but cough up flowers while Izuku watched in horror.
"Oh my god," Izuku breathed, his voice high with panic. His hands hovered uselessly, shaking. "Oh my god, Kacchan, that's—you have—" His eyes went wide with horror and realization as he stared at the pile of green carnations growing between them. "You have hanahaki. How long has this been happening? Why didn't you say anything? We need to get you to Recovery Girl, we need to—"
Katsuki couldn't answer, could only cough up more flowers, each one stealing more of his breath. His vision was starting to blur at the edges, black spots dancing across his sight. Was this it? Was he actually going to die here, on the roof with Deku, surrounded by evidence of his pathetic feelings?
"Who is it?" Izuku asked suddenly, frantically gathering the flowers like he could somehow stuff them back into Katsuki's lungs. His hands were shaking, his voice desperate. "Who—who is it, Kacchan? You have to tell them, they'll be able to—you have to—" He stopped, staring at one of the carnations in his hand. Green. Vivid, unmistakable green. The same shade as his eyes, the same shade as One For All's lightning had been.
Katsuki watched through the tears in his eyes as the realization dawned across Izuku's face like a sunrise, watched him connect the dots. Those brilliant, intelligent eyes going wide, his lips parting in shock, his whole body going still.
"The flowers are green," Izuku whispered. "They're... they're the same color as..." He looked up at Katsuki, and there were tears in his eyes now, tracking down his freckled cheeks. "Kacchan. Who—who is it? Who are these for?"
Katsuki laughed bitterly between coughs, flowers falling like spring rain, like confetti at a funeral. Who did Izuku think it was? Who else would make Katsuki's body choose green, the color he saw every time he looked at the person he loved?
"You're so stupid," Katsuki rasped, his voice wrecked, his throat raw. Blood flecked some of the petals now—he was running out of time. "So fucking stupid, Deku."
He watched as Izuku's face fell with dawning horror.
"Me?" Izuku's voice cracked, broke completely. "It's me? I'm—I'm killing you?"
Katsuki couldn't answer through the flowers, could only nod as his vision blurred further. Was it from lack of oxygen or from tears? He couldn't tell anymore.
"No, no, no—" Izuku was crying openly now, his hands cupping Katsuki's face, and that just made more flowers come. "Kacchan, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say something? We could have—I could have—"
And then Izuku was kissing him.
Clumsy and desperate, tasting like tears and something sweet. His hands cupped Katsuki's face like he was something precious, something worth saving, and he was mumbling against Katsuki's lips between kisses, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I've loved you for so long, I'm so sorry. You deserve my love—deserve to love me."
The flowers didn't stop.
Katsuki pulled back, still coughing, petals continuing to spill from his lips even as Izuku held him. Panic flashed across Izuku's face.
"It's not working—why isn't it working?" Izuku's voice cracked with desperation. "Kacchan, I love you, I *love* you, why aren't the flowers—"
"It doesn't—" Katsuki managed between coughs, his voice raw. "You know it doesn't work like that. I have to—" More flowers. "I have to believe I deserve to."
"You do!" Izuku was crying harder now, his hands shaking as they held Katsuki's face. "You do deserve to, you deserve everything, Kacchan please—"
"Recovery Girl," Katsuki gasped out. "Need to—before the roots—"
Izuku didn't hesitate. He hauled Katsuki to his feet, supporting most of his weight as they stumbled toward the roof access door. "Stay with me, Kacchan. Just stay with me."
They made it down the stairs, Izuku half-carrying him, and Katsuki had never been more grateful for Izuku's quick thinking—he knew the fastest route to the infirmary, knew exactly how to support Katsuki's weight to keep him moving. Even without a quirk, Izuku was still trying to save him.
The infirmary lights were still on. Recovery Girl took one look at them—Katsuki coughing up flowers, Izuku crying and covered in green petals—and her expression went grim.
"Hanahaki," she said, not a question. "How long?"
Izuku looked helplessly at Katsuki and Katsuki managed to hold up three fingers.
"Three da—weeks," Izuku corrected, taking the silent cues from Katsuki. "The flowers—they're for me—I told him I love him but they won't stop—"
"Because love alone isn't the cure, boy. You know that." Recovery Girl was already pulling out equipment, her movements swift and practiced. "The afflicted has to believe they deserve that love. Truly believe it." She looked at Katsuki with something like sympathy. "This is going to take time. The roots are already spreading—I can call someone to slow the progression, ease the symptoms, but the real healing? That has to come from him."
---
They kept Katsuki in the infirmary for three days.
Recovery Girl called in a specialist to have them use their quirk to reinforce his lungs and weakened heart, slowing the roots' growth, giving him more time. But even their power couldn't remove the flowers—only Katsuki could do that, by learning to accept what his heart already knew.
Izuku never left his side.
"You should go to class," Katsuki rasped on the second day, his voice hoarse from coughing.
"No," Izuku said simply, holding Katsuki's hand like he was afraid he'd disappear. "I'm staying."
"Idiot. You'll fall behind—"
"It doesn't matter." Izuku's grip tightened. "Kacchan, I almost lost you for a second time, but this time there's no villain to fight. I almost lost you because you thought you didn't deserve to love me, and I—" His voice broke before it hardened. "I'm not leaving. Not until you understand."
"Understand what?"
"That you're worthy of loving me." Izuku looked at him with those impossibly green eyes, the same color as the flowers. "That you've always been worthy. Even when we were kids, even when you were cruel, even when you hated yourself—you were always worthy to me."
Katsuki coughed up a couple buds. He stared at them for a moment before sighing.
"I told you to jump off a roof," Katsuki said tiredly. "I bullied you for years. I made your life hell because I was scared and jealous and—"
"And you were a child," Izuku interrupted. "A child who was terrified and lashing out. Kacchan, we were kids. You're not that person anymore."
"That doesn't erase what I did—"
"No, it doesn't." Izuku's thumb traced circles on the back of Katsuki's hand. "But I forgave you years ago. The only person who hasn't forgiven you is yourself."
More buds, but the pressure in Katsuki's chest eased slightly.
"I don't know how," Katsuki admitted quietly. "How to forgive myself. How to believe I deserve this."
"Then let me show you," Izuku said. "Every day. However long it takes."
---
Recovery Girl discharged him on the fourth day with strict instructions: minimal quirk use, plenty of rest, and "for heaven's sake, talk to each other."
But before he left, she pulled him aside, her expression grave.
"Bakugo," she said quietly, making sure Izuku was out of earshot. "I need you to understand something about the hanahaki disease. It's not like a broken bone that heals and you're done. It's more like..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's more like cancer."
Katsuki's blood ran cold. "What? But we were taught—"
“That there are survivors as long as the afflicted feels worthy of their love or they go through with the surgery. Yes, that is true but it isn't the full truth of the matter. Certain parts were left out on purpose.”
“Why tell me this now?”
"Because if you learn to believe you deserve to love him, the flowers will go into remission. They'll stop blooming, the roots will retreat, you'll be able to breathe freely again." Her eyes were serious behind her glasses. "But the disease will never truly be gone. It'll be dormant, waiting. If you ever fall back into those old thought patterns—if you ever stop believing you deserve love, if the guilt and self-hatred return—the flowers will bloom again.”
"So I'm just... living with a time bomb in my chest forever?" Katsuki's voice was hollow.
"You're living with a reminder," Recovery Girl corrected gently. "A reminder to be kind to yourself. To not let the past consume you. To keep choosing to believe you're worthy of loving him." She placed a hand on his arm. "Many people with hanahaki achieve full remission and live long, happy lives. But they have to be vigilant. They have to keep doing the work."
“Why hide that part? Why not tell people?”
Her expression grew distant as she considered the question.
“I honestly don't know what caused people to hide the truth of the disease from everyone but the afflicted. I can only guess that due to its rarity no one thought more about it even though they should.”
Katsuki nodded slowly, the weight of it settling over him. "Does Deku need to know?"
"That's your choice. But secrets tend to grow in the dark, Bakugo. Just like flowers."
---
The flowers continued, but differently now. Instead of the violent coughing fits, the coughing fits now resembled those of someone with bronchitis. When Katsuki's thoughts turned dark, when the guilt threatened to overwhelm him, when he remembered all the reasons he thought he didn't deserve Izuku's love.
But Izuku was there to pull him back from each one.
When Katsuki coughed up petals during lunch and their friends looked on in sympathy, Izuku simply held his hand under the table and reminded him, "I chose you. I'm choosing you. Every time."
When nightmares woke Katsuki at 2 AM and petals spilled across his pillow, Izuku, who had forced his way into moving into Katsuki's dorm, held him until his breathing steadied, whispering "You're allowed to love me. You're allowed to be loved."
When they were studying and Katsuki's mind wandered to all his past cruelties, when the flowers bloomed in his throat, Izuku would kiss each petal from his lips and say, "I see who you are now. I see who you've always been becoming. And I love you."
One particularly bad day, Katsuki coughed up flowers after training and couldn't stop the spiral of thoughts. "You gave up everything for the world," he said bitterly, petals falling from his lips. "You saved everyone, lost your quirk, and I—I was just the asshole who made your childhood miserable. How can you want me when you could have anyone? When you sacrificed everything and I—"
"Stop." Izuku's voice was firm, his hands framing Katsuki's face and forcing him to meet his eyes. "You think losing One For All means I lost everything? Kacchan, I chose to give it up. I chose to save everyone, and I'd do it again. But you know what I get to keep? This. Us. A future where I'm not just the successor to a legacy, where I'm just Izuku. And I get to be Izuku with you."
"You're quirkless again because of—"
"I'm quirkless again because I made a choice to save the world. That's not on you. And you know what? I'm still going to be a hero. Maybe not the Number One Hero with a powerful quirk, but I'll find my way. I always do." Izuku smiled, soft and genuine. "And I want you with me while I figure it out. You, Kacchan. Not despite who you were, but because of who you are now and who you're becoming."
The petals slowed, then stopped.
Slowly—painfully slowly—the flowers lessened under Izuku's unwavering conviction.
---
It took six months for Katsuki to go through an entire week without coughing up a single petal.
They'd graduated UA by then, moved into a small apartment together near the agency where Katsuki had started his hero work. Izuku was working on his teaching degree, spending his days going to classes and studying tactical analysis.
He was in their living room, sprawled across the couch with reports scattered around him while Izuku sat at the kitchen table working on assignments. The evening sun painted everything gold through the window, and Izuku was muttering to himself over some teaching assignment, and Katsuki felt—
Content. Safe. Worthy.
"Deku," he said quietly.
Izuku looked up, concern immediate on his face. "Are you okay? Do you need—"
"No flowers this week."
Izuku's expression transformed, hope and joy and relief washing over his features. "Really? A whole week?"
"A whole week." Katsuki straightened, reaching for him. "I think—I think I'm starting to believe it. That I deserve this. That I deserve you."
Izuku crossed the room, settling beside him on the couch and cupping Katsuki's face between his hands. "You do. You always have."
When they kissed, it was soft. Sweet. And when Katsuki breathed in, his lungs filled with nothing but air.
But Katsuki didn't tell him about Recovery Girl's warning. Not yet. He would, eventually. But for now, he wanted to focus on healing, on learning, on becoming someone who could keep the flowers at bay.
---
The flowers didn't disappear overnight. For months, then years, petals would still come—during particularly bad days, during moments when Katsuki's self-loathing flared up, during the times when forgiving himself felt impossible.
But each time, there were fewer of them. And each time, Izuku was there.
"You're allowed to have bad days," Izuku told him one evening during their second year together, after Katsuki had coughed up a handful of petals following a mission where he'd been too harsh on himself for not saving everyone. "Healing isn't linear. But you're healing, Kacchan. Can you feel it?"
And Katsuki could. The pressure in his chest was lighter. The stems that had wrapped around his ribs were loosening. The roots were retreating into dormancy.
He was learning, slowly but surely, that he was allowed to love Izuku. That he was allowed to be loved in return. That his past didn't define his worth, that growth mattered more than perfection, that forgiveness—especially self-forgiveness—was possible.
There were still hard moments scattered throughout the years. When Katsuki watched Izuku working twice as hard as everyone else to prove he could still teach future heroes without being a pro himself, guilt would claw at his throat. When he remembered how he'd tormented the quirkless kid who just wanted to be a hero, petals would come.
But Izuku always found out and with the same patience he showed his students, he would remind Katsuki: "I don't need you to carry my past for me. I need you to walk beside me in my future."
It took a year and a half for Katsuki to go an entire month without a single flower.
Two years in, he went three months.
Two and a half years, and he couldn't remember the last petal.
---
On a cold January morning just over the three year anniversary of Izuku finding out, Katsuki woke up and realized he needed to tell Izuku the truth.
He lay in bed and took a deep, experimental breath. His lungs expanded fully, easily, with no hint of stems or petals or roots. Just air. Just his breath. Just life.
He knew the flowers were still there, dormant, waiting. And Izuku deserved to know.
"Kacchan?" Izuku's voice was sleep-rough, his arms tightening around Katsuki's waist. They were twenty-one now, adults building their lives together. "You okay? You're tense."
"I need to tell you something," Katsuki said quietly. "About the hanahaki."
Izuku sat up immediately, worry creasing his features. "Did they come back? Are you—"
"No. They're in remission. I think they have been for months." Katsuki sat up too, taking Izuku's hands in his. "But Recovery Girl told me something before I left the infirmary three years ago. Something I should have told you sooner."
He explained it all—how hanahaki was like cancer, how the flowers would always be there, dormant, how they could bloom again if he fell back into his old patterns of self-hatred and guilt.
"It's not gone," Katsuki finished, his voice rough. "It's just... sleeping. And if I'm not careful, if I stop doing the work, if I let myself believe again that I don't deserve you—"
"Then we'll deal with it," Izuku interrupted firmly. "Together. Just like we have been."
"Deku, I'm asking you to sign up for a lifetime of—"
"I already did," Izuku said simply. "Three years ago, on that roof, when I kissed you. I chose this, Kacchan. I chose you. All of you, including the parts that are still healing, including the flowers that might come back." He squeezed Katsuki's hands. "Do you really think I'd love you any less because your healing is ongoing instead of finished?"
Katsuki's throat tightened, but with emotion this time, not flowers. "You're such an idiot."
"Your idiot," Izuku corrected with a soft smile. "For as long as you'll have me."
"Forever, then," Katsuki said, and meant it. "I love you, Deku. And I'm going to keep believing I'm allowed to. Every single day, for the rest of my life, I'm going to choose to believe I deserve you."
"Good," Izuku said, and kissed him softly. "Because you do. You always have."
They stayed like that as the sun rose, wrapped up in each other, breathing easy. The green carnations were dormant, sleeping peacefully in Katsuki's chest—a reminder that some wounds took a lifetime to heal, that love required constant work, that believing in your own worth was a choice you had to make every single day.
But Katsuki Bakugo had learned that lesson well. And with Izuku beside him, he knew he could keep choosing it, for the rest of their lives.
---
Ten years later
Kirishima found a single dried green carnation pressed between the pages of one of Katsuki's notebooks during a visit to their apartment.
"You kept one?" he asked, surprised.
Katsuki looked up from his mission reports. He was twenty-eight now, a rising pro hero. Izuku was in their bedroom, suited up in the hero suit Katsuki and the class commissioned for him, preparing for a patrol as a registered quirkless hero for the first time. "A reminder," Katsuki said simply. "Of what I survived. Of what I'm still surviving."
Kirishima frowned. "Still surviving? I thought the flowers were gone?"
"In remission," Katsuki corrected. "Shits like cancer and they only tell you that info if you develop the damn thing. The flowers could come back if I'm not careful. If I let myself fall back into old patterns." He glanced toward the bedroom where Izuku was humming to himself, those green eyes still bright with joy and determination after all these years. "So I keep the flower as a reminder. To be kind to myself. To keep believing I deserve him."
"That sounds exhausting, man," Kirishima said softly.
"It is," Katsuki admitted. "Some days are harder than others. But it's worth it. He's worth it. And I'm worth it too—that's what I'm learning."
"Do the flowers ever come back? Even a little?"
"Sometimes," Katsuki said honestly. "A petal here and there when I have a really bad day. But Izuku's there for those moments. We handle it together." He picked up the dried carnation, held it between his fingers. "It's been ten years, and I've learned that healing isn't about being cured. It's about managing, adapting, choosing to be better every day."
Kirishima smiled. "You've come a long way, Bakubro."
"Yeah," Katsuki said, looking at the flower. "I have."
The dried carnation went back into his notebook—not as a symbol of pain, but as a reminder that some battles were lifelong, that some wounds required constant care, that believing in your own worth was a daily choice, not a destination.
But it was always worth the effort.
And with Izuku beside him, Katsuki knew he could keep fighting, keep choosing, keep believing—for the rest of their lives.
The flowers would always be there, waiting in the dark. But so would the light. So would the love. So would the choice to believe he deserved it.
And that made all the difference.