Bakugo Katsuki has always been an attentive guy. Always watching and caculating his next move, his next plan of action.

Now, watching is all he can do.

He watches the funeral from afar.

The casket is closed.

He’s the only one not in a suit.

It’s raining, but he can’t feel it. He’s too far away to hear the words, but Number One Pro Hero Deku is speaking now. Red Riot stands next in line.

He can see all of their graduating class standing in the crowd, all wearing black.

Mina’s crying, Ochako’s crying. Deku’s speech has moved the deceased’s parents to tears as well, along with nearly everyone else.

So many tears. So many people are devastated. Even aloof, unshakeable Shouto has his face turned into his mother’s shoulder.

It’s wild.

Bakugo can’t believe that all this is for him.

He’s glad the casket is closed.

Bakugo knows he’s dead, but in an abstract way. Like you know you’re breathing, or know you’re thinking. It’s something he knows, but not something he’s /aware/ of.

And he remembers dying.

Sort of.

He remembers the fight in flashes. And then he remembers white-hot pain, and then something unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Dying—it’s unlike any other pain. It’s deep. It’s final. All-encompassing. You’re vividly aware of it at the same time as you aren’t.

Because rarely do people who are dying get the time to accept it. Usually, they have minutes, if they’re lucky.

Bakugo wasn’t lucky. He had just enough time to think, “Holy fuck, I’m really dying.” Before it was over.

But the thing about that last thought? He was /pissed as fuck/ when he realized it.

He’s pretty sure that’s why he died but didn’t go anywhere. He can’t feel anything, can’t interact with anyone or anything, even when he talks he’s not sure if there’s actual sound or if he’s just remembering what his voice sounds like in his head.

Being dead is... weird. He can’t do anything but watch, really. But he also can’t wander. He can split his time between the people he knew while he was alive, but he can’t really move that far from them without just... disappearing and coming back.

He gets the hang of switching between them pretty quickly.

Izuku throws himself into hero work. He hardly answers calls, hardly sleeps, doesn’t respond to any questions about him. He cries at night, sometimes. He never says anything, but he cries.

Bakugo tried to comfort him once, tried to reach out and rub his back, but his hand went right through him. Izuku didn’t so much as flinch.

So Bakugo sat on the bed next to him and listened to him cry until he felt so defeated that he wanted to cry with him.

But ghosts can’t cry.

He follows Kirishima around while he’s on patrols and tries to pretend that he’s on the patrol with him, that everything is fine. He died in his hero costume, so that’s what he’s still wearing. He can almost imagine hard enough to believe it.

Except Kirishima’s never been as silent as he is now. His new partner tries to fill the quiet occasionally, but when he responds, his voice is raw and hoarse. He smiles politely and it never reaches his eyes.

He only goes to Kirishima’s apartment once.

Just once.

Bakugo has expected Deku to be the worst—Deku had been with him. He could still remember him yelling, “NO!” As he went down, could blearily remember Deku’s face while he screamed at him. Bakugo couldn’t hear any of the words he’d said.

But Kirishima’s worse. They’ve been best friends since high school—he should’ve known better. Kirishima screams out his agony, he claws at things, and he /talks./

He talks so much. Things he wanted to say and never did, apologizes for things Bakugo didn’t care enough about to remember, apologizes for being off that day. Apologizes for letting it happen. Blames himself.

He blames himself enough that it makes Bakugo sick. He’s a ghost, but if he could vomit, he would.

Something heavy and dark and impossibly large sits in his chest after seeing Kirishima.

So he doesn’t watch him while he’s at home anymore. He can’t.

It’s like dying all over again.

Everyone else does... better.

Not great, but not as catastrophic as Deku and Kirishima.

If nothing else, he’s surprised by how often they cry over him. Sero, Kaminari, Mina, Ochako, Jirou—Todoroki. Momo. The whole class.

Every person he visits, if he stays with them about a week, they cry over him. Most of them in private, but some of them cry together.

It’s a lot of the same sentiments.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“He’s really not coming back, is he?”
“I thought he’d outlive us all out of spite.”
“It’s so quiet without him around.”
“I miss him.”

It’s the “I miss him.” That hurts him the most. Every time he hears it, he feels weighed down. He did this. He hurt everyone. He wasn’t good enough and this is what it got him.

Nothing but a burden on his friends.

He stops seeing them for a while. He sits at his grave and lets time pass him by. The season changes, and suddenly there’s snow on top of his headstone.

It’s been six months since he died, he thinks distantly.

Then his parents show up. They clean the gravestone, they bring flowers, and a little gift for him—he can’t see what’s in the container, but somehow he knows it’s his dad’s spicy curry.

It was always his favorite.

They burn incense, but he can’t smell it. He figures it’s a nice sentiment though.

His mom has wrinkles where she never did before. His dad has dark bags under his eyes and a deep-set frown, like he hasn’t smiled in months.

They sit six inches apart from each other, heads bowed, and don’t say anything.

Masaru cries. Mitsuki stares at her lap and says nothing.

He follows them home, and he regrets it the second they cross the threshold.

There’s a message on the machine. Masaru hits play mechanically, and the quiet house fills up with their manager’s voice. She’s asking about a deadline they’ve missed for a dress design, or some concept, or something.

Mitsuki rips it off the table and flings it against the opposite wall, hard enough that the machine explodes into a dozen pieces.

Bakugo stares. He’s been on the receiving end of his mother’s rage before, but she’s never been like /this./

“Mitsuki...” Masaru says. He sounds tired. He didn’t even flinch as she threw the machine.

“Who gave her the fucking right?!” Mitsuki roars. “How fucking dare she! I could wring her skinny neck—“

“Mitsuki. It’s not her fault. We have to...” He sounds so, so tired. “We have to move on too. Or try. Katsuki wouldn’t want us to—“

“KATSUKI IS DEAD!” She snarls, tears flying from her eyes as she wheels around. She rips pictures off the walls and starts throwing them. Her shoes crunch on glass.

They’re all family photos. She rips every single one off the walls and throws them into the middle of the living room floor.

And once they’re all gone, she stops. Her chest heaving, she stops, and she looks at what she’s done, and then she falls to her knees in front of the pictures.

“No, no, no, nonono,” She says frantically, picking through glass, pulling up pictures, trying to salvage the frames even though her hands are getting cut up. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Katsuki, I didn’t mean it.”

Masaru has stood and watched this all happen without moving at all, a heartbroken, shocked look on his face.

Now he moves to crouch next to her, pull cover her hands with his own. “Mitsuki.” He says again, clearer, tears streaming down his face.

She looks up at him, and Bakugo thinks that the image of his desperate, broken mother will haunt him longer than he’ll haunt everyone else.

“My baby is /gone/ Masaru,” She sobs, leaning forward to clutch at his shirt. “He’s gone. He not—he’s not coming back. Our baby’s gone.”

Masaru nods. “I know. I know. I know.” He repeats, over and over, like a mantra, like it will help it hurt less.

“What if—what if he didn’t know. What if he thought—I told him he was a brat all the time. I never told him I was proud of him. What if he thought I hated him?” She cries. “I never told him he was the best thing I ever did— I— Masaru I never /told him/—“

He can’t stand to stay any longer than that. He can’t bear to watch it anymore, unable to help, unable to say anything, to let them know he was still there. Unable to cry out the awful feeling in his chest—

Unable to do anything but watch.

He makes some semblance of peace with it. He stays at his grave until his parents visit again—they’re holding hands now, and Mitsuki cries, and says all the things he already heard the first time—and then he latched on to his friends again.

They meet every few weeks for drinks. Izuku and Kirishima never come, or they don’t /usually/ but Kirishima’s there this time.

He sits in the space that they leave vacated for him. It’s where he would always sit if he actually came out with them, right between Kirishima and Kaminari.

It would almost feel like he’s alive again, if he weren’t always the topic of conversation.

It’s nice to hear their stories though. To see what he was like from their point of view.

They all thought so highly of him, it’s hard to imagine in hindsight. Then again, time also passes different as a ghost. He feels like it really hasn’t been any time since he died, like it could’ve been yesterday, or ten years ago.

Or one year to the day.

Kirishima looks better. Bakugo hasn’t been keeping up with him much anymore, and he feels bad about it. He’s supposed to be his best friend, but he’s selfish.

It hurts too much.

But he’s smiling now, and there’s light in his eyes. Not as much as there was before, his smile is still strained, but it’s there. He’s getting better.

Good.

He figures that—they’re right. All those shitty self-help books and shit? They’re right.

He does want them to move on. He wants his friends to be happy again, and smile, and laugh. He doesn’t want them to cry over him anymore. They’re drinking more than they would normally, but he knows that’s just because they’re sad.

It’s the anniversary of his death, after all. Everyone is there except Izuku. /Aizawa/ even stopped by to tell them to be careful and share a memorial shot with them.

Bakugo’s pretty sure he’s the only one who has noticed the girl at the bar staring at them. Or, well. Staring at the vacant spot he’s occupying between Kaminari and Kirishima.

All he can do is look around, so of course he notices her. She’s got this thoughtful, curious look on her face as she observes them. A tiny little frown creasing her features. She looks American, from what he can tell.

Tourists were weird like that, though. She’s probably just excited to see so many pro heroes in one place.

Slowly everyone starts to excuse themselves, until only Kirishima, Kaminari, Jirou, Mina, Ochako, and Todoroki are left. Sero has to take Shinsou home because he’s feeling queasy, and everyone else has early shifts or families.

Deku never showed.

They exchange a few more personal stories, and then have another round of shots. They decide they’re going to break into the cemetery and visit his grave, and all get up and clamber out of the bar to do just that.

Bakugo snorts. Same old idiots.

And they might have made it too, if the girl from the bar hadn’t clambered after them and then cut them off.

“Hello!” She says, and oh yes, she is very much American. “Um, this might be a weird question, but did you friend just die?”

Bakugo’s mouth gapes open like a fish along with all of the rest of them. Damn. Girl has /balls./ She must notice that they’re about to eat her alive, because she continues: “Uh—wait. Okay. Let me start over. Was he like, this tall, blond hair, really mean scowl?”

Kirishima sniffles loudly. He’s extremely drunk. “That’s ‘tsuki!” He warbles. “Oh my god, can you see ghosts? Is he here? ‘TSUKI I MISS YOU AND I LOVE YOU BRO.”

Bakugo, standing right beside him, wants to ask him to please stop yelling. He doesn’t have eardrums to burst, but damn.

“Uh—Yeah, you don’t have to yell. Um. Was your friend a hero too? I recognize some of you guys from the news—“

“He was a /great/ hero!” Ochako slurs, throwing her arms wide and making what can only be an explosion noise. “Explosion hero: Ground Zero!” She announces.

“Tell her to stop yelling, weird woman.”

“Oh, good, okay.” The girl says. “He told me to tell you to stop yelling, but I think it’ll be better if he tells you himself.”

And then the girl reaches out and boops him on the nose.

And it makes contact.

And Bakugo has to blink about a million times after she withdraws her hand because suddenly everything is /loud/ and /bright/ and /hot./ He’s instantly sweating.

Wait.

He /feels hot./ He’s /sweating./

Ghosts don’t sweat.

GHOSTS DON’T SWEAT.

Before he can get any more excited than he is, there’s a million pairs of hands on him and Kirishima is trying to crush him against his chest.

He can’t breathe, but he can feel his lungs burning when he /tries./ He’s breathing. What the fuck.

When he can focus enough past the whole—suddenly being alive again, thing—everyone is talking.

Kirishima is sobbing against the back of his neck, everyone else is crying too, hell. /He’s/ crying.

“Give him some room to breathe, guys, jeez!” The girl says, and somehow manages to pull him out from between all the elated drunks. He turns his hands over and touches his face, his own pulse, rests one over his heart.

No, yeah, he’s definitely /alive/. But for how long, is the question.

“What sort of shitty quirk is this? You bring me back so I can say my goodbyes and shit? How long do I have? A couple hours? I don’t have time to see everyone, I gotta— My ma and pops, I—Izuku—“

The girl holds her hands up as he advances. “Woah, tiger, calm down. It’s not like that. My quirk is “reanimate”. I make things that aren’t living... be living. I usually only use it on drawings and stuff though.”

Bakugo stares at her. “Okay, so how long does it fuckin’ last?”

She shrugs. “Well, I used it on my dog once when I was a kid. He’s like 20 years old now but he’s still kicking, so I figure you’ve got a nice chunk of time, since you’re all,” And she gestures at him.

Since he’s all /what?/

He looks down at his body and it’s the same one he’s had for the last year. He’s in his hero costume, but he didn’t keep any of his injuries—the ones that had killed him, or the ones he’d gotten before that.

In fact, his skin is practically unbroken. He has a few scars that he got in his UA days, but anything since he turned 22 has vanished.

“What the fuck.” He repeats, not for the first time.

She shrugs. “I dunno man! This is how ghosts always are. They’re either like you, in the prime of their life, or they’re... nevermind that, you got the good option, trust me.” She smiles, not unfriendly.

Kaminari speaks up. “What happened to his body?”

“Well, it’s still there, I guess. This one’s new. Anytime I make something from a drawing, the original drawing is still there, I just also have... a copy, sort of. But alive.”

“HIS BODY IS STILL THERE?!” Mina yells. She looks nauseous.

Everyone is still crying. Bakugo has let this get vastly out of control.

“So, what, you’re just saying I get a do-over? Clean slate? Don’t fuck it up again this time?” He snaps. He hates feeling like the other shoe is about to drop.

“K—Kacchan?” Comes a voice from behind the group. They all wheel around to see Izuku standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at him like.

Well.

The girl pats Bakugo on the back. “Don’t fuck it up this time.” She agrees.

By the time Todoroki turns around to say, “What are you, a Go—“ She’s already gone.

Bakugo looks down at his hands and starts laughing. He laughs until he has to clutch at his own sides, until Todoroki and Kirishima’s hands on his shoulders are the only thing keeping him up.

He laughs even though he’s crying, and he probably looks like a crazy bastard.

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck. I won’t fuck it up this time.” He says, mostly to himself. For Izuku, who is gearing up to tackle him to the ground, and for Kirishima, who is finally smiling genuinely again, and for all his other friends, and his mom, and his dad, and everyone else.

He won’t fuck it up this time.

Izuku tackles him and the pavement scratches his back all to shit. It hurts.

“Hey, does this mean you’re a born-again virgin?” Kaminari jokes to lighten the mood, trying to get everyone to stop crying. It doesn’t work, but Bakugo barks out a laugh anyway.

Yeah. This time he was going to do it right, and the ache in his back only told him one thing—

He was alive.

[End]