The two months since Katsuki’s declaration had been a lie. A carefully constructed, brittle facade that shattered the moment Katsuki stepped into Izuku’s dorm room for spring break.

It was the smell that hit him first—sharp, chemical, and unmistakably metallic. It was the scent of fresh blood, cut through with the sterile tang of antiseptic wipes.

Katsuki froze in the doorway, his duffel bag slipping from his grip and thudding softly onto the floor. "Izuku?"

Izuku was sitting at his desk, hero textbooks spread open. He looked up, a practiced, placid smile on his face. "Kacchan! You're early. I was just—"

"What the hell is that smell?" Katsuki's voice was low, a dangerous rumble.

Izuku's smile didn't waver, but his eyes darted away. "Smell? Oh, I was cleaning my support gear. You know how the fluid can get pungent."

Bullshit. Absolute, fucking bullshit. Katsuki’s eyes scanned the room. It was too neat. Izuku’s room was always a controlled chaos of notes and merch, but now it was unnervingly tidy, as if he’d scrubbed away any evidence of… what? His gaze snagged on the trash can by the desk. Tucked under a crumpled piece of paper was the corner of a cardboard box. A familiar one. The kind the school nurse used for sterile gauze.

Katsuki’s blood ran cold. He’d been watching, these past two months. He’d forced Izuku to eat every meal with him, had monitored his plate, had dragged him to the gym. He thought they were winning. He thought the fire in Izuku’s eyes during their workouts was a sign of recovery, not a desperate, burning need to purge the calories he was being forced to consume.

He’d noticed the chunkier t-shirts, the long sleeves even on warm days. He’d written it off as a style change. He was a fucking idiot.

"Show me your arms," Katsuki said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Izuku’s smile finally cracked. "Kacchan, it's nothing. Really. I just scraped it during—"

"Now." Katsuki took a step forward, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to stop them from shaking.

Trembling, Izuku slowly pushed back his chair and stood up. He wouldn't meet Katsuki's eyes as he reluctantly pushed up the left sleeve of his thick, cotton shirt. Underneath, wrapped around his forearm from wrist to elbow, was a pristine white band of gauze.

A roar filled Katsuki's ears. Eight months. He’d been clean for eight fucking months.

Without a word, Katsuki closed the distance between them. His movements were deliberate, painfully gentle, as he took Izuku’s arm. He carefully began to unwrap the gauze. Izuku flinched but didn't pull away, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path through his freckles.

The gauze fell away. It was worse than Katsuki had imagined. Not the old, familiar parallel lines, but a mess of angry, recent cuts, overlapping and raw. Some were shallow, but others were deep, purposeful gashes that spoke of a pain so profound it could only be silenced by creating a physical one.

Katsuki felt the air leave his lungs. He stared at the marred skin, at the evidence of his failure to protect the person he loved most. He’d been so focused on the food, on the weight, that he’d missed the rot festering right beneath the surface.

"I'm sorry," Izuku whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. I just… I couldn't… the thoughts got too loud again. I needed them to stop."

Katsuki didn't speak. He couldn't. Instead, he pulled Izuku into a crushing embrace, holding him so tightly he feared he might break him. He buried his face in Izuku's curls, inhaling the scent of shampoo and the faint, horrifying chemical smell he now knew was hydrogen peroxide.

He held him as Izuku sobbed, his body wracked with shuddering cries, all the pain and pressure of the last two months finally pouring out.

When the tears subsided into hiccupping breaths, Katsuki finally pulled back, his own vision blurry. He kept a firm grip on Izuku's shoulders.

"Listen to me," Katsuki said, his voice rough with emotion. "We are not doing this alone anymore. We're going to Recovery Girl. Right now. And then we're calling Aizawa and your mom."

Izuku’s eyes widened in panic. "No, Kacchan, please—"

"No!" Katsuki’s voice was firm, but not unkind. "This is bigger than us. This is bigger than hero standards. You are sick, Izuku. And we are going to get you help. All of it. The food, the… this. All of it."

He looked at the bloody gauze on the floor, then back at Izuku’s devastated face. The fight wasn't in the gym anymore. It was here, in this room, against an enemy that didn't have a face or a quirk. And for the first time, Katsuki Bakugou was terrified he might not be strong enough to win.

But he would die trying.

"Get your shoes," he said softly, wiping a tear from Izuku's cheek with his thumb. "I'm not letting you go through this alone for one more second."