The walk to Recovery Girl’s office was a silent, somber procession. Katsuki didn’t let go of Izuku’s hand once, his grip a firm, unyielding tether to reality. Izuku moved like a ghost, his head bowed, his free arm wrapped protectively around his middle as if he could physically hold himself together.

Recovery Girl’s kind, wrinkled face fell the moment they entered. She took one look at Katsuki’s grim expression and Izuku’s tear-streaked, pallid face and knew.

“Oh, my boy,” she sighed, her voice heavy with a sorrow that wasn’t surprise, but resignation. She had seen this battle fought too many times.

The medical examination was a quiet, clinical horror. Katsuki stood against the wall, his arms crossed, watching as she carefully cleaned and disinfected the wounds. Each swipe of the antiseptic wipe seemed to echo in the sterile room. Izuku didn’t make a sound, just stared at a fixed point on the opposite wall, his jaw clenched tight.

Next was Aizawa. Their homeroom teacher listened in grim silence as Katsuki did most of the talking, his voice flat and factual, laying out the discovered vape, the hidden weight loss, and now this. Aizawa’s dark eyes, perpetually tired, held a deep, weary pain as he looked at Izuku, who had shrunk into himself in the chair.

“The problem,” Aizawa said, his voice low, “is that you’re treating your body like it’s the enemy, Midoriya. A hero’s first and most important duty is to preserve their own well-being. You can’t save anyone if you’re determined to destroy yourself.”

The final, most dreaded call was to Inko Midoriya. Izuku broke down completely upon hearing his mother’s voice, the words tumbling out in a choked, guilty confession. Katsuki took the phone, his voice surprisingly steady as he explained the situation to a sobbing Inko, promising they would get him the help he needed.

The aftermath was a new, stricter regime. Izuku was placed on a temporary leave from heroics. Mandatory therapy sessions were increased from twice a week to daily. Meal times were no longer just monitored by Katsuki; they were now officially supervised by Lunch Rush, with a specific, high-calorie meal plan designed to healthily restore his weight. His room was periodically checked for contraband.

For the first week, Izuku was compliant but hollow. He went through the motions like an automaton, eating the prescribed meals, attending the therapy sessions, speaking only when spoken to. The vibrant, analytical light in his eyes had been extinguished, replaced by a dull sheen of shame.

Katsuki felt a helpless fury burning in his chest. He wasn’t angry at Izuku. He was angry at the illness, at the invisible monster that had its claws sunk deep into the person he loved. He missed the nerd’s muttering, his bright-eyed excitement, his stupid, unwavering smile.

The breakthrough came on a rainy Thursday. Katsuki had dragged a listless Izuku to the gym for some light, approved strength training. Izuku was going through the motions on a leg press, his expression blank.

“You’re not even trying, Deku,” Katsuki said, his voice sharper than he intended.

Izuku’s head snapped up, and for a fleeting second, a spark of the old fire flashed in his eyes. “What do you want from me, Kacchan?” he whispered, his voice raw. “You got what you wanted. I’m trapped. I’m being watched all the time. I can’t even… I can’t even breathe.”

“I want you to fight!” Katsuki yelled, his voice echoing in the nearly empty gym. He grabbed a nearby medicine ball and slammed it onto the floor. “Not against me! Not against the food! Fight *it*! The thing in your head that’s telling you all this shit! That’s the real villain, and you’re just letting it win!”

Izuku stared at him, his chest heaving. The spark flickered, then caught. Tears welled in his eyes again, but they weren’t tears of shame. They were tears of frustration, of a fighting spirit slowly rekindling.

“It’s not that easy,” he choked out.

“I never said it was easy!” Katsuki shot back, stepping closer. “I said it was a fight. And you don’t know how to lose, you nerd. So stop fucking losing this one.”

He saw the shift then. A slow, determined hardening in Izuku’s gaze. He nodded, once, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. Then he turned back to the leg press, set his jaw, and pushed with a guttural grunt, putting his entire body into the movement.

It wasn’t a cure. The road was still long and fraught with pitfalls. But as Katsuki watched Izuku push through the burn, his face set in a familiar mask of stubborn determination, he felt a flicker of hope. The battle was far from over, but for the first time since he’d smelled the blood in that dorm room, it felt like his hero was finally back in the fight.