The war ended when Izuku finally brought All For One and Shigaraki to their deaths.

He didn't remember most of it, just fragments. The feeling of One For All burning through his veins like liquid fire. The way his fists connected with flesh and bone, each strike fueled by a grief so profound it had transcended pain and become something primal. The screams of his enemies, cut short by the brutal efficiency of a hero who had lost everything. The wet, sickening sound of bodies hitting the ground, finally still. And then, nothing. Izuku had passed out from exhaustion on the battlefield, his body finally giving out after pushing far beyond its limits. When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed, his body wrapped in bandages, his heart wrapped in something far worse. The war was over. They had won. But the victory tasted like ash in his mouth.

Because Katsuki was gone. The funeral was already being prepared when Izuku was discharged. The hero commission had moved quickly, eager to honor the young man who had given his life to end the war. A hero's funeral. Full military honors. Speeches from the top pros. A ceremony that would be broadcast across Japan, commemorating the sacrifice of Ground Zero.

Izuku didn't care about any of that. He only cared about one thing: that he had to say goodbye. It was one of his worst nightmares growing up. The nightmare where one of them didn't make it. Where he'd be standing at a funeral, staring at a casket, knowing he'd never hear Katsuki's gruff voice again. He'd woken up so many times in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, only to find Katsuki sleeping beside him, safe and alive. He'd press his ear to Katsuki's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and whisper a silent thank you to whatever gods were listening.

But now that nightmare had become reality. And there were no gods to thank.

The day of the funeral dawned, rainy, presumably from the heat yesterday.

Izuku sat in the front row of the grand hall, his body numb, his mind a haze of grief. He was wearing a black tuxedo, meticulously pressed, his tie perfectly knotted. His mother had helped him put it on that morning, her hands trembling as she adjusted his collar. She'd tried to say something comforting, but the words had died in her throat. There was nothing she could say. She'd known how much he loved him, no how much he still loved him, There was nothing anyone could say. Now Izuku sat hunched forward, his face buried in his arms, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The hall was filled with mourners hundreds of people, maybe thousands. Heroes, civilians, government officials. All of them had come to pay their respects to Katsuki Bakugo, the young man who had become a symbol of sacrifice and hope.

But Izuku couldn't see any of them. All he could see was the casket at the front of the hall, draped in the Japanese flag. All he could feel was the crushing weight of a future without Katsuki in it. He was supposed to give a speech in a few minutes.

The thought made his stomach lurch violently. How could he possibly stand up there and talk about Katsuki when he could barely breathe? How could he find the words to honor the love of his life when all he wanted to do was scream and cry and tear the world apart? Kirishima sat on one side of him, his hand a steady, grounding presence on Izuku's shoulder. Mina sat on the other side, her fingers intertwined with his, her own face wet with tears. They didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

"You don't have to do this," Kirishima finally whispered, his voice rough. "Everyone would understand if you couldn't."

But Izuku shook his head, not lifting his face from his arms. "No," he choked out, his voice muffled. "I have to. I have to... he deserves..."

His voice broke, and he dissolved into sobs again. The tears came hot and fast, soaking into the fabric of his tuxedo. His entire body shook with the force of his grief, his lungs heaving as he tried to draw breath.

Mina squeezed his hand tighter. "Izuku, just breathe. Please. We're here. We've got you." But breathing felt impossible. Everything felt impossible. The world had ended with Katsuki's last breath, and Izuku was just a ghost, haunting a world that no longer made sense. He thought about the last time he'd seen Katsuki alive. It was the night before the final battle. They'd been in their dorms together, the one they'd shared for the past two years. Katsuki had been leaning against the kitchen counter, stealing bites of Izuku's dinner, that familiar smirk on his face. His eyes, the colour of carmine, had been soft and warm in the dim light.

"You're hopeless, Izuku," he'd said, his voice teasing. "Good thing you've got me."

Izuku had laughed then, a feeling of unadulterated peace washing over him. He'd leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Katsuki's cheek, reveling in the warmth of his skin.

"Yeah," he'd agreed. "Good thing I've got you."

The memory was so vivid, so achingly real, that Izuku could almost feel Katsuki's presence beside him. He could almost hear his voice, rough and fond, telling him to stop being such a damn crybaby. He could almost feel Katsuki's hand on his back, grounding him, steadying him. But when he looked up, the seat beside him was empty. The minutes crawled by like hours. One by one, people took the stage to speak about Katsuki. Kirishima went first, his voice breaking as he recounted stories of their time at U.A., the rivalries, the battles, the unbreakable bond they'd formed. He talked about how Katsuki had pushed him to be stronger, how his fierce determination had inspired everyone around him. 

Endeavor went next, his voice gruff and heavy with emotion. He spoke about Katsuki's growth, his unwavering commitment to becoming the number one hero, his refusal to compromise his ideals. He admitted that he'd learned as much from Katsuki as Katsuki had learned from him. Aizawa-sensei spoke briefly, his words clipped and measured, but everyone could see the faint tremor in his jaw, the way his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He talked about Katsuki's potential, his brilliance, the loss of a hero who would have changed the world. Izuku heard none of it. 

The words washed over him like static, meaningless and distant. His mind was trapped in a loop of memories, each one more painful than the last. He remembered Katsuki at four, tugging him toward the riverbank. He remembered Katsuki at sixteen, whispering an apology. He remembered Katsuki at eighteen, kissing him for the first time. He remembered Katsuki last night, stealing his dinner and calling him hopeless. And now it was his turn.

A gentle hand on his shoulder jolted him back to reality. He looked up to see Kirishima's tear-streaked face, his red eyes filled with concern.

"Izuku, it's your turn," Kirishima said softly. "Are you ready?"

Ready? How could anyone be ready for this?

Izuku's stomach clenched, and for a moment, he thought he might be sick. His vision swam, and his heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he couldn't hear anything else. He looked at the podium, at the hundreds of faces staring back at him, and felt the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. He couldn't do it. He couldn't stand up there and talk about Katsuki. The words would fail him. His voice would break. He would fall apart in front of everyone, and they would see just how broken he really was.

"Izuku," Mina said gently, squeezing his hand. "You don't have to. It's okay if you can't. No one will judge you."

But Izuku shook his head, his jaw set with a trembling resolve. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I have to. For Kacchan. He would... he would be so mad if I didn't..."

A wet, broken laugh escaped his lips. Even now, he could picture Katsuki's scowl, hear his gruff voice: "Tch. Quit being a coward, Deku. You think I'd let you embarrass me like that? Get up there and say something worth saying."

Slowly, painfully, Izuku rose to his feet. His legs felt like they were made of jelly, and he had to grip the back of the chair to steady himself. Kirishima and Mina hovered nearby, ready to catch him if he fell. The walk to the podium felt like an eternity. Every step was a battle, his body screaming at him to stop, to turn back, to curl into a ball and never get up again. But he kept going. For Katsuki.

He reached the podium and gripped the edges so tightly his knuckles turned white. He looked out at the sea of faces, all those eyes, all that sympathy, all that pity and felt his throat close up. His eyes scanned the crowd, the front row with his mother and Katsuki's family. He placed Katsuki's favourite flowers, daisies, which everyone had gotten wrong, onto the coffin, followed by the paper ring they'd made together when they were five. They were endgame, it was clear.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

He tried again, and this time, a sound escaped, a broken, strangled sob that echoed through the silent hall. His legs gave out, and he crumpled to the floor, his hands gripping the edge of the podium as the tears poured down his face.

"I, I can't—" he choked out, his voice ragged and raw. "I can't do this—" Kirishima was there in an instant, lifting him, holding him steady. Mina rushed over, her own face wet with tears. Even Aizawa approached, his hand resting on Izuku's back with a rare, gentle touch.

"It's okay," Kirishima murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "It's okay, Izuku. You don't have to say anything. Everyone understands."

But Izuku shook his head, fighting to regain control. "No. No, I have to. I have to say something. He deserves... he deserves to know..."

He pulled away from Kirishima and stood on his own, his legs trembling. He took a shaky breath and faced the crowd, his vision blurred by tears.

"Kacchan," he began, his voice cracking. "Katsuki. I've known you since we were four years old. You were always so bright, so fierce, so... you. You burned so brightly that sometimes it was hard to look at you. And I was just this quirkless kid who followed you around like a lost puppy. But you never asked me to stop. Even when you were cruel, even when you pushed me away, you never made me leave."

He paused, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

"I used to think that the worst thing in the world was losing you. And then I did. I lost you, and the world didn't end. The sun still rose the next morning. People still went about their lives, laughing and talking and existing like nothing had changed. And I hated them for it. I hated the world for going on when my world had stopped."

His voice broke, and he took a moment to compose himself.

"But I also remember what you told me. You told me you loved me. You told me I was the best thing that ever happened to you. And I want you to know, Kacchan, wherever you are, you were the best thing that ever happened to me too. You saved me in ways you never understood. You made me braver, stronger, better. You made me believe that even someone like me could be a hero."

He looked at the casket, his vision blurring with tears.

"And you were the best hero of us all. Not because of your quirk, or your power, or your strength. But because you never gave up. Because you fought for everyone, even when it was hard. Because you loved me, and you weren't afraid to show it in the end."

Izuku's shoulders shook as the sobs overtook him again.

"I love you, Kacchan. I love you so much. And I don't know how to live in a world without you. But I'm going to try. For you. Because that's what you'd want. You'd yell at me and call me a damn nerd if I gave up now."

A wet, broken laugh escaped his lips.

"So I'll keep going. I'll be the hero you always believed I could be. And every single day, I'll carry you with me. In my heart. In my soul. Everywhere I go, you'll be there. Because you're a part of me, Kacchan. You always were. You always will be."

He stepped back from the podium, his legs barely able to support him. Kirishima and Mina rushed forward to catch him, and he collapsed into their arms, sobbing openly. The crowd rose to their feet, a sea of black suits and tear-streaked faces. Applause rippled through the hall, but Izuku didn't hear it. He only heard the echo of Katsuki's voice in his head, rough and fond and so achingly alive.

"Tch. You're so damn dramatic, Izuku. Good thing I love you."

Izuku closed his eyes and let the tears fall.

Forever, Kacchan. I'll love you forever.