Amethyst. (Katsuki Bakugo x Reader)

PART 31 - Firebird

The train ride is quiet.

Shoto and I sit across from each other. The rhythmic clatter of the rails fills the space between us, but neither of us speaks. He stares out the window, one hand resting lightly in his lap, his posture calm. Collected.

I wish I felt the same.

My fingers won't stop moving. I take my gloves off, fold them, unfold them, smooth them out again. It doesn't help. My chest is too tight. My thoughts too loud.

It's been years.

By the time we reach the hospital, my hands are ice-cold. Not from my Quirk—just nerves. The air inside is sterile, too white, too clean. My boots are quiet on the polished floors, but every step feels like it echoes down the halls.

Shoto leads the way. He knows exactly where to go. Of course he does.

I trail behind him by a few steps, unsure if I'm ready to follow. At the end of the corridor, he stops in front of a door and turns to me.

"You don't have to say anything," he says gently. "Just being here is enough."

I nod, barely.

And then we go in.

__________

She's sitting up in bed when we enter.

Smaller than I remember. Thinner, too.

Her white hair falls softly around her shoulders—longer than it used to be, dull and faded like winter snow left out in the sun. Her skin looks delicate, almost translucent under the pale lighting, like something that could shatter if touched too harshly.

But her eyes...

Her eyes are still the same.

Soft. Distant. A little too quiet.
They find mine—and don't move.

She doesn't smile. Doesn't cry.
Just stares, like she's not sure whether I'm real... or just a memory she's seen one too many times in her mind.

I freeze just inside the room. Shoto moves forward and pulls a chair closer to her bedside. He sits. Calm. Steady.

I stay standing.

"Hello, Mother," he says, his voice low.

Her gaze flicks to him, then back to me.

"...Y/N," she breathes. "You came."

Her tone is low, and I can't help but notice the tremor in her hands as they rest on the blanket. I swallow, caught off guard by the quiet vulnerability in her gaze. I want to ask how long it's been since she remembered me—but the question dies on my lips.

Instead, I force a nod. I want to believe she's still the same caring mother I once knew, yet everything feels so distant now.

She studies me, her eyes softening as if searching for something lost in the years. A pause stretches between us, heavy with unspoken memories.

Her hands rest in her lap, fingers fidgeting, twisting at the fabric of her blanket. She doesn't speak again right away. Neither do I. The silence stretches.

I shift slightly, still standing. The air in the room feels too still. Too clean. I can hear the hum of the fluorescent light above us, the quiet tick of the wall clock, the way my gloves creak softly in my hands as I clench them tighter.

She finally looks down. At my gloves.

"You still wear them," she says softly.

It's not judgmental. Just... observant.