help me / bakudeku omegaverse /

Part 29

By the time the sun cleared the eastern towers, Izuku was already awake.

Not because of nerves. Not because of fear.

But because there was work to do.

Katsuki found him sitting upright against the headboard, papers spread neatly across the bed—maps, old trade routes, copied council records, and a single worn page written in a hand far younger than his own. Katsuki recognized it instantly: Izuku's family seal, pressed faintly into the corner. Midori.

"You're gonna strain your eyes before breakfast," Katsuki said, voice rough but fond as he nudged the door shut with his foot.

Izuku looked up, green eyes sharp despite the early hour. "I was waiting for you. I had a thought."

That alone told Katsuki everything. When Izuku said a thought, it usually meant a plan.

Katsuki crossed the room without ceremony, already skimming the documents with a practiced eye. He wasn't a figurehead, no matter what the council liked to pretend. Strategy and logistics came as naturally to him as breathing.

"You're not surprised," Katsuki said slowly, tapping a map where several routes had been violently scratched out. "About Midori."

Izuku shook his head. "No. I suggested reclaiming it first. I just didn't realize how far it had fallen."

His voice didn't waver—but Katsuki felt the tension under it. Controlled. Focused. Izuku wasn't reliving trauma. He was assessing damage.

"That collapse started after you were cast out," Katsuki said. "Council confirmed it. Power vacuum. Smugglers. Bandit chiefs pretending to be leaders."

Izuku nodded once. "I was four. Maybe five. I couldn't have stopped it."
A beat.
"But I can fix it now."

Katsuki watched him carefully here. This wasn't self-blame. It was resolve.

He reached out, thumb brushing Izuku's knuckles where they'd curled too tightly around the parchment. "And you won't do it alone."

Izuku's shoulders eased—just a fraction.

•••

The training grounds were quiet that morning, deliberately cleared.

Katsuki stood beside Izuku, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "Again. Same output."

Izuku inhaled, steady. No incantation. No hesitation.

The earth responded immediately—clean, controlled pillars rising from the ground and settling back without a tremor. No backlash. No excess.

"Perfect," Katsuki said. "You're not overpowering it. You're commanding it."

Izuku smiled faintly. "It feels... familiar. Like it always belonged to me."

"That's because it does."

They practiced combinations after that—earth reinforced with water, light layered through stone, healing magic woven so finely it left the grass greener than before. The watching guards didn't whisper anymore. They simply watched. Respectfully.

Later, over a shared lunch hastily eaten between strategy notes, Izuku leaned closer. "If we approach Midori openly, they'll resist. Whoever's in charge now benefits from the chaos."

Katsuki smirked. "Good. Then we don't approach openly."

Izuku blinked. "...Oh."

Katsuki grinned wider. "You're thinking like a chief. I'm thinking like a king."

They bent over the map together, shoulders touching, voices low as they planned routes, alliances, pressure points.

•••

That night, exhaustion hit Izuku all at once.

He barely made it to Katsuki's bed before sagging into him, fingers fisting weakly in the fabric of Katsuki's shirt as if letting go might undo the entire day. Katsuki adjusted without a word, sitting back against the headboard and drawing Izuku fully into his space, one arm firm around his waist, the other slow and steady in his hair.

"You pushed yourself," Katsuki murmured, not a reprimand—just an observation.

Izuku nodded against his chest. "Didn't want to stop."

"I know." Katsuki tilted his head down, forehead resting against Izuku's. "But you don't have to prove anything to me."

Izuku looked up then, eyes heavy-lidded but clear. "I know," he said softly. And this time, he meant it.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Katsuki's thumb traced idle circles at Izuku's hip, grounding, familiar. Izuku breathed him in—fire and smoke and something unmistakably home.

"Goodnight," Katsuki said quietly.

Izuku shifted just enough to look at him properly, then leaned in.

The kiss was unhurried. Warm. Certain.

Not desperate, not fleeting—but full, lingering, and intentional. Katsuki responded instantly, hand tightening at Izuku's waist as if to anchor the moment into memory. When they parted, Katsuki rested his forehead against Izuku's again, breath slow, steady.

"Sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, we plan more."

Izuku smiled—small, content—and curled closer. "With you."

"Always."

Outside, the castle settled into an unfamiliar calm. Inside, plans were taking shape—not born of destiny alone, but of choice.

And Midori, long abandoned, waited.

The balance had been broken once.

This time, it would be restored—not by fate's cruelty, but by the hands of the one it tried to erase.