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Part 2 of (bakutodo fics)
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Published:
2021-02-17
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1,809
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1/1
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that faint voice of yours that grazed me

Summary:

Sometimes, Shouto can’t breathe.

The first time it happens in front of someone else, it’s Bakugou Katsuki.

Of course it is.

Or: Shouto has a panic attack, and Bakugou proves himself to be surprisingly adept assistance.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Sometimes, Shouto can’t breathe. It doesn’t always take big things. Sometimes, a single word brings something strange and shapeless to the forefront of his mind, too much like a memory to ignore, and he feels like he’s drowning on air, wants to claw at his chest just to escape, even though he knows he can’t run from his own mind.

The first time it happens in front of someone else, it’s Bakugou Katsuki.

Of course it is.

Shouto doesn’t know what triggers it, but one second he’s fine, and the next the room is getting smaller, darker, and he’s twelve and being pushed to the floor again. His breathing gets shallow and rapid. He falls to his knees.

Bakugou rushes to his side, and Shouto is still coherent enough to make out the yelling. “What the hell, half and half?” he says, crouching down beside him. They’re alone. They’d both been walking back from some extra practice, the only two pathological enough to push it that far.

Still, it’s never the muscle strain that gets you. In front of a punching bag, sparring with an opponent—those things make the world come into focus, not fall apart. Right now, it’s falling apart.

Shouto wants to scream for help. “Bakugou,” he says, gripping at his forearms, his shoulders, any part he can reach. “Bakugou—I can’t—,”

“Breathe,” Bakugou says. He sounds calm, even. “Just breathe. It’s going to be okay.”

“It isn’t,” Shouto strains to say. It won’t be, it can’t be, it hasn’t been since he was five and it was decreed he was not meant to be a person. And here’s the thing. He still isn’t. A weapon shaped like a human, maybe. But not a person.

“Hurts,” he says. There’s tears welling in his eyes, cold and bitter. “Bakugou, it hurts.” Everything is growing blurry.

“Like this,” Bakugou says, taking a slow, even breath. “Come on, Todo—Shouto, you can do it.”

Shouto doesn’t trust himself to. He never has. He usually rides out his attacks alone, lets them grow and grow until his body can’t handle it, and it gives up. It’s how he’s been taught to do things, after all. Tough it out.

But—

Bakugou sounds like he trusts him, and—well. It couldn’t hurt to try. He already feels horrible. Slowly, he tries to take a proper breath.

His throat stings and his eyes ache and his head hurts, but he manages it.

“That’s it,” Bakugou says. “That’s great, Shouto.”

There’s a tentative hand rubbing small circles into his back. The touch is—comforting. It doesn’t feel like more weight, like he’s being dragged to the end of the ocean or something equally horrible.

Shouto takes another slow breath, then another, and another and—Bakugou’s hand never leaves. It’s strange, but it almost makes it easier to sit halfway up and try to brush the dried tears off his cheeks. “Thank you,” Shouto says. It comes out rough and scratchy. He wishes he had a glass of water.

“Don’t mention it,” Bakugou says, standing up. For a second, Shouto thinks he’s leaving, and there’s unwelcome disappointment at that, a childish urge to grab onto him, to yell no, don’t leave me.

As soon as Bakugou retreats, he’s back, tall glass in hand. “Figured you could use this,” he says, helping Shouto sit upright enough so he doesn’t choke when he drinks.

It’s—well, never once in his life did Shouto think he was going to be sitting on their living room floor, with Bakugou Katsuki of all people helping him drink water, bringing the glass up to his mouth with a sort of care he would have previously assumed him wholly incapable of. Still, he takes a few grateful gulps, uncaring when water drips down his chin, and finally wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to stand on shaky legs.

Immediately, Bakugou’s at his side. “Lean on me,” he says, extending an arm out.

Shouto eyes him curiously.

“Come the fuck on,” he urges. “We can tell everyone you sprained something practicing if they see. Not that anyone’s suicidal enough to be up this late on a school night.”

Shouto wants to smile, oddly enough. “Alright,” he says, then slings an arm over his shoulder. He’s still a little dizzy, but this feels solid. Easy. Everything narrows back down to his own body.

Outside, rain falls. The sound drowns out Shouto’s uneven breaths. He’s no longer hyperventilating, but his lungs feel strained, pushed too far. That's the worst part. Realizing, after it all calms down. The shame. The feeling that's he's not, and will never be anything close to enough. 

“You really are an idiot,” Bakugou pipes up at his side, helping him go up the stairs.

“Thanks,” Shouto says.

“No,” Bakugou says. “I mean it. You’re the stupidest boy I’ve ever met.”

“Great thing to say to someone who just finished having a panic attack on the floor,” Shouto says, but—he’s actually grateful for the words. It makes things seem almost normal. Almost okay again.

“That’s exactly why you’re an idiot,” Bakugou says. “Have you even told anyone? Does Aizawa know?”

Shouto shakes his head. “You’re the first to find out,” he says.

Bakugou goes very quiet for a few steps. Then— “Idiot,” he says. “Complete idiot.”

Shouto gives a strained laugh. “You know just what to say."

Bakugou makes a disgruntled noise, but he doesn’t let go. “Come on,” he says, coming to a halt.

“This isn’t my floor,” Shouto says.

“I know. It’s mine.”

“What am I supposed—?”

“You’re staying with me tonight.”

For reasons unknown even to him, Shouto feels his cheeks heat up. “But,” he says, protest at the tip of his tongue.

“Do you think I’m leaving you all alone after that?” Bakugou says. “I know you’re stubborn enough that you won’t ask for help if you need it. So I’m keeping an eye on you tonight.”

“You don’t have a spare futon,” Shouto says.

“I’ll take the damn chair,” Bakugou says. “Get in already.” He pushes the door open, and Shouto is left with no other choice but to follow.

He sits carefully on the edge of the perfectly made bed, if only because it’s the closest thing and he doesn’t exactly trust himself to stand on his own yet, and opens his mouth to speak.

“I swear, if you’re about to say more stupid shit—”

“I wasn’t,” Shouto says. “I just—I was thinking it’s—really rude to usurp your bed. Especially over a minor inconvenience.”

“A minor inconvenience?” Bakugou repeats, incredulous. “A minor fucking inconvenience? Momo and Deku would both fucking faint on the spot if they say you like that, useless idiots. It’s not a minor inconvenience if the people who care about you are worried. If you’re—like that.”

“Like what?” Shouto asks, head tilted to the side. If anything, it’s normal. He’s always—

“Like that,” Bakugou repeats. “Fucking got me worried too.”

“Does—,” Shouto pauses, gnaws on his lower lip. Maybe he’s still a little light-headed. “Does that mean you care about me too?” he asks.

“What?”

“You said it’s not a minor inconvenience if people who care about me worry. Do you care?”

Bakugou sighs. It’s almost angry. “Of course I fucking care about you,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. 

Oh. That's—well. It's both too quiet and too hot, all of a sudden, but it doesn't feel any harder to breathe. Not at all. “That’s—very kind of you, Ba—Katsuki,” Shouto says.

“Shut up,” Bakugou says. He’s grown a little red.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut up. I’m not kind. I just—that was fucking scary. You’re the strongest person I know, and you were—I didn’t like it.”

“I don’t either, if that helps,” Shouto says.

“Does it happen a lot?”

“Not since we moved into the dorms,” Shouto says. He’s not good at reassurance, but Bakugou’s exhale sounds relieved. “You’re—good at that.”

“Good at what?” Bakugou asks.

“Handling, um—handling panic attacks,” Shouto says.

“I used to get them,” Bakugou says. “When I was younger. My mom was a little horrible at dealing with it.”

Shouto’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I’m—I’m sorry.” he says.

“It’s fine. I haven’t had one in years, and I don’t think—never as bad as yours. I just tried to help.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence, of just them looking at each other. Suddenly, Shouto wants to reach forward, touch.

“You should sleep,” Bakugou says.

“It’s your bed,” Shouto insists.

“And you need it more,” Bakugou says. “Get your ass in there before I do it myself.”

Shouto has no doubt he would follow through, too, and the prospect is—a lot. “Alright,” he says. A few seconds later, he’s tugged the blanket over himself, can’t help but notice it smells good, like something soft and comforting. His exhaustion catches up to him, and he falls asleep to the gentle sound of rain hitting the windows. 

…

A few hours later, he’s awake again. The rain has stopped. Bakugou is slouched in his chair. Slowly, Shouto crawls out of bed. There’s a spare blanket at the foot, and Shouto just wants to drape it over him, to make sure he doesn’t get cold, but a hand is gripping his wrist before Shouto even manages to get properly close.

“Holy hell,” Bakugou says, voice rough from sleep. “You scared me.”

“I just thought you might get cold. I never sleep through a full night after—so I thought…”

His face, once again, feels warm. Bakugou is still touching his wrist. “Can I help?” he says.

“Well—Fuyumi usually sleeps with me if I—but you wouldn’t—,”

“Move over.”

“What?”

“Move your pillow over. I have a spare in the closet.”

“But you—I mean, you can’t—,”

“You deserve a good night’s sleep. I said I’d help.”

Bakugou’s bed is small. It wasn’t made for two people, and it shows. They shuffle around each other awkwardly, shins brushing, until finally, with a resigned sigh, Bakugou wraps an arm around his waist.

“Katsuki,” Shouto says.

“It’s comfortable,” Bakugou says, the only explanation.

It is. Makes him feel warm and cared for, in a way he doesn’t dare ask for out loud, but his face is also aflame and it’s entirely unrelated to his quirk. His stomach feels fluttery. “But—,” Shouto says.

“Go to sleep, half and half,” Katsuki says, arm pulling him even closer and—Shouto can feel the words, feel his breath at the back of his neck. His heart is beating too fast, but it’s so different from the all-consuming ache of before. He doesn’t exactly mind it.

Shouto takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says.

They can talk about it in the morning. For now, he’s warm and safe, and it’s enough.

Notes:

ppl were really nice abt this fic the first time around, i can only hope it's still enjoyable to read ^^ (and a little neater, since i tried to clean up typos & awkward phrasing)

 

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