Chapter Text
—
Katsuki’s head fucking hurts.
And not in the usual-training-injury kind of way. Katsuki knows soreness. He knows what it feels like to pull a muscle, to snap a bone clean, to sit for weeks just waiting for his tendons to knit back together. It was a familiar kind of frustration, a familiar sort of ache.
But this? This was just annoying.
Mostly because the damn thing was a) not his fault and b) moving into the healing stage where the bone was just pulsing all the time. Persistent and throbbing underneath his skin like a particularly deep splinter, or maybe the remnants of a bee sting.
Was it obvious, sharp pain? No. But it was pain all the same. That was enough to ruin his mood.
And his mood was already pretty shit, he won't lie. Somewhere in between vomiting out of stress and punching a wall.
It absolutely did not help that he forgot his blood pressure medication today, too thrown off by the move to remember his usual morning routine.
And, when he’d finally gotten to Aizawa’s apartment, slightly dizzy and nauseous, his sensei had explained that their medicine cabinets were locked. Some kind of weird foster house rule bullshit. So Katsuki had resigned himself to secretly keeping his pills on hand in his backpack, just so that he had a little bit more control and wouldn’t have to ask for them.
But having them in his backpack was irritating because he always took his pills in the morning with a glass of water, and then brushed his teeth in the bathroom and got dressed. But he now he was probably going to forget and his schedule would be fucked, and who knows what rules Shinsou has about all the bathroom shit, much less the morning schedule of the other people in the house and -
Katsuki groans, pushing his face further into the folds of Eijirou’s blanket. It has a familiar, spicy scent, mixed between the two of them and unique in its own way - the familiarity helps distract him from the pain, but he can still kind of feel the barbs of anxiety gnawing at his stomach lining.
He’s gotta be over-tired and overthinking this shit. There’s no way this situation actually warrants this kind of stress, right?
Maybe a little. Moving was kind of stressful.
But lying in bed for hours, desperately waiting for the sweet release of unconsciousness as your brain swirls around, over and over, looped like a hamster stuck in some kind of nightmare wheel of eternity?
Seems a little excessive, in Katsuki’s opinion.
Fuck that hamster, actually. Punk ass bitch, preventing him from sleeping when he needs it so badly.
Was it too much to ask to just rest?
Eijirou had theorized - because he was usually the poor sap who stayed awake next to Katsuki while he practically vibrated out of his skull - that it was some sort of evolutionary mechanism. Maybe his body was refusing to quiet down until it knew for sure that he was safe. Safe enough to rest.
Above the bed, the room’s wooden fan ticks in a slow, agonizing loop. Shwish, shwish, shwish-
He inhales, holding it for a few seconds.
Apparently, his stupid fucking body thinks he’s unsafe here.
Logically, he knows that there’s nothing in Aizawa’s home that could hurt him. He respects - and trusts - Aizawa a great deal, and knows that the other occupants of the house are of no threat to him. His mother doesn’t have this address. Aizawa had already told the school. They were figuring out the custody situation and he had all his stuff.
But the bed underneath him is lumpy in all the wrong places, Katsuki’s head is pounding, his joints fucking ache like they always do after his meltdowns, the sounds of the apartment aren’t quite right, and…and he misses…
He sighs, fingers tightening in the warm fabric next to his face.
Katsuki’s not sure what he misses. But there’s something painful in his chest that won’t go away, just like the pounding in his skull, and it’s really starting to get to him.
Not to mention that damn thought hamster, still going at it like it wants to breach the atmosphere by morning and fucking explode on exit.
It’s one o’clock. He’s been lying here in the dark for two fucking hours, exceedingly aware of his fatigue but still held captive by his own spinning thoughts. Shinsou had mostly left him alone thus far - he was in the shower, at the moment - but Katsuki knew that eventually, he'd come back in here and wonder why the fuck Katsuki was still lying awake like a little anxious bitch.
After listening to the slow whooshing of the fan go through a few more cycles, Katsuki decides it's been long enough.
Fuck this.
Snagging his phone off its charger near the bed and throwing the comforter back, he settles his feet on the carpet and heaves himself up. It takes him two tries to get out of the bedroom, because the doorframe is in a weird place and the vertigo is fucking with him, but he makes it eventually.
As he works his way down the hallway, his stomach rolls, and he’s forced to grit his teeth in order to avoid throwing up all over Aizawa’s wallpaper. Which is a nice orange sherbert color, by the way.
He’s guessing the nausea was just a side effect of not taking his pills, but it could also be the concussion. Fracture. Thing. Whatever.
Or it’s anxiety. But he likes to consider himself the kind of person that wouldn’t get woozy from something as pathetic as little-bitch-disease, so. He’s betting on the concussion being the main culprit.
It doesn’t matter, either way. He just needs to…eat something. And go back to bed. And rest, goddammit.
When he makes it to the kitchen, he grabs the leftover takeout container from the fridge - he snorts when he realizes the lid has a little explosion sharpied next to his name - and shoves it into the microwave, leaning against the counter to wait.
The living room is quiet and still, only broken by the slight hum of the microwave behind him. With a glance at his sensei's closed door and a brief pause to make sure he could still hear the shower running, Katsuki decides to poke around the new place and get his bearings.
The kitchen is pretty standard, with an electric stove and a french door refrigerator. There's a decent amount of fresh vegetables in the veggie drawer - apparently Hizashi was the main cook in this family and wasn't half bad, according to Aizawa - and the freezer has a whole shelf dedicated to jelly pouches, of all things. Their knives aren't amazing quality, but they're sharp, and their pans didn't have that tarnished bottom that so many people ignored (and Katsuki hated).
Overall, it’s a tad small, but Katsuki had always had a bit of a fondness for smaller kitchens. Not tiny, obviously, because those had no counter space and made him more likely to commit murder should another occupant block his access to the stove.
But cozy. Cozy is nice.
To the left of the kitchen was a short hallway with a storage closet and one-bed-bath combo, which Aizawa had explained earlier as the room that him and Present Mic shared. Katsuki stares at the closed door and frowns, trying to avoid the image of them sleeping next to each other. Just- no.
The other side of the apartment - from where he had wandered out - had a set of three doors in a long carpeted hallway. One of the doors was covered in little crayon flowers and mushrooms at about knee height. The other two were the bathroom and his shared bedroom.
Yeah, that’s right.
Shared bedroom.
What a crazy thing, that. Katsuki had grown up as an only child, with the added introversion of a crotchety old man- he needed his fucking space. He tolerated living with Eijirou because - well, he’s Eijirou, he was just different, even if he got on Katsuki’s nerves every once in a while - but this was new and strange.
Shinsou seems alright. If he’s being honest, Katsuki had never paid much attention to him, too busy with his own shit to care about someone not even in their class, much less the top ten. The guy’s quirk had been intriguing at first - what kind of hero student has a quirk like Brainwashing? - but then he’d lost to Midoriya in their festival fight and he’d lost interest.
When Shinsou had eventually joined their class, Denki (being a nosy little fucker like always) had taken a liking to him. And because Katsuki was subject to his friend’s ramblings about absolutely everything, he’d honestly heard more about the purple-haired bastard than he would have liked.
Apparently the dude writes web comics. Who knew.
Katsuki respected the guy’s work ethic, though, because jumping between the two classes wouldn’t have been easy. His quirk was useful as fuck in espionage, and while that wasn’t Katsuki’s area of expertise, he could respect the potential there.
Respecting a guy’s work ethic and recognizing him as a friend’s friend was totally different than living with him, though. Katsuki’s not really sure where - or what - they are, now.
Especially after that conversation in the car that morning.
It’s - uncomfortable, to imagine what Aizawa had described to him during that conversation. Abuse. Neglect. The horrors of the foster care system.
It made sense, after seeing the tense, defensive nature of Shinsou's personality, but it’s just…
Weird. And painful, somehow.
Shinsou was now one of the very few people aware of a secret that Katsuki worked pretty damn hard to keep quiet. Had lived that same secret, if what Aizawa had said was true. And now they were roommates.
He doesn’t even know Shinsou’s favorite color. But he knows his trauma, and Shinsou knows his.
How do you talk to a guy when you can’t stop staring at the scars on his face, knowing they’re from abuse? How do you connect with someone, knowing that they’ve seen something so - so raw and vulnerable in you, but don’t even know your sense of humor?
Katsuki rolls one of his shoulders to dismiss the thought, turning quickly to open the door of the microwave as it whines at him from the counter. His skull pounds lethargically with the motion and he swears under his breath.
He’s not really sure he wants to entertain any of the thoughts emerging from his brain right now. Especially considering the time. No good thoughts were made past midnight. That was just an undeniable fact.
Grabbing some chopsticks and his food, Katsuki pads into the living room and selects one of the ancient-looking navy couches to settle into. The cushion is plush and feels amazing against his sore joints, and he sighs through his nose as he digs into his takeout.
Time for dinner at - he shoots a look at the clock over the stove - 1:27 in the morning. Hah.
And people said he slept like an old man.
Kaminari is shaking in his fucking slippers, somewhere.
When he opens the container he’s greeted by the warm, rich scent of pork cutlet. The crispy coating would have been better right out of the pan, but the tonkatsu sauce is tangy and not too sweet, and the shredded cabbage is fresh. After a few bites, he’s relieved to note that his stomach was finally starting to settle.
There’s a beautiful mahogany tea table in front of him, covered in what looks like progress reports and paperwork - judging by the familiar pressed scrawl, they’re Aizawa’s. Katsuki hesitates for a moment before gently resting his socked feet on the edge of the table.
As he chews, he eyes the bookshelf stretching from floor to ceiling in the corner of the living room, filled to the brim with books and knick-knacks of all kinds: novels, pieces of fabric, textbooks, folders, and what looks like old music records from the 20th century.
A stuffed cockatiel plush stares at him with wide eyes from the second shelf, and Katsuki stares back, feeling a bit out of place.
After a moment, he turns back to his dinner, swallowing.
It's not that he doesn't feel welcome. That's not the problem, really. Everyone was…fine. Friendly, even, despite the fact they were allowing someone who was essentially a complete stranger to sleep in their house.
No, not just sleep, but live. Stay.
Katsuki's jaw works, staring at the messy threads of the carpet in front of him. He remembers what Aizawa had said back at the hospital, about being willing to fight for his custody and protect him from his mother - hell, Aizawa had even grabbed his mom’s hand before she slapped him in the parking lot. So Aizawa wasn’t just talking out of his ass, he really meant it.
But, if that were true, and this was really happening…when would it actually start to feel…real?
Katsuki is in Aizawa’s apartment. His home.
He’s got his shoes in the entryway and his sweatshirts in the closet. His new shampoo bottles are stacked up in the shower, next to Shinsou’s, and his toothbrush sits next to a tiny pink cup with a little girl’s name on it.
They bought him takeout, accepted his gruff attitude with little fuss, and even let him go to bed early when he needed rest. He was sure there were chores to be done, or things to be arranged, or even rules to be set but they hadn’t outlined any huge expectations about - anything, really.
So when would it finally sink in that he was safe? That he deserves this?
Katsuki isn’t stuck in a big empty house anymore, with the suffocating weight of his mother’s presence bearing down on him every second. He doesn’t have to worry about being yanked out of bed into a fight in the middle of the night, or defending himself from biting words thrown over the dinner table. He’s free.
But the ache in his chest still hasn’t gone away.
And, as he pushes some cabbage around on his plate with his chopsticks, he wonders briefly if it ever will.
“Are you cold?”
Katsuki twitches harshly at the quiet words, barely remembering to save his styrofoam takeout container from a messy death on the carpet. When he looks to his right, he realizes that the little horned girl - what was her name again, Aria? Eri? - is standing near the edge of the couch, one tiny hand fiddling with the yellow corner of her pajama top.
“What?” He replies, eloquent as ever. His thoughts stumble to a sudden halt, the hamster in his brain practically flattening itself against the side of its cage.
Eri repeats herself, unfazed. “Are you cold? Mr. Aizawa says that we can change the therm - the therma-”
“The thermostat?”
She nods, twisting her bare feet a little on the carpet. “Yeah! ‘Toshi also says winter is too cold to sleep. So we can move the button, if you want.”
Katsuki blinks at her, trying to remember to release the stiffness in his shoulders. “No, I’m not cold,” He replies somewhat awkwardly. He clears his throat.“I was just - eating dinner, I guess.”
With slow, deliberately casual movements Katsuki deposits his takeout container on the floor next to the couch. One of the chopsticks rolls off the styrofoam, and he forces himself to breathe evenly as he fixes it.
Eri doesn’t say anything as he settles back into the couch. Stiffly, like he’s facing a wild animal.
Considering how much he actually knows about dealing with kids, he might as well be. He’d rather deal with a fucking deer than a seven-year old, quite frankly. If you scream at those, they run. (And you don’t get in trouble for it).
But he's technically invading her house. So. He can't exactly ask her to go away.
Eri watches him, cherried eyes curious. After a moment, she moves to sit on the other cushion, curling her legs underneath her and hugging a pillow. Katsuki is momentarily distracted by the sight of her little toes, absolutely tiny and perfectly round. Jesus. Was I ever that small…?
He clears his throat, not quite sure what the expectations were for this sort of situation. He doesn’t look at her, electing to look just beyond her shoulder instead.
“What are you doin’ awake, huh?”
Eri shrugs, her shoulders bouncing cutely. With the movement, the little shapes on her pajama jump. He realizes somewhat belatedly that the shapes are actually little dinosaurs. They have party hats.
“I heard you. And, um…” Here, she fidgets, hands moving unconsciously to rest on her arms.
He raises an eyebrow, prompting her to keep speaking.
“Does it hurt?” She blurts, looking at his bruise. When his eyes meet hers, she squeaks a little bit at his expression. “I’m sorry, I -”
“You’re fine.” Katsuki interrupts, voice a bit too loud. She curls her nails against the skin of her arms, looking between his eyes.
It makes his skin crawl, too exposed, so he looks away from her to the little takeout box sitting on the floor next to the couch. He moves to trace the sharpied explosion on the top with a single finger, aware of the little red eyes boring into the blue-black mark left on his temple.
“It’s just a tiny fuckin’ bruise, no big deal,” He mutters, before raising his voice to declare, “It would take a lot more than that to kick my ass.”
There’s a silent pause, and Katsuki freezes, eyes widening.
Fucking idiot, go ahead and swear in front of a traumatized seven year old girl why don’t you, goddamn -
To his shock, Eri giggles.
She doesn’t cower, she doesn’t lean away from him or anything - she just lets out that tiny little noise, and Katsuki finds the tension in his spine ease up just a tiny bit.
“Kacchan’s strong,” Eri says with a shy smile, hugging the pillow tighter in her lap. She’s not afraid, just - is that awe in her voice?
But then her words register, and his face twists up into a disbelieving sneer as he finally looks at her properly. “Kacchan?” She giggles again, likely amused by his expression. He feels a little less amused, that familiar name twisting knots in his chest.
“Deku calls you Kacchan,” She explains, eyes twinkling. She rocks from side to side a little. “Mr. Aizawa calls you Bakugou, but I like Kacchan better.”
Katsuki lets out a hmmph, crossing his arms. “Well, I sure as hell don’t. Deku is the only one who calls me that, and he’s-”
Here, he pauses, noticing the way she’s looking up at him, sweet and relaxed. He knows that she adores Midoriya, and is so attached to him that in the months after the raid Aizawa had brought her to school literally just to visit him.
She’d cried hysterically the first day when Midoriya had left for a different class. Aizawa had needed to use his quirk, just to keep her from time-shifting everything in the near vicinity.
The HSPC had initially tried to keep the details of the raid away from the public, stating that the villains involved were extremely dangerous and the assets - likely Eri, Katsuki thinks with some disgust - were just too valuable to be well known. Everything he knows about the raid had been from Eijirou, and the other bits from school gossip and eavesdropping.
It’s enough, he thinks, to know that this little girl had gone through unspeakable things, and she had still come out of it kind. Despite the horrific injuries she had probably seen come and go on her own body, despite all that cruelty she had been subject to...she still asked about his puny little bruise.
Longstanding rivalry with Midoriya or not, she doesn’t deserve to hear about it. She was too good for their nonsense.
So he looks away from her, muttering, “Whatever. Point is, you shouldn’t call me that.”
Eri fidgets a little bit more, watching him curiously. Her fingernails rest over her arms, tracing something only she can see, and Katsuki’s stomach turns unpleasantly. The scars along his wrists and on his neck tingle, and he resists the urge to scratch at them.
“You should go back to bed,” He says after an awkward moment, getting up somewhat stiffly and straightening out his t-shirt. “I don’t want Aizawa to be mad at me for keeping you up so late.”
She hums, looking up at him. “Mr. Aizawa doesn’t really get mad. He can be grumpy, but he doesn’t get mad at us.”
Katsuki’s lip twitches. “Yeah?”
Eri nods very seriously. “Yeah. ‘specially when he’s sleepy.”
Then, she hesitates, and eyes him a little underneath her bangs. Katsuki shifts under her stare as she adds, “You don’t need to worry about it, I promise. I did for a while when I got here too, but he’s nice.”
Her words settle heavily into the air, weighted and unbearable, and he grunts and looks away, not sure how to respond to that.
When he rounds the edge of the couch to herd her towards her bedroom, he’s surprised when Eri jumps off the cushion and holds out one of her hands expectantly. Katsuki stares at it, not sure what she’s asking for.
She hesitates before biting her lip. “Can I hold your hand?” Eri asks, slow and deliberate. It’s oddly reminiscent of the way he’d acted at the beginning of their conversation, and he finds himself huffing slightly.
Who was the one being comforted and coddled now, huh?
“‘S fine. Take my wrist though,” he replies, holding it out to her. His fingers twitch slightly. “My palms are not…safe.”
There’s a hum, and tiny fingers wrap around his wrist, slightly sticky and surprisingly strong. She swings his wrist gently, tugging him towards the hallway.
“It’s time to sleep, Kacchan.” Eri declares very seriously. Her eyebrows furrow in determination. “So that’s what you’re gonna do next.”
Katsuki feels his lips twitch, amusement curling in his chest. “Wish you wouldn’t call me that. ‘m not Kacchan.”
Eri looks up at him. Squints. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m Katsuki,” He says.
She blinks. “...Kacchan.”
“It’s Katsuki,” He repeats himself, stopped in the middle of the hallway. Her little fingers tighten on his wrist. “Kat-tsu-ki. Come on, it’s not even that hard to say.”
She giggles, ignoring him. “What about Katsu? Like chicken katsu?”
He rolls his eyes, pulling her towards the door. “Yeah no, that’s enough of that shit. You should go to bed.”
She’s still smiling, swinging their joined hands between them - why he lets her do that, he’s not even sure - but her steps are getting a little unsteady, a little sleepy. “Alright,” she agrees. “But only if you do.”
He shrugs and says, “Sure." He pauses, throwing a glance at the tiny crayon flowers and mushrooms along the bottom of the door frame. "This is your door, right?”
"Yup!" Eri beams, proud. “I did some of it myself!”
Katsuki hums, eyeing her handiwork. There's a little flower with a face looking at him that's starting to creep him out, so he points towards the room and says, "Right. You're gonna go straight to bed, yeah? No funny business?"
“Yeah,” Eri nods and releases his wrist to lean up and grab the doorknob. She lets out a big exaggerated yawn, covering her mouth with a small hand. “No funny business.”
Okay, that was…kind of cute.
And - look, he's not good with kids. Doesn't like kids, even. Most of the time they were annoying - it's been ages, but he still remembers those brats from the remedial license bullshit - and most parents pulled their children away from him if he was in public. Apparently he looked (and acted...and sounded) too much like a delinquent, especially with his quirk.
That last one might be a little fair, actually, considering all the fucking nonsense he put other kids through when he was younger. A certain green-haired someone still has marks on his neck, after all.
But...still, it was nice to be - trusted. Maybe that's too strong of a word for it, but it was close. Yeah. Trust.
Maybe he could deal with being a little sweet with her, even if he normally didn't like little kids. She deserves good things, right? Especially considering her past?
Some part of him whispers, so do you, but he dismisses it immediately. He grunts, finally relenting to the little puppy eyes beaming up at him, slightly hazy with sleep.
“Alright," He gestures towards her door. "Go on. G’night, kid.”
She beams at him. “G’night, Katsu-ki. Have sweet dreams.”
And with a shy little wave and the click of Eri's bedroom door, the hallway descends back into silence.
The running water in the bathroom had finally stopped, fan off. The living room was empty. The hallway was dark. And now it was just Katsuki.
A lone silhouette, left standing in the hallway wearing his sweats and old socks.
His right ear rings ever so slightly in the dead silence, and he marvels at how much of a difference Eri’s little body had made in the space. How cheery it had been. He doesn’t even remember what he was worrying about, before she came out and sat next to him.
There was something about it. Something about sitting in the living room - uncomfortable and awkward as that conversation had been - that had made the ache in his chest just…fade a little. Made it less obnoxious, less soul sucking.
Katsuki lets a breath out of his nose, leaning towards the door in front of him until his forehead rests gently against the surface. For a moment, he stares at the white paint over the wood grain, shoulders slumping.
Sweet dreams, huh?
If only.
__
-
—
When Katsuki got home that afternoon, the stove was on.
It was a little past three, school having been out for only an hour or so. The air was humid and sticky, and he was looking forward to eating a proper meal and maybe lying somewhere to cool down.
If he was lucky, maybe he’d catch the tail end of the hero-stream that would be on tonight. He was normally too busy to see all the commentary live, and it had been forever since he got to see All-Might.
After sliding his backpack off to rest near the bottom of the stairs, he bit into the salmon onigiri he’d grabbed from the convenience store (they’d been out of the spicy tuna, and no, he had not thrown a fit about it) and wandered into the kitchen to work on preparing the evening meal.
Only to be struck by the image of the electric stove, little red light blinking next to Hot Surface.
He paused mid chew, frozen in the doorway.
Katsuki had checked. He always did, every day, he knew he did. The driveway was empty. The key hook lonely. And the side table in the entry way where wallets and purses went - that, too, held no evidence that his mother had returned from work.
So why was the stove on?
Frowning, he approached the kitchen counter. Did they leave it on all day? There were no pots in the sink. He hadn’t made breakfast that morning, because he ran late, and rather than leaving at eight he left at - at -
- he didn’t remember. School started…early. Nine? Eight thirty?
Shrugging, he flicked the stove switch off and opened the fridge, grabbing an assortment of vegetables for nikujaga, a simple stew. Carrots. Cabbage. Onion. Potato. There was a severed chicken head in the meat drawer - he pushed it aside and grabbed a little bit of pork instead.
Nikujaga was quick, nothing too complicated. Just shirataki noodles, meat, vegetables. Comfort food.
He made it a lot when his parents were out on business, something honest and familiar. It wasn’t spicy curry - his all time favorite - but it was a comforting staple all the same.
When he turned around to set the ingredients on the cutting board, though, he stopped, hands hovered just over the wooden surface.
His mother was sitting alone at the kitchen table. Unmoving. Barely breathing.
In front of her lay a full set of cutlery and fine china: the kind they only took out when they hosted expensive guests. It was shiny and bright blue, freshly polished.
Frozen, as the fridge breathed cold air along the planes of his neck and back, Katsuki stared at her. His heart thudded in his throat.
I checked. I checked, I always check -
(Did she trick me?)
Her spine was ramrod straight, sitting there and looking straight ahead at a calendar on the wall - there was a date circled in red pen. The weather outside was hot and sticky like August humidity, so why - why was the current date circled in December?
After a moment, the awkwardness seems to pass with a single breath.
Katsuki blinks, and the food he grabbed is put away as if it had never been taken out. The fine china on the table is filled with a full meal, the stove blinking with the hot little red light. Out of the corner of his eye, it pulses, like the bright spinning siren of an oncoming police car.
His mother is talking. He is listening. He is…
“How was school today? Your teachers have called a few times, saying you’re doing well.”
Katsuki is now sitting at the table, shoulders relaxed. His mother sips at the broth from her bowl, the scent familiar and rich in between them. It’s red miso: a favorite of his mother’s. It hasn’t been mixed right, because he can see little pieces still floating in the broth.
“I’m- I’m at the top of the class,” He says, his voice echoing strangely. His neck tingles. “Like you wanted.”
His mother hums, leaning back into her chair. It squeaks, suffocated under her weight. “Your father and I are very proud of you, by the way." The smile on her lips looks - wrong. It's too friendly. "You're kicking some serious ass! I'm sure you're gonna be at UA in no time. Did you practice at the training grounds this morning?"
Katsuki frowned, his thoughts muddled. “I thought - I thought I was already -” The chair underneath him was hard and strangely blocky, and the food seemed almost opaque. It had no taste.
But he blinks, and his mother is talking again. “-had some meetings, but I wanted to come home early today. You know, just to spend some time with you. It’s been a while, don’t you think? I miss making dinner with you.”
He frowned. She didn't ever make dinner with him, he knew that. Very rarely - usually on special occasions - he made it with his dad, talking quietly with a baseball game on the TV in the background, but she didn't usually join in. She'd refused. Too busy. Too...
“I was going to make nikujaga tonight,” Katsuki says faintly in response, looking out the window just over his mother’s shoulder. Outside, the trees look strangely still, slightly off in color. He blinks, and they go back to normal. “You know the old recipe you got from your aunt?”
His mom grins. “She always used to drink the sake, instead of putting it in the broth. She got me drunk as shit doing that, once.”
Katsuki snorts. Their family is full of lightweights, no matter what their attitude might say otherwise. Thankfully, his mother had never - had never gotten -
He frowns.
(Had never what?)
He reaches forward with two hands to take a sip of the broth, swirling the vegetables ever so slightly. There’s an egg bleeding all over his rice, sticky and barely cooked.
“I made oyakodon instead,” His mom adds suddenly, a bit loud. “Used to be your favorite as a kid.”
When he looked up, he was struck by the hardness in her stare, glued to his face. Her voice is sweet. “But it’s been a while. Hasn’t it, Katsuki?”
The blood drained from his face in a slow, warm rush. He swallowed. “I don’t - I don’t know what -”
His mother dragged a fine nail up the edge of his wrist, tracing over unblemished skin, and he flinched hard. Her touch burned, leaving little rivulets of fire behind. When he tried to yank his hand away from her, his body only sank heavier into the blocky, uncomfortable chair beneath him, taunting and syrupy slow.
Her fingers settled over his pulse point. Tight. Inescapable.
(Katsuki couldn’t breathe, there was something - something making it’s way down his throat and into his lungs- god, he was gonna vomit-)
“You always make things so complicated, Katsuki,” His mother said. There was no trace of humor left in her face.
“You know how many times I wiped your ass when you were a baby? A lot.” She threw her napkin down on the table, one hand still tight around his wrist. “And even fifteen years later, I’m still cleaning up your fucking messes.”
His ears were ringing, a tiny little whine that was steadily increasing in pitch. A breath caught in his throat. “I don’t -”
“I’m not sure why you think that leaving will solve your problems,” His mother interrupted. Her stare bored into his face, honest, terrible, haunting. “You're just taking them right with you.”
She stood, then, and the food on the table started to flicker. Katsuki stared at her wrist, still holding onto his own. His mouth felt too loose on his face, unable to form the right words. His chest hurt.
“I didn’t want to,” Katsuki managed to say, sloppy and slurred. His throat felt like it was on the verge of closing up permanently. “But you - you made me. You made me leave.”
And he blinks, and the kitchen is dark, and the stove is on, and his mother is standing in front of him now, eyes red and steely in the pitch black, and his knees are weak -
There’s something warm and syrupy coating his legs. On the stinging edges of his feet. When he looks down, head practically flopping on his neck, he realizes the floor is full of bloody porcelain. Her fine china, smashed and slick with red.
When his mother grabs his neck, Katsuki doesn’t even flinch. He expects it, this time. “Why didn’t you listen to me, huh?” She growls, baring her teeth. Her teeth look weirdly sharp in the poor lighting. “If you had just listened, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. So why did you do it? Why did you leave?”
Katsuki’s pretty sure his neck is bleeding now, too, the scent of burning flesh thick in his nose. It smells like campfire and stale alcohol, and for a moment, his mother’s face seems torn, stitched and horrible in the darkness.
He tries to open his mouth, but his lips are heavy, and his eyes won’t focus right. “Let- let me-”
“I’m your mother!” Mitsuki spits, nails digging into his neck. “I raised you, I birthed you-”
Staring into her bloody eyes, fractured porcelain and bleeding yolk reflected back at him, Katsuki forcibly draws air into his suffocating lungs. There was something - something he had to get out -
He breathes, finally, and tightens his voice enough to say:
“But you’re not. You’re not my mother.”
(A real mother would never hurt her child. Not like you have.)
The ringing in his ears finally quiets, ending on a horrific, high pitched scream. It echoes strangely against the walls, tinkling against the bloodied porcelain on the floor. His heart pounds, a silent thundering in his ears.
“Yeah?” Mitsuki whispers. She looks between his eyes, breathing steady.
The nails on his neck pierce through skin. He gasps soundlessly, chest expanding.
“Then you’re no son of mine.”
Katsuki’s world explodes.
—
The noises start just a little past three, only an hour or two after Aizawa had fallen into a restless, uncomfortable sleep.
He feels himself lurch out of bed and fumble for the light switch before he’s even fully conscious, instinct and habit pushing him into action on shaky legs. He can hear Bakugou’s quirk down the hallway, a muted popping that makes his hair stand on end.
When the lamp flickers on, Hizashi wakes, eyes squinting against the sudden onslaught of light. Catching his eye, Aizawa signs an explanation.
Bakugou. Nightmare. He mimes an explosion with his fingers, and Hizashi swears, reaching for his hearing aids.
The explosions (which up until that point had stayed mostly low in pitch, mere crackles) suddenly escalate enough to be felt through the walls, insistent and scattered.
And with the explosions comes the yelling.
“Let go of me, you fucking…!”
“Hey, wait, stop-”
“Let go!”
There’s a few more pops and a heavy thud before -
“STOP!”
It’s so loud and imbued with a sweet sort of persuasion that Aizawa almost freezes in the hallway, mesmerized, before he realizes that was - that was Shinsou using his quirk. Which he never fucking did outside of class unless it was an emergency. Shit.
Aizawa runs.
When he whips the door open down the hall, he’s confronted with a few different things all at once.
Bakugou is hyperventilating, hanging off the bed with his legs half-entangled in the sheets and the fingers of his right hand wrapped around Shinsou’s collarbone. The skin underneath is pink and raw, the whites of Shinsou’s eyes bright even in the dim light.
His son isn’t looking at Bakugou, though. Instead, his slightly wide eyes track Aizawa as he enters the room. His son’s hands are fisted into the back of Bakugou’s shirt, trembling, stuck somewhere between holding Bakugou up and shoving him away. “I didn’t- he wouldn’t- I’m sorry -”
Pushing forward into the room, Aizawa’s quirk activates without a single thought, humming in his ears and making his eyes sting. Shinsou releases Bakugou and backs up until his legs hit the side of his bed, stiff.
“You-” The words are rough, barely audible in between Bakugou’s harsh panting, but they seem to cut through the room anyway. His eyes are wild, fixed on Shinsou. Feral. “You used your quirk, on me? Why- what-”
Slumped against the bed, Bakugou’s hyperventilation starts to get worse. His shoulders are starting to shudder in panic induced twitches, his whole body starting to shiver, his eyes losing focus. Aizawa curses.
“Hitoshi, go find Hizashi. Now. You’re not in trouble, I just need to take care of this first.”
His son struggles, still frozen in place. He’s pale. “It was an accident, I didn’t - he was asleep, and I thought -”
Bakugou’s quirk rumbles underneath his skin, fiery and desperate, and Aizawa struggles to keep it at bay. “Hitoshi. It’s - it’s okay. I’m not mad, just- please, give us some space.”
Hitoshi scrambles out of the room, almost slamming into Hizashi in the hallway before he catches him, speaking low and calm. “Hey, hey, you’re okay kiddo. Let’s go to the living room, alright? Some tea, maybe -”
Bakugou’s balance finally gives out on him, and Aizawa is forced to grab the kid’s arms before he faceplants on the carpet. It prompts a choked, broken noise from Bakugou, and Aizawa lets go as soon as he’s lowered Bakugou properly on the ground.
“Kid, hey. Look at me.” Bakugou stares somewhere over his shoulder, pupils dilated and chest heaving. His hands are fisted in his sweats, shoulders shaking. “Can you look at me real quick?”
He gets absolutely no response, Bakugou’s eyes still far away. If anything, the shadow of Aizawa over him seems to be making things worse, given the subtle inward curl to the kid’s shoulders.
Aizawa kneels, ignoring the way his ankles crack painfully, and snaps his fingers loud and sharp. It’s the same way he catches his students’ attention when they’re not listening in class, and thankfully it seems to reach through the fogged panic of Bakugou’s brain.
A frown, something shifting in his gaze. “...Sensei?” His voice sounds like he’s been gargling rocks.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Aizawa answers quietly, looking between Bakugou’s eyes. “Can you focus right here? On my voice?”
Bakugou follows his directions, his pupils dilating and contracting in cycles until he finally, finally focuses on Aizawa’s face. It’s a loose kind of focus, just barely there, but it was something.
“Good, that’s better. Now, let’s work on getting your breathing down a little, alright? Take a deep breath.”
Opening his chest and breathing in slow, Aizawa exaggerates the motions until Bakugou catches on, trying to match him. His student’s hands are slick, and there’s sweat beading on his brow - by the slight shivers still wracking through his limbs, it’s a cold sweat.
It takes a few more moments (and a handful of wheezes) for Bakugou to recover the ability to speak. And when he does, he’s only able to choke out a few words, “Can you- my quirk-”
The shiny, pink hue of Hitoshi’s skin flashes through his mind, and Aizawa licks his lips, hesitating. He can still feel Bakugou’s quirk bubbling behind his ears, a sticky sort of heat. He’s not super enthused about releasing that sort of power, right here in this tiny little bedroom.
“Can you take a few more breaths for me? I promise I’ll give it back when I know you won’t get overwhelmed by it.”
There’s a desperate, nasty edge in Bakugou’s eye that Aizawa really doesn’t like, but the kid follows his directions well enough with a few long, stuttered breaths.
While he does that, Aizawa takes a moment to evaluate the feeling crawling under his skin, the spitting and snarling of Bakugou’s quirk. It’s a fascinating mix between heavy - powerful, deep, grounded - and light and flashy. Bright.
He wonders for a moment about the similarities between quirks and their owners (Shinsou, with his shadowed, sweet longing, and Hizashi with his cheerful noise-) before realizing that the pressure under his skin has finally started to dissipate.
Good. That meant Bakugou was starting to retain some of his control back.
Nice timing, considering the stinging in Aizawa’s right eye. He wasn't sure how much longer that was gonna hold.
When Bakugou’s quirk feels slightly more manageable, more settled, Aizawa finally relaxes. “I’m gonna give you your quirk back now, okay? Don’t freak out on me.”
When Aizawa blinks, Bakugou gasps with the return of his quirk, leaning over himself a little. His pupils are still a little bit out of whack, his pulse thumping visibly in his throat. He swallows and takes an unsteady breath.
“I’m - I didn’t -”
“You’re okay, kid.” Aizawa interrupts him softly. “It happens. We just need to ground you a little bit, get your footing back.”
Resting his head on the side of the bed and pulling one knee towards his chest, Bakugou swallows and looks towards the ceiling, trying to slow his breathing down. A few tears have escaped from his waterline, leaving a salty trail along the edge of his jawline and into his sweatshirt.
“Fuck me,” Bakugou says, voice hoarse. He wipes the back of his hand roughly over his nose and uses the crook of his elbow to cover his face, hiding it from view.
Aizawa takes the chance to release the battle-ready tension from his muscles, settling gently on the carpet across from Bakugou. There, he waits for a few minutes, keeping his eyes on the rest of the room and politely ignoring the stuttered breaths coming from his student.
No matter how many times you experienced them, panic attacks were always frustrating, terrifying things. The loss of control, the encroaching fear that your body was shutting down, the humiliation of being so vulnerable in front of another person...truly, it was one of the less enjoyable parts of being a survivor of something traumatic.
Aizawa had always hated the very last part of it, though. The fear, he could handle. The pain, sure. But that last part was awful.
You crash, once you finally make it through the worst of the panic attack. And when you crash, you crash hard . The sympathetic nervous system was no fucking joke - it's the system that is determined to keep you alive in a crisis, by any means necessary. Of course it would pull on every ounce of energy you have.
Strong physical responses like that were usually driven by a heavy rush of adrenaline, cortisol and other stress hormones, and recovering from that sort of thing was never enjoyable. Between the dizziness and the exhaustion, it felt a little bit like being tied to a heavy rock and dropped in a lake. Weightless, but...sinking.
Aizawa pulls his eyes back to his student, following the fine lines of veins and scar tissue over Bakugou's arms. He still hasn't shown his face, his limbs trembling minutely. Crashing, still.
The whole incident makes him wonder, briefly, about what other triggers they’ll discover over the next couple of weeks. The first two months were always awful for their foster placements. It wasn’t always about the adjustment - a lot of the time, actually, it was about all those raw wounds that had never gotten the chance to heal.
They were like landmines. Scattered around in your daily life, just waiting to blow up when you least expect it.
And, well, Aizawa is old - it's been a decent amount of time since he was a teenager, hopping between couches and making his own life from scratch. He can't relate entirely to all of Bakugou's experiences.
But he does know what it feels like to have your whole life upended. He was a foster kid. And he's lost people in some really horrific ways during his time as a hero. Those sorts of life changes were never graceful.
Aizawa can definitely say that Bakugou was handling this transition better than Aizawa had handled his own, way back when. Especially after Oboro's...death. That year, Aizawa had thrown himself straight into a horrific relapse and a lot of less-than-ideal coping mechanisms.
Nobody could predict how Bakugou might handle the next year or so, of course, but Aizawa understood what it was like. What had really saved Aizawa when he was younger - and continued to save him - was the reminder that he wasn’t on his own. That was the most important thing, above any bullshit people might spew about strength and perseverance and all that. It was a simple fix (if you could call it that) to a more complex issue, but sitting with Bakugou, grounding him - that was the most valuable thing Aizawa could do for him right now.
Bakugou wasn’t alone. None of them were, actually. That's what mattered.
His thoughts are interrupted by the rough sound of his student's voice. “I didn’t even make it twenty four hours, what the fuck,” Bakugou mutters into the silence, muffled by the elbow still over his face. “Shouldn’t have been that fucking hard, and yet…”
Aizawa shifts against the wall, watching him. After a moment, he says, “Worse things have certainly happened on the first night. Can’t say I didn’t expect it.”
Bakugou purses his lips hard enough that they turn white. From the limited view Aizawa has of his face, it looks a bit like he's trying not to cry.
Aizawa lets out a breath and makes the slow effort to rise up from the ground, cringing as his joints let out a series of pops. “I’m going to go get you a cold towel to wash off your palms, is there anything else you need?”
Under the elbow still hiding his eyes, Bakugou frowns. Sensing his confusion, Aizawa stops and rephrases his question. “Do you know what normally calms you down after panic attacks? What helps?”
Bakugou reluctantly pulls his arm away from his face and eyes his hands, looking over the trembling planes of his fingers. The skin around his eyes is red and puffy.
“...Kirishima, I guess,” He mumbles eventually. “But - he’s not -” His voice cracks, and he stops. His eyes flick up towards Aizawa.
Aizawa returns the look evenly, making sure his voice is neutral and unassuming. “Would you like to call him? I could do it for you, if it would help.”
“No,” Bakugou answers with a frown, fingers now clenched in his lap. His eyes go a little foggy. “I used to wake him up, before, and - he just got to sleep an hour ago. He’s already fucking worried, no reason to make it worse.”
Aizawa leans a bit back on his heals, once, twice.
Hmm.
There’s a conversation to be had here about asking for help when you need it, and relying on people that love you - but he has a feeling Bakugou’s already heard that whole spiel. Kirishima seems like the kind of person that would have that handled.
Besides, from the way that Kirishima had spoken back at the hospital, he'd known that something had been wrong in his friend’s household for a while. Years, even. Forced to carry such a heavy burden alone, for who knows how long...it couldn't have been easy on either of them.
They were probably a little codependent as a result. And that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, just less than ideal…it might do them some good to rely on other people for a little bit. Give them a break and a chance to heal without the pressures of a close relationship.
Aizawa keeps the door open and quickly ducks into the bathroom to grab a hand towel, wetting it with cold water under the tap. When he returns, he pauses before meeting Bakugou’s eyes. “This is just cold water, mostly to wash off your sweat, but also to keep you a bit more grounded. Gets rid of that floaty feeling. May I?”
It takes a few heavy, uncertain seconds before Bakugou offers up one palm. He’s not particularly happy about it, but it seems like he understands what Aizawa’s trying to do.
He gently takes his student’s palm (he wonders at that title for a moment, thinking that perhaps Bakugou had moved past being his student and entered the realm of his kid) and runs the towel over the rough skin, wiping away the sweat.
“Sorry,” Bakugou blurts after a tense moment, his hands jerking a little in Aizawa’s hold. His eyes shift away from Aizawa’s face, struggling.
“I’m not - I’m not usually so fucked up, it’s just -” He clenches his jaw with a click.
“None of this is usual, kid,” Aizawa begins, keeping his eyes on the towel while Bakugou watches his movements, red eyes wary. The cold water seems to be doing its job, though, grounding Bakugou in the moment and clearing some of the fog.
“Things tend to unravel a little at the seams when your situation changes. It’s a normal response to the release of pressure that comes from escaping an unsafe environment.”
Bakugou’s jaw works. There's a frustrated tilt to his brow. “Still, it’s…”
“Embarrassing, I know.” Aizawa smiles a little at Bakugou’s huff, finally pulling away and balling up the towel. He gets up to wash it out in the bathroom sink with some quirk-neutralizer soap, raising his voice enough to be heard across the tiny hallway. “But it’s a necessary part of the process, and none of us will resent you for it. We’re quite familiar with what you’re going through, you know.”
When Aizawa returns after hanging up the towel to dry, Bakugou’s expression is tight with his usual intensity. Even tear stained and exhausted as he is, he’s got fight in him still. “I hurt your son, though. Why wouldn’t you be upset about that?”
“Because I know it was an accident,” Aizawa answers, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “We’ll work on your quirk control a little to prevent future accidents, sure, but I know this wasn’t done intentionally and that’s why I’m not going to hold it against you. Shit happens.”
Bakugou’s jaw clenches. He pulls his other knee up to rest against his chest. “Makes no sense,” He mumbles, looking away.
Aizawa lets the quiet grow between them, listening to the wobbly motions of the ceiling fan above their heads. In the other room he can hear his husband speaking with Hitoshi, the kettle whistling faintly from the kitchen. He takes a long, quiet breath, feeling the air enter his tired lungs, and some of his mussed, curled hair slips out from behind his ear to tickle his chin.
To keep track of their histories and triggers, Hizashi and Aizawa often made individual case files for their foster kids. The purpose was to create a specific treatment plan for each kid, figuring out what exactly they needed and what worked best. It usually had a list of their triggers, coping mechanisms, self-regulatory actions, grounding techniques, the whole nine yards.
He has a feeling Bakugou’s is gonna be…long.
Really long.
Bakugou had said it made no sense for Aizawa to not be mad. To him, it made no sense that Aizawa would be understanding after his kid had a nasty, trauma induced flashback and was going through a hard transition.
Something in his jaw clicks.
God, if there was anything that didn’t make sense, it was teaching a child that adults were not to be trusted and kids were only worth something if they were perfect.
Aizawa almost wishes he’d punched Mitsuki in that parking lot. Thrown decorum completely out the window and given her a taste of her own medicine, from a parent to someone who never should have been one in the first place. Just a single, solid, perfect smack.
Would it have solved anything? No. Would it have made him feel better?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
To dismiss such unprofessional thoughts, Aizawa clears his throat and shifts against the door frame.
“Look, kid…we’re not gonna be upset with you because you don’t have your shit together.” He runs a hand through his dark curls and gestures with crooked fingers at his overall appearance, scarred and unsightly in some places.
“We’re not exactly shooting for perfect here. All of us have things we’re dealing with, histories that have left their mark. If there’s anyone who will be able to understand, it’s us. I really do mean that.”
Bakugou picks at the carpet, pulling a fiber apart. His fingernails are bitten to the quick.
No reply.
Aizawa refuses the urge to sigh.
He was being truthful for the most part, but Bakugou was technically right about Aizawa being upset about Hitoshi getting hurt. His son had a lot of trauma in relation to his quirk, and he rarely used it in self defense - he’d gotten in trouble too many times for that. The bloody sort of trouble.
So yes, he is a little upset, even if he said he wasn't. He’s a parent, and his kids are hurting. Of course he'd be upset about that. That’s kind of his job, terror and protectiveness and the desire to help included. But he’s not mad at Bakugou.
When you put two traumatized people together, sometimes the triggers can mix in really unpredictable, dangerous ways. And that’s neither of those people’s faults, really. It’s just something to work through.
He hums in the following silence, offering: “Did you know I was the one who broke Hizashi’s nose?”
Aizawa gets an eyebrow raised up at him, a tiny spike of interest. The carpet thread is spun a few more times before Bakugou finally abandons it. “You’re tellin’ me you’re the reason why it’s crooked?”
“Uh-huh. I had a bad flashback in the kitchen one night during a thunderstorm. Punched him straight in the face.”
Bakugou’s lip twitches. Barely. “Damn.”
A huff escapes Aizawa’s mouth, remembering the swears that his husband had let out as Aizawa desperately tried to press a tissue to the blood cascading out of his nostrils. Aizawa had been so fucking embarassed, but they’d worked it out - Hizashi had his fair share of bad nightmares and memories, too. He understood. There’s a reason why Aizawa can’t hear all that great in his left ear, after all.
Hizashi had definitely teased him about the nose-breaking incident for a long while, though. He was cheeky like that.
Aizawa leans away from the wall, straightening up.
“I’m not trying to glorify or excuse violence, obviously, you’re responsible for your actions and I don’t want you to think otherwise. But it’s important for you to know that you can fuck up in this household. We’re all a little fucked up, and that’s okay. We’ve learned how to deal with it.”
Bakugou snorts, and the tension finally seems to leave his shoulders. In the dim lighting, the white t-shirt he’s wearing seems to hang off his shoulders like an ill-fitted sheet. He looks - young, for once. “‘S a little weird, but alright.”
“Maybe. But it works for us, and we’re hoping that maybe it’ll work for you, too.” Bakugou hums faintly in response.
Aizawa knows that it was going to take time for things to settle in. Sixteen years of trauma doesn’t go away overnight, no matter how amazing his pep talks were. And they are great, thank you very much. All-Might had nothing on Aizawa’s dad talks.
That said, he’d seen the thoughts swirling around in Bakugou’s brain, starting to settle in a little with the chewing of his lip and the thoughtful tilt to his brow. He was starting to think about it. Starting to understand that he was welcome here, in whatever form he took.
That’s what mattered most. Even if it took a while to solidify as the truth, he was thinking about it.
Everyone had to start somewhere.
After hauling Bakugou up from the floor - checking discreetly that he could hold his own weight - Aizawa clears his throat and asks, “Hey, have you ever held a cat before?”
A blink.
“Uh…I wasn’t allowed to touch anythin’ as a kid. Parents said I’d kill it.” Aizawa stares.
Bakugou shrugs and goes to say, “My sweat,” as if that would somehow excuse a mother telling her child that he would kill anything he touched.
He raises his eyebrows and tries not to sigh. Okay, well. That’s fucked. He’ll add that to the list later, next to touch-adversion. Jesus.
“Well, we’re gonna change that tonight,” Aizawa declares and steps out of the bedroom. “If that’s okay with you of course,” He adds.
His newly acquired kid just throws a single shoulder into a shrug, as if to say this might as well happen.
Aizawa lets out a snort and continues down the hallway, flipping on the light switch as he goes. “In that case, help me find Mochi. She’s the tortoiseshell.”
Bakugou hesitates for only a second in the doorway before following, shaking out his wrists a little and straightening out his shoulders. His spine stands a bit taller, a bit more determined.
“Tortoiseshell?”
“She’s bi-colored. Orange and black. She’s very talkative, very social. She loves people, and I have a feeling she’ll like you too…”
—