Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kirishima didn’t really want to wake up.

Honestly, he wanted to cancel the whole day and stay in bed—a thought that crossed his mind more often than he’d admit. His eyes cracked open, still puffy from sleep, as he fumbled for his phone.

6:24 AM.
Right. Time to get up, squeeze in a quick workout, and—more importantly—check on Bakugou. Maybe convince him to train together.
Or better yet, make breakfast together.
That thought alone was enough to shove all laziness aside and yank him right out of bed.

He scrolled for another minute before finally dragging himself down the hall.

Usually by now, the common room had its regular early risers.

Iida—punctual as ever—already stretching, muttering about schedules and efficiency.

Todoroki—calm and collected—waking up with zero drama, like his whole life was set to a quiet, disciplined rhythm.

And finally, Bakugou.
Yeah, he was loud, rough around the edges, all teeth and scowls—but his sleep schedule? Impeccable.
Either Kirishima would catch him mid-run or find him already back, towel slung around his neck, all fire and focus.

Today looked like the second.

“Good morning,” Kirishima said as he stepped off the last stair.

“Morning,” Todoroki whispered with his dry tone.

“Good morning, Kirishima!” Iida said, chopping the air with enthusiasm as usual.

“Hey, Bakugou, what’s up?” Kirishima asked, walking toward him. Bakugou was sitting on the couch, arms crossed, already done with his morning workout apparently.

“Looks like you’ve already exercised.”

“What do you think, dipshit?”

Ah. So today’s a bad mood day.

Bakugou’s mood was unpredictable—Kaminari had been trying for months to crack the code. First, he thought if Bakugou went to bed late, he’d wake up pissed. But that was wrong; during test season, Bakugou stayed up late and still woke up sharp, even-tempered—well, as much as Bakugou could be.

Then Denki guessed it was the shirt he wore in the morning. Wrong again.

Now, Denki was trying a new theory: figuring out which day of the week Bakugou was most likely to wake up on the wrong side of the bed. So far, Tuesday was in the lead.

Kirishima double-tapped the screen of his phone while brushing his teeth.

And yep. It was Tuesday.
Now he was starting to believe Denki might be onto something.

When Kirishima got back to the common room, there were more people now—the reasonably early ones. The ones he considered himself part of.

There was Midoriya, already scribbling furiously into his hero notebook. Of course. He always woke up early to prep and plan.

Tokoyami sat quietly in the corner, as usual. Calm, self-disciplined. Kirishima figured he probably woke up early for meditation or just to be alone in the quiet.

Then there was Yaoyorozu—studious and thorough. No doubt she was up early to review notes or rehearse something important.

Lida was already making breakfast like clockwork. Bakugou had left the common room by the time Kirishima returned. He half-expected to hear him grumbling at Iida, yelling about eggs or something, but nah — just a short appearance today. Since it seemed like one of those off days, he didn’t think of it too much.

Kirishima made his way to the counter, just as Midoriya rushed in with that usual muttering storm following him.

“Morning,” Kirishima said casually, grabbing a protein bar off the counter.

Midoriya flinched like he hadn’t even noticed someone else was there. “Oh! Good morning, Kirishima.”

He looked a bit more rattled than usual. Kirishima raised an eyebrow.
“You okay?” he asked. “You seem kinda… uneasy?”

Midoriya hesitated. “I’m not sure…”

Then he lowered his voice. “Did you see Kacchan? I didn’t see him on the way down. He’s usually up by now. I was just a little worried.”

Kirishima gave a small smile, trying to keep things light. “Yeah, he was here a few minutes ago. Didn’t say much, just sat on the couch and then maybe went back to his room. It’s just one of those bad mood days, y’know?”

As they were talking, Sero appeared from the hallway, stretching and yawning.

“Morning, guys,” he mumbled, still a bit sleepy.

“Good morning,” Midoriya said quickly, turning his head toward Sero — like he was glad for the interruption.

Kirishima didn’t push it either. If Midoriya wasn’t going to press the topic, neither would he.

_____________________________________

The morning was pleasant for a Tuesday. Not dramatic or cinematic—just the kind of quiet, clear-skied day that made everything feel a little easier. The sun hung low and warm, casting soft light through the trees without blinding anyone. A faint breeze drifted lazily through campus.

Bakugou took longer than usual to get ready, which was strange. Normally he’d be out the door before most of them. That delay let Kaminari, freshly dragged out of bed by Iida, catch up much earlier than usual—rather than scrambling after them halfway to the gate, he’d managed to meet them just outside the dorms.

“Bakugou’s got the Tuesday death-glare again,” Denki said, hopping with a proud smirk. “Told you I’m onto something. Tuesday’s cursed.”

Bakugou didn’t miss a step. He turned his head slowly, eyes sharp as a blade.
“Say one more word, and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat”

He walked ahead of them toward class, voice still low and venomous.

“And then I’ll ram your molars straight up your fucking nose.”

Sero groaned. “Dude, it’s too early for death threats.”

Kaminari let out a low whistle. “That’s definitely harsher than last Tuesday. I mean, last week he just threatened to detonate my lungs. This time it’s full mouth obliteration—very on-brand.”

He tapped rapidly on his phone. “That’s gotta be two points. Two and a half, if we count how creative the insult was.”

“You’re seriously making a chart for this?” Sero asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Duh. This is peak scientific research. I’m building a psychological profile. If I crack the Bakugou Code, I get full rights to write a book and call it Explodokills: A Study in Rage.”

Kirishima laughed under his breath. “You’re gonna get sued just for the title.”

“Worth it,” Kaminari said, proudly pocketing his phone.

Joking about Kaminari’s “Explodokills” book, they kept walking behind Bakugou—who hadn’t looked back once.

Bakugou hadn’t called Kaminari a useless extra. He hadn’t elbowed Kirishima in the ribs or told Iida to shut the hell up when he started reciting the entire day’s lesson plan like a walking planner. Just barked one over-the-top threat and kept going.

He was angry, yeah—but not in the usual, wild-spark, shout-first-explode-later way. Today’s Bakugou was quieter. Sharper. His insults hit harder. Less heat, more blade.

Kirishima glanced at him again, then gave a small shrug and smiled to himself.

Maybe he was just overthinking it.

Besides—it was Tuesday.

And honestly? At this point, even he was starting to believe Kaminari’s theory might be right.

They reached the classroom, already almost full. Kirishima dropped his bag onto his seat and glanced at the clock.

8:35 AM.
Five minutes until first period—Science.

He mentally ran through the rest of the day’s schedule—P.E, English, Math, Hero Training, and Japanese Language. Not bad, actually. A pretty decent lineup. At least there was no Modern Literature today, no long dramatic readings, no digging through metaphors until his brain melted. He preferred the hands-on classes, the ones that kept his brain and body moving.

The first two periods passed without much trouble—except for Midoriya, who kept glancing at Bakugou and whispering, “Are you okay?” every ten minutes like a broken record.

Bakugou, however, made it clear he wanted none of it, shooting sharp looks and stepping just out of Midoriya’s reach whenever he got too close. Oddly, Bakugou didn’t unleash his usual barrage of curses about Midoriya’s bloodline today. Instead, he just avoided midoriya. Which was somehow weirder than if he’d set his desk on fire.

Kirishima, sitting a few seats away, caught none of the subtleties.

A tap on Kirishima’s left arm made him glance sideways. Sero, leaning in slightly, spoke under his breath so Present Mic wouldn’t hear from the front.

“Hey. What’s wrong with Bakugou?”

Kirishima kept his eyes on his notes, pretending to be engaged. “What do you mean? We’ve already had this conversation, like, three times this morning.”

“No, I mean look at him,” Sero said, nudging his chin subtly toward the left side of the room.

Kirishima glanced over but still didn’t see it clearly.

“I don’t get it.” He said with a shrug.

Sero gave him a sideways look. “Bro. Look at how dazed he is. Is that normal to you? And you know him better than me.”

Kirishima frowned a little, eyes flicking to Bakugou, then back to sero.

“Maybe it’s just because you’re sitting next to Midoriya and catching all his muttering paranoia. That stuff’s contagious.”

Sero wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t argue. After that, Kirishima found himself glancing at Bakugou every chance he got.

Through out the next two periods, Bakugou was there, but not really there. His eyes would drift just a little too long to the side during lessons, missing details that usually had him sharp and on edge.

When the teacher asked questions, Bakugou’s answers came slower than usual, like his mind was tangled somewhere else, not the usual sharp retorts or confident explanations. He tapped his pen against his desk with a restless rhythm, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to shake off a fog.

Kirishima tried not to stare too obviously, but now it was hard not to notice.

It was 12:30—lunch time.

Kirishima headed toward Bakugou, who was packing up his stuff. As he walked, Kirishima’s eyes flicked to Bakugou’s notebook resting on the desk—completely blank.

That wasn’t like Bakugou at all. Everyone knows how hard-working he is—no need to explain it

“Hey, wanna grab lunch?” Kirishima asked, trying to keep it casual.

Bakugou responded with an annoyed groan.

Kirishima hesitated before continuing, “Bakugou, are you—”

Before he could finish, Bakugou cut him off, voice sharp and threatening. “I swear to god, if you fucking extras keep breathing anywhere near me, I’ll decorate the hallway with your spinal cords.”

He shot Kirishima a look so uncomfortable it made him take a small step back.

“I’m already fucking sick of dealing with the nerd, acting like clown all morning. So don’t make me fucking repeat myself”

Kirishima didn’t add anything. He could tell—if he pushed, it’d be like tossing gasoline on a lit fuse.

Bakugou stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading for the door.

“Is that your normal volume,” Todoroki said dryly, “or should we be concerned about a malfunction in your vocal cords?”

Bakugou froze mid-step.

His head snapped toward Todoroki like a loaded weapon. The glare hit so hard Kirishima felt it in his spine—he was already moving instinctively, ready to step between them before Bakugou went full detonation mode. That was really not the time for Todoroki’s brutally dry sarcasm—if it even was sarcasm.

But then…

Bakugou just hissed, low and venomous, and walked out of the classroom.

Just like that.

No explosions.

He left.

Kirishima blinked.

Sero stared.

“I mean…” Kaminari muttered, “That was almost more terrifying.”

Last week, Kaminari cracked a joke about his loud voice, and Bakugou launched a textbook across the room—and that was on a good mood day. There’s no way he’d let Todoroki slide with a comment like that.

Kirishima didn’t say anything. He just stared at the door Bakugou had walked through. like it might swing back open and explode in his face any second.

So Why didn’t he even yell?

Yeah—Kirishima was glad there wasn’t a fight. He really was.

But something about that silence—It felt way worse.

Lunch was over, but Kirishima hardly touched his food. Half the time had gone into scanning the cafeteria, pacing rows of tables and checking every corner twice, half-expecting Bakugou to be hunched behind a pillar or glaring out a window with a tray untouched. No dice.

“Dude,” Sero had groaned, tugging on Kirishima’s sleeve as the last five minutes ticked down. “I don’t think he’s here. And if we’re late, Aizawa’s gonna train us into the pavement.”

Kirishima gave one last glance before turning away and heading to the training grounds, backpacks slung, gear already halfway on. The familiar layout of Ground Gamma rose in the distance, pipes and platforms stacked like a metal jungle gym.

Turns out—Bakugou was already in the training grounds. He just… didn’t come to eat. Kirishima took a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease. Focus. Hero Training required full attention. Especially with Aizawa in charge.

He will make sure to check on him again—once they’re done.

At the field, Aizawa stood waiting—arms crossed, scarf loose, clipboard in one hand, his usual sleep-deprived scowl in place.

“Line up,” he said. “And pay attention. I’m only saying this once.”

The class shuffled into a loose line. Silence fell fast.

“You’re doing a two-part training exercise today,” he continued. “Part one: building infiltration. Part two: hostage rescue. Your teams have already been assigned.”

Kaminari leaned toward Kirishima, whispering, “Did he just say hostage rescue? That’s like… advanced-level field ops stuff.”

Aizawa didn’t pause. “You’ll be timed. You’ll be monitored. And yes—before you ask—we will be watching from the control room. There are live cameras inside and around the training building. If you fall on your face, everyone’s gonna see it.”

He swept his eyes across the class.

“Oh, and Construction Department B says if any of you blow a hole in the ceiling again, you’re writing formal apology letters.”

Kaminari raised his hands defensively. “It was one time!”

“Once too many,” Aizawa said flatly, not missing a beat.
“Also, bounce points will be marked inside the building. Use them wisely. Reckless jumps or landings will cost you valuable time.”

The class exchanged glances, some nodding, others already calculating moves in their heads.

“First team up: Bakugou and Todoroki,” he announced, eyes flicking to his clipboard.

Bakugou, muttered “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“You’re running point. Scenario One is already loaded. Get inside the gate. Your timer starts the second you breach.”

He didn’t wait for a nod, didn’t glance at Todoroki, just grabbed his gloves tighter and stalked off toward the gated entrance of Ground Gamma.

Todoroki followed at a slower pace, his gait calm, almost lazy by comparison. The contrast between them—explosive and composed—felt more jarring than usual today.

Even with his back turned, Kirishima could tell—his shoulders were coiled tight, hands flexing in restless bursts.

Todoroki, for his part, didn’t seem fazed. Then again, Todoroki rarely seemed fazed by anything.

The two disappeared into the maze of metal and shadow as the training gate clanked shut behind them.

A low buzz kicked on—the timer had started.

The rest of the class gathered closer around the monitors on the side wall. A series of camera feeds flickered to life: hallways, stairwells, pressure-triggered doors, even an overhead thermal cam.

“There they are,” Midoriya muttered, leaning forward.

Onscreen, Bakugou led with cautious aggression—every step sharp, movements tight like he was resisting the urge to blow through every wall in his path.

Todoroki followed silently, eyes scanning corners Bakugou ignored.

“They’re not talking at all,” Sero whispered.

“Do they need to?” Jirou murmured. “They’re kinda… weirdly synced.”

Kaminari leaned forward, already grinning. “Place your bets, guys. I give them five minutes before Bakugou tries to blow a hole through the floor.”

“That’s generous,” Sero added, propping his elbows on the rail of the observation deck. “I say three.”

“Ten,” Kirishima muttered, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen even as the others chuckled. “He’ll hold out longer than that.”

Mina raised an eyebrow. “You sure? He already looks like he wants to strangle Todoroki with his gauntlet.”

Down in the simulated cityscape of Ground Gamma, the training scenario was underway. Todoroki and Bakugou had split up to scout the exterior—supposedly. In reality, Bakugou had launched himself to the second floor using one of the bounce pads with an explosion-assisted leap that had rattled the scaffolding.

“Subtle,” Todoroki’s voice came over the comms, dry as dust.

“Shut it,” Bakugou growled back, already moving. “I’m getting a vantage point.”

The control room cameras tracked him weaving through the skeletal structure of the building, each movement sharp and efficient, but twitchier than usual. Too twitchy.

Aizawa narrowed his eyes slightly.

“He’s fast,” Yaoyorozu commented. “But… doesn’t it feel like he’s rushing more than usual?”

“Mm.” Aizawa didn’t respond directly, but he did mark something quietly on his clipboard.

Todoroki entered from the opposite side, taking his time with methodical precision. Ice coated his path in brief flashes as he muted floor creaks and checked for traps.

“They’re not syncing at all,” Mina said, watching the two screens side by side. “If this were real, a hostage would’ve been dead already.”

“Wait for it,” Kirishima muttered, unconsciously leaning forward. Something was off. He could feel it like static in his spine. Bakugou’s movements were just a little too jerky, his aim a hair off, the precision replaced with brute speed.

Inside the training building, Bakugou stormed through the second floor like a guided missile. His boots clanged against metal grates, palm warmers glowing faintly at the ready.

He didn’t wait for Todoroki. Of course he didn’t. He blasted a side door clean off its hinges with a controlled but sharp explosion. The shockwave echoed through the simulated corridor, stirring dust and setting off one of the motion sensors Aizawa had warned them about.

In the control room, a red “Penalty: Alerted Hostile Forces” notification flashed across the screen.

“Boom. There goes the stealth score,” Kaminari snorted.

On screen, Todoroki’s voice crackled through the comms, flat and unimpressed.
“Want to set the building on fire before we rescue people, or after?”

Bakugou growled, turning his mic back on just to shout, “Maybe I will if you don’t start moving your frozen ass!”

Kirishima winced. “And there it is.”

“I win,” Sero said smugly.

Back in the field, Todoroki didn’t rise to the bait. He rounded a corner and calmly iced a tripwire into uselessness. “Hostages tend to prefer not being exploded. Just saying.”

“I’m not exploding the damn hostages!” Bakugou snapped. “I’m clearing the fucking building before someone else walks into a trap.”

“You could also try… walking around them,” Todoroki offered. “You know. Like a normal person.”

“Do I look fucking normal to you?!”

Todoroki picked his way over a fallen beam. “You ever heard of subtlety, or did you skip that class?”

Bakugou barked a laugh, low and sharp. “Subtlety doesn’t win fights.”

“No, but it does keep buildings standing.”

“Wouldn’t be my fault if it collapsed,” Bakugou shot back. “Shitty construction.”

“Right. And your explosions are just helping the architecture express itself?”

Bakugou grunted and kicked open the next door. “You’re lucky I haven’t expressed my foot up your—”

A staticy voice crackled through the intercom overhead. Aizawa. “Bakugou. Todoroki. Less commentary. More rescuing.”

Then Aizawa sighed and jotted another note. “Two points deducted for environmental damage,” he muttered. “And one for aggressive communication.”

Mina grinned. “You keep a tally for that?”

“I do when it’s Bakugou.”

Meanwhile, Bakugou had located the first “hostage” — a crash-test dummy rigged with sensors — trapped under a beam. He scanned it, scowling at the setup, then without waiting for backup, used a quick burst of his quirk to lift and hurl the debris aside.

The dummy flopped limply. A green light blinked above it.

“Hostage one secured,” came Aizawa’s dry update. “At the cost of half the wall.”

Something still wasn’t right. Bakugou was fast, aggressive, competent — but it all felt off-balance. Rushed. Like he was pushing himself to end the mission faster than necessary.

His aim was solid. His instincts were sharp. But he wasn’t pacing himself. And that… wasn’t like him.

Not really.

They pressed deeper into the training building.

The next hallway was darker, narrower, rigged with low visibility and ambient sound meant to simulate chaos. A pipe hissed steam overhead. Somewhere in the fake walls, a recording of a civilian sobbing played in a loop.

Bakugou’s scowl deepened. He raised a palm, and a small controlled blast lit up the hall for a split second.

“You ever rescued a hostage before?” Todoroki asked, stepping over a smoldering chunk of wall. Tone flat—more a check-in than a joke.

Bakugou didn’t even glance back. “You ever heard of moving faster?”

“You blew up a hallway.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bakugou spun on his heel with a sharp grunt, raising his hand again—but the blast sputtered. He paused. His gauntlet’s light blinked—once, then again.

That delay.

It was half a second. Maybe less.

Watching from the control room, arms crossed, Kirishima felt something cold settle in his chest.

“Did his gauntlet just—?” Jirou started.

“No,” Midoriya said too fast.

Bakugou powered through the rest of the corridor, ignoring the brief flicker in his quirk. When a second dummy was located on a dangling platform above a trap floor, he barked at Todoroki to freeze the supports while he leapt up to grab it.

And he did. Sort of.

He overshot the landing slightly, stumbling on the narrow beam with a grunt before catching himself. He snatched the dummy, but not without landing hard enough to make the whole scaffold groan.

“You good?” Todoroki asked, voice low, casual—but there was a flicker of something behind it.

“Shut up,” Bakugou growled. He wasn’t limping, not exactly—but there was a tension in his posture, a twitch in his jaw.

Aizawa’s voice crackled through the overhead speakers. “Team Bakugou-Todoroki: one hostage remaining. Training time: seven minutes. Penalties: four. Proceed.”

Kirishima couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

Something’s wrong. seriously wrong. He never fumbles landings. He never needs more than one blast. His timing’s always perfect.

And Todoroki—doesn’t talk much usually. Blunt, sure. Quiet, mostly. But even he kept sneaking glances Bakugou’s way. Not obvious. Just subtle checks, like he noticed it too.

Inside the training building, Bakugou shoved open the next door with a blast, bits of plaster raining down. The hallway beyond was dark, lit only by flickering emergency strips along the floor.

Todoroki stepped through the smoke behind him, brushing ash from his sleeve. “That door wasn’t even locked.”

“It looked locked.”

“Sure.”

Back in the control room, the rest of the class crowded around the monitors, watching the chaos unfold in real time. One feed zoomed in on Bakugou charging ahead, the other on Todoroki moving at a calm, glacial pace behind him.

“I swear,” Sero said, arms folded and completely unfazed, “at this point, I’m just here for the chaos. Forget the lesson—this is better than a movie.”

Kaminari snorted. “I give them two more rooms before Bakugou tries to ‘rescue’ a hostage by blowing out a support beam.”

“Who puts those two on rescue detail anyway?” Mina muttered.

Inside the next room, the air was heavier—stale, hot, and laced with smoke from Bakugou’s earlier blast. The simulated layout mimicked a collapsed stairwell, beams angled like a jagged maze.

Bakugou paused.

Only for a second. But it was there.

A flicker of hesitation as he caught himself on the wall, blinking hard, jaw clenched like he’d bitten a live wire.

Todoroki glanced back but said nothing. Just kept moving.

“Target,” Todoroki confirmed after a minute.

A dummy lay partially pinned under debris—clearly the hostage.

Bakugou crouched beside it, maybe too quickly. His shoulder jerked slightly before he steadied, and for a breath, he didn’t move.

Todoroki stepped in beside him. “Want me to take point?”

Bakugou’s reply was instant, sharp. “Get the legs. I’ve got it.”

Todoroki grabbed the dummy’s legs while Bakugou heaved the torso free, jaw tight, movements just a touch less sharp than usual. Not slow. Not sloppy. Just… not quite right.

They maneuvered the hostage toward the exit. Rubble shifted underfoot. Bakugou stumbled—barely. A flick of his hand, another small explosion to clear the way, and they moved forward again.

The siren blared a second later—training cleared.

The control room broke into half-hearted applause and cheers, mostly sarcastic.

“Wow, no fatalities,” Kaminari said, clapping once. “That’s gotta be a record.”

“I’m honestly shocked nothing exploded after the hostage was saved,” Mina added.

“They made it out,” Aizawa said, not looking up from his clipboard. “Barely.” He added, without a pause: “Next team. Move.”

Kirishima eyes stayed on the screen as Bakugou stepped out of the building, chest rising too fast, shoulders uneven, smoke cleared behind him. Like he was barely holding something together.

He didn’t look at anyone. Just ripped his gauntlets loose with twitchy fingers and kept walking like it was nothing.

From across the field, Todoroki paused.

Mid-step. Silent.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there for a moment, watching Bakugou’s retreating back with a faint crease between his brows—subtle, but there. Not concern, exactly. Not surprise either. Just… something careful. Measured.

Then his gaze shifted. Through the haze, through the glass, Todoroki glanced up—right at Kirishima.

It wasn’t dramatic. Barely even a second.

But in that quiet look, something passed between them.

A silent agreement.

You saw it too.

Todoroki didn’t speak. Didn’t raise an eyebrow or call it out.

He just looked away again and followed Bakugou, his steps quiet and deliberate.

After the training session, the rest of Class 1-A began to filter out, voices low with exhaustion, feet dragging toward the locker rooms.

Kirishima lingered near the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed half on the training field—half on the doors Bakugou had disappeared through.

“You’re not leaving?”

Kirishima flinched slightly and turned. Aizawa stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, gaze unreadable.

“Uh… no. Just… thinking.”

Aizawa walked over, quiet steps and quieter voice. “You noticed it too.”

Kirishima hesitated, then gave a quiet nod. “…Yeah.”

Aizawa didn’t look surprised. “I’ve been watching him all week. He’s pushing harder than usual. Sloppier in places he normally isn’t.”

He sighed, eyes narrowing a bit. “And today was a mess.”

Kirishima looked down, jaw tightening. “He won’t talk about it. I’ve tried. I didn’t wanna… press him.”

“I’m not saying force it out of him,” Aizawa said, calm but firm. “Just don’t ignore it.”
“If something’s wrong, I need to know. Before it becomes a problem on the field.”

Kirishima nodded, slower this time.

“Don’t wait too long.”
Aizawa started to walk away, then paused without turning back, just long enough to add:
“You’re close to him. Closer than most. If something’s going on with Bakugou… you’ll probably be the first to know.”

Kirishima watched him go, still rooted in place.

The last class came and went in a blur of scribbled notes and half-heard lecture. Kirishima’s pen moved, but he couldn’t have said what he was writing. Every time someone said “training review” or “performance breakdown,” his mind flicked back to Bakugou—staggering mid-blast, slower than usual, just off.

His stomach twisted when they replayed the footage in Analysis. Most people didn’t notice the hitch in Bakugou’s gait, or how his hand lingered over his ribs when he thought no one was watching. But Kirishima did. And so did Midoriya and Todoroki, probably. Aizawa, definitely.

Still, no one said anything.

By the time classes ended, Kirishima had a pounding headache and a growing knot in his chest. He wanted to shake the day off—like a bad dream—but the heaviness followed him all the way to the common room.

The common room buzzed with the usual post-training energy—Sero and Kaminari halfway through a game, Mina sprawled upside down on the couch with her phone, someone clattering around in the kitchen. Normal stuff. Loud, familiar, comforting.

But Kirishima felt like he was underwater.

He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, pretending to watch the screen. He laughed when Kaminari said something dumb. Nodded when Mina waved her phone at him.

But he wasn’t there.

His eyes kept drifting toward the hallway. The stairs. The path to Bakugou’s room.

He had come down for dinner. But with no explosion, no muttered insults, no refusal to sit next to anyone. Just… silence. The kind that didn’t feel like peace.

Kirishima picked at the hem of his hoodie. He should’ve said something earlier. Or followed him. Or at least checked in.

But what if Bakugou just needed space? He hated being hovered over.

Still…

Kirishima stood quietly and slipped out of the common room.

The hallway felt colder at night. Quieter, too.

Kirishima padded down it slowly, socked feet barely making a sound. His hand brushed the wall once—habit, maybe. Something to steady him.

He stopped in front of Bakugou’s door.

It looked like it always did. Closed. Unassuming. Except tonight it felt heavier.

He lifted his hand to knock.

Paused.

What would he even say?

Hey, you looked off today.
You’re scaring me a little.
Are you okay?

Bakugou would probably bite his head off. Or worse—brush him off with that damn fake glare and a muttered “Mind your business.”

Kirishima let his hand fall.

Not yet.
Maybe tomorrow.

He lingered one more second—just one—then turned and walked back down the hall.

The shift from that heavy silence into the noise of the common room hit harder than expected. It wasn’t loud, not really—just the usual end-of-day mess: Sero half-sprawled over the couch with his phone, Kaminari noisily digging through the snack cabinet, Iida fussing about crumbs near the kitchen. The TV was on, low volume, playing some weird commercial that made zero sense. Mina was draped across a beanbag, chattering away to Jirou about something they’d seen on the training field.

Normal. Loud. Distracting.

And completely out of sync with the weight Kirishima was still carrying in his chest.

He stood in the doorway for a second, just watching them—his friends. Their laughs weren’t fake. Their tiredness was real. But they hadn’t seen it the way he had. Or maybe they had… and they were just better at hiding it.

Jirou noticed him first. She gave a small nod—acknowledging, not questioning.

He appreciated that.

Kirishima walked in, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and sat down on the floor near the wall instead of the couch.

He took a sip, leaning his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

That tension hadn’t gone away. The one he felt all throughout training. The tight, wrong feeling in his gut when he watched Bakugou struggle with things that should’ve come easy.

So why the hell wouldn’t Bakugou just say something?

Kirishima stayed low by the wall, eyes unfocused on the ceiling, but his mind was racing.

A soft thump caught his attention.

Kaminari plopped down next to him, a bright grin stretched across his face.

“Yo, Red Riot,” he said, nudging Kirishima’s shoulder lightly. “You’ve been kinda quiet today. What’s up?”

Kirishima blinked, forced a small smile.

“Nothin’ much. Just tired, I guess.”

Kaminari didn’t buy it, but didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head.

“You sure? You look like you’ve been carrying the weight of the world or somethin’.”

Before Kirishima could answer, Mina slid in on the other side, her expression softer than usual.

“Hey, Kiri,” she said quietly, voice almost a whisper. “We’re here if you wanna talk. You don’t have to keep everything bottled up.”

Kirishima swallowed hard.

He looked at them — their faces open, genuine.

Maybe he didn’t have to say anything now. But maybe, just maybe, having them here helped a little.

“Thanks, guys,” he said finally.

Kaminari gave him a thumbs-up. “Anytime.”

Mina smiled and settled in quietly, like a calming presence.

_____________________________________

His room was dim, only the soft glow of Kirishima’s phone screen cutting through the darkness.

He stared at the message box, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Hey. You okay?

Simple enough. He blinked, then erased it.

If you wanna talk, I’m here.

He paused. Try again.

Need anything?

Deleted that too.

He put the phone down, staring at the ceiling.

The silence pressed in.

He closed his eyes and tried to push the worry away.

But Bakugou’s face—the way he moved awkwardly today, the way Todoroki looked at him—it all stayed.

After a while, exhaustion won.

His phone slipped from his hand as sleep pulled him under.

A knock.

Pulled Kirishima out of sleep.

He barely cracked his eyes open, groaning as he groped around for his phone on the nightstand.
3:56 AM.

What the hell?

He blinked blearily at the door, still half tangled in his blanket. Another knock.

Dragging himself upright with a grunt, he shuffled over and cracked the door open.

Yellow hair.

“…Kaminari?”

“Hey—sorry, sorry, I know, it’s late,” Denki whispered quickly, eyes darting down the hall. “But—wait.” He blinked past Kirishima, pointing vaguely inside. “Did you move the table?”

Kirishima blinked, still half-asleep. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Couldn’t use my punching bag with it in the way.”

“Dude, this is so much better,” Kaminari said, like Kirishima had done a full renovation and not just shoved a table to the side.

Kirishima blinked at him. “You think so?”

“Totally. Feng shui or whatever.”

Kirishima gave a sleepy huff of a laugh, leaning his head against the doorframe.

“You good?” Kaminari asked after a second, softer now. Less joking.

Kirishima blinked. “Huh? Yeah. Just tired.”

“I, uh…” His joking tone faded. He rubbed his arms. “Went to get some water. And, like… I heard something.”

Kirishima’s brow furrowed.

“A thud. From Bakugou’s room.”

That woke him up a little more. “A thud?”

Kaminari nodded, face tightening. “I went to check, I swear. I knocked, no answer. Tried again, waited for too long, and then—”

He stopped.

“What?” Kirishima asked quietly.

Kaminari looked at him, voice low. “I opened the door,” Kaminari said quietly, “he was standing by his bed, sweating like crazy. Maybe freaked out? I couldn’t really tell—it was dark. And just when I was about to say something, he shoved me out”

Kirishima didn’t need any more explanation. Without a word, he stepped past Kaminari toward Bakugou’s room.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Kirishima muttered as he walked.

“The thud?” Kaminari said, following him. “Dude, you act like you’d wake up if an explosion went off right next to you. You wouldn’t even flinch.”

“I didn’t say I’d wake up,” Kirishima said, trying to sound casual. “Maybe you were still half asleep and just imagined it.”

Kaminari didn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t have one.

Now in front of Bakugou’s door, Kirishima glanced at the handle. Locked.

He knocked

once,

twice.

No answer.

Minutes dragged like hours. Kirishima glanced at Kaminari.

Something’s wrong. I should’ve checked earlier. Why the hell did I wait?

“Should I break the door?”
I honestly think I have to.

“No, bro—why would you do that?” Kaminari’s voice was sharp, as if Kirishima’s idea was crazy.

What else am I supposed to do? He’s not answering. What more do you need?
“What do you mean? He’s not answering.” Panic was creeping into Kirishima’s voice despite his effort to stay calm.

“That doesn’t mean we have to break it,” Denki said, motioning toward the door.
“We’re just checking on him—not staging a rescue mission.”
Denki sounded steady while Kirishima felt like he was about to explode.

Kirishima ignored Kaminari’s words. Kaminari said something—Kirishima didn’t hear. The next thing he knew, Denki was in front of the door, blocking it with both arms like a human barricade.

Why is he stopping me? That door’s stopping me from checking on Bakugou. I have to get in. I have to.
“Just chill, okay? I’ll call Aizawa.” Kaminari’s tone was firm but calm, trying to hold Kirishima back.

Kirishima’s fists were already clenched. His body was ready to move. Every instinct screamed at him to break the damn door. But he froze.

Not yet. Hold it together.

Denki’s fingers twitched at his sides as he pulled out his phone.
He tried to joke—something about Aizawa probably being awake anyway—but his voice wavered, just a little.

He looked calm.
But Kirishima had seen that look before.

He’s scared too.

Aizawa picked up on the first ring.

“Unless someone’s dying or blowing up the dorms, this call can wait.”

Kirishima could hear Aizawa’s muffled voice even without speakerphone. The hallway was dead quiet—every word carried.

“Uh…,” Kaminari hesitated, caught off guard. His mouth opened, closed again, searching for words.

“What’s wrong?”
The shift in Aizawa’s tone was instant—flat, then razor-sharp.

“I don’t know if something’s actually wrong,” Kaminari said, voice tight. “We’ve been knocking on Bakugou’s door, and he’s not answering. Like—not a sound. Kirishima was about to—”

“Break it.”

The word cut clean through the hallway—Aizawa’s voice, firm and final.

Before Kaminari could even react, Kirishima’s hand was already hardened into stone.

With one clean punch, he knocked the door inward—then caught it before it slammed to the ground.

Kirishima’s body tensed when he raised his head.

There was Bakugou—lying on the bed, face buried into the mattress. His upper half was sprawled across the mattress, while the rest of him hung off the side, legs bent awkwardly, his arm dangled uselessly.

His chest was rising too fast. Too shallow.

“Hey, man…” Kirishima called out, his voice low and careful, like Bakugou might be sleeping and he didn’t want to startle him.

He took a step forward. Then another.

No response.

“Bakugou?”

Still nothing.

He was close now. Close enough to see how pale Bakugou looked in the dim light. Close enough to see the sweat beading along his hairline. His breathing was ragged, too quick—like every inhale hurt.

“Shit,” he whispered.

He gripped Bakugou’s shoulder, gave him a small shake—not rough, just enough. Enough to wake him.

But Bakugou didn’t move. Not even a groan.

Shit.
Fuck.

Kirishima swallowed hard and moved instinctively, lowering himself further and easing his arms beneath Bakugou’s torso. His movements were careful, too careful—like any wrong move might break something he couldn’t fix.

He slid one arm beneath Bakugou’s back, the other under his knees, and shifted him gently. With a soft grunt, he eased him off the bed and onto the floor, laying him flat on his back.

His hand caught the back of Bakugou’s head, just barely, fingers cradling it to keep it from hitting the ground.

“Man… wake up,” Kirishima said. Pleading. He tried not to sound panicked—but it cracked anyway.

No response.

Then he noticed his hand.

Red.

Kirishima blinked, his breath hitching. He stared down at his fingers—streaked dark, glistening under the overhead light.

Where…?

Where did this come from?

It hadn’t been there before.

“Did you cut yourself on the door?” Kaminari asked from behind him.

Kirishima flinched at the sound. He’d forgotten Kaminari was even there. His voice felt like it was coming from somewhere far away—muffled.

There’s no way, Kirishima thought numbly.
He hadn’t cut himself. He used his quirk—his arms were solid when he broke the door. There was no pain. No sting.

“What is that…” Kaminari’s voice shifted, tighter now. “Under his head?”

A beat of silence.

“Kirishima… is that blood under his head?”

No.

There’s no fu—

Kirishima dared to lift his eyes.

Blood.

A dark, spreading pool beneath Bakugou’s head. Thick. Vivid. Still slowly blooming soaking the carpet.

He moved without thinking—instinct taking over. Gently, he slid a hand beneath Bakugou’s neck and lifted his head.

Shit.

It was worse than he thought.

The back of Bakugou’s head was soaked, dark red seeping through his hair and down his neck, still warm and sticky against Kirishima’s palm. His fingers met something wet and uneven—

A jagged swelling near the base of Bakugou’s skull. Split open skin. A dented edge.

It wasn’t clean. It looked like he’d struck something hard—an edge, sharp and unforgiving.

Head injuries.
They’re dangerous. Unpredictable. One bad hit and—

He could’ve fractured something. His skull, his neck—what if it was bleeding inside? What if—

Kirishima forced himself to blink, to breathe, but his chest felt tight. The blood on his hands refusing to be ignored.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

Kirishima’s breath trembled in his chest as he looked up at Kaminari, hoping—begging—for something. Some idea, some guidance, anything.

But Kaminari just stood there, frozen, wide-eyed and pale.

Confused. Scared.

Just like him.

“Okay.” Kirishima took a deep breath, voice shaking despite himself. “We have to act.”

His brain was spinning, but one thing was clear—he had to stop the bleeding.

He pressed a hand gently around the injury again, fingers trembling.

“Kaminari—bring a towel. Or anything you can find to stop the bleeding. And a blanket.”

He didn’t even know if the blanket would help. But Bakugou’s skin was cold—too cold. Kirishima didn’t know if it was a real medical thing, but his gut told him to keep him warm. It felt right.

For a second, Kaminari didn’t move—like he hadn’t heard, or his brain hadn’t caught up to the words yet. Kirishima turned his head, already opening his mouth to shout—

—but Kaminari was gone.

Don’t move him too much.
Especially his neck and head—in case of a spinal injury.

Kirishima’s jaw clenched as the thought surfaced. He froze for a second, hands hovering. Then, carefully, he eased the blanket over Bakugou’s body. His hands worked on their own.

The fabric brushed over his arms, his shoulders, his chest—still rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Kirishima hated how cold his skin felt under it.

In the distance, drawers yanked open. Cabinets slammed.

Then—footsteps. Kaminari rushed back in, clutching a rolled-up towel in both hands like it was made of gold.

He took the towel and pressed it gently but firmly against the wound.

Bakugou flinched.

Kirishima’s heart jumped. “Hey, man—you’re with us?”

A low hiss escaped Bakugou’s lips. It wasn’t a word, but it was something. Right now, it was enough.

Kirishima leaned closer, his voice soft but urgent, like he was trying to coax him back from somewhere far away. He applied a little more pressure to the towel—not enough to cause more damage, just enough to bring Bakugou back through the pain.

“Can you hear me?”
Please. Please.

“Bakugou, if you’re awake—open your eyes. Just a little.”

Come on. Come on. Come on.

“Come on,” Kirishima whispered, like a prayer.

Then—there. A flicker.

His eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, just slivers of crimson under heavy lids. Bloodshot, glassy, slow to track—but they were open. They were there.

Red. Deep and burning, even dulled by pain. Not as sharp as usual, but unmistakably his.

Kirishima loved his eyes.

Even now—half-lidded, bloodshot, and swimming in pain—they were still Bakugou’s. Fierce. Unyielding. That sharp, molten red, like embers refusing to go out, even under the weight of blood loss and confusion. Like they were fighting to stay open just to spite the darkness.

He leaned in closer, voice going soft without meaning to.

“Hey,” kirishima whispered, like the sound might hurt him if it was too loud.

Those eyes dragged toward him—slow, unfocused—but they found him.

“Hey, man…” kiriahima sounded like he was flirting.

Idiot, focus.

“I mean—sorry, just… stay awake, alright? Don’t close your eyes.”

He gently adjusted Bakugou’s position, lowering him flat on his back—but tilted his head carefully to the side, just in case.

If he’s going to throw up or fall unconscious again… he can’t choke.

Bakugou jerked suddenly, his body trying to sit up—more reflex than reason.

Kirishima moved fast, pressing a hand to his shoulder, the other bracing his chest.

Don’t let him stand or sit up suddenly. Not after a head injury.

“No—hey, hey, don’t move yet,” Kirishima said quickly, firm but gentle, like he was trying to calm a wild animal. “Just stay still, okay? You hit your head, man.”

He didn’t know if Bakugou even understood, but saying it—naming the injury—felt like something. Something that might keep him from pushing up again.

“What the fuck—” Bakugou whispered, his voice rough and ragged, barely more than a breath.

Kirishima was wrong—Bakugou was trying to sit up again.

Maybe he wasn’t fully aware of what was happening. Maybe the pain and dizziness had scrambled his senses. Or maybe he was just being stubborn as hell.

Either way, Kirishima couldn’t let him move—

“Bakugou, stop,” Kirishima commanded, voice firm but steady, trying to keep calm even though his chest felt like it was about to burst.

He gently but firmly pressed Bakugou back down, locking eyes with him.

Bakugou’s breathing calmed but became shallow and uneven. His eyes, once flickering with a spark of awareness, now glazed over and lost focus again. He was slipping away.

“Hey, hey—don’t do that,” Kirishima urged, moving his face closer to Bakugou’s line of sight, voice low but urgent. “Stay with us, yeah? Stay here.”

Footsteps echoed softly from the hallway, growing louder and steadier.

Kirishima snapped his head toward the sound and saw Aizawa stepping into the room.

Aizawa’s tired, unkempt hair framed his worn but sharp face, eyes dark with concern beneath his signature goggles. His expression was calm, yet his whole presence carried a weight of quiet authority—a shield against chaos.

Kirishima’s throat tightened. He nearly felt tears sting his eyes. Seeing Aizawa felt like finding solid ground after being adrift in a storm.

As Aizawa drew closer, Kirishima instinctively stepped aside, clearing space. Kaminari did the same.

Aizawa crouched near Bakugou, quickly assessing the situation with a sharp glance.

“What happened?” Aizawa asked reaching to check Bakugou’s vitals.

Kirishima swallowed hard. “His head’s bleeding… and he’s fading in and out. He’s cold, barely responsive.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, sharp and focused. “Did he vomit? Any seizures or convulsions?”

“No,”

“He did vomit,” Denki interjected from behind. “I saw it—in the bathroom. There was blood too.”

Kirishima snapped his head toward Denki, surprised. When did that happen?

Without a word, Aizawa moved to lift Bakugou. Kirishima’s heart jumped as Bakugou let out a low, ragged groan, his breath shallow and uneven. The sudden movement made him flinch, his eyes fluttering with confusion.

Aizawa held him close to his chest, steady and careful.

“I’m taking him to Recovery Girl,” Aizawa said, voice firm but calm. “You both did good.”

No—don’t take him away.

“I’m coming with you,” Kirishima blurted, stepping forward.

“Kirishima, it’s not the time to argue,” Aizawa said, “He’ll be fine. Go get some rest.”

Kirishima’s heart clenched. He had to go.

He stood frozen in place, staring after Aizawa’s retreating figure—more accurately, at Bakugou, cradled against his teacher’s chest like something breakable.

Bakugou’s head shifted slightly with the motion, and a soft, low groan slipped from his throat. His breathing was thin, ragged, each inhale a struggle. His face stayed pale. His hair, usually wild and full of fire, was damp and matted. One arm hung limply at his side, the other slightly curled in toward his chest, trembling faintly even in unconsciousness.

He looked small.

Kirishima’s throat tightened painfully.

Should I just follow him?
Would Aizawa be mad? Would Bakugou even want him there?

His fingers curled into fists, and he took one shaky breath.

Then another.

Even Kaminari stood frozen beside him, silent.

It wasn’t until the soft pad of Aizawa’s footsteps finally faded into silence that Kirishima exhaled. The kind of breath that hurt coming out, like it had been trapped behind his ribs for too long.

Kirishima stared down at his hands—still stained with blood.

Bakugou’s blood.

Still warm.

Chapter Text

“Whoa, whoa—dude, it’s just me” Denki said quickly, lifting his hands in surrender.

He didn’t really mean to open the door. Not without the blonde’s permission—especially not with Bakugou in that kind of mood. Sure, he was always a little pissed off, always storming around with a permanent scowl like the world had personally offended him. But today? Today was worse. Not just irritation—anger. Real anger. The air had already been thick with gloom and doom all day, and it was stressing the shit out of Kaminari.

Stepping inside felt like walking barefoot into fire.

He had knocked, of course. More than once. He’d lingered by the door, waiting for the creak of hinges, any sound, anything—but nothing came. He stood there long enough to hate the damn thing. That scratched-up slab of wood, beaten by too many slams. It had even started to lean slightly, like it was about to give up but stubbornly refused.

Just like its owner.

His gaze drifted up and landed on a small sticker in the top corner: an angry Pomeranian. Kaminari had slapped it there weeks ago, thought it was funny. He still do.

The world came rushing back in as he looked at bakugo’s face.

He was standing beside his bed, hunched slightly, breathing hard—too hard. His eyes were wide, wild. Was he alarmed? Tense? Scared? More like a deer caught in the headlights.

Kaminari couldn’t tell. He’d never seen that look on Bakugou’s face before.

Kaminari stood in the doorway, frozen mid-step, eyes scanning the way Bakugou swayed ever so slightly, jaw clenched too tight.

A full second passed. Then another.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence buzzed louder than anything Kaminari could’ve said. It wasn’t just awkward—it was off. Wrong.

Bakugou didn’t snap. Didn’t yell. He was quiet, does he even know how to be quiet? Never knew that.

“Hey-“

“Get the fuck out.”

Huh? Why does he sound like that? Why does his voice sound so rough and low? That wasn’t the usual bark of his.

“Are you deaf?” he snarled. “I said get the Fuck out.”

As Kaminari looked around the room now, Everything looked normal—neat and orderly, just like Bakugou always kept it. The stacks of books on the desk were perfectly aligned—dozens of them. Had Bakugou really read all of these?

There weren’t any clothes lying around, not even draped over the study chair. Nothing out of place. The bed was a little messy, like someone had just rolled out of it. Nothing seemed wrong.

Except… the smell.

There was a reason Denki had come in the first place. That sudden, heavy sound he’d heard from the hallway just moments ago. Too loud to be a book falling. Too heavy to be brushed off.

And now that he was here, surrounded by everything that looked normal, that thud was still bouncing around in his head like a warning siren that wouldn’t shut off.

By the time Kaminari snapped out of his thoughts, Bakugou was already shoving him out of the room.

“Wait, dude—we need to talk,” Denki protested, digging his heels in, trying to resist the push.

“I don’t have a damn thing to say, dunce face,” Bakugou snapped, not even glancing at him.

He wouldn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t slow down. He was moving like something was chasing him—like if he stopped for even a second, it would catch him.

Bakugou was about to slam the door shut when Denki caught it with his hand.

“I heard a thud,” he said, voice firm—pleading, almost—trying to get Bakugou to just stop for a second and listen.

Bakugou paused and their eyes met. Bakugou looked…tired. His eyes looked like they were struggling to stay open, flickering with a tired haze. Then his eyes shut it all off again, cold and sharp.

“Then you’re being delusional, fucker.”

The door slammed shut. That damn door. Again.

Well it was way past bakugou’s usual bedtime. It’s 3 in the morning? Or something around it, but still that look of tiredness was not sitting right for denki.

He heard it—click. The lock.

Of course.

Still, he reached for the handle anyway. Not because he thought it would open—he knew it wouldn’t—but because… no real reason. Just instinct. Just him being stupid.

Denki couldn’t just let it slide. He had to do something. He figured putting the fire out was better than waiting around to get burned.

So waking up Kirishima had seemed like the best idea at the time.

_____________________________________

“Should I break the door?” Kirishima asked, he was planted right in front of Bakugou’s door, barefoot, hair still messy from sleep, his tone laced with real anxiety now. He was trying to stay calm, but the worry was starting to bleed through. Fast.

“No, bro—why would you do that?” Denki said quickly, eyes wide.

“What do you mean? He’s not answering,” Kirishima shot back, voice edging toward panic. His fists were already clenched. He was definitely starting to freak out.

“That doesn’t mean we have to break it,” Denki said, gesturing toward the door like it was obvious. “We’re just checking on him—not staging a rescue mission.”

Waking Kirishima had seemed like the best move.
Now? He wasn’t so sure.

Suddenly, Kirishima took a step back—lined up his stance—about to throw a punch.

“Wait, man!” Denki slid in front of the door, arms spread out to stop him. “Just chill, okay? I’ll call Aizawa.”

He fumbled for his phone, adding quickly with a shaky laugh,
“He’s probably up anyway, working on some top-secret insomnia project or—who knows—hunched over his desk in the dark, grading stuff in the same sweatpants he’s been wearing for a week. Guy’s like a vampire with tenure.. That’s why he crashes like a corpse during the day.”

He let out a low, awkward laugh, hoping it would lighten the mood.

_____________________________________

“Break it,” Aizawa said, voice low and firm.

“I’m on my way,” he added, then hung up—right in Denki’s face.

The next thing Denki heard was a crack as Kirishima’s fist collided with the door.

Things were escalating. Fast.

What the hell is happening? Denki thought,
It’s not that serious… right?

The door gave way with a heavy creak—but before it could crash to the ground, Kirishima caught it instinctively, easing it down with both hands like that would somehow undo the noise he’d just made breaking it open.

But neither of them moved.

Their eyes were locked on Bakugou.

Bakugou was lying half-on, half-off the bed. His chest was pressed into the mattress, legs dangling off the edge, one arm limp toward the floor, the other pinned awkwardly beneath him. Face pressed into the sheets. Still.

Why was he sleeping like that? How could he even breathe with his face buried in the sheets?

Denki stared, trying to shake the gnawing feeling in his gut. Still telling himself it was nothing—until the smell hit again.

It hadn’t gone away.

Denki’s nose wrinkled, and for a moment he stopped looking at Bakugou. His eyes drifted toward the one place in the room he hadn’t paid attention to— unlike the rest of the spotless room, he couldn’t see inside it. The door of the bathroom was almost closed. just enough to hide whatever was behind it.

“Hey, man…” Kirishima said quietly, stepping toward the bed, his voice directed at Bakugou.

Denki stepped too—but not toward Bakugou. Instead, he veered toward the bathroom.

He pushed the door open using only the very tips of his fingers as if expecting something to jump out at him—like Mina hiding behind the door, ready to scare the shit out of him.

Slowly, Denki pushed the bathroom door open and peeked his head inside.

Ugh… disgusting.

The smell hit him first—stronger now. Definitely vomit.

It was sitting in the toilet. Unflushed, like they hadn’t even bothered to. But what really made his skin crawl was the blood. A smear of it on the porcelain rim, like someone had coughed it up. And more, darker, farther away on the tile floor—

His mind scrambled for an explanation. Why was there blood?

Could this be—God, what, a nosebleed?
A stupid part of him even thought, Could it be really his period?
He almost laughed—but the sound died in his throat.
Not funny. Idiot.

Before he could look closer, a shaky voice called from the room:

“Man… wake up.”

Denki’s head snapped toward it—Kirishima.

Is bro having a panic attack?

Denki backed out of the bathroom quickly, stepping toward the bed—toward Kirishima.

Kirishima was staring at his own hands in eyes wide—confused. His palms were covered in blood. Denki wasn’t sure if it was fear or shock.

“Did you cut yourself on the door?” Denki asked, voice thin, already knowing the answer was no.

Then he saw Bakugou.

He looked worse. Lying flat on the ground now. Pale. Paler than he was in the morning. His chest rising fast, too fast. Sweat pooling on his brow. He looked like he’d been drained of color and—

Denki’s breath caught.

“What is that… under his head?”

A dark stain was creeping out beneath the blond’s hair, soaking into the carpet.

“Kirishima… is that blood under his head?”

Kirishima flinched like someone had slapped him back into reality.

He quickly leaned down and, with shaking hands, gently lifted Bakugou’s head.

Then he froze.

His whole body locked up. Like whatever he saw under that mess of spiky blond hair wasn’t right. He didn’t even set Bakugou’s head back down—just held it there, suspended in the air, like lowering it would break him.

His eyes snapped to Denki. Wide-eyed. Scared. Like he needed someone to tell him what the hell to do now. But Denki didn’t know what he was asking for.

Suddenly, Kirishima snapped—no hesitation this time. His voice was low, steady, but urgent. “Okay. We have to act.”

He looked at Denki, eyes sharp.

“Kaminari—bring a towel. Or anything you can find to stop the bleeding. And a blanket.”

Denki just stood there for a second, like his brain hadn’t caught up yet.

Kirishima opened his mouth again, about to yell—

But Denki blinked back into motion. He turned quickly, grabbed the blanket from the bed, tossed it to Kirishima in one swift motion, then rushed to the bathroom. Two steps took him to the door. He didn’t think—just grabbed the first towel he could find.

By the time he made it back, Kirishima was kneeling beside Bakugou, hands already steadying him. Denki passed the towel over without a word. Kirishima pressed it against the back of Bakugou’s head, fingers shaking only slightly.

Bakugou flinched. So did Kirishima.

“Hey, man—you’re with us?” Kirishima said, his voice a little softer now, leaning over him, pressing the towel more securely into place.

Bakugou let out a low groan in response—pain or confusion, it was hard to tell.

Kirishima leaned in closer, eyes scanning every flicker on Bakugou’s face. He shifted his grip on the towel, applying firmer pressure.

“Can you hear me?”

“Bakugou, if you’re awake—open your eyes. Just a little.”

The silence sat heavy in the room, the only sound was Bakugou’s ragged breathing—shaky, uneven, too loud in the stillness.

“Come on” Kirishima whispered, barely above a breath.

Bakugou’s eyes fluttered open—just a sliver of red beneath heavy lids.

Thank God.

Denki nearly collapsed with relief. His knees went soft, and he grabbed the edge of the bed to steady himself. From where he stood, he couldn’t see Kirishima’s face—but he didn’t need to. He could feel it in the air: the way Kirishima’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly—he had to be smiling, even just a little.

“Hey,” Kirishima said softly. “Hey, man. I mean—sorry, just… stay awake, alright? Don’t close your eyes.”

Kirishima lowered Bakugou’s head gently, angling it slightly to the side. Bakugou winced, a hiss of pain escaping through gritted teeth, and instinctively tried to sit up. His arms trembled under his own weight. Movements jerky. Disconnected. Like his brain was sending signals but his limbs were stuck underwater, reacting too slow, too stiff.

Like he wasn’t fully in his body.

“No—hey, hey, don’t move yet,” Kirishima said quickly, more urgent now, pressing him back down with a firm hand. “Just stay still, okay? You hit your head, man.”

Kaminari didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring.

“What the fuck—” Bakugou muttered under his breath, voice barely a rasp.

Bakugou, being Bakugou, tried to force himself upright again—muttering curses under his breath, jaw clenched through the pain. But Kirishima was quick, one hand pressed gently but firmly to his shoulder.

“Bakugou, stop.” Not angry, but firm. Commanding.

Strangely… Bakugou did.
His movements slowed. His breathing hitched. Since when did he listen to anyone?

Then Denki saw it—his chest rising too shallow, too fast. His eyelids fluttering.
He was slipping again.

“Hey, hey—don’t do that,” Kirishima said quickly, leaning closer. “Stay with us, yeah?”

Just in time, Aizawa entered—no door to slam, no dramatic entrance, just his sudden presence filling the room like a cold wind. The two boys turned instantly toward him. Denki almost cried. Finally—an adult.

Aizawa didn’t waste time. His tired eyes scanned the room in seconds before locking onto Bakugou. As he knelt down, Kirishima instinctively shifted aside, not far, just enough to give space, but still close enough to stay beside Bakugou.

“What happened?” Aizawa asked as he leaned in, already reaching for Bakugou’s wrist to check his pulse.

“His head’s bleeding,” Kirishima said. “and he’s fading in and out. He’s cold, barely responsive.”

“Did he vomit? Any seizures or convulsions?” Aizawa’s voice was calm, but urgent.

“No,” Kirishima replied quickly.

“He did vomit,” Denki added quickly.
For a second, Denki blinked in surprise at his own voice.
Oh. I thought I’d lost it.

“I saw it,” Denki continued. “In the bathroom. There was blood, too.”

Aizawa nodded, never once lifting his eyes from Bakugou. Then, with practiced ease, he slid one arm under Bakugou’s shoulders and the other under his knees, lifting him as if he weighed nothing—carrying him close against his chest, like something fragile.

“I’m taking him to Recovery Girl. You both did good,” he said as he turned toward the hall.

“I’m coming with you,” Kirishima said, already on his feet.

“Kirishima, it’s not the time to argue,” Aizawa said, not harsh—just final. “He’ll be fine. Go get some rest.”

They watched Aizawa walk out, carrying the limp blond in his arms.

Denki shifted his eyes to Kirishima, who hadn’t moved—hadn’t even blinked.
He was still staring at Aizawa’s back like if he looked away, something would go wrong.

Then they were alone again.
Just the two of them.

Left in silence… with the weight of everything that had just happened.
The blood.
The smell.
And the door—
sprawled on the carpet

Denki stared at it. That door had survived Bakugou’s worst slams. It had always stood tall. He never thought it would fall.

Even seconds ago, it was still standing.

And yet…
With just one punch—

It did fall.

Chapter Text

It felt like drawing.

Except not in water—more like static. A thick, buzzing fog, crawling under his skin.

His head was splitting. Or maybe the floor split first. Hard to tell.

He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the room to stay still. It didn’t work. The air felt off. He was overheating one second, freezing the next. His skin prickled like it didn’t know how to regulate itself anymore.

He stayed flat on his back, jaw locked, eyes staring up at the ceiling in the dark.

This was nothing. Just a headache. Just some dizziness. Just whatever.

He’s had worse.

By 4:52 AM, he was up.

He swung his legs off the bed, moved like someone walking through sludge. His whole body ached like it had been slammed into concrete—but that didn’t stop him.
He shoved the window open to get some air, ignored how the cold made him sway on his feet.

Then it was the usual:
Shower. Ice-cold. No steam. No heat. He thought the chill would wake him up.

Clothes next. Black training tank, loose joggers, gloves slung around his wrist. His hands were trembling as he fastened them, but he told himself it was adrenaline.

He laced up his shoes too tight. Didn’t fix it.

By 5:16, he was outside.
Running.
The one thing that usually helped.

Step, step,
Right foot, left foot,
Again. Again. Don’t think. Just move.

The chill outside helped. Wind against his face, the early blue of morning not quite settled. Ground Gamma’s fences stood tall in the distance like usual. The air was sharp. It felt real.

He picked up speed. Pushed harder.

But something was wrong with his rhythm.
His quirk flared too fast, burned too quick. His palms itched like they were misfiring—sparking too early, then fizzling out before they were supposed to.

He cursed under his breath and kept going.

Half a lap later, his legs gave a warning twitch. One of those deep, behind-the-knee kinds that says hey, we’re done here.

Fuck it. He didn’t stop.

His heart was beating too loud now.
Not fast in the good way—fast in the off way. Fluttery. Slippery. Like it wanted to skip a beat and never pick it back up.

He slowed. Just a little. Told himself he was pacing.

The ground tilted for a second.

He stopped completely.

Hands on his knees, breathing sharp.

Fuck this shit.

He pressed his knuckles, trying to focus.
His stomach rolled, tight and sour. He swallowed it back.

His arms were shaking.

You’re fine.
Get over it.
You’re not weak.

He took another breath. In through his nose, sharp. Out through his teeth.

Fine. Whatever. Call it early today.

He turned around, headed back to the dorms like nothing happened.
Just another morning. Just another run. Just another moment where everything felt like it was one inch away from cracking.

Back in his room, he peeled off his shirt and headed straight for the shower. The water hit him hard—hot enough to burn away the haze clinging to his skin, but not quite enough to clear the fog in his mind. He scrubbed his face, trying to wash off the unease he couldn’t name.

When he finally stepped out, dripping and still shaky, he dried off and forced himself into the kitchen. Breakfast wasn’t really something he felt like eating, but it was part of the routine—and routines were the one thing he could hold onto right now.

He moved mechanically, cracking eggs, frying them, the sizzle a small comfort in the quiet. He was halfway through making toast when the silence broke.

A soft, calm voice from behind him—
“You’re up early.”

Bakugou didn’t flinch, but his grip on the pan tightened slightly.

“Tch. Didn’t know this was your kitchen,” he muttered without turning around.

Todoroki didn’t answer at first. Just walked slowly to the counter, hands in his pockets, gaze unreadable as always.

“I usually don’t see you cook,” he said mildly, eyeing the eggs.

Bakugou scoffed, plating the food with more force than necessary. “I’m not cooking for you.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

The quiet stretched again, sharp and awkward. Bakugou tried to ignore the pressure behind his eyes, the way his knees didn’t feel entirely steady beneath him. He focused instead on buttering the toast like it mattered. Like he didn’t feel like collapsing.

“You okay?” Todoroki asked suddenly, and too directly.

Bakugou’s jaw clenched.

“Do I look like I’m fucking not?”

Todoroki blinked, slow and nonchalant. “You look… tired.”

That made Bakugou pause. Just for a second. Then he shoved the plate aside and turned his back on him.

“Mind your damn business.”

Todoroki didn’t push back—not verbally. But his silence had weight to it, like he was watching closely. Like he already knew something wasn’t right.

Bakugou hated that.

He grabbed the edge of the counter for a second longer than he meant to. The damn spinning wouldn’t stop. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to move, to look busy—grabbing the plate again and pretending to have an appetite.

“Seriously,” he muttered, not looking up. “Go eat your fucking frozen crap and quit hovering.”

“I’m not,” Todoroki said calmly, though he still hadn’t moved. “You’re swaying.”

Bakugou froze.

It was just for a moment. A flicker. But it was enough.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, louder than necessary. He should’ve walked away then, but his legs didn’t seem to listen the way they should.

The edge of the counter dug into his palm. Hard. A reminder. Keep standing. Keep breathing. Keep everything from slipping.

He didn’t even know what the hell he’d say if he sat down—if he admitted out loud how wrong everything felt. The ringing in his ears. The way the room kept tilting too far to one side like it wasn’t level anymore.

Todoroki’s voice was quieter this time. Careful. “You should sit down.”

Bakugou turned—too fast.

His vision lurched.

“Shit—” he hissed through his teeth, bracing himself on the fridge.

The worst timing imaginable.

Just as Bakugou straightened up and tried to act like he hadn’t just nearly keeled over in front of Todoroki, Iida stepped into the common room—crisp uniform, perfect posture, that booming early-morning energy like he’d chugged an entire pot of coffee before sunrise.

“Good morning!” Iida called out, practically marching toward them.

Bakugou didn’t even snap at him. He didn’t have the strength for it.

With the hallway spinning and his temples still pounding, Bakugou muttered something that might’ve been a curse, but it was lost halfway through. His jaw clenched, hand tightening into a fist at his side.

He crossed the room and dropped onto the couch like a bag of bricks, breathing hard through his nose.

It was supposed to help. Sitting. But it didn’t. The pressure in his head wasn’t easing. It was worse now, like something behind his eyes was swelling, stretching against bone. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, trying to will everything back into place.

Fuck.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Iida didn’t notice a thing.

Not the way Bakugou’s shoulders hunched too tightly. Not the shallow, uneven breaths. Not even the fact that Bakugou hadn’t yelled at anyone yet—a crime in itself, considering Iida was talking nonstop about efficiency charts and class objectives like this was a staff meeting and not breakfast.

Todoroki, though—he stayed quiet.

Whatever. It didn’t matter.

Bakugou kept his head low, eyes fixed on the floor—no sparks, no steady flickers of heat like usual. Just cold sweat. And the steady thud of his pulse in his ears. Way too loud.

“—and I believe if we all arrive in the training room by 1:02, we can optimize warm-up times,” Iida continued cheerfully, totally unaware.

Bakugou swallowed and nodded once like he was listening. He wasn’t.

He was still trying not to throw up.

After… fuck, he didn’t even know how much time had passed—
Minutes? Hours? Or just seconds stretched too long?

The static in his head was starting to crowd out everything else when he heard it.
A voice—faint, rough with sleep, coming from behind him.

“Hey, Bakugou, what’s up?”

Shitty hair.

Bakugou’s breath hitched.
Great.

“Looks like you’ve already exercised,” Kirishima said with a yawn, voice still heavy with sleep as he padded into the common room.

Bakugou didn’t look up. “What do you think, dipshit?”

The words came out sharp, but his tone was too flat to sell it. Not enough bite.

Just go fuck yourself, he wanted to add—

Kirishima let out a small laugh. “Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off.”

Bakugou didn’t say anything.
Just sat there, willing his vision to steady and his stomach to behave—because the last thing he needed was to puke or pass out in front of Kirishima of all people.

Don’t say anything. Don’t ask. Just leave.

Well, looked like Kirishima really didn’t notice anything. Just plopped down on the couch across from him, yawning wide. Pulled out his phone. Started scrolling. One knee bouncing absently, like it was any other morning.

Bakugou stared at the floor. His vision swam for a second,

Fuck this morning.

“Mm… should’ve brought my water,” Kirishima mumbled under his breath after a moment, standing up again with a stretch.

He turned and padded off toward the bathroom, still yawning, muttering something else Bakugou didn’t catch.

Didn’t even glance back.

Bakugou stood—but even that sent a quiet throb through the base of his skull. Didn’t matter. He needed to get back to his room. Maybe lie down. Or punch a wall. Either might help.

He walked out into the hallway, stopping in front of the elevator. Pressed the button.

A soft ding echoed above him, and the little digital screen lit up: 2F.

Great. Just fucking great.

Second floor. Most likely to wake up this early? Deku or birdbrain. And honestly, Bakugou didn’t know which one he’d prefer less right now.

If it was birdbrain, fine. He could grunt, and keep walking.

But if it was Deku?

Hell no. He didn’t need that. Not with his head already ringing like someone jammed a damn microwave in his ears.

Bakugou didn’t wait to see who was coming down from the second floor. He could already imagine the possibilities. If it was Deku, he’d have to deal with the eyes. The concern. The unspoken questions.

No thanks.

He let out a low breath through his nose, canceled the elevator call, and turned—heading for the stairs instead.

Each step made his vision pulse, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Not in the middle of the hallway like some weak-ass drama queen. Just get to the room. Lock the damn door. Sit. Breathe.

Bakugou barely made it to his room.

His hand slipped once on the doorknob—sweaty, useless—before he gritted his teeth and yanked it open harder, the door slamming into the wall behind it.

He stood there for a second, shoulders tight, breathing shallow.

Then he moved.

Crossed the room, pushed open the bathroom door, and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. He breathed through his nose, trying to will the nausea away. No use.

His stomach twisted violently. The nausea that had been simmering all morning surged up like it had been waiting for this exact moment. He leaned forward, barely enough time to brace himself before he started to heave.

Not much came out—just stomach acid and bile—but it left his throat raw and his arms shaking a little.

He stayed hunched there, gripping the rim of the toilet. His forehead rested against the cool porcelain. His breaths were ragged. Shaky.

“Damn it…”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, not even bothering to look in the mirror. Didn’t need to see his reflection to know he looked like shit.

He hated this. Weak. Stupid.

Bakugou pushed himself to his feet slowly, steadying his weight on the sink for half a second. He moved on autopilot after that.

Yanked open his closet, he snatched the shirt off the hanger, shoved his arms through the sleeves in one practiced motion, buttoning from the middle up without even looking. The collar stayed open—he never wore the damn tie, and no one was stupid enough to ask him to.

The pants came next, sharp creases still intact. He pulled them on quick, belt yanked tight with a metallic clink. Shirt tucked—half-sloppy but intentional, just like always. Fast. Functional. Done.

He didn’t even glance in the mirror. No need. He knew what he looked like, and he didn’t give a shit.

His blazer stayed on the hook. He grabbed it anyway, slinging it over one shoulder with two fingers. Slipped on his shoes without sitting down.

That was it. No hesitation. No slowing down. Just one deep, silent breath through his nose before heading for the door.

Like hell he’d let anyone see him stall.

_____________________________________

Tch.
He thought he got lucky skipping that damn elevator. Thought he dodged Deku for the morning. Of course not. That freak’s like a damn roach—shows up no matter how many times you stomp him.

His head was buzzing. And the nerd wouldn’t stop looking at him.

“You okay?”
“You sure you’re alright?”
“You don’t look so good—”

Shut the fuck up.

Different tone every time, like he was trying to sneak concern past Bakugou’s defenses. Like he wouldn’t notice.

Was Deku always this annoying? Definitely. But today it grated worse than usual.

He wanted to shove the desk back and scream in his face. Does this look like I want to talk, you fucking stalker?! But instead, he just sat there, fists clenched under the table, jaw grinding, staring straight ahead like if he focused hard enough the idiot would catch on and vanish. If Deku had a brain cell in his oversized head, he’d shut up before Bakugou made him.

He regretted not seeing him in the damn elevator earlier. He could’ve ended it then. Blown his fucking head clean off. Problem solved.

Instead, he had to sit here—head pounding, vision swimming, listening to Deku’s mosquito voice whine beside him like some broken alarm clock that didn’t know when to shut up.

If the day kept going like this, Bakugou might actually kill someone. And Deku was first in line.

His hands twitched occasionally, tapping the edge of the desk, then switching to his pencil—spinning it, clicking it, gripping it so hard the plastic creaked. He was trying to focus. Really trying. Eyes on the board, ears open, posture stiff like he might convince his brain to lock into gear just by sheer force of will.

But nothing stuck.

The words blurred together like soup. Letters swam across the page. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, refocused—only for the same haze to settle again, fogging everything up from the inside out.

“Bakugou,” Present Mic’s voice cracked sharply across the room, cheerful but pointed. “Wanna give that last sentence a try for us?”

Bakugou’s eyes darted to the front like he’d just been yanked from underwater. The textbook in front of him was still open to the right page, but the question might as well have been in fucking French. His jaw locked. His tongue felt heavy.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard.

“…What?”

“Page 94. Number three,” Present Mic said, gently now, the energy dialed down a bit. “Just give it a shot.”

Bakugou looked down at the page again. The words didn’t make sense. He knew them—he knew them, goddammit—but it was like his brain refused to connect the dots—Helpless—He squinted, scanned the sentence again. His heart was pounding now, louder than the pencil tapping earlier—stupid—He felt eyes on him. Deku, Todoroki, everyone.

Useless.

“That’s okay,” Mic said, voice breezy but kind. “We’ll come back to it, no worries.”

Bakugou didn’t answer.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached and stared at the page like he could will it to make sense.

Focus. Focus, you useless piece of shit.

Bakugou was barely holding it together, eyes flicking between the lesson and his notebook. His hands twitched, tapping the desk like they had their own nervous rhythm.

Suddenly, from the corner of his vision, Midoriya shifted awkwardly in his seat, knocking his water bottle. It teetered, then spilled just a little — enough to make a wet patch creep across the desk.

Bakugou’s head snapped toward the noise, irritation flaring behind his eyes. Midoriya scrambled to grab napkins from his bag, muttering apologies under his breath.

But the disruption rattled Bakugou. His notebook slipped from the desk edge.

Such a pain in the ass.

He bent down to grab it — or tried to. The sudden movement made his vision tilt. He caught himself on the desk with one hand, fingers curling hard into the wood.

Too fast. That was too fast.

Pathetic.
Don’t let them see.
Get it together.
Don’t let anyone see.

He gritted his teeth and snatched the notebook off the floor in one quick jerk, forcing himself upright like nothing happened.

Weak.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. The clock blurred somewhere between blinks.

Chairs scraped. People stood. Voices rose around him, the usual chaos flooding in. Too loud. It stabbed straight through his skull.

Lunch.

He shoved his books into his bag with more force than necessary, ignoring how his hands had trembled around the zipper.

“Hey, wanna grab lunch?”
Shitty Hair.

Bakugou didn’t look up.
Don’t answer.
He’s pitying you.
Pathetic.

“Bakugou, are you—” Kirishima’s voice dipped, hesitant. Too hesitant.

FUCKING I’M FINE. ISN’T THAT FUCKING CLEAR, ASSHOLE?

“I swear to god, if you fucking extras keep breathing anywhere near me, I’ll decorate the hallway with your spinal cords.” His head snapped up.

His eyes locked with Kirishima’s for half a second.
The world tilted.

No.
He wasn’t gonna sway. He wasn’t gonna blink.
Everything was fine. Fucking fine.

“I’m already fucking sick of dealing with the nerd, acting like clown all morning. So don’t make me fucking repeat myself”

He growled, swinging his bag over one shoulder. Heading to the door.

“Is that your normal volume, or should we be concerned about a malfunction in your vocal cords?”

Bakugou paused.

The fuck did he just say to me?!

Of course it was him. That monotone, smug bastard. Calm as ever, with that neutral expression that made you wanna punch a wall.

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

That holding-back-ass was starting to grow a mouth.

Bakugou hissed through gritted teeth and shoved the door open—rougher than necessary—letting the loud clack echo down the hallway.

He wasn’t about to give him the reaction he wanted. If Todoroki was fishing for a fight, he wasn’t getting one. Not right now. Not when Bakugou was already dizzy enough just standing upright.

What’s his deal?
What’s with the sudden interest?

Bakugou frowned, his thoughts twisting. He couldn’t tell if it was a genuine attempt to check on him or just a snide jab. With Todoroki, it could go either way. That guy never said much.

His thoughts were cut short.

The hallway wavered for a second—like the lights above had flickered, but they hadn’t. His feet stumbled, just once, like the floor had shifted beneath him.

Bakugou stopped walking.

What the fuck—

His heartbeat wasn’t racing. It wasn’t doing anything at all. Just this slow, heavy thump against his ribs that didn’t feel right. His vision had that same static haze from earlier, and the noise in his ears—like TV snow—had crept back in.

Too loud.

He turned without thinking and headed for the nearest bathroom.

He wasn’t even sure if he made it there. One second he was pushing the door open, and the next—

…

It was bright again. Colder. The next thing he remembered was splashing water on his face. The edges of the sink dug into his hands.

Did he pass out?

No. Fuck that. He was fine.

There was a gap. A fucking blank spot.

He stared at his reflection. His skin looked like shit. Eyes slightly sunken, jaw tight. A drop of water slid from his temple down to his collarbone. Or maybe it was sweat. Didn’t matter.

He dried his face with his sleeve, straightened up, forced his back to lock straight, and marched out without a second thought.

Hero training was next.

He’d go. He’d tear the damn field apart if he had to. Because no one—not Deku, not Todoroki, not even fucking himself—was going to see him crack.

He took the stairs two at a time. If he moved fast enough, maybe his skull wouldn’t feel like it was splitting in half.

He shoved open the locker room door and let it slam behind him.

He gritted his teeth as he peeled off his uniform—his fingers fumbling more than he liked. He missed the button twice. Almost dropped his shirt. His hands weren’t shaking. Not really. Just… twitchy.

He grabbed his training gear and pulled it on with practiced movements. Shirt, boots, gloves.

No waiting. No talking.

He stormed out, boots thudding down the hall, dragging himself toward Gamma like it was war and he had no other choice.

The field was mostly empty. Just a few extras were scattered around, but Bakugou didn’t register faces—just noise.

Whatever. None of them mattered.

“Yo,” Kaminari called out, “Kirishima was lookin’ for you in the cafeteria. Said you skipped lunch.”

Bakugou’s eyes snapped toward him. Sharp. Predatory.

“Why the hell are you telling me that?” he growled.

Kaminari stiffened. “Dude, chill. I was just saying—”

Bakugou hissed, “Tell him to worry about someone who gives a shit.”

Bakugou turned away before he could say something else stupid. He rolled his shoulders back, arms tense, as he stepped onto the field like it owed him something.

Aizawa stood at the far end of the field, arms crossed, his ever-tired eyes sharp as steel.

“Line up,” he said, voice low but commanding. “And pay attention. I’m only saying this once.”

The class fell instantly silent, all eyes fixed on him.

Bakugou stared ahead, trying to listen—really trying. But Aizawa’s voice kept warping in and out, like a shitty signal on a busted radio.

His head throbbed. Every syllable landed like a hammer between his eyes.

Focus, damn it. You’ve heard this shit before. Just focus.

All he managed to piece together was the basics: get in, don’t blow shit up, don’t be a dumbass on camera. And something about time limits and hostages and consequences he couldn’t be bothered to process.

Fuck. Whatever.

Then came the worst part.

“First team up,”
Aizawa’s voice sharpened, slicing through the fog in his skull like glass.

“Bakugou and Todoroki,”

Of course. Of fucking course.

Out of everyone, they stuck him with Icy-Hot. The half-silent, half-smug bastard.

Fantastic. Just what he fucking needed.

He didn’t look at Todoroki. Didn’t need to. He could already feel those calm-ass eyes on him like a judgment he didn’t ask for.

Perfect. Head splitting, stomach on fire, vision barely hanging on—and now he was stuck with the walking ice cube in a timed infiltration challenge with cameras watching their every move.

Fucking amazing.

_____________________________________

FUCKING DISASTER.

That’s what it was.

Not just a mess—no, this was the kind of clusterfuck that would get you benched if it were a real op. And for what? A couple of fucking dummies and a half-baked building with too much smoke and not enough actual challenge.

Bakugou ripped off his gauntlet as soon as they crossed the finish line, the siren still echoing in his skull like a taunt. His hand was shaking. He clenched it into a fist, hard. Stop. Shaking.

What the hell was that? Missing a landing? Fumbling his blasts? He might as well’ve handed Aizawa a written confession saying, “Hey, I’m not at a hundred percent.” Fuck that.

And Todoroki.

That bastard.

Running his mouth the whole mission.

“You good?”
“You ever rescued a hostage?”
“Want me to take point?”

The fuck was that about?!
Since when did Icy-Hot talk that much in a damn mission?

Bakugou snarled under his breath as the memory played again, shame crawling up his spine like rot.

Was that supposed to be subtle? Was he teasing him? Was that bastard trying to draw attention to how off he was? Playing dumb like it was all just casual teamwork?

Or was that his version of throwing a rope?

Fuck.

Either way, it pissed him off. More than it should’ve.

If anyone else had so much as glanced at him with pity in their eyes, he would’ve blasted them straight through the drywall. But Todoroki didn’t look at him like that. He didn’t look smug, didn’t look concerned either. Just… watching.

Analyzing.

Maybe waiting.

“Fucking freak,” Bakugou muttered, slamming his fist against the nearest locker as he stormed out of the building. “Next time, I’m dragging your half-frozen ass off the roof myself.”

Weak.

That’s what this was.

And worst of all?
He fucking knew it.

The moment Bakugou stepped into the locker room, his boots scuffing against the tile, the noise hit him all at once.

“Dude, you okay? That landing looked rough,” Kaminari piped up from the bench, towel around his neck, half a grin tugging at his face but not quite reaching his eyes.

“Bakugou moved like he was three seconds from blowing the whole block,” Sero added, chuckling, but it came out too strained to be genuine.

Bakugou ignored them. He stalked toward his locker, jaw tight. His back burned. His shoulders ached. The inside of his head is going to explode.

Deku asked, voice level. “Kacchan, you—”

Bakugou snapped, slamming his locker shut so hard it echoed. “What is it with you extras breathing down my neck today? You think I’m gonna fucking crumble if you ask one more time?!”

The room went quiet. Even Kaminari stopped fidgeting.

Midoriya stepped forward, brow furrowed with that pathetic worried look he always wore.

“You’ve been off all day,” he said. “This isn’t about beating someone to the hostage. You almost fell on a flat surface. Twice.”

“Seriously?” Bakugou barked, chest heaving.
“Say one more word, and I swear I’ll put your fucking head through this locker door.”

“Bakugou, chill—” Kaminari tried to step between them. The explosion would’ve come next—maybe with his quirk, maybe just his fists—but Todoroki leaned against the locker beside them, voice cool as ice.

“Are we done posturing?”

Bakugou snapped toward him. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

“It means,” Todoroki said evenly, “if you’re fine, maybe stop acting like you’re seconds from passing out or throwing a tantrum.”

A sharp silence followed.

Bakugou’s chest heaved once—twice—then he scoffed, grabbed his bag, and shoved past them toward the exit. “Screw this. I’m not wasting another second with a bunch of goddamn spectators.”

The locker room air felt heavy behind him as Bakugou stormed out, his footsteps a harsh rhythm down the tiled hallway. His gym bag hung from one shoulder, strap digging into his collarbone, but he didn’t slow down.

Fuck all of them.

He pushed through the door to the dorm building, jaw locked so tight it ached. Every part of him throbbed—temples, calves, spine—and the nausea sat low in his gut like a ticking bomb.

He didn’t head for the common room. Didn’t stop for water. Didn’t even take off his shoes.

Up the stairs. Two at a time.

Straight to his room.

The door slammed shut behind him, rattling the hinges.

Inside, he dropped the bag by his desk and stood there for a second, shoulders tight. His eyes flicked over the mess—half-sorted notes from training reviews, a few notebooks open from last night’s half-assed study attempt.

He muttered a curse under his breath and yanked out his history textbook. Sat down. Tried to focus.

The words blurred.

His handwriting looked like someone else’s.

His head pounded, and his palms were sweating against the desk.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. Maybe hours. He made it through half a page before slamming the book shut and pushing it away.

What the fuck is happening today?
One stumble, fine. But two? Three? Slipping off a goddamn platform like a first-year with no quirk control? What the actual—

He slammed a fist down on the desk.

Eventually, the clock ticked past seven. The smell of dinner wafted up from the kitchen—soy sauce, garlic, steamed rice. His stomach twisted.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath. “Just tired. Whatever. You’re fine.”

The common area buzzed with quiet conversation—laughter, silverware clinking, someone playing a show on low volume from their tablet.

Bakugou entered without a word.

No one greeted him. But they noticed.

Kirishima looked up instantly from his spot on the couch, a bowl of curry half-forgotten in his hands. His expression was unreadable—soft maybe, worried definitely. He didn’t say anything either.

Four eyes glanced up from the table. Deku paused mid-bite. Lobes’s smile faltered. Even Sero and Kaminari exchanged a glance.

He felt all of it.

Bakugou grabbed a plate mechanically and dished himself a small portion of food. Sat at the edge of the table, turned away from the main group.

The curry tasted like garbage.

Each bite was a chore. His jaw moved, but his throat didn’t want to swallow. His stomach clenched like it knew something the rest of him was still trying to ignore.

He gave up after five bites.

Didn’t say a word.

He stood, put the plate in the sink, and walked out.

Kirishima started to get up.

Didn’t follow.

Upstairs, the dorm halls were quiet again. The back of Bakugou’s neck felt damp. His heart wouldn’t slow.

Back in his room, he shut the door softer this time. Stripped off his shirt, tossed it at the hamper. Didn’t bother to change out of his pants before dropping onto the bed.

He lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling. One arm draped across his eyes.

His body hurt in ways he couldn’t name. Not pain exactly—just wrong. Off.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

He shifted. Rolled over. Tried to breathe slower. The sheets felt too hot. Then too cold. His muscles twitched under the surface of his skin.

“Stop acting like you’re seconds from passing out.”

He thought of Midoriya’s face. The way Kirishima looked at him, like he’d already made a decision.

Like he was scared.

Bakugou gritted his teeth and rolled again, shoving his face into the pillow.

“Shut up,” he muttered into the dark.

But no one was talking.

_____________________________________

He jolted awake.

Chest tight. Sheets damp. Sweat clinging to his back like glue. The air was thick—too thick. His room was dark, but the kind of dark that pressed in on him, heavy and humid.

His heart pounded like it had been mid-sprint. His mouth was dry. His throat burned.

What time is it?

He didn’t move for a second. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, muscles locked. Everything hurt.

His temples throbbed like someone had jammed dynamite behind his eyes. His breath dragged shallow in and out, like his lungs couldn’t fill right.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. “What the fuck is wrong with me today?”

No answer. Just the slow creep of nausea building from somewhere deep in his gut. Sharp. Ugly.

He rolled to the side, tried to breathe through it, but it slammed into him like a wave. His whole body tensed.

“Shit—”

Bakugou shoved the covers off and stumbled to his feet, he half-ran, half-fell into the bathroom. His hand slammed into the light switch, blinding white overhead.

He dropped to his knees.

Bent over the toilet. Hands braced on cold porcelain. Gagging hard.

It wasn’t food. There was nothing left to throw up.

Just acid. Just bile.

He heaved until his throat burned raw and his vision blurred. Over and over. Chest clenching. Stomach twisting like it wanted to rip itself apart.

He didn’t even remember eating today.

His fingers dug into the edge of the bowl, white-knuckled.

“It’s nothing. Just tired. Just stress. Just the shitty dorm food—”

A lie.

He couldn’t remember the last time he ate properly. His body wasn’t just tired—it was shutting down, dragging him with it. And he’d pushed through it like an idiot.

Like a goddamn idiot.

He wanted it to stop.

His grip slipped from the toilet’s edge.

His body sagged forward, forehead resting on the cold porcelain.

His breath came out in shallow, shaky pants.

He was trembling—bone-deep.

Just a second. He just needed a second to breathe.

Then his eyelids dropped.

…

His eyes cracked open.

Everything was blurry—edges smeared like someone had dragged his whole vision through mud. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.

Why the hell am I on the bathroom floor?

His cheek stuck to cold tile. He blinked, slow and uneven, trying to suck air into his lungs—but his chest fought him for every breath. Tight. Shaky. Like the air had been drained out of the room.

He groaned, barely more than a breath.

His head pounded in sync with his heartbeat, loud and blaring like a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet. His arms shook as he pushed himself up—his muscles sluggish and unresponsive like they belonged to someone else.

He didn’t get far.

The second he tried to stand, the floor tilted like it was sliding out from under him. Everything wavered—his balance, his vision, his stomach. The walls leaned in and the lights above swam like underwater glare.

And then—

Snap.

The edge of the toilet tank slammed into the back of his skull with a dull, sickening thunk. The sound was wet and immediate. The world flashed—sharp, white-hot pain blooming from his temple outward like fire.

Then gravity dragged him the rest of the way down.

He hit the floor hard. No chance to catch himself.

Shoulder first, then ribs. His head bounced once against tile with a jarring crack that made the room explode into black at the edges.

“F-fuck,” he choked, but it barely came out. His jaw ached.

Pain stabbed through his skull. A hot, angry pulse that made him wince and curl in on himself, one hand clutching the back of his head, fingers pressed against the tender spot like he could physically hold the pain in place.

His breath hissed between his teeth—shallow, ragged. Sweat clung to every inch of his skin, cold now, slicking down his spine. His other hand groped against the tile, palm flat, knuckles white like he thought maybe if he dug in, it’d make the pain stop. Or at least give him something to focus on.

A knock.

Not loud. Not frantic.

Wait.

He’d… fallen.

A thud.

Shit. Shit.

They must’ve heard it.

His brain wasn’t keeping up. His thoughts were all static and haze, slow to string together, slow to matter. But his body moved anyway.

Adrenaline hit like fire in his veins. He rolled over, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt, and staggered forward on all fours. Every inch of him screamed—but it didn’t matter. He had to move.

He ran.

Half a stumble, half a sprint. No plan, no thought—just instinct. Get out of sight. Hide the damage. Hide the mess.

He didn’t fucking make it to the bed.

His bare feet hit the floor wrong, his balance shot to hell, and the room swam so hard he had to brace himself against the wall just to keep upright.

And still—

The knock came again.

The door clicked.

Opened.

He froze.

Right there beside the bed, still hunched slightly, body trembling, sweat-soaked and hair plastered to his forehead. He didn’t even turn around. Couldn’t. If he so much as moved wrong, he knew—he knew—he was down again.

Then came the voice.

“Hey—”

Familiar.

Fucking familiar.

Shit.

His mouth was dry. Tongue heavy. Vision still pulsing in and out at the edges.

But his voice?

That still worked.

“Get the fuck out.”

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Whoever it was—he could hear their footstep pause at the threshold. Could practically feel their eyes on him.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. His chest heaved. Every breath felt like swallowing fire.

“Are you deaf? I said get the Fuck out.”

He couldn’t even hear his own voice. It rasped in his throat, muffled, like it had to claw its way out. For a second, panic curled up behind his ribs—was he even talking?

No response.

The silence pressed in.

Shit. Shit.

Was he hallucinating? Was no one in there? Had he actually hit his head that hard?

He turned his head. Slowly. Painfully.

His vision blurred instantly, like someone had smeared grease across his eyes. But he could still make out the figure in the doorway—someone standing there. Real. Solid. Watching.

So he moved.

No thought. Just instinct.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

He staggered toward the door, everything in him screaming, joints stiff, muscles aching like they weren’t his anymore. His breath was too loud in his ears, the room swimming—but he saw them more clearly now.

Fucking Kaminari.

Hair like a mop of fried dandelion, a hoodie half-zipped, one sock on, and that same dumb expression—wide eyes, half-worried, half like he’d just walked in on a wild animal ready to tear his arm off.

Bakugou shoved him out.

“Wait, dude—we need to talk,” Kaminari said, stepping halfway in, trying to resist the push.

“I don’t have a damn thing to say, dunce face.”

Kaminari didn’t budge. “I heard a thud,”

Bakugou paused. Just for a second.

Then his eyes snapped to him, bloodshot and glassy but still full of fire.

“Then you’re being delusional, fucker.”

He slammed the door in his face.

It rattled in the frame.

Lock the door.

That was all he had to do. Just turn the latch. Keep the world out.

Bakugou did it with a trembling hand, barely steady enough to flip the lock. The sound of it clicking into place was dull, distant. It didn’t even feel real.

He pressed his forehead to the door for a second. Just a second.

Go to sleep, he told himself. It’s just a nightmare. You’re overtired. Sick. Whatever. It’ll be gone tomorrow.

Everything will be fine tomorrow.

He turned, shoulders sagging, limbs like stone.

He walked to the bed—maybe. He wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t the one steering. His body moved on its own,

Everything was black.

Not the kind of darkness you see with your eyes shut—but a full blackout. He didn’t see where he was going. He couldn’t. He just knew he had to keep moving.

Keep moving.

Don’t stop.

The floor shifted beneath him—or maybe his knees just gave out.

His body dropped, boneless, ungraceful.

And then—

Nothing.

…

Everything hurt as hell.

That was the first thing he noticed—if “noticed” was even the right word. More like got slammed with. Pain throbbed in waves, thick and blinding, behind his eyes and deep in his skull. It made it hard to breathe, hard to think. His throat burned. His back felt like he’d been thrown through a wall, and his head—

Fuck, his head.

A pressure bloomed there suddenly. Not the sharp, hot kind that meant an explosion was building in his palms—but blunt, suffocating, like someone pressing something against him. He flinched.

“Hey, man—you’re with us?”

A voice. Familiar. Too loud and too close. Muffled. It made the inside of his skull rattle.

Bakugou hissed, but it came out weaker than he meant. Pathetic.

Hands. Something warm and solid kept him pinned, something pressing at his head. It hurt, but not the worst pain he’d felt today. Not even close.

What the fuck is happening?

He tried to breathe, but his lungs wouldn’t open right. Every inhale felt thin, fragile, like trying to drink through a straw filled with glass.

“Can you hear me?”

Yeah. Unfortunately. Just raise your fucking voice.

“Bakugou, if you’re awake—open your eyes. Just a little.”

His eyelids felt glued shut. Heavy like sandbags. His whole body felt like it was underwater, like gravity had tripled just to spite him.

But something about the voice—

Desperate. Worried.

Kirishima.

He cracked them open. Slits. Barely anything. The world was colorless and smeared and swimming—but there was red. Too close. Too bright. Red hair. Red eyes. Blurring into one.

He hated how relieved that made him feel.

“Hey,” Kirishima said—too soft.

Stop sounding like that. Like he was made of glass.

Bakugou tried to glare. Tried to lift a hand and shove him off.

Nothing moved.

He was fucking useless.

“Stay awake, alright? Don’t close your eyes.”

Shut the hell up, he wanted to say—but all that came out was another raspy breath.

The hands moved him. He felt himself lowered, his head tilted carefully. Why? Why was he on the floor?

What the fuck had happened?

His stomach twisted. Something vile rose up in the back of his throat, and his body jerked before he could stop it—tried to sit up.

No choice. No warning. Just raw, panicked instinct.

Kirishima’s hand slammed against his shoulder, another bracing his chest.

“No—hey, hey, don’t move yet,” he said. Too calm.

“You hit your head, man.”

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

“What the fuck—” he croaked. That was it. That was all he had in him.

He tried to get up again. Couldn’t explain it. His brain said move, so he moved. His body didn’t care that it didn’t work. Didn’t care that the lights blurred or that the pain cracked like thunder across the base of his skull.

“Bakugou, stop.”

The voice shifted—firmer, steadier. Not begging. Commanding.

He hated that he listened.

His breath stuttered. Came too fast, then too shallow. The ceiling was spinning. Kirishima’s face was nothing but color and lines.

Don’t pass out again.

Don’t fucking pass out again.

He blinked. Tried to anchor himself. Tried to grab onto anything.

He caught Kirishima’s eyes—barely.

Then he felt it again.

That pull. That slow, sick drop like an elevator cable snapping somewhere in his chest. His eyelids slid lower.

“Hey, hey—don’t do that. Stay with us, yeah? Stay here.”

Us.

Was there someone else?

Didn’t matter.

Bakugou clenched his jaw, but it felt like nothing moved.

He was slipping.

Again.

Chapter Text

Aizawa walked with purpose.

Bakugou’s weight was nothing—muscle and stubbornness bundled in a too-cold body against his chest—but the heaviness pressing down on Aizawa’s shoulders had nothing to do with pounds or gravity.

His grip adjusted slightly under Bakugou’s back, careful not to jostle the boy’s head.

He didn’t like this.

Didn’t like how cold his skin felt. Didn’t like the way his breathing wheezed, shallow and inconsistent. Didn’t like how quiet Bakugou was—never quiet, never this still.

His steps echoed in the hallway, steady and fast. Familiar. Direct. He’d done this before—too many times. The dorms to the infirmary. The rush to Recovery Girl.

But this felt different.

Not because it was Bakugou. Not because of the injury. Because of the signs that had led up to it. The cracks in his armor no one had spotted until he collapsed.

No. Aizawa had seen them.

He just hadn’t moved fast enough.

He hadn’t pressed.

He should have pressed.

He pushed through the door without knocking. Recovery Girl looked up from her desk, eyes narrowing beneath her hat at the sight of him—and the boy in his arms.

“What happened?” she said quickly, already on her feet.

“Head trauma. Fainting. Vomiting, possibly with blood. He’s nonverbal and drifting in and out.” Aizawa said as he lowered Bakugou gently onto the cot, supporting the back of his head with careful precision.

She didn’t answer immediately. Her hands were already moving—checking his pulse, pulling out a light to test his pupils. When she reached to lift his eyelids, Bakugou flinched faintly.

That was something. A response.

But it wasn’t enough.

Recovery Girl’s mouth tightened. “How long was he like this?”

“Not long. The students found him, kept him stable.” Aizawa crossed his arms. “Kirishima said Bakugou was disoriented. Tried to move.”

“That tracks.” She pressed gauze to the back of his skull. “He might have gotten worse if they hadn’t kept him still. This wound isn’t fresh. It’s been bleeding a while.”

Aizawa frowned. “Meaning?”

“Meaning he probably hit his head some time ago, but didn’t seek help. Or hid it.”

That… wouldn’t be surprising.

Aizawa looked down at Bakugou again—face pale, body still. Even now, even with the pain etched across every inch of him, he looked like he was trying to fight. Jaw clenched. Fists curling when they shouldn’t.

“What happened to you?” Aizawa muttered.

He didn’t expect an answer. Not now.

Recovery Girl moved to hook up a drip to replace fluids. “You’ll have to keep him overnight. Possibly longer. If there’s any risk of concussion or internal bleeding…”

“I’ll stay.” Aizawa pulled a chair beside the bed without asking.

She nodded. “Don’t let him move too much. And if he wakes, don’t let him get up.”

Aizawa just nodded.

She didn’t give any further instructions.

The room had gone still.

Only the soft beeping of a monitor broke the silence, its slow rhythm syncing with the faint rise and fall of Bakugou’s chest. Steady, but weak.

Aizawa hadn’t moved from his chair. Recovery Girl had finished her examination nearly twenty minutes ago. She’d said the bleeding had mostly stopped, but there was swelling under the scalp, and some bruising behind the ear that made her frown. A mild concussion at minimum—possibly worse, depending on how long Bakugou had been out before they found him.

She’d gone to prepare a stronger dose of healing salve and to sterilize the equipment. Said she’d be back shortly.

Aizawa stayed.

He sat with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving the boy on the bed.

The blood had dried in thick, rust-colored streaks through his hair, clumping the blond strands together in stiff, uneven patches. Some had trailed down the nape of his neck, leaving a faint smear across the pale hospital pillow beneath his head. It had stopped flowing now, but the mess it left behind made it clear just how much he’d lost.

He hadn’t cursed once since Aizawa picked him up.

The boy was never quiet. Even when he was tired or hurting, he burned like something lit from the inside—anger, pride, energy he could barely contain.

But now…

Now he looked like he’d been extinguished.

Aizawa’s jaw clenched.

“Damn idiot,” Aizawa muttered under his breath.

And then—movement.

It was slight. Barely a twitch. A slow turn of the head toward the right, like his body was trying to wake before his mind could catch up.

Then, a low, hoarse breath. A groan. Soft.

Aizawa sat up straighter, gaze sharpening.

Bakugou’s fingers flexed against the sheet.

His head shifted again. Eyelids fluttered once—twice—then cracked open.

Bloodshot. Unfocused.

But awake.

“Bakugou,” Aizawa said quietly.

The boy winced, like the sound hurt. His eyes drifted toward the voice but didn’t quite land.

“Don’t try to move.”

Bakugou blinked. His lips parted, barely moving. “Wh…what—?”

“You’re in Recovery Girl’s office. You hit your head. Lost a lot of blood. Don’t speak.”

Bakugou looked confused. Then angry.

Even dazed, the scowl flickered to life—weak, unfocused, but familiar.

Aizawa almost felt relieved.

Bakugou turned his head again, slower this time, like he was trying to orient himself. His eyes darted to the IV bag above, then to Aizawa. “What… the hell…”

“You passed out,” Aizawa said evenly. “Kirishima and Kaminari found you. You’re lucky they did.”

Bakugou grimaced.shame.

“I’m fine…” he rasped

“No. you’re not.”

A long pause.

Bakugou looked away.

Aizawa leaned forward now, voice harder. “You didn’t tell anyone you were feeling like this? Not one damn word?”

Silence.

“How long?” Aizawa snapped. “Days? Weeks? What was your plan—collapse and hope no one noticed?”

Bakugou clenched his jaw. Didn’t answer.

“Headaches? Dizziness? Nausea?” Aizawa listed, sharp and clipped.

More silence.

Aizawa didn’t need him to answer.

Aizawa exhaled through his nose, the tension curling tighter in his shoulders.

“You think pushing through it makes you strong.” Aizawa leaned back slightly in his chair then continued “It doesn’t. It makes you reckless. It makes you a liability.”

Bakugou’s hands tensed under the blanket. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Aizawa’s jaw clenched.
He took a breath. Failed to calm the churn in his chest.

“You want to be a pro?” Aizawa said quietly now, voice low and cutting. “Then act like one. Pros don’t die in bathrooms because they were too proud to ask for help.”

That landed.

Bakugou’s breath hitched. His eyes snapped shut like the words physically stung.

Aizawa didn’t soften right away.

“This—” he gestured to the IV “isn’t strength. It’s cleanup. You’re lucky Kaminari and Kirishima found you. Next time, they might not.”

The room was still.

Bakugou’s chest rose, unsteady.

Finally, Aizawa let some of the sharpness fade.

“You’re not being pulled from class yet. But you’re being watched. Closely.” He paused. “If this happens again—if you try to push through and end up unconscious in a hallway or worse—there won’t be a warning next time.”

Bakugou’s eyes cracked open again.

They didn’t glare. They burned—but quietly. Stubbornly.

Aizawa nodded once. “Good. Stay awake a little longer. Recovery Girl will be back soon.”

He reached out and pulled the blanket up higher over Bakugou’s chest.

Bakugou didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue.

Just stared up at the ceiling, lips slightly parted, chest rising with thin, shallow breaths.

Aizawa leaned back in his chair once more.

He could stay a while longer.

The door creaked open behind him.

He didn’t turn. Just a glance from the corner of his eye—enough to recognize Recovery Girl’s small form stepping back into the room, her cart in tow. The soft clinking of metal instruments and jars was oddly soothing in the silence.

“You got him awake?” she asked gently, moving around the other side of the bed.

“Just now,” Aizawa murmured.

Bakugou shifted slightly at her voice, his head tilting toward the sound—but even that small motion made his eyes squeeze shut, breath catching with a quiet wince.

Recovery Girl tsked softly. “No sudden movements, dear. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

Bakugou grunted something unintelligible. He looked like he wanted to glare at her but couldn’t find the strength to do more than blink slowly.

She checked his pulse, examined his pupils, and gently touched the edge of the wrapped bandage on his head. Her movements were precise, practiced, but not unkind.

Aizawa watched her work silently, still seated just to the left of the bed.

“You were lucky,” she said finally, glancing at him.

Bakugou didn’t respond. He was avoiding her eyes.

“You didn’t just hit your head. You cracked it. Not too deep—but deep enough. If you’d been out much longer, or no one had found you…”

She let the sentence hang.

Aizawa didn’t flinch.

Bakugou did.

His fingers tensed again in the blankets.

Recovery Girl reached for a small jar and opened it. A soft, minty scent filled the air as she dipped her fingers into the green salve and began gently dabbing it along his temple, just past the dressing. Bakugou flinched at first, but didn’t pull away.

“I don’t want to see you back in here like this again,” she muttered. “You kids think you’re invincible…”

Bakugou opened his mouth. Closed it. His jaw clenched hard, like he wanted to say something—argue, snap back, defend himself—but couldn’t muster the energy.

Or maybe the shame had finally caught up with him.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” she said briskly. “Then we’ll see.”

Bakugou looked toward Aizawa again—just a glance, tired and unreadable.

Aizawa met his eyes. Steady. Quiet.

“You’ve got people who care about you, Bakugou,” he said lowly. “Start acting like it.”

Bakugou’s throat moved with a dry swallow. He didn’t respond.

Didn’t have to.

Recovery Girl finished applying the salve and adjusted the blanket again.

Aizawa rose quietly, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders.

“I’ll check in tomorrow morning,” he said.

As Aizawa turned toward the door, he paused.

“…Rest, Bakugou.”

Then he left, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

Aizawa paused in the dimly lit hallway, hand still on the doorknob, the warmth of the infirmary air fading against his skin. Out here, everything felt colder. Emptier.

He let out a slow breath through his nose.

That kid.

He turned and walked away, steps measured but heavy. He wasn’t needed in the room anymore, not physically. But the knot in his chest didn’t loosen, and every step away made it pull tighter.

Bakugou was reckless. Everyone knew that. But this wasn’t the usual kind of reckless—this wasn’t a blown-out knee or a sprained wrist from training too hard. This was silence. Avoidance. Denial.

This was Bakugou Katsuki, golden child of ambition and raw power, dragging himself through the mud on pride alone.

And yet even then—even when pale, bloodied, and half-conscious—he was still trying to act fine.

Still trying to fight.

Aizawa admired that. He hated it, too.

There was a limit to what raw willpower could do.

Aizawa sighed through his teeth.

If Bakugou didn’t learn to ask for help before he hit that wall again…

Aizawa’s fingers curled slightly.

He’d make sure it didn’t get that far.

Because this? This wasn’t just about a cracked skull.

He walked down the quiet corridor of the teacher’s quarter. He took a few steady steps, it was quiet this early. Aizawa reached his room, opened the door, and stepped inside. The light from the hallway spilled across the floor, painting shadows against the walls.

“Stubborn as hell,”he muttered under his breath.

But there was no anger in it.

Only concern.

And resolve.

_____________________________________

The faint buzz of his alarm vibrated against the nightstand.

Aizawa stirred with a low grunt, dragging a hand across his face without opening his eyes. His head throbbed faintly—a dull, persistent ache behind his temples that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with stress.

He sat up with a sigh.

His room was quiet. The shades were drawn, the air still. Not the cot in the infirmary this time, not the staff lounge couch. His actual bed. Not that it made much difference.

Too much noise in his head.

He stood and moved automatically—shoulders stiff, movements sluggish but precise. In the kitchenette tucked into the corner of his apartment, he set water to boil and prepared instant coffee. No time for anything else. He swallowed a painkiller dry while he waited.

Black coffee. No sugar. He drank half before even putting on his shoes.

By the time he left, the sun was just beginning to rise over the campus.

The hallways were quiet, dorms still steeped in morning haze. Students would be out soon, but not yet. He passed no one.

His footsteps made little sound as he crossed toward the infirmary.

The door was cracked slightly.

He paused. Knocked once—soft, deliberate—then pushed it open.

The room was dim, curtains drawn against the light. A faint clink came from a metal tray on the side table. The lingering scent of salve and disinfectant hung in the air.

Bakugou was still in the bed—still, but not unconscious.

He lay half-reclined against the pillows, arms over the blanket, breathing slow but even.

His eyes were open.

Bleary. Half-lidded. But alert.

He definitely looked better. Less pale. Less like someone who had collapsed in his own blood the night before. The bandage at the back of his head was clean. No new red staining the gauze.

But his hair was still matted in places, the dried remnants of blood not fully washed away.

Aizawa stepped inside quietly.

“Morning,” he said.

He turned his head slowly when Aizawa entered, teeth clenched like even that was an effort.

Bakugou scowled faintly. “Tch…”

“How’s your head?”

Bakugou didn’t answer—not out loud. He gave the smallest of shrugs, then winced immediately afterward.

“Still hurting, then,” Aizawa said, more to himself than to the boy.

Recovery Girl stepped into view from the other side of the curtain, hands drying on a towel. “He’s stubborn,” she muttered, glancing toward the bed. “Didn’t sleep long. Woke up twice asking for his clothes.”

“Of course he did,” Aizawa muttered, rubbing his temple.

“He’s stable now. But I’m not clearing him for class.”

“Bullshit,” the boy croaked.

“What was that?”

Bakugou gritted his teeth. “I said it’s bullshit. I don’t need to stay here.”

His voice was rough—strained and rasping like gravel caught in his throat—but the volume was unmistakably Bakugou. Angry. Defiant.

Recovery Girl sighed tiredly and crossed her arms.

“You’re concussed,” Aizawa replied flatly, “You lost enough blood to nearly go into shock. You collapsed in front of two classmates and didn’t even try to explain what was wrong.”

Bakugou sat up a little, wincing hard but forcing himself upright against the pillows. “I said I’m fine!”

“And you’re not” Aizawa said, voice firm. “You’re in a hospital bed. You were half-dead three hours ago.”

Bakugou’s fists clenched weakly over the blanket. “I’m not skipping class.”

“You are,” Aizawa said, final.

Silence followed.

“Then suspend me.”

Aizawa turned slowly at that, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to suspend you,” he said. “But if you try to get out of that bed again without clearance, I will. You want to sit in your room for a week instead of just resting here for a day?”

Bakugou’s jaw worked. His breathing was getting heavier now—more out of frustration than pain.

“Rest. I’ll check in again at lunch.” Aizawa stepped toward the door. “And if you even think about sneaking out of here—Recovery Girl has permission to sedate you.”

Bakugou muttered something under his breath—low, angry, and just barely coherent—as Aizawa stepped out.

He let the door close behind him with a quiet click, then exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with that kid…”

Hands shoved into his pockets, he made his way across the campus, the early morning breeze brushing against his coat. The teacher’s lounge was on the other side of the building—quiet at this hour but never empty.

Sure enough, when he stepped inside, he found Midnight at the far table, idly scrolling through her phone. Present Mic leaned against the counter, already halfway through a cup of coffee. Cementoss was there too, quietly grading something by hand.

Aizawa didn’t greet them. He just moved toward the counter, filled a mug, and stared into it for a long moment before taking a sip.

“Yeesh,” Hizashi’s voice cut in. “You look like hell. Well—more than usual,”

Aizawa grunted. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“No kidding.” Mic tilted his head. “That the usual insomnia, or did someone light a dorm room on fire again?”

“Worse.” Aizawa leaned back against the counter, eyes half-lidded. “Bakugou nearly collapsed last night. He was bleeding when they found him.”

Mic’s brows rose. “What the hell?”

Aizawa took another long sip of coffee before muttering, “Exactly.”

Midnight looked up, frowning. “Is he okay?”

“He’s stable now. Recovery Girl’s keeping him out of class, which of course he’s throwing a tantrum about.” Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose.

Mic let out a low whistle. “Man. These kids…”

“They don’t know when to stop,” Midnight muttered. “They push themselves until they break, and then act surprised when someone tells them to rest.”

“You’re not blaming yourself, are you?” she asked softly.

“No,” he said simply. Then, quieter, “Not entirely.”

He finished the rest of his coffee in silence and set the cup aside.

Then straightened his posture just slightly.

“Time for class.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Mic let out a sigh. “Damn. He really is tired.”

Midnight leaned back in her chair, raising a brow. “He looked like he didn’t sleep.”

“He didn’t,” Mic said, sipping his coffee. “Bet you anything he stayed in the infirmary half the night. You know how he gets when one of them’s in real trouble.”

She hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping on her phone. “Especially that one.”

Mic grinned faintly. “Bakugou? Yeah. Kid’s a walking ulcer.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Midnight said, quieter, “He hides it well. The worry.”

“Yeah,” Mic replied, smile fading a little. “Too well sometimes.”

_____________________________________

The closer Aizawa got to the classroom, the louder the noise became.

A low rumble of chatter filtered through the door—half-gossip, half-complaints, all of it wrapped in the barely-restrained energy that came with teenagers left unsupervised for five minutes.

Aizawa sighed under his breath.

He pushed the door open without warning.

Silence dropped instantly, like a switch had been thrown.

Aizawa stepped inside, his expression unreadable as usual. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

“Morning,” he said.

There was a beat of hesitation—then Midoriya raised his hand, tentative but quick.

“Sorry, but how’s Kacchan?”

That was all it took. Other voices joined in almost immediately.

“Yeah, he is not in the dorms…”
“He didn’t look good yesterday—”
“Was it, like, an injury from training or something else?”
“Is he gonna be out for a while?”

Of course they know now.

“Bakugou is stable,” he said, voice calm but final. “He won’t be joining class today, but he’s being taken care of.”

The tension in the room eased a little, but the curiosity lingered behind their expressions.

He didn’t acknowledge it.

“Now—open your textbooks. We’re not wasting time.”

The shuffle resumed—books coming out of bags, chairs scraping softly against the floor.

But even as the lesson started, Aizawa’s eyes didn’t miss the quiet shifts in the room.

Kirishima kept glancing sideways at Bakugou’s empty desk like he might show up late—his brows were pinched tight, and his hand hovered over his book without turning the page.

Kaminari wasn’t even pretending to be subtle. He had his chin propped on his palm, eyes unfocused as he stared across the room. He only blinked back to attention when Aizawa’s gaze passed over him, straightening like he’d been shocked.

Todoroki looked calm as ever—back straight, notes open—but he hadn’t written anything yet.

And Midoriya… Midoriya looked like he wanted to ask more. Like he was holding back about ten questions behind the press of his mouth. His pencil was already moving, but his eyes flicked between Aizawa and the front row every few seconds.

Aizawa didn’t comment.

They were kids. Worrying about a classmate was normal.

“Page 142,” he said, turning to the board. “We’re reviewing urban rescue coordination. Focus.”

And the markers squeaked across the whiteboard, drowning the last of the tension in steady strokes of black.

For now, that was enough.

_____________________________________

The halls were louder now.

Lunchtime chatter drifted up from the cafeteria, shoes squeaking against tile, someone shouting across the common space about curry. Normal sounds. Background noise.

Aizawa walked past all of it without pause.

He took the stairs two at a time, coffee in hand—half-cold, mostly untouched.

The infirmary was quiet when he stepped inside.

Too quiet.

Recovery Girl wasn’t visible right away, and the cot behind the curtain was still. Still in the wrong way.

Aizawa stepped forward—and his stomach tightened.

Bakugou hadn’t moved since this morning.

But he looked worse.

His skin, which had regained some color hours earlier, had gone pale again. His forehead was damp, faintly sheened with sweat. The blanket had slipped slightly from one shoulder, revealing the edge of his hospital shirt clinging to him like he’d overheated. His hands were curled near his chest, fingers twitching every few seconds like they couldn’t fully relax.

And his breathing—shallow. Just barely noticeable.

Aizawa set the coffee down quietly, frowning deeper.

“Bakugou,” he said, voice low but direct.

No answer.

He moved closer. Didn’t touch—yet. Just crouched down beside the bed to see his face better.

Bakugou’s brows were faintly drawn. Not fully unconscious… but definitely not lucid.

“Bakugou,” Aizawa repeated, sharper now. “Hey.”

This time, the boy stirred—barely. His head shifted slightly on the pillow, and he made a soft, strangled noise in his throat. His lips parted, dry and colorless.

“…tch…”

Aizawa stood, already turning. “Recovery Girl!”

She appeared almost instantly from the side room, her face pinched in a tired frown.

“I was giving him a moment to rest,” she said, moving briskly past Aizawa toward the bed. “But I don’t like this either.”

“What happened?” Aizawa asked flatly.

“He was improving. Barely a fever this morning. Then, thirty minutes ago, he started to fade again.”

She took Bakugou’s wrist, checking his pulse, then gently touched his forehead.

Too warm.

“Head injuries are unpredictable,” she muttered. “And he pushed himself too hard,”

Aizawa folded his arms, jaw tense. “You said he was stable.”

“He was,” she snapped, not unkindly. “But I also said I wasn’t clearing him for class. You remember that part?”

He didn’t respond.

She sighed. “I’ll run another scan.”

Aizawa stepped back as she reached for the monitor, watching the faint rise and fall of Bakugou’s chest like it might stop if he blinked too long.

He wasn’t getting better.

The scanner gave a soft chirp as Recovery Girl passed it slowly over Bakugou’s head. A muted flicker of light glowed across his temple, then faded.

Aizawa watched every shift of her expression.

She didn’t frown—but she didn’t look relieved either.

“Still some swelling near the occipital lobe,” she murmured, adjusting the settings. “More than I’d like, given how long it’s been. And his temperature’s creeping back up. That might be why he’s disoriented again.”

Aizawa folded his arms tighter, gaze narrowing. “What are we missing?”

“Nothing, I think. His brain is still recovering. It’s just slow.”

“And Threatening.”

“Yes,” she said. Quietly this time. “That too.”

Bakugou let out another rough sound—more breath than voice. His head shifted again against the pillow, but his eyes didn’t open.

“Shouldn’t he be more conscious by now?” Aizawa asked.

Recovery Girl didn’t answer immediately. She reset the scanner, passed it again, and only after the soft beep confirmed the results did she speak.

“He should be better than this, yes. I don’t like how much blood he lost either—his system’s still depleted. I’ve already scheduled a nutrient IV, and he’ll be under closer monitoring this afternoon.”

“Will he need to be transferred?”

She hesitated. Just for a beat.

“I’ll let you know in an hour.”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened. “Right.”

He glanced at Bakugou again. The boy’s hands had finally stilled, but not in a reassuring way.

The wound had stopped bleeding, yes, but his body clearly hadn’t caught up yet.

He stayed silent a moment longer, watching the lines of Bakugou’s face—drawn, paler than usual, and far too still.

Then finally:

“Call me the second anything changes.”

Recovery Girl nodded.

Aizawa gave one last glance toward the bed. Then he left.

_____________________________________

Kirishima stood just short of the door, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw was set, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

Behind him, Kaminari shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You sure she won’t kick us out?”

“Nope,” Kirishima muttered. “But I’m going in anyway.”

He knocked—soft, uncertain—then pushed the door open without waiting.

The room was dim and the scent of antiseptic clung to the air.

Bakugou was still in the bed. Still pale. Still sleeping.

His brow was furrowed, mouth set in a grim line. His body twitched once under the blanket—small, involuntary. Kirishima didn’t like it.

“Dude,” Kaminari said quietly behind him. “He looks worse.”

Kirishima didn’t answer. He stepped closer to the bed.

There was a chair pulled to the side—Aizawa must’ve sat there earlier—and Kirishima dropped into it without a word.

Bakugou didn’t stir.

His hair still looked wrong—darker at the roots from dried blood, even after cleaning. There was a faint smudge of something dark on the edge of the pillow.

Kaminari hovered near the foot of the bed. “He’s gonna freak out when he wakes up and sees us.”

“Good,” Kirishima muttered. “Let him yell. Means he’s awake.”

Kaminari was quiet a beat, then sat down on the windowsill with a sigh. “You think he’s gonna be okay?”

Kirishima didn’t answer right away.

He looked at Bakugou again—his hand resting limply on the blanket, his breathing uneven.

“Yeah” he said finally. Quiet. Honest. “I hope so.”

Then the door creaked open.

Recovery Girl stepped in, wiping her hands on a clean towel and raising a brow the second she saw them.

“What are you two doing here?”

Her voice wasn’t harsh, but it didn’t leave room for argument either. Calm. Firm. The kind of tone that came from decades of dealing with overzealous teenagers.

Kaminari looked up instantly, like a kid caught sneaking snacks before dinner. “Uh—we were just… y’know. Checking in.”

He glanced sideway at Kirishima, silently begging for backup.

“We’ll just stay here for a little, yeah?” Kaminari finally said, trying to play it casual.

Recovery Girl gave them a look. “No. Go eat something. You’re not planning to collapse like him, are you?”

She crossed the room with efficient steps, heading straight for the tray of fresh gauze on the counter.

“Please?” Kaminari tried again, voice inching toward a whine.

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked to Kirishima—who hadn’t said a word, hadn’t looked away from Bakugou since she’d walked in—still seated, still silent. His brows were drawn, expression tight, like he was willing Bakugou to wake up just by staying there.

She sighed.

“Fine. A short visit.”

They nodded. Gratefully. And resumed their quiet vigil.

Nearly fifteen minutes had passed since they first slipped in.

The room was quiet—more so than before. No buzzing machines, no heavy conversation. Just the soft tick of the wall clock and the occasional shift of fabric as Kirishima adjusted his seat.

He was still in the chair next to the bed. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped loosely. Eyes never leaving Bakugou’s face.

Kaminari had wandered a little—pacing softly, hovering like he expected to be kicked out any second—but Kirishima hadn’t moved. Not even when Bakugou stirred once, breathing catching in his chest before settling again.

“I said short visit,” she reminded them without looking up. “Lunch is almost over.”

“Just five more minutes?” Kaminari asked, flashing a hopeful grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She gave him a glance. “He won’t recover any faster with two of you hovering like mother hens.”

“We’ll be quiet. Promise,” Kaminari offered.

“I’m sure you would,” she muttered. “But your class starts in five minutes. And I’m not dealing with Aizawa dragging you two out of here by the ear.”

Kaminari opened his mouth again, then closed it, defeated.

“This sucks,” he muttered under his breath.

Kirishima stood slowly. Gave Bakugou one last look.
“We’ll be back after school.” Kirishima said quietly, glancing down once more.

Then gave Recovery Girl a small bow, and made his way out with Kaminari dragging his feet behind him.

Recovery Girl watched them go, then sighed and moved back to Bakugou’s side.

_____________________________________

The phone buzzed in his pocket during fifth period.

He was mid-sentence—chalk halfway to the board—when he paused. He didn’t check his messages in the middle of class, not unless it was an emergency. But he knew that ringtone. Recovery Girl’s line was coded separately.

He turned his head just enough to glance at the students. “Self-study. Page sixty-three. Don’t talk.”

He stepped out without waiting for a reply.

The hallway was quiet—thankfully. He didn’t waste time, just tapped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Recovery Girl?”

Her voice came through low, but steady. “Aizawa. I wanted to inform you first—before the system flags it. I’ve decided to transfer Bakugou to a secondary care facility.”

His pace slowed. “When?”

“They’re prepping now. An ambulance will be here within twenty minutes.”

A beat of silence.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s worse?”

“He’s not improving fast enough,” she said. No nonsense. No alarm. Just facts. “The swelling’s stabilized but hasn’t gone down. His fever spiked again. I’ve tried two different suppressants with minimal results. I’m not comfortable keeping him here overnight.”

He exhaled quietly. “Will he be conscious?”

“Unlikely. He’s barely responding to verbal stimulus. Still breathing steadily. No new bleeding. But I want full imaging and neuro-observation. It’s beyond what this infirmary can support.”

Aizawa leaned against the wall. The metal was cold through his shirt.

“I’ll meet the paramedics,” he said.

“I assumed you would.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just ended the call and stared down the hall.

Behind the classroom door, his students were still working. Flipping pages. Whispering answers.

He pushed off the wall, exhaled once through his nose, and walked back in.

“Iida,” he said, flat and to the point.

The class turned instantly, but Iida was already halfway out of his seat.

“Yes, sir?”

“Keep an eye on the class. Vlad King will be here in ten.”

Iida’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t argue. “Understood.”

He stepped out and shut the door behind him.

By the time he reached the infirmary, the stretcher was already prepped. Paramedics waited at the door, solemn and efficient. Recovery Girl stood beside Bakugou, adjusting the IV line.

The boy still hadn’t moved.

Aizawa’s gaze swept over him—pale, sweating, barely breathing deep enough to stir the blanket.

He didn’t ask questions this time.

He just moved to help them lift the stretcher.

_____________________________________

The hospital room was colder than the infirmary.

Sterile walls. Sharp white lighting. Machines humming in the corners like insects. A nurse moved quietly across the floor, adjusting a drip bag without a word.

Aizawa stood just inside the room, arms crossed, watching Bakugou’s still form on the bed.

He’d been transferred less than an hour ago.

“They’ll have better equipment at Musutafu General. Neurological monitoring. More staff.” Recovery girl had said.

He hadn’t argued.

Now, he stood in a too-bright hospital room while doctors in white coats murmured outside the door and Bakugou lay motionless beneath a tangle of wires and gauze. He was unconscious now—truly this time. They’d sedated him for the trip, but even without it, the way he’d been slipping in and out of lucidity all day…

Aizawa exhaled slowly. Then pulled out his phone.

There were things he didn’t do often.

Explaining injuries to parents was one of them.

He hated it. Always had. The voice on the other end of the line—the way it always froze, the way it turned quiet or panicked or cold. No matter the personality, it was always the same fear.

But he couldn’t avoid it this time.

He scrolled to the number in the faculty files. Called.

It rang three times before a voice answered.

“…Hello?”

“Mitsuki Bakugou?” Aizawa asked.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“This is Shouta Aizawa. Bakugou’s teacher.”

A beat.

“…What happened.”

“He sustained a head injury yesterday. He was under medical care in the dorm’s infirmary, but his condition worsened this afternoon. We’ve transferred him to Musutafu General for full monitoring.”

The silence on the other end of the line was sharp. Not stunned. Not confused.

Just bracing.

“Is he—?”

“He’s unconscious,” Aizawa said plainly. “Stable enough for now. But it’s serious.”

Another beat. Then: “We’re coming.”

Aizawa nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “I’ll text the address and room number. Take your time, he won’t be moved again.”

She hung up without another word.

He lowered the phone.

Outside, the hallway light flickered.

Inside, Bakugou didn’t stir.

Aizawa stepped closer to the bedside, just once, and stared down at the boy who had once refused to sit still for more than a breath—even while bleeding.

And Aizawa hated how long it had taken to get him here.

The quiet was interrupted by a soft knock against the glass door.

A man in a white coat stepped in—mid-forties, sharp features, silver-rimmed glasses that glinted under the harsh fluorescent lighting. A chart clutched in one hand, a digital tablet in the other.

“You’re his guardian for the time being?” the doctor asked, glancing up.

Aizawa gave a slow nod. “Yes.”

The doctor walked further in, closing the door behind him.

“I’m Dr. Fujita. I’m leading his neurological team.”

He didn’t waste time.

“We’ve completed our initial imaging. There’s a linear fracture at the back of his skull, just above the occipital bone. Hairline, but enough to cause bleeding beneath the surface. That’s what triggered the swelling.”

Aizawa’s arms folded tighter. “How bad?”

“Moderate cerebral edema,” Fujita answered calmly. “Not the worst we’ve seen, but more than we’d like after this much time has passed. He was conscious too long without treatment—more than likely trying to push through the symptoms. The disorientation suggest his intracranial pressure’s been building since yesterday.”

Aizawa said flatly. “Didn’t tell anyone until he collapsed.”

Fujita sighed, unsurprised. “Not uncommon in kids like him. Strong-willed types. But it makes recovery slower.”

He flipped the chart open and continued. “We’ve started him on IV fluids and osmotic agents to reduce the swelling. Sedation is being maintained until pressure lowers. We’re watching for signs of herniation, but right now he’s stable.”

“For now.”

The doctor gave a short nod.

“We’ll need another scan in six hours. If the swelling doesn’t recede or worsens, we may consider a surgical decompression. But I’d like to avoid that.”

Aizawa’s gaze shifted briefly back to the bed—Bakugou lay nearly sunken into it now, wires and leads curling from his chest and arms, a clean bandage wrapping the back of his skull.

“And the fracture?”

“It’ll heal, given time. No bone fragments displaced. The biggest concern is the pressure on the brain and how long he was symptomatic before intervention.”

Aizawa let out a quiet breath.

Dr. Fujita gave him a look that wasn’t quite sympathy. “He’s tough. He got here late, but not too late. It’s a good sign that he was semi-responsive earlier.”

“When will he wake up?”

“If the next scan looks better? Maybe tomorrow. If not…” He shrugged slightly. “We’ll keep monitoring.”

He gave a small bow. “I’ll come back with the next update. You can stay, but don’t expect any changes for a few hours.”

Then he turned and left.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

Aizawa stayed where he was, staring at the same point on the floor for a long moment before dragging the nearby chair closer to the bed.

He didn’t sit.

Not yet.

He just stood there, silent, watching the shallow rise and fall of Bakugou’s chest under the sheet—like proof he was still here.

It wasn’t even twenty minutes later when the elevator doors opened.

He heard them before he saw them—heels against the tile, someone asking the nurse at the desk, “Room 404? The boy who just came in?” in a voice sharp and urgent.

Then the footsteps picked up.

The door opened.

Mitsuki Bakugou stood in the doorway like a storm front—eyes scanning the room in a single sweep, landing on the still form in the hospital bed with a flash of something feral in her face.

She didn’t move immediately.

Masaru followed behind her, quieter, hands tucked in his coat pockets, eyes tired and drawn. He nodded to Aizawa with a tight, grateful expression.

“You’re his teacher?” he asked softly.

Aizawa nodded. “Aizawa. I’m his homeroom teacher and his legal school contact for medical matters.”

Masaru gave another slight nod. Then Mitsuki moved.

She marched across the room like she meant to grab her son and shake him awake—but froze as soon as she got close enough to see the bandages.

Her mouth opened. Then shut again.

“He looks worse than what you said on the phone,” she said sharply, voice raw and trembling around the edges.

“He deteriorated during the day,” Aizawa said. “He’s stable now, he hit his head—hard. He didn’t tell anyone he was sick until it was too late.”

Mitsuki didn’t answer. She sat stiffly in the chair Aizawa had dragged forward earlier, staring at Katsuki’s face like she might burn it into her memory by force.

Masaru stood beside her, a hand gently resting on her shoulder. His gaze lingered on his son’s unmoving form.

“Did he fall?” he asked.

“No,” Aizawa said. “He collapsed from symptoms he’d been hiding. The fall made it worse—he hit the back of his head on rim of the tank. We suspect the swelling began earlier, but the impact made it escalate fast.”

Masaru nodded slowly. “Sounds like him.”

Mitsuki didn’t speak.

Just kept staring.

“They’ve started him on medication,” Aizawa said quietly. “He’s being monitored closely. If the swelling doesn’t reduce, they’ll consider surgical decompression. But that’s a last resort.”

“He always pushes too far,” she muttered.

A long pause.

Then her voice cracked—not loudly, not dramatically, just enough for it to catch in her throat. “He didn’t tell anyone?”

“No.”

Aizawa didn’t offer false comfort. “He tried to muscle through it.”

She snorted bitterly. “Figures.”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, pressing both hands against her face for a moment. Then she took a breath and forced herself upright again.

Masaru gently nudged a second chair closer.

“We’ll stay,” he said quietly. “If that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Aizawa said. “I’ll update you again when the doctors do. I’ve already alerted the school. He’s excused until further notice.”

He lingered a moment longer—just long enough to confirm Bakugou’s vitals hadn’t dipped again—then moved toward the door.

“I’ll be nearby if anything changes.”

He left them there—Mitsuki hunched forward in the chair, one hand braced against the edge of the mattress, the other brushing clumsily against her son’s fingers.

Masaru watched in silence, eyes red but dry, as Aizawa stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him.

The hallway lights dimmed slightly by evening.

Aizawa hadn’t left the hospital. He wasn’t good at pacing, so instead he stood near the windows of the family lounge with his arms crossed, sipping whatever coffee the vending machine had the nerve to call “fresh.” It wasn’t. But it kept him grounded.

At 6:12 p.m.,

When Aizawa stepped back into the hallway leading to Room 404, the light from the door was still on. Quiet. Steady. He paused just outside, hearing murmured voices through the gap.

“…they said he’s strong,” Masaru’s voice was low, calm in that same way Bakugou had always hated—too quiet, too gentle. “But it’ll take time.”

“I know that,” Mitsuki muttered.

A pause. The rustle of blankets shifting.

Inside the room, Bakugou remained still. The oxygen cannula was still in place, and a monitor beeped steadily near the bed. One IV delivered fluids; another had started the medication Recovery Girl had mentioned. The scan had revealed a moderate cranial fracture, but not a full break. Enough to cause trouble. Enough that any further swelling could tip it from “watch” to “critical.”

Mitsuki sat with her elbows braced on the edge of the bed, chin resting on her fists, eyes locked on her son’s face.

Masaru sat beside her now, one leg crossed over the other, calm as ever.

“He’s gonna hate this,” she muttered. “Being stuck in a hospital. Being told to rest. Getting behind on class.”

“Probably,” Masaru said.

Mitsuki’s jaw tightened.

Aizawa stayed by the doorway and didn’t interrupt.

He would go back to the dorms later. Someone would need to speak to the class. Someone would need to explain things.

Right now, all he could do was stand there. Watch. Wait.

Room 404 was dimly lit, just the glow from a small lamp in the corner and the pale green pulse of the heart monitor.

It was nearly midnight.

The nurses came in less often now, each time quieter than the last. One of them had gently offered Mitsuki a blanket earlier, but she hadn’t taken it. She sat stiff in her chair, arms crossed tightly, eyes never straying far from her son.

Masaru was asleep in the armchair, a book open in his lap. Not reading anymore—just holding it. He’d drifted off some time after 10, but Mitsuki hadn’t closed her eyes once.

Aizawa hadn’t either.

He remained in the hallway just outside, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, listening for any shift in the room’s rhythm. The steady beeping of the monitor had become background noise.

He reached for his phone, hesitated… then finally sent a single message to Cementoss:

“I may not make it back for class tomorrow. Cover me?”

Aizawa watched the message go through, he stared at it until the screen went dark. Then he let the phone rest loosely in his hand, his gaze drifting back toward the room.

He could see Mitsuki through the small window in the door—rigid in her chair, jaw tight, refusing to blink too long.

She looked nothing like Bakugou in that moment. And everything like him.

The resemblance lived in the stubbornness. The sharp line of her posture. The way she hadn’t asked a single damn question when the doctors tried to explain, only stared at them like she was daring them to say something worse.

The stillness was starting to feel cruel.

Aizawa shifted, knuckles tight on his arms.

Then, finally—soft footsteps.

Mitsuki stepped out a moment later.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the wall across from him, arms crossed. Her eyes were sharp even in the dim light, but the exhaustion in them was unmistakable.

“I thought he was done hiding things,” she said eventually.

Aizawa didn’t answer right away.

“He’s sixteen,” he said after a moment. “He thought he had to handle it himself.”

Mitsuki scoffed. “He always thinks that. You know, when he was eight, he hid a broken wrist from me for two days because he didn’t want to ‘miss gym class.’”

Aizawa’s brow lifted. “Sounds familiar.”

They were quiet again. But this time, it was more thoughtful than tense.

“I used to think that kind of pride would keep him strong,” Mitsuki said. “Now I’m just wondering where the line is between strength and self-destruction.”

“He’s walking it,” Aizawa murmured. “Barely.”

Mitsuki exhaled, sharp. Then—softer—“He trusts you, you know.”

Aizawa looked at her, mildly surprised.

“He won’t say it,” she added. “Would rather bite his own fucking tongue off. But he listens to you. Even when he pretends not to.”

“That’s not always enough.”

“It might be,” she said. “If someone keeps pushing back.”

Aizawa studied her face. The tension in her jaw. The way her arms stayed locked like she was holding herself together with sheer force.

“…What are you asking?” he said finally.

Mitsuki didn’t flinch. “That you don’t let this slide.”

He nodded slowly. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

She pushed off the wall, adjusted her coat. Paused before opening the door.

“And if he wakes up and starts yelling?” she added over her shoulder.

“I’ll take it as a good sign.”

Mitsuki huffed a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then she went back inside.

Aizawa stayed in the hallway, arms crossed, staring at the door.

Room 404 stayed quiet.

The monitor’s rhythm ticked like a second heartbeat through the door—steady, but distant. Inside, Bakugou’s parents hadn’t moved much.

A soft voice broke the quiet.

“Mr. Aizawa?”

He looked up then nodded once.

“I’m Dr. Shinsuna. I just finished reviewing Bakugou’s charts.” She didn’t offer a handshake. Just tapped the clipboard lightly and glanced toward the door. “May I?”

Aizawa pushed off the wall and opened the door partway for her. Mitsuki looked up sharply from her seat, tense, but didn’t speak. Masaru stirred, eyes blinking open in the low light.

The doctor kept her voice quiet. Professional, but not cold.

“There’s no new decline overnight,” she said. “Which is what we wanted. His breathing is strong and consistent. Blood pressure is stable.”

Mitsuki let out the faintest breath.

“But?”

Dr. Shinsuna nodded slightly. “His scans still show residual swelling around the occipital region. No increase, thankfully. But that explains his extended unconsciousness and sensitivity to stimuli. The vomiting and disorientation earlier are consistent with that.”

“So when will he wake up?” Masaru asked softly.

“There’s no exact answer. It could be hours. Maybe a bit longer. The swelling needs to ease more before his brain will fully reset its rhythm.” She glanced at the heart monitor. “But we’re not seeing signs of deterioration. That’s a very good thing.”

Aizawa folded his arms. “And after he wakes?”

“We’ll do a cognitive evaluation. Balance testing. Reflexes. Memory. If all goes well, we start short-term observation with rest and fluid recovery. That’ll take days.”

Masaru nodded slowly. Mitsuki said nothing.

Dr. Shinsuna looked back at Aizawa. “You’re his homeroom teacher?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Shinsuna looked at Aizawa. “He’s going to need complete rest. No movement. No overstimulation. Ideally, minimal frustration.”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. “He’ll blow a hole in the wall by day two.”

Masaru let out a short laugh. Even Mitsuki cracked a tight smile.

“I’m not covering construction costs,” Aizawa added flatly.

That broke the heaviness, just a little. Enough to breathe.

Dr. Shinsuna allowed herself a small smile. “We’ll keep the walls reinforced.”

“I’ll come back around seven for another exam,” the doctor added. “In the meantime, rest if you can.”

She left with barely a sound.

Aizawa closed the door gently behind her, then turned back toward the bed.

Bakugou hadn’t moved.

But the room felt—fractionally—lighter than it had hours ago.

He stepped quietly to the chair in the far corner and sank into it, stretching out his legs, gaze still fixed on the boy in the bed. Arms crossed. Silent.

Still watching.

The morning light came in soft.

Filtered through the blinds in thin gray bands, it crept across the hospital room in quiet degrees—slow, steady, unbothered. The low pulse of the monitor had become so constant it almost faded into the hum of the fluorescent light overhead.

Aizawa stirred in the chair by the wall, blinking awake.

His neck ached. His back ached worse. The chair wasn’t made for sleep, but he’d stayed in it anyway—half-watching, half-listening through the long, heavy hours of the night.

He sat up slowly, rolling one shoulder, then the other.

Mitsuki was slumped forward against the side of the bed, her head resting near her son’s arm. A folded blanket someone must’ve given her had slipped halfway off her shoulders. One hand was curled on the edge of the mattress—still close, still braced, like she hadn’t let herself drift far.

Masaru had tucked himself into the corner chair again, arms crossed, chin tilted slightly down. Breathing even. Still asleep.

Aizawa glanced toward the bed—

And stilled.

Bakugou’s brow had twitched.

Just slightly. Barely there.

Then again—faint, drawn together. His lips parted in a slow breath, deeper than before. The kind that wasn’t just reflex. His fingers moved next—curling, then flinching, like they weren’t sure what they were reaching for.

Aizawa leaned forward.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

Bakugou’s eyes fluttered, lashes shifting slightly before stilling again. Then a small wince—subtle, almost imperceptible. But real.

The monitor picked up the change.

A slightly quicker rhythm. A breath caught.

Mitsuki shifted in her sleep but didn’t wake.

Aizawa reached toward the bedside call button but paused—hesitated—watching.

Bakugou’s head shifted a fraction on the pillow.

Then—

A strained inhale. His eyes blinked open, unfocused, clouded, and slow.

“…mmh…”

It was barely a sound. Barely a word.

But it was enough.

Aizawa pressed the call button, then stood.

Not fast—deliberate. Calm.

Bakugou blinked again, squinting at the ceiling. He looked dazed. Confused. One hand twitched weakly against the blanket, like he was trying to move but couldn’t quite make sense of his own body.

“Bakugou,” Aizawa said quietly, stepping closer. “Don’t force it. You’re in a hospital.”

Bakugou’s eyes didn’t quite track him, but he clearly heard. His brows drew tighter. His jaw shifted like he wanted to speak, but the words didn’t come.

“Take your time.”

A nurse entered quietly just then, followed by another. One of them moved to check the monitor while the other leaned in to assess Bakugou’s awareness.

“He’s responsive,” Aizawa said before they could ask.

“Perfect. Let’s keep it slow. Can you hear me, Bakugou?”

Bakugou blinked sluggishly, then gave the faintest nod.

Mitsuki stirred beside him—lifted her head groggily from the mattress, blinking rapidly as she saw her son’s eyes half-open.

“…Katsuki?”

Her voice cracked. Instinctively, her hand reached for his.

Bakugou didn’t respond clearly. But his fingers moved toward hers.

It was clumsy. Weak. But real.

Aizawa took one step back as the nurse continued gently checking Bakugou’s responsiveness—light, noninvasive. Just enough to measure.

Behind them, Masaru had woken as well, rubbing at his eyes before sitting up sharply.

“Katsuki,” Mitsuki whispered, brushing a hand through his hair. “You scared the hell out of me, brat.”

Bakugou blinked again—just slightly more aware now. His lips moved, but only a whisper came out.

“…loud…”

Aizawa huffed softly.

He’s really awake.

_____________________________________

Yesterday was quiet, Aizawa thought, settling back into the same corner chair, Just the low rhythm of machines, shallow breathing, and the occasional nurse checking vitals. It had almost felt suspended in time—like everyone in Room 404 had agreed, silently, not to disturb the stillness.

Today?
Today might be the day they get kicked out of the hospital.

Bakugou had been awake for three hours—grumpy, defensive, and far too loud for someone with a head injury. Mitsuki had matched him decibel for decibel. Aizawa had counted exactly six separate arguments before 8 a.m.

He hadn’t had coffee. Or sleep. Or peace.

Bakugou shifted against the pillows with a wince, scowled, then grunted,
“Shut up, old hag.”

“You’re in the fucking hospital, genius,” Mitsuki snapped, arms crossed. “Congratulations.”

Silence.

Tense. Charged. Familiar.

“Do you think hiding symptoms until you collapse at school makes you stronger?”

Bakugou’s reply came sharp and immediate.
“I didn’t collapse at school. I made it to the damn room.”

“Oh wow,” she said, voice dripping sarcasm. “So fucking proud of you.”

Masaru, seated beside her with a newspaper folded in his lap, cleared his throat gently.
“Mitsu…”

“I want you to stop acting like bleeding out in a bathroom stall is normal!”

Masaru flinched. Aizawa didn’t react—he’d run out of reactions an hour ago.

“Wasn’t bleeding out,” Bakugou muttered. “It looked worse than it was.”

“Don’t you start with that crap,” Mitsuki snapped, standing now, hands on her hips. “You think your classmates aren’t gonna remember the panic on their faces?”

“I didn’t ask them to freak out—”

“You shouldn’t have put them in that position at all!”

Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Let’s not yell before breakfast.”

“I’m not yelling!” Mitsuki said automatically,

“You’re definitely fucking yelling,” Bakugou muttered under his breath.

She turned.
“What was that?”

Aizawa finally looked up, voice flat.
“I’d like to make it through the day without needing to file a structural damage report.”

Bakugou glared, but he looked tired, too. The fight in his eyes flickered, then dimmed.

Mitsuki huffed and sat back down like she’d been forcibly dropped. Her fingers drummed furiously against the armrest.

A long beat passed.

Masaru lifted his paper again and murmured, “Maybe we all need some coffee.”

Nobody argued with that.

Mitsuki stood up with a sigh that was more threat than breath. “I’m gonna get one before I throw a chair.”

She didn’t wait for permission—just grabbed her bag and stormed out. Masaru followed a moment later with a gentle, “Back soon,” and a look that clearly meant Good luck.

Silence settled like dust.

Aizawa hadn’t moved from the corner chair—arms crossed, back stiff, the same expression he always wore when someone was testing his patience.

Bakugou shifted on the bed, slower than he wanted to be. His head still ached, his limbs still dragged like dead weight. He grimaced, muttering, “She’s insane.”

Aizawa didn’t blink. “She’s your mother.”

Bakugou let out a rough exhale. “Tch. You should’ve let her yell at me yesterday and saved yourself the headache.”

“I’m still considering it,” Aizawa said dryly.

Bakugou tried to snort. It came out more like a wheeze. “Bet she told you I’m a dumbass.”

“No,” Aizawa replied. “That was my own conclusion.”

Bakugou glanced over, scowled.

“You hid symptoms for over a week,” Aizawa said, voice flat now. “You passed out alone. You cracked your head in bathroom. And instead of asking for help, you pretended you were fine and walked yourself into a concussion and blood loss.”

Silence. The monitors clicked softly behind it.

Bakugou looked away. Jaw clenched.

“Y’all keeps talking about the same shit. I didn’t think it was that fucking bad,” he muttered.

“Bullshit,” Aizawa snapped, sharp enough to cut.

Bakugou’s eyes shot back to him, wide—like he hadn’t expected that.

“You knew it was bad. You just didn’t want anyone to see it.”

A long pause.

“I’m not—”

“If you say ‘weak,’ I’ll make you write a reflective essay on self-worth.”

Bakugou froze, mouth half open.

Aizawa stared him down, cold and unblinking. “You don’t get to rewrite what happened. Not when other people were there to see you drop.”

Bakugou didn’t look away this time. His face was tight, pride still bubbling under the surface—but something else was cracking through it now. Embarrassment, maybe. Guilt.

“I’m supposed to be better than that,” he said finally, voice low. “Stronger.”

“You’re a sixteen-year-old with a human body,” Aizawa said bluntly. “Not a machine. You don’t get stronger by pretending nothing can touch you. You get stronger by surviving and learning not to make the same mistake twice.”

Bakugou didn’t respond. He just sank a little deeper into the bed, eyes back on the ceiling. Shoulders tight, but not fighting anymore.

Aizawa watched him for another beat, then leaned back in the chair.

“You’re grounded, by the way.”

Bakugou’s head snapped toward him. “The hell does that mean?”

“From combat training,” Aizawa said flatly. “Indefinitely.”

Bakugou bolted upright—well, tried to. “That’s bullsh—”

“I’m not negotiating,” Aizawa said flatly. “If you argue, I will add essays, bedpans, and Midoriya check-ins to your punishment list.”

Bakugou visibly recoiled. “That’s fucking sick.” He hissed

Aizawa closed his eyes. “Then behave.”

Silence again—tense, but quieter.

It wasn’t peace.

But it was the start of something.
_____________________________________

The wind hit different up here.

Now Bakugo stood in front of Heights Alliance again, backpack slung over one shoulder, a discharge paper crumpled in the pocket of his jacket. The bandage on his head was gone. The IV bruises, mostly faded. He still moved slower than he wanted to—but faster than anyone expected.

Five damn days. That’s how long they kept him.

One in Recovery Girl’s cramped, antiseptic office, where the only privacy was a goddamn curtain, and the air smelled like old gauze and mint antiseptic. Babysat by his homeroom teacher. Great.

The next four days were worse.

Hospital gown. Monitors. Blood tests every six hours. Even goddamn dietary monitoring. Nurses with tight smiles and too many questions. Doctors shining lights in his eyes like he was concussed or something—which, okay, maybe a little—but still. Bakugou Katsuki was not supposed to be laid out in a bed with fucking heart rate graphs and limited bathroom privileges.

And the worst part?

They were all treating him like he might keel over again at any second.

“Try not to strain your system.”
“Don’t sit up too fast.”
“Let us know if you feel lightheaded.”

He nearly blasted the intercom off the wall on day two.

On the sixth morning, they finally gave him the choice.

Go home. Rest in his own bed, supervised by his parents, with Mitsuki breathing down his neck every hour.

Or go back to the dorms.

He picked the dorms before the question finished leaving the nurse’s mouth.

“I’ve got shit to catch up,” he muttered.

The nurse hesitated. “Your teacher said—”

“I said I’m fucking going back.”

Mitsuki had started her tirade while the nurses were still unhooking wires from his chest and peeling the tape off his arms. She stood off to the side, arms crossed, jaw set like she’d been waiting days to unload.

“You think I’m joking?” she snapped, voice low but razor-sharp. “If I hear you so much as skipped one damn meal, Katsuki—I will drag your ass out of that dorm by the collar and lock you in your bedroom until you figure out how to behave like someone who actually gives a shit about staying alive. Got it?”

Bakugou hissed, half from the tape burn and half from her words. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she shot back.

The other nurse handed Bakugou a folded pile of clothes—sweatpants, hoodie, his usual black tank. He muttered under his breath as he took them, just loud enough to be heard: “Pain in the ass.”

“You’re not a damn adult yet, Katsuki.” she went on, undeterred. As he was yanking the hoodie over his head. “So if you think you can go off and act like your body doesn’t matter—go ahead. But I swear, I’ll enroll myself in that damn school and watch you every second.”

He didn’t answer , just shoved his arms through the sleeves.

She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest. “That’s not a threat, by the way. That’s a promise.”

He didn’t answer that either. Finished tugging his sneakers on, scowled like the laces had wronged him personally and muttered something that earned him smack to the shoulder.

He still refused to go home.

And just when he thought he was free—

Aizawa was waiting outside the dorm building. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.

Bakugou swore under his breath.

“You’re not going in until we talk,” Aizawa said, voice low and even.

Katsuki glared. “Seriously? Thought we already did this back at the hospital.”

“That was doctors asking questions,” Aizawa replied. “This time, it’s me.”

Bakugou gritted his teeth, shifting his duffel higher on his shoulder. “I can walk, I can think, I can blow something up—what else do you fucking want?”

Aizawa didn’t flinch. “An explanation.”

Bakugou looked away. “Already said it. I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“And you still don’t, from the way you’re talking,” Aizawa said. His voice wasn’t angry—but it had that tired, deadpan weight that made it worse.

Bakugou’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not asking for your life story, Bakugou,” Aizawa continued. “But if you’re going to stay here, I need to know you’re not going to collapse again in front of your classmates.”

There was a long pause. Bakugou stared at the steps, fists clenched.

“I didn’t fucking eat. I didn’t sleep. My head was screwed up and I kept pushing it off. I thought I could handle it.”

“You couldn’t.”

Bakugou shot him a glare. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Aizawa didn’t back down. “Then do better.”

Katsuki looked away again. “…I will.”

Aizawa studied him for a second longer, then finally nodded.

“One week. No combat training. You go to class, take it slow. If you so much as blink wrong, you’re back in Recovery Girl’s office. Understood?”

“Tch. Whatever.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Bakugou gave him a tight scowl. “Understood.”

“Good.”

Aizawa stepped aside to let him pass. Bakugou didn’t say another word, just stomped up the steps like the concrete had personally offended him.

But he didn’t complain again.

Not out loud, anyway.

The dorm doors creaked open as Bakugou stepped inside, bag slung over one shoulder, expression locked in a permanent scowl like he was daring someone to breathe wrong.

The common room quieted. Just the soft buzz of the TV, the rustle of snack wrappers, and the end of whatever four eyes had been explaining to tape face.

“Yo—Kacchan?” Kaminari was the first to notice, halfway off the couch, blinking.

For a moment, no one moved.

Bakugou grunted. Low, dismissive. Kept walking.

“Dude, you’re actually back,” Kaminari said, grinning. “You look like crap.”

“Die,” Bakugou muttered, not even glancing over.

“Bro—wait!” Kirishima shot to his feet. “You’re back? Already? You—”

“Four eyes.” Bakugou cut him off. “Don’t even start with some ‘school-issued protocol’ speech. I’m not here for it.”

Iida froze mid-step, straightening like a chastised teacher. “I was merely going to say we were not informed of your return schedule.”

“Great,” Bakugou said, dropping his bag beside the wall with a thud. “Didn’t need a damn welcome parade.”

From the couch, Todoroki blinked at him. “You still look half-dead.”

Bakugou glared. “Then get your fucking eyes checked.”

“That’s the Blasty we know,” Mina muttered, grinning. She stood and crossed the room—then, without warning, hugged him tightly around the shoulders.

“What the hell—oi—get off!” Bakugou snarled, twisting sideways.

“Missed you too,” Mina teased, ignoring how he shoved her off like she was a stray cat.

Jirou leaned on the couch back. “Didn’t expect to see you till next week.”

Ojiro gave him a nod. “Glad you’re back.”

Even Aoyama sparkled faintly as he saluted. “Bienvenue, mon ami.”

Kirishima moved toward him, smile unsure but open. “Hey. Seriously—good to see you. You okay?”

Bakugou hesitated—just for a second. Eyes flicked to his. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Kirishima stared, then smiled, wider now. “Yeah. You are.”

Then—movement near the kitchen.

Midoriya stood frozen by the counter, a half-full mug in both hands like he’d forgotten how to move.

“…Kacchan?” he said finally. Soft. Cautious. Like it cost him something.

Bakugou turned his head.

Then he scoffed. “What, you think I died or something?”

Midoriya flinched, shoulders tensing. “No, I just—”

“Then don’t fucking get weird about it.”

Midoriya looked down, then back up, voice quiet. “Welcome back.”

Bakugou didn’t respond—not in words. Just rolled his eyes and looked away.

Iida stepped forward, trying again. “Bakugou, if you require any continued medical support or classroom accommodations, please—”

Bakugou gave him a dry look. “If I need a nap schedule, you’ll be the first to fucking know.”

Before anyone else could pile on, he grabbed his bag again. “Later.”

He walked toward the elevator like the entire room was just background noise.

The doors closed behind him with a quiet ding.

Silence.

Kirishima stood there for a long moment, still facing the elevator. “At least he’s talking.”

“Barely,” Kaminari said.

“Better than nothing,” Sero added.

Midoriya sat back down, hands still tight around his mug.

Tsu flopped onto the couch. “Glad he’s back.”

“Same,” Kaminari said, slumping. “Even if it means the yelling starts tomorrow.”

From the couch, he tapped his phone screen a few times and blinked.
“Yo… tomorrow’s Tuesday.”

Mina groaned. “Aw, crap. That means combat training.”

Kirishima didn’t look away from the elevator doors.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “It does.”

_____________________________________

Ground Gamma felt different in the morning fog—thick and heavy with dew, as if the whole place was holding its breath. The air clung to their skin, damp and cold.

But Bakugou looked exactly the same—scowling as fierce as ever, eyes sharp and burning with impatience. Already itching to blow something up.

“Oi, Pikachu—if you short-circuit on me again, I swear to god—” Bakugou snapped, vaulting over a rusted pipe with brutal grace, landing low and ready.

“Relax!” Kaminari called back, sweat beading beneath his visor despite the cool air. “I charged all night! I’m good!”

“Yeah? So did your brain,” Bakugou muttered, cracking his knuckles as sparks danced like fireflies across his palms, warm and twitchy.

Midoriya ducked low behind a rusted metal support beam. “Can we please focus? We’re on a timer—”

“Oh, now you care about time,” Bakugou barked, stalking forward with predatory steps. “After taking a century to get through the stairwell!”

“I was making sure we didn’t trigger another trap!” Midoriya shot back,

“You wanna talk traps?! Try working with him!” Bakugou jabbed a thumb at Kaminari with a snarl.

“Bro,” Kaminari muttered, casting a side-eye. “You’re the trap.”

“You wanna die in training?!” Bakugou growled, sparks flaring.

“Guys—!” Midoriya raised his hands, voice urgent. “We need a plan. We need to figure this out before—”

“Eat sh—!”

A sudden, sizzling blast of acid cracked through the air, sharp and bright.

Bakugou spun, barely catching the flash of pink light before it slammed into his chest with a wet smack.

He grunted, skidding backward until his shoulder slammed hard into a low railing. The breath knocked out of him, but his glare only sharpened.

“AMBUSH!” Midoriya shouted, ducking just as a dark, writhing shadow lunged from the catwalk above.

A whip-like tape line snapped past, wrapping tight around Kaminari’s torso and yanking him sideways off balance.

From the opposite catwalk, Ashido pumped a fist, grinning wide. “Boom! Surprise attack successful!”

“Nice teamwork,” Sero called, swinging past on a fresh line of tape.

Tokoyami dropped in next, Dark Shadow swirling like a living cloak of ink around him. “Victory favors the prepared.”

Bakugou spat a mouthful of gravel, pushing off the ground with raw force. “You bastards—”

Sero swung across the gap, landing right in front of the trapped Kaminari and tapping him sharply on the shoulder—signaling capture.

“Seriously?” Kaminari groaned. “I just said I was ready!”

“Then you should’ve proved it,” Sero replied, grinning as he dodged a sudden blast from Bakugou.

Midoriya ducked under a burst of pink acid aimed at his feet, countering with a precise gust of wind that shoved Ashido backward.

Bakugou exploded forward without hesitation, charging headlong into the fray and ignoring cover altogether.

“…I’m going to murder all of you,” he snarled, voice low and deadly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sero teased, ducking effortlessly.

“Starting with you, Dunce Face!”

“DUDE!” Kaminari shouted from the floor, still tangled in tape. “I’m on your team!”

He fired two quick, controlled blasts toward Sero and Tokoyami—not to hurt, just to scatter them.

“Kacchan, wait!” Midoriya called, sprinting after him. “We’re supposed to regroup!”

Midoriya kept running, voice breathless but steady. “Plan B. No—Plan C. We reroute through the vent shafts, circle behind the tower—”

Bakugou cut him off, snarling between heavy breaths. “You’re planning while we’re getting our asses kicked?!”

They clashed mid-combat, dodging and weaving between blasts and tape swings, the tension thick.

“You ignored the original plan!” Midoriya shot back, eyes fierce.

“Because it was slow and stupid!” Bakugou snapped.

“It was safe and efficient!”

Kaminari finally wriggled upright, flailing wildly. “Can we argue later? I’m gonna die in a puddle of tape and shame!”

Their opponents retreated suddenly, scattering like startled birds as the team pressed their counterattack. Ashido and Tokoyami melted into shadows near the ventilation shafts, Sero flipped away over a railing, leaving behind faint echoes of taunts.

Bakugou landed hard on the upper platform, fists still crackling, jaw clenched tight.

“…I hate team drills,” he muttered.

Midoriya caught up, panting, eyes sharp. “We need to tighten formation. Next round, no splitting up.”

“Period,” Kaminari agreed,

Bakugou didn’t look at him. His voice was low, clipped. “Next round, I go first.”

Midoriya crossed his arms, unimpressed. “You did go first.”

Bakugou shot him a glare. “Then next time, get out of my way.”

Midoriya peeled tape off Kaminari’s arms, rubbing his wrists gently.

“You okay?” Midoriya asked.

“I think I inhaled some of Mina’s acid,” Kaminari wheezed.

“You’ll live.”

Bakugou lunged suddenly toward their retreating foes, a wild grin cracking his face.

“Kacchan!” Midoriya shouted,

Kaminari scrambled to his feet and didn’t hesitate—he took off after Bakugou without a second thought.

Midoriya sighed, then pushed off after them,

Midoriya kept pace, eyes darting to every shadowed corner above the catwalks. “We need to keep moving. If they’re near the vents, we’re exposed.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Nerd!”

Bakugou’s grin twisted fierce as he spotted Ashido crouching behind a crate.

With a burst of speed, he charged, sparks flying like wildfire.

He slammed into her, knocking her back with a deafening explosion.

“Give me pink acid’s head!” Bakugou roared, voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

From the sidelines, Aizawa leaned against a support beam, eyes half-lidded beneath his ever-drooping eyelids. The morning fog blurred the edges of the chaotic training ground, but Bakugou’s fiery blasts and sharp shouts cut through the haze, clear and relentless.

The dull throb in Aizawa’s skull had definitely worsened today—probably a side effect of keeping constant watch over that explosive ball of energy charging ahead.

The kid was back. After a week off recovering, Bakugou was throwing himself into training like nothing had changed.

“They’ve gotten louder,” Aizawa muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I had fewer headaches when Bakugou was suspended.”

Kirishima, standing nearby, glanced over with a concerned frown. “Are you okay?”

Aizawa shot him a tired look. “I’m fine. Just dealing with the side effects of having Bakugou back in combat training.”

Kirishima grinned, eyes tracking Bakugou’s relentless charge. “Well, at least he’s focused.”

“Focused?” Aizawa scoffed, eyes narrowing as Bakugou glared daggers at Kaminari like he’d personally insulted his entire family. “That’s one way to put it.”

He ran a hand through his messy hair with a sigh. “At least now I have someone to blame for my headaches.”

Kirishima, standing nearby with a half-smile, nodded. “Some things never really change, huh?”

Aizawa’s gaze flicked back to Bakugou, who was already barking orders at Kaminari to keep up, sparks crackling from his knuckles.

He muttered under his breath, “Guess I’m stuck playing nurse and referee for a while longer.”

With a resigned sigh, Aizawa settled back against the fence, bracing himself for the next round of chaos—and maybe, just maybe, some progress.