Archive of Our Own ^beta

Of course, it would be fucking raining the night Bakugou does something incredibly stupid, but there’s no way in hell he’s sleeping under that roof tonight. He’s being reckless just like she said, but he doesn’t fucking care anymore. Though he is starting to regret not grabbing a goddamn umbrella before slamming the door in her infuriated face.

His shoulder gives a twinge that he ignores as he puts more distance between himself and the house he’s felt stuck in for what he refuses to believe has only been two days. Water pools in his shoes, soaking his socks until every step makes a god-awful squelching noise. Still, he keeps moving, checking over his shoulder and ducking into a nearby convenience store until he’s sure the hag isn’t following him (not that she’s ever given enough of a shit to chase after him).

The clerk barely even spares him a questioning glance, though they don’t seem pleased about the water he’s now tracking into their store.

Bakugou glances along the racks of overpriced snacks and always full hot dog rollers, feeling a wave of bittersweet nostalgia wash over him. It’s not like this is his first time storming out of the house and, from the way things are going lately, he knows it won’t be the last. He’s pretty sure he never felt this on edge doing it, though. As he thinks back to all of the times he’s pulled similar stunts, all he can recall is his feelings of resentment and anger mixed with the childish satisfaction of directly disobeying the old hag.

He used to feel invincible.

He wonders when that changed.

“You could always talk to Principal Nezu about staying on campus over break instead? Or I could ask my moms-“

Bakugou stubbornly waves the thought of Kirishima away, pride writhing at the memory. The fleeting thought of him makes another feeling ache in his chest though. One that feels dangerously close to “really fucking missing him even though it’s only been a couple days” and “wanting to be with him right now instead of drenched in a fucking covenience store but the dumbass is out of town with his moms for the holidays remember?”.

He buys a bag of jalapeño cheddar Cheetos more out of habit than anything, relishing in the ‘fuck you’ he gets to send toward the hag who wouldn’t allow such plebeian junk food within a ten-mile radius of her house.

Stepping back outside, he realizes he has no fucking clue where he intends to go tonight.

When he pulled stunts like this in middle school he would usually just fuck around until the hag went to bed and then sneak back in through his window. A time or two, he even caught a bus to the house of one of his school friends, but their parents always gave him these ‘knowing looks’ that made him sick to his stomach with anger so he stopped going.

Once upon a time, Auntie Inko’s was an option too, but he’d sooner join the League of Villains than go running to her with his tail between his legs.

“Whatever, Katsuki. Run from your problems like you always do.”

Fuck.

He’s not running.

He’s not a coward.

He’s not. He’s not. He’s not.

He pushes the thoughts away long enough to formulate an actual plan and forces himself to catch a bus before he can talk himself out of it. There’s only one place he can stand to think of going right now. Somewhere that has, over the last month or so, unexpectedly become one of the very few places where he feels safe.

Once on the bus, he shoves on a pair of headphones and glares out the window, turning the volume up until it’s just loud enough to drown out the buzzing thoughts in his brain.

He doesn’t process much of the trip there, least of all how he convinces UA security he isn’t just some batshit insane person wandering around at three in the morning. By some miracle, though, they let him past the gates and he makes it to his destination sometime later.

His body is paralyzed with (what he doesn’t want to admit might be) fear as he stares up at a familiar building that feels almost eerie this time of night. Darkness creeps in all around him where the nearby street lamps can’t quite reach and he shivers.

Bakugou swallows hard, forcing his feet to move him toward the apartment complex before he can start instinctively searching the darkness for glowing yellow or blue eyes.

One flight of stairs later, a familiar door sits in front of him.

His arms feel glued to his sides, though whether from fear or how badly he’s shivering he’s not sure. A jumbled mix of paranoid thoughts race in his head, ones that say, “What if they get angry you woke them?” and “Arrogant brat, going out alone. You know you’re just asking for the League to take you again, don’t you?” and “How pathetically selfish can you be? Imposing yourself on these people like some kind of fucking charity case?”.

With a sharp intake of breath, Bakugou lifts his hand to knock and gets stuck again, his arm suspended awkwardly in the air. Horrified, he feels his eyes begin to sting with unshed tears.

God, quit being such a fucking coward already!

His knuckle makes contact with the door and panic surges through his body. Fighting against the feeling, he determinedly clenches his other fist to keep it still and knocks a second time.

The following seconds of silence threaten to swallow him whole as he waits, listening desperately for movement from inside. Any telltale signs of what mood the apartment’s inhabitants might be in. When he finally hears movement it’s like the sound is coming from worlds away. He thinks that if his body wasn’t shaking so badly he would’ve made a fucking run for it by now.

The deadbolt lock clicks open and his stomach lurches violently. He hardly dares to watch as the door slides open, revealing yellow-green eyes and blond hair that’s been half pulled up into a messy bun. Hands that were in the process of sliding on a pair of glasses freeze halfway to their destination, uncovered eyes going wide the moment they see him.

Bakugou’s already stiff joints tense even further, body aching in a way that stabs all the way down to his bones. His clothes cling to him like a second skin that he desperately wants to shed. And still, the downpour hammers on around him. Relentless. Drowning out all other sounds and thoughts like he’s submerged underwater.

A hand reaches toward him and he flinches away, causing it to instantly retreat to his immense relief. After a moment, it reaches back to pull the door open further, seemingly inviting him inside.

All Bakugou can do is stare through the doorway, drawn in by the comforting pull of a familiar, softly-lit living room but unable to move toward it. A white-blue light flickers against one of the walls, telling him the television is on. He wonders what’s playing and who the hell is awake watching it at this hour, for that matter.

“You coming in, little listener?” The figure in the door asks, voice surprisingly soft for how easily it cuts through the overwhelming pounding of the rain.

Bakugou’s breath hitches almost painfully, his own voice locked somewhere far away. The arms crossed protectively over his chest squeeze impossibly tighter, desperate to keep the rest of him from floating away entirely.

There’s a second person in the doorway now. Bloodshot eyes framed by messy black hair meet Bakugou’s and he finds none of the anger he was expecting, just a soft sort of concern. These hands hold out a towel for him, green and enticingly soft-looking.

When he still can’t get himself to move, the hands slowly unfold the towel, holding it open for him. They make no attempt to come out and wrap it around him, though, for which he is grateful.

Finally, his body unfreezes enough for him to take a step, and then another through the door as the two figures back up to make room for him in the entryway.

He hopes—not very optimistically—that the tremor in his hands isn’t obvious as he reaches for the towel, taking and then wrapping it around himself as tightly as possible. He suppresses the urge to jump when the door is shut behind him.

“You look like you could use a hot shower, kid,” A rough voice says, the owner’s thumb sticking out to indicate the nearby bathroom.

Bakugou nods vaguely in understanding, squatting down to tug off his boots and then peeling the soaked socks from his feet with relish. Both figures hesitate for a moment before walking further in, leaving him to his own devices.

When his feet are finally free of their waterlogged confines, he makes his way to the bathroom, more by muscle memory than anything else. He’s handed a second towel somewhere along the way and only just notices a third inhabitant in the living room right before he shuts the door behind him.

The bathroom is quiet and he’s not sure he likes that so he rushes to turn the shower on as hot as he can bear it. With the rest of his clothing now a soggy pile in the sink, he steps inside and finally feels like he can breathe again as the hot water beats down on his aching muscles.

Awareness comes back to him little by little like blood flowing back into a numb limb. Similarly, this proves to be a blessing and a curse. While it’s reassuring to be a little more in control of his body and mind again, it also brings back memories of why he’s here. It reminds him of what he was trying to avoid feeling in the first place, prickling at him like the worst pins and needles he can imagine.

He starts to feel unsteady on his feet so he sits in the tub and lets the water continue to pour over him. Still-trembling hands come up to grasp at his hair, tugging at the roots until it borders on painful.

“Fuck.” is the only word that manages to squeeze past his lips, the sound instantly swept away by the steady drone of water on porcelain. He stares at the wall unseeingly as he half-heartedly tries to keep himself grounded in the present.

Where the fuck is Shitty Hair when you need him? He would know what to do.

He knows he needs to get a grip and hates that he feels so useless. He shouldn’t have to rely on other people to do the hard shit for him all the time.

But isn’t that exactly why he came here?

To pawn his problems off onto someone else?

Bakugou squeezes his eyes shut against the thought, tugging a little harder at the blond hair tangled between his fingers.

Fuck, he’s tired. Not just physically, but in every sense of the word. The kind of tiredness that seeps into every fiber of his being and makes his head feel like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Like every little hurdle just keeps getting harder and harder to jump over but he keeps doing it anyway because stopping would mean giving up.

A knock at the door drags him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Brought you some dry clothes, I’ll leave them by the door.”

Bakugou doesn’t respond. He doubts the voice was expecting him to anyway.

Only now does he notice his hands have started to prune and that he has no clue how long he’s been sitting there. Not wanting to waste any more of their hot water, Bakugou pushes himself into a standing position and shuts the shower off. He focuses on the muffled noises coming from the living room to distract himself from the sudden silence, letting it ground him the tiniest bit.

He makes quick work of drying himself off and is surprised to find he recognizes one of the articles of clothing that was left out for him. Though how the fuck this household wound up with one of Pikachu’s hoodies is beyond him. As he tugs it on, he’s pleased to find it blissfully cozy and decides to stop questioning the logistics of how it got here.

He starts for the door and then pauses, stomach churning when he catches a glimpse of his soaked clothes in the sink. Knowing he shouldn’t just leave them there, he haphazardly tosses everything on top of the shower’s curtain rod to dry. He’s only ever made the mistake of leaving wet clothes in a pile once, a mistake the old hag has seen to it that he will never make again.

Grabbing the door handle, he only hesitates for a moment before sucking in a sharp breath and twisting it open again, stepping out into the living room.

He’s instantly greeted by large, bright red eyes peeking out over the back of the nearby couch. Upon recognition, the rest of Eri-chan’s face comes out of hiding. Her hair is messy like she’s been tossing and turning in bed all night and Bakugou wonders if that’s exactly what she’s been doing. If that’s why she’s awake now with what looks like a mug of something warm and comforting on the coffee table behind her.

Despite her now obvious exhaustion, she still manages to find a small but genuinely excited smile for him. The next thing Bakugou knows, My-Little-Pony-pajama-clad arms are wrapping around his legs and he once again falls still. He never really knows what to do when she hugs him like this, always too shocked that she feels comfortable enough with him to do it in the first place.

An often unhelpful part of his brain reminds him that normal people generally return hugs when they’re given.

He doesn’t even notice Aizawa making his way toward them until he addresses Eri softly. “Did you ask if it was okay to hug him, sweetheart?”

Eri’s eyes widen apologetically and she shakes her head, instantly letting go.

Bakugou’s gaze stays stubbornly fixed on Eri as he waves off Aizawa’s concern. “S’okay.” He clears his throat, hating how strained the simple word sounds. He holds out a fist that she happily bumps with her own. When Aizawa isn’t looking, he lets himself smile a little, lowering his voice in the hopes that only Eri can hear him say, “Happy to see you too, kid.”

Her smile grows and then she tugs on his hoodie sleeve, urging him to follow her. He happily goes along with her as she sits back down on the floor space in front of the TV where he can now see a whole collection of My Little Ponies placed in what looks like a frighteningly elaborate setup.

This is, however, nothing new to him. He’s been both a witness to and a “begrudging” participant in many of Eri’s strange games of pretend with said pony figures. He wonders if there have been any epic battles, weird rituals, or tragic deaths yet tonight.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Yamada place a coaster and then a new steaming mug on the coffee table. Eri glances up at the dull thud, making a sound of confusion. Yamada points at Bakugou. “I thought he might need some too.”

She looks back at Bakugou, eyes unnervingly calculating, though not unkind. Finally, she looks down at the Rainbow Dash figure currently in her hand and offers her to Bakugou with such a startling looking of understanding it almost makes the dam behind his eyes finally break. He takes the offered figure and cradles her in his hands for a moment, just barely managing to keep everything at bay through the sheer force of his stubborn pride alone.

He’s never explicitly told her that Rainbow Dash has always been his favorite pony–he can barely admit to himself that he’s seen, let alone enjoys, the show in the first place–but he’s pretty sure she’s figured it out anyway.

Goddamn kids and their knowing way more than you ever think they do. It certainly doesn’t help that Eri’s less-than-loving upbringing has left her way too emotionally intelligent and sensitive to the moods of people around her for her age.

Bakugou tries not to think about how familiar that last part sounds.

Thankfully, his attention is drawn back to the present when a door across the room creaks open, revealing a mess of purple hair and eyes with possibly even worse dark circles than Aizawa’s (a feat Bakugou didn’t think was possible until recently).

“Oh,” is Shinsou’s eloquent response upon seeing Bakugou sitting on his living room floor. He yawns. “Why are you here?”

His voice is flat as he says it, but Bakugou has been around the dry bastard enough by now to recognize that there’s no malice behind his words, just bored curiosity. Bakugou’s subconscious tries to remind him that he shouldn’t answer direct questions from him, but he ignores his heightened sense of self-preservation for the time being. Shinsou might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but Bakugou trusts that he would never use his quirk on him outside of training, especially not around Eri.

Not about to give him an honest answer, though, Bakugou says, “Eri-chan needed someone cool enough to be Rainbow Dash and obviously couldn’t ask you.”

Shinsou regards him for a moment and then snorts to himself. “You would be a Rainbow Dash fan.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Competitive. Brash. Self-absorbed. A total show-off. Sound familiar?”

“Suck my dick, Mind Games! At least I have a personality-”

Before he can argue further, Eri sticks her Twilight Sparkle figure into the air between them, making the pony look at each of them disapprovingly. Speaking through the figure with a frighteningly good imitation of Twilight Sparkle’s voice, she says, “Now girls, arguing with our friends isn’t nice!”

Bakugou looks from the beady plastic eyes staring into his soul to Shinsou and they share a grimace. They both turn to look at Eri who is fixing them with a fiercely determined pout.

Biting back a smirk, Bakugou holds up the Rainbow Dash figure to respond to her (though he refuses to put on a voice in the presence of anyone other than Eri). “Even when they’re being eggheads?”

“A joke about my forehead? Real original.”

“You’re just bitter because you’d be stuck as some extra like Maud Pie whose only character trait is liking rocks.”

Shinsou looks pointedly at the Rainbow Dash figure still in Bakugou’s hand and then back up to his face, affecting a monotone Maud Pie-esque drawl. “Wow. My self-esteem is in shambles.”

Eri holds Twilight Sparkle out again warningly and the two boys sigh.

“Sorry, Eri.”

“Sorry, Twilight.”

Shinsou continues past them and heads for the kitchen, slipper-adorned feet shuffling sleepily across the floor. “You’re lucky I don’t care enough to ruin your reputation around school, amusingly easy as it would be to do so.”

Bakugou’s extremely mature response is to flip him off when Eri isn’t looking.

Turning back to the scattered ponies around him, Bakugou lets himself get swept away into whatever story Eri is telling tonight. From what he gathers, Rainbow Dash is competing against Applejack in a rodeo of sorts for the prize of the last barrel of apple cider (a juice box Eri has placed on the coffee table like it’s a pedestal). As usual, he has an embarrassing amount of fun, though Eri has to drag his focus back to the game more than usual as his mind tries to wander. He even feels a mischievous sort of pride when, at one point, Eri as Applejack shouts, “Suck my dick, Rainbow Dash!” and Aizawa has to tell her (and Bakugou) off for using such crass language.

All too soon, Eri’s eyes start drooping despite her best efforts to stay awake. Yamada makes his way over when he notices, coaxing her into his arms amidst protests that she wants to stay up just a little longer.

Not sure what possesses him to do it, Bakugou picks up the Rainbow Dash figure and holds it out for Eri. “Oi, even cool ponies like Rainbow Dash need their sleep.”

She takes the figure and holds it close, resting her head on Yamada’s shoulder and then murmuring, “Needs a friend too.”

“Hmm?” Yamada inquires.

“Kachan…keep him company.”

It takes a moment for Bakugou to understand what she’s saying and when it finally hits him his heart squeezes in his chest. Leaning forward, he lifts the Twilight Sparkle figure toward himself questioningly.

Eri shakes her head and makes a muffled noise of dissent. She points at the ponies still on the floor. “Luna.”

Confused once more, he searches until he finds the blue alicorn princess and then holds her out in question.

Eri nods vigorously, hugging Rainbow Dash tight once more. “Keep away bad dreams.”

”Fucksake again? I thought you said you got over this shit.”

A lump forms in his throat at the thoughtful gesture and he barely manages to get out a small, “Thanks.”

A nearby chair creaks and then Aizawa joins them in the living room, leaning down to kiss the top of Eri’s head. “Bedtime, kiddo. Come on.”

Eri rubs her eyes and then waves at Bakugou. “Night night, Kachan.”

Bakugou waves back. “Night, squirt.”

The trio disappears into Eri’s bedroom, leaving Bakugou in a now suffocatingly empty living room. His only comfort is the quiet drone of the TV playing DVDs of some show about a kid named Ben and the Princess Luna figure still clutched in his hands.

He starts to wonder what it was like for the pony princess, being trapped on the moon by her own sister. Was she angry? Bitter? Or did she feel like she deserved it? Maybe it was nice, being so far away from a world that never seemed to accept or understand her.

Maybe it was lonely as hell.

God, he really is pathetic.

His back aches from where he’s been sitting awkwardly on the floor, but he can’t quite find it in himself to move up onto the couch. For lack of anything better to do, he places the Luna figure on the coffee table and then reaches for the mug that was placed out for him what feels like hours ago. He gives it a curious sniff and deduces that the brown liquid is most likely hot chocolate.

Or, it was hot chocolate. Now it’s just…what…chocolate milk? Room temperature chocolate? Chocolate that was once hot but has since cooled off and probably still tastes perfectly fine?

He imagines Shitty Hair would say, “It’s cold hot chocolate, duh. Like how there’s frozen hot chocolate!” to which he would reply that he’s a fucking idiot because “Frozen hot chocolate isn’t fucking hot anymore it’s just frozen chocolate.” The dumbass would look at him with one of those ‘I am way too pleased with myself for getting a rise out of you’ smiles and Bakugou would have to pretend it doesn’t make his heart thump wildly in his chest.

Yanking his thoughts away from Kirishima, he puts the mug back down, almost spilling it in the process when Aizawa and Yamada choose that exact moment to re-emerge from Eri’s bedroom. The second her door shuts behind them Bakugou feels like a giant spotlight has been pointed at him, freezing him in place. He fights to keep his expression neutral in the hopes that they won’t realize how badly he’s panicking inside.

He wonders if this is when they tell him to go the fuck home already, sure that he’s more than outstayed his welcome.

The two men share a look and Bakugou braces himself for the inevitable. He has no fucking clue if buses run this late. If he walks to the nearest station he figures he can always just wait for the first train around 5:00 am. He hasn’t checked the time recently, but it can’t be that far off by now, right?

Maybe they’ll offer him a ride home out of pity, not that he would let himself accept it. If the hag found out that he was dropped off by two of his teachers she’d assume he did something stupid on campus which would just add more fuel to the fire.

Does he even want to go home?

Fuck.

He really hopes they don’t make him go home.

Maybe he can convince them to let him stay in his dorm room. Just for the night. And then he’ll go home in the morning, and his mom will either yell at him or pretend he doesn’t exist, his dad will claim he’s happy to see him and everything will go back to fucking normal. He’ll act like none of this happened and everything will be fine.

He’s fine.

Though he’d be a lot better if he could fucking breathe properly.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

His heart pounds painfully in his chest until it’s all he can hear.

Not now.

Please not now.

His vision starts to blur as he rapidly loses his hold on his overflowing emotions.

”Katsuki, you better open this fucking door.”

He shouldn’t have come here.

“What, now you won’t even say anything? I said open the damn door, brat.”

Why did he think this was a good idea? He should leave before they tell him to, maybe spare some of his pride in the process. His unresponsive body stays put though and he wants to yell, fight, fucking hit something. Anything but sit here frozen, helpless, a burden.

“The fuck am I supposed to do if he won’t talk to us, Masaru? Whatever. I have to be up for that corporate meeting tomorrow. If he wants to be a little bitch about it he can just deal with this shit himself.”

“Bakugou.”

With just that one word, Bakugou’s surroundings slide abruptly back into focus. He feels dazed as he searches for the source of the voice, only to realize it came from Aizawa who somehow managed to sit down on the floor in front of him without him noticing. Bakugou studies his face but is frustrated to find he can’t read him in his current state.

Is he angry or concerned?

Tired or fed up with him?

The crease between Aizawa’s brows smooths a little when he notices Bakugou’s eyes on him. “You with us?”

Bakugou maintains eye contact but says nothing.

“Is me being here okay?”

Bakugou’s stomach twists as he thinks if anyone should be asking that question, it’s him.

“Or do you need me to give you space right now?”

It’s clear that Aizawa is expecting some kind of answer from him but he honestly has no fucking clue what he needs. One half of him is yelling that he needs to get the fuck out of there, while the other half is pleading for him to accept the help he’s being offered. It’s like having miniature versions of the old hag and Shitty Hair arguing back and forth in his head, a mental image that almost makes him smile.

Almost.

“I imagine you would’ve found a way to tell me to fuck off by now if that’s what you wanted,” Aizawa says, sounding unbothered as he attempts to make himself more comfortable on the floor. He glances up when Yamada emerges from the door Bakugou assumes leads to their bedroom. “I obviously don’t know what’s going on inside your head right now, but I can make a pretty educated guess.”

“We thought this might help!” Yamada says, presenting what looks like a grey blanket of some sort. Bakugou’s internal ‘What the fuck?’ must read on his face because Yamada chuckles good-naturedly. He presents the folded blanket like an expensive platter of food and then dramatically lays it on the ground in front of Bakugou, just within reach. “It’s a weighted blanket, yo. One of man’s greatest creations in my not-so-humble opinion. I think it’ll make more sense if you just give it a shot.”

Bakugou stares at the grey lump warily, his chest seizing.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve any of this.

All he ever does is cause them trouble, so why?

Why do they continue to put up with him?

His voice doesn’t feel like his own when he finally opens his mouth and says, “I should go.”

The answering silence is stifling and he faintly wishes the ground would just swallow him up right about now and do them all a favor. Though, he has to immediately dismiss that thought when all it brings him is memories of that warp portal shadow fucker from the League of Villains and how easily he could grant that wish.

He forces himself up onto unsteady legs, taking a step back to put more space between them. Only when he looks back up at them does he realize that Aizawa and Yamada are silent due to shock, both of them looking downright horrified by his suggestion.

“Kid, what?!” Yamada makes as if to step towards him but just as quickly stops himself. He shakes his head, as if doing so will help him understand the situation better. “We’re not gonna kick you to the curb like that, are you crazy?”

“What? It’s not like I’m your fucking responsibility. You’re both just too fucking soft to say anything.” Bakugou crosses his arms in irritation and then winces when his shoulder reminds him of what happened the last time he left a house in the middle of an argument. He considers the space between the three of them and takes one more small step away for good measure.

When he happens to catch Aizawa’s gaze, the man looks almost apologetic for asking his next question. “Do your parents know you’re here?” His tone implies he already knows the answer.

“The fuck do you think?” Bakugou scoffs, looking away in a moment of weakness before his instincts kick in and he resumes eye contact, pushing away the almost painful discomfort that always comes with doing so. “Like they give a shit.”

“Presumably, you’d like to keep it that way.” Aizawa keeps his voice level, which just pisses Bakugou off more and makes him want to push until he finally gets a rise out of him.

“Yeah, no fucking shit,” Bakugou bites back.

“Is that because you felt unsafe at home?”

Bakugou feels like he’s been slapped across the face, cheeks stinging with hot embarrassment. “Holy shit, I’m not like, some kind of abuse victim! I just didn’t feel like putting up with her shit so I fucking left. Quit trying to psychoanalyze me!”

By the time he realizes he’s said more than he meant to, it’s already too late. Aizawa’s face darkens with a startling look of understanding and a wave of adrenaline crashes through Bakugou’s body, leaving him feeling uncomfortably clammy under his borrowed clothing. It hits him then that Aizawa has already seen his family dynamic firsthand thanks to that one home visit regarding UA’s transition into a dormitory system.

It’s not a day he remembers particularly fondly.

Aizawa regards him for a moment and then sighs, pushing himself up off the floor. Bakugou’s brain immediately goes on even higher alert in response, which means his next question catches him completely off guard with how mundane it is. “When was the last time you ate or drank anything, kid?”

Bakugou stares at him, dumbfounded. This time, his incredulous, ‘What the fuck?’ is said out loud. Despite his confusion, he makes a genuine effort to think back on his day and draws a pretty big blank. When was the last time he ate? Something tells him the bag of Cheetos shoveled into his mouth on the bus ride here doesn’t count.

Yamada gives him a conspiratorial look, blocking his mouth from Aizawa’s view and stage whispering like he’s giving him a hint during a test. “If you have to think about it that hard then the answer is ‘not recently enough’.”

And, just like that, all of the fight still crackling in his body abruptly fizzles out. He watches, perplexed, as they turn and head toward the kitchen, feeling distinctly like he’s been successfully outmaneuvered somehow.

Are they really going to let it go? Just like that? He was so focused on preparing himself for some seemingly inevitable argument that he didn’t even consider the possibility that they might just choose not to fight back. Unlike the old hag, they’ve entirely refused to rise to the bait.

He told Aizawa to stop trying to psychoanalyze him and he actually stopped. For now, anyway. Bakugou doesn’t fully trust that this isn’t just some roundabout parenting method where they lull him into a false sense of security before they start grilling him all over again.

He feels a little ridiculous just standing in the middle of their living room now. Glancing fleetingly at the front door, he contemplates just leaving anyway. They don’t seem intent on physically stopping him, at least.

Again, he’s plagued by the question of whether or not he actually wants to leave.

He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t owe them answers any more than they owe him hospitality, but the pit that forms in his stomach after the thought has him hesitating to believe his own logic. They’ve been nothing but understanding and accommodating and all he’s done in return is argue and be a stubborn pain in the ass, as usual.

He starts wondering if maybe, just maybe, he actually does owe them some form of explanation after barging into their house, soaked from head to toe, at god knows what time of night with absolutely no warning.

His heart hammers in his chest, throat constricting at just the thought of trying to open up about anything he’s been feeling tonight. Then, with one last glance at the front door, he decides to stay a little longer, even if he still feels like he’s intruding.

Just a little longer. He repeats to himself firmly and feels selfish for it.

Squatting down to pick up the thus far ignored grey blanket, he nearly topples over in the attempt, momentarily forgetting that Yamada referred to it as ‘weighted’. And holy shit, he wasn’t kidding. Bakugou thinks the thing must be ten or twenty pounds, at least. When he finally manages to get the flopping mess fully into his arms, he takes a breath that still feels a little too shallow for his liking and forces himself into motion toward the kitchen.

It already looks crowded enough with just the two of them in there, though, so he hangs a right toward the nearby dinner table and promptly collapses into the first chair he finds. Unsure what to do with the blanket now that he’s brought it over here, he lets it drop onto his lap with a soft thump.

And…

Huh.

Begrudgingly, he thinks that maybe Yamada was onto something after all. The soft weight of it is strangely reassuring against his crossed legs for reasons he's not entirely sure he understands yet. Similar to having a cat in your lap, he supposes. One that doesn’t shed and won't claw your eyes out if you try to pet it, anyway.

Curious, he lifts the blanket enough to drape it around his back and shoulders. And, well, fuck. Yamada was definitely onto something. Little by little, his breaths start to come easier, the steady pressure lulling his body into a strange sense of comfort and safety.

It reminds him, weirdly enough, of this one time a few weeks back when he was hanging out in Kirishima’s room. They were sitting on his bed and Bakugou had his back slightly turned to him, looking at a video on his phone or whatever. At some point, a very sleepy Kirishima had shuffled over to see what he was watching, peeking over his shoulder in the process.

He remembers complaining that he was distracting him. He also remembers not making much of an effort to shoo him away though and eventually, the dumbass ended up falling asleep like that, his chest pressed to Bakugou’s back and his head on his shoulder.

He remembers that it took him until the end of the video to realize that, even though his heart was hammering in his chest, he hadn’t even thought to cringe away from the contact. Instead, all he had thought about was how right it felt to have him there. He found himself wondering how it would feel if Kirishima wrapped his arms securely around his waist and pulled him in close.

He also remembers that he stayed up an embarrassingly long amount of time after that so he wouldn’t have to move him just yet.

Movement from the kitchen draws him back to the present moment, though the warmth of the memory clings to him a little longer. To this day, he has no clue if the dumbass remembers it and has no intention of ever asking to find out.

Bakugou watches, mildly amused, as Yamada opens the fridge door, stares into it for a long moment, and then shuts it with a solemn nod. “Right-o. So good news and bad news, dear listeners. Bad news, we haven’t gone grocery shopping yet this week. Good news! We have plenty of already thawed pb&j Uncrustables and every flavor of juice box under the sun.”

Stifling a yawn, Aizawa grabs the entire box of Uncrustables and brings it over to the table, looking as unbothered as ever. Yamada follows this by bringing over three of each kind of juice and placing them in neat rows next to the sandwich box.

Taking a seat, Yamada unwraps a sandwich and then holds it out with relish. “Bone apple teeth!”

Aizawa follows suit, unwrapping one for himself and then solemnly tapping them together like glasses during a toast. “Bone apple teeth.”

Hesitating only a moment longer, Bakugou digs his own out of the box. He’s not sure he wants to know how many grams of sugar the surely-American company, Smuckers, has managed to fit into such a deceptively small sandwich. The second it's in his mouth, though, he stops caring altogether because dammit it’s fucking delicious and his body is just happy to have the calories.

He doesn’t know when the first of his tears start to fall. Doesn’t even notice the dam has broken until his breath catches on a sob that leaves him feeling both hollow and like everything is too much all at once. He pulls the weighted blanket tighter around his shoulders, cocooning himself in its warmth and safety.

The figures across the table from him give him space. They don’t touch or grab him. They don’t lose their patience or their temper. They don’t call him weak or pathetic. They don’t dismiss him or call him childish and unreasonable.

They just sit, and let him sit until hiccuping sobs turn into stifled sniffles and the sea churning inside of him finally begins to calm.

At some point, a cup of water is placed gently on the table in front of him. He manages a weak snort when he realizes it’s one of those kiddie cups with a built-in straw.

“I would’ve given you the Twilight Sparkle one, but it turns out we haven’t done the dishes either,” Yamada says, taking in Aizawa’s affectionately pointed look before adding, “Which definitely means it was my turn to do them.”

Nudging away the part of him that claims he’s too old for all this shit, Bakugou finishes a second sandwich and then determinedly grabs the cup with both hands. Once he starts drinking he finds it almost impossible to stop, his dehydrated body singing with relief after each gulp. Slowly but surely, his heart rate finally slows to resting and he’s almost certain his body isn’t trembling anymore.

Unfortunately, with no one talking and nothing to distract him, he starts to feel way too self-aware. He tries to scrub away the tear stains he knows must be all over his face, but gives up pretty soon after when it becomes clear his traitorous tear ducts aren’t quite done with him yet.

Defeatedly reaching across the table, he grabs a fruit punch juice box and lets out his blooming frustration by stabbing the straw through the hole a little harder than necessary. Only after he’s pulled the blanket tight again and finished half of the drink does he risk another glance at the table’s other occupants.

Yamada grins and turns to Aizawa, giving him an overly-serious nod. “It’s official. He likes fruit punch. He can stay.”

“Hizashi-” Aizawa lets out a half laugh, half sigh, and then shoots Bakugou a long-suffering look. “Please ignore him.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Bakugou says, mouth tugging into a playful smirk despite his best efforts to keep a straight face.

Yamada flops dramatically back into his chair, grasping his chest like he’s been stabbed. “Brutal, yo.” He slumps further over until his head is resting on Aizawa’s shoulder, giving him a ridiculously pitiful-looking pout. “It’s not fair, you always pick the ones who’ll gang up on me.”

Aizawa gazes down at him, so full of uncharacteristically open affection it makes Bakugou want to tell them to ‘Get a fucking room!’. The urge only grows as he proceeds to smooth back some of Yamada’s hair, leaning down to press a kiss onto the top of his head and teasingly murmuring, “Big baby.”

Yamada grumbles something along the lines of ‘...see how you feel when I turn Eri-chan against you, you big meanie…’ and then stands, pouting even as he pulls Aizawa in for a tender kiss.

Bakugou pretends to gag. “Fucksake.”

Looking way too pleased with himself, Yamada continues past them, disappearing down a hallway for a moment only to re-emerge with a pillow and sheet in hand. With what seems to be an enormous effort, Aizawa stands too, taking a moment to make sure that Bakugou is done before bringing the leftover food and drink back to the fridge.

For a moment, Bakugou isn’t sure what to do. He figures he should stand too but neither his brain nor body seem too keen on moving from their current position. Being at the table together was actually starting to feel strangely nice and now he’s not sure if he’s ready for the moment to be over.

Aizawa starts to make his way toward the living room but pauses next to Bakugou’s chair, somehow seeming to sense his inner turmoil. He looks to the living room and then back. “Couch is all yours. If you want it.” He says it in a nonchalant tone, but Bakugou knows him well enough by now to be certain his wording is intentional.

Yours, if you want it. The words repeat in his brain until he’s horrified to find his eyes welling up with tears all over again. He manages to keep them at bay for the time being, though his throat still closes around his ability to verbally respond.

“We really should get an air mattress,” Yamada sighs when Aizawa joins him in the living room.

Aizawa shrugs. “We’re going out tomorrow anyway, could get one for him then. Seems like a couple more weighted blankets couldn’t hurt either.”

When it hits him that they’re talking about getting them for him, implying future nights spent in their home, a pleasant sort of warmth pools in his stomach. Though he still can’t quite silence the part of him that’s still convinced he’s intruding and only managing to further inconvenience them.

Resituating the weighted blanket around his shoulders, Bakugou finally gets himself to stand and pads his way back over to the couch which Yamada has now made up to look like a makeshift bed. He takes one last fleeting look at the front door and then sits down, pulling his knees up so he can wrap his blanketed arms around them.

He doesn’t know when the last time he felt this small was and can’t decide if he hates it or finds comfort in the feeling. After everything this last year has thrown at him, it’s hard for him to admit to himself that he’s still only fifteen fucking years old. He certainly hasn’t felt his age for a very long time.

Yamada shoots him a wink and a finger gun. “Need anything else, just holler.”

Aizawa sighs. “Or just. Knock on our door. At a reasonable volume.”

“Right, sorry. No hollering until Sho has had at least two cups of coffee,” Yamada amends, his tone clearly teasing.

Bakugou snorts and then there’s a moment of silence as he grapples with whether to ask the question that’s been burning at the back of his mind all night. Unable to get himself to break the silence, he glares at his hands instead as he waits for them to leave.

After what feels like a lifetime, Yamada hums in thought. “I know that look.”

Bakugou turns his glare on Yamada who simply looks amused in response. “Yep, that one too. See them all the time in this household.” He gives Aizawa a sideways glance.

Aizawa rolls his eyes good-naturedly, though the hand that makes its way to the back of his neck tells Bakugou he might also be mildly embarrassed by the callout.

Yamada sobers up a little after that, radiating nothing but kindness when he turns back to Bakugou and says, “You can ask whatever it is, promise we won't bite.”

Bakugou huffs in frustration, both with himself and the men in front of him for being able to read him so well. When his glare ends up falling on the Luna figure still watching over him from the coffee table, something in him finally breaks.

“It’s just- I’m not-“ His voice cracks but he powers through, feeling desperate all of a sudden. “Are you seriously okay with this? You’re not pissed off even just a little bit?”

The question leaves him feeling raw as he stares up at them, pleading for an answer. He sees the exact moment his words register in the way their expressions shift to ones of fierce protectiveness; can almost feel their mutual sharp intake of breath.

Moving cautiously and giving Bakugou more than enough time to tell him to back off, Aizawa places a steady hand on his forearm and squats down so that he’s at eye level. Yamada comes over too, giving Aizawa’s shoulder a squeeze before squatting down next to him.

Aizawa’s gaze burns with something that, for the first time, makes Bakugou wonder just how close to home this situation is hitting. Finally, voice sounding thick, he says, “I will never be angry at you for getting yourself out of a situation where you felt unsafe. The only people I’m pissed off at right now are your parents for putting you in a position to have to make that decision in the first place.”

Bakugou opens his mouth to argue but Aizawa continues talking before he gets the chance. “You are always welcome in our home, Bakugou.”

Yamada jumps in after, affectionately bumping a fist against his other arm. “Not just on the bad nights either. I love having my favorite bad boy around. Sho and Hitoshi do too, even if they’re too emotionally constipated to ever admit it out loud. And, of course, Eri-chan is always asking when Kachan is coming over to play again.”

“Point is, we care a lot about you, kid.”

“Whether you like it or not!”

“And you will always have a place with us, if and when you should want it.”

“No matter what!”

“No matter what.”

Bakugou says nothing for a moment, focusing instead on letting their words sink in properly. He thinks about everything they’ve done for him tonight. All the care they’ve provided all while making him feel safe and respected. How Aizawa’s hand on his arm is a comforting anchor, not a red-hot brand making him feel trapped. The fact that if they pulled him into a hug right now, he wouldn’t want to shove them away.

Then, eyes threatening tears once more as he takes a steadying breath, Bakugou lets himself believe them. Lets himself believe that he’s allowed to have this. That he deserves their kindness, not just tonight but tomorrow and the days after too.

He takes another breath that trembles a little on the way out. “Okay.” He doesn’t think he’s ready to voice how he does, in fact, want, but figures that’s good enough for now.

Aizawa gives his arm a gentle squeeze and then straightens back up, Yamada mirroring him on his other side.

“We’ll see you in the morning, alright? Don’t get into too much trouble in the meantime.”

“Not without us, anyway.”

Bakugou lets out a small laugh. “No promises.”

The two men make their way around the living space then, turning off lights as they go. When Aizawa reaches for the last one, a nearby lamp glowing softly in the corner, Bakugou chokes out, “Could you, umm…” He holds himself tighter. “Fuck, this is so stupid.”

Aizawa retracts his hand. “Leave this one on?”

“Yeah.” Bakugou watches him closely. Waits. Thinks surely this is the time he’s going to be made fun of because what kind of fucking fifteen year old guy is scared of the dark? Especially one aiming to be the number one goddamn hero.

But, as usual, Aizawa doesn’t react as expected. Instead, his tone is nothing but kind and understanding as he simply responds with, “Of course.”

Not even Yamada—who’s always so keen to jump in on any chance to tease people—makes a comment on it. He just sends him a wave, saying “Night, little listener!” as he disappears down the hallway and into his room.

Feeling the pull to sleep himself, Bakugou finally lets himself lie down on the couch properly, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

There’s a quiet—though not uncomfortably so—moment where it’s just Bakugou and Aizawa and he swears they both go to say something and then ultimately decide against it. Looking at his face now, Bakugou wonders if this is the expression Yamada was talking about. If Aizawa is holding back from asking him a question.

The words ‘thank you’ bounce around in Bakugou’s head tauntingly but ultimately refuse to come out so he settles for, “Isn’t it way past your bedtime, old man?”

“Shockingly kind of you to assume I have any form of a functioning sleep schedule,” Aizawa replies drily. “I can’t even blame it on being a parent of a young kid and an insomniac teenager.”

“Right. Do you always sleep in a yellow sleeping bag or is that only on special occasions?”

“Well, the one in my bedroom is black, so ‘no’ and ‘I think that depends on your definition of a special occasion’.”

Bakugou stares at his unchanging expression for a good while before groaning. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not.”

Aizawa shrugs, though a small smile breaks through his neutral exterior. “They’re surprisingly cozy. You’d probably like them, if your positive response to the blanket is anything to go by.”

“Fuck that, just seems like it’d be a claustrophobic nightmare.”

“Sometimes I stick my arms out if I start feeling trapped.”

His dry yet clearly genuine response has Bakugou barking out a sudden laugh at the mental image. “No fucking way Loud Mouth lets you live that shit down.”

Aizawa sighs like he’s been dealt significant psychic damage by the comment. “I definitely shouldn’t tell you that he has plenty of photographic evidence.”

“Holy shit, he set one of them as his phone wallpaper, didn’t he.”

Bakugou laughs triumphantly when Aizawa’s grimace deepens, his only reply a weary, “No comment.”

The teasing grin on Bakugou’s face stays firmly in place and fuck. After all of the embarrassing-as-fuck crying he’s been doing tonight, it’s a massive relief to have something to laugh about. And if it happens to be at the expense of the exasperated man in front of him, he just considers that an added bonus.

He catches Aizawa smiling back and narrows his eyes in suspicion. “What?”

Aizawa doesn’t respond for a moment. Finally, he says, “Just glad you’re here, kid.”

“Sap,” Bakugou grumbles back, secretly pleased by his words.

“Maybe a little.” Aizawa stifles a yawn that Bakugou ends up catching as he straightens up from where he was leaning against the hall entryway. “Anyway, second door on the right if you need anything before one of us is up and about again.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Bakugou waves him off, resituating himself into as comfortable of a position as he can manage while lying on a couch.

Turning to walk down the hallway, Aizawa sends him a half-wave. “Night.”

“Night,” Bakugou responds after a moment, voice muffled by the blanket.

He listens to the receding pad of Aizawa’s feet against the hardwood floor, the door opening and closing, and the soft murmur of him exchanging words with Yamada.

Then it’s quiet but for the soft patter of rain outside and he thinks he’s okay with that. The lamp light mixed with the beginnings of a sunrise peeking through the blinds helps keep his overactive imagination from running wild in the otherwise dark room. He still can’t help glancing around though, searching for anything that feels off. But eventually, the knowledge that people are nearby–people he trusts–helps him feel safe enough to let his eyes begin to droop.

They fall shut for a moment before opening again, landing this time on the Princess Luna figure which now appears to be glowing faintly in the dark. After only a moment's hesitation, he gives in and reaches over to grab it, holding it protectively against his chest under the blanket. The thought of seeing Eri-chan again in the morning brings a small smile to his face.

Following that line of thinking, it’s shockingly easy for him to picture them all eating breakfast together in the morning. He imagines Yamada singing as he cooks and Aizawa steadfastly refusing to join him as he brews his coffee. He thinks Eri would insist on helping set the table which he would wind up begrudgingly helping with, if only to make sure she’s careful with the silverware. And just when the food is being served, Shinsou would finally creep out of his room. He and Bakugou would inevitably trade barbs with each other and Yamada would say no insults at the breakfast table.

And maybe some mornings Kirishima would be there too. It would be loud and chaotic as fuck and it would be perfect because he would feel safe and cared for.

He would feel at home.

Bakugou doesn’t care if the fantasy is disgustingly domestic and idealistic of him. A fragile part of him wants it so desperately and it’s what he thinks about until sleep claims him not long after.

When he does wake the next morning it’s to the familiar sight of big red eyes peering at him curiously over the armrest by his feet. When she smiles, exclaiming that “Kachan is awake!” he lets himself smile back. A dry, “Hurray.” is said from somewhere behind him and he doesn’t need to look to know it comes from Shinsou.

Carefully, he pushes himself into a more upright position amidst protests from his aching joints. When he looks over and sees 12:34 PM displayed on the DVD player across the room he stops short. He checks his phone just to make sure—steadfastly ignoring his fuller-than-usual notifications bar—and it tells him the same thing.

Holy fucking shit.

He hasn’t slept more than a couple hours at a time in months. Granted, he didn’t manage a full eight hours either, but fucking hell he’ll take it.

Eri rounds the corner of the couch, stopping just beside him and practically vibrating with excitement. Her hands come up in front of her but she pauses, shakes her head, and pulls them back a little. “Oh. Do you…”

His heart squeezes when he realizes she’s waiting to hug him until she has his permission. Grinning, he rolls off the couch and scoops her up into his arms, making her squeal with delight. “C’mere you little rascal!”

He spins her around a few times until she protests through giggles that he’s going to wrinkle her dress. With a dramatic sigh, he sets her down on the couch and she looks down at her dress, grinning as she kicks her feet over the edge. “Dad’s gonna be suuuper mad. He spent so long making it flat again!”

“Only because dad didn’t realize the iron wasn’t on for ten minutes,” A nearby Shinsou says, not even bothering to look up from the Nintendo Switch in his hands.

Bakugou briefly wonders which dad they’re talking about, but gets his answer pretty quickly when Yamada emerges from his and Aizawa’s room. “Because when my loving husband plugged it in, I assumed he also turned it on!”

“Sounds like excuses to me,” Bakugou whispers teasingly to Eri.

“Yeah! Quit blaming Dadzawa!” Eri scolds Yamada causing Bakugou to laugh.

Unfortunately for Aizawa, he chooses that exact moment to also emerge from their room. He sighs. “I’m never escaping that name, am I.”

Bakugou cackles. “Kirishima’s gonna lose his shit when I tell him that’s what she calls you.”

“If I hear a single one of your classmates call me that-“

“Hasn’t Denki already-“

“Is that where he got it from?!”

“I think Eri got it from him actually-“

“Dadzawa says he’s a bad influence on me,” Eri says, scrunching up her face and deepening her voice in a hilarious attempt at quoting him. She giggles. “Kachan too, cause you say bad words all the time.”

“Eh, you hangout with Deku and Tintin enough it probably balances out.”

Shinsou snorts, putting a hand over his mouth. “Tintin?! Please tell me you call him that to his face.”

“Okay!” Yamada calls out over the clamor of overlapping conversations. “Children accompanying us to the store, I am walking down to the car!”

“Coming.”

“I can’t find Rainbow Dash!”

“Did you check your bed, sweetie?”

Eri dashes past Bakugou back to her room while Shinsou peels himself out of his chair and slinks out the front door ahead of Yamada. Rainbow Dash now firmly in hand, Eri speeds back past him, grabbing Yamada by the hand and pulling him towards the door. “Come on slowpoke!”

At the sound of the door opening and closing once more, Aizawa appears from the kitchen, thermos full of fresh coffee in hand. Before Bakugou can start questioning what the fuck he should be doing, Aizawa gives him a knowing look. “Car fits five people if you want to join us, though I also understand if that’s way more than you want to do right now. In which case, you’re more than welcome to stay here, or I could let you into the dorm building.”

Bakugou shoves his hands in his pockets before they get the chance to start getting fidgety. Feeling the edge of his phone against his fingertips, he’s suddenly reminded of all the notifications on his home screen. A pit forms in his stomach and he can’t bring himself to look at Aizawa as he asks, “Do they- My parents-“

Seeming to get the gist of what he’s trying to ask, Aizawa gently cuts in. “I told them as much as I felt obligated to. That you’re physically safe, that you spent the night on campus and that UA is more than happy to provide our students with housing during holidays as well. And that no, you were not available to talk at the moment.”

“Sure that was a delightful conversation,” Bakugou says dryly.

Aizawa’s expression darkens. “Hizashi nearly had to take the phone from me.”

“Let me guess, she said something along the lines of ‘Tell that attention seeking brat not to cause anymore trouble until his dad can come get him’?” He says it like he’s telling a joke but Aizawa doesn’t laugh. If anything his words just seem to upset him further, making Bakugou wonder if maybe that’s not a normal thing for a parent to say.

Aizawa looks sick, like he wants to be surprised but ultimately isn’t. “Not far off actually.”

“Yeah, this uhh…” Bakugou’s jaw clenches and he has to force out his next words. “This isn’t exactly my first time doing this shit. But she probably told you that already.”

Again, Aizawa doesn’t look all that surprised. “I had my suspicions.”

“Is it that obvious?” Bakugou asks, not entirely sure he actually wants an answer.

Aizawa regards him for a moment and then seems to come to a decision, finally admitting, “To someone who’s been in similar shoes? Yes.”

When Bakugou fails to come up with a response, he looks intrigued. “You don’t seemed surprised to hear that either.”

Bakugou’s lips twitch into a smirk. “I had my suspicions.”

A long moment of silence stretches precariously between them, teetering between a strange sense of solidarity and the terrifying discomfort of being known. For all the relief he feels at being understood, ten times as much anxiety creeps under his skin, making his chest feel impossibly tight as he struggles to keep his breathing level.

“I have to go home at some point, don’t I?” Bakugou finally says, hating how small he sounds.

“Do you want to?” Aizawa asks like it’s the easiest question in the world.

Bakugou huffs in frustration. “I can’t just keep running from my problems like a goddamn coward.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He feels his fuse shortening, unable to do anything to stop it. “What does it fucking matter? They might piss me off sometimes but they’re still my fucking parents. They still love me or whatever.”

The pained sympathy in Aizawa’s voice when he quietly says, “I know.” almost makes him stop but it’s too late.

He feels cornered, lost, and frustrated.

Out of control.

“It’s not like I fucking make it easy on them, either. Maybe I do just do it for the attention.”

“I don’t think you believe that,” Aizawa tries, but Bakugou cuts him off.

“She’s only ever a bitch because I bait her into it or do something to set her off!” He clenches his fists just in time to keep his sparking palms from accidentally igniting any of his borrowed clothing. “She thinks she’s so perfect and that everything around her has to be the same, but nothing I could ever do would be good enough for her, so why fucking bother? Someone has to knock her down a peg and it sure as fuck isn’t going to be my spineless dad.”

The effort to not let out any explosions leaves him with energy that builds and builds but has nowhere to go. “And, fuck, she probably looks at me the exact same way. And maybe I deserve to be knocked down a peg too. I’m supposed to be this prodigy, right? I think I’m god’s gift to this fucking earth. I’m selfish, arrogant, and self-absorbed. I think I’m so much better when I’m actually just as cruel as her.”

In his body’s desperation for some kind of release, he finds himself having to angrily wipe away hot tears. “And the worst part? I don’t know what’s more pathetic. The fact I keep running from her or that I keep fucking going back expecting shit to be any different the next time. But that’s just how things are. I’ve put up with her this long and I’ll be moving out in a few years anyway, so who gives a shit.”

Aizawa opens his mouth as if to answer the rhetorical question but Bakugou doesn’t let him, directing his anger towards him now. “And I don’t need you or anyone else telling me how to fucking live my life.”

Why aren’t you getting angry?

“All adults do is act like they know what’s best for me, but to hell with that!”

I’m not weak.

“You like to sit on your high horses, all infallible and shit.”

Fight back dammit!

“But what the fuck have any of you ever done for me?”

You saw what she was like, why didn’t you stop her?

“I don’t-” His breaths are coming in gasps now, his head spinning so badly it’s almost nauseating.

Why hasn’t anyone ever stopped her?

“I don’t need your fucking help.”

I just want this feeling to stop.

Please, make it stop.

His whole body is shaking now, lungs trying and failing miserably to drag in any air. Everything is too much and he thinks he might be about to pass out. In his desperation to escape, he takes a step towards the front door, only for the world around him to tilt violently, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor.

The only reason he doesn’t fall is because two hands dart out to steady him.

“Don’t fucking touch me-”

“I’m sorry-”

He jerks out of their hold like he’s been burned, stumbling back until his back meets the armrest of the couch. A split second later he’s hit by the shock of being let go so easily, his brain taking a moment to comprehend the apology that comes along with it. When it does finally compute, he’s left feeling even more lost and disoriented than he was before.

His lungs squeeze painfully around too little air as a desperate sob rips out of him.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Don’t touch me.

I can’t breathe.

Please hold me.

Why can’t I fucking breathe?

I’m going to die.

He frantically presses a hand against his chest, terrified but relieved to feel his heart frantically beating against it. But then the smell of smoke and nitroglycerin hits his nostrils and he pulls it away, a voice in his head scolding him again for almost damaging something that doesn’t belong to him. Adrenaline courses in his veins, begging him to let everything go and blow the room to smithereens but he only shoves the feeling further down.

He almost doesn’t hear it when a gruff but gentle voice offers, “I can use Erasure on you, if you want.”

Not understanding, Bakugou forces his eyes open only to find the world around him is still fuzzy. Eventually, he manages to get his eyes to focus on the person in front of him, still feeling confused.

“If you want that tight feeling in your chest to go away, you need to let go of whatever is getting bottled up in there. I can tell something is stopping you from doing that right now.”

His chest aches and his head is pounding so loudly that he’s surprised he catches it when the person his brain finally identifies as Aizawa says, “I want to help. Not because I think you’re weak or incapable, but because I care about your wellbeing and want to ease your pain. So if erasing your quirk for a moment will help, I’d like to do that for you.”

He looks at Aizawa’s hands, still held away from him while staying in his direct line of sight, and something in him starts to give. The thought of being without his quirk—the one thing that gives him power and worth—terrifies him. But the longer he looks at Aizawa, a man who his brain finally lets him remember has proven himself on plenty of occasions to respect him and his boundaries, the more he realizes he might just be the only person he’d trust enough to do so.

He’s shocked to notice Aizawa looks close to tears as he says, “Even if you can fight alone, that doesn’t mean you always have to.”

Bakugou drags in a gasping breath, trying to let the words sink in. He thinks he remembers Kirishima saying something similar to him once or twice and has to concede that maybe they both know what they’re talking about and he should actually listen one of these days.

Steeling himself, Bakugou nods his head, hoping it’s enough for Aizawa to see and get the message.

Aizawa’s eyes find his, cautious but so, so kind. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay with this?”

Bakugou nods again, more determined this time.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop, okay?” With that, his eyes flash red, hair lifting ever-so-slightly around him.

For a moment, everything is quiet and still. He almost thinks Erasure hasn’t worked, but then he tries to ignite his sweat and…

Nothing happens.

The relief that floods through him is overwhelming and this time, when the sobs come, he lets his hands come up to hold himself. He lets himself cry. And it’s ugly. Messy. It’s ten times worse than all the crying he did last night but, fuck, he doesn’t care because the tightness in his chest is finally starting to unwind again.

When he’s still struggling to breathe some moments later, though, he starts to panic. He presses a hand firmly to his chest again and the pressure almost seems to help, but it’s not nearly enough.

“I can’t- I don’t-”

He doesn’t know what to do.

“Would this help?” Aizawa says gently, drawing his attention to a soft grey blanket being held out towards him.

He tries to let go of the vice grip he has on his own biceps, but his hands don’t seem willing to budge. In his desperation, he blurts out, “Could you-” and then has to gasp in another breath. Silently pleading now, he forces himself to look up at Aizawa. He thinks he should be creeped out by his piercing red stare, but only feels comforted by its presence.

This time, a tear does slip out one of Aizawa’s eyes, though he doesn’t blink it away. “Of course, kid.” Moving almost impossibly slowly and without ever touching him with his hands, Aizawa takes the blanket and gently drapes it around Bakugou’s shoulders.

Taking the edges of the blanket in his own hands, Bakugou pulls it snugly around himself until he can feel himself start to calm down. When he manages to take a breath that doesn’t catch on the way out or in, Aizawa starts to move away to give him space again.

Making a split-second decision that seems to catch both of them off guard, Bakugou lurches forward and pulls him in for a crushing hug.

“I fucking hate this. I hate feeling like this.”

“I know.”

“It’s not fucking fair.”

“I know.”

Aizawa doesn’t move at first, keeping his arms suspended in the air around him. Bakugou just grips him even tighter, hiding his face in his chest as he struggles to voice what he knows he wants right now.

Eventually, Aizawa starts to lower his arms, close but still not touching. “Do you want me to…”

“Please,” Bakugou whispers, his voice strained.

Finally, one hand comes down to rest on Bakugou’s back, and relief floods warmly through his trembling body. Though a part of him is still immensely grateful for the blanket now serving as a barrier between them, dulling but not removing the sensation entirely. When Aizawa’s second hand comes to rest on top of his head, his body tenses up again, but only until it becomes clear the gentle fingers mean no harm. Slowly, Aizawa pulls Bakugou closer to him, cradling him against his chest like he’s something worth protecting.

Fresh tears slide down Bakugou’s cheeks, staining Aizawa’s shirt a darker color, but he can’t find it in himself to feel too bad about it. Aizawa doesn’t comment on it either, his only response being the hand now rubbing soothing circles on Bakugou’s back.

When Aizawa does speak again, chin coming to rest on the top of the hand on his head, the rumble of his voice lulls Bakugou even further into his current state of rare calmness.

“You are enough, just the way you are. You don’t need to prove that to anybody.” Bakugou feels him take a steadying breath before continuing, his voice impossibly soft and thick with emotion. “Other people’s actions are never your fault. Especially those that are actively harming you. You don’t deserve to be treated like that. And I hope that you being here means you’re starting to realize that for yourself.”

“You’ve grown so much, Bakugou. You’ve found the strength to be vulnerable with me, to trust me, for which I’m forever grateful. You’ve found people who care about you and you’ve let yourself care for them back. Even if you might not know it yet.” He laughs a little to himself and Bakugou gets the sense that he’s also calling out a younger version of himself in the process.

Bakugou thinks about Kirishima. Of warm, bright smiles and cozy days spent together in the dorms. Of a hand reaching out and him answering its call.

He thinks about the dumbfucks who call themselves his ‘Bakusquad’ and how he’s pretty damn sure he would go to the ends of the earth for them. Would trust them with his life, as they seem to now trust him with theirs.

He thinks about how he would destroy anyone who even dared to hurt Eri-chan. About the odd moments of solidarity he’s found with Shinsou when they’re not pushing each other's buttons. About fruit punch, and stupid fucking pb&js, and blankets, and My Little Pony figures.

He thinks he finally does know.

Knows that caring about other people is fucking difficult but also the easiest thing in the world. That accepting help doesn’t make him weak, it makes him stronger.

“You’ve come a long way since your first day in my class and I’m so proud of you.”

Air catches in Bakugou’s throat as his heart seems to swell to twice its size. He only just manages to resist the urge to twist his hands painfully into his hair like he usually does when things get to be too much. Instead, he focuses on the steadying pressure of the hand on his back and the fingers now carding through his hair seemingly absentmindedly. His lungs ache but he forces himself to match his breathing to the rise and fall of Aizawa’s chest, trying to calm his racing heart.

It’s a long time until Bakugou feels even remotely ready to pull away. When he does finally manage it, he lets himself lean against the couch armrest for a moment, pulling the blanket snugly around his body once more. He doesn’t even notice how raw his throat is until Aizawa offers to get him some water.

Kiddie-cup-with-a-built-in-straw back in one hand, he uses the other to rub away any remaining tears before letting it join the first. He stares at the cup for a long moment and then, his voice wavering and rough, he asks, “What the fuck am I going to do?”

“You’re going to drink some water,” Aizawa says simply, his small smile almost teasing. “Then, if you’re anything like me, you’ll probably clock the fuck out and take a nap.”

“I just woke up.”

“So?”

Huffing good-naturedly, Bakugou takes a long drink and then glares up at him. “And what the ever loving fuck am I gonna do after that?”

“After that? Well…” Aizawa joins him in leaning against the armrest, pulling Bakugou into his side. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Alright?”

Bakugou grips his drink tighter, takes a breath, and then lets himself sink into the warm embrace. “Yeah, alright.”

The weight of uncertainty still sits stubbornly in his chest, but with each breath he takes it becomes lighter, more bearable. Carrying it starts to feel less daunting because now there are two more hands helping him shoulder the burden.

He’s strong on his own, yes, but backed by the people he cares about most–people who believe in and bring out the best in him–he feels invincible.

He might not know what exactly his future holds, but the knowledge that he won’t have to do it alone fills him with an excited sort of determination to find out.

Bakugou’s lips tug into a small smile. “Hey, sensei?”

“Hmm?” Aizawa hums in response, glancing at him curiously.

Thank you.

“You’re definitely gonna need another weighted blanket.”