Chapter Text
Anger was something Katsuki was deeply familiar with.
But.
Frustration? Guilt?
…failure?
No.
Not his usual.
The flames bit into his bones, and he set off another explosion. Rocketing a chair through the air with force and deliberation. Glass cascaded as the burning object hit the window and broke through, raining destruction out the window on whatever poor, unsuspecting soul walked beneath.
Aizawa would be pissed. That was for sure.
But Bakugou couldn’t bring himself to care.
Shouting, his hands sizzled. Popped and cracked as he held them upward, at a short distance from his person. As he roared at the ceiling of his new dorm room and felt the pain snap into his forearms, his wrists, his palms.
“FUUUUUUUUUUCK,” he roared, as if the expletive would summon lighting—or thunder—or an army of soldiers—that would do his bidding. That would take back what was stolen.
The girl he loved.
“FUCK,” he shouted, just for extra measure. Just in case it hadn’t been heard before, or in case it hadn’t yet settled in. And pumped through a few more volleys of explosions, for the same reasons.
As the explosions filled his room with smoke—caused the alarms in the building to start blaring—he collapsed to the ground. Sank to his knees.
Uraraka…
She…
She wasn’t a villain.
She WASN’T A VILLAIN.
Wasn’t.
She helped him escape—no, helped ALL of them escape. If it hadn’t been for Uraraka, who knows where they’d be. What the villains would have done to them. Sero was in bad shape, and both Mina and Kaminari had gotten that way as they’d escaped, but they’d make it. They’d make it through. They had been taken to the hospital immediately. Recovery Girl was making them good as new. They’d be fine.
But.
Uraraka…
Uraraka wasn’t so lucky.
“Damn,” Bakugou said as his body lost strength. All the adrenaline pouring out of him, his muscles and bones realizing just how exhausted he was. Just how much he’d been through. Exactly what he’d seen, where he’d been.
What he’d missed.
He did it.
He fucking escaped.
After he’d knocked her out, he’d followed her instructions. Broken Kirishima out, then the rest. Ran away, like a bunch of fucking cowards. Like a bunch of fucking losers.
He didn’t have time.
Sero had been injured, and then that lizard bastard had injured Mina, and then Kaminari had slipped up and gotten himself stabbed by that stupid blonde bitch.
It was a lame fucking excuse. A stupid fucking list of dumbass reasons. Of copouts and pardons that really only made him more regretful. That cemented the fact that he had lost. Failed.
He’d left her.
Ochako…
He left her.
Knocked out, at the nonexistent mercy of the villains.
He’d left her all alone.
“Damn,” he muttered, face against his carpet, hands oozing from his blisters and scalding tears seeping from his eyes. “Fucking damnit,” he muttered, as if it were a prayer that could be answered. A vow, or a true curse. “Damn.”
Red was coating his room as the smoke spilled out his window. Sirens pierced through the haze, trying to break into his thoughts. Intrude into his self-loathing.
But he wasn’t having it.
Not when all the smoke cleared. Not when the alarm got shut off. Not when Kirishima busted into his room. There was no way he was going to let himself walk away from it. No fucking way was he going to allow himself to be distracted from the facts.
He should’ve done something.
For anyone in that situation, yeah, but.
For the girl he loved?
Yeah.
He should’ve fucking done SOMETHING.
He was supposed to be a fucking hero.
But he couldn’t even save one person. Couldn’t even save the girl he loved.
What kind of piece of shit was he?
Not a hero. That was for damn sure.
Not a hero.
She was probably being tortured by now. Or in the process of being killed. All of his stomach muscles bunched—involuntarily punching him, at the thought of them marring her. Scarring her because of him. Of them taking pieces from her—no, OF her. Shattering her body, or her mind. When he thought about what they were capable of—what they were probably doing, even as he sat there bleeding—he wanted to vomit. To die. To disappear along with his own smoke.
He should’ve saved her.
Even if it cost him his life, he should’ve saved her. He owed her, that much was clear. But, it was also because:
He couldn’t stomach it. Couldn’t stand it.
If they broke that girl that she was—shattered her mind, and her body? Broke her soul?
He’d never forgive himself.
Never.
Sobbing into the carpet, Bakugou felt the need to wretch. Felt the sickness coming on as more panic—more pain—swept over him. Hitting him like a tsunami that just wouldn’t stop.
If they hurt her—
If they broke her—
If they destroyed the girl she was—
“Young Bakugou.”
He blinked.
All he could see was the carpet.
Belatedly, he realized it was because he was looking down.
It took a lot of effort to lift himself up. A lot. In order to stop crouching, he had to move. Had to use his already-spent muscles. His aching bones.
But, when that voice spoke to him, he couldn’t ignore it.
When he looked up, he had to blink a few times to make real eye contact. To see the look on his teacher’s face. A look of pain that reflected only an ounce of his own.
“All Might…” Bakugou swallowed. Nearly choking on air, or sobs, or something similar, as he sat there, helpless. Hating that he was sunk in his failure. That he was sitting in his smoke. Useless smoke. That he was so obviously agonized in front of his hero. So obviously defeated.
He hated a lot of things right now, but that was also pretty high on the list.
He should be victorious right now. Uraraka should be at the hospital, at the very least. Saved. Rescued.
But that was, painfully, not the case.
Katsuki swallowed hard, bit back bile as he tried to stop his tears.
He went to wipe his face, but his hands… they were oozing still. Bleeding. As he brought them up, he realized how pathetic they looked. How gross.
As he brought his hands up, he used the back to wipe his noise, his eyes.
He looked up at his hero who was only looking at him with sympathy, with pain.
“Young Bakugou…”
“I fucked up All Might. I didn’t save her. I didn’t—”
A giant hand grabbed him around the head, pulled him close.
“It’s alright my boy. It’s alright. Just breathe,” All Might instructed as Bakugou pressed his face into his hero’s shoulder, wrapped his arms around All Might.
And cried.
After a while, Bakugou began to calm down. Relief flooding, uninvited, into his system. Slowly easing his mind and his body as All Might’s presence reassured him.
Everything would be fine.
Yeah.
…yeah.
It would.
Because Uraraka wasn’t a villain. Not really.
She was a hero.
His hero, yes.
But a real, true hero.
And that meant:
She could still be saved.
If she had survived the night, he might get a second chance. Might be able to do something.
He could still save her.
“All Might,” Bakugou exclaimed, backing up, gripping his teacher’s shoulders as he realized—as the thought hit him.
He had to tell All Might.
All Might would believe him. Help him.
“She’s being blackmailed. We—we can help her All Might.”
Clearly, he’d moved too fast. Spoken out of context.
All Might looked confused.
“What’re you talking about Young Bakugou?”
He felt it firmly in his gut. So strongly it was almost magic, nearly healing in its capacity.
The blood and ooze from his blisters were coating All Might’s shirt—creating a nasty substance that was going to be a bitch to clean out.
But he didn’t care.
Because he knew.
“We can save Uraraka.”