Archive of Our Own

You can’t say you’re ok with losing!

Before you give up, you can at least try using my power

Kacchan, I can –

Kacchan, we need to –

Kacchan!

When Katsuki wakes, it is to the too-bright halogen glow of the recovery bay lights and an ache set deep in his bones. For a moment he stares up at the off-white stucco ceiling and doesn’t remember why he’s here.

A door stretching up to the sky. Green lightning. A fist deep in his gut.

That was it.

Shame burns low in his stomach, a physical sensation. He grinds his teeth together to keep the tears out of his eyes, palms clenching open and shut in time to the angry pulse of blood in his ears.

“Ah, you’re up! Welcome back.”

Recovery Girl’s palm is cool and dry, welcome against the heat settling behind his eyes. He suspects that his face is wet, and the look of pity on her face as she withdraws her hand is all the confirmation he needs.

Pathetic.

“I’ve done as much as I can, but you won’t be feeling your best for a little while yet. What hurts the most?”

It’s definitely his pride, but he’s not about to say that.

He considers the question. His head is throbbing and his stomach aches, but he expects nothing less after having been dragged through rubble and brick for minutes on end. The shadow of each explosion remains, the recoil stamped into his shoulders and back like tattoos.

“My arms.”

“I’m not surprised, you pushed yourself far too hard. You and young Midoriya need to learn a thing or two about self-preservation.”

And there it was again. Him and Deku. They shouldn’t be in the same league, shouldn’t be mentioned in the same breath. It didn’t make sense, not in the world that he thought he lived in.

Every tender patch on his palms lights up as his fists clench, a promise that they will soon swell and blister. He feels vulnerable on his back, every weak and tender part of him exposed for the world to see.

Recovery Girl sighs, weary. “Dear, could you listen to me for a second?”

He tenses his jaw until his teeth ache and squints at her, anything to ward off further tears.

“You have so much potential, but you need to allow yourself the room to not always meet your own standards. Becoming a hero takes time, physically and mentally.”

“You don’t understand.” His voice is rough, and if he dwells on it he can still taste iron-rich blood at the back of his throat. “I can’t afford to slow down.”

She reaches for his hand before he can react and squeezes, surprisingly strong. “You have time. You’re only 15, you shouldn’t be expected to push yourself so hard so early.”

“Maybe everyone else can take it slow, but I’m different.”

He is different – stronger, faster, better. He can hear his breathing getting louder, deeper, slipping out of his control. Every inhale makes his head throb and his stomach burn.

“I’m going to be the number one hero, and the best of the best never slow down.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose and he has to look away; it reminds him too much of his mother. After a moment the grip on his hand loosens, and when he looks back it’s to watery grey eyes and a gentle smile.

“However else you feel, can you please at least be proud of yourself? You did very well out there, especially considering that it was All Might.”

He didn’t, he humiliated himself. He lets the silence stretch on until becomes abundantly clear that he's not going to answer. She holds his gaze past the point where most would have looked away out of discomfort, but eventually sighs and straightens up.

“That does remind me. Before All Might left with young Midoriya, I made sure to tell him -”

Whatever else she says is lost, drowned by the ringing in his ears and a roar that starts at the base of his skull and pounds in his head like a drum. 

Of course All Might waited for Deku. Left with Deku. Of course he did.

He could see this coming, he isn’t stupid, but knowledge of the rejection doesn’t stop it from hurting.

This time the shame leaves and the pain remains, but that too he can endure.

He is already falling when the dream starts, no ground beneath his feet to hold him. Everything moves slowly, calmly, and with the acceptance that you only feel in dreams he knows that this was inevitable.

The sky stretches above him, streaked with colour; carmine red, deep navy blue, rich buttery yellow. Bright white stars stand out like shiny pins pushed into fabric, a million miles out of reach.

As he watches, thick strokes of green begin to coat the sky as though painted by some celestial brush. They obscure his view of the colours beyond and he aches, stomach dropping like it does when you miss the last step on a staircase.

When the last slither of sky is blocked and all he can see is green green green, he opens his eyes. Red, blue, yellow, and white stare back, emblazoned on his walls and ceiling the same as they have been ever since he was a child.

He sits up, and his assessment from the previous day is immediately proven right as his shoulders scream in protest. He’d like to drag his hand over his face, rub away the last traces of his dream, but lifting an arm is proving difficult.

“Katsuki?”

His mother knocks and then immediately opens the door.

“Why would you even knock if you’re just going to come in anyway Jesus fucking –“

“Watch your damn language.”

His uniform hits his legs, crisp lines ironed to perfection. He can feel the heat of her glare from a distance and really it’s unsurprising. He hadn’t washed at school after the exam, only taking the time to change out of his torn and filthy costume before limping home. He probably would have retreated straight to his room if it had been up to him, but as soon as she saw the ash and dust that coated his skin and hair he had been forced into the shower.

His tie slips off of his bed and onto the floor, a puddle of crimson silk. She frowns, moving forward to pick it back up for him.

“It’s fine, just leave me alone already.“

Unthinkingly he leans out of bed to grab it first, and there's a tug somewhere deep in his stomach.

“Shit.”

Her hand is pressed against his forehead almost immediately, and he hates himself for the whimper that he can’t quite contain.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine. Leave me alone –“

“You expect me to leave you alone when you look like you’re about to puke your guts up? Come on, what kind of a mother do you think I am.”

She’s looking right at him, red eyes full of nothing but worry. It’s distressing rather than comforting, hot water on raw skin. Rather than answering he chooses to stare directly over her shoulder and resist the urge to lean into the hand that has moved to cup his cheek.

He’s good at being stubborn, but every moment more that passes in silence reminds him exactly who it was that he learnt that skill from. He starts to pick at his right thumbnail to give himself something to do with his hands. The fight has left all of his nails cracked and ragged, and the pain he feels as he digs deeper works to ground him.

A sharper pang makes him flinch, and they look down together; he’s pulled the white of his nail past the quick. Blood starts to ooze and collect in the nail bed.

His mother sighs and gathers his hand in hers, gentle against his rough skin.

“What am I going to do with you, kid.”

The sun pools in a golden stream through the window and the soft smell of his mother’s glycerin quirk is safe and familiar. It’s rare for them to be this close without either or both of them shouting, and he can’t bring himself to pull away. For a moment he feels calm, disconnected, the red-hot coals in his gut cooling to a manageable heat.

Only for a moment.

“You’re bleeding on the fresh sheets, hold on -”

Before he can stop her she tugs the duvet away from under his hand until it’s around his waist, exposing his stomach down to the edge of his boxer shorts. As she gasps all he can think is shit shit fuck I forgot to wear a shirt -

“Katsuki, what the fuck is that? “

“I took a hit in the exam, it’s nothing!”

He makes a grab for the duvet but it’s yanked out of his grasp, further exposing the deep purple bruising spreading across his stomach and deepening to near black around his navel. It’s ugly, and when he looks down at it his abs clench around the memory of a fist buried deep in his gut.

“I thought your school was meant to have a nurse, how did they not notice that?” The duvet hits the floor as she wrenches it to the side, baring the black and blue patchwork of his legs. “Jesus.”

Her fists are clenched and shaking as she turns on her heel and marches towards his door.

“I’m telling your father and we’re ringing the school, the shit they pulled at the sports festival was bad enough but this is ridiculous. Lie back down, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Don’t tell dad!”

She’s doesn’t stop, and panic bubbles up in his chest. He won’t be able to convince both of them to let him go to school, and if they keep him at home he’ll fall behind. If they ring the school, everyone will know - All Might will know that he wasn’t strong enough to handle it.

“Mum, please.”

That makes her stop, most likely from sheer surprise.   

“It’s just a bruise, seriously! You don’t have to worry.”

She opens her mouth to speak, outrage clear in the tremble of her fists and the white of her knuckles, but he gets there first.

“Look, Recovery Girl deals with the really bad shit and only leaves the stuff that my body can handle by itself. I’m not a kid, and when I’m a hero I’m going to be dealing with much worse.”

“Katsuki.”

She pauses, pinching the bridge of her nose and pulling in deep breaths. He can see her mouthing numbers, only speaking again once she reaches ten.

“The exam was run by teachers, yeah?”

Shit, how does she know. “N-no it wasn’t a teacher!

“Don’t lie to me, do you really think we didn’t have to sign consent forms for what UA puts you through? They warned us about these end of term exams, which means an adult -”

She breaks off, clenching the doorframe and sucking in another deep breath.

“Which means an adult, a teacher, hit you so hard in the stomach that you’re bruised to hell and you can barely fucking move. That’s messed up, doesn’t matter what you’re training to be.”

“They can't go easy on us! I can handle it, I -”

The words die in his throat, rising panic cutting them off as she snorts and swivels on her heel.

“Mum, fuck -”

He catapults himself off the side of the bed, landing on the duvet with a soft flump. It hurts, but this time he’s expecting it.

“Look I’m fine to go in, seriously.”

His uniform hit the ground when the duvet did, crisp lines now wrinkled, but he starts to yank it on regardless.

“You can’t stop me from going into school. I’ll climb out of the window if I have to – shit!”

He trips and hits the duvet again, legs tangled in his trousers. With a snarl he yanks them up to his waist before grabbing at his shirt and yanking it over his head with ease –

Well, maybe not.

“Fucking why -”

“You’re such a mess.”

Gentle hands pull his shirt onto his arms and over his shoulders. He’d forgotten how stiff they were, and even disentangled from the trappings of his sleeves it takes effort to pull them down from around his head until they’re by his side again.

She’s still angry, that much is obvious, but it’s softened by the upturn of the corners of her mouth. He scowls, tears brought on by frustration stinging at the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t fucking laugh at me. You can’t stop me, I’m going in whether you like it or not. “

“Yeah yeah, I get it.”

He slaps her hand away as she starts to do up his buttons for him, but instead of the shouting match that would normally trigger she just pats him on the head like a fucking puppy.

“Fine, you can go.”

Victory

“If you promise not to do any more than sit at your desk and write notes, and if you’re in any pain you go straight to the nurse.”

He scowls but reluctantly nods, smacking her hand away again as she goes to pull his tie around his neck. This time she scowls back, grabbing his wrist and his attention.

“And just to make sure you stick to that, I’m calling the school.” His noise of outrage is immediately drowned out as she continues, almost shouting to speak over him. “Just your homeroom teacher, the one who was commentating at the sports festival.”

He tenses, waiting for the heat to flare in his stomach again, but… it doesn’t come. Aizawa knowing feels different, doesn’t make him want to curl up and sink into his own shame.

His mother takes his sullen silence as the agreement that it is, finally rising from her crouch and moving without interruption to the door. He scrambles to his feet, yanking his belt through its loops and pulling his blazer on over his rumpled shirt.

Every movement makes his muscles spasm, his arms burn, his stomach ache, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a small victory, sure, but the lack of drawback or conceit makes it a pure in a way that he hasn’t felt in a while. He can just about push his physical discomfort away by latching tightly onto it.

At the breakfast table his father places a plate of his favourite tamagoyaki in front of him, soft and yet sharp with its dusting of shichimi and grated bonito. He’s taken aback, and the moment of weakness is taken advantage of as he allows his father to ruffle his hair and tells him that he’s proud of him.

“What?”

“The exam? Your mother told me that you passed.”

He imagines what his limp body must have looked like under Deku’s arm, and his fists clench under the table.

He grunts an affirmation and averts his eyes, the weight of Masaru’s worried gaze heavier on his shoulders with every passing moment. It’s quiet, the scrape of his fork against his plate loud in the kitchen. The tamagoyaki, soft and perfect in a way that only his dad can make, is suddenly heavy and bland.

“You know, Katsuki -”

When he looks up, it’s to his father peering at him from across the table as he pushes his glasses further up his nose.  His concern is soft in a way that has more of an effect on Katsuki than he would like to admit, a gentle pressure that he can’t push back against in the same way he can his mother.

The pause is long enough to be uncomfortable, and he needs to go.

“What?"

“It’s the last day of term and you’ve just passed a big exam, if you wanted to take the day off then… maybe we could do something to celebrate?”

He hates how tempting that is. He doesn’t want to go in, not really, not when he knows he’ll have to grit his teeth through the pain all day, see All Might, see Deku with his false sympathy and fucking pity.

Fuck, had the rest of the class been watching?

“We could cover for you, say that it’s a family matter. We could maybe go hiking, or go and see that new Korean superhero movie, or -”

The drag of his chair across the ground cuts his dad off mid-sentence.

“There could be a quiz, or they might be announcing something about the summer. Either way I need to be there. I can’t miss it.”

If he starts choosing his own comfort over his goals now, then there’s no hope for his future. He will be number one. He needs to be number one. There isn’t another option. He can't see a future without it, not one that makes sense.

Deku standing over him, a hand outstretched.

He turns on his heel and leaves, the weight of his father's gaze heavy on his back.

He makes it in, eventually, after a journey that definitely shouldn’t have been as hard and slow as it was. The thought that something could be genuinely wrong does occur to him along the way (around about when he is overtaken by a group of children who can be no older than 10), but is quickly brushed aside as ridiculous.

The corridor is wonderfully, blessedly empty, and he takes the moment of respite to place his hot forehead against the cool wall and pull himself together. He’s panting at first, but after a few moments he can start to pull his breath slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth until it comes a little easier.

His phone reads 8:20. 10 minutes early.

Breathe in, breathe out.

If it weren’t for the voices echoing down the corridor he would slap himself across the face. He’s a fucking sight, weak and trembling, black spots strobing across his vision. He should be better than this, shouldn’t be brought to the verge of tears by a stomach ache, should be able to walk into a damn room without caring about what people think of him.

In, out.

Come on, he faced All Might the day before and won, this shouldn’t be –

Faced him and lost he lost helosthelosthe-

The sliding door slides open with a BANG, hitting the wall hard enough that it bounces back. It knocks against his backpack with a light bap on the rebound before he makes it fully over the threshold.

The sudden shift in attention to him is both palpable and hideously uncomfortable; the volume momentarily drops to a low-level hum, making the primal part of his brain prickle and squirm under the weight of so many eyes.

“What the fuck are you all looking at?”

The conversation returns after a beat of silence, but instead of relief he just feels sweaty and a bit sick.

He hunches his shoulders and makes his way quickly to his desk, pulling his chair out more carefully than usual to avoid the loud scrape and clatter. It’s hard to sit, back stiff and sore against the wood, joints protesting as he forces them to bend into place.

He snatches his hand away from his stomach when he realizes that he’s rubbing small, self-conscious circles into the tender skin. The feeling of eyes on him is still there, stripping him down to nothing but the bruises. He’s clammy with sweat, his shirt starting to stick uncomfortably to his back and underarms, hot on the inside where his muscles and gut burn but cold on the outside. It’s making him start to itch under his skin, the feeling that only usually goes away when he runs until he drops or has a really good fight.

If anything, the fight yesterday should have done the trick nicely! Most of the time, the painful afterburn that came from overusing his quirk just proved that he was pushing himself hard enough. Most of the time, however, his fights didn’t end with All Might grinding him into the dirt and Deku not only landing the last punch but also carrying him to victory. They definitely shouldn’t end that way.

Before you give up, you can at least try using my power!

This is ridiculous.

He doesn’t usually spend his time before homeroom paying attention to the conversations and interactions of his classmates, but anything that stops the constant circular track leading his train of thought back to the exam would be a relief.

Invisible girl in front of him, literally nothing to see there. Earphones to his right, tapping her pen rhythmically against her desk.  A low background buzz, both from the voices of his classmates and the residual ringing in his ears. Sparky face-down on his desk, whining about something or other. Kirishima's mouth downturned and mournful, sending an unpleasant twist of something through his already knotted stomach.

Even if he couldn’t hear Deku and Round Face’s whispered conversation behind him he’d know they were there anyway, their eyes burning bloody holes into the back of his neck.

“Maybe you should say something?”

“I guess so, but I don’t know how he’ll take it.”

“You guys worked together yesterday, maybe it’ll be ok?”

“I don’t know, he –“

“Come on, I think you should!”

There’s a heavy pause, and Katsuki swears that if Deku tries anything he’ll –

“K-Kacchan?”

Fucker.

Maybe they’ll believe that he didn’t hear if he hunkers down further in his chair. It's uncomfortable but gives him a moment of peace, at least until he feels a tentative tap on his shoulder.

Fucker.

“What?”

It’s at least somewhat satisfying to see them flinch as he twists in his seat, even if the movement makes the fire in his belly lick up against the inside of his skin. Only somewhat, though; he could have sworn that Deku never used to look right back at him when he glared at him like this.

“Um, good morning! How- how are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? When we left last night you were still -”

“Are you deaf? I said I’m fine.”

He’s met with two pairs of eyes, Deku’s round and watery like a fucking lamb and Uraraka’s narrowed in disapproval. She leans forward, one hand on Deku’s shoulder, guarding.

“There’s no need to be so rude you know, he’s just being friendly. We just wanted to check on you. From what I saw you took a real beating yesterday.”

From what she saw. So, people had been watching. Logically he knew it was likely, had been informed of the viewing room and could have guessed that people would make use of it, but perhaps it was something he hadn’t wanted to accept. Before the exam, the thought of all eyes on him as he faced off against the greatest hero in the world would have thrilled him. Now, however…

A fist in his gut. His face in the dirt. A boot on his back.

They’re both looking at him expectantly, the attention making his stomach clench around the lump in his gut. Unheeded his eyes stray to Deku’s cheek, and he can almost imagine the bruise that the back of his hand must have left there.

“Bakugou?”

Uraraka leans forward and flicks him on the forehead like a dog or something.

“Do you have a death wish?”

“I just don’t get why you’re so angry! You’ve got the full-on Baku rage aura even though you passed. Cheer up, geez, you’re such a downer.”

“Y-yeah Kacchan! You know, I think you did a really good job yesterday. Actually, no, we did a really good job! I’m really glad you decided to work with me in the end.”

He’s actually speechless, this is ridiculous. Who do they think they are? And on top of that, Deku doesn’t even look like he’s done – he’s looking down at his feet (good), but then he looks back up (defiance in his eyes) and manages to smile.

Don’t say you’d rather lose!

“Also, um, I never realized just how difficult your gauntlets are to use. The recoil meant that I couldn’t hold my stance at all, it was amazing! I can still feel the strain in my shoulder today, you know, I don’t think I’d be able to manage repeated blasts while incorporating it into my fighting style in the way that you do. What workout do you use to build the muscle necessary for that? It must be something that really isolates your shoulders and back. Focusing on the lats? Or maybe the traps? I suppose it could also -”

“Do you ever shut up?”

His mouth snaps shut, eyes widening and face falling.

“Let me make this clear to you, Deku.” He draws on every ounce of venom that is eating away at his insides and pours it all into the word. “I worked with you because I had to, not because I wanted to. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not ever going to mean anything. I’m still going to be number one no matter what you do to try and throw me off, so can you please just leave me alone.”

He’s keeping his voice as low as possible to prevent everyone else from hearing, so it comes out as more of a venomous hiss than his usual shout. His voice cracks a little on the please (a word he had not meant to say), but the need to have them out of his face and out of his business is so strong in that moment that he can barely breathe.

There’s a moment of relief as Deku shrinks back into his seat, cowed. It’s short lived, however, as Uraraka’s nostrils flare and she squares her shoulders.

“Why are you like this? Is it so bad that we want to make sure you’re ok? If it hadn’t been for Deku you would have failed, so maybe you should start with saying thank you.”

Her voice is rising in volume and it’s only a matter of time before everyone starts to stare. He can’t relax his shoulders, can’t unclench his hands, and in turn that tension seeps into his guts until he can taste bile at the back of his throat. His eyes feel wet and hot but reaching up to rub at them would be a dead giveaway.

Uraraka takes a deep breath, readying herself for more, but the moment is shattered as someone on the other side of the room starts wailing.

It’s Ashido, tears rolling down her pink cheeks.

“Everyone… I’m looking forward to hearing your stories -hic- about training camp.”

Her misery predictably summons both Deku and Uraraka swiftly to her side, leaving him to exhale shakily and sink back into his seat.

So… she didn’t pass? Which means Kaminari didn’t either, explaining why he looks like he’s been slapped in the face.

As he scans the room more thoroughly, he realises that they're not the only ones that seem to be wallowing in misery. Kirishima, especially, looks like he's about to follow Ashido's lead and burst into tears.

And isn’t that just the fucking thing, because Bakugou gave up his time, put effort into him, and for this? It’s hard to tell whether the churning in his stomach is anger, frustration, a little bit of both, or something else that he’s starting to accept might be legitimately wrong with him.

Even the sight of Kaminari jabbing Deku in the eyes doesn’t make him feel better. He knows that he’s staring at Kirishima, but if that bastard has the audacity to not even look him in the eyes after fucking up (especially something that should have been easy for someone at his level), then Katsuki is going to glare until his fury is made clear.

“Once the bell rings, you should all be in your seats.”

There is immediate quiet, all eyes to the front. With one last look at Kirishima – who is still looking down rather than at him – he turns around and wipes his hands on his thighs once more.

No matter what he’s feeling, be it pain or rage, all he has to do is get through the rest of the school day. He can do that.

Scratch that, this is going to be harder than he thought.

They’re only two classes in and he’s already had to go to the toilet twice to kneel over the bowl in anticipation. He hasn’t actually thrown up (yet), but his mouth is constantly full of saliva and his stomach feels like it’s crawling up his oesophagus.

But he’s Bakugou fucking Katsuki, he can get through anything.

Except… there’s something about today. Thinking is like wading through molasses and he can barely hold a pen around the blisters on his palms. He’s sweating hard, pushing through the industrial strength anti-perspirant that his dad orders specially for him; if it continues he’ll have to change (even if it would be embarrassing to sit in class in his gym kit).

Since Aizawa’s announcement about training camp in the morning the base volume has joyously risen in the room, bringing with it a pounding headache that throbs incessantly in his temples.

He wants to lie his head down flat on the cool surface of his desk and just close his eyes. Present Mic is loud and obnoxious, his classmates are loud and obnoxious, he can feel Deku’s gaze resting heavy on the back of his sweaty neck, and the bright glow of the classroom lights are pulsing hot and painful in his brain.

What he really wants is to be at home in bed, which is so pathetic that he hates himself for even entertaining the idea. The few times he’s been ill in the past have always flown by, the fever burned away quickly by (he assumes) his higher than normal body heat and rapid metabolism. This is different though. The pain in his stomach (under his fist-shaped bruise) is getting worse, not better, and it’s all he can do to not spew all over his desk in front of everyone (just like he did in the exam fuck). It’s even moved a little, shifting gradually over from under his bellybutton to settle just over his right hip.

He takes the opportunity of Mic’s back being turned to twist in his seat, stretching his back out in the hopes that will make him feel better. As he swivels to the right he catches Kirishima out of the corner of his eye mouthing Are you ok?, accompanied by exaggerated hand gestures and wide, concerned eyes.

He glowers back which only seems to make Kirishima worry more, adding on Do you need to go to Recovery Girl?, pointing first to Katsuki, then to the door, and then finishing off with a big kissy face. Probably meant to represent Recovery Girl, potentially not taken that way by everyone else if the stifled laughter is anything to go by.

Kirishima doesn’t even look discouraged after being flipped the bird, which is just bullshit. 

He faces the front again, grinds his teeth in irritation at the squeak of the marker on the whiteboard. A drop of sweat runs down his forehead and lingers on his eyelashes before being rubbed away. Shouji taps his pencil idly against the side of his desk and his pulse throbs along in time.

It’s 10:10. Twenty minutes left. Just two lots of ten minutes. Each of those is only two lots of five minutes, which is barely anything.

His palms are hot and worryingly wet. It’s hard to tell whether the prickling at the back of his neck is people watching him (waiting for him to fuck up again), or something internal bubbling up under his skin and manifesting as sweat beading on his brow and nape.

What really worries him is his lack of control over the secretion – he can feel it collecting in the creases of his hands and stinging at the raw edges of his blisters. Shit. He’ll need to go to the bathroom again soon - in his current state he's at risk of either an accidental ignition (especially with how hot his skin feels), or giving everyone in the immediate vicinity a nitro headache to match his.

Something small hits the back of his head; a crumpled-up piece of paper.

Are u ok B? U don’t look so hot :( Nod once if u feel sick and I can distract ppl so u can leave!!!

He’s kind of disgusted that he can translate Kirishima’s barely legible chicken scratch - it must be sheer exposure from all of those study sessions. Either way, it’s likely that Kirishima roped Sero into passing the note so that he didn’t have to lob it from two seats over. Great, two of them privy to his slow unravelling.

He holds the note up to his eyeline to ensure they can both see before crushing it in his fist and violently jamming it into his desk drawer. That’ll show them. Fuck their pity.

From what he can tell outside of his sphere of discomfort, barely anyone is paying attention anyway. Ashido is blatantly leaning over her desk to whisper to Aoyama in the front row, Jirou, Kaminari, and Ojiro have a 3-way table football game going on whenever Mic’s back is turned, and there’s a suspicious amount of snoring coming from where Hagakure’s head should be. Mic’s class is usually a good choice for that. As long as most of them chime in whenever he does another “Can I hear a YEAH?”, he either doesn’t notice the slacking or chooses to let it slide.

The bell finally heralds a painstaking landmark in what is turning out to be a complete waste of a day. If he can make it through to 3:30 he might even give in and call his dad to pick him up. Then he has at least 2 weeks before training camp to let his body sort out… whatever this is.

Two more classes to go before lunch. 50 minutes each. That’s just two lots of 25 minutes each, which is only 5 lots of 5 minutes…

Yeah, barely anything. Just Maths, Japanese, and… shit. A double bill of hero studies after lunch. Hopefully not a practical session (probably the first time that he’s ever wished for that).

He’s shocked out of his reverie by a hand clapping onto his shoulder. Never to be put off by his general demeanor, the idiots descend.

Kaminari and Ashido scoot their asses onto his desk, the latter brazenly opening his desk drawer to curiously sift through his stuff like a fucking cat. Kirishima even has the nerve to push him over until he’s only half on his seat so that he can squeeze in next to him. Sero hangs back a little more warily, the only one with any sense.

“Fuck off, class is about to start.” He punctuates the off by body checking Kirishima to the side. He barely moves, the bastard.

“Not for at least 5 minutes bro, Ectoplasm always takes a little longer to get ready.”

“Come ooonnn Blasty, maybe we just want to bask in your presence oh-great-passer-of-exams.” Ashido pulls her hand back with a squeak as he slams his desk drawer shut, cutting off her whining along with (almost) her fingers.

“Someone’s cranky today.” Kaminari reaches out and boops the end of his nose, quickly moving back in anticipation of Katsuki ripping the damn thing off. The thought of lifting a smoking hand to do just that is enough to send phantom spasms of pain down his arm, let alone what he really wants to do (flip the desk and them along with it).

Kaminari makes a face and wipes his hand on his blazer. “And sweaty too, yeesh.”

“You do look sweaty, and a little pale.” Sero bends over and peers at him, quirking an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Are you sick?”

Kirishima leans in too, starting from a much closer point. His face is nearly pushed up against Katsuki’s, big red eyes wide and searching. The heat is in his face now, blooming in his cheeks.

“We’ve been worried about you all lesson, you haven’t been taking any notes and you keep touching your stomach like it’s hurting you.”

Katsuki snatches away his hand from doing just that. Did they all come over here just to rub his weakness in? Kirishima is still talking, Ashido and Kaminari nodding earnestly like bobbleheads behind him, but he’s not really listening. His breath is coming shorter and shorter, ears buzzing like they’re full of water.

His stomach lurches sharply again, and his mouth fills with saliva. It’s too much, too many eyes on him. He can’t let them see him this vulnerable.

“Maybe if you spent less time worrying about me and more time thinking about yourself, you wouldn’t have all fucked up so completely.”

Kirishima’s mouth snaps shut, brows knitted together. He looks so hurt in that moment that Katsuki almost (maybe a little) regrets what he said, but he at least rocks back which gives Katsuki space to breathe.

“Oh please.” Kaminari waves his hand derisively and snorts. “You’re acting like you’re so high and mighty, but it was just an end of term exam. I bet you haven’t even thanked Midoriya yet for saving your bacon.”

There’s a squeak behind him that sounds a lot like please don’t bring me into this but it’s quickly drowned out by the roaring in his ears. Maybe (just maybe) he’d usually be able to let Kaminari’s shit slide, but this is the final cherry on top of a really shit cake of a day.

Crack. The wood beneath his hands gives a little as he slams his palms down and pushes himself to his feet. His stomach churns, his shoulders throb, and he’s panting hard with the effort of that small movement alone.

“I didn’t need anyone to save me, I could have handled it by myself!"

“As if!” Kaminari sounds defiant, but the way he’s gripping the desk makes it clear that he’s ready to bolt. “You were getting absolutely destroyed before Midoriya stepped in. If he hadn’t been there, I bet you wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds by yourself. All Might would have wiped the floor with you.”

“Deku can fuck off, you can fuck off, you think you can chat shit but you don’t understand -”

“I understand plenty! Midoriya would have been better off with literally anyone else as a partner, Kacchan.”

Kirishima and Deku’s simultaneous shouts of Too far, man! and That’s not true, we were a team! sound very far away

There’s the smell of burning wood and overlapping voices, Iida waving his hands frantically in the background, Kirishima standing to grab him by the shoulders, hands hardened in anticipation. He can feel himself lose his balance and be guided back to his seat as something inside of him finally g i v e s…

...He can only imagine that this is what being stabbed would feel like. He’s been choked, beaten, burned, and frozen, but stabbing is a new one. Funny. He hears himself laugh and immediately fights down the urge to vomit, nausea making his hands shake. Pressure passes from his stomach upwards, the taste of sour milk harsh at the back of his throat.

No, he couldn’t throw up. Not here. It had been bad enough in front of All Might. Humiliating. Shameful.

He lays a hand against his stomach, muscles contracting against the phantom imprint of All Might’s fist. There’s something building there, pressing back against his palm, but he can’t move his hand away. If he does he feels as though his guts will come spilling out between his fingers and onto the floor, pushed out from within.

He feels hot. The lights are too bright. Faintly, as though from another room, he can hear voices; they sound muted and strange, but maybe that’s because of the buzzing in his ears. The knife in his gut turns again, pain white hot and blinding.

“-gou?”

The wood of his desk is cool against his forehead. He can hear breathing, a raspy hah hah hah loud in his ears. Pressure on his shoulder, pressure on his back, a hand carding through his hair. He wants to shake them off but he can’t move, limbs weak and shaking.

“-acchan?”

“Katsuki!”

He responds reflexively to his name, raising his head. The room starts to spin, tilting wildly on its axis. When he opens his eyes he can see faces and bodies, distorted by the film of his tears as though glimpsed from underwater. He can still hear voices, but they don’t seem to sync up to the figures surrounding him. The hand on his shoulder moves to his cheek and he can’t help but lean into it.

Someone leans in and all he can see is red red red

A lurch as he’s pulled from slumped over to sitting, and he knows that he can’t hold it back.

“’m sorry.”

He claps his hand over his mouth but it’s too late, only just managing to turn his head to the side before vomiting through his fingers.

As his head lolls back into the hand supporting it, everything finally, blessedly, goes away.

When Katsuki wakes, it is to the too-bright halogen glow of the ceiling light and a feeling that he’s done something horrendous but can’t remember what. For a moment he stares up at the unfamiliar ceiling and doesn’t remember why he’s here.

As he takes in the crisp white sheets and tube connected to his hand by a neat piece of tape, it comes back little by little and then all at once. The IV line tugs at his skin as he groans and rolls over onto his side, face buried in his hands and cheeks burning with mortification.

He won’t cry again, that would just be one time too many, but heedless of what he wants he can feel the corners of his eyes burning and a tight feeling rising up in his chest. It doesn’t help that he feels at once too relaxed and too on edge, his muscles weighted and slack in a way that could be enjoyable if it weren’t for him having no control over the feeling. His stomach no longer burns, the pain wiped away as if it were never there.

His eyelids feel heavy too, sinking with his limbs into the white void of the bed. It’s a level of comfort that is profoundly uncomfortable, like being wrapped in cotton wool so that everything is dull and soft and l o o s e…..

...When he drifts back there is a hand carding through his hair and the sound of gentle humming, the smell of coffee permeating the air and a buttery glow seeping through the curtains. He knows it’s his dad by his side from the slight chemical smell of his neutralizing soap and the warmth of his hand as it presses against his scalp.

He doesn’t say anything as Katsuki blearily cracks his eyes open, merely smiles and settles back in his chair.

“What time is it?” His throat feels dry, and the words come out hoarse.

“Oh, it’s about -” Masaru holds his wrist up, clearly not wearing a watch, “- two hairs past the freckle?”

There’s a feeling rising up in his chest again – nausea? Shame? More vomit?

His eyes start to water uncontrollably, chest heaving. He’s snorting and giggling, eye scrunched up tight and hand half-heartedly covering his mouth. He manages to get himself under control just enough to note that his dad is watching him with an expression torn between soft and dopey, like how he gets when watching videos of baby animals or looking at their old family photos.

“It wasn’t even funny, don’t get any ideas.” He wipes the tears from his eyes with the corner of his bedsheet. “I think I’m high.”

“Of course Katsuki, whatever you say.” He reaches out again to run his fingers through Katsuki’s hair, and Katsuki is more than willing to put his lack of reaction down to the drugs.

He could have probably drifted off to sleep again then and there, soft and warm with the heat of his father’s hand pressing against his forehead, but the tranquility is broken by his mother entering the room followed by a doctor.

If he squints at her name tag he can just about make it out – Shikimura? Shikishima? Shakshuka? The letters are sort of wobbling around, which is really quite inconsiderate of them. It occurs to him that she may have been trying to talk to him when everyone goes quiet, and when he glances up all eyes are on him.

“Don’t stop on my account, I’m fucking listening.”

His mother’s iron glare is tempered by the doctor snorting with amusement.

“I’m sure you are.” She reaches over to the IV stand, dialling something down. “Now that you’re up, we can start weaning you off of those painkillers. They might take a little while to wear off, but let us know if the pain comes back and we can adjust them so that you're comfortable.”

She runs her eyes over him, scanning up and down. He can see her pupils contract and then dilate, blowing out until the entirety of her eye is black. A sight-based quirk, some sort of analytics maybe?

"Your heart rate and blood pressure are within normal limits. No fever, good oxygen saturation, overall you’re the picture of health.”

“What the fuck actually happened?” The hag stares daggers from her corner of the room again, so he begrudgingly adds: “Sorry for interrupting or whatever.”

“A good question! We know the broad strokes, but some parts of it are still a little odd.” She notes something down on a piece of paper in her hand. “Your appendix burst. Usually it wouldn’t get to that stage before you come to hospital, the preceding appendicitis can be very debilitating. Have you been experiencing any abdominal pain for the last few days?”

“Not really, it was just today. Yesterday? Is it still the same day?”

“It’s the afternoon the day after you were brought to hospital.” She quirks an eyebrow pensively. “The short gap between the onset of symptoms and rupture is really quite strange, it wouldn’t usually escalate that quickly. Did you have any preceding abdominal trauma?”

His eyes go straight to his mother, but she’s already opened her damn mouth.

“Funny that you should say that, but -”

“But nothing. I’m in the hero course, people get hurt all the time. This is no different.”

“Shut the hell up Katsuki, you ended up in the hospital because of this. It’s not just a little bump or bruise!”

“People get appendicitis literally all the time, I don’t know why you’re making a fucking scene -”

“Both of you, stop it.” His dad’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, squeezing sternly. “Mitsuki, Katsuki, not in public please.”

Doctor Shikisomething returns his father’s bowed head, looking about as intensely uncomfortable one might expect a stranger caught in a family argument to look.

“I’ll be back soon to see how you’re doing, we can talk about it more then if you're ready.” She disappears pretty quickly around the door frame, evidently relieved, but a moment later pops her head back around the corner. “Oh, and you have some visitors! Is now a good time?”

“Send them away, if they come in I might do something stupid like actually laugh at their jokes,” Is what Katsuki wants to say, he really does, because he has a good idea of exactly who might be here to see him. But before he can his dad turns to him, having gone a full 180 from stern to soppy in a matter of seconds. Behind his glasses he can see that his eyes are wet. Fuck.

“Your friends are here to see you? That’s lovely.”

And really, what is he supposed to say to that.

At first it’s only really Kirishima that seems happy to see him, bounding over to sit by his bedside and beam like Katsuki’s the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. Ashido and Sero are a little more reserved; perhaps (he recalls apprehensively) they haven’t quite forgotten his pre-vomit rage the day before.

Kaminari goes straight to fiddling with the buttons at the end of the bed while trying to pretend that he’s not, as though the mattress folding in half is something that would magically happen by itself.

He’s saved from leaping out of bed to tear both Kaminari and his stitches a new one by Sero smacking the culprit over the back of the head.

“Don’t tease the invalid.”

“Oh please, as if this could keep him down for long.” Probably realizing that’s verging dangerously close to being nice, he tacks on, “Plus you’ve got the presidential suite and good kush here Kacchan, I’m sure you’re just fine.”

It hadn’t occurred to him that the room was particularly good until that point, but now that he thinks about it he doesn’t ever remember having a single room with a nice window view the very few times he’s been in hospital in the past. UA privilege, perhaps?

“As if I want to be in a hospital bay with a bunch of extras trying to get my autograph,” is what he’s going for, but even he can admit that it comes out a slurred mess. Kirishima at least has the grace to hide his grin behind his hand, while the other three openly cackle. Fuck them, it’s not his fault that his tongue feels fat and numb, as agile as a sedated slug.

“How do you feel now, bro? You were having a pretty shitty day huh, sorry for not noticing how bad it was sooner.” His eyes flicker down to Katsuki’s hand, his own making an aborted movement forward before coming to rest instead on the bed rail.

“I wanted to come yesterday straight after school, but Mr. Aizawa said that we should give you some space.”

“What even happened? You went from your normal level of sweaty and bitchy to vomity and fainty really quickly.” Kaminari pulls up the chair on the other side of his bed. He doesn’t make a move to hold Katsuki’s hand quite like Kirishima (as if Katsuki would let him if he tried), but he does bite his lip and look down. “Um, I'm sorry for what I said. I guess we both might have crossed the line a little."

Absolutely fucking not, I did nothing wrong is what he wants to say.

“You’re not fuck ups, and I shouldn’t have said that you are,” is instead what he hears in his own fucking voice, out loud.

It’s almost worth it to see all four of the morons genuinely speechless. Almost. The genuine horror that he should be feeling at such an admission is dull and far away, but he has absolutely no doubt that it will be coming back to haunt him very soon.

Kirishima’s eyes are fast welling up and he can feel a rising wetness in his own which is unacceptable, how dare they catch him so vulnerable.

“I didn’t say that you’re not fucking morons, oh my god don’t cry.”

Kaminari snorts, but the undertone of genuine concern hasn’t left his face. Maybe. It’s hard to tell with his vision still being a little blurry.

“Well hopefully they scooped out your bad attitude along with your insides.”

“Fuck you, they should scoop out your face.”

"That.. that doesn’t even -”

“Whatever you say, Blasty. Can we see your gnarly scar?”

Ashido oohs as he yanks his hospital gown up to his nipples, leaning in to have a closer look. The lack of screaming probably means that he’s still wearing underwear, which he belatedly realizes he hadn’t been sure about until this moment.

Kaminari whispers something to a chuckling Sero that sounds suspiciously like Do you think we can keep him drugged up forever, and Katsuki hopes that flipping him a lethargic bird over the bunched-up material in his hand properly communicates his feelings on the matter.

“Geez, you’ve really had a chunk taken out of you.” She has the audacity to reach out and run her finger gently over the neat line of black stitches, stark against the pale skin of his belly. “You could make up so many cool stories about how you got it.”

“His insides exploded, that’s a pretty good story if you ask me.”

“Yeah point taken, that is pretty sick. Oh, I just remembered!” She rummages around in the pink glittery monstrosity that she calls a bag before proudly holding aloft her phone and a set of portable speakers. “Jirou made a Spotify playlist of stuff she thought you might like to listen to! She also told me not to tell you that it was her in case she’s way off base, but she hasn’t been wrong about music yet.”

Sero scoffs.

“Oh please, as if he listens to anything other than death metal and the screams of his victims. No offence man, you don't seem the musical type.”

“I can drum actually, my parents made me learn at school.”

They goggle at him, eyes bugging out like they’re being squeezed hard around the middle, so he adds on a mild, “If you tell anyone, your bodies will never be found.”

They sit with him for a while and witter like a flock of birds. It’s… he wouldn’t say nice because he’s not a massive pussy, but when rain starts to gently beat against the window and he realizes it’s been over an hour since they arrived, he can concede that he feels calmer than he has in a while.

Ashido, Kaminari, and Sero excuse themselves soon afterwards, leaving behind a small pile of wasabi-flavoured snacks and a get well soon card that Sero has to immediately rescue from the bin as soon as Katsuki clocks what it is.

“Do you have any idea how long it took us to convince everyone to sign this. A lot of them thought it wasn’t worth the effort because you would throw it away immediately.” Sero returns his glower with a stony one of his own. “At the very least, keep it for the time it takes for me to leave the room.”

They leave Kirishima to hover by his bedside, waving them off with a promise to catch them up at the shopping centre. He easily intercepts the card midair on its return journey to the trash, batting the flames away and placing it gingerly on the side cabinet just out of easy reach.

“You know, it wasn’t actually hard to get people to sign it. They were all pretty worried about you.”

“Like I care.”

“A lot of them wanted to come and see you as well. Especially Deku, he was really -”

“Deku can kiss my ass.”

“He hasn’t done anything wrong.” Kirishima frowns, holding Katsuki’s glare steadily.

“Oh, please.” Katsuki scoffs. “You don’t even know what he -. He hasn’t… he –“

Green in the sky. A fist in his gut. A boot on his back.

His thoughts tangle together, sitting in the pit of his stomach like wound up earphone cords.

Deku looking up at him, clutching a hand to his face.

He can tell he’s pouting, but instead of having the energy to fight it he just slides further down until his sheet is just under his chin, scowling balefully at Kirishima in a way that he hopes is intimidating.

“Well if you love Deku so much, why don’t you go and hang out with him instead. You can be All Might’s favourite too.”

Kirishima just laughs, the fucking weirdo.

“Look, I’m not gonna pry into your guys’ thing too much because I value my sanity. Plus, it’s not really fair when you’re all dopey like this. You should be nicer to him -”, he holds up his hands in immediate retaliation as Katsuki hisses like an angry cat, “- but that’s for you guys to work out.”

“Besides,” he leans over to poke Katsuki gently in the stomach, evading the drug-slow retaliatory swipe with ease. “Don’t ask me why, but for some reason you’re my favourite.”

Katsuki doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he chooses to say nothing. If his cheeks happen to be a little flushed then Kirishima has the grace to not mention it.

“You don’t have to stay you know, you can go and join the idiots.”

“Yeah, I know. I will soon, I just…” Kirishima takes a deep breath, expression slipping into something a little more serious. “…I needed to say something to you.”

Kirishima’s hands are warm and steady as they clasp around his own, and his hair brushes Katsuki’s arm as he bows his head.

“I’m really sorry that I let you down after you put so much effort into helping me. You were right, I did fuck it up.”

There are little wet spots falling against the palm of his hand, collecting in the creases, salt stinging against his blisters.

He feels stretched thin like warm taffy, emotions labile and wobbly. It isn’t right that Kirishima is crying onto his arm in a hospital room. It isn’t right that Katsuki is drugged up to his eyeballs and the right words just won’t come. His mouth feels stuffed full of cotton wool, slow and useless.

“You, um,” he tentatively reaches out to pat him on the head, wincing as a spike crunches under the weight of his hand. “You need to stop.”

Kirishima whimpers, and his arm goes from slightly moist to worryingly damp. Fuck. Katsuki remembers how he felt after the first team exercise where he lost to Deku (of all people). He remembers the humiliation of the sports tournament finale (Todoroki’s effort going towards Deku instead of him). He imagines how he must have looked only two days ago, limp and useless, dragged over the finish line by Deku (it’s always him).

He may not be the most empathetic, but he knows how a public loss feels. How humiliation feels.

He licks his lips with a dry tongue and tries again.

“You passed the written paper, right?” He feels Kirishima nod, rubbing his face against Katsuki’s arm and probably wiping snot and tears all over him in the process. “And that’s the stuff I helped you with, right?”

Kirishima hiccups in response and his sniffling quietens, but he doesn’t look up. Katsuki rubs his free hand against his face, trying to snatch at thoughts that are floating just out of reach.

“So… if you did well on the thing I helped you with, how the hell did you let me down?” He hesitates for a moment, before tacking on, “If it stops you from being so whiny, next time we can practice together for the practical too.”

“You really mean that?”

“If you need me to pound more into you than just algebra, then so fucking be it.”

Kirishima makes a strangled sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh, then starts coughing as he chokes on his own saliva. Katsuki doesn’t really get what’s so fucking funny, but Kirishima turning as red as his hair triggers a giggle fit of his very own.

“That’s… um…” he finally clears his throat. “That’s really manly of you to offer man. I’d like that.”

He’s unsure why he feels so pleased at having solved Kirishima’s bad mood, but there the stupid feeling is anyway. His face and throat are hot, but not in the uncomfortable way of the day before. More like the pleasing warmth of his palms right after an explosion.

“Yeah, whatever.” He coughs and has to look away, Kirishima’s expression soft and warm. “Don’t you have a losers convention to get to?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Kirishima’s halfway out the door before he turns back, cheeks a little flushed.

“This is probably my only chance of saying this without dying a fiery death, but congrats on the exam man. You and Deku work really well together when you let it happen.”

He ducks under the grape flung at his head, easy grin back on his face exactly where it should be.

“The two of you have kind of set the standard, so thanks for giving me something to aim for.”

He’s gone before Katsuki can threaten him with grievous bodily harm, leaving behind an odd sense of calm.

He’s alone again, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, but this time when he inhales he doesn’t feel the walls of the room contracting with him. All Might isn’t here for him, full of concern, but maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe he doesn’t need All Might to like him as long as he acknowledges him.

It’s not like he wants All Might to like him anyway. Not if it means having to be like Deku. He's going to be better than them both anyway.

The thought doesn’t slot in comfortably quite the way it did before, but that’s easy to brush off as a side effect of the drugs.

There’s coffee wafting around the corner, the smell fresh and warm. A card on his bedside. When he closes his eyes he can see his father’s smile, red hair. He can feel his mother’s strong hand on his cheek.

Unheeded, his thoughts stray back to the exam.

Green lightning. Fire running through his veins. Soaring far above the dirt and gravel.

Maybe, for now, he can live with that.