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It's the gentle fingers caressing the raised bumps that pull his skin tight. It's the soft murmurs of well wishes and promises that are hardly kept. It's the consistent beeping of a monitor next to his head. These are the things he comes back to. The things that remind him of his humanity.
The first place he looks isn't at the family that stands surrounding him, or at the stuffed animals and get well soon cards that line the walls. Instead his attention is brought to the dark scabbing that covers his arms and chest. The scabbing that stretches his skin tight, working to recover the pieces of himself that were lost.
The dark crimson shell that covers the wound sends him back, reminds him of the bright red eyes that stared deep into his soul as the person they belonged to burned his flesh. The scent of seared skin filling the air with a sickeningly sweet stench.
It's enough to procure a cry from him, laying on the hospital bed, staring at himself. There's a rush of movement around him, but he notices none of it, his vision stuck on the sight of burnt flesh with dark scabs.
He remembers the eyes the most vividly, how out of place they seemed, how it felt strange to be burnt by someone that had only ever cared for you.
The room settles back down hours later. He is sedated. His body aches. The scabs stretch painfully.
It is a sickeningly sweet numbness that followed the frozen silence around him.
The eyes return to his vision every once and a while and he pretends they aren't there. He ignores their searing gaze, the burning of intent filling his vision until he's crying out again.
He lives with the eyes watching his every moment, the scent of burning flesh lingering everywhere. It's unbalanced how much he smells his own flesh burning from his body versus the amount of food he actually smells. He can't eat meat. Not without remembering the exposed flesh of someone else laying on the ground.
He's haunted by the images of his love. The love that looked in his eyes as he blew blast after blast, the love that aimed those blasts right at him. Images of him play in his mind, constantly repeating. Showing the shift, the change that he takes after facing the villain for a few seconds too long.
His mind sits on that image the most, lingering on the way that Bakugou’s body went limp for a second before the blasts started. Before he turned and there was rage engraved in the crimson eyes that haven't held anything less than annoyance toward him since they met.
It doesn't leave. It stays there and festers, turning him inside out, his mind searching every corner for a reason it might have happened. Something that doesn't align with turning on them, that doesn't suggest that Bakugou turned into the one thing he refused to be thought of as.
No one catches the villain. No one finds Bakugou. There's no information on either of them and no matter how much he insists he wouldn't do something like this, no one believes him. He's injured and half delirious—he can't be trusted at a time like this.
The day before he leaves the hospital, he has a visitor. A visitor that doesn't show their face, that doesn't speak to him. He's confused, but he lets them sit next to him.
There's something about their presence, a warm scent, a cold attitude that reminds him of his… of Bakugou. Of cold nights cuddled close, of evenings spent lounging lazily. He turns from the visitor, trying not to think of him as he rests.
There remains no words said between them for the hour they sit alone together. It's painfully silent. As they leave, each footfall feels like a stab to the chest. The echoing of a gunshot reverberating and hitting his chest cavity and leaving him hopeless.
He leaves later in the day, being wheeled out to a car that his friends filter out of. Kaminari helps him into the car and buckles him up, being gentle about the wounds that still feel open across his chest. He doesn't say anything to anyone and nobody tries to talk to him. He doesn't try to listen in to the quiet conversation they have.
Not until he hears "Nobody has seen him since. Anywhere." fall from Mina's lips. It suddenly feels like everything in his chest is shattering again. Because without even asking who they're talking about, his absence speaks louder. Their voices fade out again as his heart continues to destroy itself, thinking about the person who had visited and how familiar they'd felt.
The car stops and he's helped inside. He's exhausted and he's glad that his friends can read that much off of him. They leave him in bed, all of them leaving for the living room. It must have been discussed on the way here that he wouldn't be left totally alone. A safety measure in case the man he normally shared this now too big bed with showed up. If the police patrol units didn't deter him to begin with.
He knows the hope he has is misplaced, he shouldn't want to see him again. Not when the burns haven't even totally healed, not when the eyes stare at him everytime he closes his eyes. He doesn't know why the hope breaks his heart everytime the door to his room creaks open slowly enough and it turns out to be whoever ends up being the one to stay with him.
By the time he gets cleared to go back out on patrol, he's given up the hope that is perpetually following him. The hope that at one time swallowed him with silence as a visitor sat next to his bed. It's gone from his being. He can't bring it back, even as he feels the red eyes following him again. Even as he stops during patrol one night to tell his stalker to fuck off. Even when the red eyes are still covering everything. Every villain suddenly has those specific red eyes and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows it hurts. He knows he's becoming more damaged.
He doesn't acknowledge it.
Not until suddenly he's grabbed and pulled into an alley one night. He's reminded of times in his past where he's liked being grabbed like this, when it didn't hurt and when memories didn't filter through that made his heart wrench with pain.
He ignores the angry growl as he pushes himself out of his attacker's grip. He ignores the hurt look in the blinding red eyes that fill his vision. He ignores his name as it's called out after him. He runs. He runs until his legs start to harden out of exhaustion and the urge to keep going. Until he's collapsing in front of the agency they built up together. The agency that has both of their names in ownership.
He passes out there, perched up against the unlocked doors. The receptionist sighs and calls up Sero, getting him down there to bring him home.
He starts to feel less and less manly the more he avoids his heart collapsing. His hero work is failing. He goes on patrol less. At one point, he stops completely, unable to get out of bed, numb to his friends poking their head in to check on him.
There is one night where they convince him to come out with them. "Just for one drink, then you can go home." in Kaminari’s bright words. He did, but only because he didn't want to hold the hurt back for a moment. He wanted to be a sobbing mess for once.
So he drank more than one drink. He sobbed out all of his pain. Then he left, drunkenly stumbling down the sidewalk. When he pauses to puke in an alley he feels warm hands envelope his arms, guiding him. He can feel the sad wash out of him before he's happy grinning and clinging to the person holding him. He starts talking and he doesn't stop until they make it inside and he is cuddled in bed and pats the spot next to him.
"The bed's missed you. Stay."
As the person lays with him, he feels complete again. Nothing is missing. No one is missing from the bed. He falls asleep with the most peace he's felt since the hospital. He dreams of holding him again and never letting go.
He does just that when he wakes up to a face full of spiked blond hair. With arms full of someone he didn't think he could or would ever see again. He pushes away and screams. They are both clothed. That's not why he's freaking out. It's the fact he’s in his bed.
He's thrown into a panic attack, fear rolling from every orifice available. And as he's panicking, he wakes up and notices. He notices and jumps up too, but instead of panicked, he's more sure. He goes to him and even though he doesn't want Bakugou touching him, he does. He does and it calms him down. The gentle petting of hair calms him. The gentle hand gripping his shoulder calms him.
He's calmed down, but as soon as the panic is leaving him, he can feel the rage building up inside of him. He can feel the anger caress his scars and run their way through his veins until he can see his fist raising, hardening, and aiming straight for a face he didn't want to punch.
A fist connects with a face, there is some blood and groaning and cursing. He unclenches his fist and looks at the knuckles that aren't harmed. "Don't think for a fucking second, Katsuki , that you’re getting out of an explanation." His words are bitingly harsh as he stands, he can see Bakugou holding his nose with one hand and the other is touching the scratch on his cheek.
He goes to the bathroom, ignoring how he looks like utter shit and grabs the first aid. He ignores how he's betraying how he felt just the other day. How he'd promised himself he would get rid of Bakugou's things. How he would let go of all thoughts of the man.
There's a moment of silence as he gets things set up in front of Bakugou, watching every expression of pain that rears itself on his face. His hands are surprisingly gentle for having just punched Bakugou as he cleans the scratch on his face. "You're fucking stupid." His voice is still harsh and biting, stabbing into the hard outer shell that Bakugou has no doubt trying to build up in the year since they’ve seen each other.
"I know."
He scoffs and continues cleaning. "You're also dumb as fuck if you think I couldn't tell it was you in the hospital, asshat."
"Thought I was supposed to be the one with the crude language, Shitty Hair."
"Seriously?" He is done. He is going to kick him out and go back to pretending nothing had happened and that he hadn't lost the love of his life. He feels like the world is crumbling once again, crumbling around him with no care as to how he was going to feel after. How broken that he was going to be if something else were to happen.
Bakugou sighs and places a hand on his face, on his cheek, on what feels like the inside of his soul. It feels like Bakugou was tearing him open from the outside, reaching in and grabbing his heart again. As if it had been sitting there waiting for Bakugou to take it again. He stares into those brilliantly red eyes and breaks. He breaks into a million pieces with a million tears.
And Bakugou, the asshole that he is, takes him into his arms. Holds him close, holds him in his arms until the crying becomes hiccups that fade out and away and into anger, into yelling and pushing Bakugou away. "You fucker! How… Why… What the fuck were you thinking?" He pushes him away from himself, pushes the first aid things to the side and stares at Bakugou. Not at the bright red eyes, but into the cold soul that once held warmth. Warmth that would hold him with the heat of all the suns. Warmth that eventually exploded over his skin like the biggest sun hitting him.
"Eijirou…" Bakugou looks tired, like he's been running for a year and hasn't been able to rest. Like he's been trying to find the right moment to sleep. But with the tired, there is relief. A relief that looks like it fills Bakugou from the core.
"Just. Just fucking explain yourself already. Don't pull any bullshit. Please. Please Katsuki. I am tired. I am hungover. I am this," he puts his index finger and thumb close to each other, "this close to just kicking you out."
There is a nod and another moment of silence. It feels like it drags on for too long. For long enough that he gets up to put the first aid up and when he gets back into the room, Bakugou is walking around and looking at the room.
"You know, every time I've thought about coming back to see you, my mind goes back to that moment before. When we were fighting side by side." He is by the closet and slides it open. "All I could think about was how we were such a good team. How I never wanted to not be by your side." He watches as Bakugou reaches up and grabs something from the back. "This is useless now. You dont even fucking trust me any more." There is a small box in his hand and he feels like Bakugou is picking at a scab on his heart. Picking away the dried blood that at one point covered his entire chest because he knows what is in the box.
He knows that the place their relationship was heading a year ago was what that box holds. He purses his lips and looks at the ground. "Katsuki. Please get on with what you're saying."
Bakugou is looking at him. He can‘t take the gaze, the red, eager look that is pinning him in place. "Right. Right. Fuck. I just. I mean, what happened, the incident, when I… when I hurt you… when I hurt you, it wasn't me. I didn't do those things. I did. I fucking did. You suffered burns all over your chest because of me but… Ei… Ei, it wasn't me. I looked at the fucking dickhead we were fighting and you know MindFuck's quirk. How it works and shit. It was like when I was under that fucker's control. It was like I was watching everything that I was doing, but it wasn't me. I wasn't in control."
He looks back up at him, trying to find the lying, the hiding, the old habits that belonged to Bakugou. All he found was truth. All he found was truth and suddenly the scab was off and underneath it, it wasn't blood. No, the skin was pink and irritated, but there was no blood dribbling down the side. It was healed. The wound was healed.
It isn't, it really isn't. It hurts and it doesn't help to know. It makes it so much worse for him. It's like the world was crumbling even more, that whatever is even left is crumbling and disappearing. He sits down, his eyes falling to the floor again.
"Why didn't you come back sooner? Why… why did you tell me… why did you tell me you were going to propose? Why didn't you say anything?" He started yelling again, unable to hold back the hurt and anger and sadness. He stood back up and went to Bakugou again. He could feel the tears that were falling as he got close to him.
There was something in Bakugou's eyes, the same kind of hurt he knew Bakugou would find reflected back at him. He stared. He knew the difference in red now.
"You fucking selfish asshole." And then he collapsed into Bakugou, needing the same warmth that would welcome him home at the end of the day. He collapsed into the man that he couldn't not love. That he had missed like nothing else.
It is going to hurt. It just is. That much Eijirou knew, but he also knew that it would be okay. No matter what else happened. They had been through hell and back. They could get through the arguments, and the parent in-laws. They could get through the issues that came with Katsuki going back into hero society. And they'd get through it together, they wouldn't be alone again. They'd have each other's warmth again.