Chapter Text
"He's awake!" someone gasped at his bedside.
Bakugou craned his neck to put a face to the voice, but his entire body ached in protest. He groaned and kept staring at the blank wall in front of him, ignoring the beeping heart monitor and the shuffling crowd filling the room.
"Katsuki," his mother sighed, and he didn't have to turn to know that was her shrill voice.
But she wasn't angry this time. That worried him more than if she had been yelling. What shit did he get himself into now?
"What happened?" he mumbled, and his throat felt completely demolished from the inside out. Like a paper shredder had been taken to his neck for the fun of it.
Recovery Girl stepped up to his left side, next to where his parents sat. She patted his arm delicately, sadly, almost.
"The surgery was successful. But please be careful about letting things like this go unannounced for this long. It was an extremely close call."
His heart monitor spiked before the comment fully set in his brain.
What the fuck happened to him?
"What. Happened," he ground out behind clenched teeth. He couldn't stand the somber air in the completely crowded room. He barely recognized some of these idiots. Why did half the class have to come see the results of his mystery surgery?
Everything was way too heavy and way too crowded for his liking, and he couldn't even yell at them to fuck off like he usually could, not with the way his throat fought to keep him quiet.
"Why?"
"Son," his dad said, concerned, as he looked between Bakugou and Recovery Girl, who began to retreat—likely for her own safety, knowing his family. "You've been out for over three days. From the surgery to fix your lungs after Hanahaki Disease nearly killed you."
"Hanahaki?" His brain unhelpfully supplied horrible images of him bawling on the floor of his bedroom, gasping for breath; him running to the toilets only to vomit up flowers and blood; him crying himself to sleep because he felt so alone, so isolated, so hollow.
It had gotten bad. And he couldn’t even remember it all.
"You never told us anything was wrong," his mother said. She sounded near tears—or maybe old tears just starting back up again. Her makeup had already smudged, emphasizing the out of place tired circles around her eyes. "Your teacher had to call us in the middle of the night because one of your classmates found you dying. Were you ever going to say anything? Or were you just going to let yourself die without—?"
"Mitsuki," his dad said. "Enough. He just woke up. Give him some time to process."
“Process,” she sighed, almost a scoff, if you knew to look for it. After a second, she added, "Can you at least tell us who it was, now? Who was so worth dying for?"
No.
Why? So they could make sure he’d never see them again? So they could know who caused their family so much anguish and take it out on them instead?
Tension radiated in waves off of the classmates whose eyes he couldn't see. These extras wanted a piece of gossip from their resident hothead gone soft.
Just because he had to get emergency surgery over a stupid lovesickness didn't mean he wasn't still the same future number one hero, the same aggressively passionate student.
He wouldn't have given them anything even if he remembered who it was. Which he didn't.
All he said, though, was, "No."
Which probably wasn't the right response for his mother.
He blamed the lack of forethought on the drugs they continued to pump him with—yes, he'd noticed the IV.
"No?" she parroted, clinging to the side of his bed. "Katsuki, you tortured yourself, for months, over some kid we've never heard a word about, and now that it's finally done, you still won't tell us anything?"
At least that got the extras to back up a couple feet. But her glare didn't diminish one bit.
"I can't remember, okay?" he growled. Looking up at her killed his neck, but he didn't dare to back down from her widening eyes. "All I remember is being sick, I can't remember who it was for."
Bakugou wracked his brain for memories of the last few months, but the only thing that came in clear was schoolwork. He could clearly remember lessons and tests and hero training days, but he couldn't find any significant thing about one of his classmates or his freetime during that entire time period.
He remembered his dumbass friends from their second try license exam, and for a horrifying second he worried the person of his affection might’ve been Camie. Or worse, Todoroki .
He got along well with them, and Baldy—Yoarashi, whatever—from what he remembered. But that was just it, he remembered.
Because he'd done his research on Hanahaki Disease, for all seven months he’d had it. He would’ve lost all his love for that person, but he still knew the feeling of camaraderie and friendship between those three losers. That counted as love. It couldn't have been any one of them.
They had to have been someone from 1-A, someone he'd completely forgotten.
It was rare, rarer than getting Hanahaki itself (which was already in the 1% range for people sixteen and older), but sometimes survivors would forget entire people, entire interactions and days themselves.
And that terrified him.
"I can't remember," he said again, clutching the thin sheet atop his legs. "And I'm... concerned. That I might've lost days or weeks... from of the surgery."
His mom turned her head to swear into her shoulder, like she had to hide the reaction from him.
She'd never done that before. His mom was always unapologetically herself.
His list of concerns continued to pile up.
"It'll be okay," his dad promised. "Give it some time, I'm sure you're tired from the procedure. Mr. Aizawa cleared you to come home with us for the week if you want it."
"I can't miss school," he droned, out of habit. "I'm already behind because of this."
"Your teachers made it very clear that you're allowed to rest for a few days," his dad continued, clearly hoping to convince him. "Encouraged, even. Recovery Girl said you wouldn't be able to exercise for at least a week anyway."
"What—?"
"No strenuous activity for a week, brat," his mom said, regaining her harsh tone he was used to.
"That's not fair, how am I supposed to catch up?" Bakugou sat himself up with such force that his entire torso felt like it caught fire. His body yearned to lie back down but he wouldn't let it. Even the beeping monitors urged him to stop but he wouldn't stop looking from face to pitying face, looking for the littlest hint of support. "So now I have this weird memory loss, on top of hospitalization for half a week, and I can't even go back to class to find out what I missed?"
"You'll get your daily homework, maybe one of your friends can drop it off for you," his mom said. "It's just until you're healed more, because you obviously can't be trusted to notify anyone if you're injured."
"But I—"
"You just had lung surgery, dude," a new voice said.
Bakugou whipped his head around, ignoring the pull, like his skin was on fire. He narrowed his eyes. "Shitty Hair."
"Yeah, you deserve a break," Raccoon Eyes said.
A chorus of agreements erupted from the peanut gallery, and Bakugou had to question why they were all there.
Shitty Hair, Raccoon Eyes, Soy Sauce, Dunce Face, Ears, he didn't know any of these people, they weren't his friends. Not even fucking IcyHot showed up for him, and they actually hung out outside of school, why did any of these extras come?
"Pft, whatever, extras," he sneered. Which seemed to... hurt them? Whatever. Let them think they were his friends, he didn't care. "No wonder you're so low in class rankings, if you think you deserve a week off every time you get a little hurt."
"Katsuki," his mom reprimanded him. In front of the idiot extras. His parents really were out to get him. Ruin his grades and his stupid social standing. "You're coming home with us."
"Like hell I am."
Before his mom could start up their go-to shouting match, his dad pitched in, "We can't force him if he doesn't want to come."
"Yes we can! He's sixteen!" She was on her feet now, gesturing to his pitiful hospital bed. "And clearly we can't trust him to tell the truth about life-threatening injuries, why should we ever let him stay on campus alone?"
"Uh, Mrs. Bakugou?" Shitty Hair spoke up again. "We could help with that. We'll check up on him more, make sure he's staying safe."
She blinked. In a more polite tone, she added, "Thank you, Eijirou, that's very thoughtful. Katsuki, why can't you be more like your friends here?"
"The fuck?" Bakugou said. "These losers aren't my fuckin' friends. We just go to class together."
No one in the room seemed to believe him, which just made him more ticked off. And why did his mother know Shitty Hair's given name? Bakugou barely knew the fucker's surname, what was going on?
"Katsuki, take it or leave it," she said. "Keep your friends and teachers in the loop at all times or come home with us for the next week or two. What's it gonna be?"
It wasn't even a choice. Which was more frustrating than Bakugou wanted to admit.
He grumbled. "Stay here."
"Fine," his mom shot back, with equal displeasure. She gathered her coat and her purse and began towards the door. "And make sure to actually call us more, you little brat."
"We worry about you," his dad translated, patting Bakugou’s tender shoulder before following his mom out the door. Leaving him trapped in a hospital room with a herd of concerned nobodies.
This was hell.