Chapter Text
It was a shock to see that Yuuga’s new roommate had completely adjusted to their new living situation before Yuuga had even begun moving his luggage into the shared dorm room. Even more so at his choice in dorm room decoration.
However, that was the nature of overachieving and deeply motivated Bakugou, official mad dog of class 1-A, and the source of the circulating rumors of their social inadequacy. Really, how much more could they stress it was just Bakugou Katsuki, their local antisocial brute? A boy built on anger and supremacy and dumbells?
Yuuga lugged the final suitcase into their room, ignoring how the tug in his biceps was far more prevalent than the first time he’d moved into one of U.A.’s dorm rooms. Bakugou was there now, on his bed with a book cracked open on his lap, and looking like he was in no mood to greet the person he’d be spending the better half of the next two years with if everything went as planned.
So, Yuuga threw in his airpods, turned up Lana Del Ray and got to work setting up his side.
Sadly, his disco ball wouldn’t fit in the ensemble, given that he had to respect the boundaries of his roommate, who surely wouldn’t appreciate its radiance like Yuuga could. So he kept the reflective surfaces to a minimum. His bed was dressed in a royal purple duvet with a frilly pillowcase to match and he’d decorated the wooden bed frame with glow in the dark stars that looked most impressive in the dead of night—set up his desk, where he would spend more time on his makeup than his studies, equipped with a meticulously well cared for antique mirror—an identical one on top of his dresser well stocked with cute outfits.
Yuuga set up another mirror, circular with a gold trim to match the other two, beside the door. It was a set, after all. If he’d been given his very own room, he’d have more mirrors. A full length one would be nice but probably bad for him in the long run.
He stopped in front of the last mirror, fingers grazing his cheekbone, jawline, his neck, a collection of dips and hollows. Down to a thin collarbone. A full length mirror would help him see more and if seeing discouraged him from eating, then it couldn’t be helped. It was a stupid thought that an absence of mirrors would cure him. Because Yuuga would always find a way to hate himself.
“I can’t hear my own thoughts over the sound of you fucking obsessing over yourself.” A gruff voice said from the other side of the room.
“Oh, just testing the quality of the mirror, darling,” Yuuga said back smoothly, though he stopped looking in favor of flopping down on his bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling in consideration, “it’s stunning, in case you were wondering!”
“I wasn’t.”
“Hey, how are you settling in? Got everything all decorated how you want it, Bakugouu? Having a marvelous evening, nose buried in that textbook?” Yuuga drawled, turning on his side to face his new roommate—who still seemed to want absolutely nothing to do with him.
He didn’t spare Yuuga a glance when he replied, full of venom, “None of your business, fuck-face.”
“Ah, that ruffian persona—unbefitting of a hero, says I.” Yuuga huffed, felt the tiresome day sinking into his bones as he sunk into his nice, clean, freshly made up bed. “I assume my hopes that I’ll break cleanly through that exterior were for naught—let’s at least be civil, then, if we cannot be the best of friends, darling.”
The hothead didn’t reply and Yuuga fell into a dreamless sleep so quickly that he didn’t even recall when the lines began to blur and his violet eyes slipped shut. When he awoke, it was to the sound of muffled sobs drifting from their shared bathroom—Yuuga checked the smart watch that was currently leaving a sticky red imprint in his wrist to read 2 A.M. on the dot. His body felt heavy and skipping dinner made his stomach howl minutes into consciousness.
Yuuga dragged himself out of bed and laid down on the floor, decided some sit ups wouldn’t hurt. He had an exercise plan made for him but sometimes that just wasn’t enough. Then, the meal plans were too much. Of course he wanted to be a hero. And he’d been doing good, for a while, right? Sticking to the three meals, not bruising his spine against the hardwood floors, never looking too hard in the mirror. What’d happened that’d destroyed that progress?
No—this was still progress. It just wasn’t the progress they wanted.
His face turned blisteringly hot and Yuuga fell back asleep on the floor. By the time he did, Bakugou’s crying had reached a tolerable volume—and he couldn’t help but think, so naively, ‘what in the fucking world could that guy possibly have to cry about?’.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t Yuuga’s business. And as much as he’d been determined to make contact with Bakugou as if he were some alien species and Yuuga was an eager explorer, he didn’t want to interfere with delicate waters. If Bakugou was all tangled up with whatever demons he was facing, Yuuga didn’t have the time to untangle him. Untangle a guy who didn’t even care to learn his name, couldn’t recognize his face, didn’t want to connect at all—so the next day, he didn’t say anything as they got ready for school in tandem.
And, mundanely enough, they argued about menial things.
“I’m covered head to toe in grime and sweat!” Yuuga said, guarding the shower as Bakugou stared at him with a murderous expression. “I’m showering first, you fiend! Quinze minutes, tops!”
“No fucking way!” Bakugou roared, flailing a shower towel angrily. “I had to hear Kirishima complain about your infamous goddamn showers and if I’m late, I’ll—”
“Nooo!” Yuuga howled, holding Bakugou at a protective leg’s pace with his foot. “I like my showers at boiling temperature and even if you only use a little of the hot water, it won’t be how I need it!”
“Quit your bitching, I’m going first and there’s nothing,” Bakugou grabbed his ankle, yanked, and dragged Yuuga across the floor as he kicked and cried, “you can do about it, glitter dick!”
Bakugou threw him out and won the first shower. But he did not win the war, Yuuga silently declared as he bristled in only his underwear on his bed. Would he even have time to shave? To straighten his hair? Curl his lashes? The inhumanity—this was cruel and unusual.
However, it wasn’t long before Bakugou emerged, toweling off his hair. Showered, brushed, and dressed for school.
“Was that so goddamn painful for you? A five minute shower and thirty fucking seconds to piss and brush my teeth? Are you ok or should I call animal control?!”
Yuuga didn’t dignify that with an answer, just huffed and shouldered passed the brute.
When they left, Bakugou locked the door after them and they split apart after that—more like Yuuga caught sight of Momo and Jirou and made himself sparse to the hothead, fitting in between the two seamlessly and chatting with the girls as if nothing were amiss. As always, his flamboyant nature was the source of their hysterics before they ultimately had to settle down for another day of U.A.’s most vigorous courses and he had lunch alone.
Not because the blond didn’t have friends. He had friends. He just didn’t want them to see—Mr. Aizawa studied him with every dainty bite. And there wasn’t enough water in the world to fill himself in a way that would satisfy what most would just call a concerned teacher. Yuuga would just call him goddamn nosy. If Yuuga’s own family wouldn’t intrude on his affairs, who were these teachers to? Who gave them an invitation into a condition Yuuga was pretty sure he’d been rid of for a long time? Mr. Aizawa, staring at him until his plate was clean, felt pathetic. Juvenile. Weak.
Yuuga would make himself strong—and he’d do it his own way.
If strength meant hunger pains, bruises on his spine, hiding the loss of muscle mass, putting paper weights in his underwear and putting water in his belly like he’d seen so often on T.V., then that was his own business.
He had to head to Recovery Girl after school had ended for weight check—stripping always made him uneasy because no matter his state, he always felt inadequate, never wanted people to see whether his ribs were exposed or whether he was getting thick with the musculature of a hero again. Nothing was ever right about this body.
“You’re following your meal plan so far, dear?” Recovery Girl asked, giving his mostly bare body a once over as he sat at the examination table. She paused at his back. But ultimately did not comment, if there was anything worth seeing there. “You know, I started out in veterinary care so many years ago. And when a case of neglect came in and a pup was so sickly with starvation, do you know what the rule of thumb was, Aoyama?”
“No…” Yuuga always tried to keep it brief with Recovery Girl—then she went into the spiels and it was unavoidable, having to sit there in his underwear for fifteen minutes. “I guess I don’t.”
“I should be able to feel but not see the ribs.”
Then, she gripped the sides of his abdomen and Yuuga tried to stay still under her firm hold.
“I can feel them, dear, but I can also see them. That’s not good news.”
“I can’t see them.” Yuuga commented honestly.
“Of course you can’t. Some people in late stages of this illness have no ability to see their body for what it is. They look in the mirror and see something completely different than reality.” Recovery Girl looked painful in her small, wrinkle sodden eyes as she removed her small hands. “Step on the scale, please, facing away from the numbers as usual.”
What use was that if Yuuga could check when he got back to the dorms?
But as usual, Yuuga was too terrified to check once he was finally back in his shared room, face down in his bed from the exhaustion of the day. Bakugou didn’t come back until a few hours later, looking like hell and smelling worse—no doubt training himself ragged. Bakugou took his second shower of the day then quietly started his homework.
“What a devout student.” Yuuga said into his pillow. He wasn't sure what he was trying to accomplish—maybe he was just saying stuff for attention, like usual. Either way, he teased the blond. “Gonna exhaust yourself with all that over-achieving, Bakugouuu.”
“Speak for yourself, midnight sit-ups. How’d the floor treat you?”
Yuuga would probably just lie the next day and say he wasn’t even awake to hear the facts, laid out cold and bare, like his bones against his bed. Bones he couldn't see yet.
It’d be better for both of them.