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“If you think it’s a bad idea, just say so. You don't have to get sore all the time just to prove how tough you are.” Shouto snapped, clearly irritated after yet another one of Katsuki’s outbursts at a suggestion on their class project that the blond thought didn’t make sense.
The surprise in Katsuki’s face was clear and unfiltered, as was the rage and indignation. He looked like he’d been slapped in the face by the one person he trusted, which wasn’t the case, but he did respect Shouto enough to pay attention to what the other had to say. Perhaps that was why the words stung deep like a needle forced to break skin or it was simply the truth Katsuki recognized in what Shouto said. He was so taken aback that he couldn’t even enjoy the thrumming pleasure of making Shouto react . Suddenly, his thoughts were murky water filled with mud he could not swim through, he felt like he was back in the belly of the sludge monster, incable of breathing right, drowning in the dirt of it.
As he saw no way out, he just made for the door and bolted, nevermind that he was leaving his own dorm room and had no idea where to go. He gave in to the instinctive response to run and tried to shake away the feeling of his skull constricting, of his eyes stinging with unshed tears, of the simmering pain he wanted to cause to feel anything but this desperate fear .
Because it was fear, he knew.
People looked at him and saw a prideful young boy with a dictionary of expletives longer than the times he put himself in danger to protect someone. They looked at him and saw raw power and destructive explosions. They looked at him, but they didn’t see the hero he wanted to be or the one he knew he could be.
They didn’t know he felt lost.
The reason why he made himself his own number one priority is because no one else did. But how could a hero be great if he didn’t put other people first? The more time he spent with Shouto, the more he thought about Endeavor - how professional he was at his job and how powerful his quirk made him, but how despicable he was to his children and how unapproachable he always came across to the people who admired him.
Katsuki didn’t want to be unapproachable, but he didn’t know how to tame his anger, he didn’t know how to express the way he felt. He couldn’t deal with how terrified he was of failing at every turn. That is why he snapped at any obstacle that could become a reason for that failure, because that he could do. He could make sure he didn’t misstep, that he didn’t fail, because the moment that he did, it would be too late, and those ugly feelings of inadequacy would crawl up his throat and choke him. He would want to call for help and feel like there was no one there to call, even if he knew Eijirou would be there with him if he only just asked, even if he knew even Shouto would try to help, no matter how confused and out of place he might feel, even if he knew that even Izuku, most of all Izuku, would level the world to get to him if he just said the word.
But how could he say the word?
Wasn’t the word in itself a failure? A weakness?
Katsuki found himself screaming out into an empty training ground, painful pounding in his head making him feel nauseous. He panted, tearing at his shirt with the intense feeling of wanting to breathe, tears falling and staining the brownish dirt under his feet.
He must have stayed there for the better part of an hour, going through breathing exercises he found online, getting himself under control.
He sat cross-legged, making drawings on the dirt, coming to terms with a decision. Then he lifted himself up off the ground and made his way to the main Yuuei building.
The door to Aizawa-sensei’s office had a big Do not disturb sign on it and Katsuki almost thought twice of knocking on it, but he considered that the professor never wanted to be disturbed anyway. His knocks were quiet, though they echoed loudly in the empty hallways.
There was a grunt from the inside which Katsuki took as permission to open the door.
Aizawa-sensei was cocooned in his sleeping bag, one hand out as he scribbled away on paper. He seemed genuinely surprised to see Katsuki for a second before his expression reverted back to its usual tired demeanor.
“Bakugou. Can I help you?”
Katsuki swallowed thickly, an abrupt feeling of doubt making him want to double back, but he planted himself firmly on the ground and forced himself to speak.
“I need help.”
“Oh? What happened? Are you hurt?” Aizawa-sensei looked him over, finding no source of injury, and waited for him to answer.
Katsuki shook his head and tried again, voice barely above a whisper.
“I need someone to help me figure shit out. I- I need- a therapist or something, I don’t know, I-” His anxiety was starting to swallow him again and he blinked away the fresh warmth that welled at the bottom of his eyes.
Aizawa considered him for a beat and then agreed.
“I will arrange for the school therapist to email you and you can schedule a time with her. Is that alright with you?”
Katsuki cleared his throat and when he spoke again, his voice was back to normal.
“Yes.”
He made to leave, but before he shut the door he muttered a quiet thank you over his shoulder.
He made his way back to his room and was entirely astonished to find that Shouto was still there. A pleasant smell made its way to him, his stomach growling in response.
“I ordered food.” Shouto informed him, as if it wasn’t obvious by the several containers and the delicious smell wafting through the air.
“Why are you still here?” Katsuki asked, which he thought was a much more pressing matter.
“Because we need to work on this together whether you want to or not. And I didn’t know what to do when you left. I know what to do when you scream. But you just...left.”
Katsuki knew that this might be the time when he apologized.
“I- I had to cool down or whatever. What food did you buy?”
As he came to sit at his place on the low table again, Shouto let him divert the topic of conversation, never one to press when it came to talking about anything resembling a feeling.
“Spicy soba.” Katsuki eyed him suspiciously, but Shouto paid him no mind, too busy slurping his noodles.
“Thanks or whatever.”
They spent the rest of the evening working on their project, getting somewhere together now that Katsuki was slightly calmer, though snippy as always. And if during the next week a mysterious cat plushie appeared on top of Shouto’s desk, then Katsuki would take the truth of winning it in a claw machine and putting it there to his grave.