Archive of Our Own

His hearing comes back first.

Voices—worried, frantic, so fucking loud. They’re around him, behind him, above him, fragmented string of words filtering through his consciousness, muffled and distorted, making no sense and leaving him dizzy trying to understand. He hears a name—his name? Over and over, louder and louder, and he wants to swat a hand at them, tell them to fuck off, he’s tired, let him sleep dammit. What could be so important that a dozen different voices all need his attention at once—?

Hands on his shoulders, his skin numb to their touch. Then they shake him, and it’s like a bubble pops and he falls back to earth, everything crashing down at once in a horrible sequence—yelling and sirens and pain and pain and pain. He tears his eyes open, white filling his vision, so bright it sends a dagger of pain through his brain. It’s too much—blinding colors blurring together above him, moving too fast, getting too close. He squeezes his eyes shut against the world, aching to go back to the muffled darkness he’d been in moments ago, but the pain follows him there.

It’s loud and sharp and unrelenting, pounding at the back of his skull and setting his chest alight from the inside out. It hurts to move, hurts to breathe, hurts to think. His muscles lock up and he holds his breath, waiting for the pain to lessen—or for his brain to shut off and let him sink back under into unconsciousness, whatever comes first.

But the grip on his shoulder gets tighter, and the voice—I know that voice—is calling him back, keeping him anchored, and fuck, just let him pass out.

“Bakugou,” the voice cuts through. “Kid, you need to breathe.”

No, no, no breathing. Breathing hurts. If I don’t breathe it won’t hurt and then I can sleep, fuck, just leave me alone—

“Bakugou!”

The hand shakes him. His eyes snap open as he heaves in a breath, lungs aching from a lack of air and his ribs screaming back, sending him in a coughing fit that wracks his body with pain as he tries to catch his breath. The voice is still there, spewing some encouraging bullshit that he can barely hear over his body screaming at him.

The coughing finally settles. And so does the pain—settling, unyielding, stubbornly refusing to let up, leaving Bakugou mercilessly conscious, rough pavement digging into his spine and pressing against the back of his head. He lets out a low moan, staring up beneath low-lidded eyes at the slightly-more-in-focus mess of colors and shapes hovering above him.

A blob of bright red gets closer. Bakugou can just barely make out the shark teeth grinning down at him.

“Hey, man,” Kirishima says. “Welcome back.”

‘Where did I go?’ Bakugou wants to ask. The pain lacing through his body and the casual tone of his classmate’s voice is far too confusing and conflicting for his concussed mind to make sense of. Instead, he grunts, glances away at the other blob of black hovering close by, and mutters, “The fuck happened?”

The mess of colors above him starts to solidify, his brain pushing the agony to the background as his attention shifts elsewhere. Sure enough, Shitty Hair is crouched on his left side, easy smile plastered on his face, but now Bakugou can make out the just-barely-quelled panic in the other boy’s eyes. He looks scared—even though he’s clearly trying to mask it for Bakugou’s sake—but it’s enough for a rush of adrenaline to flood through his veins at the thought of what could be going on for the redhead to look so frightened.

Bakugou snaps his gaze over to his other side to meet Aizawa’s eyes, silently demanding answers. There’s an unreadable look on his teacher’s face, but an obvious tension has Bakugou ready to leap to his feet the second danger presents itself.

Aizawa sighs, and some of that tension melts away. “There was a villain—”

“What?” Bakugou immediately shifts, instincts screaming at him to move faster than Aizawa can stop him, but he barely sits up an inch before the pain in his chest screams ten times louder, and he goes back down with a cry. There’s a burning rope lashed around his chest, pulled tight, and the groan that slips out is nothing but pain and frustration as he pounds a clenched fist against the pavement.

“—easy, Bakugou,” Aizawa’s saying. “Don’t get up.”

Bakugou grits his teeth. “I’m fine.”

“Sure, kid,” Aizawa says, watching something in the distance. “Just do me a favor and stay down until the medics get here.”

“Medics?” Bakugou whips his head around. A block away, flashing lights catch his eye as the ear-piercing siren announces the arriving ambulance. “You called a fucking ambulance?!”

“Kid, you’re hurt—”

Bakugou growls, “I’m fine—!”

“Bakugou, your heart stopped.”

The blond lets out a breath at the sudden revelation, falling into a shocked silence as he meets Kirishima’s gaze. The easy grin had long since slipped from the other boy’s face, leaving nothing to mask the terrified look on his face.

Kirishima’s face twists up at the unpleasant memory. “You—you were dead, man.”

It takes a bit to sink in.

“I… What?” Bakugou’s voice comes out as little more than a croak.

Kirishima glances over his shoulder. “Kaminari had to shock your heart to get it beating again.”

Bakugou follows his friend’s gaze to see Kaminari hunched over on the curb, shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders as one of the medics crouches in front of him. The sight is confusing and alarming and something settles uncomfortably in Bakugou’s chest, a heavy weight of pain and anger and reality.

He’d almost died. He had died—long enough for his classmate to have to shock him back alive. That’s… That shouldn’t have…

His mind is still whirling, dizzy with trying to wrap his head around why all of this had happened as he stares at the other blond and the unnervingly blank look in his eyes, but he doesn’t get to dwell on it long. Another medic kneels beside Kirishima, greeting Bakugou with a reassuring smile that does abso-fucking-lutely nothing to reassure him.

“Hey, kid,” the medic says lightly, fingers brushing over Bakugou’s chest to check for damage. “How’re you feeling?”

Shitty. Confused. Worried. Scared.

Numb.

“Fine.”

He ignores the look Aizawa sends him. Honest or not, it won’t change a thing. The doctors will do their job, and then Bakugou can go back to UA and forget this shitshow ever happened.

What even happened…?

So he stays quiet, lays back on the asphalt, listens to the medics move around him as they load him into the ambulance, waits for the pain to fade away so he can fade away, leaving the noise and the pain and the memory of Kirishima’s wavering voice and Kaminari’s haunted look behind for the darkness…

The ambulance doors slam shut and, like a light, he’s out.

. . .

It happens three days later—just enough time for things to settle and go back to normal, but not nearly enough time to forget.

Aizawa knows something’s wrong. He’s observant enough to pick up on the little discrepancies that the kid tries to hide, things like barely making it to class on time, clothes just slightly ruffled, eyes just slightly glazed. The way his temper flares up uncharacteristically and then a moment later—equally odd—he gives up and mellows out and goes quiet.

The anger in his student’s voice is no longer firm, unyielding, a rock-solid force of tenacity backed by an explosive quirk that can be seen in his eyes. Instead it’s become thin, unstable, a paper mask held in place for appearances.

But Aizawa knows better.

The look in Bakugou’s eyes burn holes right through that mask.

Nevertheless, Aizawa can’t do anything. Not yet. Not anytime soon. As much as he loathes to accept it, Bakugou has a stubborn streak a thousand miles wide. He’s the absolute last of Aizawa’s students to come ask the pro for help, so Aizawa has little choice but to stay back and watch as the kid insists on suffering in silence.

Still—it’s not going to stop him from keeping an eye on the kid. If nothing else, he can at least step in before Bakugou’s train of self-preservation derails. Aizawa doesn’t know what Bakugou’s breaking point is, and he never wants to find out.

But, as always, these kids never make it easy for him.

He’s passing by the cafeteria when it happens—class just got out, excited chatter fills the room and seeps out into the hallway, and Aizawa had been heading to the teacher’s lounge when an irritatingly familiar voice rises above the noise of jumbled conversations.

“Finally back in class, I see. I heard you nearly got killed by a B-list villain.”

Monoma. Aizawa pauses, stepping back against the wall an inch before the doorway, out of sight. There’s a curse on the tip of his tongue as he listens to the arrogance dripping from the boy’s tone—the kid has an unfortunate penchant for poking the bear, and one of these days it’s going to blow up in his face.

Judging by the dry voice that responds, that explosion might be closer than ever.

“Fuck off, Casper.”

“How strange. For a student with such a powerful quirk—one from Class 1-A, no less—you seem to fall victim to these pathetic villains easily.” Monoma hums, a mocking sound. “Not a very good look for someone who supposedly won the Sports Festival, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I said fuck off—!”

Monoma does not.

“I think it’s rather unbecoming of a future hero to lose so easily.”

Kirishima’s voice filters through. “Hey, man, that’s not cool. Knock it off.”

Monoma ignores him, continuing to provoke the boy who—from the sound of it—is a second away from blasting the smug grin that Aizawa can hear on Monoma’s face clean off. “Wasn’t it you who got caught by that sludge villain at the beginning of the year? Seems to happen a lot, doesn’t it—?”

There’s a crash, like a plate had shattered on the floor, and a dozen or so voices explode, trying—in vain—to prevent a fight from breaking out. A moment later, and the voice that responds is a lot quieter than Aizawa had anticipated.

“I don’t give a shit what you think,” Bakugou hisses, voice dripping with contempt and anger subdued by something that has no place in the boy’s tone—something weary, something done. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

There’s a pause, like the entire room is holding its breath, before Bakugou storms out of the cafeteria, not sparing Aizawa even a second’s glance as he stalks off down the hall, bag slung over his shoulder and fury radiating from him in waves.

Sparks pop in the boy’s hand, and Aizawa watches as he digs his fingernails in his palm and clenches his fist, stifling the quirk. Then the kid turns the corner and disappears.

Aizawa lets out a sigh.

. . .

Aizawa senses it before it happens. Years spent as an underground hero has taught him to trust his instincts, so when a wave of unease suddenly rushes through him, he immediately drops the timer he’d been watching, final countdown of the exercise ticking down—00:56, 00:55, 00:54—and snaps his gaze up to the rickety office building his students are surrounding.

The building, built with the intent of it falling apart, looks seconds away from crumbling to pieces. It had been a challenging task to begin with: locate the dummy pedestrians trapped inside and get them to safety before the unstable building comes crashing down. Challenging, yes, Aizawa had mused, but not impossible, and a necessary exercise to teach some important lessons. Lessons like thinking quickly, not acting recklessly, staying calm.

Lessons like mistakes can be fatal.

Aizawa should have known things weren’t going to end well.

Bakugou had shown up to Ground Beta two minutes late, a half-hearted apology on his tongue and a look—the same concerning, uncharacteristic look—in his eyes that had Aizawa holding back from lecturing his student, and maybe that should have been a cue that something’s not right. Maybe Aizawa should have called it there, pulled the kid aside and got him to talk no matter how hard he would try to deny that there’s anything wrong.

Instead he had left the kid alone, focusing on his duties as teacher and spent the next few minutes instructing the class on the day’s training exercise and announcing the assignments for each group. Bakugou had been silent the whole time, arms crossed, closed off, facing Aizawa but there had been a hazy look to his eyes that had made it clear he hadn’t really been listening.

Aizawa couldn’t find it in him to call the kid out for it.

Now, he’s wishing he had.

With an eerie sound like thunder rolling through the sky, a rumble shakes deep within the building, and the quiet chatter between the students goes silent. There’s a quiet buzz from the comm link in Aizawa’s ear as it turns on, and Ashido’s hesitant voice comes through.

“Sensei…? My quirk—I think I melted something wrong.”

Another rumble. The entire structure jolts like the foundation had shifted underneath it. From around the south side of the building, a crack spiderwebs along the wall, stretching out towards the front where the precariously leaning slabs of concrete—previously left as an obstacle from the beginning—threaten to topple over in a deadly avalanche of concrete and dust that would take out anyone in its path.

And Bakugou’s not paying attention.

He’s on his knees, pushing aside rubble in a slow-moving daze, oblivious to the ten-thousand-pound danger overhead. Then something snaps, crashes, and the building buckles. Aizawa doesn’t think. He lashes out with his capture weapon, the scarf whipping around his student and pulling, dragging him backward out of danger.

Just in time. The north wall collapses, blocks of concrete toppling over and plummeting to the pavement in a horrific crash that sends a plume of dust exploding outward, turning the street a hazy gray.

Someone’s coughing. Voices cut in through the ear piece—startled, worried, one, two, three, four—and Aizawa can breathe because all his students are accounted for. He huffs out a breath, muttered curse on his tongue as he runs a hand down his face.

Bakugou’s still—still as in completely frozen—on the ground. He’s propped up on his hands, Aizawa’s capture weapon still wound loosely around him, and Aizawa can just barely make out the kid’s blond hair—caked with dust—and the faraway look in his eyes that unnerves Aizawa enough for him to reach out and shake the kid’s shoulder.

“Bakugou?”

No response. Footsteps come pounding towards them, the rest of the group calling out for him in worry, but Aizawa waves them off as they get closer, too focused on the frozen boy in front of him, and only then does he realize—the kid’s shaking, tiny tremors buzzing through his body like he’s just barely keeping it together.

Aizawa tries again. “Bakugou!”

Bakugou finally snaps out of it, jolting at the sound of his name. His hands snap up to his chest, shaky fingers quick to grasp at the fabric of Aizawa’s weapon, tugging, tugging, tugging—the kid’s movements are jerky, worryingly desperate, until he finally rips the fabric away with a snarl and lurches to his feet. Aizawa calls after him, but the kid stomps off with little more than a stiff “I’m fine!” before Aizawa has the chance to even ask.

Aizawa’s more than a little distracted as he dismisses the rest of the class, far too focused on replaying Bakugou’s uncharacteristic actions in his head, feeling that all-too-familiar sense of worry and exasperation building up again.

To his right, another chunk of concrete breaks off and tumbles to the pile of rubble on the street. Aizawa stares at it, not at all appreciating the metaphor.

The kid’s falling apart, and Aizawa’s stuck watching from the sidelines.

. . .

Aizawa’s used to his students not paying attention.

It’s usually little infractions—Jiro listening to music through a single earbud not-so-slyly hidden behind her hand, Midoriya muttering to himself as he scribbles notes down in his journal, Kaminari and Mineta unsuccessfully choking down giggles over something no doubt inappropriate—and Aizawa usually can get them in order with a brief reprimand before moving on with the lecture. Problem solved.

Not this time.

Not when Bakugou’s been staring right through Aizawa for ten minutes now.

The kid’s completely out of it, dull eyes gazing listlessly at the front of the classroom, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s simply bored out of his mind.

Aizawa knows better.

Every time he spares a brief glance Bakugou’s way, the kid’s barely moved, slouched in his seat, with circles too dark for a kid his age to have lining his eyes. He looks so obviously exhausted it’s a wonder no one’s called him out on it yet.

Still, Aizawa likes to think he knows his kids these kids better than some may give him credit for. And as frustrating as it is, he knows Bakugou’s pride is something the kid holds of the utmost importance, something he’ll defend even if it means struggling through his own issues in silence.

So Aizawa doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t say a thing when the kid stares right through him. He doesn’t say a thing when the kid doesn’t offer an answer after Aizawa poses a question to the class. He doesn’t say a thing when the kid finally shifts in his seat but only to prop his head up on his hand as though it suddenly weighs a ton.

He doesn’t say a thing when class finally ends, and Mina’s voice calls out Aizawa’s name hesitantly before gesturing to the mess of blonde curls slumped over the desk, fast asleep. He doesn’t say a thing when he nods to the girl and waits for her to leave before gently shaking the boy awake. He doesn’t say a thing when Bakugou jolts upright, eyes alight with a concerning flicker of fear that quickly shifts to anger, one heavily subdued by exhaustion.

Aizawa already knows the answer, knows exactly what will come out of the kid’s mouth, but he asks anyway— “Bakugou, are you alright?”

When the kid responds with the same, bitter “I’m fine,” choked out beneath that ever-present anger, there’s a shakiness to his words that hadn’t been there before, a shakiness that has Aizawa hesitating a second too long at the momentary lapse in the kid’s normally unshakable mask. By the time Aizawa’s prepared to confront the boy, done with pretending there’s nothing wrong when there so clearly, so obviously is, Bakugou’s already out of his seat. The kid’s gone before Aizawa has a chance to interrogate him further, the classroom door slamming shut behind him with a resounding bang.

No more words had been spoken but the kid’s actions had said enough—the conversation was over before it even began.

There’s nothing to talk about.

And even though it pains Aizawa to stay silent after watching the kid’s fingers tremble in their grip on the strap of his backpack, he knows better.

The kid leaves with his mask still intact, and Aizawa doesn’t say a thing.

. . .

Catching kids up past curfew is nothing new, and under normal circumstances Aizawa would have no qualms about holding the threat of detention over his students’ heads to get them back to bed, but the familiar voices coming from the kitchen have the pro pausing just outside of view.

“—a nightmare?”  

“No.”

A pause.

“I don’t blame you if that fight’s still keeping you up at night, man.”

“It’s not.”

“Why’re you still up, then? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you awake past midnight.”

There’s another lull as Kirishima’s question goes unanswered, but Bakugou’s silence says enough. Aizawa glances around the corner into the kitchen area, taking in the concerning sight of Bakugou slouched at the table, dark circles stark under the overhead kitchen light. He’s staring a hole through the coffee mug clenched in his hands.

Kirishima stands across the table from him, watching his friend with an understanding mix of worry and frustration. The air is thick with the tension of unspoken topics. Then Kirishima rips the metaphorical band-aid off.

“You know you don’t have to pretend to be okay.”

Bakugou’s eyes snap up in a heated glare. “Don’t patronize me, Shitty Hair.”

“That’s not what I’m—!” The redhead sighs. “Bakugou...”

“I’m fine, okay? It happened. It’s over. I don’t see why I have to talk about it.”

“Bakugou, you almost died.”

Silence.

“You think I don’t know that?” Bakugou eventually grits out, voice low and measured like he’s holding back a very different kind of explosion. He shoves his chair away from the table, getting to his feet. “I don’t need a reminder, Shitty Hair. And I don’t need a fucking therapy session. I’m fine.”

“Bakugou, bro—”

“Night.”

He storms off, disappearing up the stairs, leaving Kirishima and an untouched mug of coffee behind.

Aizawa watches him go, then steps fully into view.

Kirishima spots him, sending one last fleeting glance towards the staircase before offering Aizawa a tired grin. “Hey, sensei. Coffee?”

. . .

He’s suffocating.

It’s the fucking sludge monster all over again—heavy, crushing weight crashing into his body, twisting around him like serpents on steroids. His chest aches. His lungs burn. It’s unrelenting, catching him off guard, attacking while he’s down, unbothered by his desperate counterattacks, fiery bursts exploding uselessly against the thick cables constricting mercilessly around his ribs.

He’s floating, tossed about like he’s caught in the undertow of a wave that leaves him unable to determine which direction the surface is, where the air is.

Air.

Fuck, he can’t breathe.

He’s not underwater. He’s barely able to recall how he got in this situation, far too focused on the disorienting attack to remember, but he knows that much. There’s air, oxygen—but the snake-like cables are leaving him no room to breathe, pressing in on his ribs, crushing his lungs.

He’s not sure which is more painful—the cables squeezing the life out of him, or the quite literally suffocating reality that he’s. fucking. helpless.

He’s powerless against the villain’s quirk, lack of oxygen sapping his strength and rendering his own power virtually nothing more than pitiful sparks, a last second attempt at survival.

He’s helpless. He’s powerless.

He’s alone.

The only thing he can hear is the villain laughing beneath him. It’s an awful sound, like nails scraping on a chalkboard—hair-raising and irritating and Bakugou swears it’s the sound of the universe mocking him, laughing at his attempt to prove himself capable with a repeat of the very incident that first gave him the taste of being helpless.

He’d only survived that sludge villain because fucking quirkless Deku wanted to play hero. And now here’s another villain ready to knock Bakugou off of his self-constructed pedestal, promising a hard fall to go along with it.

And fuck, it hurts. It hurts to admit defeat. It hurts to give in, to give up, to realize that no one’s gonna save him because he never needs saving. He’s not supposed to need saving.

He’s not supposed to need help.

The cables constrict like a python, pressing his arms painfully against his sides and squeezing all the air out of him. He chokes out a muted yell, desperate for air, desperate for life. There’s an ugly pit of fear in his gut, so he lights it like gasoline and uses it to fuel a desperate sort of anger instead, body jerking against the villain’s hold with what little energy he has left.

He can feel his ribs cracking, snapping, breaking under the pressure, but there’s not enough air left in his lungs to cry out. The fiery pain spreads throughout his body, like his own quirk had suddenly been turned against him, a deadly blaze burning him up from the inside.

But reality is far more painful.

There’s no deadly blaze of fire burning in his lungs.

There’s no disorienting current of water leaving him floating helplessly.

There’s only the crushing reality of helplessness, and the creeping darkness threatening to shut off the lights for good.

“Help’s not coming, little hero,” the villain croons beneath him.

The darkness wins. 

. . .

‘—kugou...’

‘...kid, wake up...’

“Bakugou!”

The boy heaves as he throws himself upright, jerking in the hold of the cables still twisted around him. He desperately tries to yank his arms free, but they snag against his wrists, keeping him tied down, trapped. A choked yell escapes his throat as he frantically tries to resist, pulling back against his captor, tugging and tugging and tugging and—

Fuck, please don’t let me die. 

Something else is suddenly pressing against his shoulder, gripping his collarbone tight, and he jerks back but the weight holds firm, not letting him escape. His vision is a blur, black spots creeping in on him as the cables squeeze all the air out of his lungs. The thing gripping his shoulder shakes him, once, twice, like the villain is taunting him, drawing out his death, rubbing in the fact that nobody’s coming to help, little hero, you’re all alone—

“Katsuki!”

Bakugou freezes, eyes snapping up as his vision refocuses to see a pair of familiar dark eyes watching him from a foot away.

“Bakugou,” Aizawa says. “Kid, breathe.”

The grip on his collarbone squeezes, and he almost flinches before his rattled brain finally connects the pro hero to the hand currently clasping his shoulder. A shallow sort of wheeze reaches his ears, and Aizawa’s words finally register as Bakugou forces his lungs to take a decent breathe. The black spots at the edge of his vision fade away, and he sinks back into his body.

“Sensei,” he croaks, then immediately recoils—fuck, his voice sounds wrecked. “How long have you—?”

“About a minute,” Aizawa says, voice measured, eyes flicking across Bakugou’s face as if looking for something in his expression. “Kirishima heard you and came to get me.”

Kirishima heard you.

The implications of that send a wave of mortification and anger through Bakugou’s body. He ducks his head, gritting his teeth at the idea of him screaming so loud that fucking Shitty Hair hears him from his room. All because of a fucking nightmare.

How fucking pathetic.

“Uh, thanks, or whatever,” he says sullenly, staring down at the mess of blankets currently wrapped around him, “but you can go now. I’m—”

“You’re fine?”

At the blunt words, Bakugou snaps his eyes up to meet Aizawa’s steady gaze, black eyes watching him as though the pro hero’s already figured out everything wrong with him with just a glance.

Bakugou scowls, looking away, not at all appreciating that piercing look. “Yes,” he grits, tearing the blankets away so they’re no longer constricting him. “Fine.”

Aizawa hums. “Okay,” he says, surprisingly quick to relent. It’s only when the teacher draws his hand back that Bakugou realizes it had still been gripping his shoulder. The pro hero nods and stands from his spot at the edge of Bakugou’s bed. “In that case, try to get some more sleep. It’s still early.” He turns to the door. “I will inform Kirishima that you’re fine. He was worried about you.”

Aizawa makes it a few steps away from the bed before Bakugou mutters bitterly, “Tell him he’s stupid for worrying. It was just a nightmare.”

A pause. “Was it?”

Bakugou snaps his head up at that, glowering. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Aizawa turns back. “Was it just a nightmare?”

“Of course,” Bakugou growls. “It’s nothing. Just a pathetic dream. Shitty Hair’s just paranoid.”

“He was worried.”

“Well, who told him to be?!”

Aizawa pins him with a look he can’t decipher. “I don’t think he needs permission to be concerned about a friend.”

Bakugou huffs. “I don’t need his concern. I’m fine.”

“You seem to say that a lot for somebody who doesn’t actually mean it.”

Bakugou goes still, staring at the unreadable expression on Aizawa’s face. A wave of something—anger, guilt, terror, all of the above—moves through his body with an imperceptible shudder. His mouth feels dry as he stumbles over a response, rendered silent by the blunt honesty.

Aizawa seems to recognize Bakugou’s disbelief. “Kid,” he sighs, “you can’t hide behind a mask forever. You and I both know you are not fine.”

Bakugou grits his teeth. “All due respect, sensei,” he says curtly, “you don’t know shit.”

“I don’t?” Aizawa repeats. “Do you mean to tell me you haven’t been having nightmares on a daily basis since the villain attack? That you’ve haven’t been falling asleep in my class? That my capture weapon didn’t send you into some sort of post-traumatic flashback the day of the training exercise?”

Each sentence feels like a slap in the face.

“You don’t need to lie to me, kid.”

Bakugou lowers his gaze, staring at his clenched fists as he digs his nails into his palm until they start to hurt. “I’m not fucking lying,” he says, voice low, and he mentally swears when his words come out sounding more wobbly than sharp. “I’m not.”

“I didn’t want to pry—”

‘Too late,’ Bakugou thinks bitterly.

“—but you don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.”

“Doing what.”

“Acting strong,” Aizawa says. “Pretending that nothing’s wrong, that what happened had no effect on you. You don’t have to suffer alone, Bakugou.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Bakugou mumbles. He keeps his head down, refusing to meet his teacher’s eyes that he swears are actively trying to peel back every mask, every wall, every shield that Bakugou has been so careful to keep in place. He feels raw, exposed, like he’s been caught in every lie and now there’s no secrets left to protect.

Aizawa seems to understand that. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “Just keep that in mind. And a piece of advice: trust your teammates—your friends—to have your back. It’s okay to rely on them.”

Bakugou scowls. “I do. I work with them in fights.”

“I’m not talking about combat, kid.”

Silence.

“Bakugou?”

“Yeah. Got it.”

Aizawa nods. “Get some sleep, kid. You’ll need it if you want to stay awake for the pop quiz in my class tomorrow.”

Bakugou snorts. “Get the fuck out, sensei.”

“Good night, Bakugou.”

He gets a mere grunt in return. 

. . .

“You weren’t kidding about the pop quiz.”

Aizawa looks up from shuffling the stack of papers to see Bakugou, completed quiz in hand. The rest of the classroom is empty, the other students having already left for lunch.

“I’m not one to kid around,” Aizawa says simply, taking the quiz from his student’s hand and adding it to the pile.

Bakugou huffs a half-amused sort of laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a moment of silence as Aizawa slides the quiz papers into his bag, already anticipating the coffee he’ll need for a night of grading. The air is tense, but Aizawa stays quiet, giving Bakugou room to get his thoughts in order.

“Uh, about—about last night,” the kid starts, sounding abnormally reserved for the hotheaded hero in training Aizawa had grown to know. “Thanks, I guess. For caring or whatever. I was a fucking mess and you—you didn’t have to. I was fine. I was just—”

“Terrified?”

Bakugou grimaces.

“You don’t need to thank me for caring, kid,” Aizawa says easily.

“Yeah, I know,” Bakugou says. “It’s your job as a pro hero or whatever.”

“No,” Aizawa corrects. “It’s my job as your teacher. As your mentor. As someone who knows you are going to make an incredible hero in the future.” Aizawa makes sure to meet the kid’s gaze. “You have people in your life who care about you, Bakugou. Don’t treat that as a weakness.”

There’s a pause as the words seem to (hopefully) sink in, then the blonde scoffs, glancing away. “Don’t give me that sappy bullshit.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow. He’s taught the kid long enough to know how to discern attitude from deflection. From the mollified look in Bakugou’s eyes, it’s clearly the latter. Message received. He’ll save the no-cussing-at-your-teacher lecture for another day.

“Enjoy your weekend, kid,” he says instead. “Do me a favor and stay out of trouble.”

Whatever retort had been about to come out of Bakugou’s mouth gets interrupted by Kirishima skidding back into the classroom doorway, shark-tooth grin wide. “Yo, Bakugou! We got permission to check out that new restaurant off campus! You in?”

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “You just want free food,” he says, but shoulders his bag and follows the redhead out. Their voices fade as they walk off, bickering over unmanly handouts and forgotten wallets.

Aizawa lets out a breath. These kids...

. . .

Hizashi hands him the mug with a mischievous glint in his eyes, but Aizawa is far too focused on the smell of coffee to worry about what that look means.

“Rough day?”

Aizawa hums into his coffee. “No more than usual,” he grumbles, sinking into the couch. “Every day these kids impress me with how stubborn they can be.”

“They’re an impressive group, those kids of yours,” Hizashi agrees easily.

“Impressive,” Aizawa parrots. “That’s one word for them.”

“Aw, you know you love ‘em, Shouta.”

The pro mumbles a non-answer into the coffee mug. There’s an audible click—the recognizable sound of a phone camera going off—and when Aizawa looks up, Hizashi is quickly lowering his phone with a schooled look of innocence on his face.

Aizawa narrows his eyes. “Hizashi...”

The other teacher bounces to his feet. “Well, look at the time! Papers to grade, meetings to go to!” He pauses at the door, a sly grin on his face. “Enjoy your coffee, Shouta!”

When he’s gone, Aizawa sets his coffee down on the table and stares at the side of the mug with distaste.

‘#1 Dad’ stares back.