Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bakugo wakes with a start; breaths ragged, ribcage heaving with exertion. Sweat drips down his temples as the rush of his own blood sounds like a frenzied violence in his ears. Fists still clenched in the sheets, the blonde shakily sits up and slants carmine eyes against the murky darkness of the bedroom, head turning towards the nightstand at his right. 3:33. The green numbers blink at him, innocuously, and he fights against the upwelling of an urge to reach his hand out and blast the alarm clock to bits, thinking about how much he's come to loathe this time of night.

But it's not the alarm clock's fault, of course, that he's been regularly waking somewhere around three in the morning for as long as he has now. The clock's made no sound. In fact, nothing has. The room is dead silent - the type of silence that is heavy and stifling, highlighting the staccato thump thump thump drumming of his heartbeat reverberating around the cavity of his chest.

He's also come to hate that hollow sound, almost as much as he hates three in the morning, and yet still just a bit less compared to how choking the darkness feels when it surrounds him so suddenly, the nights he awakens to panic descending upon him like a rabid animal and-

Bakugo sucks in a sharp breath, willing his being into some semblance of calm. His eyes subconsciously close while doing so, and instead of the reprieve he was angling for, his brain takes to assaulting him with a flash of an image from the nightmare that had just jolted him awake.

Brown and white and red - the dull, dingy surface of the bar's brick wall before his line of vision is taken over by the maniacal gaze of the villain staring down at him. Tiny pinpricks of blood-red gems, ensconced in a webbing of veins shot through the wide whites of eyes that bore insistently into his own. Unnatural. Ugly. And yet…

Familiar.

Bakugo can't help but see something of himself in that gaze - a simmering rage boiling just underneath the surface, calling to mind his own face at the Sports Festival that had been plastered all over the local papers and had flashed on the news channels.

And so even though to him it felt weak, he'd always be the first to break Shigaraki's gaze, because facing that familiarity felt like the accidental swallowing of something rotten - heavy and wrong at the bottom of his gut.

Breathe out.

The Bakugo of the present, who is sitting safe and relatively sound upon his bed, opens his eyes as he puffs out his chest once again - breathe in - this time careful to keep his eyes trained open as he slips out of the covers.

Breathe out.

Breathe in - he fumbles his way through the darkened room towards the double-doors of the closet ahead of him -

Breathe out.

Suddenly it's the shrill, nagging of his mother that cuts through his consciousness; "Why don't you let me buy you a damned nightlight?!", an almost-demand shoved upon him with a smack upside the head. Though it was a sensible suggestion there was no way in hell Bakugo would adhere to it because that felt like losing.

Instead, cursing as he nearly trips over the pair of sneakers he could have sworn had made it onto the shoe rack, he fights with maneuvering through the darkness, pinpointing his focus on the annoyance that invariably began to well up whenever he thought of his mother. Deep down in the places one keeps truths that are not readily admitted, Bakugo's grateful for such a distraction from the rather lingering effects of memories-turned-nightmare.

He reaches the far side of the bedroom and slides the doors of the closet open with just a bit too much force, finding his limbs lacking their usual control; still shaky from the vestiges of the dream. It only worsens when something falls out and hits his foot, but it's light in weight and makes a "plonk" sound before rolling away, and it takes little time for him to realize what the cylindrical object is.

It's his vintage All Might poster. Autographed from long ago at the cleanup of a villain attack in his neighborhood by an All Might who was still unquestionably invincible to an adoring, wide-eyed Bakugo. It used to hang on the wall opposite the bed of his room back home, the Symbol of Peace watching over him as he fell asleep ever since he was a young boy.

That is, until Bakugo had taken it down the first week the nightmares began, a mixture of guilt and the feeling of not enough roiling in his stomach whenever he would cast his gaze upon it since his kidnapping. If he happened to stare too long, its pristine edges would inevitably give way under the crushing weight of the memories that insistently pushed against his perception of reality; against his perception of himself. Instead he'd find the shredded remnants of the parallel poster the League had hung across from him in their hideout, a dusty and stained visage of All Might superimposing itself over the brightness of the image cherished in his mind.

Mocking him, just as it did all the while he was strapped up in the suffocating stench of that bar.

Though Bakugo had chosen to pack his poster along with the rest of the sparse decorations for his dorm, here it had since sat, neglected, the hero-in-training never feeling capable - worthy - of allowing it to grace his walls once again. With a strangled grunt, he bends down to pick it up, quickly shoving it far into the recesses of the closet's shelving as if it were a holy talisman burning the hands of a demon.

This, too, feels like a loss.

"Fuck my brain today…" The blonde mutters, shaking his head in a vain attempt at dispersing the dark cloud thundering around it. He busies himself with stripping out of his pajamas in quick, practiced motions, groping in the dark at the spot he always kept his workout attire. Once he's outfitted appropriately in a pair of grey drawstring joggers and a clean black tee, Bakugo stalks back to the area he had left his sneakers and slips those on too, his eyes having finally adjusted enough to at least see the general outline of the shapes in his room.

Making one last stop at his desk, he swipes up his phone from its charger and deposits it into his pockets, shoving a pair of earbuds into his ears while making his way to the bedroom door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, turning to give a final visual sweep of the darkness lurking behind him. The glow of the alarm clock's numbers glare the time at him in a way that almost feels like a taunt - 3:40 - and when his gaze shifts over to the bed, Bakugo has to fight tooth and nail against the inclination to stomp back over to it and curl up under the covers once again, knowing these recurring nights of barely more than five hours of sleep are gonna kill him.

"Tch, nothin' I can do about it when I'm already fuckin' up", he snarls to nothing in particular, only catching himself from slamming the door shut at the last second. He leaves the shadowy silence behind, trudging down the hall and towards the running track of the school's P.E. grounds.

Bakugo is breathing in deep, stuttered gulps of air as sweat drips from his bangs, down to his cheeks, and meets in rivulets across the column of his neck. The collar of his shirt sticks to the muscles of his upper chest as if it were second skin - and though it's all not far off compared to how he awoke today - as he pushes his body to the absolute limit and then some, this time he's able to relish in how fucking good it feels, the way his muscles are shaking and his chest is heaving as he sprints down the track.

Sneakered feet pound against the pavement, each stride matching the strike of cymbals resonating through the headphone buds jammed in his ears. The song is brutish, loud, in some language he couldn't understand - maybe Swedish? - and perfect for shoving unpleasant memories out and clearing his head.

Adrenaline courses through his limbs and he flexes his hands over and over in between wiping the sweat pooling in his palms against his joggers, not looking to draw unnecessary attention by accidentally setting off his quirk. Right now the world of predawn is his and his alone and he intended to keep it that way. He needed it that way.

Bakugo doesn't know exactly how much longer he pushes himself through the grueling run, but when he slides his phone out to switch the track to something more suitable to wind down with, he realizes he's been out there for just over a full hour. His pace finally slows as he finishes one of many laps and as he bends down to clutch at the burning muscles of his upper thighs, the whole of his body protests at him for his callous treatment of it. For the first time that day he allows himself a small, satisfied smile, edging on one of his trademark smirks.

Knowing he'll need to head back soon, the blonde manages to fit in some quick stretches in order to quiet the screaming of his muscles and cool the beating in his chest, before making for the direction of the dorms. He knows from experience that the common room won't stay free of those godforsaken extras for very long, and he still needs to shower before he can fix breakfast and wind-down in solitude with the indulgence of his efforts. A ritual best kept private, if he could help it.

Plip.

Halting his steps, he tilts his head back when the first droplet of rain lands on the bridge of his nose, ruby gaze narrowing and searching the clouded sky above. The sunrise had been sleepy and slow that morning, only the faintest of rose dusting the otherwise pale horizon. Now even that was hidden as a mountain of dark grey storm clouds started rolling in, blanketing the campus of U.A. in spots of shadow. Bakugo removes his headphones while the rain begins to trickle down more steadily, stowing them in his pocket along with his phone and opting to keep his senses fully alert on the trek back as the sky shifts from slate to smoke in color.

Getting caught outside in a surprise morning shower wasn't on his itinerary, but he had to admit that the way the water mingled with the sweat sticking to his body, it was actually proving to be relaxing - like it was the final piece needed to wash away the foul, lingering aftertaste of how his day had started.

A few minutes pass on his way back, about the halfway mark between the tracks and live-in dorms, he'd figured out by this point into his routine. As the rain continues its heedless descent from the heavens, Bakugo finds his mind turning back to his time spent winding down in the common area each of these mornings. His earlier thought about having the space to himself wasn't quite the whole truth, he muses, wondering if "that one" would be puttering about in the kitchen nearby this morning, too. At least she surprisingly had the sense not to ask after him or disturb him intentionally in some other manner as he sprawled along a couch and tried to relax (though he wasn't even sure if she could see him from her vantage point, as the cupboards partially blocked his own view of her).

Uraraka Ochako would just hum her soft little notes of sunshine, and make her morning tea.

If ever pressed about it, the explosive hero-to-be would never admit that her presence had wiggled its way into his morning ritual as a necessary element. From the steady bubbling of the water boiling in the kettle to the scent of her apparent favored tea that he couldn't quite place, there was a gentle domesticity about it all that he allowed - in secret - to seep into his muscles, melting the tension away as he lay there.

And he would certainly never, ever admit - probably even under duress - that he had known from the start that it was round-faced Uraraka just from the sound of her voice, as her humming wafted on the still air of dawn and wrapped about his being like his favorite childhood comforter.

No, if he had to, he'd point out that any idiot would have been able to deduce her identity from the sheer fact she floated everything around the kitchen and didn't do a very good job of keeping the objects close to her, either. On more than one occasion he had to stifle a rebuke from escaping his throat as she nearly missed her goal of pouring the hot water into her dumb, floating pink mug.

Both Bakugo's steps and retrospection come to a sudden halt just a few yards away from the back entrance of 1-A's dorm building; a bright flash in the surrounding atmosphere sends his senses on high alert, the subsequent booming of thunder that sounded to him like the growling of a vicious predator following soon after. As if on cue, the mostly-pleasant rainfall turns far harsher, slapping at the blonde's body with a fury that reminded him of his mother on her worst days.

For but a moment he's mesmerized by the way the water strikes at the ground and ricochets back up at his feet as it falls in thick, grey sheets from the impassive expanse looming above. But when he raises his head to assess his quickly darkening surroundings, the small part of his mind where logic still prevails urges him to move, to do anything other than just stand there like a gaping fish, and yet Bakugo finds his body to be frustratingly unresponsive and unable to cross the short distance to the threshold where warmth and shelter awaited him.

It feels as though something opens right at the tips of his toes as he stands there, opens like a yawn, like a wound. An invisible yet cavernous hole, dark and empty as the sky appears, waiting for Bakugo to make just one misstep to tumble and fall, fall, fall -

There is another flash of light overhead, a bolt of lightning splitting the sky in two with a righteous crack and leaving an electric wake in the smoky clouds. The thunder that follows somehow sounds closer, closer, howling through the trees and rattling their branches like cheap Halloween skeletons.

The sound reverberates in his head and stays there, something of it calling to mind the pallid, ghastly color of the hand affixed to the face of Shigaraki. The thought sends a primal signal throughout his nerves and on instinct, he finds his muscles curling defensively against the encroaching shadows that creep in and settle about his body like an unwelcome advance. In an effort to calm himself, Bakugo tries to affect one of the breathing exercises he learned from the shrink he's forced to see every Sunday, but his shoulders are so hunched into his neck that the breaths come in shallow and exhale in stutters.

So he doubles down, not accepting this continued feeling of failing, concentrating his inhale to the count of four and taking care to hold it in his diaphragm rather than chest for seven beats, just like he was taught in his sessions. There's a harsh popping noise that reverberates in his ear; the sound of his own jaw unclenching as he forces it open through tense muscles and pushes the withheld breath out through pursed, slightly trembling lips. He counts to eight during the exhalation, the onslaught of torrential rain continuing all the while, pelting at his body as the shadows only stretch on further and undulate in every corner of his vision. They reach out to him from the hidden nooks and crannies of the campus, like grubby little fingers inching to grab at his throat and pull him back into the black fog of the warp gate lurking behind him -

He's spiraling, he knows it. Because that's what he's always done when his emotions become too overwhelming, either spirals inward or explodes outward, and no amount of stupid breathing can replace the catharsis of all his frustrations lacing through his veins like molten lava, pooling hot in his palms to be released into crackling twin explosions at the face of his fucking enemy. The villain. Any villain.

Only there is

no one.

There isn't a League member emerging from the shadows of a warp gate behind him - there can't be, as he knows Kurogiri is locked up somewhere in the depths of inescapable Tartarus. There isn't even Deku to go all-out on like they'd recently taken to in their mutual spars, to the chagrin of the faculty.

There's just...

Himself.

It's Bakugo and his memories trailing after him like specters, adrift in a sea of black, fearful anxiety with no landmark to anchor onto while he counts his breaths in four - seven - eight - the vain hope that if he can't suddenly get his shit together, the storm just might dissipate as quickly as it had come.

And thankfully his salvation does arrive - not in the form of a sudden streak of mental clarity, or a break in the chaos swallowing around his body, but a flicker of light drawing his eyes away from the mass of writhing shadows, towards the set of the common room's stately windows.

It was faint, just a fragile shimmer, really, but through the glass he could see a little sphere of gold pulsating against all the black. Someone had turned on the kitchen light; Bakugo could just barely pick out the silhouette of a head bobbing against its dim glow. Had he the mental tether currently to check the clock on his phone, he'd realize it's just about the usual time in which he'd already have staked out a couch and Uraraka would be starting her tea, but at this point it was about all he could manage just to breathe, and to put one foot in front of the other, finally unfreezing his limbs enough to slowly move forward.

He keeps his gaze locked onto that light as if it were a beacon beckoning home a lost sailor, all the way up until when his trembling hand is pushing on the cool wood of the door.

The hole beneath him closes, if only temporarily, and he walks on.

As Bakugo presses himself flat against the hideously bright lime-colored cushions of one of the common room's couches, he thinks about how shit of an interior designer you must be to puke up this many different shades of green in one room and call it good. He thinks that his father could likely design a better color scheme while in a coma. Hell, he thinks Sparkly Fuck could probably design a more palatable interior.

With bicep thrown hard over his squeezed-shut eyes, he tries to think about literally anything he can get his mind to latch onto that isn't

that

smell.

Normally the routine was thus: awaken to varyingly rude degrees, depending on just how vividly the nightmare had his unconsciousness in its grip, in the 3:30am range. Stalk down to the 50-meter running track situated halfway between the Heights Alliance dorms and main school building, and drive his body so near to its breaking point there's no room left in him to feel or think about anything other than the fervor of his heartbeat pounding like his own personal drums of war in his head.

The morning would typically then continue with a quick shower, followed by collapsing onto the couch a short while for the recommended "meditation" exercise from his shrink (which, absolutely hell no he did not do - besides, lying there and listening to the sounds of Round Face messing about in the kitchen had somehow become a calming source of expected stability enough on their own) and finally fix up a simple protein-laden breakfast once she departed.

Most days erred thankfully on the mild side, close to "normal". He'd wake up slightly sleep-deprived and kind of just irritated for the most part; couldn't even remember the nightmares every morning.

Sure, his new "normal" now came with this underlying curtain of dull anxiousness, crackling just underneath the surface of it all. Like a television left on in a dark room for hours on end, displaying nothing but snowy black-and-white static. But it wasn't all something Bakugo Katsuki couldn't handle, in fact what even was there to handle?

He was fine, and he told his shrink and his mom and his dad just as much, the only souls he's ever forced any of this out to. Not even Sharkface had been privy to his thoughts and feelings after the ordeal, much as he tried to get Bakugo to spill anything.

"I'm just worried, dude. I know I'd be all sorts of fucked up if I had to go through what you did."

...then there were the errant days like today, the worst of it, with paranoia settling into the shadowed corners of his mind like a squatter hiding out in an attic.

Where Four Eyes or Ponytail were undoubtedly going to have a conniption at the state his drenched clothing was leaving the shitty couch he was plastered to, because his equally-shitty brain decided it was a good time to have a panic attack in the middle of one of the worst storms they'd seen in years.

When something as simple as the musky - once pleasant - scent of petrichor in the air seeps through his nostrils and harkens back to the cloyingly thick stench of bones, earth, and decay. Drives him into feeling like if he just opened his tightly-clenched eyes, there Shigaraki would be, looming over him with a wrinkled stretch of lips that said, "Look how small we've made you".

Furtive shadows and the smallest of noises were no longer just that, but predators; his headspace felt so driven by fear, so alien to him, that he wasn't even sure if he was the Bakugo fucking Katsuki anymore.

...but, he argued these days were rare enough to be passed off as a simple anomaly to be weathered and move on - it's not as if there was actually something wrong with him, right..?

He was just. fine.

Each instance of thunder claps against the building and ricochets back out into the atmosphere like a warning, like an inevitability, a caged animal stalking to and fro. Though the windows are tightly shut and the blonde is practically shoving his face into the well-worn polyester of the cushions like some maniac with an asphyxiation fetish, every shallow breath inhaled finds Bakugo's jaw clenching and his stomach roiling as the taste of wet soil impossibly fills his mouth and slithers into his lungs.

So, of fucking course there was something wrong with him - if he could, he'd blast the face of the stupid self-sabotaging nitwit version of himself that obstinately chose to believe otherwise. The Bakugo who grit his teeth, weathered the storm, and walked on without looking back.

Pretending there wasn't even anything he was walking away from.

That side of Bakugo could play his cyclical little game of weathering/forgetting as much as he'd like, but in the end he still had to deal with the fallout of it; the ghosts of the memories drifting in his head and clinging about his heart like so many cobwebs.

The sludge villain. The League. All Might. …Deku.

There was a time he had screamed out to the indifference of the universe - Why...why was it me? - as he took his frustrations out the only way he knew how, and despite all the moments he and Deku have met to beat the living shit out of each other since then (at least more mutually, this time) he's yet to come any closer to an answer. That familiar torrent of frustration, along with this newer feeling of helplessness, rises up from the depths of his stomach and climbs his throat like a bile he can't swallow. His thoughts are sinking dangerously once again, self-deprecating and circular.

Thankfully before he falls too far, a noise breaks through the periphery of chaos he's barely seeming to keep his mind afloat on. It's...bright, bell-like, soothes his splintered nerves with the comfort of familiarity.

Ginger and mint; warmth. Something else, slightly more fruity, whispering just around the edges - the scent of Uraraka - they're the smells that mingle and dance within the bright noises, calming his breathing to a less labored rhythm.

He hasn't been to an Obon festival since a near-forgotten time in his youth (his father was obsessed for a time with deriving fashion inspirations from them), but he is briefly struck with a vision of the Shinto priestesses and their slow, graceful parade as they ring bells and burn sticks of incense as a means to clear the air of impurities.

It's as if Uraraka's approach is like the procession of those priestesses; warding away the taint of phantoms he otherwise couldn't seem to escape.

Yet he keeps his eyes clenched shut - hoping his silent scowl is effective in willing her away (though when had it ever been), as he had no trust in his voice right now to not become some shaky, vulnerable thing. Why, of all days, did she have to choose this one to leave her bubble and enter his?

But he can't deny the ease of breathing that comes to him with her presence, so he doesn't even flinch away when, surprisingly, he feels four fingers oh so softly settle over the clench of his fist. Images of a piercing red gaze and twisted grin gnawing insistently at the edges of his mind dissolve away, like steam leaving the confines of a teacup. The core of his whole being focuses instead on the smell of ginger-mint warming his nostrils. The way his muscles relax in a way that's so difficult to achieve on his own as her thumb traces the most tentative, gentle circles over the ridge of his knuckles.

He dares then to finally open his eyes, the blackness of his lids replaced with the paleness of the girl gazing up at him from her position on the floor. The common room is still dark in the pre-dawn, the lack of lighting somehow making her face appear even brighter than ever against the darkness, those cheeks of hers shining pale and round like the damn moon.

She's resting a said cheek against her left arm - occupying the miniscule amount of space left to her on the couch - Bakugo having shoved himself as far into the back of it as he could in his episode, like a frightened animal. Her other hand is stretched over the fist he had clutched to his chest, her fingers still ghosting a feather-light dance over his skin. Perhaps under different circumstances he'd explode at the absolute audacity of her to invade his personal space like this, but instead anything he could possibly want - or not want - to say dies in his throat with the involuntary hitching of quick breaths. They are not born of panic, this time.

He tells himself it's just the proximity that has him noting details that couldn't be of any import outside of this moment - the faint, asymmetrical dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, above the pink of her cheeks. The strange, velvet feeling of the pads of her fingers moving against his skin - rough and soft at the same time. The thin bands of molten gold surrounding the pitch-black of her pupils, twin solar eclipses that were gradually sucking his fear, his doubts, into them.

That gaze roves over his face slowly, thoughtfully, those warm fucking eyes of hers melting like the sweetness of milk chocolate and toffee, and his brain is scrambling to compare the look with one she's ever given to any of those extras - deku, glasses, hell even frogger - and yet comes up short. There's a part of him he can't seem to stamp out that feels relief in the fact he doesn't see pity - there's just infinite patience and her signature brand of kindness shining through.

It feels like an eternity that they're staring at each other, and distantly he becomes aware of the fact he hasn't heard nor seen a trace of the thunder and lightning for some time. The savagery of the storm has devolved into something almost innocent, almost peaceful, in the tintintin noises of water striking against glass. But though his hackles have settled just a little there's now an entirely different part of him on guard as her scrutinizing pierces right through him.

Just like it always has.

As vulnerable as he's already feeling, Bakugo almost - almost - begins to squirm under the intensity of it, but then something shifts in the liquid of her cocoa eyes, quick and sure as a cat and with too much depth for him to even begin to decipher in so short a moment.

She then moves, lifting her head just a little, like rousing from some kind of witchy priestess divination. Her features take on that look - the one where her brows scrunch inward just a tad and the line of her lips turns ever so slightly harder - and Bakugo has learned by now that it means she's about to face a challenge head-on (he doesn't stop to think why he's filed that piece of knowledge away, or how he sometimes just might have been said challenge).

"I made you a tea," her voice floats over the pattering of rain against the windows, and the tone seems to suggest she's expecting resistance but will brook no argument. The movement of her fingers on his still, the ensuing silence hushed and waiting for his answer.

"Well who fucking asked you to do that, Moon Face?" he obliges. Those eclipses of hers shutter once, twice, giving him enough time to feel the pang of embarrassment at how soft his voice had sounded.

Always softer than he intends, with her.

And then she's laughing, not the sort of straight-from-the-belly sputter he finds himself straining to hear in the background of his days, but something more breathy and and...sweet is the only word his staggering brain can come up with. Sweet because it leaves a spun sugar taste in his mouth, makes him feel like this laugh of hers was made for him. The surge of pride that swells up at the thought surprises him, leaves him off-kilter, because why the hell should he care about who he can make laugh?

And yet it's undeniably there, sitting heavy and foreign in the pit of his stomach as all he can manage to do is stare dumbly after Uraraka as she scoots back and turns towards the low-set table behind her.

"I'm glad you're still your foul-mouthed self, Bakugo." She speaks over the familiar sounds of cups clinking together. True to her word, she's swinging back around with not one, but two round, obnoxiously pink mugs and he must be making a face because a bit of the laughter still shining in her eyes hardens into that stubbornness once again.

"And why wouldn't I be?" Bakugo grouses as he schooches up into a sitting position. He finds himself taking the proffered cup - partially out of reflex, and partially because he has a feeling she'd hold it there in front of his face well into the hours they'd need already be in class, if she had to.

"You tell me", she responds. Soft and gentle, but not prodding.

His eyes narrow, and he evasively stares down into the swirling gold liquid and the steam rising towards his face, a myriad of different answers stuck on the tip of his tongue. "There's no reason", "It's none of your business"; but the first was a lie and Bakugo didn't respect blatant falsities. And the second…

It may well have been the truth, yet the blonde can't seem to force it out regardless as she levels him with a gaze so undemanding, so patient, so unlike what he's used to. Her head cocks ever so slightly to the side, the front of her long bangs dipping past her shoulder with the movement, and he can't seem to help it when eyes wander up from his cup to the bare skin revealed as her oversized sweater starts to slide downward, where he also can't help noticing the freckles peppering the tips of her naked shoulder, too.

A milky morning light is starting to delicately finger through the windows, an act of defiance against the stormy clouds, and touches that bare skin with the sort of reverence akin to the lump that's sitting in his throat, constricting his thoughts.

He finds himself distracted, focusing on the way the early sun halos behind her in a way that's nothing short of ethereal - a word Bakugo's fairly certain he's never attributed to anything in his life, until now - and the thought that she could get most heathens down on their knees and praying streaks through his mind white-hot like a comet. Startling in its magnitude, yet gone so quick one couldn't even be sure it was ever there.

With a jerk, he brings the rim of the mug to his lips in lieu of answering and takes a long pull, lest this beguiling, honeyed atmosphere causes him to blurt something better kept behind closed lips. Things better not even thought at all, really.

The tea is still warm, a nice distraction, slides down his throat like a soothing balm; the spice of the ginger prickles his throat before the cooling of mint chases it. They weren't the flavors he would have expected from her, and though he had wholly intended on remaining silent until she finally took her fucking cue and left, before he can stop himself his mouth is running ahead of his mind, as it so often does.

"Pegged you more for a fruit or flowery shit type of chick."

Uraraka smiles around her own mug before taking a probing sip, humming contentedly upon finding the temperature desirable. She doesn't seem perturbed at his bypassing of her questioning, pseudo as it was anyway, and considers his comment for a moment before appearing to settle in further where she's seated.

Damn it.

"I like those kinds of things, too, thank you very much." She bites back, but he can see the slight curling of a grin peeking out from one side of her mug. Then she's shifting back closer to him, delicately balancing the hot liquid held between both hands while her lower half does this weird forward-scuttle towards the couch and frankly it's so fucking stupid-looking with her cheeks all puffed up in concentration that it's also somehow terribly enearing-

His heart is doing that mad dance again. Only it twinges in a way that's almost pleasurable in its pain, and when he blinks this time it's the glint of laughter in her eyes and the lift of her lips that paints itself against the canvas of his lids.

He is not too proud to admit all these strangely soft thoughts, these feelings and images, are more pleasant compared to the bleakness of his earlier morning, and yet it's all still its own kind of...

terrifying.

"What I don't like is that I've been getting up so early." she interrupts the mini personal crisis blooming in his chest, and to keep up appearances (for her, or himself - he's not quite sure) Bakugo snorts derisively as a response into his own mug. He takes another drink as he peers down at her, noting the wry twist of her mouth as she watches the encroaching daylight filter in through the windows.

A normal person is supposed to say something here in the conversation, he knows. Encourage her to continue with an inquiry or whatever, but he is him and she is her; meaning, she knows it'd normally be a wonder in of itself that he hasn't just fucked off, or told her to fuck off. Which is why he just nurses the tea that she had made for him without asking (because he likes it anyway) and Uraraka continues on talking to him at her own pace (which he allows because - and this one was tougher to admit - he likes it anyway).

"But to be honest, you've actually been my inspiration in waking up this early, Bakugo-kun. For a bit now, I've been coming down early to make this tea, like part of a...routine."

Bakugo brings his cup down to his lap. Eyes narrow and slide down her deceptively relaxed form, yet he can still practically taste that she was withholding some key part in her admittance. He swings his gaze back up to the face staring up at him and Uraraka holds it unwaveringly; red cinnamon smoldering into brown.

"Hah? And just how did I inspire that?" he eventually gruffs out. Uraraka pauses to take in a little breath before answering, as if testing the words out in her mind before giving them form.

"There was a morning, not long after the events of the Shie Hassaikai raid, that I woke up from a dreadful nightmare. I mean the kind so...so viscerally real feeling, that I thought - when I awoke, I really felt that everyone- that you, had just, gone ahead without me, and gotten hurt, or worse...and I was left there just floating and floating…"

She brings an index finger up to one of those pink cheeks, scratching in a gesture he thinks might signify embarrassment, and there's some part of him that wants to tell her stop - to not fuckin' be, because she shouldn't feel shame for finding the strength to do what he could not and speak aloud the things that made her stomach twist with fear.

But he doesn't. Because he is Bakugo Katuski and she is Uraraka Ochako and frankly this whole moment, flush with soft looks and a quiet that spoke louder than the chaos in his head, was already kinda bizarro world enough without him adding to it.

"I hadn't accidentally floated myself in my sleep since I was a little girl," she continues, her voice softer now but more steady and with less of the stutters, "during the rare occasion I had a nightmare so bad I'd end up tearing my mittens off in the throes of it. I'd have to run into my parents' bed afterwards to get back to sleep, yknow?"

He did know, in a way. He did because he's had so many nightmares of his own - only they were happening now, and he sure as hell didn't run to anyone's bed for comfort after (even if he thinks his mother would open her arms for him, could he ever manage being the first one to reach out).

Instead, he just ran.

Bakugo watches the hand at her cheek move south, settling absentmindedly against her stomach, and the stray thought shoots through his mind that she tends to do that after she's overused her quirk. It's an observation he doesn't remember committing to memory but it was there all the same. And if he really dug down and thought about it, it was far from the only one of its kind, somehow a plethora of useless facts and pieces of knowledge specifically about Uraraka drifting around the edges of his mind like stubborn little dandelion seeds.

"You feelin sick or somethin'? I'd tell ya not to go and blow chunks over the furniture but to be perfectly fuckin' honest it wouldn't really hurt the aesthetic all that much." the blonde finds himself blurting out into the tension of her confession.

Uraraka's hand quickly moves back up to her face, muffling the bright, tinkling sounds prompted from her mouth and damn, it's like there's lightning in the room now, shooting straight into his chest and leaving him feeling all weird and electric as she laughs for him. He feels nearly thunderstruck by the sensation; eventually he realizes he's been sitting there well past the time her laughter has died down, sitting there gawking and looking like a...like a damned fluff-haired geek.

As he tries to shake vestiges of the sparks popping concerningly off in his sternum, words float in and out of his ears, snatches of her ramblings he's just barely able to catch hold of. Something about this being the same tea her mother would make for her as a kid when her quirk, and its accompanying nausea, manifested. A reaffirmation of her hatred of the early morning hours. All Might knows what else.

Apparently she'd been talking at him for long enough that his silence had gotten her on that self-deprecating shit that irritates him so badly; were one hand not preoccupied with cradling her comically giant mug and the other flush against an extra-pink cheek, he'd bet they'd be doing that ridiculous, frantic flapping about her head like panicked birds.

"A-ah, sorry Bakugo-kun, I'm sure you don't actually want to hear my ramblings! I-I haven't actually spoken to anyone about my bad dreams, I've kind of just kept them inside and didn't want to burden anyone - oh! N-not that I want to burden you right now, of course -"

"Cheeks!" Bakugo barks, as quietly as possible for him. He didn't have a good pulse on what time it was anymore, and the very last thing he wanted was some air-headed classmate strolling in and thinking sitting and drinking tea in pink mugs and talking about feelings was something he'd do with anyone.

Because it wasn't.

Just with her, apparently. Just this once. Because he was curious if there was anything else floating in the head of Class 1-A's resident Angel-Face besides cotton candy clouds and mochi bunnies.

...yeah, just a simple curiosity. He was allowed a rare indulgence in that, he thinks, after the continuous exhaustion of the past few months.

And okay, even if he does actually know there's other bad-ass, respectable things taking up space in her mind like a true desire to help people, or a myriad of martial arts moves mastered way too quick, or all of her friends favorite snacks filed away in memory, maybe he really just wants to be able to take solace in the presence of someone's voice filling the silence (hers, the back of his mind whispers), to not want to go back to the sound of absence from his morning.

But fuck does that underselling of herself she does really grind his grenadiers.

The blonde clears his throat and pins her sputtering visage under a stare he hoped was serious enough to get her to quit the rambling, but not so severe she decided to quit talking altogether.

"I'm not going to say listening to you word-vomit after ambushing me at fuck-all in the morning was at the top of my itinerary, but we both know you're a stubborn little wench," she makes an indignant face at that, "who won't let me go in peace if I don't drink this shit so you might as well keep goin' til I'm done. And you know, maybe finally answer the damn question of what your masochistic morning ritual's got to do with me."

He takes another gulp to complete the show of it, averting his eyes from the orbs of liquid chocolate blinking owlishly up at him. And yet he finds his gaze to be a traitor - no sooner than it's left her face does it drift back over to catch the spread of a smile; a slow, brilliant sunrise of warm pinks lighting up her pale planes, crinkles scrunching up underneath those curved browns.

She heaves her shoulders upwards while letting out one of those breathy little laughs, and Bakugo watches a fleeting shadow pass over her face, dark as a skittering forest creature. The soft smile she still adorned was all at odds, and he has to bite back a frown while wondering how often Uraraka would keep on smiling when all she wanted to do was sigh or scream or cry.

"Despite being awake at such an ungodly hour," she starts to pick up again, with a pause just long enough to catch his not-so-subtle eye roll, "it wouldn't let me fall back asleep. The...dream, that morning after the raid. And when it woke me, I had all this...adrenaline pumping through my body, all keyed up from the nightmare I suppose, but it definitely wasn't the satisfying kind of feeling, like after a good training session.

"And the nausea…" Uraraka once again places a hand delicately against her belly, as if she could feel the ghost of it still seething in her insides. "It wasn't unlike how I feel after overusing my quirk. Suddenly my room felt so stifling, like, like the whole thing had turned into the jaws of this great beast that were slowly closing in on me, so I just had to get out of it."

Bakugo's eyes widen at her admittance, shocked that she could describe the same panic he felt so eerily well.

"I found myself out on my balcony, hoping the fresh air would help snap me back to normal. And then…" Uraraka pauses again, bringing her mug up to her lips to take a musing little sip.

He realizes her eyes are fixed on him, though, peering up at him from underneath hooded lashes. The reflection of the tea in her cup casts a golden hue against the irises of her eyes. There's something he can't quite decipher in that gaze - expectation he didn't understand, maybe - and the longer he stares at those honeyed-chocolate pools, the more he feels - wants? - as if he's going to fall into them and never emerge.

Before he can work out that kinda fucked-up thought, words are tumbling from his mouth, unbidden.

"And then you saw me."

She nods, that glint in her eyes sharpening in approval as if he delivered into her expectation, though the almost trepidatious set to her shoulders gives him pause.

Something twists in his gut at the thought of something being privy to the metaphorical running from his inner demons; never had he stopped to think of whose room overlooked the tracks he used, banking on the fact he viewed most everyone else as incapable of even entertaining the thought of being up that early. If it had been anyone other than Uraraka, he considers, he's sure his morning was unlikely to appear as anything other than a routine warm-up from a workaholic.

But of course it was Uraraka. Uraraka and her batshit ability to read him as easily and sharply as he knew she read the sales coupons in the paper every day.

"And then I saw you," she confirms, "running full-speed down the tracks and I thought, 'Oh wow I knew Bakugo-Kun was mercilessly dedicated, but to be this pumped up for training so early in the morning!' Your drive is always an impressive sight, and watching you push and push yourself I got to forget about the dark, unsettling thunderclouds in my head, the nausea coiling in my stomach. Instead I just felt...inspired."

A snort escapes Bakugo, and it's not quite as sarcastic as he would have ordinarily liked. Maybe it was the gauzy atmosphere of just the two of them hanging over his head and lulling him into a disarmed comfort, or maybe it was the warm, golden feeling spreading through his limbs as she recounted her admiration of him. He's always been a sucker for praise.

Yet through all that, he can feel something else settled in between the spaces of words unspoken, the truth he feared to hear, but couldn't help but bring to life anyway in a scratchy croaking:

"But."

"Buuut…" Uraraka echoes. Her eyes slide away from his own, looking into a far-off corner where the last of the shadows have huddled together in defiance. Gone seems to be any trace of the hesitancy that had surrounded her like a delicate latticework; her relaxed posture straightens as her gaze hardens into cooled chocolate, dark and seemingly daring those shadows to even think about emerging from what will be their final resting place.

"The second time, it wasn't quite an accident, when I went back out to my balcony again and found you tearing down the tracks the next morning. I don't know exactly what it was that compelled me other than everything I had done that first time working so perfectly at helping me to feel better, so I just...continued it. Banking on a kind of superstition was better than wallowing in my bed." She brings her shoulders upwards in a little shrug.

Something began to click in Bakugo's brain, like puzzle pieces fitting together with such a veracity it was almost audible to him.

"You've been watching me...every day, since you first saw me out there." Her responding smile reads - what the hell is that banal saying Mina's spouting all the time - sorry not sorry.

The timing worked out perfectly - he'd run and run, trying to outpace the shadowy grasp of his memories, as she played audience from her balcony for fuck knows whatever reason, and then when he departed to the showers, she'd climb downstairs and make her tea.

She hums out an affirmation, no longer even having the decency to look embarrassed. "Like I said, you inspired my ritual. So much so that I guess I kind of just made you part of it?"

Uncomfortable with his newfound knowledge, Bakugo shifts in his seat, disgruntled at finding the cushion still damp. "You mean your creepy new hobby of acting like a stalker." His lips twist in a displeased pucker, "Like Purple Balls or some shit."

She jerks at that, looking truly offended by him for perhaps the first time ever, a protest immediately bubbling to her lips.

"It's not like that! It's not like that at all…"

"Then what is it like? You laughin' at me or somethin'? Is it getting your rocks off? Or, and this is the fuckin' worst, you tryna gather some kind of intel for Shitty Deku to take me down?"

Uraraka pinches at the bridge of her nose in the middle of his tirade, letting out a curt sigh that sounds worryingly like his mother.

"Intel? For Deku? What does that even mean? Honestly you're being quite dumb, Kacchan."

Which, of course, he knows. He knows. He's being completely irrational and lashing out towards one of the last people he can safely admit he'd ever want to, but if she's watched him every morning it's pretty damn likely she's stumbled across information he's not sure he's ready for anyone else to hold on to, despite the fact she'd probably keep it safer than even he would.

But he just can't fucking stop the deluge of...feelings, he feels rising up from the depths his stomach, like he's swallowed too much ocean water in a panic, black and icy. He doesn't know what to do with it, how to spit it all back up, other than falling back on what he's good at - getting angry.

His grip on her dumb, pink mug tightens - trying to glean any semblance of warmth - but Uraraka's next words do nothing to assuage the way he can feel himself slipping into the dark, into the cold, teetering along the edges of that vast pit once again. He can practically hear the cracks beginning to take form in the walls of the safe little bubble they had unwittingly been taking pains to build around each other each morning.

"I just, I just started to see something, as the days went on. I watched you run, and the less it looked like you were doing a simple morning warm-up, and the more it looked like you were...running from something. I couldn't keep this little voice out of my head that was saying you weren't out there hurtling your body down the tracks because you wanted to, but because you had to."

And suddenly, as her words fall into the tense pit building between them, that soft, hazy veil draped over the two of them turns to glass, and shatters. An inky blackness bleeds from the cracks and creeps in towards his periphery, obscuring the steadily brightening light of the morning sun, tunneling and tunneling. Bakugo finds his eyes sliding to a close as he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, the last pinpoint of an image amidst the darkness being a flash of moon-round paleness moving nearer to him.

Damn this girl. Damn her and her stupidly big eyes with all their glittery warmth, sharp as diamonds, that shouldn't be able to cut through him the way they did; damn her for seeming to discover parts of himself before even he was aware of their existence.

This whole time she had seen, known - she was watching him through his, his weakness -

He's vaguely aware of her voice trying to reach him, but his mind is in a free fall now, as if he'd finally tipped over the ledge of that boundless space that was always threatening to swallow him whenever he lost control. It's like he's being thrown all the way back to this morning, all the work of his run and routine so quickly undone by the knowledge of…

…of what? Why did it scare him almost as much as the specters of his memories themselves, knowing she saw them too?

Because it makes everything so much more real, Bakugo realizes. If he allows Uraraka to take his fear, to cradle it in her palms - no matter how gentle he knows she'll be - he doesn't think he'll ever be able to just fuckin' shove it away in the dark, dusty recesses of his mind ever again.

He'll have to do more than just run.

"Hey, hey, I'm here."

A light touch on his cheeks somehow manages to break through the thoughts he's drowning himself in, gives him a tether to start pulling himself up on. He cracks open an eye and sucks in air like a man drowning, struggling to work past the angry lump fisted in his throat.

Uraraka is close once again, closer than before, to the point that he can smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo mingle with the smell of the tea on her breath as she holds his face with eight fingers. Her touch is light but sure, and he finds himself breathing in tandem with her steadying inhales and exhales, and it feels as natural as the exercises he's come to lean on. He lets himself zone out, trying to let go of the anger he didn't even want, as her warm brown gaze bores into his own. Distantly he wonders how she seemed so experienced at setting the pace of their breaths in such a rhythmic manner.

Like she could read the question in his eyes, she offers an answer into the quiet of the morning. "You're not the only one fighting something behind closed doors, Bakugo Katsuki." Her brows draw together as she speaks, tone the same blend of stern-yet-gentle like when she confronted him about Deku all those months ago.

"You're not the only one with a guilt that wraps around their heart, a tingle of fear crouched at the base of their spine no matter how much fun they're having with their friends or how much focus they try to pour into class or...or the only one who sees things they don't want to see behind shuttered lids as they try and fail to get to sleep at night. When I'd like to be dreaming about my papa's smile or making mochi with mama, instead it's just Sir Nighteye sadly gazing up from my lap as the life drains from his body!"

Bakugo doesn't realize when he'd started leaning in even closer to Uraraka, but her voice shudders, cracks, building in its crescendo and he finds himself setting the forgotten tea on the ground as he unconsciously closes the gap.

"I don't ever want to feel as helpless as I did then, losing someone right in front of me without being capable of doing anything for them. I'm not so naive to think that I'll be able to save everyone, I will lose people. But being a hero means that I have- that I have to try my hardest, every single t-time…I have to try..."

A glint draws in the blonde's vision; unshed tears pooling in the corner of her eyes, reflecting the growing sunlight. The way they shimmer strikes a feeling within Bakugo both familiar and far unlike when tears pour out of idiot Deku - he wants them to stop, only this time he has a near-overwhelming compulsion to reach out and catch the glistening pearls on the tip of his finger, instead of simply yelling at her.

And yet despite the threat of their descent, Bakugo thinks Uraraka has never looked more...heroic.

Her voice tapers off with her hiccups, then hushes completely as Bakugo slowly reaches out to grasp at both of her wrists with his hands. His fingers close around and dwarf them, and inanely he wonders if she's grossed out by the sweat slicking his palms. The insecurity is pushed aside as he watches the inner war play out on her face, mouth doing an open-close-open-close dance he'd laugh at if the situation didn't feel so heavy.

Her eyes are wide as she stares back at him, possibly even more shocked than himself at his unusual action, or perhaps the surprise was directed inward, towards the confessions that had ripped out of her body like a tornado and left an eerie calm in its wake.

Bakugo absolutely did not think this through; what the hell does he do now? She has yet to let go of his face with her shaking fingers and his own hands are still clamped awkwardly about her tiny wrists, but somehow in the heat of the moment it had just felt...right, to reach out to her, like she had done for him. He thinks about the difference of their touch; the tentative but soothing circles she had drawn on his hands seemed far too tender for the explosive hero-to-be to replicate, and frankly he didn't have much of a frame of reference to work off of in regards to...well, offering any kind of comfort, really.

But maybe whatever he was doing was enough for Uraraka, anyway, as the anxious rise and fall of her chest slows after a bit, though her fingertips still tremble lightly against his cheeks, a fluttering little drumbeat. She blinks and breathes, blinks and breathes, and he gives her whatever time she needs because she did the same for him; would no doubt continue to do so.

By this point the sun was flooding through the common room in strong waves, heedless of the weighted scene it was illuminating. In the light, he could see the blush staining high on her cheeks as if she's suddenly acutely aware of just how close their proximity was and now felt embarrassed. Bakugo is somehow unsurprised that he does not feel thus, that their entanglement just felt...correct.

Which is why it feels like something to mourn when she finally extricates herself from his grasp, the places on his face now cold with the absence of her touch. Squeaking out what sounds like an apology as she scoots back, sitting on her heels in between him and the low-set table once again. She picks up her mug, her own tea long-since drained, and idly moves it between her hands while seeming to contemplate something in its empty depths.

"I'm sorry again, Bakugo-kun. I know as well as anyone else how important your personal space is to you and I didn't even stop to think about how all I've actually been doing is intruding." Her lips purse outwards ever so slightly as she carefully picks through the words she wants to say, feeling the tension still suffocatingly thick in the air, but knowing she has to be as honest as he was due. He sees that effort she's making, and respects it, though old habits die hard and he can't quite stave off the defensiveness that prickles up and down his spine.

"I really wasn't trying to…see something you wouldn't want me to. But I did, and somehow I came to feel like we were sharing our pain together."

She's seemed to dam the emotion spilling out through her words as she speaks this time, yet he's startled to find they cut through his chest all the same. Suddenly he felt guilty, selfish, stupid, as he watches her continue to fiddle with the empty mug resting limply against her lap.

He thinks about the fact that same lap had once cradled the head of a dying man - he hadn't known that shit. He realizes he doesn't know much about any of the shit that went on during the Shie Hassaikai raid, other than the bare necessities their teachers had divulged. Not even Kiri had talked to him about it, but now his muddled mind can't recall if it was for a lack of the redhead's trying, or if he had just been such a shut-up asshole failing at dealing with his own trauma that he never even realized attempts were being made.

He coughs awkwardly into the silence and turns his head to the side before speaking, still not quite feeling comfortable enough to look her in the eye after the morning's rollercoaster ride of emotions. "Hey we're uh, late for class. We should go." He points a finger towards the clock set above the TV and she turns slightly to follow the movement.

Bakugo notices her shoulders slump, but she moves to get up with a near-silent sigh. As she picks up her mug and makes to collect the one sitting at his feet as well, he lightly kicks at it, putting it just out of her grasp. When the brunette looks up at him with a slight, confused frown, he takes the opportunity to grab at her wrist again - this time with a gentler hold (at least, he thinks it's gentler).

"Your dumb tea was good. I'd have some more tomorrow." Her frown starts to invert as she slowly blinks at him, and Bakugo finds it within himself to look at her straight-on, delivering the best attempt that he had in him right then at his classic smirk. "Mug needs to be way less pink, though."

An ease starts to settle in again as she softly laughs, Bakugo finally peeling himself and his still-damp clothing uncomfortably from that infernal couch. The pair converses lightly and quietly, mostly about upcoming school work and the latest Mineta debacles as they begin their meandering way back to their respective rooms.

Her door comes up first, the blonde giving her a curt nod and she an airy wave back, before she slips into the small crack she allotted as an entryway. As he makes his way into his own bedroom, he wonders if Uraraka was embarrassed about her lack of furnishings, knowing from class gossip that she had one of the more sparse rooms of 1A. He looks about his own simply decorated interior as he changes into his uniform, a strange feeling of satisfaction settling into his chest when he thinks about this similarity of theirs. As if such a detail should matter to him at all.

Bakugo finds himself getting ready with a bit more urgency than normal, and strangely he doesn't think it's because he's tardy for the first time ever. He's maybe even kinda hoping he ends up leaving before her so that he can wait outside her door, and it'll only make sense to end up walking to class together.

No particular reason really, he just…wants to.

He lets out a resigned grunt as that self-realization nudges annoyingly against his heart. He finishes up by slipping on his loafers and grabbing the school bag he keeps on the hook on his door, homework already long complete and tucked inside. But his plan ends up being foiled slightly when he opens his door to see Uraraka leaning against the wall opposite.

She gives him a grin that sits somewhere between something shy and cheeky; "For some reason I didn't really feel like taking the walk to class alone, hehe." The brunette scratches at the back of her neck as Bakugo "tchs", which she takes as his wordless acquiescence to allowing her presence.

They're near-silent on the way this time; to any casual observer that may have caught the pair, they likely looked no different than they ever had. She's walking slightly ahead of him with her arms laced behind her back and a soft smile on her face. He's slouching down the hallway with one hand shoved in his pockets, bag haphazardly thrown over his other shoulder. But they both feel it - this thread connecting them now, this ginger-tea scented tendril of smoke.

There's some mild chastising from Aizawa regarding their tardiness when they enter; he's likely either too tired himself to go deeper into it, or perhaps he's choosing to be lenient since they're not the usual offenders.

Uraraka bows deeply anyway before practically jumping over to her seat; Bakugo catches Kiri's eye before sliding into his own. The redhead perks a stubby brow as Bakugo mouths to him, "after class".

Time passes quickly, class being nearly cut in half for him, after all, and eventually most of the students file out. A tenseness sits between Bakugo's shoulders as Kiri rumbles up to his desk, curiosity openly decorating the planes of his face.

"What's up, Bakubro? Lately you've been jetting out of class like a bat outta hell."

Bakugo lets out a curt sigh, a pang of guilt twisting at his heart.

"Uh yeah, I just wanted to-" The blonde realizes he's staring at his fists clenched upon the surface of his desk; he takes in a slow, steadying breath and forces his head to look his friend in the eye.

"Look, I know I've been a real shithead lately. I mean even more than I'm comfortable with. Things have been…tough. But I'm realizing that's not true for just me. But uh, I wanted to ask about resuming our training and shit together. I can't do Sundays anymore. I- I go to therapy on Sundays now, so yeah, maybe a different day after classes. Or after I force you to do your homework-"

"Wow." The redhead breathes out, interrupting the word-explosion bursting from his mouth. Bakugo feels a muscle near his lips twitch, but Kirishima continues before he can process whatever emotion is starting to burn in his chest.

"You're going to therapy? That's so manly, dude! I've been thinking about it myself to be honest, Mina suggested it after I had a breakdown on her one day after all the Shie Hassaikai stuff."

Bakugo exhales the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Yeah, well, my parents made me and junk but…I guess it's been good, or whatever."

His friend beams down at him as Bakugo gathers his things, chatting away energetically as they make their way out of class as if they hadn't seen each other in ages.

Which, Bakugo supposes, isn't untrue in its own way. He'd allowed himself to be swallowed by the darkness of his own torment these past months, even if he stubbornly refused to let himself see that, existing mostly a shell of his true self. But this time he can see all the equally stubborn flickers of light that will never go out, beckoning him onwards-

There's the sound of cups clinking together, drowning out the echoes of mocking jeers.

The wafting of tea on the still morning air settles his senses, helping him forget the sour stench of twisted grins leering down at him.

And the bonds of friendships forged together in fire and tempered by solidarity support him as he continues forward, giving him the strength to walk on steady and strong, over gaping chasms of doubt and past the remnant memories of gnarled hands reaching towards him.