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It was late afternoon, and the class 2-A homeroom had almost completely emptied. Chairs were half pushed in, the blinds were drawn, and it was quiet.
Katsuki was the last student to leave. He was halfway to the door, his schoolbag slung over one shoulder, the other hand jammed deep into the bottom of his uniform pants pocket. The distant noise of chairs scraping and the soft hum of students chattering outside in the hall felt like white noise, both agitating and relaxing him all at once.
“Bakugou.”
Aizawa called out; he didn’t raise his voice, he never seemed to need to, to make people listen.
Katsuki stilled mid-step, his shoulders tensing. He refused to turn around immediately like some sort of pet dog. He already had an idea what this would be about.
Slowly, he pivoted, his jaw clenched tightly, “What?”
Aizawa was standing behind his desk, holding a couple of thin sheets of paper in his right hand. It was wrinkled and creased at the edges, due to Katsuki’s recent habit of stuffing his homework into his bag without a binder. He could see his rushed handwriting, a few words smudged, looking as though he had tried to finish the assignment before the ink from the first word dried.
Aizawa didn’t look angry. Tired, maybe. Or detached, that was probably the better word.
“I’m not grading this,” he spoke flatly.
Katsuki’s glare sharpened, “Why? You forget how to do your job or something?”
Aizawa exhaled, slow and bored-sounding. “No. I mean this,” he lifted the essay, gesturing it towards Katsuki, “Whatever this is, isn’t worth the effort it would take to grade.”
Katsuki stiffened. The way he said
this
, like it wasn’t even a paper. Like it was beneath being called work at all.
Katsuki chewed on the inside of his cheek, “Throw it out if you hate it so much.”
“That’s not the point,” Aizawa’s tone was even as he spoke, as if this was one of the most boring conversations he’d had this year. “I’ve seen your work, Bakugou. You’re not stupid, so what is this?”
Katsuki could taste metal on his tongue, sucking in a deep breath.
“You can’t choose what assignments you want and don’t want to do; that’s not how this works. I won’t hesitate to fail you.”
“I never asked you to pass me.” Katsuki snapped back.
“What? You don’t want to be a hero anymore? Bakugou, I don’t think you understand. You’re not just here to go on missions and train with the pros. This is a school, this is your life.” Aizawa finally spoke a bit louder, crossing his arms over his chest, the paper now being folded as he held it against himself.
“I know what the hell it is.”
“So what? You want me to dismiss this and look the other way?”
“I’m not asking you for shit.” A scoff caught low in Katsuki’s throat, his eyes glaring at the paper in the teacher's hands, as if he was waiting for it to speak up and defend him to the teacher.
Aizawa raised an eyebrow, as if he was calling Katsuki a liar without words. “Then why are you acting like you’re owed something?”
“I’m not, that's” He pulled his hand from his pocket, waving it wildly at the essay, “My fucking best, I tried, alright? So either grade it or throw it out, I don't give a shit.” Katsuki argued back.
Aizawa kept going, his eyes narrowing, “Sure as hell doesn’t look like effort.” Katsuki could tell the man was getting annoyed. The teacher had the expression he did back in their first year when he had told Izuku and Katsuki they would be on house arrest for three days due to their fight at ground beta. “If this is the best you've got, then we need to have a different talk. So maybe you should get your head out of your ass, and quit trying to coast off your past accomplishments.”
Katsuki flinched at his words, finding himself at a loss for words.
Aizawa’s tone sharpened as he stepped forward, closer to Bakugou, “Everyone in this class fought in that war, Bakugou. And yet, they all managed to turn in something worth reading.” He pushed the papers into Bakugou’s chest, letting the boy catch them as he let go.
Katsuki held the papers tightly, the two sheets of paper feeling as though they weighed fifty pounds in his hand. His throat tightened as he stared at them, finding he was unable to look at his teacher anymore. Slowly, the view of his papers became blurry, his eyes wet as he felt his stomach turn.
“Are you all out of snarky comments?” Aizawa huffed, taking a step back.
Katsuki shook his head, as if maybe it would solve his problems, maybe his brain would understand that he meant this wasn't a time to cry, and Aizawa would understand he was done with the conversation.
He crumpled the assignment in his hand, dropping it to the floor and quickly wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand, still refusing to look at Aizawa, “Shut up.” he replied.
“I expect better next time, Bakugou.”
“Stop it.” Bakugou felt his breathing hitch as his teacher continued.
“This half-assed crap won’t fly here. I’m not going to start babysitting you just because you think you’re special.”
Katsuki couldn’t stop the tears that fell down his face, “Quit being so mean.” He brought a hand to his face, trying to scrub the tears away as his face turned red with embarrassment from his childish reply. ‘
Quit being so mean.
’ What was he? A six-year-old? And now here he was, crying over a few words. As if he hadn’t said far worse to classmates growing up.
He turned his back to his teacher when he realized the tears weren’t going to stop, his shoulders were stiff, and his face was still buried in his hands as if that might erase what had just happened. As if hiding might undo the humiliation and shame already crawling under his skin and up his throat. His breathing began to come too fast, too loud. And only seemed to get louder every time he attempted to stop it.
He hated this. Hated how hot his face felt, hated the way his chest was squeezing with every breath he took. Hated that Aizawa was still standing next to him, quietly watching, staring,
judging
him.
“I tried,” Katsuki managed between sobs, the words cracking almost inaudible over his cries, “I fucking tried.”
Katsuki clenched his fists, still scrubbing them over his eyes as he turned back around. He could feel his nails pressing into his palms, the gentle sting of pain keeping him grounded. But the tears kept coming, angry and messy, as if his body was betraying him on purpose.
It wasn’t just the essay. It was the war still clinging to the back of his mind, the way it clung to his right arm and stopped it from working, paralyzing it and reminding him he hadn't truly won. That he would always be reminded of how he failed. It was the pressure, the noise, and the silence all in one, the way his mother’s voice rang in his ears from the night before, yelling at him, screaming her disappointment and fears to him in a way she couldn't fully explain or accept.
It was Izuku’s body on the ground, torn apart and bleeding. It was the calmness that he wanted so deeply to return that he hadn’t experienced since he died in the war. It was that stupid hospital smell, piercing through his nose and giving him a migraine. It was waking up and walking on eggshells; it was the ever-present fear that he was always one mistake from losing everything again.
It was the fact that he was now crying in front of his goddamn homeroom teacher because he got called out for writing a shitty essay.
Pathetic.
“I’m not,” Katsuki tried to force the words out, but they stayed stuck in his throat. His voice dropped, small and childlike, "I'm not trying to make excuses,” he whispered, as if begging his teacher to believe him but knowing the other wouldn’t, “I just, I couldn’t…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
In front of him, Aizawa stayed still. Kept quiet. Katsuki waited for sarcasm, for a scolding, some stupid dry insult, yet nothing came from the man before him.
After a long pause, Aizawa spoke carefully. “Bakugou.”
The way he said it, like he wasn’t angry or annoyed, made Katsuki flinch harder than anything else had.
Aizawa sighed, his hand running through his loose hair as he felt his shoulders deflate. His voice was steady, but quiet, no longer sharp-edged. “I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t okay, I’m sorry. I was frustrated, but that doesn’t excuse it."
Katsuki didn’t respond, his shoulders shaking, his breath stuttering out in short, wet bursts. He furiously wiped at his face, as if the act alone could reverse the breakdown he was in the middle of having.
“I won’t pretend I know or understand everything going on with you,” Aizawa sighed softly, “But I can’t help if you don’t say something. I’m not asking you to open up and tell me your life. But I can’t read your mind, and it’s not my business to assume either. So if something’s going on. You have to talk.”
Katsuki’s breath hitched again, rougher this time. His next words came out cracked, like he was choking on them, “
I don’t want to die.”
Aizawa blinked slowly, his brows furrowing in slight confusion.
“Bakugou, you’re seventeen.” The teacher spoke carefully, “You’re not dying anytime soon.”
Katsuki made a noise that sounded like a pained laugh, shaking his head as he swallowed hard, eyes locking onto the floor as his fists held onto the bottom hem of his shirt, bunching it at his sides, “I already did.”
The words came out so quietly that Aizawa almost missed them. His face didn't change much; his years of training for emergency responding wouldn't let it, but he stood straighter, more alert, as if something in him had snapped into attention.
Katsuki sniffed hard, choking on a sob as he finally caught his breath, dragging the sleeve of his blazer over his tear-tracked face. “You asked what the problem was,” He muttered, a little louder than his earlier confession, “That’s the problem. I fuckin’ died. And no one seems to give a shit.”
Aizawa went to speak, but Katsuki beat him to it. “And now I’m supposed to write about what? Urban planning? Fuck that. I died once; who’s to say I won’t die again? How’s this stupid essay going to prevent that from happening, huh?” He challenged the older man, the defensive tone back in his voice. Though it did little to intimidate Aizawa when he saw the tears beginning to fall from the boy’s face again.
Aizawa stared at his student, allowing himself to look past the temper, the ego, to look at the child before him, the seventeen-year-old boy who was much too young to be this scared of what he claimed was his inevitable death.
The boy was crying again, his eyes glassy with fresh panic. He looked tired and terrified in a way that made Aizawa feel sick.
“None of what happened in Deika should have happened, especially not to you. I’m sorry I haven’t asked you about it.” Aizawa couldn’t help but want to avoid the conversation. Having a student die is one tragic thing, but watching your student die and not doing anything to help them? That was a completely different situation. He had let Bakugou die; he hadn't even attempted to help him.
He was a grown man who had been too afraid to visit his student in the hospital, scared of what his student would say to him. He didn’t want to face the consequences for what he’d done. Yet here he was, watching those consequences unravel before him, and he was still doing nothing.
Katsuki looked back up at him, and Aizawa’s stomach lurched forward.
Maybe he wouldn’t be able to admit out loud that he had killed this child, but perhaps he could try to fix whatever bond between them had been broken during the war.
“I would like to ask if you’d want a hug.” Aizawa admitted softly.
There was silence for a moment, Katsuki’s breath seemed to quicken as the time passed.
Finally, a thin, broken voice spoke up, “Well?” Katsuki asked, staring at his teacher, “You gonna ask? Or are ya just gonna keep staring at me like that?”
Aizawa was sure the boy had meant to sound harsh, rude, insulting, but he couldn’t care about it at that moment, already speaking before he knew it, “Can I give you a hug?”
“I guess.”
Aizawa stepped forward, hearing a crunch from the ruined assignment below them as he stepped on it.
He hesitated, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was unsure how to. His parents weren’t exactly absent growing up, though they were distant, busy with work and travelling, leaving him alone most days with only his thoughts. He couldn’t remember a time his mother had ever hugged him.
But he opened his arms anyway. Stiff at first, one slow movement after another. He reached his arms out, but didn’t pull Bakugou in, deciding to wait.
Katsuki didn’t move for a long moment. His fingers curled tighter into the hem of his shirt like he was still trying to hold something in. Then quietly, quickly, almost angrily - he stepped forwards and buried himself in the space between Aizawa’s arms.
It was a bit uncomfortable, jerky, like Katsuki didn’t know how to accept comfort, but wanted it anyway.
Aizawa eventually let his arms settle around the student, loose but grounding. He didn’t squeeze, just braced the boy in his arms.
Katsuki made a small coughing noise before softly speaking, the confession coming out in a scratchy, cracked whisper, “I don’t wanna die.”
It wasn’t a huge announcement; it hadn’t been yelled or spat at the teacher. It came out so softly, yet the words felt like they were weighing the teacher down, like they had been stuck in Bakugou’s throat for years.
Aizawa didn’t reply, letting the kid shake in his arms as the tears came back full force, the sobs coming harder now that there was something to hold onto.
“You’re not going to die,” Aizawa kept his voice calm, not firm, not like he was correcting him, just reassuring the teenager in his arms, “You’re safe, okay? I’m here, you won’t die, I promise.”
Aizawa knew he shouldn’t promise such a huge thing to this kid. Not after the war, not when he knew Bakugou was choosing a career that would put his life on the line every day. But he knew, no matter what happened, he wouldn’t let this kid die. Not while Aizawa was still alive at least.
He gently rubbed his hand along the kid's back, feeling his body jerk as he coughed up more sobs, “You’re okay.”
Katsuki hiccuped a breath, “I don’t wanna die again.”
“I know.”
He kept his arms there, awkward, but steady. The way he imagines a parent holds their newborn for the first time. Knowing it's something so fragile, and you try your best not to drop it even when you’re not used to carrying something so delicate.
Katsuki’s sobs slowed to rattling breaths as Aizawa continued to rub soft, circular motions along his back. For a long while, neither of them spoke. Both seemingly content with the quiet.
A faint voice interrupted the moment, crackling over the PA speaker out in the hall.
“All homeroom teachers, please report to room 3-A for an emergency meeting. Once again, all homeroom teachers report to classroom 3-A for an emergency meeting.”
Aizawa felt the boy tense slightly, and he knew himself that this moment was over. But he refused to be the first to move, not when Katsuki was still holding him tightly like this.
Slowly, Katsuki stepped back, and Aizawa felt both their arms fall off one another at the same time. Bakugou stared at him, his eyes red and raw, the tremors in his body slowing. He didn’t bother to wipe the tears stuck on his face away.
Aizawa stared back, unsure what he was supposed to say now. He hadn’t dealt with something like this before.
Katsuki took a deep breath, his hand raising to hold onto the strap of his schoolbag as he took a few steps to the door. He paused as he opened it, looking back at Aizawa.
“Thanks.”
Aizawa gave a small nod. He wasn’t used to speaking his affection and feelings outloud, but he hoped Bakugou would understand.
He had never had his own child before, had never really wanted one. Being a teacher took up a lot of his time, and being a hero took up the rest. He knows he wouldn't have made a good father. But in this moment, watching the boy before him, he couldn’t help but imagine this is what being a parent would have been like.
Katsuki turned around and Aizawa quickly spoke out to him, “Don’t worry about the assignment. Get some rest, alright?”
Katsuki chewed his lower lip for a moment before giving a sharp nod, “Yeah.”
Aizawa nodded again, brief, professional, and then watched as Bakugou left.
He stood alone in the empty classroom, the air still felt heavy, but it was no longer suffocating.
Shota stared down at the crumpled papers that littered his floor, his fingers trembling slightly as he picked them up, as if being gentle with them now could somehow undo the damage, like they weren’t already ruined beyond repair.
For a brief moment, he held them carefully, as if the papers he held in his hands were more than a failed assignment.
Then, with a soft sigh, he let them drop into the trash can.
It had done what it was made for, even if it hadn’t survived the process, perhaps that was just part of the job.