Chapter Text
Something was wrong with his brain. It was something he’d noticed at the end of the war, a state he’d fallen into and had yet to find a way out of. It wasn’t constant, it wasn't linear, but it was still there, a steady thrum under his skin that he could succumb to if he so desired.
The first time he’d given in wasn’t… the best. It was filled with tears and snot and crying. A too damp thumb attached to a shaking hand, gripping a stuffed animal he’d forgotten in the back of his closet and hadn’t seen until that night.
It was his first time back at home since the end of the war, it being summer break, and just being there triggered something deep within Katsuki’s mind. All he could think about was the war, being in the hospital after learning his best friend's dream had just been taken from him, crushed right before his eyes.
It started with panic, soft cries as he tried his hardest to keep his sobs silent. It was trembling in the darkness of his room, rocking in his bed as he attempted to self sooth. There was a hand fisted in blonde hair, pulling it at the roots and watching it fall out onto the sheets below.
He whined pitifully at the pain, the pain which seemed to intensify along with his emotions. Everything seemed raw, actually, his tears spilling over too fast to be normal.
It took a while, way longer than normal, but as he came down from all the panic, a neediness settled in the base of his stomach. He hiccuped softly, getting out of his bed. Rubbing his eyes, he grabbed the blanket from his bed, getting up. His legs feel like jelly beneath him, like he’s a baby fawn, learning to walk for the first time.
His stomach had started to hurt, maybe from the crying, he couldn’t tell. Still, he was sad and strung out, needing comfort more than he needed rest. Feeling that way, and knowing where he was, he knew that there was only one place he was going to find any commission.
He padded down the hall, to his parents room. It was dark, and he dragged his hand down the wall to make sure he didn’t run into anything. The dark was scaring him, reminding him of the night of the war. The grief creeping up on him only encourages him to walk faster, get to a safe space as fast as possible.
The door to his parents room was closed like always, and as quietly as he could, he pushed it open. Just like the hall, their room was devoid of any light. Still, he crept forward, relying on memory to get him to his parents bed.
They were both sleeping, and for a second, he just sat and watched the steady rise and fall of their chest. He watched until that heavy feeling flared back to life in the base of his stomach, anxiety making him squirm uncomfortably. He wrapped his blanket tighter around his body, shielding himself from his panic as he reached up and shook his mother awake.
It took a moment, but slowly her eyes blinked open, and he let out a relieved whine. She groaned, turning over to him. “Katsuki,” she said, rubbing her eyes as she sat up. “What the fuck, why the hell did you wake me up.” He sniffled, rubbing his eyes.
“Mama,” he said. “‘M not feeling good.” She squinted in the darkness, top lip drawing up in disgust.
“Fuck, Katsuki, it’s too early for this shit.” He frowned, gripping the blanket tighter as dread settled in his chest.
“B-but mama my tummy really hurts. Can I sleep with you an’ papa tonight, please?” She huffed out an irritated breath.
“No Katsuki, you’re fucking seventeen, grow the fuck up. I know this war shit is fucking with your head, but you’re acting like a goddamn child. Go to your room and go to bed, school starts back up soon anyways and you can tell your teachers all about your tummy issues.” The last part is said mockingly, and it makes his tum- stomach churn.
“Um, okay momma.” He paused before backing away, fiddling with his blanket. “C-could i get a hug b’fore bed?” She got up, throwing off her blanket, and Katsuki looked up eagerly, thinking he’s finally gonna get his hug. But when he saw her face, it held an anger he wasn't very familiar with. “M-momma?” he said, voice shaking.
She stood fully, and before he could react, the back of a hand was connecting with his cheek. He put out his hand to brace himself, but when he fell, his wrist bent awkwardly and he let out a yelp. The pain shot through him, intense and awful, making him cry out. He looked up at his mother who was standing over him menacingly. His father was behind her, just now waking up.
“Mitsuki?” he called, not yet having noticed Katsuki crying on the floor.
“Get the fuck out,” she tells him. “I’m not fucking hugging you, you're too damn old. I know you’re fucked in the head, but I can’t deal with that shit right now.” He sniffled, feet against the floor pushing him away from the woman. His dads arm snaked around his wife’s waist, tugging her back towards the bed.
“Leave him alone, love,” he said softly. “We should all get back into bed. You too, Katsuki, Goodnight.” he sniffled, slowly getting up. His wrist throbbed, but he was too afraid to ask for help. He held back his tears until he got back to his room. When he arrived, he grabbed his stuffed bear, crawling back into bed, making sure he didn’t put weight on his throbbing wrist. Only when he's curled up in his blankets did he allow himself to break. The tears were back, fat and warm as they made their way down flushed cheeks. His cries were high pitched and babyish, muffled only by the pillow he’d buried his face in. At that moment, he felt too big for his body, and it may have been the worst feeling of the night.
So, curled up as his grief reared its ugly heart, forcing him to break in the worst of ways, Katsuki promised himself he'd never let himself be vulnerable in this way ever again.
-
Katsuki couldn’t focus. It was months after that night, yet thst fog still hung over his brain, thicker now than before. For anyone but him, this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but to him it was. Because he didn’t lose focus, he didn’t slack off. Bakugou Katsuki was the epitome of dedication and determination, he didn’t fall off, ever.
But sitting in class, having to force his mind back to attention for the fifth time in thirty minutes, he was starting to doubt that. Science had always been something that came easy to him, so easy to connect it to the real work, his own quirk. It was easy to lose himself to the formulas and applications, Newton's laws and velocity displacement. It was never a struggle for him.
But today it was. Because his head was swimming like he’d been repeatedly dunked underwater, just to be pulled out and thrown under once more. He wasn’t all there, but unlike the spacing out he was used to, this lack of clarity was one he could not shake. All of his thoughts were floating in some undefined space, and every time he tried to reach for one, it threw itself deeper into his mind's abyss.
His desperate search for a concrete thought is interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. The tap is light, barely there, but it still makes him flinch so hard that his thighs hit the underside of his desk. He blinks hurriedly, desperately grasping for every small piece of his consciousness so that he can give the person tapping him his attention. He’s sweating like a bitch, having to wipe his hands on his pants before turning to answer,
“What.” he says, voice a soft and confused mumble instead of the sharp jab he’d intended for it to be.
“I asked you to demonstrate how to solve this problem,” the teacher tells him. “You were the only one to get it correct on the quiz, so you shouldn’t have a problem with this one.” He blinks, brains slow to process the woman’s words. It’s only when his name is called again, more tentative this time, that he rises to his feet.
He walks over to the board, actually looking at the problem. His vision had been inconsistent today, well, for the last few weeks, honestly. His vision was either blurring or doubling, sometimes both. Looking at the board, he can see the words, knows it’s something he’s learned in the past. But for some reason, their meanings fall from his mind, one after the bother, until his brain is full of nothing but air.
He grabs the whiteboard marker in his hand, but after that, he doesn’t move. All he can do is stare at the word problem before him, trying to figure out what words correspond to which symbols, what equation. Actually, what physics subject was this even covering?
Raising a slightly shaking arm, he moves to write something down but freezes. He has two options, and he’s running out of time to decide which one to choose. He can either bullshit his way through the problem and look like a dumbass while doing it, or, he can admit defeat. Bakugou Katsuki, trumped by words on a board, equations he can't recall. So he does, gives in, placing the uncapped marker back down.
“I’m not doing this,” he says, refusing to look at his classmates. There's murmur from them all, noises of surprise that he would disobey a teacher so blatantly. He’d been getting better after the first year, a little more calm and less prone to outbursts. Maybe it was the meds they’d put him on after the war, but his persona had undergone a shift, one he still resented somewhere deep within himself.
“What was that, Bakugou-san?” He can’t help the embarrassed flush creeping up his neck, so he hides it the only way he knows how. Behind a wall of anger, undeserved retaliation.
“I said I’m not doing it, are you fucking deaf?” His voice is sharp and too loud, and when he’s done, the room is so quiet he could hear a pen drop.
“That’s not an appropriate response to having to answering a question, Bakugou,” the teacher says, annoyingly calm despite his outburst. And because he was stubborn, an inherently destructive being, he didn’t stop there.
“Does it look like I give a shit?” He growls. There's a collective intake of breath from the students behind him and it makes him wince. He feels more than scummy, like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe, or a one eyed monster hidden under a bed, waiting for an innocent something to come close enough so he could attack.
That innocent something came in the form of his science teacher, yet it seemed as though he’d worn her patience too thin. “Get out,” she says, eyebrows drawn tight, expression stern. He pauses, blinking.
“What?” he says, posture becoming small, defensive.
“You heard me,” he says. “Get out. I don’t tolerate that kind of disrespect in my classroom. The bell rings in ten minutes, you can wait outside until then.” Anger brews in his stomach, but it fizzles out just as quickly as it came. Ducking his head, he moved to walk to his desk, wanting to grab his back before he leaves. Before he can, the teacher's voice rings back out. “Leave it,” she tells him, brown eyes boring into his own, challenging him to say something back. “Out, now.”
With a huff, he turns on his heels, storming out. The hall is empty, so he leans against the wall, sliding down. He wraps his arms around his knees, burying his head in his arms. His breathing was beginning to shorten, coming out in quick bursts. He could hear a rush in his ears, could feel his heartbeat quickening.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, reaching a hand down and fisting a hand in the part of his shirt covering his heart. He knew this was going to happen sooner or later, could feel the panic brewing under his skin for the past few days. It was an inevitable moment, but he wished for nothing but to push it back. Bury it down and keep it there, not allow it to surface.
His skin began to itch the more he sat still like this, and the urge to get up was becoming stronger by the second. He knows he’ll only get on more trouble for leaving, especially when class would be sending so soon anyways, but he could feel the panic brewing, almost overflowing, and he had to leave.
Now.
Getting up, he walked as fast as he could down the halls. All he needed was a bathroom, somewhere he could hole up and wait for this moment to pass. But as he’s searching, the bell rings, and then he’s no longer alone. Bodies in the hall bump against him, overstimulating him as he tries to press forward. It forces his breathing to become even more labored, heartbeat to increase even more.
He’s trembling at this point, shaking harder than a leaf in the wind. He wants to scream, he wants to pop off explosion after explosion until the hallway clears out and he’s alone. Sadly, just thinking about the sound of an explosion makes him whine, hands coming up to cover his ears.
His vision is starting to blur, and even as the people in the hallway start to wind down, the panic doesn't dwindle. Tears are welling in his eyes, and the fear of breaking down at school quickly overcomes his fear of the unknown. Needing to preserve the last bits of his pride, he opens the closest door, uncaring of where it led, and shut himself away behind it.
He closes his eyes and sniffles, finally somewhere quiet. He’s still trembling, body shaking with the force of his barely restrained sobs. He’s scared, so fucking scared. His teacher, the call home that he’s no doubt earned, what’ll happen when he gets home and his mom is waiting. Not wanting to think about that, however, he just presses his body harder against the door, blocking out the outside world and his problems along with it. He thinks he’s safe there, ready to relax when a familiar voice calls out.
“Bakugou?” His eyes fly open, and the sight of his home room teacher has his skin prickling with dread, a desperate need to flee. Aizawa must see it with how his hand twitches back towards the door, how his breath picks up. “Hey, no.You're alright kid, you don’t have to leave.”
And being called ‘kid’ must do something to his brain on some foundational level, because his hand falls and he lets out a pitiful whine. Something about Aizawa tone pushes some part of him out of place, shoving him so hard into that… space that it makes his head swim.
His breath is coming out wheezy, and the lack of air intake is making him dizzy. He can see through blurry eyes that Aizawa is frowning, and it makes him shine again, feeling like a disappointment. “Bakugou, you're having a panic attack and you need to calm down.” He shakes his head, shaky and sharp.
“C-c-can’t,” he managed to choke out. His sharp nails are digging into his school uniform, right over his heart, into the binder below, and poking the skin under. Aizawa's hand reaches out, tugging gently at his arm in an attempt to pull his hand from his chest. But the man’s fingers on his skin are like hot coals on bare feet, and he lurches away like he'd just been burned.
“Okay, alright, I won’t touch you.” Katsuki slumps against the door, still dizzy but relieved that Aizawa wasn't gonna touch him anymore. “Still, you're hurting yourself and that isn't gonna help. Do you want to try breathing with me, Bakugou? It doesn’t have to be perfect, you just have to try.” He sniffles, trying to suck in a calming breath but he chokes on his own saliva, temporarily falling into a fit of wet coughing.
When he’s done, Aizawa hasn’t left him. Hasn’t called him disgusting or told him to just tough it out. Nope, he’s sitting next to Katsuki on the floor, when had he gotten there, and was taking exaggerated breaths as a demonstration for Katsuki. “C’mon Bakugou, like this kid.” He continues breathing, and enough of Katsuki’s neurons finally get together to allow him to follow suit.
Katsuki doesn’t know how long they sit there, but eventually, he’s taking normal breaths on his own, no guidance needed. His mind is still fuzzy, body shaking, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of passing out.
“Back with me, kid?” That stupid term of endearment shoots his brain further down into that immature state, and he makes a small affirmative noise.
“Mhm,” he hums, blinking up at Aizawa. The man nods, lips quirking up slightly at the corners.
“Okay, that’s good. You’re in the teachers lounge right now if you didn’t know. Can you tell me why you came running in here while in the middle of a panic attack?” Katsuki shrinks in on himself, more tears welling in his eyes.
“‘M-m sorry!” he blurts, too loud and too childish. Aizawa’s eyes go wide, not at all expecting the outburst.
“No, it’s okay,” the man reassures. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. You’ve been doing really well lately, what happened?” He sniffles, rubbing his eyes to rid them of tears.
“Y-you think ‘m good?” he asks, eyes wide as they look at his teacher. The man’s eyebrows are pinched in concern as they look down at him, and the look makes him shrink.
“Of course you are,” the man says. “You’ve always been a good kid.” Katsuki blinks at the nice man. Nobody had ever told him that before, which means this man was probably lying to him. It hurt his heart a little, knowing that all of these nice words were false.
“Momma says ‘m not good,” he admits, voice small as he draws his knees to his chest. He probably shouldn’t be saying this, but if the man was nice enough to lie for his sake, he didn’t think he’d mind.
“Really?” Aizawa says, voice sounding a bit strained. He nodded, resting his chin on his knees.
“Mhm. She says ‘m bad because af’er the war, I was cryin’ too much and actin’ like a kid. An’ since ‘m at home now, she say’s ‘m bad ‘cause I’ve been havin’ these bad heart feelings.” Aizawa’s lips press together in a firm line, eyebrows drawn together.
“This bad heart feeling? do you mean your anxiety?” He sniffles, nodding. He hated his anxiety, that was what his therapist called it. Apparently it has always been there, one of the reasons he was so easily angered and quick to blow up. Now, he had therapy and meds to help regulate himself. “And you said she was upset because you’ve been anxious at home this week? She shouldn’t have said that, but even so, you have medicine to help with that. Has it not been working?” He shrugs.
“I don’ have any more.” he mumbles, tugging at the fabric of his uniform. Aizawa frowns at that, sitting down more comfortably.
“What do you mean? Do you need a refill?” He nods quietly, glad this adult was so good at knowing what he needed and he didn’t have to tell him.
“Momma doesn’t wanna get it though. Says ‘m being dramatic an’ I don’ need it.” Aizawa sucks in a sharp breath, his one working eye going wide before he schools his features.
“Hey, no, that’s not true at all kid. Everyone deserves medicine no matter what. And you’re definitely not dramatic for it, it’s very brave of you to take your medication.” Katsuki just shrugs, so Aizawa presses on. “How long have you needed a refill for, kid?” he pries. So many red flags were being waved in Aizawa’s face right now, flags that had been there since the first time he’d met Bakugou’s mother. Still, Bakugou had never been very open about his home situation, meaning he’d never been able to build a proper case against her.
But now, while the boy was being so open, he was taking advantage of the moment to gather this information.
“How long?” Katsuki repeats, mostly to himself. He’s quiet for a second, thinking. Then, “Two weeks.” Aizawa sucks in a breath, brain immediately sorting the information he’d been given and figuring out what was going on before him.
“Oh kid,” he says gently. Katsuki sways a bit, still dizzy, looking over at Aizawa. The man stands up, reaching out a hand for Katsuki to take.
“Where are we goin’?” he asks.
“The nurse,” Aizawa says, barely concealing how frantic he feels. “You're showing some symptoms of withdrawal from your medications, and I want to make sure you don’t need any serious medical attention.” Katsuki’s heart falls, and he whines, shaking his head.
“W-what? I don’ wanna go to the doctor.” Aizawa frowns.
“I know, i know. That’s why we’re gonna go to the nurse first. If she says everything’s alright, then no doctor. But if you don’t let me take you to the nurse, we’re going straight to the hospital.” Katsuki lets out a small sob, but takes Aizawa’s hand even still. He was wrong to think this man would be nice. He was mean, just like all the other adults.
Still, he allows Aizawa to guide him on shaking legs to the nurses office. When he’s there, he’s sat down while Aizawa and Recovery Girl talk. He brings his thumb to his lip, biting the nail as he plays with his uniform. His mind is still cotton filled and slow, a headache flaring to life right behind his eyes.
His name being called has him looking up, Recovery Girl looking at with a warm smile. “Good afternoon dearie,” she says softly. “Aizawa told me you weren’t feeling great, so if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go ahead and take your blood pressure.” He pouts, but nods and watches as she slips a sleeve over his arm. “Now sit still until I take it off, okay.”
He complies, sitting still as best he could, only squirming when the sleeve squeezed his arm too tight. Recovery Girl gives him a sympathetic look, but only takes off the sleeve when it deflates fully. She makes a tutting sound in the back of her throat when she looks at the numbers, mouth contouring into a stressed frown.
“You were right, Shouta,” she says. “His blood pressure is scarily high, I can't treat it here.” His eyes go wide and he whines, shaking his head.
“No!” he cries, getting up too quick, making his head spin. “No hospital, I don’t wanna go!” His head is spinning again, and he feels shakier on his feet than before. His heartbeat is picking up again, anxious at the mere thought of white walls and prodding doctors.
“Kid you have to go,” a voice says, Aizawa, he realizes. Still, he just whines and backs away.
“No doctors,” he cries. “Mama’s gonna get mad and I don’t want mama mad at me. Please, sir, don’ make my mama angry.” Aizawa frowns, expression grave.
“Kid, what happens when your mom is angry that it’s making you so scared.” He sniffled, rubbing puffy red eyes.
“I don’t know!” he exclaims, voice raw. “But it hurts,” he admits with another choked sob. “Mamma gets mad an’ then everything hurts and i hate it. I don’t wanna go to the doctors, I hate it I hate I hate it!” He’s being petulant, irrational, a brat, and he's no doubt already earned a punishment when he gets home. Still, he was panicking and was desperately trying to weasel his way out of any extra battering he may face when having to inevitably face his mom.
“Bakugou, please calm down kid, you're shaking again.” But he couldn’t calm down, could barely hear anything with the rushing in his ears. Panic was eating at him, chewing through his mind and curling up inside his empty skull. Only when he lilts dangerously to the side does he realize he’s no longer breathing properly. He tried to suck in a breath, but he couldn't, lungs constricting in the face of his panic. Someone calls his name, but his head is swimming, eyes shutting as his body goes numb.
And as he passes out, Katsuki has the fleeting though that he is absolutely, wholeheartedly, without a doubt, irrevocably fucked