Chapter Text
Everything got quieter after the war.
It was a victory. The fall of society was stopped by a couple of teenagers who saw, felt, and endured too much for their own good, for their young age. Life was supposed to have suffering in it, but to witness most of it before entering adulthood could heavily affect someone. Civilians mourned family members as much as they mourned for the destroyed country; they mourned the next generation of heroes that had been shaped in such a way by the war they had to fight.
So, yeah, life was dull once they ended the Paranormal Liberation Army.
The school year had been postponed, giving the kids time to at least heal physically before starting their second year. Aizawa was still resting in his home, watching a movie in the living room with Yamada and Hitoshi, when he got the first of many calls.
“Hello, this is Aizawa—”
The teacher interrupted his own greeting, focusing on the other end of the call. Hitoshi sat up at his father's sudden change of demeanor, worry creeping up his neck.
Little could Hitoshi hear from where he was seated on the other end of the couch, but Yamada, being right beside Aizawa, seemed to pick up something that made his face scrunch up.
“Okay, okay, I hear you, I'm here…” Aizawa eyed Hitoshi before he stood up with his husband's help and started walking towards their room. “Bakugou, listen to me, okay? You need—”
Then the door was closed behind him. Yamada sighed and walked back towards his kid.
“I guess duty called,” he said calmly, ruffling Hitoshi’s purple hair.
Hitoshi remembered hearing through some radio that Bakugou was dead. He remembered passing by Bakugou's room when visiting Aizawa at the hospital and hearing the blond's parents cry by his side when he was unconscious on his bed.
Then he also remembered being on the battlefield; he remembered seeing heroes falling apart; he remembered having to dodge attacks from All For One himself, remembered the screams and loud explosions and the way his hands could do nothing more than grasp at Gigantomachia, trying not to fall to his death.
“So, what if we get started on dinner, little listener?” Yamada asked, pulling him away from his thoughts.
Hitoshi took a deep breath and followed his dad to the kitchen.
And if his heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest, then it was nobody's business.
(...)
When classes started, so did the U.A. students' reconstruction program, as well as Hitoshi's learning to live at the dorms with his new classmates. Changes just kept happening, making it difficult to catch a breath. So, during the first couple of weeks of their second year, they spent early mornings at school, afternoons working in the city, and late nights trying to decompress in the dorms. It was a solid routine they nailed down to establish. Here and there, they had absences when someone had to visit the hospital to check on injuries, but Class 2-A could deal with that and more.
Walking through the school's hallways during a Friday night was something few students got to do, but with most of his classmates gone for the weekend and his parents attending meetings in the building, Hitoshi had been granted the privilege. He was just wandering around before deciding to use the time to go to the library; he had Yamada's permission after all, and with all the reconstruction and accommodations going on for the last month, he could enjoy picking up a random book that had nothing to do with buildings or heroics or trauma.
The teen certainly could not wait to be home, cuddling his cat and watching something shitty on the TV while the smell of Yamada's cooking grounded him softly. But he had to, because, of course, pro-heroes had quite a lot to figure out and work on after everything that had happened. He felt selfish for wanting to be with his parents in peace; could anyone blame him for that? He only got the weekends after all, with all the dorm situation still going on, even after the war.
On top of that, the school was so quiet at that moment that if he didn't distract himself, he could hear the phantom explosions around him, he could feel—
A soft clacking caught his attention. He turned around towards the art room, seeing the door slightly open. The curtains of the classroom were closed; his ever-present worry was quick to raise the hair on his nape, and he scratched the back of his neck absent-mindedly before slowly approaching the door.
Hitoshi observed attentively. The blond boy inside was standing in front of a desk with his back to the board, all his attention on the drawing on the desk. He was softly trying to maneuver a paintbrush on the paper with his newly uncast arm, but his left arm was under the table, the clacking coming from his palm.
Quiet, patient, and unguarded Bakugou was a sight to be seen. While it was true that the boy had been calmer since the battle and the incident, it never occurred to Hitoshi that he could be found like that. He wondered why Bakugou would be on the school grounds and not at his house, but decided it was none of his business.
Not wanting to disturb or scare him off, he resumed his walk to the library as slowly as he could, focusing on the clacking until he was far enough.
He had been told everyone was changed by the war, even if it was the littlest details that only their closest friends could notice, like the way Kirishima was constantly taking care of Ashido, or how Kaminari never hesitated to be the first one up when anyone asked for anything. Someone said Tokoyami spoke up a little more, and Uraraka and Midoriya spoke a little slower than they did before, a little heavier.
Hitoshi had seen barely more of Class 1-A than the general public, but he could notice Bakugou was one of the most changed students; dying could do that to you, he assumed. He remembered Bakugou's loud, constant yelling, his explosive, bright eyes, and his need to be competitive all the time. He remembered how rigid the other stood, his scrunched-up nose when he was annoyed.
Well, yeah, he had been a Bakugou observer before;, how could he not?
So now it was easier to notice the changes: his softer voice, less edge in his yelling, dimmer eyes, tired body.
Once Hitoshi got to the library, he went to the comics section and took one before letting himself fall on a chair. His mind was everywhere but in the story in front of him, slipping away towards anything and everything. He tried to read a few times before closing the book and placing his head on his arms to close his eyes for a bit.
(...)
Hitoshi hadn't been oblivious to his father's calls with Bakugou or their meetings after class, but he never asked about it, opting to assume that it must have been private. He might be nosy, but he knew where to draw the line, and Aizawa calming Bakugou's panic through the phone was beyond that line.
Still, when his dad called him after their meetings were over, telling him to meet them at the car, he wasn't expecting to find Bakugou in the backseat.
He paused when he sat down and noticed the blond, hand frozen on the car door about to close. Something shifted inside him. He blinked a few times, confused.
“Oh,” was all Hitoshi could muster to say.
“Explanations will be given. Could you please close the door so we can leave, Hitoshi?” Aizawa asked, a tired voice coming from the passenger seat.
He looked up front. Yamada gave him a soft smile as a greeting before gesturing to the door.
“Oh—uh, yeah, sorry.”
The ride home was silent, even with the soft music coming through the speakers. Aizawa had dozed off quickly. Bakugou was just staring out the window. Hitoshi wondered if Bakugou knew that he had seen him earlier painting, or if he should bring it up, probably not. His eyes drifted to the other, trying not to stare too long, but long enough to get a good look. He was wearing a dark red hoodie, instead of the black one he had earlier; his hands were hidden in the hoodie's large front pocket.
Soon enough, they were at the apartment building. Once the elevator reached their floor, Hitoshi wasted no time opening the door and kicking off his shoes. He called Kiki out loud, who was quick to appear, meowing loudly at him. He knelt to pet her enthusiastically. If there was something he missed more than Yamada's cooking and Aizawa's strong coffee, it had to be coming home to Kiki.
“Bakugou, you can get in and sit down on the couch., I'll be right back to have a chat.”
At Aizawa's words, Hitoshi stood up, remembering that his classmate was there. He turned around to find Bakugou staring at him with a raised eyebrow, eyes seemingly unfazed, if it wasn't for the scoff trying to pull at the corners of his lips. Bakugou followed his teacher's orders and sat down on the couch, placing his bag on his legs. Hitoshi decided once again not to stare, taking the moment to quickly leave his own things in his room before going back to the living room to sit on the other end of the couch.
After a few minutes with none of his parents coming back, he cleared his throat and opened his mouth.
“You good?” he asked, catching Bakugou's attention, who replied by rolling his eyes.
“Do I look like I'm not fine, eyebags?” the boy answered, letting himself fall back onto the couch. “This is stupid.”
“All riiiight!” Yamada said, passing through the living room towards the kitchen. “You want anything to drink, little listeners? No coffee, Toshi.”
The teen rolled his eyes and let his head fall on the armrest.
“Tea is fine, dad.”
“And for you, Bakugou?” His face popped up from the kitchen door. “We've got tea, water, orange juice, soda, and chocolate milk!”
“Uh, tea is fine too,” he murmured from his place.
Aizawa stood in front of the teenagers, dressed in a baggy gray t-shirt and some dark leggings, hair up in a bun. Bakugou once again raised an eyebrow, watching his teacher look so comfortable.
“Okay, so, Bakugou is going to be staying here—”
“Yeah, figured.”
Aizawa ignored Hitoshi's comment. “—for a few weekends. There are personal family issues that make it impossible for him to stay at his house.”
Humming in response, he looked back at Bakugou for a second, wondering if maybe it was like that. His eyes went from him to Aizawa again. The thing that had shifted inside him earlier twisted a bit more, unrecognizable, forgotten.
“Ah, not to be rude, I don't mean to kick you out or something,” Hitoshi clarified to Bakugou by his side, who shrugged in response. “But isn't it allowed to stay in the dorms during weekends?”
“I told him the same—”
“I've decided it would be better if he stayed with us for now, all things considered,” the teacher replied, cutting Bakugou off. “Now, Hitoshi, I understand this is short notice and that we should have asked for your consent before letting a classmate in—”
“It's fine, really.”
If there was something Hitoshi had experience with, it was house living arrangements with other kids, right? Someone else had always been there in his previous houses; there was no reason for it to be an issue or concern.
Aizawa smiled ever so slightly, then turned fully to face Hitoshi.
“Would it be an issue for him to sleep in the futon in your room?”
Hitoshi paused, taking in the question.
“Hah?! That's so unnecessary! I can sleep fine on the couch!” Bakugou was quick to yell. “I don't need to be treated like a baby!”
“No one is treating you like a baby, Bakugou. It would be more comfortable for you not to sleep in the middle of the house—”
Bakugou stood up, interrupting Aizawa.
“I never asked for you to take me in! I didn't ask— Eyebags wasn't—!” He choked up. Hitoshi watched Bakugou's heated cheeks and the way his left hand turned into a fist as he struggled to stop his own lash-out. “This was not—!”
“It's fine. He can stay in my room. I don't have a problem with that.”
As Hitoshi spoke up, Bakugou turned his head to him, eyebrows furrowed, but he could swear there was no heat in his eyes, not at that moment. However, there was a different feeling behind the frown; embarrassment, maybe.
“I'm— I swear if you tell anyone—”
“Whatever, like I even know what I'm supposed to be telling them,” he rolled his eyes. “You're whining for no reason.”
“I'm not whining! For fucks sake, you're all insufferable.”
“Now, Bakugou, I'm encouraging you to stay in contact with your parents, but also I'll be reporting back to them once a week so they're aware of how you're doing,” Aizawa stated, heading towards the kitchen door where he took the tea tray from Yamada's hands.
“Whatever,” Bakugou replied, sitting back down beside his bag. He looked away while the adults placed the tray on the coffee table.
“Now, now, let's all calm down and chill for a bit, okay?” Yamada handed the boys their mugs before turning on the TV. “Let's wind down the week, shall we?”
(...)
Aizawa and Yamada were left in the living room ordering take-out when Hitoshi finally got up to show Bakugou his room so he could leave his things. They were both silent until they entered the room. Hitoshi went in first and signaled the other to follow. Bakugou hesitated before going in, then left his bag beside the bedroom door.
“I have to ask,” Hitoshi started, sitting down at the foot of the bed. “Can I ask?”
“What? Are you that nosy?”
“No, well— I—” he put his hand on his nape, then sighed. “Curiosity is not a sin, you know?”
Bakugou sneered, a hint of a smile on his face.
“But it kills cats, you know, eyebags?” Bakugou awkwardly took his own right arm, squeezing it.
“Well, anyway, where are your parents?”
“You're lucky you're not a cat, I guess,” Bakugou said while rolling his eyes. “They had to travel overseas. My mother is obsessed with getting some doctor to fix my arm, and my father is obsessed with trying to fix my— uh, other things. So they tried to take me there, but I said no, I have classes and stuff to do, and they got mad and told me they're leaving anyway and they'll be back with a solution. But they said that if I'm not there, it might take them longer since they have to explain everything to the doctors?”
Hitoshi's eyebrows shot up. That might have been the longest he had ever heard Bakugou talk, least of all about his personal life. The blond took notice of that, scrunching up his nose in annoyance.
“Fuck you, I'm telling you only because I'm invading your room,” he clarified, causing Hitoshi to chuckle in response.
“It's only fair, I suppose.” Getting up from his bed, Hitoshi walked to his wardrobe to get out the rolled futon.
He considered asking more, maybe asking how Bakugou felt about it. But if he knew Bakugou even the slightest bit, he could assume he wouldn't answer. So, instead, he just busied himself trying to get his resting place ready. Bakugou knelt to help him set everything up silently, even if it was a difficult chore with one arm half-functioning.
“It's fine, I've got it—”
“Shut up.”
So he let Bakugou help with one and a half arms. They managed to get everything in order just in time for Aizawa to call them to the kitchen for dinner.
(...)
It turned out that Hitoshi hadn't thought enough about letting Bakugou share his room, letting his decision be driven by the need to stop the blond's struggles. Even if he had wanted to be a good host and help those in need, he had forgotten to consider that it was his own bedroom he was offering. The place where the LED lights stayed on until the early morning, where he hid under his desk sometimes, where his thoughts became too loud, and his few dreams sometimes were too much.
Sharing a room wasn't a strange occurrence before, when he was younger. Even almost a year ago, he had been sharing a room with a girl his age. Yet, Hitoshi had grown too quickly accustomed to having his own place.
Bakugou was lying on the futon, a light blanket in reach in case he got cold. The LED lights were off because Hitoshi would rather keep up the appearance and not explain his insomnia to his classmate. He had already said goodnight, so it would be awkward to just get up again to go to his desk or to turn on his bedside lamp to read a book.
The teen stared at the ceiling, focusing on the other's calm breathing for a while, focusing on his own breathing after a few minutes, turning around to stare at the window curtains, then turning to the other side to stare at his wardrobe.
It felt like it had been hours in darkness and silence when he noticed that Bakugou was moving around too, which was enough to make him sit up on his bed to check on him. The blond groaned quietly, face scrunched up in pain, hand gripping the futon underneath him.
“Bakugou?” Hitoshi called softly so as not to startle him, but the boy did not seem to hear him.
Bakugou's breathing started to fasten, shortening. He opened his eyes and his left hand went straight to his chest. Hitoshi wasted no time kneeling by his side, trying to understand what was going on.
“Bakugou, what is it? Are you in pain? What do you need?”
And maybe they shouldn't have jumped into being silent roommates so quickly. Maybe they should've at least had a conversation about insomnia and panic attacks before sharing a room, but it was too late to reconsider.
“I— I can't—” Bakugou's eyes were lost in the dark, his voice strangled. “Hurts.”
Now, Hitoshi had his fair share of experience with bringing kids down from nightmares or panic attacks, too. But this was no kid. This was Bakugou Katsuki struggling to breathe on his bedroom floor, and Hitoshi had no idea what to do.
“Okay, okay, you're fine. I'm going to turn on the lights, okay?”
“No! No—” Bakugou tried to take a deep breath, probably grounding himself. “The pills— Fuck, sorry—”
Hitoshi didn't hesitate to take Bakugou's bag and start searching for the pain meds.
“It's okay, you're okay,” he reassured. The blond or himself, he didn't know.
Dynamight has fallen, he is not getting up.
He remembered heroes bloodied on the ground, unconscious.
“I got them! I got the pills, I've got water here—” he handed them to his classmate, watching him struggle to take them.
Bakugou cried out, breathing unevenly, Hitoshi hesitated to touch him.
He remembered blood falling from his own forehead, he remembered—
Eraserhead is going to the battlefield to Deku—
He remembered running with Kirishima towards the injured—
“I'll call Aizawa, okay? I'm going to get him.” He got up and opened the door, sprinting towards his parents’ room.
Dynamight has fallen.
He knocked strongly on the door.
Eraserhead is going to the battlefield.
“It's Bakugou— he's—”
And what did Hitoshi do to help? Holding onto the head of a villain while Kirishima had to protect him?
He remembered sprinting through the hospital after the first fight against Shigaraki, trying to find Aizawa somewhere. He remembered crying while clinging to the man, calling him dad for the first time.
He remembered being sent to fight while wondering if he would fall into the system again; he remembered wondering if he would ever see Aizawa and Yamada again.
He remembered hiding while the heroes fought the final battle. Remembered being suffocated, surrounded by sludge. He remembered falling to the ground.
He remembered Aizawa's induced coma to heal from overusing his quirk; he remembered the intense migraines his father endured the first days after he woke up.
Dynamight has fallen.
Eraserhead is going to the battlefield.
And could Hitoshi even call himself a hero? Would he ever be allowed to?
He remembered people crying out, groaning, screaming, heroes.
And what did Hitoshi do to help?
“—shi, come on, honey.”
Hitoshi blinked.
Dynamight.
Eraserhead.
Hawks, Mt. Lady, Tsukuyomi, Uravity, All Might, Shoto, Deku, Pinky—
“—home, you're okay, I'm here.”
Hitoshi blinked again.
“There you go, you've got it.”
He felt warm hands wrapping his own, thumbs applying pressure in his palms.
“Can you hear me, honey? I'm right here.”
Hitoshi blinked, registering his dad in front of him. He then realized that his own breathing was out of control, making him panic.
“Oh! Hey, it's okay, you're fine, breathe with me, yeah?”
Yamada took some deep breaths that the boy tried to mimic, finally managing to calm down after a few minutes.
“Back with me, my boy?” his dad asked, caressing Hitoshi's hands with just enough pressure. He nodded wordlessly, suddenly feeling really tired. “It had been a while since the last one of those, huh?”
Hitoshi at last became fully aware of the situation; he was sitting on his parents’ bed, Yamada kneeling in front of him, and Aizawa nowhere to be seen. He frowned and opened his mouth to ask.
“Yes, Aizawa is taking care of Bakugou. He is fine too, okay? Everyone is fine here. We're okay,” the pro-hero reassured again. “We might not have thought it through before making you two share a room—”
“It's okay, don't worry. I'm sorry, I've just been really tired and— and I don't know— I just slipped.” Hitoshi let go of his dad's hands to rake his own through his messed-up hair. “Is Bakugou okay? He was in so much pain.”
Yamada smiled softly and got up from the floor to sit down next to him, taking a water bottle from his bedside table and handing it to Hitoshi.
“He is okay. Are you okay?” The adult bumped his shoulder. “Do you need to talk about it?”
What did Hitoshi even do to help?
He didn't need to talk about it; he wasn’t a talking-about-it kind of person.
“I'm okay, seriously, I'm just tired, so I get…” Weak. “...panicky.”
“And that's fine, but maybe you need to know that after everything that has happened, it's okay to struggle, right?”
But what did Hitoshi even do?
“I'm fine.”
He didn't need help; he had never needed help in his whole life.
Before the man could reply, Aizawa appeared by the bedroom door, yawning. He watched them for a few seconds before kneeling in front of Hitoshi, who rolled his eyes. Why wasn't he comforting Bakugou right now?
“Hey, how are we holding up?” Aizawa asked softly, arms resting on his own knees.
“Is Bakugou okay?”
The teacher sighed and rubbed his eye.
“He is okay, the meds knocked him out. He is physically fine, I can assure you. The bursts of pain happen randomly, and they think it might be psychological.” Hitoshi nodded at the words; they were reassuring in a way, but not so much. Aizawa grimaced for a bit before continuing, “I'm sorry, I should've considered that having Bakugou in your room could've been triggering for you.”
Bakugou, who killed All For One, who died fighting and came back, who lost so much but came out a winner.
But he wasn't a trigger; if he was, then Hitoshi wouldn't be capable of living in the dorms with him or sharing a classroom. If Bakugou was a trigger, then the whole hero class would be, and they weren't; they were his friends who happened to be involved in the war.
Bakugo wasn't a trigger about the war; he couldn't be.
“He is not a trigger. I'm fine,” he repeated. “I'm glad he is fine. I wish I could've helped, though.”
That was true. He wished he could be of use, he wished he could calm Bakugou down, or that he had been given the information necessary to avoid panicking when the episode happened.
He wished he could have been of help.
“And that's understandable. We can have a talk tomorrow with him, ask if he's comfortable talking to you about those episodes, so you both can be more comfortable. Sounds good?” Aizawa got up, ruffling the teen's hair, who tiredly leaned into the touch. “Now, what about some of that sleepy tea so you can go back to sleep, huh?”
Hitoshi nodded, and Yamada got up quickly, heading towards the kitchen and leaving the other two to wait in bed.
“You did well alerting me about what was happening, Hitoshi,” his father said softly. “Thank you for that.”
I didn't do anything.