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He could never remember the reason why.
He remembers finding the right tool, he remembers the cold of the bathroom floor, he remembers the uncomfortable feeling of a damp thigh in sweatpants.
He remembers liking it. But he can’t remember why.
—
It’s not a deep, dark secret. It’s not even something worth his breath.
The only evidence is pale white lines across his skin and his mom’s long stares.
And the itch.
He doesn’t hesitate in locker rooms, he doesn’t shy away from shorts, he doesn’t avoid long sleeves. He has nothing to hide. There is barely anything to see in the first place.
It’s impossible to see unless you know what you’re looking for. What you’re looking at.
Kirishima gives him a long look the first week at UA. But not his mom’s narrowed gaze and downturned mouth. His eyes are rounded and warm and Katsuki makes damn sure he doesn’t meet them.
Stupid Shitty Hair.
He grabs his sleeve before he leaves the locker room, mouth parting to speak. Katsuki sparks his hands and gives his sharpest glare before a single sound could leave his mouth. He rips his arm away and doesn’t turn back.
Kirishima never brings it up again.
—
The itch flares up without his input.
Aizawa points out his errors in training with calm, thoughtful advice and his thigh screams.
Sparring, a knee pressing into the space above his own, and his leg turns heavy, begging.
Izuku scores a point better than him on their math exam and he has to take a midnight walk.
It burns. Warm insistence pounding against the barrier of his skin. It wants out.
He angrily runs his fingernails against his thigh. Minimal pressure, back and forth, back and forth.
It does nothing.
He’s got it under control. He’s fine.
He shuffles in around an hour later to find Deku staring wide-eyed from the kitchen, mug in hand.
Ignoring the stare, he throws off his shoes before stomping over to the stairs.
“Kacchan.”
Katsuki stops. Counts to ten.
“What.”
“Good night.”
Katsuki stares resolutely forward. Whatever mind game the nerd is playing tonight will have to go ignored.
“Tch.”
The walk to his dorm is short. He slams the door behind him and stares into the dark room.
The itch is still there.
Pathetic.
—
It was humiliating the way his parents learned.
A too short pair of shorts and all of the sudden his irritated wounds were exposed to the cold air. His mom clenched his pant leg and, despite his kicking and screaming, would not let go.
He made up some excuse, he doesn’t even remember what. Just words loud enough to drown out any unspoken questions.
His dad stared in the corner.
His mom released him and he stormed to his room, door slamming.
That night, his dad quietly told him to make sure he cleans correctly or they will get infected.
His mom never mentioned it.
—
He’s out of clothes.
There are three clean athletic shorts sitting in his dresser and none of them reach his knee.
He’s going to be late. He told Kirishima they would meet in 10 minutes.
All his work-out pants and his gym uniform are in the wash.
It’s supposed to be a simple lifting session. He can’t wear his hero suit.
It’s fine. It’s just fucking shorts.
He has nothing to hide.
He cancels on Kirishima and doubles his workout the next day.
—
Every UA student gets their own personal bathroom with a sink and a toilet connected to their dorm.
The floor is cold.
—
It’s so fucking stupid.
He needs to get a grip.
His thigh itches and itches and burns and itches and it won’t stop.
It aches. He curls up tighter, pulls the blankets closer.
It’s so pathetic. The picture he’s painting. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Why? Why? Why can’t he remember why he’s like this?
Suck it up.
He grips his hair tighter.
Suck it up.
—
He’s twenty-five.
He’s folding laundry.
His mom dropped off some of his old clothes yesterday, complaining that she needed the closet space for something other than rotting clothes.
He threw them in the wash before attempting to separate them into donation and keep piles. Unnecessary, maybe, but he doesn’t like the smell of musty clothes.
He can’t help but smile at old t-shirts and hoodies, the keep pile overtaking the donation pile. He might have grown some since high school, but Izuku is about the size he was back then, maybe a bit smaller still, and the bastard loves wearing anything of his. These should fit him nicely, good for sleep.
He’s half-way through a load of lights when he finds them.
Gray sweatpants, sitting inside out. Dark stains on the right pant leg.
The fabric is rough under his fingers, years of washing worn into the soft fibers.
These used to be one of his favorites.
He gently flips them and folds them, setting them in the keep pile.
He’ll have to buy some new stain remover. They ran out of it last week. Izuku and his messy eating habits.
He starts pairing up the socks.
—
Katsuki doesn’t like wearing pants to bed.
He likes the feeling of the soft blankets on his bare legs. Plus it helps his sweating problem.
Izuku likes to cuddle.
Warm body always curled around his own.
His two favorite positions are resting his head against Katsuki’s chest and curling around his back, arms tight around his waist.
It takes a while to get used to.
Sometimes it’s hot and stuffy and Katsuki has to shove him off and take a minute for himself.
The chill of the bathroom tiles helps calm his racing head, his sweaty back and hands.
Izuku is patient. Too patient. Always waiting back in the bed, no judgement resting in his bloodshot eyes.
They talk about it. Eventually. Izuku always seems to know his thoughts before he speaks them aloud, but smiles in appreciation at the effort Katsuki takes to form the words with his mouth and release them into the world.
It gets better. Easier.
It’s nice. With Izuku.
They are curled up in a warm bed on a cold day. Izuku’s breath is tickling his ear but in a way that doesn’t make him want to scream.
A warm hand rests on his bare thigh.
He tries not to move. Izuku has touched there plenty of times.
Just not… here. Never here.
Well, here in this bed. But not without other… circumstances.
The covers are kicked off. Both comfortable in their shared body heat.
The warm lamp shines on his thigh as Izuku gently runs a finger along one of the scars..
Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut.
The scars are tiny. Compared to the rest scattered across his body. Almost irrelevant.
It feels nice. The soft touch.
He wants to kick it off.
A slow minute passes of Izuku’s gentle fingers running along the lines before he sighs and turns off the light.
The hand returns but open, a large palm warming up the ache.
A gentle kiss on his forehead.
They fall asleep without the covers on.
—
He’s baking.
He’s always wanted to try making chai cookies.
Izuku will be home late tonight. Going out with his nerdy little teacher friends.
The apartment smells like cinnamon. Mighty the cat is dozing on the couch. The TV is playing a show he’s been following on a low, tolerable volume.
His chest is warm.
It itches.
He’s been thinking of buying a new blender.
—
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Go away. Go away. Go away.
“Kacchan?”
Katsuki freezes.
“Kacchan, I know you are here. Are you okay? We were supposed to leave 5 minutes ago.”
They are supposed to be on patrol.
Katsuki isn’t supposed to be here. The agency bathroom. Pants down, nails cut too short to do any damage.
“One sec.”
He pulls his pants up. Buckles his belt.
One, two, three. He’s fine.
He pushes open the door and stalks to the sinks.
He can feel eyes on the back of his neck.
He washes his hands, shakes them out, and starts to pass Izuku to leave.
A hand grabs his arm.
“Kacchan.”
In and out. In and out.
“What.”
No reply.
He forces himself to look to his right. Look at Izuku’s face.
His eyes are worn.
Izuku’s hand slides down to his own. Grips it. Squeezes. One. Twice. Lets go.
Patrol is uneventful.
—
Katsuki opens his mouth. Closes it.
Izuku is too busy staring intently at All Might vs. Godzilla 3 to pay attention.
He opens his mouth. Says a word.
“I-“ Gives up after that.
“Hm?” Izuku is still staring at the TV.
He’s got this. He’s fine. He’s Bakugou Katsuki.
“I…” What the fuck is wrong with him.
Izuku’s eyes are now flickering between him and the screen.
“I used to–“ He huffs in frustration. He should have planned this out. He should have prepared a stupid script.
He really shouldn’t be saying anything in the first place.
Izuku already obviously knows.
There really is no point.
But he just… he needs these words to leave his lips.
Izuku is looking at him now, movie paused, eyes wide.
Katsuki lets out a breath. Come on.
“I used to hurt myself.”
Izuku’s eyes widen further.
“Physically,” he looks at Mighty on his lap as he continues, “Uh… I don’t– I don’t remember why.”
This is ridiculous. Stupid. His face is burning. His shirt is sticking to his back.
“Okay, Kacchan,” Izuku’s eyes are soft when he slowly glances back up.
Katsuki braces himself for more. But it’s quiet.
He looks back down to the cat. He goes to pet her, and she huffs and jumps off, trotting over to the arm chair.
He rolls his eyes before turning and shoving his face into Izuku’s shoulder.
Izuku giggles and rubs his back.
“I love you, Kacchan.”
Katsuki grunts in reply, face hot.
The TV gets unpaused a minute later.
He falls asleep in Izuku’s arms.
—
He wakes up in bed, neck aching.
Izuku is asleep beside him. Drool stuck to the side of his mouth.
The sun is gently shining through the blinds.
He should order that blender today.