Chapter Text
Shouto knew Endeavour would be angry after the sports festival, but when Aizawa told him his father had signed him out of the dorms his stomach dropped. He knew what was waiting for him- he had failed. Failed to prove his father wrong.
He used his fire. He used his fire and still managed to lose. Anger twisted in his chest just thinking about it. He was consumed in rage not only at himself but at his father too, and now he had face Endeavour and this time he won’t go out without fight.
~
He went to gather his stuff from his dorm room making it as tedious of a task as he could just to spite Endeavour who was already waiting outside the gates with a scowl on his face. After taking 20 minutes to gather his stuff, he finally faced the fact he had to leave. It was honestly kind of embarrassing to him being the only one going home but he was somewhat used to it by now as this happened most weekends.
But then again this wasn’t like most weekends.
After walking through the dorms with his head down he reached the common room where the rest of his class were talking, talking about the sports festival to be specific.
After a second of standing in the doorway Midoriya spotted him ,
“Oh hey Todoroki-kun we were just talking about the sports festival! Wanna join?” He smiled at the offer but had to refuse “thanks for the offer Midoriya but I’m actually just passing through. Endeavour signed me out so I’m heading home for the weekend”
“Aw that’s a shame!” Midoriya said with a slight pout before his face quickly snapped back into a cheerful smile
“Yeah it is! You were like totally great at the sports festival and that fire move against Midoriya was super cool! Shame you lost though I totally placed all my bets on you” kaminari said as he began acting it out himself earning a few chuckles from the rest of the class.
He looked at the floor embarrassment and rage burning in his face. Great. Of course they had to remind him.
Swallowing his emotions he managed to get himself to laugh along with the rest of the class hoping to move on without someone seeing the moment his emotions were out of check. But he isn’t that lucky. When he looked up his boyfriend was watching him with a slight look of concern. He offered up a smile hoping it would ease any suspicion he had, which it seemed to do as a little later the concern was gone, he thought he saw a smile back or maybe just a twitch of the mouth? He wasn’t sure but what else could he expect from Bakugo, it was surprising enough that he managed to refrain him from screaming all the time, so maybe he could get a smile out of him one day.
Two angry beeps snapped Shoto back into reality, the reality where he had to go home to his father. So after quickly saying goodbye to everyone and getting one last worried look off Bakugo he was out of the dorms and walking towards his father’s car.
~
Every step towards the gate felt like a countdown to a punishment he’d spent the whole day trying not to think about.
Endeavour stood beside the car, arms folded tightly across his chest, impatience written in every sharp line of his face
“You think making me wait is funny Shouto?”
Todoroki shrugged as he reached the car. “You survived.”
A muscle in Endeavour’s jaw twitched.
Without waiting Shouto slid into the passenger seat and stared out the window, refusing to acknowledge him any further, determined not to give his father the satisfaction of seeing any fear.
~
The drive home felt endless.
The engine hummed beneath the silence, broken only by the occasional tap of Endeavour’s fingers against the steering wheel. Shoto watched the city slide past through the passenger window, counting traffic lights, shop fronts, anything that kept his thoughts from wandering too far ahead.
“You’ve gotten complacent.”
Shoto didn’t answer.
“UA has filled your head with distractions. Friends. Dorm life. Games.” Endeavour’s grip tightened on the wheel. “You forgot why you’re there.”
Still nothing.
“Losing wasn’t acceptable.”
Shoto’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“Do you?”
The rest of the journey dissolved into another lecture about discipline, strength, and expectations. Shoto had stopped listening years ago. The words blurred together until they became nothing more than background noise.
The moment the car rolled into the driveway, Endeavour cut the engine.
“Training room. Now.”
Shoto’s stomach sank.
He didn’t ask why. He already knew.
“UA’s made you complacent,” Endeavour said as he strode ahead. “You’re slower. Softer. You let yourself lose because you’ve forgotten what real training looks like.”
Shoto followed several paces behind, his footsteps heavy against the polished floor. Arguing would only make it worse.
~
The traditional shoji screens of the primary training hall didn't just muffle sound; they felt designed to bury secrets. The polished wooden floorboards were scarred with ancient scorch marks and deep gouges from years of brutal instruction.
Enji stood in the center of the room, already stripped of his hero coat, his massive frame silhouetted by the flickering orange glow of his own beard. Shoto stood opposite him, still in his gym uniform, his hands loosely curled into fists.
"Activate your left side," Enji commanded, taking a solid, low stance. "We are going to burn out that hesitation. You will use it until it obeys your instinct, not your trauma."
"No," Shoto whispered.
Enji’s eyes narrowed, the flames on his shoulders flaring violently. "What did you say?"
"I said no," Shoto said, louder this time. His right side suddenly erupted, a jagged spire of ice tearing across the floor, aiming directly at his father's boots.
It wasn't a defensive wall; it was an attack. For the first time in his life, Shoto wasn't just taking the beating. The sheer humiliation of the Sports Festival, the confusing tangle of emotions regarding Midoriya, and the suffocating realization that he was back in this room broke something loose inside him. He was angry. He was furious. And for once, he poured that fury directly at the source.
Enji easily shattered the ice with a backhand blow, a concussive blast of heat vaporizing the shards into thick, blinding steam. "You dare strike at me? With only your mother’s pathetic power?"
"I am not your tool!" Shoto shouted, his voice cracking with a raw, adolescent rage. He lunged forward through the steam, throwing a hard left hook, a torrent of frost trailing behind his fist.
But anger made him sloppy. Enji was a veteran hero, a man built for combat. Shoto’s rebellion didn't inspire pride in his father; it ignited an egoistic fury. Enji ducked under the swing, his massive hand clamping around Shoto's collar. With a sickening grunt, he slammed Shoto entirely into the hardwood floor.
The impact knocked the breath from Shoto’s lungs, but instead of staying down, Shoto brought his left leg up, unleashing a burst of raw fire directly into Enji’s torso.
The flames caught Enji by surprise, forcing him back a step, a black smudge blooming on his shirt. For a split second, Shoto thought he had won a piece of independence.
But Enji's retaliation was instantaneous. A heavy, flame-wreathed fist caught Shoto squarely in the jaw, sending him spinning across the room. Shoto hit the wall hard, the wood cracking behind him. Before he could slide to the floor, Enji was there, grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head back into the wall.
"You think you are strong because you threw a tantrum at a school tournament?!" Enji screamed, his voice deafening. He threw Shoto across the room like a ragdoll. Shoto skidded across the floor, his skin scraping violently against the splinters.
"Get up!" Enji yelled, his flames licking the ceiling. "If you can fight back, you can stand up!"
Enji expected the boy to stay down, to weep, or to submissively activate his left side out of fear. But something inside Shoto had permanently snapped. The submissive boy who endured the beatings in silence was gone.
With a wet, agonizing gasp, Shoto pushed his palms against the blood-slicked floorboards. His limbs shook violently, his right knee buckling once, twice, before he forced it to lock. He stood up. He wiped a streak of dark crimson from his lip with the back of his trembling forearm, his heterochromatic eyes burning with an unadulterated, defiant hatred.
"I'm not done," Shoto rasped, coughing up a small splatter of blood.
He lunged again. He didn't use his ice to slide this time; he simply sprinted, throwing his entire body weight into a desperate, desperate assault. He threw a right hook, which Enji easily blocked with his forearm. Shoto didn't pause. He immediately spun, unleashing a concentrated jet of fire from his left palm directly into his father's face.
The proximity of the flames forced Enji to backpedal, his eyes widening slightly in genuine surprise at the boy’s sheer persistence. But the moment of shock vanished, replaced by an even deeper, darker fury. Enji swatted the flames away, his massive hand reaching through the smoke to deliver a brutal, open-palm strike to Shoto’s chest.
The blow sent Shoto crashing backward, his body tumbling over the scorched floor.
"Stay down, Shoto!" Enji commanded, his voice shaking the foundation of the room. "You are running on empty!"
"No!" Shoto screamed, the sound tearing at his throat.
Using the momentum of his fall, he slammed his right hand down, summoning a jagged, chaotic wave of ice that completely encased his father's legs up to his waist. Before Enji could melt through it, Shoto was already back on his feet, dragging his battered body forward. He threw a frantic punch, his left hand ablaze, aimed squarely at his father's chest.
He actually connected. The impact made a dull, heavy thud against Enji’s collarbone, the smell of singed fabric filling the air.
But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
Enji’s face contorted into something monstrous. With a guttural roar, he unleashed a massive, explosive burst of heat that shattered Shoto’s ice into vapor and sent a concussive shockwave straight into the boy.
Enji closed the distance before Shoto could even hit the ground. His massive, heat-radiating hand clamped tightly around Shoto’s left shoulder, lifting him completely off his feet.
Shoto screamed—a high, agonized sound that echoed off the high ceiling. The fabric of his U.A. gym uniform melted instantly, fusing directly to his flesh as Enji’s fingers dug into his skin, leaving horrific, high-intensity burn imprints.
"You think this rebellion makes you strong?!" Enji roared, slamming Shoto down onto his stomach with sickening force. "It makes you foolish!"
Before Shoto could even draw breath, Enji’s heavy boot came down directly onto his ribs. A sharp, terrifying crack echoed through the hall. Shoto choked, his body convulsing as blood instantly bubbled past his lips, staining the scorched wood beneath his face.
This time, Shoto’s body finally failed his mind. He tried to push himself up, but his arms simply gave out, his face sliding back into the pool of his own blood. His vision blurred into a hazy, dark vignette.
"Look at you," Enji spat, towering over him like an angry god. The flames on his face settled back into a simmering flicker, leaving the room in a suffocating, smoky twilight. "Pathetic. You waste your potential on spite. Get out of my sight. Clean yourself up. We try again at dawn."
Enji turned his back, not even looking at the mangled boy on the floor, and strode out of the training room. The heavy sliding door shut with a definitive, echoing bang, leaving Shoto alone in the dark.
Using the last reserves of his adrenaline, Shoto dragged his mangled body toward the low wooden window that led to the side courtyard. He didn't look for his shoes. He didn't look for a jacket. He just unlatched the frame with a bloody hand and tumbled out into the cool, damp night air.
~
The concrete of the side streets was unforgiving. Without shoes, every step Shoto took sent a sharp, biting pain up his legs. Small pebbles cut into his soles, leaving a faint, smeary trail of red footprints behind him.
He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he had to keep moving away from the estate.
The night was exceptionally cold, a stark contrast to the oven he had just escaped. His uniform was a disaster—the left sleeve was entirely gone, burned away to reveal raw, blistered skin coated in soot and drying blood. The trousers were torn at the knees from where he had collapsed multiple times onto the asphalt. Dirt, gravel, and dried blood covered his face, his hair matted and damp.
He looked like a ghost, or a victim of a villain attack. A few late-night pedestrians saw him from across the street, but when they noticed the blood and the glazed, unfocused look in his eyes, they quickly crossed to the other side or hurried away, pulling their coats tighter. Nobody wanted to get involved with a broken kid wandering the alleys.
Shoto’s vision flickered. Step. Step. Hold your side.
His right hand was clamped tightly against his left ribs, trying to keep his chest stable. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass. His mind, hazy from what was undoubtedly a severe concussion, kept drifting. He thought about the stadium. He thought about the roaring crowd. He thought about the angry, explosive blonde boy who had stood on the number one podium, chained and muzzled, furious at a victory he felt wasn't earned.
Katsuki.
A strange, desperate ache bloomed in Shoto's chest, distinct from the physical pain. They hadn't told anyone at school yet. It was fresh, secret, and clumsy—a series of quiet moments behind the gym, shared lunches away from the class, and fierce, unyielding promises whispered in the dark. Bakugo was loud and violent to the world, but with Shoto, there was an underlying, protective ferocity that Shoto had never experienced before.
Shoto’s knees buckled. He collided heavily with the brick wall of a convenience store alleyway, sliding down the rough surface until he was sitting in the dirt. His breath came in short, ragged wheezes. He couldn't get back up. His legs felt like lead.
"Come on," Shoto whispered to himself, his voice barely a rasp. "Just a little further..."
He didn't even know where U.A. was from here. He was completely lost in the outskirts of the district. The cold was setting in, making his body shiver violently, which only aggravated his broken ribs. Tears of pure exhaustion and agony finally slipped from his eyes, carving clean paths through the soot and blood on his cheeks. He leaned his head back against the brick, his eyelids growing impossibly heavy.
~
Katsuki Bakugo walked out of the 24-hour convenience store, a plastic bag swinging loosely from his wrist. It contained a couple of spicy meat buns and a cold can of coffee. He was annoyed. He was always annoyed, but tonight especially, the lingering anger from the Sports Festival was chewing at his gut.
He had wanted a real fight. He had wanted the half-and-half bastard to give him everything. Instead, Todoroki had quit on him.
"Fucking idiot," Katsuki muttered, kicking a stray pebble into the street. He stuffed his free hand into his hoodie pocket, his eyes scanning the quiet, poorly lit road that led back toward the U.A. high-security dormitories.
He took a shortcut down a familiar side street, intending to cut through the commercial district. As he passed a narrow alleyway adjacent to a closed grocery storefront, a scent hit him. It wasn't the smell of garbage or rain. It was the distinct, metallic tang of fresh blood, mixed with the acrid smell of burnt fabric and ozone.
Katsuki stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes snapped toward the shadows of the alley.
At first, he thought it was a stray dog or a drunkard. But then his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the single flickering streetlamp. He saw a shock of white and red hair, utterly ruined and caked in dark crimson.
The plastic bag slipped from Katsuki’s grip, hitting the pavement with a soft thud.
"Todoroki?" Katsuki’s voice lost all its usual explosive bravado, dropping into a breathless, panicked register.
The figure in the alley didn't move, but a weak, shuddering breath hitched in his throat.
In three massive strides, Katsuki was inside the alley, dropping to his knees directly in front of the boy. Up close, the reality of the situation hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. Shoto was completely barefoot, his feet cut and bleeding. His left shoulder was a horrific tapestry of fresh, angry burns. Blood was still actively dripping from his jaw, and his eyes were half-closed, unfocused, staring at Katsuki as if he were a hallucination.
"Hey—hey! Look at me!" Katsuki's hands hovered over Shoto’s body, trembling violently. For the first time in his life, Katsuki was terrified to touch someone. He didn't know where he could place his hands without causing excruciating pain. "What the fuck happened?! Who did this to you?! Was it a villain? Talk to me, Shoto!"
Shoto’s head tilted slightly, his vision swimming as he tried to lock onto Katsuki’s crimson eyes. A tiny, broken sound escaped his throat. He tried to speak, but only a dry cough came out, causing him to wince and curl inward, his face contorting in agony.
"Don't move, don't fucking move," Katsuki panicked, his hands finally settling gently on Shoto’s uninjured right jawline, his thumb wiping away a streak of blood. "Look at me. I'm going to call Recovery Girl. I'm going to call the teachers—"
"No," Shoto whispered, his hand weakly reaching up to clutch at Katsuki’s wrist. His grip was entirely devoid of its usual strength. "No... please. Don't call... anyone."
"Are you insane?!" Katsuki yelled, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and absolute dread. "You're bleeding out in a fucking alleyway, Todoroki! You're burnt to a crisp! Who the hell did this?!"
Shoto didn't answer. He didn't need to. Katsuki’s eyes drifted to the nature of the burns on Shoto's shoulder. They weren't from an explosion. They were high-intensity, concentrated heat imprints. The shape of a large hand was practically seared into the fabric of his torn uniform.
Katsuki’s breath hitched. Realisation flooded his chest with a sickening, icy horror. Endeavour.
"That absolute piece of shit," Katsuki growled, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached. Tiny, involuntary sparks began to crackle from his palms, but he forced them down, refusing to let his quirk anywhere near the injured boy. "I'll kill him. I'll fucking murder him—"
"Katsuki..." Shoto's voice was a fragile thread. Hearing his first name break from Shoto's lips snapped Katsuki's attention right back.
Shoto looked up at him, and for the first time since they had met, the stoic, unreadable wall of Shoto Todoroki completely disintegrated. His lip trembled. A fresh wave of tears cascaded down his bloodied cheeks, leaving clean tracks through the grime. He looked entirely like a child who had been broken by the world.
"I couldn't... stay there," Shoto sobbed quietly, a pathetic, heartbreaking sound that made Katsuki’s chest squeeze painfully. "It hurts... everything hurts..."
"I know. I know, baby, I got you," Katsuki whispered, completely abandoning his harsh exterior. He leaned forward, carefully sliding one arm behind Shoto’s uninjured back and the other beneath his knees, avoiding the fractured ribs as best he could. "I'm getting you out of here. Hold on to me."
As Katsuki lifted him into his arms, Shoto let out a sharp, choked gasp of pain, his forehead dropping into the crook of Katsuki’s neck. He clung to the fabric of Katsuki's hoodie with a desperate, dying strength.
"Don't let... him take me back," Shoto mumbled, his consciousness visibly slipping away as the adrenaline completely deserted his body.
"He's never touching you again," Katsuki vowed, his voice thick with an absolute, deadly promise. "I swear it to you, Shoto. He’s done."
Shoto’s body went entirely limp in his arms, his hand slipping from Katsuki’s hoodie, his head rolling heavily against Katsuki's chest. He had passed out cold.
Katsuki didn't hesitate. He adjusted his grip, pulling the unconscious boy securely against his chest, completely ignoring the fact that Shoto's blood was quickly soaking through his own clothes. He turned on his heel and sprinted out of the alleyway, heading directly toward the U.A. gates at a breakneck pace. He didn't care about the rules, he didn't care about the curfew, and he didn't care about the consequences.
He was going to save his boyfriend, and then he was going to burn the world down to make sure it never happened again.
~
Katsuki’s lungs burned as his boots pounded against the asphalt, his breaths coming in jagged, rhythmic snaps. Shoto felt terrifyingly light in his arms, a dead weight whose head lolled helplessly against Katsuki’s collarbone with every stride. The wet, hot smear of Shoto’s blood was already soaking through the front of Katsuki’s hoodie, cooling rapidly against the night air.
He couldn't use his explosions to travel faster. The concussive blasts would rattle Shoto's broken ribs, and the heat might aggravate the horrific burns on his left side. He had to run. He had to run faster than he ever had in his life.
Reaching into his pocket with a trembling, blood-slicked hand, Katsuki fished out his phone. He didn't look down at the screen. He kept his eyes locked on the dark road ahead, using his thumb to violently swipe through his contacts until he hit the speed dial he had been given for emergencies during the Sports Festival.
He rammed the phone between his shoulder and his ear, tilting his head sharply to lock it into place while keeping both arms securely wrapped around Shoto’s knees and back.
The phone rang once. Twice.
“Bakugo?” Aizawa’s voice cut through the static, instantly sharp, alert, and laced with the standard exhaustion of a teacher pulled from a rare moment of rest. “It is past curfew. You are outside the designated perimeter. Turn around and—”
"Shut up and listen to me!" Katsuki roared into the mic, his voice cracking with a raw, unhinged panic that he couldn't mask. He choked down a gasp for air, his legs pumping furiously as he rounded a corner toward the main avenue leading to the school. "I have Todoroki. I'm bringing him in."
There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line, the rustle of fabric indicating Aizawa was already standing up. “What do you mean you have him? Did you get into a fight after the tournament? Bakugo, if you—”
"I didn't do shit to him!" Katsuki screamed, his vision blurring slightly from pure, unadulterated rage. He looked down for a fraction of a second at Shoto’s pale, dirt-streaked face. "He’s broken, sensei! He’s fucking ruined! He’s covered in blood, his ribs are snapped, and his left side is entirely burnt to hell! He passed out in a goddamn alleyway!"
The line went completely dead of background noise. When Aizawa spoke again, the tired, bureaucratic tone was entirely gone. It was the voice of the underground hero, cold and lethal.
“Are you being pursued by a villain?” Aizawa demanded. “Give me your coordinates. I can intercept.”
"No! No villains!" Katsuki hit the main straightaway, the towering, futuristic glass structures of the U.A. high-security gates visible in the distance. He could feel Shoto’s weak, shallow breaths against his neck, a tiny puff of air that felt way too cold. "It wasn't a villain. It was his goddamn father."
A suffocating silence hung over the call for three agonizing seconds.
“Endeavour,” Aizawa stated, the name sounding like a curse word.
"The handprints are literally seared into his skin, teach," Katsuki spat, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached. He was sobbing now, though he would never admit it, the tears mixing with the sweat on his face. "He’s barefoot. His feet are shredded. He told me... he begged me not to let that bastard take him back. He said everything hurts."
“Listen to me, Bakugo,” Aizawa’s voice came through firm, anchoring Katsuki’s spiralling panic. “Keep running. Do not stop. I am overriding the front gate security protocols right now so you won't trigger the automated alarms. I am calling Recovery Girl down to the main campus infirmary. I will meet you at the threshold.”
"You better," Katsuki growled, his knuckles turning white where they gripped the fabric of Shoto’s torn trousers. "Because if anyone tries to take him away from me right now, I'm going to blow this fucking place into the sky."
“Bring him home, kid. I've got the rest,” Aizawa said, and the line clicked shut.
Katsuki shoved the phone back into his pocket, his gaze locking onto the massive U.A. gates. The security lights suddenly flickered from a restrictive red to a welcoming green, the heavy titanium barriers sliding open just enough for a single person to sprint through.
"Hear that, half-and-half?" Katsuki whispered, pulling Shoto tighter against his chest as he crossed the threshold into the school grounds. "We're there. You're safe. I've got you."
~
Katsuki finally burst through the side entrance. He didn’t slow down, his breaths coming in heavy, ragged gasps. The front of his hoodie was entirely soaked through, cold and stiff with Shoto’s blood, and every second felt like a countdown he was losing.
Standing right at the intersection of the main hallway, beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, was Shouta Aizawa.
The underground hero didn't wear his usual slouched, indifferent posture. His capturing weapon was already unwrapped, hovering loosely around his shoulders, and his eyes were wide, tracking the massive red stains coating Katsuki’s clothes.
"Bakugo," Aizawa called out, stepping forward to intercept him. His hands were raised slightly, a universal sign to get the explosive teenager to halt. "Stop. Let me see him."
Katsuki skidded to a halt, his chest heaving. His first instinct was to snarl and push past, but he forced his boiling temper down. He looked at Aizawa’s alert, fiercely protective stance and remembered the promise on the phone. This wasn't a bureaucrat; it was their teacher.
"He's in bad shape, sensei," Katsuki rasped, his voice cracking as he carefully angled his body so Aizawa could get a clear look at Shoto without moving him too much. "His ribs are busted. Left side is completely torched. He's breathing wet."
Aizawa knelt down slightly, his sharp eyes instantly assessing the damage. His hands hovered efficiently, checking the pulse at Shoto's neck with practiced, feather-light precision. "You did the right thing by running, Bakugo. And you did the right thing not using your quirk to carry him. The concussive force would have punctured his lungs."
Before Katsuki could respond, a weak, broken hitch of air cut through the tense hallway.
Between Katsuki’s arms, Shoto’s head shifted. The sudden cessation of movement and the low murmur of voices dragged him back from the edge of unconsciousness. His heterochromatic eyes opened slowly, but they were completely unfocused, glazed over with a film of absolute terror and excruciating pain.
"N-No..." Shoto whimpered, his eyes rolling blankly as he caught sight of Aizawa’s tall, dark silhouette looming over him.
To Shoto's traumatized mind, the dim hallway dissolved. He was back in the smoking ruins of the training room. A tall figure was stepping through the vapor to break him again.
A sudden, violent wave of panic seized Shoto's battered frame. He let out a sharp, choked scream, his body instinctively trying to thrash away from the danger. The sudden movement made his fractured ribs shift, and he gasped in pure agony, blood bubbling past his lips.
"Don't—please, don't! Father, stop!" Shoto sobbed, his voice cracking into a high, childlike register of pure desperation.
"Shoto, hey! Look at me, it's not him!" Katsuki panicked, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He immediately shifted his weight, turning slightly to block Aizawa from Shoto's direct line of sight while keeping his grip incredibly steady. He pressed his cheek right against Shoto’s damp, matted hair. "It's Katsuki. It's me, half-and-half. Look at my face. You're at U.A."
Aizawa immediately backed away by two full steps, dropping his hands and lowering his posture to make himself look as unthreatening as possible. "Todoroki. You are safe. You are at school. Endeavour is not here."
Hearing those two voices—Katsuki’s rough, familiar warmth and Aizawa’s calm, anchoring tone—acted like a tether to reality. Shoto’s frantic blinking slowed, his vision finally focusing on the familiar crimson eyes looking down at him with an immense amount of worry.
The realization hit Shoto all at once. The physical agony, the biting cold of the night, and the absolute exhaustion of his escape washed over him. With a heartbreaking, pathetic sob, Shoto weakly lifted his uninjured right arm and hooked it entirely around Katsuki’s neck.
He pulled himself up with what little strength he had left, burying his face directly into the crook of Katsuki’s shoulder. He cried so hard his entire body shook violently against Katsuki's chest.
"K-Katsuki..." Shoto wept, his fingers bunching into the fabric of the damp hoodie, squeezing with a desperate, trembling intensity. He hugged the blonde tighter, burying himself into the warmth, trying to hide from the rest of the world. "Don't let him... please... it hurts so bad..."
"I've got you. I'm not letting go, I swear to God," Katsuki choked out, his own throat tightening as he squeezed back, being incredibly mindful of the broken ribs.
Knowing Shoto was stable enough to move, Katsuki looked up at Aizawa, his anger entirely replaced by an urgent, cooperative desperation. "Sensei, he’s losing it. We need to get him to the infirmary right now."
"I'm leading the way," Aizawa replied instantly, already turning toward the left corridor. "Bakugo, keep him matched to your stride. Don't let his weight shift."
"Got it," Katsuki nodded sharply. Holding Shoto locked tightly against his chest, listening to the quiet, rhythmic sobs echoing against his neck, he followed directly on Aizawa's heels as they sprinted together toward the medical bay.