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The war had a lasting effect on everyone. Katsuki knew he wasn’t the only one.
Sure, out of Class 1-A, people considered his injuries the most detrimental (he quite literally died and came back), but he was aware they all had their fair share of issues now—which were complementing the ones they already had from incidents like the Training Camp.
Mina spent most of her time in the common room, seeking out someone to keep her company. Kirishima ate more than he used to, but his workouts were now more vigorous. Izuku could almost never stop rubbing his forearms, and Kaminari was glued to Katsuki’s back.
There were obvious signs that they all had become more co-dependent on one another, but stayed quiet about it. They were just kids, after all—and they had to cope somehow, choosing one another to do so out of fear that if things had gone any different, maybe more would have been lost.
Like him.
Katsuki kept mostly to himself. He didn’t indulge in the movie nights, or group cooking, or afternoon walks they did when classes let up. He kept his routine going, knowing for him, it would be his only way of remaining sane. Katsuki was fully aware he had catching up to do—his almost always faulty arm made him guilty.
Aizawa and Recovery Girl had it drilled into him that he had to take his time with his recovery. If he even dared to pick up something too heavy, or force too much of his quirk out, or god-forbid throw his arm around angrily, he could completely fuck everything up. His arm was sensitive—vulnerable and a setback.
It made nearly everything impossible. He had to learn to write with his left hand. He had to do modified training. He couldn’t hold things with only his right hand, always opted for a two-hand grip, or not using his bad hand at all. The worst of all, at least to him, was his inability to simply care for himself. Suddenly, buttoning up his shirt had Kirishima’s hands doing it for him in the mornings, before and after training, and when the day ended. Writing notes was more of a Momo-writes-and-gives-them-to-him thing, even though he insisted on copying them down on his own because he would be a drag letting Momo do it all by herself. And besides, he had to learn how to write with his left hand somehow.
Only recently had he discovered a new issue. Bathing.
It hadn’t been a problem before today, but while making dinner, Kaminari raided the kitchen and made a huge mess—right where Katsuki was, putting his back in the splash zone. Scrubbing his back obsessively like he did with the rest of himself typically wasn’t in his bath routine, but today it felt absolutely necessary.
Katsuki still had to work on making his arms more flexible, so unfortunately, his left arm couldn’t reach back on its own. And for disgustingly obvious reasons, he wasn’t really supposed to be moving his right arm very much anyway. He wasn’t even supposed to be getting it wet! So, all of his odds stacked against him and left him with a dirty back and no way to clean himself.
It was frustrating. Absolutely a punch to his pride, and metaphorically, his stomach. It made him nauseous at the idea that he couldn't do it.
The Katsuki he knew could do almost anything. Like surviving death. It was a great example.
Knowing he had to just suck it up, he reached over for his bag of things he brought with himself. It was only a change of clothes, his toiletries and towel, and his phone—which is what he carefully dug for. Pulling it out, he contemplated who he was most trusting of to help him.
The idea of letting Kirishima or Izuku in felt like a horrific idea. He knew Izuku had nightmares about seeing him dead, and willingly asking him to come to the bathrooms to help and see the massive graft that was his chest really just felt like a twisted idea. Katsuki was an asshole, but not heartless.
Kirishima seemed rough because he was too careful—almost babying at times. The redhead was like that with everything, pre and post war, but Katsuki didn’t need any of that shit right now. So he was out of the question.
He wouldn’t dare ask any of the girls—even if he did have a brief thought that he would trust Jirou to do it—and getting anyone else from his little group felt too serious for the way the others, Kaminari and Sero, behaved around him. Shinsou was a toss-up, but he felt it would just be awkward, even if the purple haired boy matched his energy with the same bite and vigour.
Everyone else just felt wrong, or like it would be far too intimate. He scrolled through his contacts with a finger that was as dry as he could make it before he stopped at one particular number.
Aizawa.
Katsuki would say with certainty that he trusted his teacher. The man had put himself into direct danger to ensure that they could go home safe at the end of the day. From having nearly his face broken and half his quirk ruined to save Asui, running all over the place during the Training Camp to make sure they were all accounted for whilst holding Kota, and even cutting off his own leg to keep himself alive and from losing his quirk. He was a no-nonsense man with a heart secretly full of love, care, and loyalty–devoting himself to never lying and pushing the class to be the best they could possibly be.
Katsuki never had any reason to not trust Aizawa. He dialed the number.
His phone buzzed against the tiles only twice before his teacher’s monotone grumble came through the speaker. “What now, Problem Child?”
The nickname formed a lump in his throat he had to choke down. It was a simple question, and he was able to kick his pride aside even more to just be honest.
“I need help.”
There was a moment of silence—a beat too long where he knew his teacher was processing such a request from him.
“How so?”
Katsuki cleared his throat. “I’m…” He huffed, “I’m in the baths and I can’t reach my back.”
The issue feels foreign and pathetic coming from his mouth. Not being able to bathe felt like the lowest low he’d been to in a while and he did not like it one bit. Thankfully, though, his teacher was the best of the best for being assuring and a sturdy pillar.
“I understand. That’s okay. Give me ten minutes.”
And that was it.
As Katsuki waited for his teacher, he did try a few more times to do it himself, but gave up when he felt himself getting angry and his chest began to tighten. That was one of the things he was warned about, too—he had to be calm, since being angry would make his heart overcompensate for it. The whole thing with his heart and what he could and couldn’t do was a long, dizzying list he couldn’t be arsed about anymore.
The echo of the door opening brought him back, slouching down into the warm, slightly bubbly water. Aizawa’s measured footsteps stop just before the opening where he’ll enter the bathing area.
“Can I enter?” He asks, his voice showing the insane amount of patience he’s always had. Such a small question brought an unexpected warmth to Katsuki’s heart. His teacher really did care.
“Uh, yeah.” Katsuki gave back. “You can’t help from over there, Old Man.”
Aizawa huffed, finally stepping around the corner. He was dressed in his familiar black outfit like he always was—but his hair was half pulled back out of his face, and his eye patch wasn’t on, which gave Katsuki a glimpse at the true thickness of his scar, and the slight milkiness of his normally covered eye. It reminded him of how sacrificial his teacher admirably was.
He let his teacher take a seat behind him on the tiles, rolling his sleeves up. They both remained silent as the body wash bottle cap clicked open, and Aizawa began to wash his back with a cloth.
Katsuki never imagined this when he first decided that U.A would be his future. He envisioned himself flying through the ranks of the school at an unstoppable pace—beating everyone, Izuku included of course—until he was the best student to have ever come out of the doors after graduating. And then he’d be the best and loudest pro hero that would change the world and spike fear into his enemies until villains were just part of the books, and no longer a reality.
But that was cartoonish, he could see it now. Because life wasn’t easy—the hag told him so all the time. And maybe his mother was right sometimes, but Katsuki was always a kid with dreams, even if they made him jump to have to achieve them.
His dreams had definitely changed since the war—since the first incident that had plagued their class and left them paranoid at an age that was far too young. Now, his dreams were simple. Graduate with his friends (yes, friends, even if it was a word that made him squirm). Have his own agency, and be a pro hero that could be idolized and looked up to by kids who also dream big. Maybe he even wanted to be an advocate, too.
Those dreams felt soft.
The cloth Aizawa had been dragging over his back fell away as his teacher shook it around in the water to wash it off. His voice was soothing. “Anything else?”
Katsuki nodded, turning to hand over his left arm. “Can’t move my right one.” He murmured, as if he felt compelled to explain himself. His teacher only nodded and started up again.
He didn’t pay much attention now that they were sort of facing one another, but he knew his teacher was curious—probably about his well-being, how his chest was healing, if things were feeling better. Everyone had been that way. They all were, and it was annoying.
Katsuki huffs. “My chest is fine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were thinking about it.”
His teacher gave him a look—almost soft, possibly pained. “Maybe I was.”
Katsuki could barely remember where his teacher was when he died. Surely he had to have been nearby—or at least he assumed he was because hell, everyone was nearby, it felt. He felt sorry.
“Did you see it?” He finds himself asking. “What happened.”
Aizawa didn’t look at him, focusing intently on his arm, which didn’t necessarily require the level of attention he was giving it. Aizawa cleared his throat, visibly struggling with the words. “I did.”
His heart pounded at such a simple answer. His teacher watched him die. That didn’t seem fair—but none of it was fair. No one deserved to see a corpse, let alone his. The corpse of a child that for once in his life was far too still, far too quiet.
“I.. I didn’t know you were that close.”
Aizawa gives a sad nod. “I was right there. With a few others.”
“Others?”
“Monoma and Manuel.”
Katsuki stared at his teacher. “That copy-cat kid from the other class?”
His teacher almost looked fond of his choice of words. “Yes. Monoma was there.” He used the cloth to was the soap off Katsuki’s arm—who didn’t stop looking.
Katsuki didn’t know students saw him die. Outside of maybe the Big Three, he was under the assumption that it was just heroes. He heard about Kaminari catching a glimpse, but that was it. His death hit the eyes of the other classes, and that alone settled something disturbing in his fragile chest.
Aizawa must have noticed. “I apologize. You probably didn’t want to know that.”
In an attempt to play it off, he shrugged. “I asked. It’s whatever.”
“That doesn’t make it less unsavory to learn.”
Katsuki had nothing to say to that—deciding to turn his head and look somewhere else. He didn’t want to learn that, which they both knew regardless of his chosen reaction. It’s not like he’s ashamed that he died, but he didn’t want to yell it from the top of a mountain like he did with a lot of other things. There was this unknown middle ground he hadn’t yet explored with what he should tell others, and what to keep to himself.
Looking down at his chest, the uneven graft that left it no longer as smooth as it once was, it throbbed. The sight left him uneasy, and having to wash it was even worse. Touching it without looking scared him because he didn’t want to tug on it, but looking made it more sensitive somehow. Carefully, he looked to Aizawa, who was ready to wring out the cloth.
“My chest.” Katsuki spat out. “I.. I don’t..” He couldn’t even say it. I can’t touch it. I don’t want to.
He watches how Aizawa’s hands stopped in their tracks, his eyes looking at him with something akin to a surprised disbelief. Aizawa shifted. “You want me to?..”
Katsuki nodded, saying nothing more—but he knew Aizawa was reading his silence exactly how he laid it out. The unspoken message was loud and clear.
I trust you.
He should have known his teacher would be gentle. There was nothing else to expect except for the passionate care his teacher held for those who needed help. Despite his outward persona, Aizawa was made to be a hero. A quiet one, but Katsuki couldn’t see him doing anything else. There was no teacher, or adult, really, that was like Aizawa.
That was a comforting thought to the blond, so he let himself close his eyes and think about something else. Something other than the feeling of a gentle cloth rubbing against the graft, and even gentler hands doing the best job possible.
When it was over, Katuski couldn’t help himself. There was a guilt he was unfamiliar with, and he didn’t want to sit with it—and if Aizawa was right here, he could listen. Katsuki trusted he would.
“I’m sorry.”
Aizawa hesitated, washing the soap away like he had with Katsuki’s arm and back previously. “What for?”
“Needing this,” He answered honestly, “and for making you have to see what you saw. It doesn’t sit right with me, I dunno..”
A deep sigh echoed through the baths, and Katsuki couldn't bear to look his teacher in the eyes anymore. It was somewhat embarrassing, but this whole thing was embarrassing, so it isn’t like this wasn’t wrong to add, he figured.
“Never apologize for needing help.” Aizawa said curtly, not forcing eye contact as he finally wrung out the cloth. “You are in a frustrating position that is leaving you disabled. As your homeroom teacher, I would be a fool who should be fired if I declined to help a student in need after what we all just went through.”
The reassurance brought an unwanted, pitiful lump to his throat that was hard to swallow. “You still didn’t have to see that shit. Or this shit.”
Aizawa sighed once more, tilting his head. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I don’t. But what matters to me is that not only are you alive, but you trust me enough to help when you know you need it. Nothing about any of this is easy, even for me. But I won’t let you, or your peers, be alone. Okay?”
Katsuki could barely muster his own response, taking the cloth from Aizawa before giving the older a shaky nod once he’s asked if he can leave. Katsuki felt slightly worse, but at least his back was clean.
The door echoed with the same click it did when his teacher arrived. Things felt different. Katsuki didn’t know what, exactly, was different, but it felt lighter. Like whatever just happened with his homeroom teacher was a good thing, and seeking it out later wouldn’t be a bad idea.
After all, Aizawa was the only teacher Katsuki trusted enough to do so.
—
“Bakugou. Stay back, please.”
Aizawa’s request brought multiple sets of concerned eyes his way. It’s not like Katsuki cared—he was granted extensions and wasn’t pressured to finish any assignments he didn’t want to after the whole war, so it couldn’t possibly be about his grades. They were still as high as the papers allowed to be, war be damned.
Once the room was empty (and his friends stopped wishing him luck for whatever reason), he approached Aizawa’s desk.
The elder looked up. “I just wanted to check in on you, especially after last night.”
It wasn’t what Katsuki had in mind, because why would he naturally assume it would be a check-in, but the same warmth from last night swelled again, and prompted him to be honest.
“I’m okay. I feel fine.”
Aizawa nodded. “Enough so for training?”
Katsuki thought for a moment, but came to a conclusion. “I think so. I don’t want to miss it.”
“I understand,” Aizawa easily accommodated. “But I don’t want you to overdo it. I trust you won’t, though.”
The blatant trust his teacher had in him filled him with a sense of pride, allowing him to gently puff out his chest and smile a little—but not enough to expose his soft dimples. There was a limit to the whole vulnerability thing he was thrust into.
He made a promise. “I’m not gonna.”
Aizawa gave him a quiet smile of his own. “Good. Now catch up with everyone else.”
And Katsuki did—feeling a new sense of hope for the following days.
Even if he still didn’t join the packed movie nights, or give up on learning to write with his left hand, he did open up to cooking nights—so long as there was a limited number of people. He stopped prodding at Kaminari to leave him some room, feeling the pull to have the other nearby the same way. Sometimes he even sat with Kirishima after he cooked a meal for him, or caved and listened to Mina rattle off about the newest gossip in the middle of the common room.
He let things change because things were different. None of it was things he was fond of, but that was reality. They had lived through a war, and he couldn’t be so stuck up and independent if he wanted to make it through the recovery phase with everyone else.
Including Aizawa. Especially Aizawa.