Chapter Text
It was break.
By all logic and reason the students of UA should be at home, playing video games, shopping and ignoring their homework. After the past year and a half, they certainly deserved the time to be regular teenagers.
Winter break, although largely considered a student holiday, also gave the teachers a chance to reorganize themselves and catch up on things that weren't Midoriya-sized holes in the school lawn, or wrangling the press away from UA’s front gate. Most teachers were at home as well, catching up on much-needed sleep and pretending teenagers don’t exist.
Unfortunately, Aizawa Shouta can't count himself among those lucky few.
He was tasked with being a hero in his free time - and not one of those press-hungry, interview-suckers in the top ten, either. He was an underground hero, the kind that scrabbled around in the dark and fixed problems that the public never saw.
As such, he was forced to spend his break working on more important things than self care. Like murders and rapes and that insane drug trafficking case the police have been hounding him about for a good six months.
But let's be honest- there are only so many times you can find twenty year olds dead on the floor from a lovely mix of fentanyl and heroin before you start to feel emotionally exhausted about the whole thing.
Aizawa wishes he was one of those lucky bastards sleeping in and ignoring their duties. But alas, he takes his job too seriously to even consider it.
It was a rough night. Overly long, with patrol ending at 5am on the weekend- it's Sunday morning. He wants to go the fuck to bed, but he’s sitting at the table trying to eat something that isn’t energy gel packets (for once). Hizashi is asleep, as are Eri and Hitoshi, but he’s been left a small bowl of yakiudon in the fridge.
After sitting down gingerly, wary of his cracking bones, Aizawa picks up his chopsticks and lifts a singular noodle- only to be interrupted by his phone, left on the top of the table and vibrating madly. It rattles hard enough to make him swear, adrenaline rushing through his system from frayed nerves.
Irritated, he expects it to either be police or a wrong number. He heaves a sigh, rests the phone against his shoulder and mumbles out the traditional greeting. What he hears shortly after, though, shocks him straight out of his tired slouch.
“Sensei?”
Aizawa sits up harshly, back protesting. The young male voice on the other end sounded almost like-
“Kirishima? What-” He double checks his phone to reassure himself of the time. “It’s 5:30 in the morning. Are you hurt? I thought you were home for break, what’s the situation?”
There’s some shuffling on the other end and he can barely make out another male voice in the background, low and unrecognizable. Kirishima speaks, hurried. “Uh, no, I’m fine, technically, but-” There’s some swearing and the phone seems to clack against something hard. “Sensei?”
Aizawa interrupts harshly. “Kirishima, your status. Now. If this is a prank call, I’m hanging up.”
The exclamation on the other end is quick. “NO! No, please don’t hang up, I just-” Kirishima seems to take a breath before launching into an airy, desperate sort of ramble.
“Bakugou showed up last night at my house, injured, and I checked him for a concussion and he seemed okay? But this morning he’s having a hard time staying awake and- and the bruising is a lot worse than I thought, and he’s starting to act a little off- I panicked and called you, because you said we could do that? And I know you have patrol and I’m so sorry but-”
“Bakugou is with you? Is he conscious?” Aizawa forces his voice to stay even and reaches for his notebook of student family residences, flipping through the letters until he locates Kirishima Eijirou under K. He frowns at the address. Chiba prefecture….nearly forty minutes from Tokyo by bullet train. Why on earth would Bakugou go all the way out there while injured? Better question is how.
“Did he vomit at all last night? Confusion, dizziness?”
“Yeah twice, uh, about forty minutes ago?”
There’s more rustling on the other end, presumably Kirishima standing up and getting closer to his friend. “He’s awake right now but he’s pretty out of it.”
Aizawa nearly swears again. Unfortunately, Bakugou runs with the sort of bull-headed drive for perfection that doesn’t allow leeway or rest- he’s exactly the kind of kid to push through something he shouldn’t. The vomiting and the difficulty staying awake indicate that this is at least moderately serious, and if he worsens…Aizawa is nearly an hour away.
“Kirishima, if he worsens drastically, I need you to call emergency services. I can come get you, but I’m too far away for immediate help. ”
There’s a pause. “He said- he said he didn’t want me to call anyone, but-”
Aizawa throws on the thick coat of his costume and barks into the phone held on his shoulder. “Do not argue with me. We don’t have time for teenage pride bullshit.” Scribbling a brief note to his husband- teacher emergency, I’m fine, have my phone- he grabs the keys to Hizashi’s car and nearly slams the door on his way out, only barely catching it with his forearm.
Kirishima chokes a bit on the other end, giving him a quick acknowledgement. Aizawa can hear him talking gently, presumably to Bakugou. As Aizawa takes the stairs down the side of their apartment building and to the garage, Kirishima speaks up again into his phone. “It’s not exactly my place to say why, but Bakugou said…he doesn’t want his mom notified.”
Aizawa nearly slips when his ankle hits the flat edge of the last step, the words finally coming together. He closes his bloodshot eyes and presses a palm into his eye socket, wishing he remembered to grab his medicinal drops.
Bakugou Mitsuki was one firecracker of a woman, and most people chalked her behavior up to odd family dynamics and theatrics. The house visit before the dorms had shown him that much, but....bruises and traumatic head injuries. Fuck.
He sincerely hopes this is just another case of teenage stubbornness, and not what he thinks it is. He’ll figure it out when they get there.
“Kirishima, are your parents home? Can they take you?”
“My mom works the night shift, she’s not home yet. My ma is on a business trip.”
Lovely. Two unaccompanied minors and a possibly serious head injury. Aizawa has to try unlocking the car door twice, impatient and burning with exhaustion.
“Okay. I’m on my way- should be about forty minutes.” Once inside, he thumbs at his phone screen to switch it to speaker and backs the car out without waiting for the engine to warm up. A chill settles into his bones from the cold leather seats, and the windshield wipers scrape hopelessly at the frost on the windows.
Part of him wants to be irritated, the part of him that wants to pass out in bed and not wake up for a day or two. He’s tired, he’s sore, he’s emotionally worn from the previous night.
But the other part of him, the part of him that cares for his students -no matter how adamantly he denies it- is worried. For Kirishima to call him at this hour, and for Bakugou to actively seek help at another house….
Kirishima clears his throat, the speakerphone making his voice slightly tinny and echoed. “Do you...want to talk to Bakugou?”
Aizawa snorts, thinking the question was more about whether or not Bakugou wants to talk to him. “If he’s able, yes.” He needs him conscious so they can monitor his symptoms and to talk about notifying his parents. He taps his thumb on the steering wheel, trying his best not to speed through the narrow streets.
There’s a pause, in which Aizawa can hear a muffled, “Hey Katsuki, I’m sorry- I know, I know. It’s just Sensei, can you- no, stop moving, just take the phone.” A short second later, a different voice rumbles into the phone.
“-ello? Sensei?” It’s rough, and more slurred than Aizawa would like, but his shoulders relax a bit hearing that classic irritation.
“Bakugou. Can you list your injuries? And don’t lie to me.” Knowing the kid, he’d probably minimize everything. Stupidly high pain tolerance after years of exploding the shit out of his shoulders and wrists, and a frightening lack of trust in adults. He’s surprised when Bakugou responds at all.
A hum. “Head. ‘s on my right temple. An’ some bruises. Nothin’ bad.” Kirishima makes some sort of objection in the background, but Bakugou just growls at him. The phone receiver scratches against fabric. “Think my skull's busted.” His breathing seems erratic, unsteady.
Aizawa inhales slowly, cursing his job. His student sounds decently lucid, but the slurring and the lack of energy is concerning. “Thank you for being honest. But I want you to know I’m legally required to report injuries of severe magnitude to your emergency contact. If this is severe enough to require a hospital stay, I have to tell your parents.”
There’s an intake of breath. “Sensei- fuck, you can’t-” Bakugou seems to struggle for words, agitated. “‘s not that bad. Don’t...don’t need to fuckin’ call.”
“Bakugou, unless you tell me a valid reason not to, I am required by law to tell your emergency contact."
Silence.
Aizawa lets out a breath. "Listen, once we get you examined we can talk more. For now, I need you to stay awake- hand the phone back to Kirishima." There's a grunt, and he hears Kirishima speak up again.
“Sensei?”
Aizawa clicks his blinker on, changing lanes. The work traffic on the streets is starting to pick up, and he’s just barely managing to stay at the speed limit. If he could speed and get away with it, he would.
Concussions were a staple in the hero course, extremely common and not usually all that concerning with a nurse on site. What is concerning about this situation is the timing, Bakugou's odd behavior, and the fact they called him at all.
His phone number was to be used only in an emergency, when the kids felt they were in over their heads and needed backup. Aizawa doesn't like the picture that is starting to form, not one bit.
God, he needs some coffee. The early morning sun filters through the buildings as he passes, glowing on the horizon and making his eyes ache. “If anything changes, call me. I will be there in twenty five minutes.”
Aizawa reaches across the center console to hang up, sighing heavily and throwing his phone on the seat. The corner of his vision is starting to blur slightly, and he just hopes the migraine he’s due for comes after this shit show.
-----
Look, Kirishima can't say this situation is all that unusual.
They’ve handled things like this before. Patrol injuries, training accidents, teenage foolishness- his boyfriend's got hands that explode, for christ’s sake. Not to mention a truck-load of complicated emotional trauma.
Kirishima has wrapped burned thighs, kissed scratched knuckles, rubbed cream on bruises. He’s talked through panic-induced episodes, held hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, and slept back to back cramped on a tiny bed just so Katsuki would feel safe enough to rest.
Katsuki had done the same for him, too: kneading muscle cramps after patrol, reminding him to breathe when it all became too much, and, whenever it was needed, pulling Kirishima out of the encroaching haze of depressive episodes.
This was not their first rodeo. But for some reason...Kirishima can't seem to shake the feeling that this one won't turn out like the rest.
“Katsuki.” His boyfriend blinks an eye up at him, his limp body half-curled into Kirishima’s lap. His red eyes are bloodshot and glazed, and his temple is shadowed by a purpling bruise. “Sensei’s orders, sorry. Gotta keep you awake.” Bakugou makes a weak irritated noise in the back of his throat, but he makes no further comment.
The continued silence does little to ease the pressure building in Kirishima's lungs. After a few moments - most of which Kirishima spends holding his breath - Katsuki shifts in his lap, likely feeling his tension.
“You freakin’ out again?" When Kirishima makes a face, guilty, his boyfriend raises an unsteady hand and flicks Kirishima’s knee. “Cut ‘t out.”
Kirishima rocks back a little, letting out a pathetic sounding laugh. "I'm trying, trust me." He pulls his shaky hands up to run through his own hair, thoughts whirling.
"It's just - someone I care a lot about is sitting in my lap half-conscious and injured, an injury that I didn’t even notice last night, and our sensei is gonna ask questions when he gets here and god knows what the doctor will say, especially because I didn't take you in earlier like I should have -"
"Eijirou."
He sighs, lifting his eyes to the dimly-lit ceiling of his bedroom. There’s a hairline crack in the paint just near the doorway, and a hero-ranking poster that has slipped halfway down the wall. Kirishima stares at the wrinkled paper, exhaustion thudding behind his eye sockets.
"I know it’s not my fault," He mumbles. "I’m just worried about you. And really goddamn pissed at your mother.”
Katsuki huffs, shifting so his head lies closer to Kirishima’s hip. His skin is warm, even through the blanket. “You’re always pissed at 'er.”
Kirishima scowls. “Yeah, because she’s an awful woman.”
When he had first met Katsuki, Kirishima had assumed that he was just naturally really high-strung. In all their interactions, he was meticulous and ornery and a bit too particular over the placement of items, especially in regards to cleaning. He became easily enraged when the cooking utensils were moved in the kitchen, and was always berating Kaminari and Sero for their mess during study sessions.
His room held a few posters, a few pieces of memorabilia, but for the most part remained spotless. What personal items he did own were always packed away in neat boxes in his closet.
In fact, Kirishima had spent one noteworthy weekend in tears because whatever gifts he gave to his boyfriend were always hidden away- wrapped carefully and stowed in the back of Katsuki’s closet.
When he’d finally gotten the nerve to ask, fearing that Katsuki was somehow ashamed of him, his boyfriend had admitted that he kept them there because he worried they would be destroyed otherwise. Those boxes were safe- away from prying eyes and exploding palms.
Kirishima had then decided that the strange habits were just idiosyncrasies, or perhaps an expression of Katsuki’s more obsessive paranoia. But, the first time Kirishima had been to the Bakugou house for a meal, he had found himself greeted by a woman who had smiled cheerily at him while digging her red-lacquered nails into her son’s scalp.
Katsuki's mother spent that entire evening verbally tearing her son apart. Nothing was spared. His tone of voice. The way he sat at the table. His school grades. The dinner he had helped prepare. Even the position of his shoes left by the door, for god’s sake.
She looked surprised that Kirishima wouldn’t join in with her taunts, as if that was something he was expected to do to his closest friend. He had smiled thinly and tried his best to resist grabbing Katsuki and getting the hell out of there.
After that, it wasn’t that difficult to understand Katsuki’s compulsion towards clean spaces and routines. They were safe. And those little hidden boxes in his closet- they weren’t born out of shame. They were born out of the need to protect that which was really important to him, safe from his mother's critical eyes.
Kirishima sighs again, picking at a fraying thread on his red bedsheets. He frowns as he unwinds a string, watching the seam fall apart. “I know you’re still mad at me for calling Aizawa.” Katsuki grunts. “And I’m not all that excited to figure out what to say to him when he gets here, either.”
Kirishima worries at his lip, eyeing the swelling of Katsuki's temple, the fingerprints on his upper arm, and the pinched expression on his boyfriend's face. “It's just- this is bad, Katsuki. This is so much worse than it's been before."
"Don't really have t' remind me." Katsuki huffs, then looks like he immediately regrets it. Kirishima can feel the heat emanating from the blond’s cheek- his headache was worsening, probably.
There's a pause, a few beats of silence, and then the breaths that had been puffing against his hip begin to lengthen. Like Katsuki was about to lose the fight against unconsciousness. Kirishima shakes him gently, and grimaces at the swearing that greets him.
“Shake me one mor’ time and I’ma throw up on your blanket.”
“Do we need to move to the bathroom again?” Kirishima shifts, gathering his boyfriend closer.
“No. Fuckin’....don’ wanna move.” Katsuki furrows his brows. “‘m dizzy.”
Kirishima hums, reaching out with his thumb to rub soft little circles into the creases on Katsuki’s temple. The other boy relaxes, calmed slightly by Kirishima's ministrations.
Katsuki would rather die than admit it openly, but he liked it when Kirishima was gentle with him. It was soothing for them both, with the close intimacy they wouldn’t offer to anybody else. Not to mention physically grounding for Katsuki, whose emotions were about as straightforward and controllable as a flooding riverbank.
Katsuki had confessed once, laid out on the padded floor of their gym with words stuck in his throat, that he had never really been able to wrangle his emotions into something bearable. That when he felt them rise, he could do nothing but be swept up and consumed, choking and suffocating under their weight. They’re overwhelming, he had said. Inevitable.
But then, Katsuki had taken a breath, squeezed their interlocking hands, and said, voice quiet: With you, another squeeze, a set of eyes locking onto his own. With you, it’s just...different.
Kirishima remembers the feeling of awe that had bloomed in his chest. The realization that he held something, somebody, that nobody else did. For one reason or another, he was an exception.
It had felt like a gift. And it still did, to this day.
Katsuki flickers his eyes open and meets Kirishima's gaze.
For a brief moment, they hang in the delicate silence that lies between them, carmine red meeting mahogany and intertwining in a brief dance of understanding. A small, bittersweet smile edges onto Kirishima's face, the sentiment reflected in the small tilt to his boyfriend's lips.
Katsuki holds the eye contact for a few more heartbeats, expression soft, before he looks away and gently shuffles deeper into the blankets. A second later, a mumbled “Stay with me?” drifts up from Kirishima's lap.
Once, when they had been a bit younger, a bit more bright and not so beaten, Kirishima had promised to be Katsuki’s unwavering horse. To be his rock, his stable ground amongst the chaotic and often cruel world they lived in.
Kirishima intends to keep that promise.
“Of course.”
----
By the time Aizawa reaches the quaint apartment complex just outside of Chiba, he’s run two red lights and enraged a decent handful of commuters. He can't find it in him to care, though. Two freaked out students, one possibly severely injured, and he’s supposed to care about traffic laws?
He also doubts that those business commuters do much more than paper-pushing. His students, or paperwork.....there’s just no contest.
When he pulls into the cramped parking lot just after dawn, he briefly considers leaving the car running while he goes inside to pick up his student. Time was usually of the essence with injuries of this magnitude - but then he remembers which student he was going to be retrieving and, yeah no. There's no way that getting Bakugou into the car to go to the hospital is going to be a simple, orderly affair.
And if Bakugou is just barely conscious, it’s gonna take additional time. Aizawa knows that dead weight is a pain in the ass to wrangle into the car, especially angry dead weight. (Hizashi would know more about what that’s like, but Aizawa is not gonna expose himself so readily.)
When he reaches apartment 12-C and knocks harshly on the green-trimmed door, it takes less than a few seconds for a wild-eyed Kirishima to yank it open and greet him. With a cursory glance over his student, Aizawa notes the bags underneath his eyes and the limp hair at his shoulders.
The bedraggled sweatshirt the kid is wearing has a blackened singe on one shoulder, and he’s fidgeting badly with the cuff, but otherwise Kirishima seems alright.
“Thanks for coming out here, Sensei, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It’s no issue. Is he awake?” Kirishima nods, opening the door wider and letting Aizawa into the apartment. It’s cozy and inviting, with a few pictures set up here and there of Kirishima and his moms. Warm.
As his student leads him down the hallway with a stiff back, however, Aizawa can’t help but feel a little chilled.
Kirishima speaks softly over his shoulder. “He’s not significantly worse than he was earlier, but he's having some trouble verbalizing.”
Bakugou is nestled into the corner of the living room couch, wrapped up in an oversized hoodie and looking vaguely murderous despite his obvious lack of energy. The hood is tightened around his face in an effort to block the harsh lights of the hallway, red eyes in near slits as they glare at Aizawa. His body is mostly hidden by the loose clothing, but Aizawa can tell just from his tense posture and expression that he’s had a rough night.
“Bakugou.”
At the sound of his name, his student’s neck seems to lose its ability to hold his head up, as if lifting it to look at Aizawa had sapped all his energy. Bakugou slumps his head back against the armrest, throat bobbing as he swallows. His eyes close, emphasizing the shadowed circles beneath them. “Sensei.”
And it’s in that moment, standing on a bright orange rug in a darkened living room, that Aizawa realizes how bad this is. Not necessarily in the severity of the injury, but the look on Bakugou’s face. That was submission. Exhaustion. Acceptance of the situation, and an unwillingness to fight.
Bakugou Katsuki does not submit.
Aizawa has so many questions, not enough sleep, and two students that need him to take control of the situation. So that is what he does. Approaching the couch, he speaks even and clear.
“Bakugou, we can talk about what happened later. For now, I need to take you to the hospital so you can get examined properly. Do you want me or Kirishima to pick you up?”
Bakugou’s eyes are hazy, but the offended look on his face is strong enough to be read clearly.
“I didn’t drive all the way out here to watch you fall down three flights of stairs because you were stubborn. Pick one: Me, or Kirishima.”
Bakugou’s eyes flick to Kirishima, linger, and then flick back to Aizawa. Taking that as his cue, Krishima steps forward and reaches underneath Bakugou’s arms, lifting him gently off the couch and cradling his body against his torso. Aizawa lifts an eyebrow at the way Bakugou folds naturally into Kirishima’s neck, no overt protests from the normally explosive boy.
Kirishima seems to feel the same, and he shoots an exasperated look towards his sensei over Bakugou’s head. “Like I said, he’s kinda out of it.”
Aizawa hums, his eyes still trained on Bakugou. He notes his socked feet, and gestures towards the door. “I’ll grab his shoes. Did you have a bag packed for the hospital?”
Kirishima jerks his chin to the hallway, careful not to jostle Bakugou. “Yeah, it’s by the door. I got my hands full, do you mind….?”
Once Aizawa grabs the backpack and Bakugou’s shoes, they hustle down the stairs. The early morning dew has settled into the air, chill and heavy, and Aizawa startles a group of nesting birds when he yanks open the door to his car.
Through it all, Bakugou says nothing. There’s a few half-hearted grumbles when he gets shoved in the back seat, half on Kirishima’s lap, but otherwise he remains silent. Aizawa never thought he’d ever say this, but he misses getting yelled at.
At least then, he’d know everything was alright.
---