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The first thing Bakugou notices about his new school is how quiet it is. Not literally – the halls buzz with the same teenage chaos as anywhere else – but there's a different quality to it. No explosions in the courtyard, no training exercises shaking the walls, no one showing off their quirks between classes. Just normal high school sounds: locker doors, squeaking shoes, overlapping conversations that fade to white noise.
It should make him feel safer. That's why his parents chose this place, after all. A regular high school with a strict no-quirks policy, where the most exciting thing that happens is the occasional chemistry experiment gone wrong. Where no one knows about the incident, about the six-hour surgery, about the way his mother's hands sometimes lock up when she's been cooking too long.
Eight months, two weeks, and three days since he last used his quirk. He counts the days like prisoners count their sentences, each morning adding another tally to the mental wall between who he was and who he has to be now.
The suppressor cuffs are hidden under his uniform sleeves, unremarkable silver bands that could pass for fashion accessories if you don't know what to look for. They're the latest model – sleek, waterproof, designed for "long-term therapeutic use." The doctor who prescribed them had used words like "temporary" and "rehabilitation," but Bakugou had seen the way his father's shoulders tensed at "indefinite period of assessment."
His homeroom is on the third floor, class 2-A. There's nothing special about that designation here. No hero course, no special training. Just thirty desk chairs arranged in neat rows and a teacher who stumbles slightly over his name during roll call.
"Bakugou Katsuki?"
"Here." His voice comes out rougher than he intends, scratchy from disuse. A few students glance his way, but their eyes slide off him just as quickly. He's gotten good at being unremarkable. Keeps his shoulders hunched, his eyes down, his hands buried in his pockets where no one can see them shake.
The girl in front of him has a mutation quirk – scales scattered across her neck like iridescent freckles. She keeps them carefully covered with her collar, and something in Bakugou's chest aches with recognition. They're all hiding here, in their own ways.
He makes it through three classes before the first test of his control. Someone drops a textbook in the hallway, the sharp crack of it hitting tile sending a jolt through his system. His palms start sweating instantly, muscle memory trying to activate a quirk that can't respond. The cuffs grow warm against his wrists, doing their job, but his heart is already racing, vision tunneling—
"Sorry!" A voice cuts through the static in his head. "My fault, I'm such a klutz—"
Green hair. Freckles. A boy about his age is crouched on the floor, gathering scattered papers, rambling apologies to no one in particular. There's something familiar about him, but Bakugou's too focused on controlling his breathing to place it.
"Here, let me help," someone else says, and suddenly there are too many people, too much movement. Bakugou forces himself to walk – not run – to the nearest bathroom.
He makes it into a stall before his legs give out. Sits on the closed toilet lid and presses his forehead against the cool metal partition, counting breaths like his therapist taught him. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Again. Again. Until the roaring in his ears subsides and his quirk stops trying to claw its way out of his skin.
The bell rings. He's late to Chemistry.
When he finally walks in, mumbling an excuse about getting lost, the only empty seat is next to the green-haired boy from the hallway. Up close, the sense of recognition is stronger. They must have gone to middle school together, before... before.
If the boy recognizes him too, he doesn't show it. Just slides his textbook over slightly so Bakugou can see which page they're on, then goes back to taking notes in a notebook that's more scribbles than actual writing.
The teacher is explaining electron configurations, something Bakugou learned years ago when he was still planning to be a hero, still thought understanding the science of his quirk would help him master it. His hands start trembling at the memory, and he shoves them under the desk.
A pencil appears in his peripheral vision. He glances over to find his tablemate holding it out, still focused on his notes like this is completely normal, like he hasn't noticed Bakugou's empty desk or shaking hands.
"Midoriya Izuku," the boy whispers, finally looking up. His eyes are green too, bright with something that might be recognition but isn't quite accusation. "We can share notes, if you want."
Bakugou takes the pencil. Their fingers don't touch.
That night, he dreams about the incident for the first time in weeks. The argument with his mom – he can't even remember what it was about now, something stupid probably. The way his anger had built and built until it wasn't anger anymore but pure panic, his quirk responding to his racing heart, to the feeling of being trapped, of not being able to breathe—
He wakes up drenched in sweat, the suppressors humming gently against his pulse points. For a long moment, he just lies there, staring at his ceiling and listening to the quiet sounds of his parents getting ready for work downstairs. His mom's humming carries through the floor, slightly off-key but steady. Normal. Like nothing ever happened.
The pencil Midoriya lent him is still in his school bag. He should return it today, but the thought of interaction makes his stomach clench. Maybe he'll just leave it on the lab table before class. Or buy a new one to replace it. Or transfer schools again, move to another country, change his name—
"Katsuki?" His mom's voice, careful and controlled, comes through his door. "Breakfast is ready when you are."
He gets up. Gets dressed. Puts on his uniform and his suppressors and the face he wears now – blank, unremarkable, safe. Checks his reflection and adjusts his sleeves until no silver shows.
In the kitchen, his mom is washing dishes, her movements slightly stiff but determined. The burns have healed as much as they're going to, leaving her hands mottled with scar tissue that she covers with long sleeves even in summer. She doesn't flinch when he enters the room anymore, but she doesn't turn around either.
"Toast is on the table," she says, still facing the sink. "And I packed you a lunch."
The bento box sits on the counter, wrapped in a cloth printed with cartoon All Might faces. An old one, from before. He should tell her to throw those out, but he knows she keeps them for the same reason he keeps his hero analysis notebooks hidden under his bed. Some things are harder to let go of than others.
"Thanks," he manages, voice rough. Grabs the lunch and a piece of toast and heads for the door before the silence can stretch too thin.
"Have a good day," she calls after him, and he pretends not to hear the way her voice catches on the words.
The walk to school takes exactly twenty-three minutes if he times the crosswalks right. He knows because he's counted every day since starting here, tracking the distance between home and this new version of normal he's trying to build. The route takes him past a hero agency – not a major one, just local response – and he's learned to cross the street early to avoid seeing the trainees practicing in the courtyard.
Today, though, someone's standing in his usual crossing spot.
Green hair. A notebook clutched to his chest like armor. Midoriya looks up as Bakugou approaches, and there's that almost-recognition again, mixed with something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or concern.
"Morning," Midoriya says, like this is normal, like he hasn't deliberately positioned himself here. "I usually walk this way, if you want company?"
Bakugou should say no. Should cross at the next light, or turn around and take the long way, or just skip school entirely. Instead, he finds himself nodding, just slightly.
Midoriya falls into step beside him, leaving careful space between them. He doesn't try to fill the silence with small talk, which is... unexpected. Just walks, occasionally scribbling something in his notebook, seemingly content to share space without demanding anything in return.
They're almost at school when Bakugou remembers the pencil. He stops, digs through his bag with hands that only shake a little.
"Here," he says, holding it out. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, unused.
Midoriya looks at the pencil, then at him, then back at the pencil. "Keep it," he says finally. "You might need it in Chemistry."
Then he's walking again, leaving Bakugou to stare at the pencil and wonder why his chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with panic.
They reach the school gates just as the warning bell rings. Midoriya gives him a small wave before heading to his first class, and Bakugou realizes he's made it past the hero agency without even noticing.
In homeroom, he takes out the pencil and sets it on his desk. It's nothing special – just a regular mechanical pencil with a slightly chewed cap. But when his hands start shaking during English class, he finds himself focusing on it instead of his rising heart rate. Counting the teeth marks in the plastic instead of his breaths.
Eight months, two weeks, and four days since the incident. But maybe, just maybe, he's found something new to count instead.
Chemistry becomes a study in contradictions. Midoriya talks constantly about everything except the things Bakugou can't discuss. He fills their lab periods with analysis of hero statistics, quantum physics theories, the latest support gear innovations – but never asks about the suppressors or why Bakugou transferred schools mid-year.
"Did you know they're developing quirk-responsive materials now?" Midoriya adjusts their Bunsen burner with careful precision, checking the flame color three times before setting up their experiment. "The applications for hero costume design would be revolutionary, but the real breakthrough might be in medical technology."
Bakugou focuses on measuring sodium chloride, trying to ignore how the heat makes his palms sweat. "Medical?"
"Mm." Midoriya's already scribbling in his notebook, handwriting barely legible. "Imagine bandages that could adapt to mutation quirks, or support braces that work with strength enhancement without breaking. Though I suppose the cost would be prohibitive for widespread adoption..."
He trails off, glancing at Bakugou's hands where they've started trembling slightly. Without comment, he reaches over and adjusts the burner's height, lowering the flame. "The reaction should still work at a lower temperature. It'll just take longer."
Bakugou wants to snap at him, to reject the obvious accommodation. But Midoriya's already moved on, rambling about thermal conductivity and activation energy, and somehow it's easier to breathe.
Their first test comes back with a perfect score. Midoriya beams like he's won something, even though Bakugou knows he could have gotten the same grade with any lab partner. "We make a good team," he says, and something in Bakugou's chest constricts.
The study sessions start gradually. First it's just comparing notes after class, then reviewing homework together in the library. Somehow this evolves into Midoriya inviting him over to study for midterms, and Bakugou finding himself standing in front of a modest apartment complex on a Saturday afternoon, wondering what the hell he's doing.
Midoriya's mom opens the door with a smile that's eerily similar to her son's. "Izuku's told me so much about you! Come in, come in – I've made snacks."
The apartment is small but warm, filled with All Might memorabilia and the smell of green tea. Midoriya's room is even more hero-focused, walls covered in analysis charts and newspaper clippings. It should make Bakugou uncomfortable, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe because Midoriya approaches heroes the way he approaches everything else – with academic fascination rather than worship.
"Sorry about the mess," Midoriya says, clearing textbooks off his floor. "Mom says I need better organizational skills, but I have a system. Sort of."
Bakugou sits carefully on the offered cushion, keeping his back to the wall. His therapist would probably call this progress – being in someone else's space, accepting hospitality. He calls it necessity. Midterms are coming up, and Midoriya's the only one who doesn't make him feel like he's going to vibrate out of his skin.
They study for three hours straight, breaking only when Midoriya's mom brings in tea and mochi. Bakugou manages to eat without his hands shaking too obviously, and neither Midoriya mentions how he keeps his sleeves pulled down even though the room is warm.
It becomes a routine. Every Saturday, he shows up at the Midoriya apartment with his textbooks and his carefully constructed walls. Every Saturday, Midoriya talks enough for both of them, filling silence with theories and analyses until Bakugou almost forgets to monitor his breathing.
"You know," Midoriya says one afternoon, halfway through their physics review, "being quirkless isn't so different from quirk suppression. Physically, I mean. The body adapts either way."
Bakugou's pencil stops moving. They don't talk about this – haven't talked about this since that first day of chemistry when Midoriya pretended not to recognize him from middle school.
"I've been researching it," Midoriya continues, like he's discussing the weather. "For university applications. Did you know Tokyo U is starting a quirk counseling program? They're looking at alternative approaches to quirk therapy, especially for cases where traditional methods haven't been effective."
The lead in Bakugou's pencil snaps. Midoriya doesn't flinch at the sound, just reaches over and places another pencil near (but not touching) Bakugou's hand.
"Anyway, I think the hero industry focuses too much on quirk enhancement and not enough on quirk management. Like, everyone talks about pushing limits, but no one discusses healthy boundaries or psychological impact or—" He cuts himself off, glancing at Bakugou. "Sorry. I'm rambling again."
"It's fine," Bakugou manages, and is surprised to find he means it.
Later, after Bakugou's gone home and finished his nightly routine of medication and breathing exercises, he lies in bed thinking about Midoriya's words. About adaptation and management and the difference between suppression and control.
His mom's voice drifts up from downstairs, humming that same off-key tune while she prepares lunch for tomorrow. His dad's watching TV in the living room, volume low but audible. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
He rolls over and opens his phone's browser. Types "Tokyo University quirk counseling program" into the search bar. Deletes it without pressing enter.
Some things aren't meant for people like him. Some dreams need to stay buried with the hero analysis notebooks under his bed and the memories of who he used to be.
But that night, he dreams of green eyes and careful hands and words that sound like forgiveness. Wakes up with his heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
The next Saturday, he shows up at Midoriya's apartment with a new set of pencils. "For all the ones I keep breaking," he explains when Midoriya looks at him questioningly.
Midoriya's smile is like sunrise – gradual, warm, inevitable. "We can share them," he says, and Bakugou pretends not to notice how their fingers brush when he takes the box.
They study for their chemistry final surrounded by scattered pencils and empty tea cups, Midoriya's hero analysis charts watching over them like paper guardians. At some point, Midoriya falls asleep mid-sentence, his head drooping dangerously close to Bakugou's shoulder.
Bakugou doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just sits there counting heartbeats instead of seconds, wondering when exactly this boy with his analytical mind and gentle hands became the exception to every rule Bakugou's built to keep himself safe.
Eight months, three weeks, and two days since the incident. But for the first time, he forgets to add another tally to his mental wall.
Winter arrives with the subtlety of a slammed door. One day it's merely cool; the next, frost traces complex patterns across windowpanes and students trade their summer uniforms for heavy coats. Bakugou starts wearing gloves along with his long sleeves – partly for warmth, partly because cold makes his suppressors ache where they meet his skin.
"They should really design these things better," Midoriya says one afternoon, watching Bakugou flex his fingers during their study session. They've migrated from his bedroom to the living room, where his mom keeps the kotatsu running. "The metal contracts in cold weather, which can cause pressure points on the radial nerve. Some support gear companies are working on temperature-responsive alloys, but—"
He stops abruptly, probably noticing how Bakugou's shoulders have tensed. They still don't talk directly about the suppressors, even though Midoriya's clearly done enough research to write a dissertation.
"Sorry," he says, softer. "Want some tea?"
Bakugou nods, grateful for the change of subject. Watches as Midoriya disappears into the kitchen, returning with two steaming cups and a plate of milk bread that his mom must have left for them.
"She stress-bakes," Midoriya explains, setting everything down. "Work's been busy lately – lots of quirk-related insurance claims this time of year."
It's the kind of casual comment that would make most people uncomfortable, knowing what they know about Bakugou's history. But Midoriya says it like it's just another fact, no different from commenting on the weather or their upcoming exams.
Maybe that's why Bakugou finds himself spending more afternoons here than at home. His parents don't question it – probably relieved he's showing signs of normal teenage behavior. And if they've noticed how he sometimes comes back with his sleeves slightly damp from doing dishes with Midoriya after dinner, or how his medication schedule now aligns perfectly with Midoriya's study breaks, they don't mention it.
The panic attack happens on a Tuesday. They're alone in Midoriya's apartment – his mom working late, the space quiet except for the scratch of pencils and the distant hum of traffic. Everything is fine until it isn't.
Later, Bakugou won't be able to identify the trigger. Maybe it was the way the neighbor's door slammed, or how the shadows had lengthened across the floor, or just the accumulated weight of existing in his own skin. One moment he's solving differential equations; the next, his lungs are trying to turn inside out.
The suppressors activate instantly, growing warm against his wrists as they counter his quirk's automatic response to stress. But that just makes it worse – the heat reminds him of that day, of his mother's screams, of flesh burning—
"—thirty-two point four percent of pro heroes specialize in rescue operations rather than combat," Midoriya's voice filters through the static in his head. "All Might's statistics show a historical trend toward rescue-focused heroes having longer career spans, though there are multiple confounding variables..."
He's sitting exactly where he was before, still looking at his textbook, not reaching out or telling Bakugou to breathe or doing any of the things that make panic attacks worse. Just talking, his voice steady and familiar, about the kind of hero analysis that used to fill Bakugou's own notebooks.
Slowly, the vice around Bakugou's chest loosens. His quirk stops fighting the suppressors, settling back into forced dormancy. The room comes into focus: worksheet abandoned on the table, tea gone cold, Midoriya still talking about hero statistics like nothing's wrong.
"You know you're not actually dangerous, right?" Midoriya says suddenly, looking up from his book. His eyes are serious, analytical in a way that makes Bakugou feel exposed. "You're just hurt."
And that – that's too much. Too close to the thing Bakugou's been running from since the incident. He moves without thinking, grabbing Midoriya's shirt collar, ready to shove him away or shake him or—
Or kiss him, apparently, because that's what happens instead. It's clumsy and desperate and probably terrible, but Midoriya makes a soft surprised sound and doesn't pull away.
When they break apart, Bakugou's hands are shaking for entirely new reasons. Midoriya looks at him with wide eyes, cheeks flushed, and for one terrible moment Bakugou thinks he's ruined everything.
Then Midoriya smiles – not his usual sunshine grin, but something smaller, more private. "I was wondering if you'd ever do that."
"Shut up," Bakugou manages, voice rough. His heart is still racing, but it's different now. Less like drowning, more like flying.
"Make me," Midoriya challenges, and this time when they kiss it's slower, deliberate. Midoriya's hands hover near Bakugou's face, not touching until Bakugou nods slightly. Then there are fingers in his hair, gentle like everything else about this boy who talks too much and notices too much and somehow makes Bakugou feel safe despite himself.
They end up missing dinner, spending hours trading kisses and whispered confessions under the kotatsu. Midoriya tells him about growing up quirkless, about learning to analyze quirks as a way to feel less powerless. Bakugou doesn't talk about the incident, but he does let Midoriya trace the edges of his suppressors, fingertips skating over metal and skin like he's mapping constellations.
"I've been researching alternatives," Midoriya says eventually, voice soft in the dim room. "There are programs – therapies that focus on control instead of suppression. It doesn't have to be forever, Kacchan."
The childhood nickname slips out naturally, and Bakugou's breath catches. He hasn't heard it since middle school, since before everything went wrong. Coming from Midoriya now, it sounds like forgiveness. Like hope.
"I can't," he says, but it comes out uncertain.
Midoriya just hums, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Not yet," he agrees. "But someday."
When Bakugou gets home that night, his mom takes one look at him and bursts into tears. He stands frozen in the entryway until she pulls herself together, wiping her eyes with scarred hands.
"You looked happy," she explains, voice wobbling. "Just for a second, you looked like you used to."
He doesn't know how to respond to that. Doesn't know how to tell her that maybe, just maybe, he's starting to remember what it feels like to want more than survival.
That night, he dreams of green tea and gentle hands and a future that doesn't feel like a sentence. Wakes up with the ghost of Midoriya's lips on his and thinks: maybe this is what healing feels like.
Spring creeps in like a confession – slowly, then all at once. The cherry trees behind the school burst into bloom, coating the ground in pale pink promises that Bakugou tries not to read too much into. He's gotten better at being touched, at least by Midoriya. Can almost handle holding hands under their study table, though he still flinches when other students brush past him in hallways.
"It's progress," his therapist says during their weekly session. She's been carefully neutral about his relationship with Midoriya, neither encouraging nor warning against it. "But remember that healing isn't linear. There will be good days and bad days."
Today is a good day. They're in Midoriya's room, supposedly studying for finals, but Midoriya keeps getting distracted by the university brochures spread across his desk. His acceptance letter to Tokyo U sits in pride of place on his bulletin board, corners slightly worn from being handled.
"The quirk counseling program is expanding," he says, highlighting something in one of the pamphlets. "They're partnering with support companies to develop new therapeutic approaches. Did you know they're working on partial suppression technology? Instead of full quirk blocking, it would allow for controlled release under specific conditions—"
Bakugou cuts him off with a kiss, partly because he needs him to stop talking and partly because he can do that now. Midoriya makes a pleased sound against his mouth, dropping his highlighter to tangle fingers in Bakugou's hair.
They've gotten good at this – at finding ways to be close that don't trigger Bakugou's anxiety. Midoriya always telegraphs his movements, always asks before trying something new. Today, he pulls back slightly to whisper, "Can I touch your hands?"
It's not the first time he's asked, but something about the spring air and the university brochures makes Bakugou brave. He nods, holding out his hands palm-up, suppressors gleaming dully in the afternoon light.
Midoriya's touch is feather-light, tracing the lines of Bakugou's palms like he's reading fortunes. "Your calluses are fading," he observes, no judgment in his voice.
"Yeah." Eight months of suppression will do that. Sometimes Bakugou catches himself staring at his hands, trying to remember what it felt like to hold explosions in his skin. To feel powerful instead of afraid.
"You know," Midoriya says carefully, still drawing patterns on Bakugou's palms, "there's a research lab at Tokyo U studying quirk rehabilitation. They work with people who've experienced quirk-related trauma, developing personalized recovery plans."
Bakugou tenses, but Midoriya keeps talking, keeps touching his hands like they're something precious instead of dangerous. "They have dorms specifically designed for students with complex quirk needs. Single rooms, reinforced walls, emergency suppression systems – everything you'd need to feel safe while working on control."
"Deku," Bakugou says, the nickname softened by months of kisses, "stop."
But Midoriya's on a roll now, the way he gets when he's excited about an idea. "The acceptance rate for the general psychology program is only thirty percent, but with your grades and my recommendation letter—"
Bakugou pulls his hands away. The suppressors feel suddenly heavy, a reminder of everything he can't have. "I said stop."
"But—"
"I'm not going to college." The words come out sharper than intended. "I'm working at my dad's friend's garage after graduation. We talked about this."
Midoriya's face does something complicated, hope warring with frustration. "That's not – you're too smart for that, Kacchan. You could do anything you wanted—"
"Anything except be safe!" The words explode out of him, too loud in the small room. His hands are shaking now, suppressors humming as they counter his rising stress. "I can't – fuck, Deku, I can't even hold your hand without these things. How am I supposed to go to college? Live in a dorm? Be normal?"
"You don't have to be normal," Midoriya says, reaching for him. "You just have to be you."
Bakugou jerks away, standing up so quickly his chair nearly falls. "You don't get it. You've never gotten it. Being quirkless means you got to choose who you wanted to be. I don't get that choice. I'm just – I'm just this now."
The silence that follows feels like falling. Midoriya looks at him with those too-sharp eyes, seeing too much like always.
"Is that really what you think?" he asks finally, voice soft. "That being quirkless was a choice?"
Something in his tone makes Bakugou's chest ache. He wants to take the words back, to apologize, to let Midoriya pull him close and whisper about futures that feel possible. Instead, he grabs his bag and heads for the door.
"Kacchan—"
"I have therapy," he lies. "I'll text you later."
He doesn't text. Spends the night staring at his ceiling, phone silent beside him. In the morning, there's a message from Midoriya: just a link to the Tokyo U application portal and three words that feel like a lifeline.
"When you're ready."
They don't talk about it again, but something shifts after that. Midoriya stops bringing up university programs, starts talking instead about apartment hunting in Tokyo. About train schedules and weekend visits and all the ways they can make it work long-distance.
Bakugou lets him plan, pretends not to notice how Midoriya keeps leaving university brochures in strategic locations. Focuses instead on memorizing details: the exact shade of green in Midoriya's eyes, the way his freckles darken in sunlight, how his voice goes soft and sleepy when they talk on the phone late at night.
Spring bleeds into summer. They study for finals between kisses, celebrate their results with convenience store ice cream in the park. Midoriya's mom starts setting an extra place at dinner without asking, and Bakugou's parents stop looking worried when he comes home after dark smelling like green tea.
Some days, it almost feels normal. Like they could stay in this bubble forever, where Bakugou's biggest concern is whether Midoriya will fall asleep on his shoulder during movie nights and not whether his quirk will destroy everything he loves.
But then Midoriya will say something about future plans, about how they'll figure out the suppressor situation together, about all the ways Bakugou could be more than his trauma if he'd just let himself try. And Bakugou will remember: this isn't forever. Can't be forever.
Because Midoriya deserves more than half a boyfriend who can't even touch him without mechanical help. Deserves more than someone who wakes up screaming three nights a week, who still can't watch hero fights on TV, who flinches at sudden movements and loud noises and his own reflection.
So Bakugou starts counting again. Not days since the incident anymore, but days until Midoriya leaves for university. Until this beautiful, temporary thing has to end.
He tells himself it's better this way. Better to end it clean, before Midoriya realizes he's wasting his time on someone who'll never be whole again. Before the distance and the frustration and the weight of Bakugou's damage tear them apart slowly instead of all at once.
Still, when Midoriya kisses him goodnight after their last summer festival together, tasting like candy apples and possibilities, Bakugou lets himself pretend. Just for a moment, he lets himself believe in the future Midoriya sees – one where he's more than his fears, where love is enough to overcome trauma, where happy endings aren't just things that happen to other people.
Then he goes home and adds another tally to his mental wall, counting down the days until he has to break both their hearts.
The acceptance package arrives on a Tuesday. Bakugou's helping with dishes when Midoriya's mom brings in the mail, her excited squeal echoing through the apartment. The plate he's drying slips from his hands, but Midoriya catches it before it can shatter.
"Sorry," Bakugou mutters, but Midoriya's already rushing to the living room, leaving wet handprints on his shirt.
The package is thick – housing forms, class schedules, orientation information. Midoriya spreads everything across the coffee table, talking faster than Bakugou can process. Full scholarship. Single room in the honors dorm. Early admission to the quirk counseling program's research track.
"Look," Midoriya says, holding up a brochure. "The dorms are only twenty minutes from that garage you mentioned. If we time it right, we could have lunch together between my classes, and weekends would be—"
"Stop." Bakugou's voice comes out strange, like it's being forced through broken glass. "Just... stop."
Midoriya looks up, finally noticing Bakugou's expression. "Kacchan?"
"I can't – this isn't—" The words tangle in his throat. His hands are shaking, suppressors growing warm against his pulse points. "You need to stop planning your life around me."
"I'm not." But the lie is obvious in how quickly Midoriya drops the brochure, in the guilty flicker of his eyes. "I just want—"
"What? To fix me?" The bitterness in Bakugou's voice surprises even him. "To be my fucking savior?"
"That's not fair." Midoriya stands, hands clenched at his sides. "I've never tried to fix you. I just want you to see what I see – that you're more than what happened. That you deserve a future beyond just surviving."
"You don't get it." Bakugou backs away, needing distance from Midoriya's earnest eyes, from the future laid out in glossy pamphlets on the table. "This isn't temporary. I'm not going to wake up one day and be okay. The suppressors, the panic attacks, the fucking constant fear – this is who I am now."
"No, it's not!" Midoriya's voice cracks. "It's who you think you have to be because you're punishing yourself for an accident. But you're not dangerous, Kacchan. You're just—"
"Hurt?" Bakugou laughs, harsh and hollow. "That's what you said the first time, right? But you don't understand what it means to live with a quirk that could kill someone you love. You can't understand, because you've never had to be afraid of your own hands."
The silence that follows feels like a physical thing, heavy with all the words they've been avoiding for months. Midoriya's face goes through a series of expressions before settling on something terrible – not anger or hurt, but pity.
"Is that really what you think?" he asks quietly. "That being quirkless means I don't understand fear? That I don't know what it's like to have your whole life defined by something you can't control?"
"It's not the same—"
"No, it's not." Midoriya steps forward, and for once Bakugou's the one who has to force himself not to flinch. "Because I didn't get to choose this. I didn't get suppressors or therapy or people telling me it would get better. I got doctors saying I should give up on my dreams and kids calling me useless and a society that decided I was broken before I could even try to prove them wrong."
He's crying now, angry tears tracking down freckled cheeks. "But you – you have choices, Kacchan. You have options and opportunities and people who want to help you heal. You're just too scared to take them."
"Fuck you," Bakugou snarls, but it comes out weak. "You don't know anything about—"
"I know you still have hero analysis notebooks under your bed." Midoriya's voice is steady despite the tears. "I know you watch quirk theory videos when you think I'm not paying attention. I know you miss your quirk so much it physically hurts, but you won't even consider trying to work through it because you're more afraid of hope than you are of staying broken."
Each word hits like a physical blow. Bakugou's quirk surges against the suppressors, making them heat up painfully. "Shut up."
"No." Midoriya reaches for him, stops just short of touching. "Because I love you, you idiot. I love you, and I want you to have everything you're capable of being, even if that means watching you figure it out from a distance."
And that – that's too much. Because Bakugou loves him too, loves him with a desperation that terrifies him more than his quirk ever could. Loves him enough to know he has to end this before Midoriya wastes his life trying to save someone who doesn't want to be saved.
"Love isn't enough." The words taste like ash. "You can't love someone's trauma away, Deku. You can't fix me with good intentions and university programs and fucking weekend visits. I'm not your project or your case study or whatever the hell this has been."
"Kacchan—"
"No." Bakugou forces himself to meet those green eyes, to watch hope die in them. "You're right. I am scared. I'm fucking terrified all the time, and being with you just makes it worse because I know – I know eventually you'll realize what a waste of time this is. That you'll get tired of dealing with my damage and move on to someone whole."
"That's not—"
"So go to Tokyo." His voice cracks but he pushes through. "Go be a fucking hero or a counselor or whatever you want. But stop pretending this is anything more than what it is – you trying to save someone who doesn't want saving."
The silence stretches between them like a physical wound. Midoriya stares at him, tears still falling, looking younger than Bakugou's ever seen him.
"You don't mean that," he whispers.
Bakugou turns away, can't bear to watch what happens next. "Yes, I do. This was always temporary, Deku. We both knew that."
He grabs his bag, ignoring how his hands shake. Walks past the scattered university papers, past Midoriya's mom frozen in the kitchen doorway, past everything he's pretended he could have.
"Kacchan, please—"
He closes the door on Midoriya's voice, on the sound of breaking things that might be hearts or might be hopes or might be both. Walks home through streets that blur with tears he refuses to acknowledge.
That night, he deletes Midoriya's number from his phone. Throws away the acceptance letter that came in his own mail weeks ago. Adds one final tally to his mental wall – not counting days since the incident anymore, but marking the end of something that felt almost like healing.
In the morning, he'll go back to being what he was before – careful and contained and safe. But tonight, he lets himself remember: the taste of green tea and candy apples, the sound of Midoriya's laugh, the feeling of scarred fingers tracing his suppressors like they were something precious instead of prison bars.
Remembers, and tries to convince himself that this is mercy instead of cowardice. That sometimes love means letting go before you can destroy the thing you're holding.
Three years pass like a held breath.
Bakugou works at his dad's friend's garage, learning to fix things that aren't himself. Cars are easier than people – they come with manuals, with clear problems and solutions. When something's broken, you either replace it or rebuild it. No middle ground, no maybes.
He still wears the suppressors. Still goes to therapy, though less often now. His mom can touch him without flinching, most days. His dad doesn't hide the hero news anymore. These are the metrics of progress he allows himself to count.
The first time he sees Midoriya's name in print, it's in a professional journal his therapist leaves on her coffee table. "Innovative Approaches to Quirk-Related Trauma: A Case Study in Recovery-Focused Therapy." The author photo shows him in a blazer, freckles faded but smile unchanged, looking exactly like the kind of person who changes lives for a living.
Bakugou reads the article three times before his next appointment. Memorizes phrases like "patient-directed recovery" and "trauma-informed quirk therapy" and "the importance of agency in healing." Tries not to see himself in every careful observation, every gentle conclusion.
His therapist doesn't mention the article directly, but she does ask if he's considered reducing his suppressor usage. "There are new programs," she says carefully. "Partial suppression technologies that allow for controlled release in safe environments."
He says no. Keeps saying no through changing seasons and quiet birthdays and nights when he wakes up reaching for someone who isn't there.
Time moves differently in small towns. The garage expands, adds a support gear repair division. Bakugou learns to work with engines enhanced by quirk-responsive materials, careful always to wear his suppressors even though the heat makes his hands clumsy.
He dates, occasionally. Nothing serious – just coffee with the florist's daughter, dinner with a teacher from the local middle school. They're nice people with simple quirks and uncomplicated pasts. None of them look at him like they're trying to solve a puzzle. None of them leave university brochures in strategic locations or trace his suppressors like they're mapping constellations.
It's fine. He's fine. He has a routine, a purpose, a life that fits within carefully drawn lines. If sometimes he catches himself analyzing quirk theories while he works, or writing notes in margins that no one will read, well – old habits die hard.
Then one morning he opens his phone to find Midoriya's face on every hero news site. "GROUNDBREAKING QUIRK COUNSELING PROGRAM LAUNCHES AT TOKYO UNIVERSITY," the headlines scream. "Revolutionary Approach to Trauma Recovery Shows Promising Results."
The press conference video is everywhere. Bakugou watches it during his lunch break, hidden in the garage office where no one can see his hands shake.
Midoriya looks good. Professional but approachable in a green dress shirt that matches his eyes. He talks about the program with the same passionate intensity he used to reserve for hero analysis, hands moving as he explains concepts like "quirk reconciliation" and "integrated recovery."
"The traditional approach to quirk-related trauma has been suppression," he tells the reporters. "But we're finding that complete suppression often leads to psychological deterioration. Our program focuses on rebuilding the relationship between person and quirk through controlled exposure and emotional processing."
A reporter asks about success rates. Midoriya's smile turns softer, more personal. "Recovery isn't linear," he says, and Bakugou's breath catches at the familiar words. "Every case is unique. But we're seeing remarkable progress, especially in cases previously considered treatment-resistant."
The camera pans across a group of program participants. Young people with dangerous quirks learning to trust themselves again. A woman creating small flames in her palm, crying happy tears. A teenager practicing fine control exercises with trembling hands.
"The most important thing," Midoriya continues, "is understanding that trauma doesn't define you. Your quirk is part of who you are, but it's not all you are. And with the right support system, recovery is always possible."
He looks directly into the camera then, and for a moment Bakugou could swear those green eyes see straight through the screen, through three years of careful distance, straight to the heart he's pretended isn't still broken.
"It's never too late to start healing," Midoriya says softly, and Bakugou has to turn off the video before he does something stupid like cry in his workplace.
That night, he pulls out his old hero analysis notebooks for the first time in years. The pages are worn, corners soft with age and handling. His handwriting looks younger somehow, full of dreams he'd forgotten how to want.
His mom finds him still reading at midnight, spread across his childhood bedroom floor like no time has passed. She doesn't say anything, just sits beside him and starts sorting pages, her scarred hands steady as she pieces together fragments of who he used to be.
"I saw the press conference," she says finally. "The program... it looks promising."
Bakugou traces a diagram of his own quirk, drawn years ago when he still believed in futures without limits. "Yeah."
"You know," she continues carefully, "the garage has a branch in Tokyo. Your father's friend mentioned they're looking for someone with support gear experience."
The silence stretches between them, heavy with possibilities. His suppressors feel suddenly tight, like they're waiting for a decision.
"I can't," he starts, but the words lack conviction.
His mom touches his hand, right over the suppressor's activation point. "You can't," she agrees, "or you won't?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke after an explosion. Bakugou looks down at his notebooks, at years of analysis and dreams and possibilities. At the person he was before fear became his only language.
Somewhere in Tokyo, Midoriya is probably still working. Still believing in recovery and second chances and the kind of love that survives trauma. Still seeing possibilities where others see only damage.
Bakugou reaches for his phone. Opens his browser. Types "Tokyo University quirk counseling program" into the search bar.
This time, he doesn't delete it.
Instead, he presses enter and starts reading about futures he'd forgotten how to imagine. About healing that isn't linear and progress that isn't perfect and love that might be enough after all.
His hands shake as he fills out the application, but for once, it's not from fear.