Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Hitoshi wakes up slowly, and not entirely, to a feeling as familiar as it is distant. 

He knows this—the pressure along his cheeks beneath each eye, digging into the bridge of his nose. The tautness of straps. The tang of blood in his mouth.

Opening his jaw will only draw more blood, he knows this too. Doesn’t have the energy to, anyway. He tries twice. Nothing happens.

Same with his eyelids—too heavy to open. Three attempts before he stops trying to fight the weight. 

He must’ve broken a rule. 

It’s fine, nothing to be alarmed about. He’d broken a rule and now he’s being muzzled. 

That’s fine. 

He sighs into it—stale breath that echoes in his ringing ears—and feels something… Oh, his mouth actually is open. Something’s spreading his teeth apart. The muzzles with spacer plates are the worst, biting down on metal makes his teeth cold. 

He must’ve done something really bad. 

Only… his teeth aren’t cold and what’s wedged between them is soft, almost cushy. Rubber? No, cotton, he confirms after inspecting it, a fiber tickling the side of his tongue. 

Huh.

Memories trickle through the pitchblack of his mind like gentle rainfall and, through it, he can almost make out… 

There are voices all around, drifting overhead from every angle, and some of them sound familiar. As familiar as the muzzle. Sound almost like…

The rain pattering through his mind turns from water to gasoline, a downpour that sparks with rising chatter. Ignites. Floods his shrouded mind with light, bright enough to make out the memories more clearly. 

He remembers.

Remembers those voices being a lot louder. Shouting. Screaming. The sting of electricity, the smell of burning flesh.

Remembers the weight of a knife in his palm, the shudder of splintering bones and stretch of ripping fascia traveling up its hilt.

Remembers the hot blood pouring from Monoma’s wrist. How warm it felt splattered on his face. How right. 

And, of course, the pain. 

How it had detonated like a bomb buried deep in the nape of his neck. Falling, collapsing—laying on the ground with Katsuki over him.

He remembers a deafening crack—one, two, three ribs—and another burst of pain. Katsuki sobbing over him, apologizing between compressions. And then nothing.

No, not nothing… there was… dirt? Tunnels? People dragging— No, carrying him. Kats and someone larger.

But if he’s not there anymore, then where… 

If he focuses, past the ringing in his ears, he can make out a faint beeping noise. Annoying, but familiar. The beat is slow, too slow. Barely sounds like a pulse, but he knows the stubborn throb of his own heart—has spent too many nights lying awake to not.

A hospital, then.

Oh.

Now that the others know the strength of his quirk—have seen it, felt it—they must’ve decided to muzzle him. That’s smart. Logical.

The thought calms him. They’ll be safe.

And if he’s in a hospital—pulse too slow, eyes too heavy, no feeling in his limbs except for a faint itch under his skin—then he must be injured enough to not be considered a threat. They won’t have to worry, won’t have to be scared of him. He’d never hurt them, but it’s okay that they need the assurance. It’s okay if they don’t trust him anymore. As long as they’re safe, it’s okay.

Someone’s touching him, he feels it now. 

Hands. 

Stroking his sides, peeling away the thin fabrics draped over him, roaming his chest, ribs, torso.

No, not roaming— Rubbing? Palpating?

With immense effort, he manages to open his eyes the slightest crack and a flash of white blinds them.

Lab coats.

A lot of them, crowding around him just like Monoma’s scientists—rushing around his body, harvesting samples, poking and prodding, head in Monoma’s lap, hands hands hands…

His breathing starts to pick up and the beeping is faster now and the back of his throat burns and he can’t keep his eyes open anymore and it’s dark and cold and—no more, please no more—

Another touch, this one different from the rest. Warm. Warm. It slots into his hand, grasping it firmly before loosening the hold without letting go. It pets his crooked fingers, rubs over the scars. Grounding pressure that’s gentle but there, not stopping, not leaving.

I’m here, it says. I’m here. 

The patterns it traces on the back of his hand give him something else to focus on and, lulled by the repetitive motions, those other touches—cold, invasive, clinical—fade away. His body stops shaking.

The beeping slows and he manages to crack his eyes open again. 

The white is gone, red now. Eyes. Two red eyes. Pretty. He could look at them forever. 

So he does. 

Until his own get too heavy, he watches the light flicker in them.

The darkness in his mind, which has been tiredly lapping at its many wounds, hums into a sluggishly bleeding gash. Its eyes were slashed clean through during the rescue and it can’t see the red irises, but it knows, just like he does.

Safe, it sings, a hoarse lullaby. Safe, safe, safe.

When he slips back under, those eyes are the last thing he sees. Twin blood moons watching over him. Hellfire, lava, fire opals. 

They gaze back at him, unflinchingly.

The warmth enveloping his hand spreads to his heart and he sinks back into himself.

Safe, warm, and knowing that even though they see him muzzled and monstrous, those red eyes aren’t afraid.

“A coma,” Katsuki breathes, trying to process as the words come out. “He’s in a coma.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question, but the lead nurse still nods. Several hours ago, the doctor had introduced her as Nurse Sumi—  

“Just Sumi is fine, dear. Nice to meet you, I’ll be leading Shinsou-san’s care team. Dr. Ryuu briefed us all on the situation. My team is well equipped, coming from the Complex Trauma Unit with specialties in hostage rehabilitation and aiding victims of Yakuza violence. The five of us hold Level 8 Underground support licenses as well, so please provide as much detail as possible on the nature of his injuries so we can provide the best possible care.”

Kind eyes framed by crows feet, black hair coiled in a low bun with hints of white throughout, a gentle voice that reminds him of the birds that used to sing outside the apartment windows every morning. Hitoshi loves those damn things. Mouse too.

Her hands are steady and precise, her strides exact, every move like a well practiced dance. The pockets of her scrubs are organized in a way that speaks to years of experience, as does the confidence of her every answer. 

Katsuki trusts her. He doesn’t, however, like her. Not when she gives answers like this.

“In essence, yes. Though he may come in and out of it. If that happens when one of us isn't present, press the call button and try to keep him from disturbing his wounds. He’s not likely to be entirely lucid.”

And it seems even the Universe doesn’t dare defy Sumi’s wisdom because, not thirty minutes later, Hitoshi does exactly that.

While Sumi’s team checks the state of the ribs Katsuki broke and adjusts the sensor pads on Hitoshi’s chest, his eyes open. Barely, but enough to make out bleary white cores swimming with panic. The rhythmic beeping speeds up and his shallow breaths turn ragged, frantic, straining the bandages at his throat and Katsuki rushes forward, shoves through the nurses and drops to his knees beside the bed, swatting their hands away.

“Toshi? Toshi!” 

“Bakugou-san,” one of the younger nurses interjects, trying to pull him away, “please stand back, we need to—”

“Wait, Mara,” Sumi warns at the same time as Katsuki sets off a warning pop.

“Don’t fucking touch him,” he snarls before taking Hitoshi’s hand. His eyes are open, see, he’s not in a coma, he doesn’t have brain damage—his eyes are open so he’s okay, that means he’s okay, he just needs to wake up more, just needs to— “Toshi? Can you hear me? You’re safe now. Come on, wake up, please— We’re at the hospital, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

Sumi kneels beside him and places a hand atop the mattress beside where he’s linked with Hitoshi’s, though makes no move to pull him away. Her voice is soothing but urgent as she says, “Fully waking before he’s ready can do more harm than good.”

Katsuki tenses, stops calling out to Hitoshi, but doesn’t pull away. Still focused on him, on the way the panic is slowly dispersing and the way his breathing is starting to even out, Katsuki side eyes Sumi.

“It’s best to let his body do whatever it needs,” she patiently explains. “If he’s able to be under, that’s his body's way of healing itself. It’s important we not interrupt those efforts. I think he’s fought enough, don’t you?”

Katsuki takes in his fluttering eyes, the furrow of his brow, and without turning back to her nods. 

“Then let’s let him rest.”

It hurts, it hurts, but he lowers his head.

This time, when the nurses approach, he doesn’t lash out. Sumi quietly instructs the others and they continue their work in a flurry around him. No one attempts to separate them again and Katsuki remains firmly at Hitoshi’s side, rubbing his hand through it all. 

Even when Hitoshi drifts back under, even when Katsuki’s kneeling on pins and needles, he doesn’t leave his side. 

As the hours pass, Hitoshi comes in and out of it, just like Sumi said he would. 

Sometimes his pulse fluctuates, the monitors signaling that he’s partially conscious despite closed lids, only to sink back down. Sometimes his eyes shudder open, shrouded in a thick haze. Katsuki draws the listless eyeline and the haze clears ever so slightly before falling under once more. 

And even though it wrenches Katsuki’s heart to see him slip away each time, to see the flicker of clarity followed by fluttering lashes and the returning haze, as painful as it is to watch him leave over and over and over—don’t go, please not again, stay here, don’t leave me—Katsuki eases him back under.

And each time, Hitoshi looks like he’s fighting it—fighting, always fighting, always trying—and Katsuki traces silver scars along bent fingers and murmurs softly, “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay if you can’t stay awake, I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe, we’re all—” his voice catches. Every damn time, it catches. “We’re all safe. So just rest now, yeah?”

The irony isn’t lost on him. He’s the one who left first. And here he is begging Hitoshi not to do the same.

You did this to him, the Hag’s voice gnaws at his ribs. 

The only thing he can do to pass the time is watch Sumi’s nurses take Hitoshi’s vitals on regular intervals and assess his injuries. Speaking amongst themselves, one announces their findings while the other taps notes into a tablet.

“Ribs seven and ten healing nicely, continue to monitor eight and nine. Lateral bruising has darkened—schedule heating packs for this afternoon. Breathing still slightly abnormal—no airway obstruction—keep on oxygen and reassess in twelve hours.” The other nurse nods, typing diligently, neither paying any mind to Katsuki, simply whisking around him. “Moving on to the electrical burns…”

Sumi strides in, taking place beside the nurse still recording the flow of information coming from the other.

They talk about acute quirk exhaustion and long-term sedative use and electrical current exposure—how each has their own set of unique complications.

One asks a question and Sumi explains how even low-grade electrocution is typically lethal to those with mental quirks.

Katsuki forces himself to keep listening. His leg bounces under the chair, it doesn’t calm his racing heart like usual. The muscles are starting to cramp. 

We need to run some scans, they say. 

We need to send his bloodwork to the hematologist, they say. 

Notify Dr. Ryuu right away. 

Katsuki holds Hitoshi’s hand tighter. 

*****

“There's no telling what mental state he’ll be in when he fully wakes,” Sumi tells him the next day, in that calm yet urgent tone he’s come to expect. Her hair is wrapped up in a cap today, like she’s just come from surgery. Katsuki hates it. “Prolonged exposure to high voltages alone can present significant neurological complications. In conjunction with a mental quirk pushed beyond—”

“Like what,” he says, barely a question. He’s had enough of questions, he needs answers now. 

She hesitates, likely recalling how he’d lost his lunch during yesterday’s explanation about the skin grafting process and how they’d be using it to repair the worst of Hitoshi’s burns. He sees the guilt there, but he’d been the one to insist on hearing all the details.

“I have to know. Please,” he adds, hoping it doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels, because he has to know. Has to prepare himself.  

Sumi considers him another moment before clearing her throat.

“Impaired speech, weakened motor functions, partial paralysis, loss of memory, altered sleep cycles, quirk changes— Any function the brain handles, essentially, has the potential to be affected. On top of the strain of pushing his quirk, a mental quirk at that… There’s just no way of knowing until he wakes up. But, I assure you, we have all the means here to aid in his recovery. Whatever his needs may be.”

So Katsuki talks to him. About everything and nothing. Until his throat is raw and his voice breaks. He talks to him. 

The next day, they wheel Hitoshi away for an MRI. The results come back so abnormal they’re rushed overseas to a world-renowned neurologist. 

“Just because we’re unable to decipher the scans here doesn’t necessarily give cause for alarm. It’s quite common for mental quirk users' brains to show statistical abnormalities which are perfectly safe for them,” Dr. Ryuu explains, lowering his finger from where he’d been pointing out all the dark splotches and white lesions, backlit by the glowing panel on the wall. 

Aizawa has to take Yamada out of the room. Out of respect, Katsuki pretends not to notice how he’s shaking like a leaf. 

Dr. Ryuu unclips the scan, tucks it away into an ever growing file, and says with a kind smile, “We’re doing everything we can, and will continue to do so. That, I can promise you.” 

Katsuki says nothing as the doctor takes his leave. 

We don’t know what he’ll remember, Sumi had said several days ago—we don’t know if he’ll remember you, she hadn’t. He heard it anyway. 

And Katsuki wonders if he’s imagining the flashes of recognition in those rare moments when Toshi’s eyes flutter open, fleeting as they are. The Hag would say he’s being selfish, and maybe she wouldn’t be wrong.

Would it be better for Hitoshi to forget? 

For him to forget all of Monoma’s torture, and all the trauma before that? To have a clean slate, a fresh start at life? 

Scars but no memories. No fuel for the night terrors. 

Isn’t that what he deserves? Even if it would mean… even if Katsuki wouldn’t… wouldn’t be…

Katsuki doesn’t know the answer. 

The thoughts wind his head and heart into knots as he waits, waits, waits. 

The decision that only Katsuki, Aizawa, and Yamada would be allowed into Hitoshi’s room was a unanimous one, though made official when the hospital staff presented only three passes to the group.

Until Hitoshi fully regained consciousness and was deemed stable enough for visitors, the others weren’t to enter. None of them objected, simply set up camp in the waiting room.

Luckily, Hitoshi had been immediately admitted to a Heroes-only wing, and then into an even more exclusive floor within it—reserved specifically for heroes who conduct “high-risk” work, where discretion is of utmost importance. All Aizawa had to say was “undercover” and they were being rushed to a part of the hospital where no civilians would find them. And thank fuck for that—none of them were in the mood to be interrupted by autograph or photo requests.

Regardless of how private, a waiting room is still a waiting room, and Katsuki knows from personal experience just how much it sucks to spend any amount of time in one, but any attempt to get the extras to go the fuck home—to go sleep or get back to their own lives and work—was met with the sort of unwavering stubbornness that’s practically necessary to become a top-ranked hero.

The media likes to call it “determination”, but Katsuki knows the truth. Knows that stubbornness, spite, is more fitting. Izuku hadn’t broken every bone in his body out of determination to become Number One. He’d done it out of sheer, stupid stubbornness not to let anyone else surpass him. 

“Determination” is too tame a word for what courses through them at any given moment. Too manufactured. 

There’s no determination to save people. Just a stubbornness not to lose them.

No determination to arrest villains. Only a spite towards any opponent who declares themselves stronger.

The media might not understand the difference, slight as it is, but to Katsuki, it’s everything. It’s the reason that every time he glances out the small window in the door, they’re still there. 

They sleep in shifts, slumped over each other in the shitty waiting room chairs—well, except for Kirishima whose damn horse thighs don’t fit. Apparently, while Izuku had been informing the administrative staff on what manner of threat could be lured here by the incapacitated Underground pro, Sero and Kaminari had swiped a padded liner from an abandoned stretcher which they kept tucked behind the chairs and pulled out whenever it was Kirishima’s turn to sleep. 

Fuckin’ dumbasses.

With everyone under one roof, equally refusing to leave, Todoroki’s been their only contact with the outside world—the Half ‘n Half bastard keeping his and Izuku’s agency running smoothly while also providing support to RDA through frequent calls with Kirishima and Sero.

Hizashi has taken up food delivery, making sure everyone’s staying well fed—he also got permission for them to use the staff showers and brought everyone sweats to change out of their hero costumes—while Aizawa supplies the steady assurance they’d all be drowning without. 

No one mentions what went down in the cell. Another unspoken agreement. 

The strength of Hitoshi’s quirk, what he’d done to Monoma, where Melrenath had taken the piece of shit— All of it can wait. 

Despite his insistence they all go the fuck home and take care of themselves, Katsuki’s beyond grateful no one’s left yet—there’s a sense of comfort in knowing that the people he trusts most are on the other side of the door, ready and able to make sure none of Hitoshi’s nightmares come for him. 

Nothing will get to him, is the unspoken vow that settled over them all while watching him get loaded into that ambulance. Never again. 

It’s a steady thrum between them, buzzing faintly in the silence. 

Katsuki’s sitting with them now and fucking hell the chairs are more uncomfortable than he remembers, even worse than the one in Hitoshi’s room. The ache spreading up his back the longer he sits sends an agitated twitch to his brow, the furrow deepening as his eyes stay firmly fixed to the door across the hall. 

Aizawa and Yamada are with Toshi, and Katsuki’s trying to give them a moment. It seemed like the right thing to do after realizing they haven’t gotten a single second alone together—he regrets it now, every second an hour, every minute an eternity. His leg’s been bouncing again, heel tapping the tile by Kirishima’s head. Kiri, who’s curled his massive body between the row of chairs and the wall, out cold on his floor pad despite the incessant noise. He should stop, he needs to stop, Shitty Hair clearly needs the sleep, but he can’t.

Sero appears, back from patrolling the roof, and plops down heavily into the seat beside him.

“Roof’s clear, no suspicious activity along the roads. Oh, and Kami made friends with the security guards,” he says, pulling his tablet from the backpack stashed under the chair Pikachu’s currently slumped in, snoring softly. Fiddles with it a moment before passing it over with a smirk. 

Katsuki runs his eyes over the screen, brows lifting in disbelief. 

“These the security cams?”

“Yup,” Sero confirms, popping the “p” with visible pride. “Got access to every live feed in the joint. We can monitor from here, won’t miss a thing.” 

A tightness in Katsuki’s chest that feels too close to tears makes his leg finally still. He doesn’t know how to thank Sero, how to thank any of them, really. 

Ungrateful brat, the Hag sneers in his mind. He ignores her. Hands the tablet back.

“You idiots need to go home.”

Sero huffs, tilts his head back against the wall, letting his eyes shut only when Izuku joins them and nods in some silent code they must’ve established in Katsuki’s absence.

“We’re not goin’ nowhere, Blasty. He’s ours too.”

Izuku gives one of his stupid fucking smiles in agreement and—how in the ever-loving fuck had Aizawa managed not to strangling them all every single day at UA? 

“Tch, whatever,” Katsuki hisses, turning his face to hide his burning cheeks. “Buncha dumbasses.” 

The nerd chuckles and Sero snorts loud enough to rouse Kaminari—the two idiots busy themselves with getting him back to sleep. Rolling his eyes, Katsuki leaves them to it and turns his attention back to the door. 

He wants to go back—needs to go back—but he forces himself to stay seated.

He glances at a clock on the wall then back at the door, trying to determine how much time can be considered enough. But then again, they’ve been letting him be the primary, haven’t disturbed his vigils except to remind him to eat and drink. 

They’re his dads, he has to remind himself, watching the second hand stutter along. Stop being selfish. 

He manages another five minutes before he can’t do it anymore—a single second more and he’s gonna have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the damn waiting room. Without a word to the others, he gets up and moves for the door, knocking lightly before pushing inside with as much self restraint as he can manage. 

And thank fuck for that—he never would’ve recovered from bursting through the door to… this. 

They’ve got the legs of Hitoshi’s pants hiked up mid-thigh, an open jar of what smells like that scar cream Kiri swears by sitting between them on the bed. 

Katsuki can make out a sheen on the multitude of old scars—claw marks that rake up his calves and shins, carving into each knee as if a dog had tried to climb him, maul him—and the much newer chafed bands encircling each ankle from Monoma’s shackles. Backs turned, they’re so focused on their task that they don’t seem to notice Katsuki’s presence or how he silently closes the door behind him. 

Aizawa pulls out something from his back pocket as Yamada carefully unrolls each pant leg—moving slowly so the fabric doesn’t rub against the treated scars. Then Yamada’s lifting one leg and Aizawa’s slipping what Katsuki recognizes as Toshi’s favorite cat-paw fuzzy socks onto his bare foot. 

Stuck in place, Katsuki can do nothing but watch, heart twisting at the sight. At how gentle they are with him, how much care and love underlines every movement. Every touch. Every word. 

And, fucking hell, Toshi deserves it. His whole life should’ve been nothing but this—not just the past couple years. He shouldn’t have had to know any different. Only this. 

Hanging at his sides, Katsuki’s hands ball into fists. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. 

And, sure, Katsuki didn’t have a sunshine ‘n rainbows childhood either, but he’d never wanted for anything. 

Even after the worst fights with the Hag, he’d never gone to bed hungry or cold or muzzled. So what if she yelled and screamed herself hoarse? She’d never put her hands on him—neither had his coward of a father. Sure his parents had wanted him to be perfect, but at least they’d wanted him alive.

And Katsuki might not know most of Hitoshi’s past—never gotten anything out of him about his biological parents or earliest placements—but he knows the same can’t be said for him. The scars and night terrors tell enough. 

While Katsuki had been throwing tantrums in a fully-stocked mansion in the heart of the luxury fashion district, Hitoshi had been in hell. 

Years trapped in foster care, then months spent homeless in the most dangerous back alleys in the country.

Katsuki swallows past the growing lump in his throat, watching the way Yamada arranges the socks so they won’t bunch up or press against his wounds, and how Aizawa cuts up a piece of gauze and lifts the oxygen mask just enough to place it between the plastic edge and the agitated ridge of his muzzle scar.

The heart rate monitor’s rhythm doesn’t change, still that of deep unconsciousness, but Katsuki hopes Hitoshi can feel the calm, the peace, rolling off them in waves.

Yamada’s voice is soft yet cheerful, talking to Hitoshi as if he’s awake, and after noticing Katsuki across the room, beams.

“Oh look, Tosh! Your favorite little listener is here!” Hitoshi doesn’t move. Doesn’t wake. Yamada gestures to the cat themed socks, “Check it out, Bakugo, Shou nabbed these from your place on our last clothes run!” That megawatt smile slips. “The nurses took the other ones. Toshi doesn’t like being barefoot. Reminds him ‘a… ya know.”

At a complete loss for words, Katsuki nods an awkward greeting to Aizawa who’d turned as well. Those depthless black eyes scan over Katsuki just like he always did whenever any of his ‘problem children’ returned from work-study patrols back at UA.

Tilting his head away from that all-seeing gaze, Katsuki makes to leave, feeling wildly out of place—he never should’ve intruded. The air is too fragile. He’ll wait in the staff bathroom down the hall, no one’ll hear if he breaks down in there. A gruff voice stops him in his tracks.

“Sit down, problem child.”

He turns back to see Aizawa jerk his chin towards the sofa and, at Katsuki’s obvious uncertainty, signs, ‘You’re family too.’ 

And fuck him for that ‘cause now Katsuki can’t find the shitty sofa through the damn tears in his eyes.

After another moment of standing frozen in place, gaping like an idiot, Katsuki rolls his shoulders and crosses the room. Collapses into the couch unceremoniously and scrubs at his face before tilting his head back. Lets Yamada’s once again cheerful voice light up every dark corner of his mind, drowning out the Hag’s hissing. Lets it seep into his bones, down to the fucking marrow.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but when he comes-to, the room is dark. 

A thin blanket, hospital issued, has been draped over his chest and Yamada’s sprawled out beside him on the sofa, gangly limbs hanging over the armrest, snoring into the back cushions. 

Katsuki blinks into the dark, eyes adjusting to the glow provided by the machines that swath the room in faint blue light. 

A chair has been pulled beside Hitoshi’s bed and that’s where he finds Aizawa—leaned up against the mattress edge, a hand resting beside Hitoshi’s. Not touching, but there. Always there. 

It takes a moment more for Katsuki to realize what woke him. Aizawa’s talking. Muttering, almost too low to make out. 

“Come on, kid, come back to us.”

That gruff voice sounds thick, deeper than usual. Forced down by some invisible weight. It wavers like a tide. With the blue cast flooding the room, Katsuki feels like they’ve been plunged underwater.

“They told me what you did down there, how you…,” a shake of that midnight hair. A broken laugh, laced with an anguish Katsuki can’t begin to comprehend. The kind only a father—a good one—could know. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You…” 

His voice trails off and it’s several moments before he whispers, “You eliminated the threat… just like I taught you.”

Oh. That’s what’s weighing down his voice. In the past weeks, Katsuki’s grown familiar with it too. 

Regret. Guilt. Shame. 

Each one heavier than the last. 

“Remembered what was important, didn’t you? Focused on what mattered and protected them.” His head falls, hanging between his shoulders and Katsuki has to strain to hear, “No more of that, don't worry about anything but yourself now. You've done enough. More than enough.”

A moment passes then another, nothing but the steady beeping, and then—

“Go back to sleep, problem child.”

Katsuki nearly jumps out of his skin, setting Hizashi shifting before he settles again. He snaps to Aizawa, can’t even make out his eyes in the dark—with his black hair, eyes and clothes, he looks made of shadow. Not looming over Toshi like Monoma had, but shielding. Protecting. Always protecting. 

Katsuki clears his throat. “Tch, you too old man.”

“Goodnight, Bakugou.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles on a yawn so loud his jaw cracks. “‘m not even tired.”

Aizawa laughs, shaking his head. It’s a quiet thing, soft in a way rarely afforded to someone as abrasive as Katsuki. Before UA, before meeting all the damn extras and teachers that actually cared, before Toshi… well, it had been easy to assume his only value was in achieving perfection. But here, on this couch, it feels like he can be anything or nothing at all.

Feels like he can lower his guard, can drift away, and Aizawa will make sure it’s all still here when he wakes.

Nothing bad can happen when Zawa’s here.

It’s a childish thought, one he’s clung to more times than he’ll ever admit, and maybe it shouldn’t comfort him as much as it does. But it does.

It does.

*****

The next time Katsuki’s eyes open, it’s still night. The windows pitch black, the room bathed in blue. 

The world hasn’t fallen apart and Aizawa hasn’t left.

Hasn’t so much as moved from his post beside the bed, though he’s hunched over it now, head pillowed on a folded arm, hand wrapped holding onto Hitoshi’s. 

No, not Hitoshi’s hand, a single finger. Left pointer finger which, Katsuki knows without seeing, is more crooked than all the others. Foster mom snapped it, he’d told Katsuki after one re-entry. A day four, heavily dissociated. Katsuki doesn’t think Hitoshi meant to say it. He’s always preferred keeping the worst of his past to himself. Katsuki’s always tried to respect that choice, no matter how much it hurts to be kept in the dark. 

But Katsuki’s okay with the scraps he has—it doesn’t matter if he knows how Hitoshi got the injury, what matters is that Katsuki knows to throw him his insulated gloves before heading out for rough weather stakeouts. Knows that when his fingers get cold, it makes the mangled joints ache. 

Aizawa seems to know too, with how even in his sleep, he’s enveloping the damage with warmth. 

That same ache from before rises in Katsuki’s chest. He swallows it down. Gets up slowly, careful not to disturb Yamada who’s still out cold on the cushion beside him.

Slowly and very, very carefully, Katsuki rouses Aizawa—just enough to put an arm over his shoulder without getting stabbed. Everyone who’s ever been through UA knows that waking a slumbering Eraser is equal to renouncing one's life. But the man only grumbles as he’s pulled up and onto his feet.

It’s a testament to how exhausted he is that he goes so willingly, allowing himself to be led to the couch and sinking into it the second his leg hits the edge.

With a quiet snort, Katsuki rearranges the two so Aizawa’s laid out across the length of the couch with his head on a pillow in Yamada’s lap. When he’s confident neither man will wake up with sore backs or stitches in their ridiculously long limbs, Katsuki nods to himself and follows the ache in his chest back to Hitoshi. 

Taking up Aizawa’s previous post, Katsuki lowers into the chair and scooches it closer. Lets the stillness of the room settle over him. Tries to convince himself it’s not suffocating. 

Stillness is good sometimes, isn’t it? The monitors could be going off, Toshi could be struggling to breathe. Doctors could be flooding the room instead of soft blue light, strangers could be shattering the windows, bursting through the walls, trying to take Toshi away. 

Stillness can be good, he tells himself. 

But then he’s remembering the stillness of Hitoshi’s chest when he’d collapsed in that cell. The way his ribs stopped expanding, heart stopped beating, pulse went silent. Dead.

Katsuki sucks in a sharp breath, digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and shakes his head. 

Pull yourself together, brat. You did this to him. Got no right to cry.

Ever since that moment, it’s been harder to hear his darkness. Almost as if it had been scared off by the snap of Toshi’s ribs. Maybe it had broken too. Now, the Hag's voice is all that fills his head.

But that was always the worst part about his bitch of a mother, wasn’t it? That, every so often, she was right.

Katsuki rips his hands away and forces himself to still, like staunching a wound before it can spill. 

It’s several moments before he’s able to drag his gaze up from the floor, but when he does, he takes in the sight of Hitoshi in the dim light, face illuminated by the screens beside the bed and the faint moonlight pouring in through the windows. 

After their evening check-in, the nurses had been pleased enough to leave the bandages off his neck, wanting to let the wound air out. 

Exposed like this, he can see the collar is gone—knows from Sumi it was cut off in the ambulance—but the scorch mark it left behind, wrapping neatly around his neck and the tendrils licking up his throat, his jaw, his— 

It looks like the collar’s still there. 

Looks like it’s still active, still shocking him even without the crackling yellow sparks. Katsuki’s stomach wrenches.

The flesh is no longer split open or smoldering like dying embers and the damage isn’t disgusting, in the way that nothing Hitoshi is or does ever could be, but it’s not by any means easy to look at.

It’ll scar, Sumi said. Nothing they can do about it. 

Just one more thing Hitoshi will feel the need to cover whenever he’s out in public. 

Katsuki rakes his eyes over the rest, every bit of exposed skin is slashed through with scars. Some raised into silver ridges, others sunken-in valleys of light pink and deep burgundy. 

At least they’ve gotten Hitoshi out of those paper thin gowns and into more comfortable, more familiar, clothes from their own closet which Yamada brought over from one of his raids of their apartment. He’d brought Katsuki’s clothes too, folded them up right beside Toshi’s in a massive duffle bag that’s been opened up on a table by the couch. 

Katsuki glances over at it, the zipper splayed open. He should probably change again, can’t remember the last time he did. The oversized shirt  he’s wearing reeks of the cologne he’s been continuously applying, hoping the familiarity of it will help or provide some amount of comfort, if Hitoshi even finds comfort in it—in him—anymore.

His gaze drifts back to Hitoshi.

The scar across his nose is cracked, dried out from the oxygen mask which had also finally been taken away. With a sigh, he gets up and finds some lotion on the small counter by the door. Warms it between his fingers, hesitating a moment before painting it across the scar—from one tapered end to the other, careful beneath each eye, applying extra on the bridge of his nose where the dead tissue is thickest. 

His eyes prick with sudden tears, burning hot with frustration because it’s not fair. Not fair that Toshi's body has to hold such permanent reminders of all the hurt he’s ever been subjected to. 

Why does all the bad shit get to leave proof? Why do foster home muzzle scars and undercover whip lashes get to do that? Why do foster parents and yakuza grunts and alley bottom feeders and—if the patterns on his legs are what Katsuki thinks—dogs get to hold more permanence?  

Of all the kisses Katsuki’s placed on him, of all the warm touches, nothing but scars show. And he knows he’s being stupid and selfish and everything the Hag is hissing through his mind, but— How come all these evil pieces of shit get to etch themselves into Hitoshi’s skin and not him?

Hot tears rush down his cheeks in a trail of fire. It’s not fair.

Fucking shit

He slams against the back of the chair, jerking away to avoid getting any tears on Hitoshi. Wipes roughly at his own face and gets his breathing under control by watching the steady rise and fall of Toshi’s bandaged chest.

Counting every breath, like they might stop if he doesn’t.

He’ll never take a single one for granted ever again.

The heart rate monitor has become a lifeline in more ways than one. 

Time runs together, pressing on only by the beep beep beep of the machine. It fluctuates every now and then—signaling one of Hitoshi’s brief bouts of half-consciousness—before flattening out to that steady baseline rhythm. Slow, it’s still too slow, but it’s there and the nurses comment on its strength everytime they come in to jot down the readings. 

Whether they do it for Katsuki’s sake or not, he doesn’t know, but it eases some of the tension in his shoulders each time.

The private room has a small bathroom attached and, though increasingly reluctant, Yamada delivers his meals at the door—meaning, Katsuki doesn’t leave. The only time anyone can get him out of the room anymore is when the nurses come for “morning routine”, where they inspect Hitoshi’s wounds, sponge bathe him, redo every bandage, and change him into a fresh set of sweats.

And even then, Katsuki fought them to stay—that’s when Toshi would be most vulnerable and what if he woke up during that? No. No fucking way. Katsuki had to be there—so much so that the charge nurse had to be called in. A curt woman with a scowl rivaling his own who’d recited Patient’s Right to Privacy and threatened to have his visitation badge revoked. 

When he refused to back down, she’d gone in for the kill, spouting bullshit about him not being next of kin—neither biologically nor legally. And, yeah, that fucking hurt.

It had taken Erasure and Blackwhip to keep him from shoving her clipboard somewhere that’d land him in Tartarus.

So now, when the nurses come knocking at 9am, Katsuki trudges out—though not before checking Hitoshi over and giving Sumi’s team their daily warning glares, regardless of how much they’ve proven themselves trustworthy. He stands in the hallway right outside the door, leaned up against the wall.

The nurses are efficient and well trained—Sumi’s right to be proud of them. On average, it takes them forty three minutes to do everything. He counts every second. 

Whenever he’s having “door time”, as Pikachu’s started calling it, all the idiots come running. Izuku, Kiri, Kami, and Sero all crowd around to hear updates on Hitoshi’s condition and offer barely survivable bear hugs.

Two thousand five hundred and eighty one seconds later, he extracts himself and heads back inside. 

This time, Kiri manages to slip a protein bar into the pocket of his hoodie. Katsuki flips him off, earning a grin that’s pure shark teeth, as he pushes through the door. 

Ignoring the moderately packed room, he heads for his post beside the bed. Settling into the chair, he looks over Hitoshi just like always, checking for signs of distress or any unfamiliar marks. He trusts Sumi and her team, he does, but he can’t help the impulse and they don’t call him out for it.

They’re tidying up, a sort of dance to music only he can’t hear. The shortest of the group gives him a quick thumbs up, confirmation that nothing alarming was found, and some of the tightness in his chest loosens. 

Katsuki doesn’t find anything either, nothing different from when he left, just clean hair and fresh clothes and new bandages. He rubs Toshi’s forearm, soothing all the injection sights from Monoma’s syringe as he takes in his face. There’s no helping the twist of Katsuki’s mouth at the sight of plastic obscuring his face.

“Oi, what’s with the mask? Thought he didn’t need it anymore.”

“His O2 is reading a bit low this morning. Nothing to be concerned about,” the same nurse is quick to add when his eyes widen. “We’d like to keep it on another day, just until we see that level improve a bit.”

“Can’t you switch it out for one of those nose things?” 

The longer he looks at it, at the scar tissue and the plastic, how it lines up with the seams perfectly, digging in just like a muzzle, he can’t… can’t— 

“I’m sorry, Bakugou-san, not with the impaction to his nasal passageway,” she explains kindly, pulling up a chart on her tablet. “His medical records warn against cannulas due to the buildup of scar tissue, and given the damage to his throat, we need to be sure he’s getting enough airflow.” 

It makes sense—it’s not fair—still, he clenches his jaw. 

Sumi notices, because of course she does, and cuts off a length of gauze, folding it just like Aizawa had and tucks it neatly under the edge of the mask.

“There,” she says with a knowing smile. “That’s better, hm?”

He nods dumbly and she goes back to what she was doing, humming softly.

When she returns later in the day—hours passing without Katsuki even realizing, slipping through his fingertips—she greets him then Toshi, as has become routine. 

Two knocks on the door then a bright, “Me again! Hello, Bakugou-san, Shinsou-san. How are we doing?”

But he’s been awake too long for his usual polite reply. Besides, something’s been gnawing at him in the hours since her last visit that he can’t stop himself from blurting out the moment she steps into the room.

“He’s not in pain, is he?” 

If she’s caught off guard, she doesn’t show it, just continues about her normal routine—check the IV bag, the ports, the monitors. Katsuki has the entire process memorized by now. The repetition and predictability of it all calms something in him, but not as much as her words. 

“He shouldn’t be in pain, no. Dr. Ryuu has him on the maximum tolerated dose of Tramadol.” 

Katsuki barely lets the relief settle before shooting back, “What about nightmares?” 

At that, she pauses in her tasks to glance over a shoulder at him. “Pardon?” 

“He gets these… He’s got insomnia, barely ever sleeps, but when he does there’s usually night terrors. Sometimes I gotta wake him up cause they’re so bad and I just… If he’s sleeping right now that’d be good, right, cause he needs the rest? But if it’s… if he’s trapped, then,” his chest is too tight again. 

Sumi seems to understand and saves him from his floundering with an outstretched hand which he blinks at before taking. She guides him over to the array of machines haloing the bed. Points at one of the screens. 

“See this line here? That’s neural activity. If he were in distress it would spike,” she pulls out her tablet and shows him a jagged graph, “like this.” 

Katsuki looks down at the tablet then up at the screen and back. 

“Toshi’s doesn’t look like that,” he says dumbly, in a way that would’ve set the Hag off for days, but Sumi only nods with that small smile of hers. 

“Precisely. He’s getting the rest his body needs. As you should be.” 

Relief washes over him so suddenly that he doesn’t notice that he’s being guided towards the couch. 

He stops abruptly, digs his heels in like a damn kid. “No, I’m not leaving him. I can’t—” 

“I know,” she says gently, easing him onto the sofa with surprising strength before draping a blanket over him. “You can still see all the screens and hear the heart monitor from here.” 

“But what if he wakes up,” he murmurs, exhaustion catching up to him. “He needs me.” 

“I know,” she echoes. “But he also needs you strong. Can you be strong for him?” 

Katsuki manages a heavy nod and she smiles. It’s soft, kind of like how his dad used to look when bringing him lozenges after a screaming match with the Hag. He likes Sumi’s more.

“Good, I’m happy to hear that. Remember, Bakugou-san, this is a marathon, not a sprint.”

The blinds glide shut and the ceiling lights dim. Katsuki brings the blanket to his chin.

“‘m good at runnin’.”

A chime of laughter, a hand on his shoulder. “Then Shinsou-san will be just fine. He’s lucky to have you all.”

Not luck, the darkness in his mind whispers, speaking for the first time in days. He’s ours.

And we’re his.

*****

Hitoshi’s eyes flutter open, as they have many times recently, and yet everything feels… different. Clearer. Like the fog that’s been wrapped so tightly around him has peeled back several layers.

He doesn’t feel the pressure of the muzzle anymore, just a much softer, muted sensation—and though the itchiness is sharper, the numbness in his limbs isn’t as intense.

Just as he’d guessed, it appears he’s in a hospital. 

The room isn’t cold and there’s natural light filtering in through drawn curtains. White walls, dimmed ceiling lights and a faint glow haloing closed blinds. A blanket covering him, various wires disappearing under the sleeve of his black shirt. 

It all feels so real. 

Thinking is like sifting through shards of glass, but he remembers the tunnels and the ambulance and fading in and out and Kats— Where’s Kats? 

But maybe all that’s wrong… now that he’s thinking clearer, it doesn’t seem very logical. Maybe his shattered memories aren’t memories at all—maybe his concept of the past…however many days…is nothing more than a hallucination. Some new drug Monoma’s scientists concocted to keep him docile. They’re not the first to prefer him pliant.

Maybe he’s still in the cell right now. 

His hands won’t move so he can’t draw blood to check its color, can’t test to see if it’s red or black. So instead, he reaches for something else. 

“... Kat-suki?” he calls out, and his throat explodes with pain. 

His voice comes out in shards, but it comes out and— I’m awake. This is real. Relief overtakes him as he recovers from the reeling pain and resolves to not do that again anytime soon. 

When he can breathe without swallowing fire, he struggles to prop himself upright on trembling arms. He remembers seeing red eyes every time he’s woken before, he needs to see them again now that his vision has cleared. He needs to see more than just eyes. Kats. He needs to find Kats. Needs to see, needs to know he’s okay—that he protected him, that Monoma didn’t, didn’t—

An all too familiar squeak slices through his thoughts, paralyzing his mind. Only, it’s not researchers that burst through. No.

The door opens and with it, a mug crashing, shattering on the ground like that bowl in the kitchen, dark liquid spilling onto tile like the blood from Monoma’s stump, but it doesn’t matter. No.

He knows what matters. 

Blond hair and red eyes and that voice he’s latched onto every time he’s drifted to the surface of himself, only it’s clearer, crisper now.

“Toshi?” 

He tries to answer but nothing comes out and his vision blurs as Katsuki kicks the door shut and rushes over to him.

“We’re, fuck,” Katsuki breathes, hands hovering like butterfly wings afraid to land, tremoring faintly above Hitoshi’s bandages. “We’re at the hospital, you’re okay, lay back down, you’re safe, everything’s—”

Hitoshi grabs an uncertain hand firmly within his own and pulls him roughly closer, body weakened and grossly uncoordinated but Katsuki goes willingly.

Kats lets out a surprised yelp but everything’s hurt for so long and Hitoshi lets himself be selfish, just this once. Yanks him closer and buries his nose in the crook of Katsuki’s neck, right under his jaw—where the pulse of his heart is strongest, thundering alive alive alive, and the smell so undeniably him is suffocating—and breathes in deeply.

And for the first time since waking up in that cell, he can smell something other than his own burning flesh. 

The heady scent of persimmons rush through his nose, down his throat, and a hand cradles the back of his head, another between his shoulder blades and the only touch that’ll never make him want to rip off his skin presses gently in permission and support, but it’s too gentle. 

Hitoshi doesn’t care that his body hurts in ways that are just beginning to register. Pain doesn’t matter, nothing matters but this. And no one is going to take it from him. He’ll devour anything that tries.

Katsuki laughs and it’s the most beautiful thing Hitoshi’s ever heard. Presses his cheek against the column of his throat to feel it. Feels the pulse too—strong, if a bit fast—and then wetness on his shoulder and Katsuki’s crying and Hitoshi thinks he might be too.

But then he feels something else. Feels himself being pulled under again, but he doesn’t let go. Clings to Katsuki even as his vision shudders. Tries to fight it, baring his teeth, shaking his head—

“It’s okay, go back down if you need to,” Katsuki whispers into his hair. “I’ll be here, I’ll be right here. No one’s taking you from me. Never again.”

And it’s the possessive, almost feral edge—one that promises death, slow and painful—that brings a smile to Hitoshi’s lips and lulls him back to sleep.

*****

Hitoshi manages to stay awake for longer each time after that, but only barely, and soon it’s not enough to see Katsuki in that flimsy chair. The times Hitoshi manages to claw his way above the fog, he wakes up frantically searching, even though Katsuki’s always in the same spot, right beside him. But it’s too far.

He knows Katsuki’s just being careful, trying not to pressure or overwhelm him, but he needs more.

Any amount of distance is too much, he’s buzzing out of his skin, the itchiness growing more intense every time he wakes up, and he wants it all to stop—doesn’t wanna float away anymore, doesn’t wanna drift, just wants to be here with Katsuki. Katsuki who’s speaking to him softly, but keeping his hands pressed atop his thighs. 

He’s too far away, the darkness whines, and Hitoshi agrees. So he reaches over the edge of the bed and tugs at Katsuki’s arm.

“Toshi?”

Signing has proven difficult, his fingers stiff from all the sleeping and it’s hard to focus with the itching sensation that continues to grow every time he wakes, but he manages to form, ‘you, here,’ and taps on the mattress beside him for emphasis.

“Once you’re feeling better, yeah? Sumi’ll be back soon, we can ask her.”

At that, Hitoshi tightens his hold and pulls.

“Hang on, wait a— Your ribs are busted, fuck, please Toshi,” Katsuki fumbles, a bit desperately, “I don’t wanna hurt you again.” 

Oh. 

After Monoma’s never-ending declarations of: I want to take care of you, I want to help you, I want to heal you— “I don’t want to hurt you” feels… different. 

Hitoshi likes it. 

He stops pulling.

“Thank fuck. Here, how ‘bout,” Kats slowly eases beside him, hands carefully placed on deemed “safe locations”, and it’s nice but it’s not enough.

So Hitoshi grabs fistfuls of Katsuki’s oversized shirt and drags him on top instead. Chest to chest, ribs to ribs, heart to heart. And before Katsuki can try to lift himself off, Hitoshi wraps both arms around his waist, clutching him to his front so tightly that Kats lets out a wheeze.

They stay like that for several heartbeats before Hitoshi releases his vice grip, though only slightly, and feels a rumbling vibration in the back of his throat at the way Katsuki’s body finally eases into his, because that means he isn’t scared, he’s not afraid—

He buries his nose in Katsuki’s hair and the rumbling dissolves into purrs.

It’s deep enough in his chest that it doesn’t hurt his throat in the way his attempt at speaking had. It sounds lower, more jagged than before—nothing like the smooth way it used to be—but Katsuki still praises it on honey sweet whispers against his collarbone.

Hitoshi melts underneath him, breathing in deeply.

He hadn’t been able to smell anything for so long—the cell had been sterile, the food unseasoned, nothing but the moments when his collar got dialed too high. But this… The scent is even stronger today, washes over his tongue, settles deep in his lungs. 

Persimmons, his mind supplies. 

Home, his darkness cries. 

Katsuki’s heart thuds beneath his hands—his mangled, bloodstained hands—and against his own stuttering heart. 

Home