Scars of Petals (Suicidal Todoroki x Bakugou)

by BlitzyWolf

Todoroki is beloved by adversity. Struggling with depression, his agony is augmented by Endeavor's abuse. Concealing his wounds and scars with sleeves and lies, Todoroki never thought Bakugou would be unknowingly killing him on the inside. When he refuses to believe that he's fallen for Bakugou, what happens when Todoroki starts haplessly hacking up yellow chrysanthemum petals?

2. 1: Everything Hurts

Shoto Todoroki
- Week 1 -

An itch. Another ceaseless itch crawls through my chest like the feathery dance of arachnid legs weaving through flesh. Provoking such an odious sensation is the familiar sight of an avid Kirishima clinging tightly to an outwardly vexed Bakugou. Perhaps I'm simply delusional from the abrupt cognizance of the pervasive, recurring feeling, but it feels almost as though anomalous filaments of an unidentifiable, yet tangible thing flicker within my chest whenever I inhale or exhale in the presence of the two.

Again? I internally question while casting my gaze astray from Kirishima and Bakugou, who are sitting opposite from me at our lunch table. It's been a week since the first occurrence, yet it seems only to have been exacerbated. Am I developing some kind of respiratory disease? Clearing my throat, something flutters about from the depths of my chest. Or are these perhaps the budding symptoms of a cold? Then why does it feel as though I've inhaled a feather whenever I see them together? How peculiar.

With a minute shake of my head, I surreptitiously dismiss myself from the table and escort myself outside. While strolling through the halls, however, a jovial grin and cheeks peppered with freckles greet me; Midoriya sways his hand left and right while wiggling his fingers up and down.

"Hey, Todoroki-kun," he chuckles. "What brings you over here? Too loud in there?" He presses his thumb across a curled flap of blue tape stretched diagonally across the top right corner of an "inspirational" poster he's taping up on the wall.

I can feel something in my lungs, yet I cannot seem to expel it. "Fresh air," I reply with a desiccated voice.

"Is there something on your mind?" he asks, tilting his head like a curious puppy.

I shake my head. "Thank you for asking." Ambling outside into the lucent world of white tinged with yellow, I sit upright against the wall of the building and languidly exhale.

Another itch. Another ceaseless itch.

My next breath out feels as though the soft tip of a feather is caressing my chest like a comb brushing through hair. Such a sensation issues a bodily injunction to cough, and once I do, a few droplets of scarlet seep into my uniform. Eyeing my sleeve dappled in red, I flinch.

Blood? I ask myself, exceptionally bemused as to my current condition that would cause blood to spill from my lips. Strange. It's unfortunate that I'll have to change, but I cannot help but be irked by the fact that I'm unable to obviate this irksome thing that torments my chest.

Rising to my feet, I snap a glance at Midoriya's current location through the windows of the doors between us. Prior to enthralling his attention by opening the door, I select a direction to walk in that I presume will place the bloodied patch on my uniform at an angle invisible to him. Now re-entering the building, Midoriya waves at me again with his radiant smile. I muster up an expression akin to a smile that falls flat at the curved tips.

Silence fills the air while I stride down the hallway.

Once class concludes for the day, I walk home with Bakugou, who insists that I stay the night at his house. Hearing such a lovely invitation from him quickens the leaps of my fluttering heart. Although oscillating between agreement and disagreement to his proposal, I finally conquest my dubiety and offer him a nod.

"Damn old hag is out with my dad for the next two days," Bakugou says with an enchanting smirk gracing his sunlit mien.

"Ah. So it would be only the two of us, correct?" I ask while beginning to unconsciously scratch at the multiplicity of scars littering my left arm from beneath the sleeves of my uniform.

You believe Endeavor to be culpable for these scars. Although the minority were inflicted by him, his wounds were always along my shoulders—hidden away by most sleeves. If you knew the truth...would you hate me? Would you tell your parents? I don't want to mess up our friendship. I seem to be an expert when it comes to mutilating anything auspicious that happens to come my way. I sever the hands that reach for me. I shield myself behind my lies. I attempt to push them away, but they push back—excluding Bakugou, namely Yaoyorozu and Midoriya. This friendship is something that I never would have predicted, but something that I wouldn't trade for the world. This friendship is invaluable to me. This friendship is the reason why I'm sti—

Something warm firmly greets my arm; it transfixes my thoughts by the abruptness of reality crashing down on me as I flinch. "You with me?" utters a placating voice to the torrent of my raging thoughts.

Blinking, I flick my fingers across my arm with great haste. "Hm? Sorry. I was lost in thought. Did you say something that I missed?" His fingers intertwine with my hand that's currently scratching at my arm, causing an effervescent wave of warmth to wash across my being. "Ah?"

"You're scratching pretty damn hard." His slightly sticky digits seem almost hesitant to release their grasp on my hand. "Don't make them worse. That asshat has already fucked up your body enough. Oi. They aren't bleeding now, are they?"

Scrutinizing my arms for any prominent splotches of red, I internally sigh in relief when my sleeves remain as a pure white. "Sorry..." I tip my head towards the ground. "What were you saying previously, though?"

"Don't avert your eyes from me, Shoto," Endeavor growled at me with a wry lour. "Look at me. LOOK AT ME, SHOTO!"

I detest holding eye contact with anyone with blue or turquoise eyes because of that—because of him. It reminds me of then... I always flinch. I always avert my eyes. I always blink. I can only maintain eye contact with Endeavor from considering the ramifications of his reprisal for my disgraceful disobedience.

My hand begins to lift to resume its work at swiping its nails along my arm, but I manage to halt its approach.

Bakugou places his hand at the back of his neck. "Don't apologize." He pauses for a brief moment. "Yeah, it's just the two of us. You're fine with that, right?"

Alone with Bakugou? I nod. "I wanted to ensure that there were no potential witnesses."

"You sound like you're planning a murder," he remarks with a certain exuberance to his words. "Would have to be on me, going by that logic."

"I should hope not," I reply, uncertain of how to respond.

I can't imagine myself being capable of it. I would sooner mutilate my skin from bottom to top than murder Bakugou. Even if I were to have Endeavor at point-blank, I don't believe I'd have the chutzpah to pull the trigger. If I did, I would be utterly repulsed, to say the bare minimum. Repulsed not solely by a corpse in front of me, but at myself for committing such an execrable crime.

He rolls his eyes. "Seriously."

"I assure you that I'm not."

He now facepalms. "Goddammit, I was joking. Take a joke. Tch. Guess that's hard when you don't express emotion like you're some kind of emotionless soldier." He glances over his shoulder to look at me.

"Sorry," I sigh dismissively.

"Worthless tears from a worthless thing have no place in this household. Every tear it sheds makes it weaker. Every smile it shows is just a delusion when it doesn't deserve happiness. Instead of taking its training seriously, it weeps on the floor. You're worthless."

Not enough... Worthless... Disappointment... I'm not enough. I'm worthless. I'm a disappointment. No. It's not enough. It's worthless. It's a disappointment.

"You should try smiling for once." He snorts lightly.

It kills me to smile when I know I'm simply lying to you and to anyone who might see. "I don't like smiling." I seldom endeavor such a feat, and when I do, I feel exceedingly guilty.

"You don't like smiling?"

"That is what I said. I don't intend to seem callous with my mannerisms, however. Smiling... It doesn't feel right."

It feels as though fell jaws clamp down on my heart whenever I smile. I must be incredibly weak for yielding to such a feeling for simply smiling. Although I might be ostracized for my uncharitable personality, I would prefer not to be lambasted for smiling.

"That smile is repulsive. No one could find such an abhorrent sight to be pleasant."

Once we stop at my house, I warily glance around the premises to affirm myself that Endeavor is truly gone. Afterwards, I pack a bag for the night and furtively stow away what provides me with a sweet reprieve from the hefty, crushing weight of reality.

Even if it's foolish, I would prefer this to potentially hurting the people around me. I'd much rather...direct how I feel at myself. How I feel is my decision. It is my choice to feel like this. That it is. I deserve to feel like this. Something worthless doesn't deserve happiness. Even though it hurts so much, I suppose this is a fitting punishment for how I'm simply a burden to others. You tell me I'm not a burden, but I can't help but feel like I am. You make it such an incredibly arduous task to lie to you. Your benevolence makes me feel so warm inside, yet it also kills me just as nicely.

My chest tightens, and as I clear my throat, I can taste the subtle taste of iron.

As we enter Bakugou's abode, I slip off my shoes beside him and glance at my familiar surroundings. The affable atmosphere of his house never ceases to fill me with a sense of safety.

"Hungry?" Bakugou questions.

"Not particularly," I answer as my eyes brush over an empty beer bottle perched on a table in the living room.

"Come here, you fucking disappointment," Endeavor commanded me. Once I did as instructed, he pinned me up against the wall. "Don't move."

Sweat snaked down my forehead as I steeled myself for my forehead to bash into the wall. Instead, however, my back was perforated with jagged, thin teeth while my ears were bombarded with the sound of glass shattering. Bolting shut my jaw, I bit back the impulse to instinctively announce my injury.

"I said not to fucking move!" Succeeding his fell vociferation was the rapid whirl of my body being thrust down onto the floor. "I'm not worth your time to listen to? Is that it, you waste of a fucking life?" A baleful foot plummeted into my abdomen. "Ungrateful fatass. Had it not been for its Quirk, it long would have been disposed of. Could I not have been given a son with such an enviable Quirk?"

All I'm worth is for my Quirk. I am a thing of vanity. My Quirk is the only desirable thing in me. If I could transfer my Quirk to someone else, would you be happy? Would you finally feel happy? Without my Quirk, I wouldn't exist. All I am...

I grunted in agony as sporadic hisses of air were launched through my nostrils. A myriad of glass shards were biting into my backside, but I dared not move from my pregnable position.

My heart thumps perfervidly in my chest while I realize that I'm clawing at my arm again. Bakugou would never hurt me, right? I inwardly ask myself.

"Oi. What—" He notices the beer bottle on the table. "Oh, fuck. Dammit, I didn't realize my mom left that out. You all right?" While he strides towards the living room, I shiver at the frigid spasm in my back.

I exhale deeply, and as I do, yet again can I feel something twitching in my chest. "Yeah. Sorry." I suppress the impetuous desire to cough.

While Bakugou disposes of the object conjuring up such deplorable memories of my past, he sighs, "Why are you apologizing? The hell could you have done? It's my fault. Tch. Don't expect to hear me say that very often. Regardless..." He tosses me a package containing dorayaki. "Eat that."

Gripping the package in my right hand, I tilt my head. "Ah. I—"

"I know. Shut up and eat it. If that bastard won't feed you, then I will." His own head turns away from me. "C'mon." He motions for me to follow him.

Situating ourselves in Bakugou's bewilderingly organized room, I sit at his desk while he plops down onto his bed. The slight sheen of white reflected from his beige desk momentarily catches my eye before Bakugou's voice captivates my attention.

"So, how've you felt today?" He always asks how my day has been when we walk home together.

How have I felt? Despite the fact that Endeavor has been unable to so much as lay a finger on me or utter any of his virulent words into my ears, I've only felt an increasing desire to do that. I have absolutely no reason to feel like this now. Without him here to chastise me, I only want to replicate that. I know how I feel, but I don't want you to concern yourself over me. I'm not worth your concern. I'm not...worth anything. My Quirk is what seemingly defines me. Without my Quirk, I would not exist. All I am...

I shrug. "Fine, I suppose." I lightly glide my nails across my arm.

"Sounds like bullshit to me. If you wanna vent about somethin' or just express your goddamn emotions for once, I'd be glad to hear it. Better than you bottling everything up 'till you explode...or implode." Implode... "I know you don't like talking about how you feel, and it's not like I can blame you, but it's good to get it off your chest. Makes you feel one helluva lot better sometimes."

I feel so guilty for lying. Why do you care about me so much? This I cannot fathom. What have I done for you other than being a thorn in your side? Even so, I enjoy this pleasant feeling whenever you offer me kindness. How selfish of me.

I nod subtly. "Thank you." Tell him the truth. "But... I don't know. Although I'm certain you're correct, I feel as though I'll regret it." With both hands free, I use my right hand to trace my forefinger along the waves of white slicked over Bakugou's desk.

Even if I were to tell you that my chest feels exceedingly heavy and that I feel so alone, would that truly change anything? Even if I told you the truth, what would you do then? I don't want you to know the truth.

I can feel his burning, phlegmatic gaze piercing through my being. "Don't feel obligated to tell me. But you look sad." When...was the last time I wasn't? "Just pointing that out."

"It...hurts, I suppose." A blistering, adhesive dust feels as though it's being dragged across my skin. "But I'm all right. Thank you, again, Bakugou." With a fragile, fleeting smile, I peer into his effulgent eyes of vermillion.

His eyes are stunning. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Charismatic.

He tosses back his head with his elbows leaned back behind him. "Only took you a year to admit that to me," he sighs. "Not sayin' that's a bad thing. Nah. It's a damn good thing. Now the question is how we send that pain to hell." The peripheries of his luscious lips raise up towards his cheeks.

You say that as though declaring war on a fictional being of supremacy, but I digress. I like that devious smirk of yours.

"I wouldn't know," I reply, sinking away into my dolor with a sigh. "I apologize if I've disappointed you."

"Didn't I just tell you it's a damn good thing you admitted that?"

"Sorry."

His fingers claw at the sheets of his bed. "You don't have to apologize for every single thing you do, dammit." He runs his hand through this hair.

So I am a disappointment. I should have known.

While the two of us are eating the dinner that Bakugou prepared, he remarks, "You look like a dainty rabbit or somethin' when you eat." I glance up to him, perplexed by his comparison. He seems almost vexed by his own statement. "It's cuz ya eat so damn slow."

Oh? Is that a compliment or an insinuation that was provided with elaboration? A rabbit, though? I would argue that Midoriya resembles one more closely.

"You fed me earlier. You're much too generous. I never would have expected this side of you, previously."

He presses his hand forwards with his fingers curled inwards, and although I assume he'll flip me off, he retracts his hand. "Tch. No. That piece of shit's just parlous self-centered, and on top of that, he's just an asshole in general." He clicks his tongue. "Just makin' sure you feel like you're getting enough. That's just common sense." His eyes drift towards the wall.

Then I must either lack common sense, or you're thinking quite heavily regarding some other topic. "You're very sweet." A constricting feeling coils around my chest as a vague heat disperses through my being and peppers my cheeks.

It's hard to breathe, but this warmth is almost rejuvenating. If only I could capture these feelings like events can through photos. These feelings give me something to hope for. Even when the pain is unbearable, these ethereal feelings attenuate them, even if to a virtually unnoticeable degree.

Bakugou's brows twitch in stupefaction. "Don't call me fuckin' sweet. Tch. That's... I'm the ass, so you're sweet for entertaining that thought. Wait. Shit. " His eyes stare down at the table, but if I'm not mistaken, a peachy hue has crept over his cheeks.

He called me sweet... "You aren't very articulate with words," I decide to tease him, inwardly supplicating for an augmented vividness of his cheeks stained with a light pink.

My desire becomes a refulgent reality. "Fuck off," he groans, curling his fingers into fists on the surface of the table.

My heart is pounding fervently. "You're always very dismissive whenever I compliment you." Continuing to poke at his ego, I find myself leaning forwards in my chair ever so slightly.

His lips pull back a bit, but not to the extent of his teeth being flashed. "Then don't fucking compliment me! I don't hate it, so don't apologize, but... What the hell kind of game are you trying to play with me, you asshat?"

What a cute pouting face. "And you tell me that I'm a walking paradox. I thought that you were the ass, Bakugou."

"I am the ass, but you're gonna be beat meat on the street when I'm done with you!" He sharply springs up from his chair.

"I don't comprehend," I chuckle softly, retaining my phlegmatic profile.

With an expression warped horrifically by what I assume is ire, Bakugou slams a fist down onto the table. Hearing the bang causes me to flinch and lurch back my shoulders. "Fuck. Didn't mean to startle you. But if you think you can beat me, Katsuki Bakugou, in a game, you're damn wrong. I'm always gonna win."

"You lost to—"

"You lost to me. Damn Deku is a different story. Now hurry up and finish the cooking of the master around here so I can beat your ass at All Might Kart."

Challenging me to a duel at All Might Kart, Bakugou absolutely decimates my inept skills at the racing game. Although I've indubitably ameliorated my godawful skills to somewhere that I'd like to label as mediocre, I typically rank in fifth or sixth place.

"You suck at this," Bakugou snickers. "Y'know what I've noticed, though? You've never drifted before, have ya?"

Drift? Driftwood? Drifting off into thought? "Define 'drift.' Solely in relation to this game?" I place my controller aside.

"Not that kind of drift. Lemme show ya how it's done. Then we'll go again so you can get a feel for it. Trust me, it helps one helluva lot." Seeing his toothy grin feels as though an army of ants have infiltrated my lungs.

I nod. "All right. Ah. Give me a moment, please," I reply in a whisper while lifting myself from the floor and walking towards the bathroom.

Clumping together a few sheets of toilet paper, I cough into the wad of white, and as I do so, something pricks my throat. Examining the toilet paper contaminated with scarlet in my hands, I notice a minuscule speck of yellow. Furrowing my brows, I toss the soiled material into the toilet and flush it away.

What's wrong with me? I ask myself while washing my hands.

After a few hours, the two of us decide to settle down for sleep.

"Oi. Why don't you take my bed?" Bakugou suggests while rummaging through his closet.

Your bed is your bed. "I couldn't," I reply humbly. "I would feel bad."

As his arms stretch up towards the top shelf in his closet, he murmurs, "Well you're my guest, so you get the luxury of that. Unless you think my bed is—there it is—gross or something." Fumbling around through his belongings, he pulls free a sleeping bag and seizes it with his arms and hands.

"No. You're quite the immaculate person. I would simply prefer that you don't sleep on the floor of your own room."

He leans up against the frame of his closet. "So, what do we do at this impasse? What, you wanna sleep together?" He releases an amiable snort.

What an oddly appealing proposition. "If that is what you would like." His lips unevenly splay apart as his cheeks become dappled with the pink of cotton candy. "Did I say something wrong?"

He drags the palm of his hand in a gradual descent across his face, causing his skin to smudge downwards like taffy before returning into place. "Tch." He clears his throat. "I mean, I was kidding, but... You... Tch. Look. Do you want to?" He gently rubs the back of his neck with his hand.

He's stumbling over his words. "I'm all right with the idea. You seem skeptical, however." I can't take my eyes off of him.

"Nope. I'm fine. It's just...fucking weird. It shouldn't be, but it is. I'll get over it. But if you start snoring, you're goin' over the edge and down to the floor." He thrusts the sleeping bag back into the depths of his closet after a few failed attempts. "Do you do anything weird in your sleep? Tch. You know what? I'll sleep nearest to the wall so I can push your ass off if I feel like it. Besides, I know you're an early riser. Who the hell's up at four or five in the morning on a school day? Christ..."

My thoughts keep me awake. "If that is what you would like." I bend down to my bag on the floor and extract my toothbrush, toothpaste, and a change of clothing from my uniform. "I apologize in advance if I do something worthy of having my ass shoved off the bed. I've likely changed since then, but when I was quite young, I would often sleep with Fuyumi. It seems that I would shake violently if blighted by a nightmare." Zipping the bag back up, I begin to itch at my arm again.

Refrain yourself, Shoto, I inwardly scold myself. Not now. Soon. Not now.

His hand traipses through his hair. "Good to know. Also, I don't sleep with a shirt on, but I can if you want me to."

Ah? "Hm. I don't believe you swore at all. In fact—"

"Goddammit, don't call me fucking soft again."

"I think you are."

Seething silently, Bakugou remains silent for a moment. "Just answer the damn question."

So warm... Such a warm feeling. Even so, why is it that my heart continues to throb interminably? Why can't I stop thinking about that? Why can't I stop doing that? It hurts so much. But I can't do it. At least...not when I know how devastated he would be. He would never forgive me. He'd surely blame himself. But I want to. Every single day, I think about it. I want it. But he's always there with his hand extended out to me. It never reaches, but...

A gruff voice shatters my realm of thought. "Oi! Todoroki?" I hastily blink before providing him my attention and easing my fingers off of my arm. "Good God... You're seriously gonna hurt yourself if you scratch your arm like that all the damn time. Something you wanna talk about?" He offers a perfunctory sigh.

You did it again, Shoto. "N-No. My apologies, but it's a horrible habit of mine, if you haven't noticed. Ah. Whatever you are comfortable with. I don't mind." You should be ashamed of yourself, Shoto.

"You stuttered," he growls succinctly.

Damn. "Not now, thank you," I utter aridly. "Perhaps later."

Once we've readied ourselves for bed, a radiant, shirtless Bakugou first crawls to the far end of his bed and insinuates himself beneath the blanket. I await his cue for me to proceed, but no such signal arrives, leaving me to timorously stand at the edge of the bed for the next thirty seconds.

Bakugou finally groans in dismay. "C'mon. Don't just stand there all night, dammit. Don't be so damn shy." He repositions his head on his pillow to comfortably face me.

It isn't that I'm shy. "Thank you." I don't...want to be punished for acting out of line.

We linger in silence beneath the covers of his bed for another few minutes before Bakugou's voice softly caresses my ears. "Hey. Was today better or worse than you thought it was gonna be?"

His back faces me, but even so, I stretch my head through the dark to glance back at him. "It was all right. You were the highlight, as usual. I must thank you for your hospitality." I twirl my fingers around the loose fabric of the pillowcase my head rests on.

Your bed is quite comfortable. Your scent is infused into it—I like that scent. Your warmth is at my side. Your warmth flares up in my chest. Your warmth prevents me from glazing over with frost. I wish you knew how much you've done for me. I wish I could tell you that. But I can't.

As minutes gradually fall away through the hourglass of time to amount to hours, I can resist my impetuous craving no longer. Warily sliding towards the edge of the bed, I can feel my heart ticking like a feverish clock. Internally sighing, I abscond from the bed and creep towards my bag. With excruciating cognizance of the magnitude of the sound of my footsteps tapping along the ground, I frequently peer over my shoulder back at Bakugou. Once I've tortured myself with the abominable process of opening my bag and retrieving what I need from it, I surreptitiously slink off into the bathroom.

Fortunately for me, I recall that there's a rug in the bathroom, so I tiptoe across the floor until my toes are graced with the alleviating sensation of a soft material beneath them. Crouching down, I produce a small flame of orange from my left hand to mentally mark the whereabouts of the rug. Now gently folding the rug over itself, I slip it beneath the crack of the bathroom door and deftly trace my fingers around its peripheries to minimize any potential gaps for light to seep through. Once satisfied with my work, I flick on the light to see my reflection staring at me from the mirror.

Don't look at me. I wish that I could erase my pitiful reflection.

Yanking up the sleeves of my long-sleeved shirt, I spread apart my favorite pair of scissors. Relatively small, these scissors slice through skin like a knife through moderately warm butter. I stare down at the metallic sheen of the dual blades of chrome for a moment before placing the whetted edge of one blade to my left arm.

Regardless of how many scars I inflict on myself, it's never enough. I'm never surfeited with the delicious damage and drops of blood. He's so kind to me. He's so kind... That kindness only augments my desire to drag blades across my flesh. Why should I deserve to be happy when I'll simply eviscerate such an emotion? Even so, I'm so...so sick of this acute sadness that transfixes my chest. I'm sick of feeling so damn sad every day, but I don't want to be happy, either. I shouldn't be happy when all I am is a burden. I don't deserve it. I don't have the right to feel it. Even though he tethers me here, I still want to die all the same. Even though he's always within my reach, I feel so alone. Even though he staunches the blood flow of my physical wounds, my heart feels as though these scissors are only being wedged deeper inside; I can never seem to stop up the streams of tears pouring from my eyes, even when I'm smiling. If smiling is indicative of happiness, then why is it that, whenever I smile, my chest throbs, and my eyes well up with tears? If this is what happiness is, then why do we desiderate it when it's been lost? If this is happiness...then I don't want to be happy. If this is happiness, then it would be so much simpler to lie about the torture that is 'happiness.' If this is happiness, then...

Shaking my head, I realize now that trails of crystalline have swept across my cheeks and beadlets of vermillion have sprung up around the edges of the blade digging into my arm. Gripping the flat sides of the blade and nestling my fingers between the gap of the dual blades, I slash through my left forearm. A thin ravine of pale pink soon boils up with scarlet until thick orbs of red break through the surface and soon weld together to form a gleaming lake.

One more... I tell myself. One more. Just one more. One more. One more. One. Another. Just one. This is the last one. God... I-I can't stop. Regardless of my aggregation of scars, it's never enough. More... I want more. But it's just not enough to sate this voracious, unquenchable flame of self-destruction. One... One more.

Branding myself with one final scar never to properly heal or fade, I choke back the torrent of sobs threatening to spill from my throat while treating my self-inflicted lacerations with quaking hands. While the entropy of my indignant emotions perniciously gnaws at my chest like serrated teeth razing flesh, I'm unable to stifle a hoarse cough from escaping my lips. With vision impaired by the leaden weight of my tears, I question whether or not the extraordinarily small speck of yellow reminiscent of a seed is simply a figment of my imagination.

It hurts so much... The wounds scorch my nerves in pulsating waves. My throat feels as though it's swelling shut. My head throbs, and those throbs are aggravated with each sob. It feels as though daggers have pierced through my chest. Even my lungs burn from exhaustion. The tangible pain is painful indeed, but it is paltry in comparison to how I feel inside. I want to gouge through my eyes until not a single tear may slip through. I want to wrap my hands around my neck as though I'm not alone until my breaths finally cease. I want...to hurt myself until I'm numb to the pain.

As my spine slides down the wall after I've tended to my wounds, I curl my fingers into my shirt and flesh where my heart is. Gleaming rivers of diamond spill onto my pants and shirt, seeping down into the fabric and licking my flesh with a brief sensation of a cool dampness. Through my vision mired by my murky tears, I can see my trembling limbs.

"Are you going to cry again, you weak, poor excuse for a son? You have no reason to be sad. What hardships have you been through? The pain you've suffered doesn't mean anything! You don't know what real hardships are, you fucking disgrace. If you think you know what pain is, try again. You don't know the first thing about pain and loss. Now, never show your face to me with tears in your eyes. Men. Don't. Cry. Get that into your head. I can imagine that it's empty, anyway."

All I can do...is cry. I cry and I cry, but more often than not, I don't understand why. I could have only auspicious events bestowed upon me, and yet I would still feel the same beneath the surface.

After perhaps another hour of watching my tears drip like raindrops, I manage to reform my flaccid composure. Although incredibly frail with the potential of abruptly shattering at any given moment, I hold fast the stolid persona I always assume in the presence of others.

Scouring the bathroom for any evidence that might still linger from my episode, I conclude that my efforts to obliterate my presence from the bathroom will suffice. Finally, I perish the light and return the rug to its natural positioning before returning to my bag. With heightened senses, I stash everything I'd hauled with me back into the familiar void of my belongings. After zipping up my bag one notch at a time, I stealthily slink back into the warmth of Bakugou's bed.

So warm... Not as warm as he makes me feel, but the warmth tickling my skin is rather relaxing. Hm. I wonder how soft his hair is. I would love to feel his hair gliding between my fingertips. When his fingers gently cradled mine, the balmy weather seemed to have surged through my entire being.

The tips of my fingers crawl along my arm, but the physical contact now launches a preponderance of needles to prick the surrounding area affected.

Damn, I internally berate myself. Worthless. I am worthless. I am worthless. I am worthless. I am worthless. I am worthless. My vanity must be the only thing he sees in me, and I cannot see him as culpable for that. I—

A warm, lean arc of mass ensconces my body into an embrace. Effervescent sparks of flame and stupefaction jolt through my body at the unexpected sensation. My hand cautiously prowls around until it gently scrapes the hand of the arm wrapped snug around my body.

When he held my hand...

My fingers deftly wedge into the warmth of Bakugou's hand; a thin film of sweat laces his skin. As my heart snaps like thunder, I finally interlace our hands. Simultaneously spiking my apprehension and melting my disconcerted state into repose, I lightly press our fingers and palms together. The mutual warmth and stickiness of our entwined hands is tapped at by the drum of my heart.

My cheeks feel warm. Strange.

Once both of us awaken in the blinding white light of the morning sun spilling in through the window of his room, we independently shower and change.

So as not to soil any of Bakugou's towels with my blood, I flash my Quirk of flame across my body to evaporate the water snaking down my skin. I instead utilize a towel to dry my hair.

It burns, I think to myself while applying new bandages to my wounds. It burns... The pain has been significantly mitigated compared to when the warm streams of water felt as though nails were being hammered into my veins, but the residual burning sensation is less than pleasant. I feel awful that my blood was washed across the floor of his shower, but I did scrub the floor as best I could. Blood... I coughed up more blood. There is most definitely something yellow I'm coughing up as well—which is absolutely repulsive to think about—but I'm utterly bemused.

Sighing, I dress myself and exit the bathroom with my arms occupied by my dirty clothing; these are used as a shield to conceal the medical supplies within the bundle of fabric. Entering Bakugou's room, I notice his absence and jam my belongings into my bag before strolling out to the main area of his house.

Sprinkling a dash of a white, grainy substance that I deduce is salt into a bowl, Bakugou rolls his chin over his shoulder to glance at me from where he stands in the kitchen. "Oi. Just in time. You sure took long enough." Scooping up the bowl into his hands from the sides, he whisks it over to the dining table. "It's katsudon."

Midoriya's favorite. "A shame that Midoriya isn't here," I comment while approaching the rectangular table. "Nonetheless, thank you, Bakugou. You did not have to do this." Pulling back a chair from the table, I sit myself down before readjusting the chair again.

Bakugou, whose back greets my eyes as he treads back into the kitchen, mutters, "Well, I wanted to. I used to make katsudon all the time for—with—the damn nerd. Tch." He returns to the table with his own bowl of katsudon in hand. "You gonna eat?" His eyes retain a relatively low angle directed at me.

I can't stop thinking about how I held your hand last night. Your warmth alone placated my raging emotions. When I held your hand...I felt something I've never felt before. I've no proper words to describe it, but I finally felt as though he was truly there at my side. I felt so warm. Warm... So warm.

The wailing of my arm as my nails scrape along its sheathed surface thrusts me back into the sea of reality. "Ah, yes. My apologies. You certainly seem to concern yourself over—"

He lowers his gaze further towards the table. "I always wondered why the fuck you ate so much at lunch." You noticed? "Wish I'da known that that piece of shit was practically starving you. Look. I just..." As he pauses, a faint trace of red dusts his cheeks. "You shouldn't ever have to go through that again, dammit. You must've been so damn hungry. You had training at home and at U.A. You were a lot thinner then. I don't know how the hell I didn't make the connection." His fists clench.

"It wasn't your fault. I hope you know that."

"Course it wasn't my fault. But I could've done something about it," he grumbles as rancor emanates from his jagged words.

Bakugou... "Was it your duty to play detective and piece together what abstruse clues you could from my recondite profile? No. It's all right. I'm not worth the regret." Dammit.

Lifting his head from practically being parallel to his bowl of katsudon, his ruby eyes gleam with unfettered fury, yet he remains silent.

"Sorry..." I sigh while inwardly reviling my error.

"Don't apologize, dammit. Don't think about yourself like that, either. You... Tch. You're a great fuckin' friend of mine. I'm not ashamed to say that." His forefinger brushes through his hair illuminated partially by the sunlight cascading through the nearby window.

My chest feels tight. "You consider me to be a friend? I'm honored." Then why...did my heart shudder at the mention of 'friend' if I'm so honored to have secured that position?

"No shit," he maunders. "Don't make me repeat myself. Tch. You're...important to me, all right? There." Massaging his temples, he sighs.

"You're also important to me," I reply with a forced smile that twists my stomach into knots. "Thank you for making me feel something..." You absolute fool. "Something as nice as friendship." Why does 'friendship' sound so rotten?

While I finally begin to eat the katsudon in front of me to partially veil my crestfallen expression, Bakugou wraps his fingers around a glass filled with a carbonated lake of brown. "You doin' all right?" he asks me, and to answer his question, I nod. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He seldom swears around the times he asks me if I'm all right, and overall...he's very sweet. "Ah. Milk, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Gotcha. No trouble at all. You want somethin', then don't be afraid to say it. If I'm able to, I'll probably give it to ya."

If I asked you to kill me, would you still do it? I could ask for no better way to die—by the hands of someone I've endowed my trust to. I feel oddly satisfied to think about that.

Bakugou now hands me a glass of milk, and I thank him for it. "You sure you're okay?" His keen stare of vermillion implores a truthful response to fall from my lips.

My fingers play at the sleeve of my left arm. "I'm fine, Bakugou." It hurts so much... "Thank you for asking." It feels like I'm falling apart.

"Todoroki, I want to believe you, but that sounds like some fucking bullshit to me," he hisses.

"How so?"

With a lour, he mutters, "You look like you're always trying to hide a bullet wound. You look like that bullet was through your heart." His burning stare is resolute; it dares not falter.

Accurate. "How so?" I sigh nonchalantly while pressing my thumb into a flap of fabric from my sleeve.

Bakugou's trembling grasp on his glass threatens to shatter the vessel for liquid. "You never smile, and when you do, they always look so damn fake. Besides, how the hell can you be fine when Endeavor's put you through so much shit? You—"

"I said that I'm fine, Bakugou," I utter with words tinged by vexation. "It's nothing I can't endure. It hurts, but that is quite axiomatic, is it not? I can endure the glass in my arms and back." But...how long can I endure the glass in my heart? "The pain...gradually diminishes over time."

I can feel my tears welling up in my eyes again. Not now. Not now. Not now. Shoto, if you allow these tears to spill...

He lifts himself from his chair and winds around the table to confront me; his shadow towers over my sitting form. "Fucking hell... You don't sound okay. Please, just tell me what's wrong, dammit." I've never heard 'please' from you before. "Oi. Look at me."

"Look at me. LOOK AT ME, SHOTO!"

My eyes, which had initially been glued to the floor, immediately snap up to meet Bakugou's livid, yet poignant eyes.

"There! He left mental scars. Hey..."

A familiar, anathematizing warmth threatens to crawl along my cheeks. They're never enough. The scars are never enough. More... I deserve twice the scars as the tears I've shed.

"I-I'm fine..." I spit while averting my eyes from Bakugou.

"No, you're fucking not! Todoroki, cut the bullshit!" His fingers clasp the front of my shirt, so I grip his wrist with my right hand. "I've been so damn lenient with you for this past year so you'd feel comfortable, but you need to tell me the truth now. Hear me?" He pulls my body towards himself by the front of my shirt.

Gently blinking back my tears, I remain recalcitrant. "I'd rather not say," I murmur under my breath.

"Great. Now I know I'm right. You are a walking paradox. Now, tell me the truth." His keen injunction leaves me outwardly unscathed.

Rivaling Bakugou's refractory nature, I reply with silence as I slink away into my deluge of thought. You're awfully persistent. Even though my lies are virtually transparent to you, I keep lying. I don't want you to know the truth. I don't want you to worry about me. I don't want you to know how I feel. I don't want you to know what I think. But would you hate me for omitting the truth more than knowing what the truth is?

Bakugou lightly tugs further at my shirt. "Todoroki. Goddammit... Reverse our positions. I don't care how damn reticent you are about yourself. How the hell do you think I've felt all this time? I've kept to myself about this too damn long. Todoroki, are you willing to open up and tell me?" His words are soft, yet eerily whetted.

I would feel so worthless and perturbed if Bakugou were to behave as I am now. Then what does he feel? Am I willing...to open up and tell him? I can't help but feel as though I'll regret it. Even so, a part of me wants to finally accept the hand he's offering. Yet I don't deserve his hand. Yet I'm sick of the guilt I feel from lying.

My lips part, but my words clump together in my throat. "I...don't know," I whisper, succumbing to dubiety. "I don't know." My grip on Bakugou's wrist loosens before completely falling away as my tears finally shatter the defenses I'd constructed to retain them. "I'm sorry, but I don't...know." My head droops down towards the ground in an endeavor to preclude Bakugou's cognizance of my tears.

"You dunno?" he whispers, although he seems to be spilling his thoughts aloud. "Then... 'Kay. There's nothing wrong with that. Then, putting it candidly, do you have, or do you think you might have depression?" His query feels as though it's asphyxiating my heart with a vice.

I still remember when Fuyumi utilized the day Endeavor was out of town to drive me to have my wounds treated. At the clinic, I was handed a clipboard with quite the interesting batch of questions. I never admitted the full truth, but I didn't deny the fact that I felt such excruciating sadness with each passing day. That day, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Since then...

Damp splotches mottle my jeans from the wetness of my tears. The fringe of my hair falls along my forehead, obscuring my watering eyes.

It's been at least seven years since then. I want to die more than ever. Every day, it hurts more and more. Even when the pain is ameliorated ever so slightly, it lasts only for a fleeting moment. I can't escape from this inextricable cycle. It's killing me, but I'm unable to wrestle myself free. I want to die so badly, but I wouldn't deign to force you through such abject torment. At least...for now.

A soft sob escapes my throat. "I'd prefer not to talk about it," I whimper, failing to ascertain my phlegmatic persona.

"Oi... Then I'm taking that as a yes." His barren growl softens into a brittle whisper. "Goddammit, I don't want you to be sad all the fucking time. There's nothing to be ashamed of there, believe it or not. But you shouldn't have to feel like shit, Todoroki." His fingers clasping my shirt relax their hold. "You always look so damn lonely. Hey. Look, I'm not...the best kinda person with this crap, but do you want a... Fuck." What? "Do you want a hug? There. Christ. You better say yes from how damn difficult that was on my end. Tch. Don't get any funny ideas."

A...hug? I've never been offered such an endearing gesture before. I suppose he did state that I was an intimate friend. Friend... Why does this daft word cause such a brusque torpefying of my mind? Even so, if our entwined hands flushed my being with such tantalizing warmth, then...

So as not to saddle Bakugou with another abhorrent burden, I softly sigh, "Yes."

Promptly is the hand which once clutched my shirt sent to glide across my clavicle and wind around my torso. A firm pair of arms ensconce my body, and as I reciprocate the embrace, my breaths begin to hitch at a familiar set of memories replaying in my head from Endeavor. Despite Bakugou's consoling scent clinging to my clothes and his warmth coalescing with mine, I feel cold on the inside.

Why does it hurt? I should feel relieved. I should feel better. I should feel warm. Why does it hurt? Why does it hurt to be with you? Being without you hurts. Being with you hurts. Everything aches. Everything burns. Everything hurts. Hugging you... I feel so loved, and yet it feels as though there are blades puncturing my heart.

My tears seep into Bakugou's shirt like desolate raindrops seeping down into porous pockets of soil. Causing my chest to sporadically jut out and depress is my muffled gasps pricking the air like fickle whips of wind slashing through vegetation. Protesting like the growl of thunder is my hissing heart rapidly expanding and contracting.

Bakugou's sturdy hands massage my shoulders with solace lacing their ginger motions. Once this revelation strikes me like lightning, my body implores me to begin hacking up whatever it is within my chest that afflicts me so. I tense, repressing the precipitous urge as I release Bakugou from my grasp.

"Sorry..." is all I manage to mutter with a desiccated, hoarse voice before frantically stumbling towards the bathroom.

"Oi, you—"

Furtively grasping at my throat with my left hand, I raise my right hand to Bakugou and slip around the bend of the wall. Sliding into the bathroom, I swiftly lock the door behind me. Crumbling to my knees before the toilet as staticky breaths of mine prick the back of my throat, I start coughing with acute, gradational intensity.

No matter how much or how hard I cough...I can't reach it. I can feel it lurking in my lungs like a designing, pernicious predator. I detest this sensation and the fact that I know I'm unable to expel it.

Finishing up in the bathroom, I walk with heavy steps towards the kitchen and dining room area to find that Bakugou is standing at the edge of the table nearest my direction. "Sounded like you tried to inhale your own saliva in there," he remarks with the shake of his head. "Doing all right?"

You always ask me how I am, and I...always lie. "I'm fine. I—"

"Last time I checked, you clearly weren't fine." With the slight raise of his brow, he crosses his arms.

My pupils flick to the corners of my eyes. "I was having some difficulties breathing, as I'm certain you heard. I'm fine now, Bakugou." Dismissing my paltry thoughts, I meet Bakugou's imperial gaze of garnet.

So warm, yet so cold.

He pats the table and clicks his tongue. "I know damn well that you know that I know you were crying. I've never seen you cry before. If you need someone to cry into again, I'll be there, 'kay? I'm not some fucking plush toy, but even I wouldn't be enough of a dick to shove your feelings aside like that. Look, I don't want you to implode. I know you're outwardly repressing some major self-loathing. I'm not blind anymore. Now... Tch. C'mere." Bending his digits as one and waggling then towards himself, he motions for me to draw myself closer to him, and I follow suit; our noses are mere centimeters apart.

His eyes are such a radiant red, I cogitate as our warm breaths transiently mingle. I adore those eyes. Adore? What would I define 'adore' as? Is it anomalous that I frequently exalt his resplendent eyes? Those eyes...should not be disgraced by my eyes. Why do you seem to be so drawn to my deplorable eyes? Ah. My eyes certainly do not reflect the same air as I exude. They must be quite the harrowing sight.

Bakugou's eyes falter from gazing into mine as he opens his mouth to speak. "Don't leave me in the dark if you're struggling with something," he drawls in a baritone whisper, necessitating my compliance with an affirming embrace. "I'd feel like shit if I knew that I could've been doing something more. I'd feel like shit to know I let you feel like shit. Obviously you aren't happy, but if you're feeling sad, then don't try and bottle that up. Don't even fucking try to lie to me about that. If you're hurting, then tell me, dammit! Can you do that for me, Todoroki?" He reinforces his grip around me.

Bakugou, I can't...bring myself to do that. As it is, you are far too erudite regarding my personal affairs. Revoke the hand you've given me. Detach yourself from me so that we can share a mutual sense to further regress. Forget about me and keep your distance. All I can do is hurt you. All I am...

If I were to tell you I'm hurting, you would never hear the end. You would inquire as to what caused the pain. You would ask what kind of pain it is. You would ask how to cut away that pain. I have the answers at my disposal, but I wouldn't be capable of enduring the agony of telling you the truth. I caused the pain. The pain supplicates for me to die. This acute longing for death seems to be incurable.

Finally curling an arm around Bakugou, I exhale sharply. "I apologize, but I can guarantee nothing."

---

I was awake when I threw my arm over you last night. You were shaking. You were scratching at your arm again. You always scratch at your arm when you're anxious. You always scratch at your arm when you're uncomfortable. You always scratch at your arm when you're lying. I picked up on that after a week or two. Then I realized you'd always fiddle with your damn sleeve whenever I asked how you were doing or how your day was. You kept on lying, and I played dumb for over a year. Tch. You held my fucking hand last night of your own volition. Thank fuck I pretended to be asleep—I was blushing so damn much because my gay ass couldn't help it. But if you're gonna hold my damn hand, then I gotta top that. Yeah, maybe I do see this as a competition, but I can't help myself when you're the one asking for it. Besides...you're fucking crying, Todoroki. Do you realize how damn hard it is for me to see you like this?

Obviously, something didn't sit right when I saw the hole in your damn arm, but I knew there was more going on under the surface after I got to know you. You'd sound so critical of yourself sometimes. At first, I liked that about you—you weren't afraid to admit your faults in battle. But you did it so damn frequently, and even if you were terse, those were sharp words. Then I started to hear your statements where you basically told me you were fucking worthless and a waste of time and effort. Then I learned about that bastard's abuse. I want to fucking beat his ass to death. Look at how damn hard it is for you to decide whether or not you want me to hug you. It's been at least a minute, Todoroki. Weird. I'm never the one initiating the hugs with Kiri. He's always the one clinging to me like a sloth.