past

A dim light flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows against the peeling walls of the abandoned warehouse where Bakugo sought solace. The air was stale, and heavy with the scent of rust and decay. He paced back and forth, hands shoved deep into his pockets, teeth grinding against the guilt that gnawed at him like a ravenous beast. Each step echoed the memories of that fateful battle—flashes of Izuku's strained face and the sickening laughter of the villain reverberated in his mind as though they were written in the very walls around him. Bakugo had led Izuku into that chaos, believing that his friend could handle it alone.

But the reality of that decision loomed large, suffocating him. The tense silence stretched around him as the moment he turned his back replayed in gruesome detail. A coward's escape.

Bakugo clenched his fists, the sharp pain cutting through him in a chaotic swirl of anger and self-recrimination. "I'm not a coward... I'm not..." he spat with venom, his voice cracking under the weight of his despair. In a fit of rage, he slammed his fist against the wall, the impact reverberating through the structure, echoing his bitter regret. If only he had stayed. If only he had been stronger...

Weeks passed, transforming his anguish into a relentless ache.

A silvery moon hung high in the sky, cloaked by a veil of silence broken only by the distant hum of the city. Bakugo slowly approached the hospital, his heart racing with a chaotic rhythm as memories clawed their way back into his mind—memories filled with laughter squashed under the weight of blame. The facade of the building loomed large, intimidating in its sterile cleanliness. Shadows danced around him as he lingered in the darkness, observing the guards patrolling the entrance with hawk-like vigilance.

"No way I'm getting caught... not now," he muttered to himself, determination igniting a fire in his chest.

With the stealth of a panther, Bakugo darted behind a massive oak tree, the rough bark scratching against his skin as he braced himself. His breath steadied as he focused on a window on the second floor, slightly ajar and glowing with a faint, inviting light. Clenching his jaw, he sprinted forward, scaling the wall effortlessly, and slipped through the window, landing silently in the dimly lit room.

The oppressive smell of antiseptic filled the air, wrapping around him like a shroud. But it was the sight of Izuku lying motionless—tubes snaking from his body, monitors beeping softly, measuring life against the backdrop of stillness—that struck Bakugo's core like a piercing arrow. "Idiot... what have I done..." he whispered, his voice trembling as he stepped closer, eyes wide with fear and sorrow.

Settling into the chair beside Izuku's bed, he lingered on the faint rise and fall of his friend's chest. Anguish twisted in his gut, an overwhelming cocktail of emotions surging through him—anger at himself for running, sorrow for Izuku's pain. Memories flooded back; their training sessions, the laughter, how Izuku had always been there, believing in him even when he refused to believe in himself. "I'm here... I'm sorry," he murmured, though the words felt hollow against the weight of the betrayal.

Moments passed in heavy silence, the shadows creeping around them as if mourning their fractured bond. Just then, the door creaked open, breaking the stillness. Two guards burst into the room, alerted by the motion sensor.

"Hey! Who are you?!" one shouted, a hand reaching for the weapon at his hip. In an instant, panic coursed through Bakugo, his instincts kicking in as he leapt to his feet, ready to fight. Before he could make a move, the guards restrained him, their grips like steel.

"What do you think you're doing?!" the second guard barked.

The door swung open once more, and Aizawa's weary yet sharp features emerged. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the tension. At a glance, Aizawa spotted Bakugo struggling in the guards' hold. "Release him." The command was cool and devoid of negotiation. The guards hesitated but obeyed, letting Bakugo stumble back, breathless and overwhelmed with shame, his gaze falling to the floor.

"Sit down," Aizawa instructed, his tone softer than expected, though the gravity of the situation hung thick in the air. "What were you thinking, Bakugo? You vanished after the battle. You left him to fight alone. Why?" Aizawa's eyes bored into his, piercing through the blurry haze of avoidance.

A lump formed in Bakugo's throat as he struggled for words, the gravity of his actions suffocating him. "I... thought he could handle it! I didn't intend to—" he stammered, voice fragile.

"We found your mask at the scene with you nowhere to be found, we thought you had been kidnapped but when the cops gave me camera footage nearby-" Aizawa interrupted, his voice low and edged with disappointment. He paused, inhaling a quick breath before gritting his teeth. He slouched forwards and placed his elbows on his knees, staring into the young hero's eyes assertively.

"Tell me what happened, Bakugo." A wash of shame crested through Bakugo's mind, crashing against the rocky shores of his stubborn pride. "Why did you run? Where did you go? How did the most wanted villain in the city right now fall under the hands of a young hero and you so happened left without a scratch?"

"I thought... I thought I could be a pro. I thought... I thought I could trust myself. I thought—" His voice faltered, the weight of his betrayal strangling him. "I wanted to prove that I was stronger... A few nights ago I foolishly got blinded and made a deal with a villain-" His breath hitched, tears streaming down his face. It wasn't like him to show emotion but he couldn't help it. As he continued on what happened, Aizawa's eyes widened in disbelief.

"You betrayed him, and now he's lying in this bed, fighting for his recovery as you hide away in guilt."

Bakugo's heart cracked under the pressure as he whispered, "I know, damnit! You don't think thats why I ran? I was terrfied to face the awful truth of what I had actually done. I-" He paused, unable to continue as words got caught in his throat.

Aizawa scrutinized him, his expression a mix of toughness and compassion. "You didn't just betray him. You betrayed yourself. Your own values as a hero."

The weight of Aizawa's words rippled through Bakugo, displacing layers of anger with vulnerability. He stared at the floor, the shame seeping into his very being like poison.

The door to Izuku's room burst open, startling the classmates and family that sat quietly in the waiting room. "Young Midoriya -" Bakugo looked up startled, his eyes widening as he saw All-Might panting with a grin on his face. "He's awake! Somebody get the doctor at once!"

Suddenly, the door swung open, and he could hear the high-pitched squeal of Izuku's mother. His heart sank as he felt a twinge of jealousy. That maternal love, that comfort... it was something he couldn't give and didn't deserve to give. He forced himself to move toward the doorway, unable to let anyone else envelop Izuku the moment he regained consciousness.

The moment he stepped into the room, his emotions collided into a raw determination. "Don't you dare fucking touch him!" he barked, shoving his way past Izuku's mother. Instinctively, he felt a surge of protectiveness over Izuku as he stepped onto the battlefield of their past. He was the one who had put Izuku in this hospital bed, who had left him vulnerable. Now, he wouldn't let anyone take him away—not for a second.

With a quick movement, Bakugo took Izuku's place, sitting beside him and running a hand through his unruly green hair. He was dressed for a party, dressed for anything but this horror. Bakugo wanted to look good for Izuku, to show him he could be better, but he realized in that instant that none of that mattered. All he wanted—no, needed—was to protect Izuku from everything that had happened and everything that was to come.

"Bakugo, you can't just—" a voice said, but he didn't even listen. He wasn't in the mood for authority, not after the year of guilt he'd been carrying. "I can't just what?" he snapped back. "I've been waiting for a year for him to wake up," he growled, clenching his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palm. "Now that he's up, I'm not letting anyone fucking touch him or let him out of my sight."

He could feel the tension in the air, the weight of the words hanging heavily as he kept his gaze locked on Izuku's face. He was pale, fragile, and even more beautiful than Bakugo remembered. But there was a hollowness to his eyes that struck Bakugo harder than any punch. He mourned the time they had lost to his own stupidity. The memory of that day replayed in his mind—the explosion, the chaos, the regret. It was a battle he fought in silence, unable to forgive himself for the hurt he had caused.

Suddenly, Izuku's gaze met his, and for a moment, the world around them faded. There was a sternness in his expression that made Bakugo's heart race. He hadn't tried to speak yet, and it made Bakugo's chest feel tight. His breath caught in his throat as he noticed the hollowness beneath the surface of Izuku's gaze. Was it fear? Anger? Or had he completely forgotten what had happened between them?

"Hey," Bakugo finally managed, his voice softer than he intended. It scared him. This was a side of him he seldom revealed, but in front of Izuku, it felt necessary. He wanted to show a kind of softness, a kind of promise that he would never let Izuku go again.

As he watched Izuku's lips part, uncertainty etched on his features like a canvas of pain, Bakugo's heart hammered in his chest. He knew he had a mountain to climb, but for the first time since that fateful day, he felt ready to face it. If Izuku could wake up from this nightmare, then maybe, just maybe, they could find a way back to each other. If he remembered him at all.

Present

Katsuki Bakugo leaned against the wall just outside Izuku's hospital room, trying to collect himself as he listened to the familiar voice of his childhood friend. It felt surreal. Just a day ago, Izuku had awoken from a year-long coma—a year marked by pain and uncertainty that Bakugo couldn't shake off. He had been the one to push Izuku too far, had been the one to make that choice, and now it was painfully clear that the consequences were far-reaching.

"Mornin' mom," he heard Izuku say, his voice muffled by a mouth full of food.

"Do you remember anything yet?" Inko's gentle tone was almost musical. Katsuki's heart sank as he listened to her worry. The truth was, none of this was easy for her—or for him. He wished he could take away all her fears as much as he wished to know what was going on in Izuku's head.

"You got this my baby," she reassured him after there was silence.

The familiar sounds of a mother encouraging her child made Bakugo's heart ache as he pushed off the wall and stepped quietly into the room. "Izuku has me," he growled, surprising himself with the fierceness of his voice. It came out harsher than he intended, but the protective instinct was overwhelming. "I can bring him back just fine; he won't get captured again on my watch."

He watched as Izuku turned to him, confusion mixed with hesitation in his eyes. The way they locked gazes conveyed so much unspoken history—friendship, rivalry, betrayal. As he stepped closer, he met Inko's surprised gaze. She quickly adjusted, bowing slightly, which made Bakugo uncomfortable. The respect she had always shown him was undeserved—not after what had happened.

"I did, Midoriya. I appreciate the dinner," he responded, bowing just a fraction out of respect. Though he wanted to maintain his tough exterior, he couldn't help but feel a fleeting moment of warmth from her affirmation.

He wished he could turn back time, take back what he'd done. Instead, after the accident with Izuku, Katsuki had left home and visited Inko for awhile, taking care of her as she fell into a state of depression. His mother would come over and spend a few nights as well, bringing snacks and company to try and cheer up the older greenette.

Izuku looked at him with uncertainty, and it made him sick to his stomach. This was too hard, but he forced a grin. "Hey, Deku," he began, using the nickname that always felt like home, "Let's go, nerd."

The hesitation on Izuku's face was unmistakable, but he nodded, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Okay, Kacchan."

His heart dropped. Everyone knew what he had done and had somehow managed to forgive him, but would Izuku? Would he ever truly move past it? Bakugo clenched his fists, the guilt washing over him like a tide. Had Izuku even remembered the betrayal, the pain he caused?

"Damn it," Bakugo whispered under his breath, shaking his head to clear the thoughts swirling in his mind. He forced his focus onto Izuku, who was vacillating between his mom and him, clearly feeling the weight of everything that had transpired.

He needed to be strong for Izuku. Aizawa's words echoed in his ears; all the doctors had been encouraging him to help Izuku regain his strength, and he had eagerly agreed to tag along as support. There was no way he wouldn't be there for him this time.

Aizawa entered the room, his expression unreadable as he assessed the duo. "If you're both ready, we'll get started with physical therapy," he said, his voice low and steady. "Bumpy path ahead, Midoriya, but you're not alone." He motioned towards the wheelchair in the corner, which would be Izuku's mode of transport for the day.

Katsuki stepped forward, grabbing the chair and wheeling it closer to the bed. "Get in," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. He felt a surge of urgency—he couldn't let Izuku's uncertainty and pain consume him. As Izuku carefully shifted his legs and settled into the chair, Katsuki swallowed hard, fighting the impulse to show any vulnerability.

The trio made their way down the sterile hallways, the starkness of the setting only amplifying the heaviness in Izuku's chest. Every sound echoed off the walls—the wheel of the chair creaking, the distant voices of other patients, the faint beeping of machines monitoring life. With every bump, Izuku's hands gripped the armrests, his knuckles turning white. The memories of captivity raced through his mind: the pain, the helplessness, and the betrayal. He focused on the present, but his heart waged a war against the remnants of the past, leaving him emotionally distanced.

"Hold on, idiot," Katsuki said suddenly, jolting Izuku from his reverie. "We're hitting the elevator." He maneuvered the chair with a practiced ease, but it didn't help ease the suffocating discomfort accumulating in Izuku's chest. As they waited, Aizawa leaned against the wall, arms crossed, observing silently but keenly.

The elevator doors slid open, and Katsuki pushed Izuku inside. The moment the doors shut, a tense silence enveloped them. Katsuki's eyes flickered towards Izuku, taking in the distant look in his friend's gaze, the way his jaw tightened as if he were trying to physically push the thoughts away. "Focus, Deku. You're fine. You're gonna be fine," he muttered, the words more for himself than for Izuku.

Aizawa broke the tension with a low voice, "Remember to breathe, Midoriya. Small steps lead to big changes." His gentle reminder felt almost foreign in the rigid atmosphere.

As the elevator chimed, they stepped out into the therapy room, the expanse filled with equipment that looked intimidating. Izuku felt a rush of anxiety, his heart rate quickening. The walls were adorned with motivational posters, yet they did little to alleviate his discomfort. He felt overwhelmed, a sensation that left him wanting to retreat back into the safety of his thoughts.

"Alright, let's get started," Aizawa said, gesturing for Izuku to make his way to a rehabilitation station where physical therapists awaited. Katsuki took charge, his familiar assertive demeanor pushing Izuku gently but firmly toward his next challenge. The therapists greeted them warmly, but Izuku could barely muster a smile in return, his thoughts still tangled.

As he navigated through the exercises, each movement sparked a fresh wave of frustration and pain. Katsuki stood by his side, instilling a sense of support. "Just push through it, you damn nerd," he encouraged, even as he fought to keep the tremors of his own guilt at bay. He could see it—the way Izuku's face would twist in discomfort, the fleeting glances revealing the weight of his history.

After what felt like hours, the session ended, and they returned to the room, Izuku visibly exhausted. He slumped back in the wheelchair, fatigue settling in his bones, but the tiredness was more than physical; it was emotional, a dull ache that lingered in the back of his mind.

"Are you alright?" Katsuki asked, his facade now slightly cracked, concern evident in his brow. "You did good today."

Izuku nodded, but it felt rehearsed. "Yeah, just tired. I—" he hesitated, clenching his fists. "I just keep thinking." His voice wavered, betraying his scattered thoughts.

Katsuki felt his chest tighten, and he pushed back against the fear of what Izuku might say. "You can think later. Right now, focus on getting through today. Just take it one step at a time." His words were firm, and he hoped they were enough to anchor Izuku, who seemed to drift further into his own mind with every breath.

"Okay," Izuku mumbled, but Bakugo could still see the flicker of memories haunting his eyes. As evening approached, the shadows lengthened in the room, and Izuku leaned back in the wheelchair, his eyelids growing heavy, uncertainty still lingering like a cloud above him.

As Aizawa wrapped up the day's visit, he offered a small nod of encouragement. "Get some rest, Midoriya. Tomorrow is another day." The encouragement felt soothing, yet Izuku struggled to hold onto the hope in his heart. Katsuki stood beside him, fists clenched, struggling with his own sense of helplessness. He hadn't done enough. But he would keep trying; he would be there for Izuku, even if the past continued to haunt them both.
"See you tomorrow, Deku," he said softly.

"Yeah, see you, Kacchan," Izuku whispered, his voice barely audible as he drifted into a fragile state of rest.

Even after Aizawa offered his final words of encouragement, Izuku could hear the echo of his own breath in the metaphorical silence that enveloped him. He attempted to project an image of normalcy, but inside, his mind was a chaotic storm of fear and uncertainty.

With each passing day, the rhythms of recovery began to fold into one another. The next morning, he was awoken by dawn filtering softly through the curtains and the familiar sounds of the hospital: the distant beeping of monitors, footsteps in the hallway, and the muffled conversations of nurses. Yet, to Izuku, the world felt distant—a blurred backdrop against which he moved like a ghost. Each day blended into the next, marked only by the physical therapy sessions he endured, where pain became his constant companion.

During those sessions, every exercise forced him to confront the limits of his body, the way it felt foreign and heavy, as though it belonged to someone else. Katsuki remained a steadfast presence by his side, tirelessly pushing him to keep trying, to fight through the discomfort. "Just focus, you idiot," he would bark, the annoyance masking a deeper concern. But with every exhale, Izuku felt the brutality of his past creeping into the present. The sensations were magnified; every ache reminded him of battles lost, of servitude in darkness, and of anger that wound tightly around his heart.

On the third night, as he drifted into a restless sleep, the shadows of his psyche sprang to life. The first nightmare came silently, like a whisper on the edge of the waking world. In it, he was back in that cold, sterile room, the one filled with unyielding pain and shrouded in betrayal. He could hear the echo of laughter—Katsuki's laughter—sharply twisting into something cruel. Suddenly, Katsuki stood before him, eyes alight with a strange fire. "Why didn't you fight back, Deku?" he sneered, a voice laced with malice. Without warning, the scene dissolved, leaving Izuku gasping, dread pooling in his stomach.

He awoke in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around him like chains. Panic was a familiar intruder. He felt his heart racing as he surveyed the room, the absolute silence pushing against his chest. Nothing had changed; he was still a prisoner within the confines of his own battered mind. Reflecting on the dream, a single name curled around his thoughts: betrayal. It gnawed at him, an unwelcome reminder of the darkness in his life, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away the memories that felt like broken glass.

Days turned into a blur of physical therapy sessions, each punctuated by tiny victories. Some mornings, he could move his fingers just a bit faster, or stand for a handful of seconds longer. But those improvements rarely alleviated the deep-seated dread and memory of captivity. Each time he closed his eyes to rest, nightmares invaded with violent reminders: shadows looming, hands grasping, the crushing weight of helplessness. The faces of those who had betrayed him twisted in their mockery, mingled with visions of his friends struggling in his absence.

After the first week, his therapy sessions began to intensify. He was introduced to new exercises that strained his body and mind alike. One afternoon, the therapist pushed him to try standing unassisted for the count of ten. As Izuku focused on the sensation of the ground beneath his feet, he felt a wave of nausea. His memories flooded back, uninvited—the chaos, the fight, the moment when darkness swallowed him whole. Gritting his teeth, he pushed through; that moment when he faltered felt like surrender.

On a particularly rough day, as the sun began to set and shadows stretched across the walls, he found himself alone in his room after a grueling session. Exhaustion seeped into his bones, but his mind wouldn't grant him respite. He closed his eyes again, and the nightmares found him once more—now with more clarity: flashes of Katsuki standing at a distance, eyes filled with ice as he turned away, leaving Izuku to fight his own battles alone. Was it Katsuki? He had to believe his friend would never betray him, but the memories twisted into an inescapable loop that left him gasping for peace.

By the second week of recovery, Izuku was teaching himself to navigate through the minefield of his trauma. Frequent visits from Midoriya's friends offered flickers of comfort despite the suffocating weight of his past, each encounter somewhat patching the shreds of confidence he had left. Yet the nightmares became a nightly reality—Katsuki's distance, the laughter morphing into mocking barbs, and the shadows creeping ever closer.

"Deku, you're going to get stronger," Katsuki would say each time he arrived, a fierce fire in his eyes that baffled Izuku. Yet even those words held an underlying sneak of frustration—a mirroring reflection of his own burdens.