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Bakugou laid on the couch in the common room, staring at the ceiling. It was his first night in the dorms and he was already sick of it.
Well.
He’d rather be here than at home but at least at home he could hide in his own room in his own bed and blast music on its highest volume through his headphones.
It was later than he usually stayed up but then maybe it was the new building or the weirdly comfortable bed.
The common room was hot and he pushed his sleeves up. The clock glowed one in the morning. It was safe.
He eyed the bruises clinically for a moment. He gave it three days before they faded completely. It was chilly enough outside that he could get away with wearing a long sleeve under his costume, probably.
Fucking dumbass, he thought to himself. You know better than to piss them off before class starts.
He stared at the ceiling. God. It was weird to just sit on a couch and not get screamed at. He gave what he got but the silence was almost deafening.
Shitty brat, don’t fucking talk back to me —
I ain’t talking back!
Slap.
Fuck you, fucking old —
Mistake. Chills go down his spine as he’s slammed against the wall and —
“Bakugou?”
Bakugou shot up, spinning to see a sleepy looking Kirishima in the doorway. “Shitty hair? The fuck you doing up?”
“I could ask you the same—” Kirishima stopped. “What are—?”
Bakugou looked down and realized his sleeves were up, showing the bruises. He swore.
“Bakugou, what—?”
“It’s nothing.”
Kirishima paused. Bakugou was— weirdly tense. Something was up.
“...who?”
“No one.”
Warning bells started going off in Kirishima’s head. Puzzle pieces started falling into place as he looked at the bruises, recognizing a shape in them.
He took Bakugou’s hand and squeezed it. “Bakugou...are you abused?”
Kirishima winced. That came out blunter than I meant it.
“I’m not abused,” Bakugou snapped, pulling away from Kirishima.
“Bakugou, your arms—”
Bakugou yanked his sleeves down, hiding the bruises. “Fuck, look, shit happens. I was a little shit, I got put in my place.”
“Bakugou, those are handprints. ”
“I fought back. Shit. Happens.”
“Bakugou, that’s abuse!”
“It’s not,” Bakugou snapped. “What happened to Todoroki? Abuse. So I get hit and shoved around sometimes, who gives a shit. It’s discipline at worst.”
“They hit you? ”
Bakugou shoved his hands in his pockets. “So what if they do?”
Kirishima shook his head, feeling dizzy. “Bakugou…”
“I— fuck, the worst thing they’ve done doesn’t even come close, so it doesn’t matter—”
“Of course it matters!”
Kirishima grabbed Bakugou’s hands, eyeing the small flinch. He’d always assumed it was from Bakugou’s lack of tolerance for touch but…
“It isn’t a— a competition, Katsuki,” Kirishima said. “Just because someone else has it worse doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.”
“I deserve it,” Bakugou snapped.
“No you don’t.”
“I do!” Bakugou snapped, pulling away. “It’s because I talk back and do shitty stuff that it happens. It’s not like— it’s not like—”
“Bakugou. Do they hit you?”
“I—”
“Bakugou.”
“...yes.”
“Do they beat you?”
Bakugou shifted. “Define beat.”
Kirishima sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Do they hit you with intent to harm?”
Bakugou didn’t answer.
It was answer enough.
“Katsuki…”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It’s fine!”
Bakugou stepped away, looking more vulnerable than Kirishima had ever seen him. His eyes darted from side to side as he backed away.
“Katsuki—”
“It’s fine. My parents are fucking good. Anything I got I fucking deserved so just— just stop. Stop.”
“They beat you.”
A soft strangled noise. “Don’t— don’t fucking call it that.”
“It’s abuse.”
“It’s not!”
“What if my parents treated me like yours do?”
“I would kill them.”
Silence.
“...Bakugou.”
Bakugou rubbed violently at his eyes, shoulders trembling.
“I-I’m not. I’m not fu-fucking abused.”
“...”
They stood opposite of each other in the hallway, Bakugou’s head bowed as his fists trembled in his pockets, Kirishima’s eyes worriedly searching his form.
“You are.”
A short, rough sob broke free from Bakugou’s mouth.
Kirishima took a cautious step forward. “It’s— not your fault, Bakugou.”
Another sob.
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“No one deserves that.”
“...I do.”
Kirishima reared back, confused. “Bakugou— what? What are you talking about?”
Bakugou didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer.
He was still coming to terms with the guilt he’d buried for years, festering and growing and rotting inside him.
He just shook his head and then shook his head harder and harder and harder until he was curled into himself.
Kirishima gently pulled him into a hug.
“It’s not your fault.”
Bakugou cried.