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Bakugou isn't stupid. He knows he could hide wounds better, in areas harder to see. He knows exactly what would be fatal, how long it would take to set, how much effort it would take. He knows how many days you have to fake being fine before they discharge you following an evaluation.
And it's because he isn't stupid that he knows he's a danger to himself at any given moment, and why people treat him like a baby. It always has been against his nature to ask for help, so nobody even has a chance to know he's suffering until it's too late.
Deku had always known, somehow, that he burns himself. Even when they were at their worst point in their relationship, Deku could tell despite permanent sleeves covering his arms. Knew how to keep that perfect balance between concerned and distant, something Bakugou could only appreciate in hindsight. Honestly, he’s surprised Deku never took inspiration and developed his own bad habits, especially considering everything Bakugou alone said to him, nevermind the others. He could only have his behaviors dismissed so much as a product of his environment, deflection of his own self-loathing, lashing out in the only way he knew how.
Bakugou fully believed he deserved it. Still does, sometimes, but he's working on that now. But that doesn't mean he doesn't long for the lingering aches, for more proof of his suffering scarred onto his flesh.
It’s hard to accept two facts at once, both that he resents being treated as fragile, while also wanting his suffering to be taken seriously. He gets the worst of both worlds, those around him periodically remembering he's a ticking time bomb any time a self-depricating joke doesn't land. Uncomfortable looks full of pity and distrust in equal measures. He hates it.
He wishes he could be left alone, given room to breathe. But he also knows exactly what he does in the odd hours of the night if an episode strikes and nobodies around to dampen it.
He doesn't even realize he's ripping at his hair when Kirishima stirs beside him, hands smoothing up from his shoulders and slowly guiding his wrists back down. The air smells foul and burnt.
“There's something wrong with me,” Bakugou insists, trembling. “I'm such a bad fucking person. I don't know how you can stand to be around me, all I do is try to push you away. I'm not even worth it. You're better off without me anyway.”
Kirishima doesn't answer, long since learned it doesn't help. Arguing with the delusions just prolongs them.
“I should- I need to be punished, for it.” Bakugou croaks, hands sparking.
“I don't want you to.” Kirishima murmurs into his skin, smooth and stable.
“You should. I deserve it. I make you put up with so much bullshit, and for what-”
Kirishima presses his face closer, rubbing it into Bakugou's skin. He doesn't even listen to him, really. He already knows the loops Bakugou spits in his delirium, desperate for an excuse to justify hurting himself.
It doesn't take long, this time, for Bakugou to fizzle out. To numbly accept being laid back down, tucked into Kirishima's chest. In the morning he will cook breakfast for the two of them, and Kirishima will write down a date in a notebook full of them, and they won't talk about it until the next appointment.