Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He felt dazed. Something was blocking his vision, and, belatedly, he realized it was sweat. Everything was melting, his skin was tuning into a puddle on the desk beneath his head.

He wants his mom. He wants his dad.

He felt like when he was 9 and the old hag locked him out during a heat advisory. At first he tried to hide from the sun’s beams, but even the shade offered little relief from the raging temperature. He felt dehydrated. If he passed out (It happened in school because of his blood pressure. His mom told him it was pathetic.) he had to be found. He wasn't going to be a fucking dumbass and die from heat stroke.

He had eventually found his way to the orange slide. It was his favorite color, soft like a tiger’s fur, but just as scary. Same as his quirk. At first, collapsing on the slide was painful- hot. Slowly, though, as the heat sunk in it became… surprisingly pleasant. Warmth was washing over him and he felt cozy. His eyes inevitably slipped shut.

At some point, a female police officer had spotted him and called EMS. The following week he had the worst sunburn he'd ever gotten (The doctor said it was sun poisoning on top of the heat stroke. Then again, he also believed the fucking clown when he said Katsuki had decided to train his quirk. Weren't doctors supposed to be smart?).

The old hag (He wants his mom.) hasn't so much as texted him since they dropped him off at the dorms. He was lucky they'd even done that before leaving again.

Fuck, he misses them. He wishes they'd come back. That they'd come and visit. Hell, that they'd fucking call.

His lower lip trembles, tears pooling in his eyes as a high whine pulls from his throat. Even in the safety of his room, Katsuki buries his face in his arms to muffle his whimpers. No wonder Mom doesn't come back. Why the old man is too busy with work. Pathetic.

The hot and calm melty feeling now just felt like melting sadness. He felt all puddly, whatever the fuck that meant.

Fuck, he bites his lip, I want my mom.

Guilty, he begins carding his hands through his hair, petting it back like his mom used to do when he was 3, when the hag was his mom and dad would help him get in his All Might onesie.

Shit.

High whines and whimpers are steadily pulling themselves from between his clenched teeth. The tears and striking loneliness were beginning to give him a stress headache.

Bleary eyes eventually trail to the door, face hot, flushed, and blotchy from crying. Cheeks rosy from the melty heat, a striking contrast to his pale, clammy skin.

Fuck it.

He pushes himself up, stumbling to the door and praying no one would hear him. He told himself he'd only wait for one- two hours. That he wouldn't sleep there. That he knew it was meaningless (He had always known it was useless.) now that he was in the dorms.

He could barely see through his blurry eyes. At one point he thinks his legs turn to jello and he sits on the stairs and holds onto the railing, delirious and weeping tiredly.

It's hours past his bedtime, but he doesn't know why he woke or when he fell asleep.

He ended up in front of the door, not remembering the details of walking there.

He sits in the genkan, against the little step and curls up, cheek resting on the blessedly cool floor, tired eyes locked on the door.

Minutes tick by.

The room is getting blurrier.

The heat is becoming unbearable.

He wants his…

…

… hot

…

..
.the door…

“-ama?” The door opened and he forced his eyes to open, but everything is blurry but his mom- “Mom?” The figure is dark and he's afraid she's going to hit him, but he wants his mom. He tries to push himself up, but he's still melting. Instead he turns his face away, forehead on the floor, hiding his weakness. “Mom. Mom.” It feels like the only word he knows, but then he hears the voice rumble and realizes dad came back too. His father, his dad's hand tilts his face up and he leans into the cool contact, lip wobbling, “Dad,” he chokes out.

The hand disappears and a loud wine falls from his lips. He wants to take it back, afraid of rejection, but then he's being picked up, the voice still rumbling, trying to get his attention, but he can't focus, but he's trying. He's trying so hard.

The air around him is cold now, and he suddenly realizes how melted he is. “Melt. Dad. Meltin.” Talking is hard and he doesn't know why and it makes more tears bead in his eyes, slipping down his face. His dad just holds him tighter, walking (running?) faster. He hopes he's taking him to bed. Like the first time they came back after leaving. When dad was I'm so sorry Kats, you're such a good son, proud proud proud.

His lip trembles and he wants to smile and cry and finish melting. His body chooses to cry, a sob forced from his chest, “Fuck, I'm not melted!” His words drip with tears and then they're in a warmer place and Dad's talking but where's mom. “Mom? Mom? Where- Mom?” He's so lost and confused and where is his mom and then dad is letting go and he shrieks like they were killing him at the slaughter because it was cold and where's mom? He's about to yell for them, when-

Dad's hand is in his hair. And its okay.

Something hurts, but then his shoulders suddenly relax and everything becomes fuzzy, fading away before he can catch it.

He's melted.

Chapter Text

He's mid stretch when his phone rings. Nedzu. Fuck.

He picks up. “Aizawa,” the little rat-bear's voice calls cheerily through the phone.

The tired underground pro rubs his hand down his face, “What did they do this time?”

Unfazed by the tired tone, Nedzu chipperly replies, “You've always been quick on the uptake! Wonderful! To explain, I figured you'd be upset if I didn't inform you. Well, you best be off now! Children to care for!”

Shouta is a mature adult. That doesn't change the fact he felt like throwing his phone into a sewage grate. “And yet you still haven't told me,” he grounds out.

“You have a much better response time when you're stressed. It's Bakugou, if that helps any.” No, it doesn't. “He must be at the stage of delirium, if he already wasn't,” was all Nedzu (unhelpfully) supplied. For fucks sake.

Delirium. Of fucking course. His mind can't help but run through scenarios: nightmare, panic attack, anxiety- a whole list of possibilities, none of them solutions.

His grip tightens around the reinforced case of his phone, “How long?” He grounds out.

“I couldn't very well interrupt a critical drug bust, now could I?” The rat almost sounds defensive. Aizawa waits for his answer silently. A text already sent to his (really fucking weird and loud-ass) friend, requesting him to cover, as well as a text to his agency. The quirked animal hums, “I'd approximate he's been in this state at least two hours.” Then (because he's a dick and doesn't care about Aizawa's blood pressure) he adds, “You should really hurry.”

He's fucking hurryi- and oops! He hit the disconnect button on his phone. Damn shame.

His capture weapon was very helpful in launching him from building to building. Very quickly he arrived at the gates, entering the employee only door and then resuming his quick (fuck, his problem child is in danger again) pace to the 1A dorms.

He was ready to burst through the door and storm up the stairs, but, as soon as he made it to the deck's steps, he was hit with the scent of burning sugar- caramel.

He's no fool.

The open door now shone light on the blonde's face.

“-ama?” The word tumbled from the kid’s lips, his breath loud and heavy in the otherwise silent room. His eyes slowly force open, but there's something so terribly wrong with how he's squinting, eyelids fluttering shut and struggling again to open. Distressed and hopeful, he softly calls out, “Mom?”

Aizawa stands, frozen in the doorway. Bakugou, painstakingly slowly, tries to push himself up. His limbs move sluggishly, and then slip in the absolute puddle of sweat he's lying in. His breath hitches and he turns his face away, forehead on the floor. “Mo…m. Mom.”

He starts forward, “Bakugou.” He kneels in front of the boy and gently turns his face and places a hand on his soaked forehead. Its hot. Way too fucking hot to be safe. He also doesn't miss the way Katsuki pushes into the hand.

“Dad,” his voice crackles, sounding choked up.

The kid is way too hot. He needs Shuzenji. Now.

He pulls away to grab his phone and click on the old nurse's contact. As soon as his hand is removed, however, his stomach plummets. The prob- Bakugou is making that noise. It's almost as heart wrenching as it is distressing. This is really fucking bad.

As soon as he clicks on the woman's contact, he's scooping the blonde up into a bridal carry. “Bakugou, kid, you need to snap out of it,” he nearly pleads. The scent of Nitroglycerin is overwhelming and the blond's clothes are soaked, spreading to his own. The probability of the kid throwing up is the least of their problems. The boy is practically a live bomb, clothes and all.

“That fucking rat is about to be skinned alive.”

He's never been so relieved to hear the old bat's threats. “Shuzenji, are you-”

“I made it to my office, damnit. You get that poor kid here as fast as possible,” the woman demands over the phone, clearly still pissed that Nedzu hadn't notified them sooner. Her and him both.

“..elt. Dad, melting…” the blonde mumbles, tossing his head with another whimper. More tears fall from his eyes and Aizawa holds him tighter, running speed quickening.

Fuck, he'd made peace with his quirk, worked around it, even. But, damn, what he wouldn't give to have a physical enhancement quirk right now. He grits his teeth, “Don't worry, I am.”

They're almost in the building when Katsuki let's out a sob, “Fuck, I'm not melted!” The kid is squirming closer to the man, whining as tears fall. They're inside the building when his eyes flutter open again, unseeing and panicked, “Mom? M-m? Where, mom?”

He all but bursts into the room, slamming the back of his shoulder into the door and it giving way to Recovery Girl’s office.

She's already rushing to grab a thermometer and he lays the boy out.

And then he screams.

It's nothing like the battle cries he lets out during sparring. No, this was more primal than that. A sound of sheer terror, like he was being murdered. Like Shouta was hurting-

“Calm him down,” Recovery Girl commands, snapping him from his spiraling thoughts.

He grabs the explosive blonde's hand on one of his, the other beginning to push sweaty locks away from his forehead, “Bakugou.”

He stills his twitching, breaths coming down back to rhythm.

Shuzenji sticks a needle in his wrist and the kid fades away.

Mildly alarmed, he warns, “He can't have anest-”

He gets whacked by a cane, “Hush you! I know my shit, I'm no half-baked medic. Its an IV, we need to stabilize him. I have no doubt he passed out because his blood pressure is plummeting.”

“Is he-”

“either get the fuck out or make yourself useful!” she snaps, grumbling under her breath: “Damn overprotective fathers.”

He figures he should deny the claim, however that would only serve to get him hit again. He sighs, shoving down the worry for his (definitely not-his-son) student, “What do you need?”

Chapter Text

Beep!

There's a really fucking annoying beeping sound.

Beep!

He tossed to his other site, trying to escape from it.

Beep!

He growls, covering his head with the pillow.

Beep!

“Dunce Face, I swear if you don't shut the fuc-”

Beep!

He throws the first thing he grabs, resulting in a loud crash and a sharp sting in his forearm that has him yelp and shoot up, “Fuck!”

Beep! Beep! BEEEP!

He snarls, finally aiming an explosion at the annoying fucking guy. However, just as the sparks ignite, they fizzle out like a dying sparkler.”

“The hell?”

Something, that is, someone grabs his ear harshly, dragging him down until he's half leaned over the edge of the bed. “You brat, don't even think about using a quirk in this room! You already screwed your IV up as is!” Recovery Girl scolded, eyebrows drawn furiously.

“Let me go, you antiseptic smelling old bat!”

“Says the brat that smells like a gallon of disinfectant,” she snaps back.

“You fucke-”

“Bakugou.” Aizawa's monotone voice calls, cutting their argument short. The old woman clicks her tongue, but lets the blonde go. He immediately cups his injured ear and flips the woman off. His teacher calls his name again, exasperated. Finally looking at his teacher, the man appears more tired than ever, harried, even.

He's also staring at him with that look- “Stop fucking looking at me like that,” he snaps before he can stop himself.

“Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

He scowls, not completely sure what they're talking about about, but unwilling to admit it. “Fucking school? I mean, I felt a little off. What, did I fucking throw up or something?”

Granny Lips guffaws, “As if you'd be in here for a bit of throw up.” She snorts, quietly mocking, “I felt a little off. Ha!”

He snarls at her loudly.

Sensei takes a deep breath, eyes rolled sky high, “Problem child.” He does not pout, shut up. “At the very least, you didn't throw up.” Katsuki almost sighs in relief, but then he opens his mouth again. “However,” the man glares, “Not getting checked out immediately was a serious gap in judgement.”

Oh boy.

The teen forces himself to meet Aizawa's eyes, sneering, “Oh, piss off!”

This garners a reaction from the man. Not a good one. His quirk briefly flares, hair floating before he reels himself in. Oh, Katsuki thinks, I'm so fucking fucked.

“Aye, right you are dearie,” Big Lips agrees, pressing gauze to his bleeding arm where the IV pulled out. Fuck, he said that out loud. Damn nerd rubbing his shitty nerd cooties on him. Gross.

He pouts now, shrinking a bit and avoiding guilty eye-contact. Damnit.

Aizawa begins his terrade, “I got a call, in the middle of the night-”

“Like you sleep,” he quietly sasses.

“-Halfway through my shift, from Nedzu, mind you, that you were delirious-”

“Don't remember that.”

“When I opened the door, you were curled up in the fucking genkan-”

Now, he cringes. Any other situation he would comment on his teacher's slip of tongue. But the thought of how Aizawa found him, the shame of his secret habit, made him freeze, ears burning.

“Bakugou,” he finally meets the man’s eyes, cheeks burning in embarrassment, “I could smell your sweat from outside. You were absolutely soaked in sweat. If you had sparked off, you wouldn't have been the only one in danger.”

Realization hits him. The reason the room was colder than normal, why Aizawa’s eyes were so red, why he (fuck you, old bat) smelled like disinfectant. “Oh.”

A hand lands on his shoulder, warm and steady. “I'm not trying to scare you, but ignoring your symptoms was a bad call. You could have hurt someone. You could have died. You need to take better care of yourself and understand the consequences of your actions.I know you're smart, apply it.”

He says it without insult, without pity. Despite being scolded, he can't help but feel grateful for his words. It feels more like a lesson than a punishment, like Aizawa actually gives a shit about who he fundamentally is.

Fucking sappy post-fever brain.

He sniffs, pretending to shrug the man's words off (He knows Aizawa can tell it's fake. That he gives a shit what the man has to say.). “Fuck off,” he says without any bite.

The man sighs and finally stands to his full height (He doesn't recall when the man squatted down to talk on the same level. Fuck, he's good.), huffing through his nose, “I'm glad you're feeling better.” Then he ruffles his hair-

And Katsuki remembers.

Well, not completely. But enough to feel a sense of dread freeze his face over. He almost doesn't want to ask. With a pained face he asks with a sure statement, “I was crying.”

“That you were.”

“For my parents,” he says with something akin to disgust, cringing hard.

Aizawa warily glances at the heart monitor that has once again picked up pace, “We don't need to have this conversation now.”

“-Or ever,” he interjects, horrified.

With his own awkward look, Aizawa trails, “Well…”

“Fuck. Fuck no. I ca- I refuse. End of discuss-”

The old woman whacks his head lightly. “Show some respect, brat. As his favorite student-”

“Shuzenji-”
“What the fuck-”

“-you should at least thank the man, especially after last night, by being obedient.” She huffs, shaking her head, bun bobbing back and forth, “He is far too similar to the younger you for my liking. You best watch over him before he starts picking up your bad habits, Shouta. Starting with some damn sleep. I don't want to see either of you in my office until you,” she points at his teacher, and he watches in fascination as he avoids eye contact, “take a long nap. And you,” she turns to Katsuki, and he suddenly understands where Aizawa was coming from, “learn how to take a damn break. That goes for you too, Shouta! Now get the hell out of my office.”

All too abruptly, the two are kicked out, heart monitor disconnected and fever reducers in hand.

“She fucking kicked us out.”

“That she did.”

“And cussed me out.”

“Yes.”

He grins, “Fucking badass.”

Aizawa sighs, rolling his eyes again, yet ruffles Katsuki's hair again, “Problem Child. Let's go.”

Still slightly sluggish, he feels annoyed by Aizawa's brusque, long-legged pace, but refuses to say shit about it. “The fuck’re we going?”

He hesitates for a second before grumbling out: “The nearest sleeping bag.”

He does nothing to stifle his mocking cackles.

Chapter Text

They end up in Aizawa's office.

The room is simply decorated, a few difficult to kill plants placed in corners and above his window.

The most interesting part of the room was by far the personal coffee machine right next to a bright yellow sleeping bag, as if Aizawa was giving himself two options.

As soon as they made it into the office, Aizawa beelined for the table and grabbed a mug.

“Thought you were going to sleep, Teach?”

He ignores him in favor of filling the mug with tap water. “Take your meds,” he says, handing the water over. As soon as the mug is empty and the pills downed, he disappears into a yellow cocoon on the floor. Typical Aizawa.

Katsuki ends up laying sideways across the one person recliner, sinking into the squishy cushions.

The meds made him a little sleepy, the fever reducers also made to lower blood pressure. He was under strict instruction to follow the dosage prescription on the bottle so he doesn't lower it too much.

He's all too used to the cold feet and pre-pass out feeling, so he just shoved his socked feet in the crack of the cushions and shuts his eyes and thinks.

He remembers what happened.

He hadn't done that since they moved into the dorms for fear of someone catching him in the act. He got sick and Aizawa caught him.

And now Aizawa Knows. Knows he cries because he misses his parents. Knows that his parents avoid home because of him. Knows they ignore him when they are home. Knows that he is weak, that he aches and hurts in their absence.

He knows that Katsuki waits for them.

Shame chills his mind. Even in the warmth of the sun beams, dread pours over him like an ice bath.

He feels like throwing up.

He wishes he could call them. Ask them to pick him up. Say “I'm sick” and get fussed over, even if it was just over the phone.

Even if he could go home, there's no one. The house is just as empty and lonely as it ever is. As it has been nearly every day since he was seven. Worse, his parents haven't been mom and dad since even before that. He doesn't remember when he started separating the two identities.

But he remembers waiting for them.

The first time they left for more than a day was when it began. He was a mere 7½ years old, confidence in his quirk flowing through him. He woke up on time for school and was ready to leave. Most of his classmates were still walking with their parents. His mom hasn't walked him anywhere since preschool because he's responsible. He hates when the old hag is disappointed she ignores and ignores and when she finally looks she yells until his ears hurt and he hides in his closet, afraid she'll find him.

He ran downstairs and they were gone. It wasn't the first time. But then they were still gone when he got home. They were gone when he woke the next day, and the day after that and after that. Day three he woke from a nightmare. He remembers banging on their bedroom door, locked, crying for them. He wanted mom.

They weren't home. So he went to the front door and he waited.

And waited.

Nearly every hour spent home without them was wasted sitting in front of the door, feeling sick to his stomach.

He screwed up.

They weren't coming back.

If he had been better they'd be here.

A week and a half, they came back. He thinks the hag hit him, the screamed about the dirty dishes and unswept floor. Cussed him out and said she wished they'd never even gone home.

He didn't hide in the closet, just clung to her, apologizing, wishing his mom had come home instead.

He didn't cry in front of them the next time it happened. Hasn't for a long time. The space between visits home decreased and decreased, just as the pit in his stomach widened. He hated that house. (He kind of hated his mom.)

A cold hand covered his forehead, startling him, “Problem Child.”

Wide eyes turned to meet Aizawa's. The mad had a worried look on his face, eyebrows slightly more furrowed than usual, lips pursed. Embarrassingly, he didn't even realize he was leaning into the contact until Azawa pulled back and his head tried to follow.

He schooled his face into his typical scowl, “What?”

“Do you feel okay?”

The question nearly tripped him up, being so out of character for Shouta ‘I’d rather sleep than deal with this shit’ Aizawa. “What the f- huh?”

“You're pale. Are you in pain?” The question was so blunt, Deku would've had an ulcer trying to diffuse Katsuki- had it been from anyone else, that is.

He hunched in on himself, grumbling. “Feel fuckn' fantastic, thanks for asking.”

“Are the fever reducers not taking?” The hand was back on his face, blessedly cool and weirdly nice. Like the hand in his hair last night. Aizawa would make a great- shutthefuckup, brain.

“‘S prolly my fuckn' blood pressure. Toes are cold ‘n shit.”

The man looked thoughtful for a moment before resolutely nodding, “I'll try and look for a brand of fever reducers that don't mess with your BP for next time.”

Fuck. His ears burned, “This might not happen again.”

He gave him a deadpan look, “I'd rather this never happen again, but you're a little shit that likes to make me lose my sleep.”

His mouth hung open. He just-

Laughter bubbled in his stomach, threatening to boil over until he became a cackling wreck. He slaps a hand over his mouth as a snort escapes his lips. Aizawa brazenly ruffles his hair, a smirk on his lips, then proceeds to throw his sleeping bag over Bakugou. (No, Scotch tape. It doesn't smell like BO. The man has standards and clearly washes it often.)

“Feel free to take a nap. I'll be grading papers at my desk.”

At first, he wanted to protest, claim he didn't need a nap (Despite the fact he might as well have missed a whole night of sleep.). However, as Aizawa scribbled away (No doubt Dunce face’s, with how many parks he was making. Not to mention the headache he was clearly acquiring.), he decided to pass the fuck out.

Sue him, the sleeping bag was warm.