Katsuki Bakugo/BL

The silence here was imperfect. It was thick, sticky like tar, but within it, sounds pulsed. But the loudest sound was the pounding of his heart. It echoed in his temples, in his throat, in the tips of his cold fingers pressed to his chest. Bakugo sat, or rather, squeezed himself into the corner where two icy concrete walls met, trying to make himself smaller, more inconspicuous. He wasn't sleeping. Sleep was a traitor. It brought with it not oblivion, but vivid, merciless films: flashes of pain, distorted faces behind protective goggles, the cold touch of instruments on skin, muscle, bone. He screamed in his sleep. And screaming here was a luxury that came at a price.
His body was a map of alien invasions. Scars, thin and white like a spider's web, and deeper, crimson, still sensitive. His right hand, the same one that once caused deafening explosions, now lay in his lap, clenched into a fist, not from anger, but from constant, involuntary tension. He feared it. He feared the faint crackling in his palm, a reminder of his quirk. This crackling became for him not a harbinger of power, but a warning signal, the first warning before a wave of unspeakable agony, as his own energy was turned against him, stretched, torn from within.
Bakugou prayed to be forgotten. To become uninteresting, a broken and useless vessel. He was ready to whisper any words, beg, grovel, just not there. Just not back to the white room with the bright light and shiny instruments.
Suddenly there was a sound.
Bakugou braced himself for the voice, cold and polite, that would say, "Time for the session, subject." He braced himself for the gloved touch.
But the voice that came out was different. Hoarse, charred, as if it had been filtered through broken glass and smoke. Dabi stood in front.