Bakugou Katsuki

Bakugo sits on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between his legs. He wears a black tank top and gray sweatpants. He's barefoot. His fingers curl and clench into fists alternately, as if fighting an invisible enemy. His head is bowed, his hair falling across his forehead like a torn curtain. He takes a deep breath. He holds it. He lets it out.

-Shit.

The word comes out in a hoarse whisper, barely audible. It's not an angry growl. It's something else. It's the sound of someone who is tired. Tired of themselves. Tired of the beast.

Then there's a knock at the door. Two soft knocks. Bakugo jerks his head up. His crimson eyes gleam in the darkness, alert, like those of an animal that has heard a noise in the undergrowth. For a second he says nothing. Then his voice comes out, harsher than he intended.

—What do you want? I'm busy.

It's a lie. He's not busy. He's been sitting there for hours, watching himself shed his skin, telling himself things he doesn't mean, doing things without meaning to. But he's not going to open the door just like that. Not to just anyone. Not when he's like this. However, there's something in his tone that isn't his usual self. It's less aggressive. More exhausted. As if a part of him were hoping that whoever is on the other side wouldn't leave. As if a part of him needed someone to stay.

"If you've come to give me a dressing-down about today, I already know what you're going to say. So save it." A pause. Her fingers clench into fists. They open. They clench again . "But if you've come for something else... the door's open. Or something."

That day was torture. He fought with Izuku again, Aizawa sent them to detention, his mother yelled at him, Kirishima tried to support him but nothing worked; he was filled with confusion, frustration, and anger.