Chapter Text
Six months, four days, thirteen hours and thirty four seconds.
That’s how long it had been since Bakugou Katsuki made himself throw up.
He’d counted it. Tracked it. Memorized it like it was a goddamn achievement burned into his skull. Every passing second was proof that he was getting better, stronger, he wasn’t sick anymore.
So why the hell was he on his knees again?
The tile was cold even through his uniform pants, biting into his skin as he hunched over the toilet, gripping the sides of the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His fingers were shoved down his throat, nails scraping painfully and gag reflex screaming, his eyes watered as his body convulsed and gave in.
“Fuck- fuck-”
His stomach twisted violently, and he lurched forward again, coughing, choking, retching up what little was left of his lunch. The sound echoed too loud in the small, single-stall bathroom—wet, ugly, disgusting.
Pathetic.
His grip tightened on the porcelain rim, knuckles whitening. There was spit and bile smeared across the back of his hand, his forearms, dripping down in thin, disgusting strings. His lunch stared back at him, floating in the bowl.
Six months.
Gone.
Just like that.
He spat weakly into the bowl, breathing hard, throat burning raw. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d just sprinted a mile in physical training or something.
And the worst part?
Nothing had even happened.
Yeah, sure Kamino happened, All Might retired and he failed his fucking provisional license exam. His whole world flipping on its axis. That should’ve been when he broke.
But he hadn’t.
He’d held it together. Gotten stronger. Started—fuck, actually trying. Talking to people without biting their heads off. Letting Eijiro Kirishima stick around like some loyal, annoying mutt. Even… even trying to fix things with Izuku Midoriya.
He was doing better.
So why now?
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
The door rattled in its frame, sharp and sudden, yanking him out of the spiral.
“Fuck—Someone's in here asshole!” Katsuki snapped, voice hoarse.
Another knock—louder this time.
“Bakubro, you’ve been in there for like… twenty minutes. You good?”
Of course it was him.
Kirishima.
Katsuki squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, willing himself to just sink into the floor right now, jaw tightening. Of course he’d noticed. Of course he’d followed.
“I’m fine, shitty hair—give me a second!”
He forced himself to stand, legs unsteady, and slammed the flush lever like that would erase everything. Like it would erase the smell, the evidence, the fact that his throat still burned and his stomach still ached hollow.
“You sick or somethin’? You ran off kinda fast,” Kirishima called through the door, voice softer now. Careful.
Katsuki turned on the sink full blast, like the noise might drown everything out. He cupped water into his mouth, swishing hard, trying to get rid of the taste—the acid, the bile, the shame.
“M’not sick—just—fuckin’—give me a minute!”
His reflection stared back at him from the mirror.
His eyes were red, lips swollen and hair a mess.
He splashed water over his face, dragging wet hands through his hair, forcing it back into something resembling normal. His fingers trembled. He clenched them into fists.
Get it together.
Get it together.
Get it—
He grabbed a paper towel, wiped his mouth, scrubbed at his hands harder than necessary, like he could sand the evidence off his skin. Like he could erase the last twenty minutes entirely.
Katsuki yanked the door open.
Kirishima stood right there, hand still half-raised like he’d been about to knock again. He blinked, caught off guard, then broke into a crooked, relieved grin.
“Oh—hey.”
Katsuki shoved past him, shoulder knocking into Kirishima’s harder than needed. “Move.”
Kirishima stumbled half a step but didn’t react the way most people would. Didn’t snap back. Didn’t get defensive.
“You sure you're good?”
Kirishima asked jogging to catch up with Katsuki, walking next to him as they headed to their next class.
“Yeah m’fine, why are you being so nosy?”
Kirishima scratched the back of his head shrugging.
“Nah just wanted to check on you, y’know? Can’t have my best friend getting sick all alone”
“Tch-”
Katsuki clicked his tongue and looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets like that would hide the slight tremor still running through them.
“Quit acting like I’m gonna drop dead or something,” he muttered. “I said I’m fine.”
Kirishima didn’t answer right away.
That was new.
Usually he’d laugh it off, throw in some dumb comment about manliness or strength or whatever and keep the mood light. Usually he’d push a little—just enough to get Katsuki to snap, to reset things back to normal.
But this time…
“…Yeah,” Kirishima said after a moment, quieter than before. “Okay.”
Katsuki frowned slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.
Kirishima was still smiling—but it wasn’t the same. It was smaller. Thinner. Like it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“If you say you’re good, I’ll believe you,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… don’t disappear like that again, yeah? Kinda freaked me out.”
Katsuki scoffed. “You’re dramatic.”
“Maybe,” Kirishima admitted easily.
They walked in silence for a few steps, the usual background noise of the hallway filling the space between them—voices, lockers slamming, distant laughter. Normal.
“…But if you’re not fine,” Kirishima said suddenly, stopping just short of the classroom door, “you can tell me. I won’t, like—make it weird or anything.”
Katsuki’s jaw tightened.
“Not that you have to,” Kirishima added quickly, hands raising a little in surrender. “Just—yeah. It’s there.”
“Stop overthinking shit,” he muttered. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Kirishima held his gaze for a moment longer.
Then—
“…Alright,” he said.
Just a small nod, like he was filing it away for later, and then he reached for the classroom door and pulled it open.
“C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”
That night, the dorms were quiet.
Katsuki lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the curtains.
His throat still hurt, his voice a bit hoarse.
His fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his chest.
Six months.
Four days.
Thirteen hours.
Thirty-four seconds.
Reset to zero.
His hand curled into a fist, digging into his sweatpants even through the skin.
It was a one-time screw up, that’s all. People mess up all the time and it didn’t mean anything.
Bakugou Katsuki would never go back to being that weak pathetic boy again.
Katsuki threw up three more times that week.
The first time, he told himself it was just because he’d eaten too fast. Too much. His stomach had felt too full, too tight, like it was stretching in a way that made his skin crawl.
The second time, it happened before he could even finish that thought.
By the third, he stopped pretending it was anything but what it was.
He couldn’t stop.
It wasn’t about hunger anymore—it hadn’t been for a while. It was the feeling. The weight sitting in his stomach, heavy and wrong, like something foreign had lodged itself inside him. It made his chest tighten, his thoughts race, his skin itch like he needed to claw his way out of it.
So he did the only thing that made it stop.
He purged.
Over a toilet. Over a sink once when he couldn’t make it in time. Knees on cold tile, fingers down his throat, gagging until his eyes watered and his lungs burned.
The week after that, it got worse.
It was after nearly every meal.
Sometimes he didn’t even bother leaving his room.
He’d wait until the dorms settled, until the hallway noise died down and the lights went out, then sit on the edge of his bed with a plastic bag clenched in his fist, jaw tight, breathing shallow. And then his fingers would be down his throat again, body folding forward as he gagged into the crinkling plastic, trying to keep the noise down, trying not to choke.
It was disgusting.
He knew it was.
The smell alone made his stomach twist, made bile sting the back of his throat all over again—but he’d tie the bag off tight, double knot it, shove it into the back of his closet like it didn’t exist.
He’d deal with it later.
After a particularly bad night—spicy noodles, too much oil, too much everything—Katsuki sat on the bathroom floor longer than usual, back pressed against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him.
His hands trembled faintly in his lap.
He wasn’t out of control.
He refused to be.
Back in his room, the glow of his phone lit up his face in the dark. His thumbs hovered over the screen for a second before he opened his notes app and started typing.
Breakfast: protein bar or one omelet
Lunch: wtv is served at the caf, light only, ¾ plate
Dinner: light food, ½ plate
If he stuck to this he would feel fine, there would be no reason to purge unless he overate and then he could allow himself to go back to his old habit. Satisfied with himself, he turned off his phone and went to sleep.
“-What?”
Katsuki’s voice came out sharper than intended as he blinked at the person in front of him.
Shoto Todoroki stood a few feet away, rolling his shoulders, expression as unreadable as ever.
“I said, do you want to do best of three?”
Todoroki repeated, flexing his fingers as he stretched out his wrists.
They were in the sparring room, mats spread across the floor, the rest of Class 1-A scattered in pairs around them. The air was warm, filled with the dull thud of bodies hitting mats, shoes squeaking, Aizawa’s tired voice occasionally cutting through the noise with corrections.
Quirkless combat training. Right.
“…Yeah,” he said finally, rolling his neck once. “Don’t slow me down.”
Todoroki gave a small nod, stepping into position.
“Ready?” Todoroki asked.
“Just go already.”
Katsuki moved first.
He slipped to the side, dodging Todoroki, fingers snapping around his wrist, grip tight and precise. He twisted hard, pivoting through his hips and dragging Todoroki’s balance forward before sweeping his leg out from under him. The motion was sharp, efficient—muscle memory built from years of fighting, honed into something almost automatic. Todoroki hit the mat with a thud.
Katsuki followed him down immediately, knee pressing into his shoulder, hand locking his arm in place before he could recover.
“Point,” Katsuki muttered, already pushing himself back up.
Todoroki blinked once, then nodded, unfazed as ever. “Again.”
Katsuki rolled his shoulders, ignoring the faint pull in his muscles. Easy.
“Don’t make it boring, half-and-half.”
They reset for the second round.
The air between them shifted.
Todoroki didn’t rush this time. He circled, measured, watching. Adjusting.
Katsuki moved first anyway.
He stepped in fast, closing the distance before Todoroki could settle into whatever strategy he was building. Their arms collided, hands locking, grip against grip as they tested each other’s balance.
Katsuki pushed.
He needed to keep control of the pace—needed to stay ahead, because the second he slowed down—
Something felt off.
His muscles didn’t respond as cleanly as they should have. There was a drag to them, a weight that hadn’t been there before. His stamina felt… thinner. Like he’d burned through something important already without realizing it.
Todoroki braced, resisting the push.
Katsuki twisted, trying to force him down—
And the world tilted.
It wasn’t dramatic.
Just a slight shift, like the ground had moved an inch to the left without telling him.
His vision blurred at the edges.
A faint ringing started in his ears.
His grip faltered.
Todoroki took it instantly.
He pivoted, hooking Katsuki’s arm and using his own forward momentum against him. The movement was smooth—too smooth—and suddenly Katsuki was the one hitting the mat.
Hard.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs, a sharp, involuntary gasp tearing out of him. Before he could recover, Todoroki was already on him, pinning his arm down with steady, unyielding pressure.
Katsuki tried to push up.
His arm trembled.
Didn’t move fast enough.
The ceiling lights above him stretched and warped, blurring into streaks of white that burned behind his eyes. Black spots flickered at the edges of his vision, creeping inward like ink bleeding into water.
What the hell—
His chest tightened.
Breathing felt wrong—too shallow, too fast, like he couldn’t get enough air no matter how hard he tried.
“Bakugou,” Todoroki’s voice cut through, sharper now. Closer. “Tap.”
Katsuki grit his teeth, trying to force his body to respond.
Move.
Move.
Nothing synced right. His limbs felt disconnected, like they belonged to someone else, like there was a delay he couldn’t fight through.
His stomach twisted—not with fullness, but with something emptier. A hollow pull that made him feel unsteady from the inside out, like there was nothing anchoring him anymore.
It had been four days since he last purged, he didn’t need to since he stuck to his new diet plan perfectly. Everything was going well except the fact he constantly felt like a pound of bricks were weighing on his shoulders. And now—
“Bakugou.”
The black spots swallowed more of his vision.
Katsuki tapped the mat twice, too frantic and desperate for the persona everybody knew him for.
The pressure lifted immediately.
Katsuki rolled onto his side, dragging in a sharp breath that scraped down his throat. His head spun violently, the room tilting and swaying like he was still moving even though he wasn’t. Trying to steady his breathing before getting up.
Shit.
He pushed himself up.
Bad idea.
The world lurched hard, his vision dipping as darkness crowded in again. He caught himself on one hand, fingers splayed against the mat, trying to ground himself before everything went sideways.
Don’t fall.
Don’t—fucking—fall.
“I’m fine,” he snapped automatically, even though no one had said anything yet.
His voice sounded off.
Hoarse.
He hated it.
He forced himself to stand anyway, ignoring the way his legs felt unsteady beneath him, like they might give out if he stopped focusing for even a second.
Each step toward the edge of the room felt deliberate. Measured. Like he had to think about placing his feet properly or risk missing entirely.
He dropped down against the wall harder than intended, back hitting the surface with a dull thud.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
His hands were shaking now.
He grabbed his water bottle, fingers tightening around the plastic as he twisted the cap off. His mouth felt dry—too dry, like all the moisture had been sucked out of him without him noticing.
Water spilled slightly at the corners of his mouth as he swallowed, throat working hard, the cold hitting his stomach like a shock.
His head still felt light, like it wasn’t fully attached. His body still felt drained, like someone had pulled the plug on him and left him running on whatever scraps were left.
Footsteps approached.
Katsuki didn’t look up, fidgeting with the cap of the bottle.
“…Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he said flatly, taking another drink.
There was a brief pause, then a soft rustle.
“I have a nutrition bar,” Todoroki said. “You should eat something.”
Katsuki finally looked up from the floor.
Todoroki stood there, holding it out—simple, matter-of-fact. No judgment in his expression. Just observation. Concern, maybe.
Katsuki’s stomach twisted.
“I don’t need that,” he snapped.
“You’re lightheaded.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“This will help stabilize—”
“I don’t want your fucking bar.”
The words came out harsh. Immediate. Cutting.
A few people nearby went quiet.
Katsuki didn’t care.
Todoroki lowered his hand slightly, but didn’t look away. “…You nearly collapsed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You tapped early.”
“Because I felt like it.”
Silence stretched between them.
Todoroki studied him for a moment longer, like he was trying to piece something together Katsuki refused to say out loud.
“…You’re not taking care of yourself,” he said finally.
Something in Katsuki snapped.
He surged to his feet, ignoring the way the room tilted again, the way his vision flickered dangerously at the edges.
“Don’t act like you know anything about me,” he snapped, voice low and sharp. “I don’t need you babysitting me.”
“I’m not—”
“Then stop acting like it.”
Another pause.
Todoroki didn’t argue.
Didn’t push.
“…Understood,” he said.
The bar disappeared back into his pocket.
He turned and walked away.
Katsuki stood there for a second longer, breathing hard, jaw clenched.
Then he dropped back down against the wall, turning his head away completely.
His grip tightened around the water bottle again.
His hands were still shaking.
His body still felt too light. Too empty.
But it was fine.
This was part of it.
His body would adjust.