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Everything was too goddamn much all the time.
All of his thoughts, and nerves, and emotions, and senses are on overdrive and he doesn't know how to shut them down. So, he curls in on himself, instead. He presses his hands to his ears hard enough that it hurts, and he can feel a migraine buzzing in the back of his skull.
He doesn't feel like himself, he doesn't feel like Bakugou Katsuki. He doesn't know who he feels like, or what he feels like. He just knows that this body doesn't fit what he feels - or maybe it's his mind that doesn't fit in this body - and it makes his skin itch. And it makes him so fucking angry.
Gentle hands bat away his own and sound canceling headphones are set over his ears, effectively blocking almost every sound from filtering through. He doesn't know if that's worse or better. Without the sound, his thoughts are raging; screams that echo in his brain and force his last meal up and past his lips. He just barely makes it into the trashcan over the side of the bed, and it makes him exhale a groan. His hands move to remove the headphones, but he gives it a second thought and leaves them on.
He's shaking, and he knows he is, but he can't feel it. He can't feel anything except like he's a spectator, watching himself bow over the bed. He doesn't recognize himself - has he always looked that fucking weak?
Weak.
He hates that word, he hates that he feels and looks, so weak. He hates himself.
Weak. Weak. Weak. It's on repeat in his mind, bouncing off of his skull, buzzing in his ears.
Weak. Weak. Weak, weak, weak, weak.
W e a k-
And then Todoroki is behind him, running a cold hand over the damp skin covering his spine. The room smells like nitroglycerin, so sweet and burning that it hurts Bakugou's nostrils and makes his teeth ache. He wipes his palms off on the sheet, trying his hardest not to set himself off. A cold hand finds its way between his, soothing his burning palms. He jerks, first instinct to rip his hands away, but Shouto holds on tight. Refusing to let him go, refusing to let him be alone.
Two taps on the headphones.
Can they be taken off right now?
Bakugou jerks his head in a nod and they're slid down to his neck. Shouto doesn't speak yet, he lets Katsuki get used to sound again for a minute.
"Okay?" he asks.
"No," Katsuki's honest, bile returning to his throat. He leans over the bed again, wretches stomach acid, then mutters, "Yeah."
His next words leave his lips before he can stop them, “I'm sorry.” He grimaces afterwords, apologizing again for apologizing in the first place.
Shouto laughs and it makes Katsuki’s stomach flutter.
“You're okay, no need for apologies,” Shouto hums, a cold hand running through sweat soaked, blond hair.
It takes Bakugou roughly forty-seven minutes to actually calm down enough for Shouto to bring into the kitchen.
“Did you wanna talk about it?” it's an easy question. Katsuki shrugs, grumbling his thanks when Shouto sets some tea down in front of him. He looks like shit, but Kirishima and Kaminari ignore it and smile at him when they appear in the doorway. Kirishima, being the ball of affection he is, presses the gentlest of kisses to Bakugou's forehead when Kaminari’s back is turned.
He flushes and his pout deepens into his face. It's a weird sign of affection, but that's what Eijirou does and Bakugou doesn't push him away so everyone knows he doesn't hate it as much as he says he does.
The two men leave almost as quickly as they came, grabbing snacks and some waters before returning to whatever they had been doing - studying (playing video games), probably.
Shouto raises an eyebrow when he slides into the seat across from Katsuki.
“I'm fine.”
“When you wanna talk-”
“I'm fine.”
“When you wanna talk, I will be ready to listen,” his tone shifts from soft to stern, blue and grey eyes burning through red ones.
Katsuki doesn't talk, not about emotions and shit anyways. He doesn't know how; he can't filter feelings into words. But, when he does talk Shouto understands. Through the cutoff sentences and the stutters and anger, he understands.
“Yeah,” Katsuki deflates, exhausted and empty. “Okay. Thanks.”
They have a weird connection. Shouto can read Katsuki better than Katsuki can and it gets so irritating and bothersome. But Katsuki appreciates it.
“I love you,” Shouto’s tone is gentle again. He says it in a breath, cupping Bakugou's cheek. He sighs, and leans into Todoroki's hand, turning to set a fleeting kiss on his palm.
“Yeah,” he breathes, and Shouto huffs a laugh at the nickname he says, “I love you, too, IcyHot.”