saw this and decided to write one cuz i’ve also read all the existing ones and like feel u fr @everyoneluvsanicia
but i kinda ended up just writing more for myself than anything else so TW the self harm is quite descriptive !!!!
if you’re reading this i love you please take care of yourself and know that you matter very much <3 <3
hope this is good i kinda just went for it ig
It had been one hell of a day.
You were beyond exhausted.
From the second you stepped out of bed in the morning to the moment you finally retreated back to your room upon nightfall, you felt as though the entire world was out to get you.
Of course, that outlook was due in majority to the profoundly negative lens you had worn for the last week or two. Maybe longer, you weren’t really sure. All the days had started to blur together: one effect of practically everything about life seeming dull and pointless and more effort than it’s worth.
However, even prior to this, this general darkness was always there— always lingering and buzzing with dangerous potential just beneath the surface. In fact, you couldn’t really remember a time in your life when it wasn’t something you had to deal with to some degree.
Every now and then, though, things simply got more intense and harder to manage for a little while, without warning or clear reason.
Those stretches used to be significantly longer than they tended to be in the more recent couple of years. Back then, the very worst of your thoughts and feelings would remain at the forefront of your mind for far too many months at a time. It was absurdly unbearable.
So much so that, in a desperate attempt to cope with the misery, you turned to cutting yourself.
There was never much clear thought to it when you did. And never an ounce of healthy logic.
The first time it happened, you were mid-breakdown in your cramped bathroom after pushing everything down for a whole semester and finally getting sent over the edge after a series of unusual inconveniences. As you gripped the counter and looked down at it, your blurred vision caught a peripheral glimpse of your eyebrow razor. It made you think about how you had heard of self-harming before. In that moment, you began to figure that there must be a reason it’s a fairly common thing; maybe it really does help. You didn’t exactly think about it too in depth, though. After continually trying day after day, you were simply itching to feel even a little better, and you didn’t care about your physical safety in the matter. So, you hastily grabbed the razor and brought the blade to your wrist, hesitating for just a brief moment before pressing it down and gliding across. Just once, pausing to stare at the wound you had created as a strange feeling washed its way over you. Then you continued, doing it over and over with each movement growing more impulsive as you covered your forearm with slashes and blood.
And you liked to think that it did help— it didn’t really, of course.
You liked having pain to focus on that wasn’t emotional. You liked seeing tangible evidence of the invisible pain you felt inside. Really, though, all that meant, all that it caused, was more pain. Plus, it’s not like you weren’t aware that it was an objectively bad thing to do.
But it seemed like it helped. More or less.
So, you kept doing it every once in a while anyway, always impulsively and haphazardly. Until, eventually, you kicked the habit.
It had been a relatively long time since you’d had any urge to do it again– Until this day. This dreadfully grueling day.
Too much was weighing on you, and it was all too familiarly overwhelming; the idea crept its way in, just like it used to. And you were much too tired to fight it.
So, you slowly pushed yourself up from where you’d plopped down on the floor and remained since closing your door, and ventured toward your bathroom instead.
On the way, you took off your hoodie and tossed it over to your bed, which it missed, and hit the floor with a light thud instead.
You opened a drawer and, out of it, grabbed the tiny but nonetheless high-potential-to-harm object which you bought specifically in case you ever felt the need to fall back on it in this very way. Not that you didn’t know that you shouldn’t, that that wasn’t smart or healthy or good in any way. You just couldn’t bring yourself to care enough to do anything about it. You had to manage to survive somehow, after all, and if any version of you thought that this was the way to do it, then so be it.
You positioned your arm over the bathroom sink, wrist facing upward, that hand balling into a loose fist.
Pausing, you took a moment to examine the existing lines that riddled the full surface from the top of your wrist to the pit of your elbow. Some were thicker, some were thinner. Some were still raised and some now flat. Some white and some remaining various shades of red.
You usually tried to avoid looking too closely at the healed slits. Open injuries were one thing— for some reason or another, their permanently lingering scars were often another.
After a minute or so of staring, you finally raised your other hand. It was the slightest bit unsteady as you moved the sharp metal toward your marked skin, preparing to make more.
You inhaled steadily as you roughly pressed the cold steel against yourself and slid it across your wrist with a harsh and swift movement.
You stared hard at the result, mind devoid of any clear thoughts, intentionally much more focused on your physical sensations.
Just like it always did, a strange mix of superficial relief and underlying guilt and shame rippled over you, both internally and externally, creating a heavy pressure on your whole being as if it were suddenly dragged deep under water. And just as you always did, you ignored it, choosing instead to focus on the tingling pain and the release of all too temporary happy chemicals your brain sent out in compensation for such.
Your eyebrows twitched and your jaw tightened as you watched the stinging gash pool up with your blood, with the life force that’s meant to remain soundly on the inside of you. It filled all the way up before spilling over, leaking out.
You exhaled shakily at the familiar feeling of the warm liquid rolling down your skin, the droplet almost feeling like a blade of its own.
The deep red fluid streamed its way to the other side of your arm and dripped off of you, plopping onto your shiny, pristine sink and staining it with a dark, messy splatter.
Your brows furrowed down as you watched the occurrence with a heavy chest. Soon after, though, you brought the small-scale knife right back down to your maimed flesh and placed it below the fresh slice. Again, you aggressively pushed into yourself, creating a second, parallel one, equally deep and angry and hurt. Then, beneath that, a third. Then a fourth. And so on.
Eventually, after continuing on and on with the disheartening ritual, the entire area in which your scars take up was covered in brand new wounds, adding to the littered mix. Blood gushed out of each one of them, covering your forearm entirely and much of the sink.
More commonly, your relapses consisted of much lesser amounts of damage at a time. However, it had been a particularly rough day.
You dropped both your arms to the counter, the messier of the two still over the sink and the other releasing its grip on the miniature, now-bloodied weapon and leaving it to clatter onto the counter sloppily. The movement splattered about more of the viscous substance that’s supposed to remain underneath your skin, not cover inch upon inch of your bathroom.
You closed your eyes, taking time to sit with the raw throbbing of pain burning all over the vast area of skin.
You sat, quiet and still, with your underlying multitude of complex emotions (which you always pretty much entirely neglected to actually process) humming over you uncomfortably. Rather, you only continued to focus on your current influx of endorphins that the physical harm released, reveling in the time-sensitive euphoric feel of it.
You remained just about entirely unmoving until each stream of your blood clotted up and ceased in its flowing.
With a drawn-out exhale through your nose, you slowly moved to turn on the sink’s faucet. You picked back up the tool you’d dropped in order to rinse it clean, then set it aside again. You cleaned yourself off next, having to use your other arm’s hand to help wipe away the crimson clumps of cells. After it was all washed off your person, you splashed the water around your sink to clear its basin. Then you grabbed a roll of paper towels from its holder, ripped a couple off, wet them, and used them to wipe the remaining stains off the counter before tossing the damp instruments into the trash.
You knew both logically and from memory that wiping away the clots would restart the blood flow, and simply rinsing your gaping injuries wasn’t enough to stop it; it would gear back up at any moment.
So, you quickly pulled out a heaping of paper towels one at a time, making a thick pile that you then carried back towards your bed. When you reached it, you tossed all but three of the disposable cloths on top of your comforter, and moved to hold those ones sturdily against yourself as you sat down.
Just moments after you sank into your mattress comfortably, an aggressive knock sounded at the door. It was one which you had long grown accustomed to and therefore instantly recognized— Katsuki Bakugou.
Your heart dropped at his untimely appearance, and a worried tingle shot throughout you. It wasn’t often that he came over without some sort of prior hint at such. You, on the other hand, frequently showed up at his dorm unexpectedly. Why did he have to pick now, of all moments, to follow in your footsteps in the matter?
You knew from experience that if you neglected to acknowledge his presence within the next ten seconds, he’d barge in without another warning. (He constantly scolded you for leaving the entrance unlocked, but he used the factor to his advantage when needed.)
So, with frantic movements, your hand that pressed the absorbent sheets against you pulled away and tossed the now slightly bloodied things atop the unstained ones, and then bent downward to grab your discarded hoodie and throw it back on. You winced a little at the pain of pulling your fresh cuts as you stretched to get into the article, and then again as you pulled the fabric over them. Then, you opened your nightstand's top drawer and shoved all of the paper towels into it, closing it right in time for Katsuki to swing the door open.
Once he did, you wrapped your arms around your midsection, the injured one pressing into your stomach and the other resting on top of it to cover it as much as it could.
He sauntered up to you with his usual scowl, just slightly more perturbed-looking than usual.
In truth, he was significantly more bothered than his face reflected. For the last week, he had been noticing the subtle ways your secret struggles had started to outwardly manifest, paying closer and closer attention whenever he picked up on something even minutely off about your demeanor or actions.
It started when you showed up to class only moments before it started, instead of your consistent 15 minutes earlier, and with your usually neat uniform clinging to your body in a disheveled manner. Once you were before him upon the class’s conclusion, he looked at you with a raised suspicious brow, and you gave a simple shrug and limited explanation: “Overslept,” is what you had nonchalantly said. Not only was that a rather uncommon phenomenon for you, but something about the way you said it just seemed off, wrong, nearly as though you had to force it out.
After that, each and every instance of unusualness, even the myriad smallest ones that were only noticeable because of just how hard he was looking, pissed him the hell off more and more and more– his version of being concerned. He wasn’t angry at you; he could never be genuinely angry at you. Rather, at whatever the fuck was causing you to act like this, and the fact that it wasn’t going away.
Today was his final straw. At lunch, as your friend group loudly chatted away and you, unfortunately, remained in your lackluster participation, he also noticed you were barely eating your food. You simply pushed it around on your plate instead, only occasionally taking a small bite that you’d move to your mouth with clear (to him, that is) hesitation and then chew for way too long. Once it was time to leave the cafeteria, your plate was practically still full. Mina pointed it out, and you brushed it off with an unbothered smile, claiming you just weren’t that hungry for some reason and you probably ate too big a breakfast. His jaw tightened when he overheard your excuse, seeing right through it. Not only had you never skipped a meal like that before, but your appetite has always been especially vast. Although, upon thinking about it, he remembered a decent few times in the past when he noticed you eating less than usual, but it never stood out to him as something to be troubled by, not until it was piled atop all your other strange behaviors. Now he wondered, angry at himself in the process, if he should have been paying more attention from the start.
So, the second he was free to do so, he finally stomped his way over to your room to demand that you explain.
Immediately upon entering, he noticed the strange expression on your face and the way it created an air of nervousness around you.
Each step he took to reach you was a far and fast-paced stride.
Once in front of you, he remained standing and placed his hands on his hips in an irritated fashion, glowering down at you.
Your gaze had followed his form across the room, your eyes remaining on his from your place on the edge of your bed as he settled into his stance.
“Hey,” you greeted him with a half-assed smile and as casual a voice as you could muster up while you curled your legs upward to create another layer between Katsuki and what you were trying to hide from him.
His face contorted further, quirking an eyebrow up as his eyes glazed over your figure and the way that you clearly attempted to make it smaller by the way you shrank into it.
Your hands gripped the fabric of your hoodie anxiously as you watched him observe you with his uncomfortably analyzing stare.
“The fuck is going on with you lately, huh?” he conclusively grilled, impatiently skipping over the act of greeting you back in order to get straight to the point.
He was clearly bothered by something, but in no world did you expect it to be that.
You thought you always did a good enough job at hiding the truth. At least, he nor anyone else had ever said a thing in the past, and it had been going on long enough (your whole life, that is) that you figured that meant that no one ever would.
You tightened your hold on your waist as you mentally cursed yourself out.
“What do you mean?” you asked in a gentle voice as you forced your expression into feigned lighthearted confusion with a small smile and a playful-esque cock of your head to the side.
“Don’t do that shit,” he pointedly spat as his eyes narrowed further, and you straightened out, shifting nervously. He huffed out an aggressive breath before adding in a much softer tone, “You know what I mean, (Y/N). Answer the damn question.”
Your smile faltered at his failure to accept your avoidance, but you willed it to remain intact, at least to some degree. Honestly, you were afraid you might let yourself start tearing up if you didn’t.
“I just…” you started as you mentally scrambled for a good cover story. You should have had one prepared, but you really never thought you would actually need it. You sincerely never imagined the prospect of anyone noticing enough, or caring enough if they did, to go out of their way to question you. “Everything’s just been a little overwhelming lately. Been kinda hard to keep up, I guess, you know? And I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep. So, yeah. I’m just exhausted and a little worn out, that’s all. There’s- There’s nothing ‘going on,’” you said unconvincingly with a weak shrug. You weren’t completely lying. Mostly, you were simply leaving a hell of a lot out.
His face twitched with frustration, hand in hand with distress, at your denial and obviously pulled-out-of-your-ass excuse. He remained in his place, feet planted on the ground right ahead of your spot on the mattress as he towered above you intimidatingly. That was his hope at least, wanting his formidable presence to push you toward telling the truth— though, you were incapable of ever being truly intimidated by the blonde, or ever seeing him as even a bit formidable (because, of course, all you see when you look at him is someone you love and admire). Nonetheless, he stood up as straight as he could while he moved his arms to cross them over his chest.
“Bullshit,” he declared with certainty.
You momentarily peeled your eyes away from him, glancing to the side instead as you breathily and exasperatedly laughed. “It’s not bull-“ you began to insist, but he quickly interrupted you.
“The hell it isn’t,” he sharply argued, bringing your visual focus back to him.
Re-met with an even more upset expression, your smile was finally wiped away completely. You bit the inside of your cheek, pausing for a moment to pull together the strength before replying. His chest coiled up uneasily as you did, awaiting what he hoped would be honesty.
Unfortunately, you only continued to attest to your story. “It’s not,” you steadily and falsely affirmed. “I don’t know why that’s so hard to believe. It’s like I said, I just-”
He didn’t need you to continue. He didn’t want to hear it. Again, he cut you off.
“I’ve seen you overwhelmed. I’ve seen you exhausted. I know what the hell you look like when you’re not sleeping. And none of that, none of it, is… this. You’ve been fuckin’ weird. And I need you to tell me why.”
In tandem with his final word, your heart plummeted to the very bottom of your stomach.
Not because of what he said, no.
But because you could suddenly feel that the warm blood still oozing its way out of your very open wounds had begun to seep through your sleeve.
Fuck, you mentally repeated over and over as your heart began to race.
Katsuki picked up on the way your anxiety suddenly spiked, noticing your increased alertness and the dilation of your pupils and the way you scrunched into yourself even tighter. Naturally, his head tilted marginally, and his brows creased further in confused response.
His visible reaction only made your heartbeat speed up even more. Your brows, too, furrowed downward, in your case out of pure worry as to what the fuck you were supposed to do right now.
He watched your progressively growing fragile state with worry of his own.
“Th- There’s nothing else to tell, Katsuki,” you continued to falsely claim, but now in a voice that was unexpectedly tenfold more nervous, much softer and suddenly shaky— to a degree that surprised even you, making your eyes drop down to his chest instead of his face out of embarrassment.
His muscles constricted apprehensively at the sound and at your new lack of eye contact, and a hurt shiver ran throughout him.
You swallowed your spit tensely.
“I don’t know what you think you’re noticing, but it’s all in your head or something,” you warily continued to lie. “So, if that’s all you came here to talk about, then- then you’re free to leave now, okay?”
Not that you truly thought he would, but you begged to any and every possibly existing god that he just might.
His heart uncomfortably skipped a beat at your unusual suggestion and accompanying tone. Not that he even thought it possible, but this only greater solidified his keen awareness that something was very wrong.
He sighed rather solemnly, dropping one hand down to his side and raising the other to rake through his hair.
Opposite to your plea, he took a diagonal step then plopped down onto your bed beside you.
You clamped your teeth down on the inside of your cheek once again, significantly harder this time.
For a fairly long stretch, he stared ahead, unmoving as he thought deeply and frustratedly about what the hell he could do next that might get you to open up.
You, on the other hand, were not thinking much of anything. Rather, all you could do and feel was sheer, utter panic. You wanted to look down at your stomach, see if the growing dampness you felt was in any way noticeable, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.
Fight or flight be damned, your brain entered freeze mode, too terrified to do anything but clench your muscles and feel the impossibly fast beat of your heart and near-nauseating lightheadedness of your brain.
Had you glanced downward, though, you would have seen the way that the blood was, in fact, all too apparent: It trickled upward, spreading into the absorbent material you adorned directly above where your arm pressed into your abdomen. It didn’t help that the top was so light-colored. Maybe if it were black, or some shade of navy, the contents of your insides spilling out and leaking into it would have blended right in.
But, of course, it wasn’t.
Maybe if he stayed in his spot across from you rather than by your side, the alternative angle, with your legs successfully in the way, would’ve at least prolonged the view.
And eventually, even though he was yet to fully settle on something to say, Katsuki swiveled his head around to face you completely.
Another shot of acute anxiety rushed through you as you watched the movement from your periphery.
He opened his mouth to speak.
Before he could get a single noise out, the sudden, starkly contrasting color immediately caught his attention.
He clamped his jaw shut so quickly and harshly that the sound of his teeth hitting back together was loud enough to make you flinch ever so slightly.
It felt like the world stopped moving— for both parties.
The air stilled, and a deafening silence overcame the room.
Your gaze fixated hard on the wall you faced, vision going a little fuzzy as you waited for something to happen.
He stared intensely at the reason, his gaze growing harder and his expression contorting further with each passing second.
He couldn’t yet think a single coherent thought, only seeing red, both literally and figuratively, as he was consumed by feelings he could never begin to truly name.
You mentally ran through the plethora, seemingly never-ending amounts of worst-case scenarios, watching them flash through your mind in vague, blurry, but no less intense visions.
“What…” he gutturally and slowly started, voice dangerously low and dark and, lacing both of those, scared, all in a way you’ve never once heard. Your thoughts cleared unnervingly, and your eyes squeezed shut at the startling sound. “…the fuck is that.”
He wasn’t asking. It wasn’t truly a question. But it was something he absolutely needed you to answer to.
Impulsively, you opened your eyes, stretched forward your legs, and stood up in lieu of a response, stepping forward with multiple strides and turning slightly so that your back was to him completely. You barely even felt yourself move, seemingly teleporting to your new spot across the room.
You couldn’t face him. You didn’t want to. He was never supposed to find out, especially not like this.
Instantly, he rose to his feet as well, but couldn’t bring himself to step forward, only staring at you intensely as he tightly balled his fists at his sides, his nails digging deep into his skin.
You roughly bit your lip and tried not to cry.
You didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to think, what he would say next, what he would do, what he was thinking. You didn’t know a damn thing, other than that you wished so badly that this was not happening. You hoped that maybe it wasn’t, that this was all some terribly vivid nightmare. It felt surreal enough to give you some hope that that just may be the case.
“You’re bleeding,” he gravelly stated the obvious, voice raising a bit but remaining in its equal parts bristling, worried, and horrified tone. “Your arm is bleeding.”
He was trying to fully absorb the fact, and mentally scrambling to configure any possible explanation that wasn’t the blaringly clear truth. He couldn’t properly process it. It couldn’t be true. It went against everything he thought he knew.
You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t hurt yourself. Why the fuck would you ever hurt yourself?
Everything about the thought of it— the image in his head of you doing anything like that, of you feeling bad enough to even think of doing anything like that— felt so beyond, heartbreakingly wrong.
He knew it was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that connected with every other dot, that added up with your last week's worth of behavior and now your nervous, faux-relaxed vibe upon his entering your room.
He felt like he was going to be sick. He felt the most raw, powerful concern he had ever felt. And he was so genuinely scared— terrified, really— in a way completely foreign to him. Because what was he supposed to do about this?
You stayed silent and still, continuing to squeeze your limbs against your body as if it still mattered. After a long, tense pause, during which you internally tried to claw your way out of this dreadful moment in any way possible, you finally acknowledged his observation.
“Yeah,” you said simply, and the soft and trembling sound of it, along with your passive agreement, sent a shiver down his spine. “I know,” you added with a crack in your voice, killing him even more.
No part of him could deny it now. He knew without a doubt that exactly what he thought happened was exactly what did happen. And never once in his life had he felt so completely heartbroken, or so fucking useless.
How could he not have known? How long had he been in the dark? And now that he wasn’t, how was he supposed to help pull you out of your own darkness? This wasn’t something he could punch or kick or explode into oblivion. Unlike most things throughout his entire life, this was something he did not know how to handle. But he knew he had to do something– he knew he would do something. Talking about it seemed like the most logical first step.
“Why,” he demanded as his fists somehow tightened.
Your eyes finally welled up with tears at the query and the increasingly rough tone of his voice. You couldn’t say it out loud. You wouldn’t.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve figured that out already,” you quietly retorted instead, your voice growing in its instability.
Katsuki inhaled slowly before he took one hesitant, stiff step forward.
“That’s not what I meant,” he clarified through gritted teeth, stressed and uneasy. “I’m asking you why the hell you would ever fucking do that to yourself.”
His voice now quivered, too, the slightest amount.
You shuddered out a breath as your tears finally broke through, multiple cascading down your cheeks as you snapped your eyes shut again.
You didn’t know what to say, taking another long minute to think. Although you weren’t actually doing much of that, as you just continued to cry and be bathed in pure anguish. Most of the thoughts you did manage were you willing yourself to wake up and escape this, still praying against all odds that it wasn’t actually happening.
“I don’t know,” you sniffled, “It just helps,” was all you could string together, a vague and highly lacking response.
A sharp, hurtful pang spread throughout Katsuki’s chest at both the sound of your crying and at your terse explanation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen you cry. It was by no means something he missed.
“Helps what?” he asked desperately, feeling more helpless as his fear only grew. He took another small step toward your slightly shaking, weak-postured form.
Your tears only increased at the question, your cries growing more audible. You shook your head vigorously, frustrated by your inability to provide an answer, even if you wanted to (though you definitely did not). This wasn’t something you had ever needed to properly put into words, and you were much too emotional and fragile and embarrassed and in utter disbelief to try now.
Each sniffle and muffled whimper created crack after crack in his increasingly fragile heart, furthering every difficult emotion he already strongly felt: anger, frustration, dread, debilitating sadness.
“You can talk to me,” he reassured, the more tender of his emotions now making their way through his tone, which you instantly picked up on and, honestly, felt a strong sense of relief at. Subconsciously, you had felt exclusively as though this whole time, he was only judging you and angry at you for this. Of course, in reality, neither was even remotely the case— you entirely failed to realize just how much he cares about you and your wellbeing, and how much he completely cherishes everything you are.
He took another step ahead, finally reaching the point just behind you. “Please just talk to me,” he uncharacteristically begged, his longing for you to listen growing clearer with the intensifying tone of each passing word, and making your intensely beating heart’s dismay slowly lighten up.
He raised a hand and released it from its wound-up position, slowly reaching forward to gently place it on your shoulder.
Once he did, you jumped at the unexpected feeling. Not much, but enough for him to nervously retract his touch. His hand remained hovering in the air, just an inch or two away from again making contact. Your heart stuttered at his unusual carefulness.
“Please, (Y/N). I just wanna help,” he now almost whispered, his pain softly seeping through.
Your heart lurched once more, and something inside you simply melted into his words and everything about the way he tenderly and longingly said them, especially with how rare it is to hear such qualities in the explosive boy.
And you needed that— you needed help.
You had for a long time. Far too long. You always thought you didn’t want it, didn’t want to bother burdening anyone with feelings you weren’t sure were even capable of being dealt with, and that you never would. But now, as Katsuki pleaded for you to let him at least try, you began to realize how much you actually did. And maybe you always had.
Abruptly and with fervent movements, you swiveled around a swift 180 degrees and stepped forward to close the gap between the two of you. You practically threw yourself into his chest as your crying turned into full-blown sobs, the first one aggressively tearing its way out of your throat.
He stumbled a bit, his feet not planted on the ground quite firmly enough to immediately support your weight against him, and his eyes shot open widely in surprise.
Almost instantly, though, he regained his balance and brought both his hands to wrap around your frame protectively and securely, as tightly as possible without hurting you. His hands gripped you as well, every finger tip pressing into you firmly as he tried to be there for you as much as he could, be it only physically thus far.
He closed his eyes and released a quiet, shaky breath as you finally let him at least do something. He could only hope it was effectively helping you feel better to even the smallest degree, or bringing you at least some sense of solace.
He would be glad to know that it was.
Your arms remained clamped snugly around your own body, especially now as to not transfer the blood onto his unstained clothes, but you leaned all the way into him, his body fully supporting yours as you relished in his surprisingly comforting touch and continued to weep. Surprising mostly in the sense that you never would have expected to be okay with coming undone so messily in front of anyone, especially someone you thought so highly of and only wanted him to think the same of you.
You still could barely believe this was happening, but you finally stopped denying that it was. Maybe it wouldn’t lead to worsening matters, as you had worriedly assumed. Maybe it would actually be for the better to not have to do this all alone anymore, to have someone to just talk to and cry to, someone who cares enough to really listen and support you in whatever way you need.
And, god, did he care. Never in his life had he felt so protective or so innately empathetic. All he wanted to do was make sure you were safe and to lift away as much pain as he could from your shoulders. (Honestly, it almost already felt like he was taking some of it away from you, sucking it up himself, with the hurt he felt as his heart was continuously breaking at the truth he had discovered and the state you were in because of it.)
Only 30 seconds or so into your harder cries, Katsuki was already unsure how much longer he could handle bearing the upsetting sound of the pained, rough sobs.
He began to move one of his hands up and down soothingly as he whispered in a voice so gentle that, combined with what it is he said, you weren’t sure he actually said it at all or if it was just your head daydreaming it up, “I‘ve got you, okay? I’m here.”
Right then, you knew for sure that all your stress over him finding out wasn’t necessary. It was just as he said: he just wanted to help.
And turns out, he could. With just his presence and care, he could. Something inside you already felt lighter because of his support.
Your form went even more limp, now almost completely crumbling into his stable arms.
He sturdily shifted to better prop you up, and his face continued to scrunch up at your lack of control, and as your hearty cries only went on.
“You’re gonna be alright,” he reassuringly added. Although this time, it was more so for himself. He needed to tell himself that you would be alright, that you would get through this. He would make sure of it; every fiber of his being was determined to. He would do everything he possibly could to be there for you, and he would help you find the best resources for all the things he couldn’t do himself. And he needed to tell himself that explicitly if he was going to endure having to see you suffering so greatly (and actively seeing it was much more than enough for him right now; he couldn’t yet begin to think about how long you’ve been feeling just like this all on your own, all the breakdowns you’ve had just like this with no one but the walls to hear you and nothing but your duvet to wrap around you).
You wanted immensely to deepen your contact with the boy, to move your arms away from yourself to wrap tightly around him instead, but you refused to leave him with lasting evidence of your pain soaked into his shirt— the temporary wetness of your tears was more than plenty. While it felt as though the blood had stopped flowing, you couldn’t really say for sure, and you weren’t willing to risk it. It was hard to tell with so much going on, so many physical and emotional sensations bombarding you.
Speaking of, the juxtaposition of the sharp stinging of your forearm with the warmth and coziness of the rest of your body being held– by arms more tender than you could have ever prepared for right now– was almost comical.
You tried to focus on that more than anything. It felt like a good starting point for grounding yourself in the moment. Later (as late as you could prolong it, in fact) would be the time to worry about actually processing the fact that this was all currently actually happening. Right now, you just had to live it. And even though it still felt like a dream, you were, in fact, living it. So, you focused on what you found easy to. You concentrated on the loving touches of your favorite person, contrasting the self-inflicted pain of your skin.
Rather quickly, but still far too long in Katsuki’s opinion, the sounds ripping out of you slowed and quieted into only lingering sniffles.
The boy slowly, slower than he’s maybe ever moved, used his hold on you to guide you forward just enough for him to see your face.
You avoided eye contact, and even though he more or less understood why, he wished you wouldn’t.
He peeled his arms away from you, and your heart dropped a little. Until his touch returned, as he tenderly placed his hands on each of your cheeks, holding your face lightly and lovingly, his thumbs gliding back to brush away as much of the tears as they could.
Your eyes snapped to his at the feeling, and the smallest of smiles grew upon your lips. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding at the sight.
Your heart twitched at the expression on his face. It was one you had never, in all your days of clinging to his side, seen before. It was chock-full of pure, intense care.
You were already continuing to revel in his touch when he carefully pulled your face closer and leaned in before placing a rough, passionate kiss atop your forehead as one of his hands raked further back into your hair to grasp your head.
Your heart warmed at the feeling as the kiss reverberated across your entire body with a tingling jolt. Its sweetness and intensely genuine nature overcame you entirely, and you almost forgot what it was that brought you here.
Then, as he pulled his head back to its previous position, he reminded you, throwing you back into the reality where you knew you would have to open up to him, and likely others, sometime soon:
“Let me help you clean yourself up,” he said quietly, with his voice coming out far gruffer than either of the two expected.
Despite the topic at hand, your stomach involuntarily fluttered a bit at the sentence. And you reminded yourself that you didn’t have to talk about any of your emotions just yet. For the time being, you could just appreciate his help you were finally receiving, appreciate him, and place your worries to the side.
Though, too exhausted and mentally overwhelmed to say anything at all, you only nodded in reply.
“‘Kay. Good,” he retorted, entirely lacking in his usual pointedness and aggression. “You got any gauze?”
You shook your head at that, even though you knew the answer should be yes. You watched his face shift through some conflicting emotions. He bit the inside of his cheek before speaking.
“Fuck, alright. I have some in my dorm. I’ll- I can- Damnit,” he uncharacteristically stumbled over his words, not wanting to leave you alone for even a second, but wanting to bandage you up properly.
“It’s fine,” you softly reassured. “Go get it. I’ll be fine.”
“Right, ‘cause I’m supposed to believe that after this,” he said teasingly, and you appreciated the sense of normalcy his slightly more usual attitude brought to the situation that was anything but. He almost regretted saying it until he noticed how it made your smile grow minutely.
“Fine. Yeah. But I’ll be right the fuck back,” he added, and your smile grew even more as you gave him another curt nod.
He reluctantly peeled himself off of you, and his eyes stayed locked on your form as he stepped away and walked toward the door, which did something funny to your heart and chest.
Once he was gone, you subconsciously made your way back to your bathroom, flicking the light on as you faced the mirror.
You let out a long, shuddered breath as you took in your post-cry, post-self-harm, post-Katsuki-Bakugou-finding-out-about-your-self-harm form.
You didn’t look long before turning to the side, parallel with the mirror instead, and began taking your likely permanently stained piece of clothing off.
You winced as you peeled the soaked, sticky fabric off your injuries.
The blood had at least ended in its spilling, just leaving what was already out smeared all over you. You held your forearm out in front of you and stared down at it, hard and unwavering. You weren’t gonna stop it, but that didn’t mean you at all wanted Katsuki to see this.
You weren’t sure whether you were that out of it and slow, or if he literally flew to his room and back, but right after you plopped the hoodie down on the toilet seat, you heard your door whip back open.
Katsuki quickly panicked when he didn’t see you first thing upon entering, but his heart settled back into place as he noticed the bathroom door swung open with you inside.
Immediately after, though, his insides shifted once more as the vast bright red drew his gaze to where yours still was.
He inhaled rather shakily as he took relatively wobbly steps toward you and did the best he could (which was nowhere near enough) to prepare himself for what he was about to see.
He eventually reached the spot right before you, and, even as he put the roll of gauze and the ointment he brought down on the counter, his eyes were glued to the same spot yours were, which you were acutely aware of.
He clamped down hard on the inside of his cheeks as his heart violently tore in two. Knowing was one thing; truly seeing the damage, which was worse than he expected, was by far another.
You wanted to glance up, to see his face as he actually witnessed what he now knew, but you also didn’t. So you stuck to inaction, letting yourself stay in the dark on the matter. That didn’t take away your nerves, and the hand that lingered in the air with your bloody arm began to tremble.
He wasted no time in bringing up a hand of his own, which was only steady due to his strong willing of so for your sake, and taking yours in it. He held it firmly, and grazed his thumb gently over your soft skin.
You still couldn’t get yourself to look up, but you exhaled in a relieved way at the return of his comfortingly kind touch.
He held your hand until it stopped shaking. He pulled away only to grab your roll of paper towels from the counter. You wanted to tell him to go grab the ones from your nightstand instead, but you lacked the energy. So you let him pick off sheet after sheet, watching with your head still tilted downward to avoid his face.
He felt another pang in his chest as he noticed the blade resting right there on your counter. It burned into his vision as he fought the urge to explode the thing.
He forced himself to ignore it as he picked up the first paper towel to begin wiping you clean. He did so with all the gentleness he ever possibly could, taking steady breaths in and out as he did and hoping you were doing the same.
“That hurt?” he asked just to be sure, and he mentally cursed at the way his voice slightly cracked.
Your chest squeezed at his worry, and you shook your head as confidently as you could.
You almost made somewhat of a joke, that it didn’t hurt any more than they did on their own, but you didn’t think he would be very appreciative. Plus, you were still sticking to as few words as you could.
When he got most of the liquid off, he wet the remainder of the paper towels and wiped off the last of the color. He grabbed the ointment, slowly sweezing it out and using his finger to apply it to each of your deep, long wounds. He tried to ignore the facts of how they got there so he wouldn’t break down while trying to do the job.
Finally, with the cleaning agent applied, he grabbed the gauze and carefully began to wrap it around your full forearm.
Immediately after it was stuck into place, he gently pulled you forward and back into his tender embrace, exhaling massively as he leaned his head on your shoulder.
Though you hesitated, you happily returned the hug, glad that you were now able to.
“We have to talk about this, (Y/N). I’m not- I can’t- …I need you to talk to me. I need you to let me help you. I’m going to help you, (Y/N). Fuckin’ swear I will. …But you don’t gotta talk ‘til you're ready. For now, for tonight, just… just let me stay with you.”
You damn near started crying again.
Tearful and shaky, it was all you could get out.
And it wasn’t nearly enough. But for now, it was.
You held onto him tighter, and he did the same, and you stayed in those positions for a long time.
You only moved in order to get onto your bed instead, cuddling up for the rest of the night until you drifted into a deep sleep.
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