summary: In his anger management class, they’re all prompted to draw portraits, something that makes themselves calm. Why does he only envision the girl next door?
Anger management was not something Katsuki Bakugou believed in.
At least, not in the way it was being presented to him now.
The classroom was quiet in an unnatural way, the kind enforced by soft voices and chairs arranged in a circle. It made him restless. His leg bounced, foot tapping against the tile as he glared holes into the opposite wall, arms folded tight across his chest.
He had already decided this was a waste of time, another requirement forced on him because the faculty thought they could put him into “media training for the future.”
The counselor cleared her throat gently, clipboard resting in her lap.
“Today,” she said, “we’ll be doing a calming exercise. I want everyone to draw a portrait of something that helps you feel at ease.”
Katsuki scoffed quietly, leaning back in his chair as sketchbooks were passed around the circle. As if this was a kindergarten lesson. If he wanted to draw he’d go to the nearest daycare.
Still, the room slowly filled with the soft scratch of pencils. No one spoke. Reluctantly, Katsuki picked up the pencil.
His mind immediately reached for the obvious. Training grounds at sunrise. His quirk, maybe. The satisfying burn in his muscles after pushing himself past his limits.
None of it sounded good enough.
Instead, his thoughts shifted.
The realization irritated him enough that his grip tightened around the pencil. He frowned at the blank page. Of all things why you?
You were nothing special. Just the girl who lived beside him in the dorms. The muffled sounds through the wall at night. Your door opening just as his did in the mornings. The way your voice softened when you spoke to him, as if you knew something about him that no one else did.
The pencil touched the page. He simply let muscle memory take over, sketching the slope of your shoulders, the way he always saw them when you leaned against your doorway to talk to him. He added the fall of your hair next, remembering how it framed your face, how it never quite sat the same way twice.
He didn’t notice at first. Only when his strokes slowed did he realize his breathing had evened out, his leg no longer bounced beneath the desk. The tension that usually sat tight in his chest loosened.
Your eyes took the longest.
He hesitated there, pencil hovering, brow furrowed. He remembered the way you looked at him, not as if you were ever scared. Like you weren’t bracing for him to explode.
By the time the counselor spoke again, the drawing was finished.
“Katsuki,” she said gently. “Would you like to share with the group?”
He stiffened immediately.
“No,” he snapped, flipping the sketchbook shut with more force than necessary.
She didn’t argue, just nodded.
When class ended, Katsuki shoved the sketchbook into his bag and left quickly, irritation creeping back in. The hallway were noisy, per usual.
And then he saw you. You were standing outside your room, stepping out of the door. When you noticed him, your expression brightened.
“Hey,” you said. “How was your class?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. His hand tightened around the strap of his bag. “…fucking stupid,” he muttered finally.
You smiled anyway, unbothered, and stepped around him to let him pass.
And as he walked into his room, his breath finally exhaled. And the sketchbook was thrown to the back of his closet.
