Chapter 5: Breaking Point
The silence in Bakugou’s room after Aizawa left was absolute. It was the kind of quiet that pressed against his eardrums, a vacuum where the usual frantic noise of his own thoughts should have been. Suspended. Benched. Nothing. The words weren't threats; they were prophecies. He could see the path unfolding with a terrible, crystalline clarity: one more outburst, one more mark left on Deku, and the title of Dynamight would become a museum piece.
He couldn't breathe. The walls were too close. He needed air that didn't smell like his own failure.
The agency rooftop was a slab of concrete under a bruised sky, the moon a sharp sliver behind fast-moving clouds. The city glittered, indifferent and cold. He braced his hands on the cold steel railing, letting the chill bite into his palms. He’d been up here for an hour, maybe two. Time had blurred into a single, looping reel: the locker room door swinging open, the bandage on Deku’s skin, Round Face’s defiant stance, Aizawa’s disappointed eyes.
He heard the rooftop access door swing open with a soft, rusty whine. He didn’t turn. He knew the cadence of those footsteps, hesitant and familiar.
Izuku stopped a few meters away, the distance feeling like a canyon. “Ochaco and Iida are turning the dorm lounge upside down looking for me,” he said. His voice was quiet, scraped raw. “I saw you come up here. I told them I was going to the bathroom.”
Bakugou didn’t answer. The wind picked up, tugging at their clothes.
“Kirishima talked to you,” Izuku continued. It wasn’t a question. “And… Aizawa-sensei, too. I saw him heading to the residential wing.”
“You got your little guard dogs running patrols,” Bakugou finally said, his voice flat and devoid of its usual heat. He stared at the sprawling city. “Congrats. You’ve officially made me a problem to be managed.”
“You made yourself the problem!” The words burst from Izuku, sharp with a pain that instantly deflated into exhaustion. “Kacchan, you… you bit me. You left a mark so deep Uraraka had to dress it. And you did it where anyone could see. What was I supposed to do?”
What was he supposed to do. The reasonable, logical question. Bakugou had no reasonable answer. Only the truth, a tangled, ugly mess in his chest. He pushed off the railing and turned around.
Izuku looked smaller under the vast sky, shadows hollowing his cheeks. The high collar of his jacket was zipped up, hiding the bandage, but Bakugou could see its edge peeking out. A white flag of surrender he’d forced him to wear.
“They’re gonna suspend my license,” Bakugou said. The statement hung in the air, brittle. “Aizawa laid it out. One week. Get my shit together or I’m done.”
Izuku’s eyes widened. The professional consequence, the nuclear option, finally seemed to register. “Because of… because of me?”
“Because of me!” Bakugou’s control snapped, his fist connecting with the railing in a dull, metallic clang. “Because I can’t focus! Because I’m causing property damage and picking fights and acting like a goddamn villain on the clock! Because of whatever this—” he gestured violently between them, “—this thing is that I don’t know how to handle!”
He was breathing hard, the admission tearing out of him. “They saw the footage, Izuku. They heard it. They know.”
The use of his given name, so rare and now uttered in a tone of utter despair, seemed to freeze Izuku in place.
Bakugou looked away, his shoulders slumping. The anger drained, leaving a cold, hollow shame. “Kirishima said… he said I’d rather be the villain in your story than risk you leaving.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Stupid. But not wrong.”
He forced himself to look back at Izuku, to meet those wide, green eyes that had always seen too much. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to want you… calmly. I only know how to take. How to fight. How to break things.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper, barely audible over the wind. “I don’t know how to love you without breaking you.”
The confession didn’t feel liberating. It felt like a surrender. Like stepping off the edge of the roof.
For a long moment, Izuku didn’t move. The city hummed below. Then, slowly, he walked forward. He didn’t stop until he was within arm’s reach, closer than they’d been since the locker room. His gaze was steady, a frightening calm settling over his features.
“Then learn.”
Bakugou blinked. “What?”
“Learn,” Izuku repeated, his voice gaining strength. “You learned to control your quirk. You learned to work in a team. You learned to be a hero people can trust. So learn this.” He reached up, his fingers hesitating for only a second before he slowly, deliberately, unzipped the top of his jacket. He pulled the collar aside, exposing the crisp white bandage taped over his collarbone.
He took another step, closing the final distance. He reached for Bakugou’s hand—his right, the one that had just struck the railing—and Bakugou let him. He didn’t resist as Izuku guided his palm, pressing it flat against the bandage. He could feel the slight padding, the texture of the medical tape, the warmth of Izuku’s skin beneath.
“This is what breaking looks like,” Izuku said, his eyes never leaving Bakugou’s. “It’s not a game. It’s not a secret trophy. It’s a wound. It hurts. And I let you put it there because I’m in love with you, and I was so desperate for any piece of you that I confused pain for passion.”
Bakugou’s hand trembled under Izuku’s. He could feel the ghost of the impact, the terrible precision of his own teeth.
“So you have one week,” Izuku continued. “Not just to save your license. To make a choice. You want me? Then you have to want all of me. The friend, the rival, the partner. Not just the body you can corner in the dark. You have to talk to me. You have to look at me in the hallway. You have to figure out how to touch me without leaving a mark.” His own tears were falling now, silent and steady. “Because I won’t survive being your secret any longer, Kacchan. And I won’t let you destroy yourself over me. Either we build something real, or we walk away for good.”
The ultimatum was absolute. It was Ochaco’s boundary, Iida’s protocol, and Aizawa’s deadline, all filtered through Izuku’s heart and given back to him as a single, impossible demand.
Build something real.
Bakugou’s fingers curled slightly against the bandage, not in aggression, but in a desperate, clumsy attempt to connect. The urge to shove him away, to yell, to reclaim the familiar territory of conflict, rose like a tide. It was easier. It was safer.
But he saw the flicker of the security camera’s red light by the door. He felt the phantom weight of his hero license, ready to be revoked. He saw the years stretching ahead, empty of this infuriating, brilliant, necessary person.
He didn’t let go.
His hand slid up, past the bandage, his calloused fingers coming to rest against the side of Izuku’s neck. His thumb brushed the line of his jaw. It was the barest touch. A question.
Izuku leaned into it, just a fraction. A silent answer.
“I don’t know how,” Bakugou whispered again, but the words were different now. Not a defiance, but a plea.
“We’ll figure it out,” Izuku whispered back. “But we start tomorrow. In the light. No more hiding.”
Bakugou nodded, a stiff, almost imperceptible movement. His hand fell back to his side. The space between them felt charged, not with the old hunger, but with a terrifying, fragile potential.
Downstairs, they could both faintly hear Ochaco’s voice calling Izuku’s name, edged with panic.
“You should go,” Bakugou said, his voice rough. “Your guard dog is barking.”
Izuku managed a weak, watery smile. He zipped his jacket back up, the bandage disappearing from view. “Tomorrow,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” Bakugou echoed.
He watched Izuku walk back to the access door, a solitary figure against the vast night. The door closed with a soft click.
Bakugou stayed at the railing, the ghost of Izuku’s warmth still lingering on his hand. Build something real. The task felt more daunting than any villain, any ranking. It required tools he wasn't sure he possessed: patience, words, vulnerability.
But for the first time, walking away felt infinitely more terrifying than trying.
He looked at his city, his kingdom of triumph and ambition, and understood that none of it would mean a thing if he had to conquer it alone. The realization didn't feel like weakness. It felt like the first, solid ground he'd stood on in months.
He turned and headed for the door. He had a week. He had to learn.
The next morning tasted like stale coffee and bitter resolution. Bakugou stalked into the main agency gym, the echo of his boots on polished concrete a deliberate announcement. He’d slept maybe two hours, his mind cycling between Izuku’s tears and Aizawa’s flat, final warning.
He saw them immediately, clustered near the weight racks like a security detail. Iida was speaking with sharp, chopping hand gestures, his back rigid. Ochaco floated a medicine ball absently, her eyes constantly scanning. And between them, Izuku, nodding at something Iida said, looking exhausted but composed.
They all went still when he entered. Ochaco’s feet touched the floor. Iida’s lecture cut off. Izuku’s eyes flicked toward him, a green flash of something unreadable—hope, fear, a plea. Bakugou processed the scene, the guarded formation. He’d expected this. He’d braced for it.
Then his gaze swept past them and landed on Kirishima, who was alone by the climbing rope, tying his hair back with a resigned expression. Something hot and immediate detonated in Bakugou’s chest.
All his tangled feelings—the shame from the rooftop, the fury at the suspension, the terrifying weight of Izuku’s ultimatum—crystallized into a single, white-hot point of blame. He didn’t even glance at Izuku.
He stormed across the gym, his focus tunneling on red hair and a worried face. The others blurred into the background. “You,” Bakugou snarled, his voice low and venomous.
Kirishima looked up, his guard already visibly up. “Bakugou, listen—”
Bakugou didn’t. His hand shot out, fingers clamping on the tough fabric of Kirishima’s tank top collar. He twisted and pulled, using his momentum to drag his friend backward. “We’re talking. Now.”
“Hey! Let him go!” Iida’s voice barked from across the room, footsteps already starting.
“Kacchan, stop!” That was Izuku.
Bakugou ignored them all. He hauled a stumbling, protesting Kirishima out of the main gym, down a short corridor, and into one of the smaller, private sparring rooms. He shoved him inside, slammed the door shut, and engaged the electronic lock with a hard punch to the panel.
The room was soundproofed, mats covering the floor, the air smelling of clean sweat and old vinyl. Kirishima straightened his tank top, his expression shifting from surprise to hardened understanding. “Okay,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Okay. Get it out.”
“What the fuck, Ei.” Bakugou didn’t yell. The words were scraped raw, trembling with suppressed violence. “You went to Aizawa. You ratted me out.”
“I tried talking to you!” Kirishima shot back, his own temper flaring. “For weeks! You blew me off every time. You were spiraling, man. You were going to take Deku down with you, and yourself, and probably the south side of the building.”
“It wasn’t your business!”
“You made it my business when you started acting like a walking hazard! When your best friend comes to me crying because he doesn’t know how to save you from yourself, it becomes my business!” Kirishima’s voice cracked. “You think I wanted to do that? You think I enjoyed telling our teacher you’re so messed up over a guy you’re biting him?”
Bakugou flinched as if struck. The image was too stark, too humiliating. “He told you that?”
“He didn’t have to. I have eyes.” Kirishima’s stance softened, just a fraction. “I did it because I’m your friend. Because suspension is better than expulsion. Because a wake-up call is better than a funeral. I’d do it again.”
The logic was unassailable. It was the same brutal, loyal calculus Kirishima always applied. It made Bakugou want to shatter something. His hands sparked, tiny, uncontrolled pops in the quiet room. “You all just decided to gang up and manage me. Like I’m some unstable weapon.”
“No. We decided to protect him. And yeah, to protect you from you. There’s a difference.” Kirishima took a step forward, his red eyes earnest. “What did you think was going to happen? You were leaving marks on him, Bakugou. In our workplace. What’s next?”
“I don’t know!” The admission roared out of him. He paced, a caged animal. “I don’t know how to do any of this. He gave me a fucking ultimatum last night. Build something real or walk away.”
Kirishima went very still. “And?”
“And I don’t know how to build!” Bakugou stopped, his chest heaving. He looked at his friend, truly looked at him—the concern, the unwavering steadiness. A different kind of ache settled in his ribs. “I only know how to fight. How to win. How to break things. That’s all I’ve ever been good at.”
Silence hung between them, thick and heavy.
“Then fight me,” Kirishima said quietly.
Bakugou blinked. “What?”
“You’re pissed. At me, at yourself, at the whole situation. You need to hit something.” Kirishima settled into a fighting stance, his skin taking on a familiar, jagged texture. “So hit me. I can take it. Get it all out here, where the only thing that gets broken is maybe this room’s deposit. Then we can talk about how you actually feel.”
It was an offer, and a test. A release valve engineered by the person who knew him best. The rage was still there, a molten pool in his gut, begging for an outlet.
Bakugou didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward, not with a quirk-enhanced blast, but with a raw, furious right hook. Kirishima hardened, and the impact was a satisfying, bone-jarring crack that reverberated up Bakugou’s arm. He followed with a left, a kick aimed at the ribs, each blow punctuated by a fractured, half-formed thought.
This is for interfering. Crack.
This is for seeing me break. Thud.
This is for making it real.
This is for being right.
Kirishima absorbed it all, weathering the assault, giving ground but not breaking. He blocked, he countered with solid, grounding shoves, but he didn’t attack. He was an anchor, letting the storm rage against him.
Sweat dripped into Bakugou’s eyes, burning. His breaths became ragged gasps. The purely physical exertion began to burn away the sharpest edges of his anger, leaving behind a weary, hollowed-out ache. He threw one last, half-strength punch. Kirishima caught his fist in a hardened palm, holding it tight.
They stood there, locked together, panting in the center of the mats.
“Feel better?” Kirishima asked, his breath coming hard.
“No,” Bakugou wheezed, but the fire was gone. He pulled his hand back, running a trembling hand through his damp hair. “I feel… stupid.”
“Good. That’s progress.” Kirishima let his hardening fade, rubbing his forearm where a bruise was already forming. “Now talk. What are you going to do?”
Bakugou slid down to sit on the mat, his back against the wall. The cool vinyl felt grounding. “He wants me to talk. To look at him. To touch him without leaving a goddamn mark.” He laughed, a dry, broken sound. “It sounds impossible.”
Kirishima sat down beside him, a solid, warm presence. “So start with the easiest one.”
“Which is?”
“Looking at him.” Kirishima bumped his shoulder against Bakugou’s. “You spent all morning glaring at me. Go out there and just… look at him. Like a person. Not a rival. Not a secret. Just Izuku.”
The simplicity of it was insulting, and maybe that’s why it was the only thing that could possibly work. Bakugou’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. A single text from an unknown number, but the area code was UA faculty.
Aizawa: Your mandatory counseling session is scheduled for tomorrow, 10 AM. Dr. Hana’s office, 4th floor. Attendance is not optional.
The finality of it was a cold splash of water. The clock was officially ticking. He had six days left.
He looked at Kirishima, who was watching him, waiting. His friend. Who had betrayed him to save him. Who had just let him use his body as a punching bag to clear his head. The loyalty was so fierce it was painful.
“Thanks,” Bakugou muttered, the word foreign and gravelly in his throat.
Kirishima smiled, a small, genuine thing. “Anytime. Now go. Your… Izuku is probably having a panic attack thinking I’m a smear on the mats.”
Bakugou pushed himself to his feet, every muscle protesting. He walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. The hallway light was harsh. He didn’t look back.
He had to learn. And it started now.
The hallway’s fluorescent lights were too bright, stinging his sweat-salted eyes. He blinked, and the scene snapped into focus down the corridor. Izuku was trying to shoulder past a rigid, blocking Iida, his movements jerky with panic. Ochaco had both hands on his arm, her mouth moving in fast, placating words that didn’t seem to reach him. Their heads all snapped toward Bakugou in unison as the sparring room door hissed shut behind him.
Three pairs of eyes, wide with varying degrees of fear, anger, and dread, locked onto him. He saw the immediate calculation in Iida’s gaze, the protective shift of his weight. Saw the way Ochaco’s fingers tightened on Izuku’s sleeve.
Izuku looked wrecked. His breath hitched, his face pale under the freckles. He was braced, Bakugou realized, for bloodshed. For Kirishima to be carried out. For everything to finally, completely shatter.
A sharp, familiar disdain curled in Bakugou’s gut, but it felt thin, performative. He let out a short, dismissive tsk, the sound cutting through the tense silence. “He’s not dead, idiots,” he muttered, his voice rough from the fight. His eyes, almost against his will, flicked to Izuku’s. Just for a second. A glance. Not a glare, not a challenge. A simple, terrible acknowledgment.
Then he looked down at the scuffed floor tile, breaking the connection. He walked past them, his footsteps echoing in the too-quiet hall. The weight of their stares pressed against his back, but he didn’t turn. He had his appointment to think about. The words from Aizawa’s text burned in his mind like a brand. Mandatory. Not optional.
Tomorrow, 10 AM. A different kind of battlefield.
The sparring room door hissed open again. Kirishima walked out, rolling a sore shoulder, the knuckles of his right hand already purpling. He scanned the empty hallway, then looked toward the trio clustered further down. His eyes found the retreating back of Bakugou, already turning the far corner without a glance back.
“Tch.” Kirishima clicked his tongue, a smirk tugging at his split lip. “I’ll smack him next time I see him.” He said it mostly to himself, because there was no way Bakugou had just left without looking at Deku. But he had. At least, that’s how it looked from here.
A collective, shuddering exhale seemed to deflate the group. Ochaco’s grip on Izuku’s arm went slack. Iida’s rigid posture softened by a millimeter.
“Is he—” Ochaco started, her voice thin.
“Fine,” Kirishima interrupted, walking toward them. He nodded at Izuku. “He’s fine. We talked. Well, I got punched a lot, then we talked. Same difference.”
“Violence is never the appropriate conduit for discourse, Kirishima!” Iida’s hand chopped the air, but the edge was blunted by sheer relief.
“Yeah, well, it’s his love language. You get used to it.” Kirishima stopped in front of them, his red eyes serious now. He looked directly at Izuku. “You okay? And don’t give me the hero spiel. Really.”
Izuku’s throat worked. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Bakugou’s fleeting glance. It wasn’t anger. It was something else, something unfamiliar and fragile. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the honesty feeling dangerous. “He just… left.”
“He’s processing,” Kirishima said. “Got his suspension notice. And a mandatory therapy appointment tomorrow at ten.”
Therapy. The word landed like a stone in water, sending ripples through all of them. Ochaco’s eyes widened. Iida adjusted his glasses, a rare loss for words.
“That’s… good?” Ochaco ventured, hesitant.
“It’s necessary,” Kirishima corrected. “He’s got a week to get his head straight or he loses his license. He knows it. He’s terrified.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He told me about your… talk. On the roof.”
Izuku flushed, a hot wave of embarrassment. He’d laid everything bare, and now Kirishima knew the pathetic depth of it.
“Hey.” Kirishima’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “It was the right move. You drew a line. He needs lines. He’s never had to navigate anything without them.” He glanced down the empty hallway where Bakugou had vanished. “The looking thing. He’s trying. In his own, messed up way.”
“It did not appear as though he was trying,” Iida stated, crossing his arms. “It appeared as though he was fleeing the scene of an emotional crime.”
A weak laugh bubbled out of Izuku, startling himself. “That’s… probably accurate.” He hugged his own torso, the bandage under his clothes a dull, persistent ache. “He said he’d learn. I just don’t know if he can. Or if I’m strong enough to wait and find out.”
Ochaco looped her arm through his, leaning her head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be strong alone, dummy. That’s what we’re here for.”
“Uraraka is correct,” Iida said, his tone firming back into its usual cadence. “While I cannot endorse the… physical complexities of your situation, you are our friend. We will ensure the rules of basic human decency are observed.”
Kirishima grinned. “See? You’ve got a whole support squad. He’s got me and a grumpy therapist.” His expression sobered. “He’ll be at the appointment tomorrow. He’s too proud not to go. But after that… it’s on him. You gave him the terms. You gotta be ready for whatever he decides.”
The terms. Build something real, or walk away. The ultimatum had felt powerful on the windy rooftop. In the sterile, fluorescent hallway, it felt like holding a live wire.
Izuku nodded, a slow, heavy motion. The panic was receding, leaving a deep, weary resolve. “I know. I just… I need to know he’s actually fighting for it. Not just fighting.”
“Give him the week,” Kirishima said. “Not a day more. That’s all any of us have got.”
They stood in a loose circle, a quiet understanding settling between them. The immediate crisis had passed, but the tension hadn’t broken. It had just changed shape, becoming a slow, anxious countdown.
Izuku’s phone buzzed. A notification for a debrief meeting in twenty minutes. The mundane world was reasserting itself, demanding his attention.
“We should go,” he said, not moving.
“Yeah,” Ochaco agreed, also not moving.
Iida checked his watch, then sighed, uncrossing his arms. “The world continues to require saving, unfortunately. Even from itself.”
Kirishima clapped a heavy hand on Izuku’s back, careful to avoid the bandaged area. “He’ll look tomorrow. I’d bet on it.”
Izuku didn’t ask what he’d be looking for. Redemption, or a exit sign. Both were possible. The not-knowing was a hollow space inside him, echoing with every heartbeat.
He turned and led the way down the hall, his friends falling into step beside him. Their footsteps were the only sound, a steady rhythm marching toward the next impossible thing.