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Katsuki trudges slowly through the large doors of the convention centre. The floors are lined with tables, all showing off the newest hero tech. Above them, large strips of fluorescent lights line the ceiling, shining their harsh white glow over the building.
Immediately, Katsuki wants to turn around and walk right back out of those huge doors. But he can’t, because he’d been asked to speak in one of the later interviews. Several of his co-workers had been asked to speak as well. Pro heroes Shouto, Deku, and Chargebolt among others.
Katsuki doesn’t really care. But they had all wanted to visit the conference early so they could get a chance to explore all of the fancy hero tech. And Katsuki got dragged along, cause of fucking course his friends aren’t gonna let him mope around the hotel all day. It’s their first away from home conference since graduating from UA the previous year, and Katsuki knows his friends are nervous. He’s seen Deku practicing the lines over and over in the mirror, testing out different tones and wording and expressions. Shouto is more subtle in his anxiety, but Katsuki knows he’s unsettled over the prospect of unknown interview questions. Denki on the other hand, announces his own fear every few hours. The last had been on the train ride over, while he simultaneously chugged an extra large coffee from the hotel restaurant.
Katsuki had snatched the coffee from his hands and dumped it in the bin, reminding him how anxious caffeine always makes him. This elicited shrieks of outrage from Denki, which Katsuki promptly ignored while turning to face the window.
Now, less than thirty minutes later, Denki brings up the topic again.
“Do you think they’re gonna ask about my application marks? Cause I did really well in English but Math… not so much.” He winces and Katsuki rolls his eyes.
“They aren’t gonna ask about your fucking school marks in an interview,” he scoffs. The tone is a little rough, grating and sharp.
“They might!” Denki says, lifting his hands as if to prove the point.
“I really don’t think they will,” Deku cuts in. He’s got that soft, worried expression on, and Katsuki knows he’s about to launch into a reassuring speech about what will probably be covered in the interviews, complete with references from all the research he’s done over the past week on the subject.
He tunes out after that, turning his attention to Shouto.
He’s still holding his large iced coffee from breakfast, sipping slowly at the straw with a somewhat sleepy, absentminded expression.
“You still not finished that?”
Shouto blinks, then shakes the cup lightly so he can check how much is left. “No,” he answers, and takes another sip.
“You’re the slowest fucking drinker I’ve ever met.” Katsuki doesn’t know why that annoys him so much. It shouldn’t, but the way the other man slowly sips at his drink keeps catching his attention. He turns away, frustrated at his own annoyance.
As they walk through the first showcase hall, the lights seem to grow brighter, boring into Katsuki’s eyes until they water and throb. He blinks, brings a hand up to rub across his temples. He really doesn’t want to be here. This sort of place isn’t really his scene at the best of times, but today, everything seems to be bothering him more than usual. He’s strangely cold, even though he’d tugged on an extra hoodie just before leaving the hotel. It doesn’t seem to be doing much though, so maybe they just have the air conditioning on really fucking high, because despite the thick hoodie, Katsuki’s shivering slightly as they walk.
His head is throbbing too, a light ache, barely enough to consider a true headache, but enough to make him squint against the bright lights. Part of him wishes he thought to bring Tylenol along. He knows Deku has some—he’s like a fucking walking pharmacy—but he’s too embarrassed to actually ask. It’s just a tiny twinge of pain anyway. Not even a true headache. Just a reaction to lack of sleep and the blaring fluorescent lights. It’ll probably be gone later that day.
It’s not. By the time lunch rolls around, Katsuki’s head is full on throbbing. They’d toured the entire first building of booths, stopping frequently for Deku to talk to the vendors and ask a million questions about whatever new hero tech they were showcasing.
Normally Katsuki would’ve been interested in this too, but he’d found he was too tired and couldn’t gather the energy to engage in conversation with the vendors. So he just listened, wishing he could go back to the hotel and curl up in his comfortable bed.
And now he’s standing in the cafeteria area, waiting as the other three decide where to go for lunch. The room is loud, filled with the clash of dishes and people talking animatedly to each other.
Katsuki wants to squeeze his eyes closed and run away from the busy environment, but he pushes through, orders the spiciest curry from one of the food vendors and sits down at a table with his friends.
His hands shake slightly as he raises the first spoonful to his lips. It’s hot, both in flavour and temperature, and as soon as it touches his tongue, he has to fight the urge to spit it out. It’s not as if it tastes bad or anything, more like the concept of swallowing food suddenly seems like a very bad idea.
He grimaces, chews slowly and forces himself to swallow. The curry coats his tongue, sliding down his throat and leaving a sharp burn radiating through his mouth. He grabs the bottle of water he’d also purchased, chugging a few mouthfuls of the liquid.
“Too spicy for Kacchan even?” Denki teases, eyes alight with glee.
Katsuki glowers at him. “Shut up. It’s not even that spicy. Just went down the wrong way.”
Denki giggles lightly to himself despite Katsuki’s protests, seemingly encouraged rather than dissuaded by the words.
It annoys Katsuki, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight, so he turns back to his meal and scoops up another bite. His stomach rumbles, twisting slightly as he stares down at the thick curry. A little bit slides over the edge of his spoon, splatting back down onto the plate with a sickening thud.
His stomach churns.
“Katsuki?”
He looks up, right into the worried gaze of Shouto.
He’s got his head tilted slightly to the side, brows creased as he observes Katsuki. “Are you alright?”
“Fucking fine,” Katsuki snaps automatically. And he is. Sure, he’s fucking exhausted and his head won’t stop throbbing and now even his stomach seems to be against him, but it’s just lack of sleep, or nerves, or something stupid that he needs to fight.
“Okay,” Shouto says, but he doesn’t look convinced. He’s still watching Katsuki through curious eyes, chopsticks raised halfway to his mouth.
“Eat your fucking food. You’ve got an interview right after lunch.” Katsuki knows this because he made a whole schedule for everything, laying out each of their interview times with the other attractions they wanted to visit. They’d all been invited to solo interviews, which he was told was very unusual for new heroes. That just made it all the more important for them to make it on time.
Across from him, Shouto nods thoughtfully and goes back to eating, leaving Katsuki to spin his spoon through the curry and rice spread across his plate.
A shiver runs through his body, spreading along his limbs and down to the very tips of his toes. And it’s fucking weird because he’s sweating. Like a lot. And Katsuki’s used to sweat. His quirk relies on it, so he’s used to dealing with it, but this is odd. Because he shouldn’t be sweating this much when he’s literally shivering from cold. It’s like his body is collapsing from the inside, every internal sensation conspiring against him. But he can’t let it win, he has to fight. He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine.
He forces himself to finish the rest of his meal, chasing down each bite with a large swig of water. He manages to eat the entire plate, but it sits heavy in his stomach, settling like a sludgy pile of clay.
When they get up from the table to clear away their plates, Katsuki feels his legs tremble beneath him. Static rushes through his senses, spreading a thick veil of grey fog over his eyes. He freezes, panting out quick breaths as he fights to stay conscious. His head spins, the room dipping before his hazy eyes. It’s suddenly way too hot, like he’d stepped straight from a blizzard into a sauna.
Fingers scrabble at the edge of his hoodie, trying to claw away the heavy fabric. He swallows, fights the sudden panic rising within because he doesn’t feel good.
“Kacchan!”
Someone’s speaking, Deku probably. His voice is sharp with worry but Katsuki can’t figure out what’s going on through his hazy vision.
Then hands are on him, gripping his shoulders and guiding him down, away. His knees crumple beneath him and then he’s on the floor. It’s cool against his hands where they fall to brace himself. It feels good. He kind of wants to lay down, press his whole face against the floor because he’s so hot. So fucking hot.
“Katsuki?”
Another voice speaks. It’s right next to his ear, must belong to the person holding him up.
“Mm,” he hums, thick, slow. He wants to say more, but the words get stuck in his throat. His chest burns with nausea, crawling and crawling and he’s suddenly scared he might throw up. Distantly, his mind goes to the curry he just ate. The way it’s sitting heavy in his stomach, bubbling away.
He gags, brings a fist up to press against his mouth.
“Shit,” someone says, and yeah. Shit.
He swallows again, squeezes his eyes closed and tries to breathe. He can’t see anyway through the heavy grey fog, so he might as well close his heavy eyes.
It’s better like this, at least a bit. He doesn’t have to see the swirling dots, but the floor still seems to dip beneath him. His head feels light and foggy, slow, like each movement he makes takes double the time it normally would.
“Breathe, okay, hold on.”
“—water.”
“Yeah, I think—”
Snatches of sentences nip at his senses, hovering at the very edge of his consciousness. Then something cool is pressing against his forehead and he leans into it, sucks in a breath and sighs because it feels so fucking good and he’s so hot.
He sits there, listens to the murmuring voices all around him and just breathes. Breathes and breathes as he waits for the static to slowly fade and the light floaty feeling to recede.
He doesn’t know how long it takes before he’s blinking open heavy eyes, but the room has finally stilled and his vision’s no longer shrouded by grey dots. He swallows, sucks in a slow breath and lets it out through parted lips.
He’s shaking slightly, a light tremor running over his entire body.
Something’s pressed against his hand and he looks down, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights. Someone’s holding a water bottle out to him.
He takes it, shaky fingers fumbling with the cap as he brings it to his lips. It’s cold, fresh, and he takes a few small sips before pulling back. “I’m okay,” he says when he finally pulls away from the bottle. His voice comes out hoarse and a little shaky and he feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment.
Suddenly he’s very aware that he’s on the floor, half sitting, half leaning against… something. He turns, and meets wide, mismatched eyes. Of course. He’s leaning against Shouto like a fucking idiot because he just almost passed out. In the middle of a hero convention.
Shame crawls through his chest, climbing up his throat and tightening until he feels like he can barely breathe. He swallows, presses a palm against the floor and pushes himself to his knees.
“Whoa, hey, hold on. Give yourself a minute.” It’s Deku this time. He’s kneeling on the floor in front of Katsuki, eyes wide with concern. “You just fainted, take a breath, alright?”
“Didn’t faint,” Katsuki bites through gritted teeth. “And ‘m fine.” He scowls, fights the sudden burning that crawls up his throat. He doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to have people staring at him. He feels like shit and he just wants to go back to the hotel, but he has to push through. Has to pretend everything’s fine because it isfine. He just got a little dizzy because he stood up too quickly.
He pushes himself off Shouto, grips the table with one trembling arm and drags himself to his feet. The room wavers slightly before his eyes at the change in position, but he manages to stay upright. “I’m fine,” he says again, cutting off Deku’s impending speech of concern. “Come on, we gotta go to Shouto’s interview.” And with that, he grabs his bag and stomps off towards the exit, jaw clenched and eyes fixed firmly ahead.
Despite the mishap at lunch, Shouto’s interview goes well. The other three sit together, cheering him on and listening intently. Deku even takes a few photos of Shouto on stage to post on twitter later. His plan is to collect pictures of all of them doing their first official convention interviews and then post them as an announcement.
Katsuki thinks its fucking stupid, but he’s not about to try arguing with Deku. He’s feeling a little better after the almost fainting incident, much to his relief. He’s back to feeling cold and shivery again, which is unpleasant, but he’ll take that over nausea and light headedness any day. Sitting down is also nice, and the lights in the auditorium are slightly dimmed, giving him relief from the pounding headache throbbing behind his eyes.
When Shouto comes back around to meet them after the interview, Katsuki’s convinced whatever happened earlier was a fluke. It must have just been an extreme reaction to nerves and lack of sleep, but he’s okay now, so he doesn’t have to worry.
Denki’s interview is next. They make their way to the new hall, Deku chattering animatedly the whole time about the different questions they asked in Shouto’s interview.
The conference room is all the way across the convention centre, and they don’t have much time to spare before it starts, so they end up half power walking, half jogging to make it there on time. Which shouldn’t be a big deal—they’re heroes after all. But by the time they reach the required hall, Katsuki’s panting and trembling all over. His legs ache and his head is throbbing so bad he can barely think.
Denki disappears behind the backstage curtain with a grin and a wave, and the others go to find seats.
Katsuki trails behind, dragging his feet as he follows his friends. He sits stiffly in one of the seats, fighting the urge to close his eyes and curl into himself. The dizziness is back, not quite as strong as it had been in the cafeteria, but bad enough that nausea coils deep in his stomach.
He swallows, shifts a little in his seat. The lights dim and he hears the voice of the interviewer boom out across the room, causing him to wince and squish his eyes closed at the volume. His head throbs, pounding in time with his heartbeat and he’s suddenly feeling hot all over again.
At first, it’s a relief from the icy chill, but after only a few minutes, he’s tugging anxiously at the front of his hoodie. He feels sticky all over, drenched in a heavy, oppressive heat that seems to sink right into his bones.
He gulps, reaching down to slowly tug his thick hoodie over his head and off his arms. He feels a little better with it off, less suffocated, but the relief is short lived. As he sits there, fighting the anxiety bubbling away in his chest, his stomach begins to flip. He swallows, a hand travelling unconsciously up to his chest where nausea tingles slowly to life.
The back of his throat is tight, airways clenching down as he feels his stomach sour. He can feel all of the curry sloshing around inside of him, churning and bubbling like magma inside an active volcano.
Sweat trickles slowly down the back of his neck, sliding down in little sticky trails to meet the collar of his shirt. He wipes idly at it, wincing when his hand comes away wet with sweat. Carefully, he wipes the substance off on his pants, movements slow and stilted.
His heart is racing in his chest, thudding and thudding so fast and loud he feels like everyone should be able to hear it. Anxiously, he glances over at Deku and Shouto, but they’re watching the interview with rapt attention, eyes glued to the stage. Which is good because Katsuki doesn’t think he can hide how bad he’s feeling if they were to ask. And he’s pretty sure if they took one look at him right now they’d realise something was off.
His stomach gives an uncomfortable little flip and he feels saliva pool in his mouth. It’s hot and soupy, disgustingly thick and he wants to spit it out, but he can’t because he’s sitting in the middle of a lecture hall. So he swallows again, feels the thick saliva slide back down his throat to join the turbulent contents of his stomach. For a moment, he thinks he’s going to be okay. He closes his eyes, breathes in and out through his nose, thinks of cool fresh air and ice cubes and water. But then the nausea returns in full force, surging across his chest in a large tingling sweep and he’s bending forward, fighting the urge to cup a hand in front of his face as his stomach gives a sharp, involuntary heave. He needs to get out of here. Needs to leave right the fuck now before he throws up in the middle of the lecture hall.
He swallows thickly, stands on shaky legs and pushes past the other people in their row to get to the exit. Deku and Shouto are too focussed on the interview to notice, so he manages to escape without detection. Which is good because he doesn’t have time to stop and come up with some kind of excuse. He’s going to throw up right the fuck now and there is no way in fucking hell he’s going to let that happen in the middle of the lecture hall.
He makes it to the back of the room and bolts for the bathroom, fighting down the urge to clamp his hand over his mouth. He can’t let anyone see. Can’t let them know.
Luckily the bathroom isn’t far, just across the hall from the room they’d been in. He slams open the door, pushes himself into the first available stall and turns around, sweaty fingers fumbling with the lock. He manages to get it closed just as his stomach jolts again, a violent heave ripping through his body.
He whirls around, staggering to get his face over the toilet. The first few gags are empty, sharp and violent. And it hurts, leaves him panting and shaking and he just wants it to stop. Wants to get it over with because he feels so sick. So fucking sick.
His knees shake, giving out beneath him and he slowly sinks to the floor, hands gripping the toilet seat as another gag rips up his throat. And this time it’s productive, liquid rushing up his throat and spilling into the water with a horrible, sickening splash. He pants, coughs and gags and trembles because it hurts. Fucking burns. If the spicy curry was hard to get down, it’s even worse coming back up. It burns his throat, claws and shreds at his insides and before he knows it, he’s crying, tears dripping down his cheeks as he hovers over the bowl. Shaky fingers grip the toilet seat, keeping him upright. And it’s gross. Really fucking gross because this is a public bathroom and it’s disgusting but he can’t stay upright on his own and he just feels so sick.
Waves of nausea continue to crash over him, flooding his system until he’s heaving again, gagging up more of the disgusting half digested food into the toilet. He’s so hot, burning and shaky and overwhelmed. His thin shirt is drenched in sweat, leaving him trembling and unsteady and miserable.
He coughs and spits, panting heavily. His eyes are tightly closed now because he doesn’t want to see the contents of the toilet. So he just sits there, pants and pants and spits as saliva continues to pool in his mouth.
It feels like he sits there forever, lost in an endless spiral of misery, but after a while, the nausea begins to fade. He’s able to open his eyes, shift to flush the toilet and wash away all the evidence of his shame.
His face is sticky with sweat and tears, so he reaches for the toilet paper roll next to his head, pulls off a generous supply of the paper and wipes his mouth. He repeats the process a few times, then moves to the rest of his face. His hands shake as he works, trembling so hard he can barely control his movements.
He’s suddenly cold again, shivering and shivering and he wishes he thought to bring his hoodie. But it’s all the way back in the lecture hall with his friends. His friends… fuck.
Almost as if on cue, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, flicks it on and blinks down at the bright screen. It’s a message from Shouto, asking where he went.
He swallows thickly, dragging himself away from the toilet. He needs to get back. They’re going to wonder where he is. Going to worry and he can’t let them know. Can’t let them see him like this because he’s a fucking mess. And he still has to attend his interview. No fucking way is he going to miss this opportunity just because of a little headache and upset stomach. He’s Bakugou fucking Katsuki. He doesn’t let sickness defeat him.
So he exits the stall on shaking legs and trudges over to the sink to wash his hands. He turns the hot water tap on all the way, relishing the heat as it washes over his trembling fingers. He splashes a little on his face as well, wiping it dry with paper towels from the dispenser just above the sink.
As he’s throwing the used paper towels away, he happens to glance up and catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. His heart sinks. The image looking back looks pale and sickly, eyes sunken in and dark around the edges. He looks like fucking shit and they’re going to notice. Deku will probably notice as soon as he gets back because he’s fucking observant as shit and then they’ll ask and they’re going to know. He can’t let them know.
Swallowing down the fear, he fishes in his pocket, breathing a small sigh of relief when he finds the emergency stick of concealer he keeps there for situations just such as this.
He gets to work quickly, carefully spreading it under his eyes and around the edges of his mouth where his skin is red and swollen from being rubbed by paper towels. It isn’t perfect by any means, but it helps, covers up the sickly grey and hides the most obvious signs from view.
When he finally leaves the bathroom, his stomach is tight with anxiety, palms sweaty and sticky, but he swallows down the fear and walks stiffly back into the lecture hall.
As soon as he reaches their row, both Shouto and Deku turn to face him.
“Kacchan!” Deku hisses, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the other attendees. “Are you okay?”
“Where were you?” Shouto adds. He’s got his head cocked to the side, brows creased in worry.
Katsuki swallows. He slides awkwardly into his own seat, gulping down the anxiety rushing through his chest. “Just had to take a call,” he lies. “The hag wanted to know what brand of paprika I like best.” It’s a really fucking lame lie, but the others seem to buy it, or at least have the decency not to continue pressing.
“Oh, okay,” Deku says, at the same time Shouto asks, “Couldn’t that wait?”
Katsuki shrugs, hunched down in his chair. “She needed it for cooking. Shut the fuck up and pay attention to the interview.”
People are giving them side looks, glaring at the interruption, so Deku and Shouto both return their attention to the interview, much to Katsuki’s relief.
He tugs his hoodie back over his head and leans back in his chair, fighting the shivers rushing through his body in relentless waves. His stomach still feels a little queasy, unsettled and turbulent like he just spent five hours swerving through the windiest roads, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to throw up again, so he’ll take that as a win. He wishes he could close his eyes though. A deep exhaustion has settled into his bones, heavy and thick and pushing down against him. His eyelids feel heavy, like someone had poured cement over them, and he just wants to curl up in a ball and sleep. Sleep and sleep and not wake up until the horrible aches and nausea are gone.
He zones out through the rest of the interview, eyes staring blankly at nothing. He feels a little bad not paying attention, but his head just aches so bad and his eyes hurt and his mind feels foggy and distant, like the thoughts are drowning in a deep, cold lake of icy sludge.
They must have turned up the air conditioner too because he’s colder than ever. Deep, full body shivers run through him, wracking his frame and making his muscles tense up so hard they begin to ache as well. It’s fucking miserable. And the worst part is, he has to do his own interview in less than twenty minutes.
He imagines walking up on stage, sitting in the little chair under the bright lights and answering question after stupid question. Just thinking about it makes his stomach churn unpleasantly. He doesn’t want to do this, but he has to. He can’t back down, can’t let a little sickness stop him because he’s a hero and heroes can’t be weak like this.
So when Denki’s interview finishes, Katsuki claps along with everyone else and gets up to follow his friends out of the rows of seats to meet up with Denki. He swallows down the anxiety crawling through his stomach, plasters an angry scowl on his face, and marches across the room with purpose. And if any of them notice the sweat beading on his forehead or the light tremor of his hands, they don’t mention it.
Katsuki’s own interview isn’t too far from the room Denki’s was in, which is a huge relief because he really doesn’t think he can walk all the way across the convention centre again. But just as he’s about to head in that direction, he’s stopped by a quiet call from Deku.
“Uh, Kacchan?”
Katsuki turns, glaring daggers at Deku. He looks nervous, uncomfortable, and Katsuki has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “What?”
“Um, I know we said we were all gonna watch each other’s interviews, but I just got a call from All Might and apparently one of the other heroes is out sick so they need someone to fill his spot. It’s hard to find anyone since it’s so last minute, but they asked if the three of us could sub for him…” He gestures at Shouto, Denki, and then himself.
“That’s what you’re so anxious about?” Katsuki scoffs. He shrugs, trying to keep the motion casual. “It’s whatever. I don’t fucking care if you’re there or not.”
“Are you sure?” Deku’s wringing his hands together, looking even more nervous if that’s even possible. “We agreed to watch each other’s interviews. This is a really big deal Kacchan. I feel bad abandoning you.”
“It’s not fucking abandoning. I’m a grown ass man. I can handle it.” Secretly, Katsuki’s a little disappointed, but there’s also a sense of relief at the prospect of being alone. He’s a little worried about how this interview’s going to go, considering his rebelling body. And he really doesn’t want his friends to see him fuck up on stage. Not that he will cause he’s gonna nail this thing, upset stomach or not, but he kind of likes the idea of having a few less witnesses.
“Ahhh you sure? I feel bad man…” Denki’s shifting from side to side, twisting and untwisting the cap of his water bottle. He looks restless, probably from the adrenaline of just having finished his first international interview.
“I’m fucking sure. Just drop it.” He snarls the words, sharp and bitter like acid on his tongue. He knows he’s being rude. Knows they’re just trying to be considerate, but he doesn’t feel well and he just wants to get this stupid interview done with.
“Are you okay?”
The question catches him off guard. He looks up, scowls as he prepares to snap back. Shouto’s staring at him through dark, narrowed eyes. He looks suspicious, puzzled, like he’s trying to figure out some mystery. His eyes trail up and down Katsuki’s body, then settle on his face again.
“I already fucking said I’m fine,” Katsuki snaps. He’s had enough of this. His head throbs in time with his thudding heart as it pounds against his ribs. It’s uncomfortable and sharp and he’s so fucking sick of this. “I have to go.” He turns on his heel and stomps off across the room, leaving the other three standing in stunned silence.
Deku tries to call after him, apologising again, but Katsuki ignores him. He just wants to get away. Maybe if he gets there with enough time, he can sit down and close his eyes for a minute before the interview.
The others don’t try to follow him, whether it’s because of his snarled warnings or because they’ve finally learned not to bother him when he’s grumpy, he doesn’t know or care. As he walks, his phone buzzes with a few messages from Deku, but he ignores them, keeping his gaze fixed firmly ahead and concentrating on putting each foot in front of the other.
By the time he reaches the hall labelled clearly on his map, he’s exhausted and sweaty again. He’s dizzy too, not enough to make walking hard, but enough that he’d really prefer to sit down. He gets there only a few minutes before the interview, so as soon as he dips behind the curtain, he’s swamped by people. They shove him in a chair and get to work on his makeup, touching up his features with expert ease and spiking up his hair with product. And normally he’d hate other people touching his face and hair—he prefers to do his own makeup thank you very much—but today he’s too tired to care and he knows how bad he looks so it’s probably for the best.
The whole process is a whirlwind of activity, and soon he’s being pushed up the steps onto the stage with whispered words of good luck.
As soon as he steps out onto the stage, his eyes are hit with the bright glare of sharp fluorescents. He swallows, fights the overwhelming urge to close his eyes and steps tentatively across the stage. Cheers erupt through the crowd and he feels his stomach twist slightly with anxiety. Is he nervous? He shouldn’t be fucking nervous. It isn’t like he’s never done an interview before. This shouldn’t bother him.
He grits his teeth, clenches his hands into fists and steps over to the empty chair in the middle of the stage. There’s a little table in front of it, with a mic and unopened bottle of water. As soon as he sees it, he has the sudden urge to snatch it up and down the entire thing, mouth suddenly dry and barren.
“A huge welcome to pro hero Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight!”
The crowd cheers, yelling and screaming in excitement as they chant his name.
Katsuki swallows, feeling hundreds of eyes follow his every move as he sinks down into the chair.
A woman in a long, emerald green dress beams at him from a chair just across from him. He guesses she must be the interviewer. “Welcome, Dynamight. How are you enjoying the convention so far? I’m sure you’ve noticed we’ve got quite a few Dynamight cosplayers around.” She waves out at the crowd and a bunch of people shriek and yell, waving to show off their costumes.
Katsuki scowls even harder. “Thank you for having me,” he says, channelling everything he’d learned from the million All Might interviews he’d watched over the past many years. He’d begun studying them obsessively after that first failed interview with Shouto. Being cut from the entire thing hurt him more than he’d ever admit, and he’d been determined never to let that happen again.
“Of course! We’re honoured to have such a young, aspiring hero as yourself here with us today!”
Her voice is far too cheerful. It grates at Katsuki’s ears, makes his head pound and his vision sway. He grits his teeth, forces himself not to snap.
They continue on like that for a while, Katsuki forcing out careful answers to all of the questions. It’s exhausting and a lot of fucking work. There’s no clock on the stage, so he can’t tell how long the interview’s been going on for, but he’s starting to get really tired. It’s hot onstage, lights blaring down, and he suddenly wishes he didn’t choose to wear his hoodie. He could always take it off, but that would mess up his hair and it might be rude to do that in the middle of the interview. Which isn’t something he usually cares about. If he’s hot, he’s gonna take off his fucking jacket. But for some reason, he can’t get himself to move.
“How does it feel to be one of the youngest heroes at an international convention such as this?” the woman asks.
Katsuki blinks. His vision wavers a little and he has to swallow thickly before responding. “I’m proud to be here. I’ve worked hard to be in this place and I’m honoured to be invited.” Good, good. It sounds like they’re getting to the end. He’s going to get through this. It’s almost done and then he can go back to the hotel and sleep for the rest of the day.
“Very noble,” she says, smiling. “I’ll admit I’m a little surprised by your answer. I’m sure all of us here today are aware of your uh… difficulties when it comes to emotional outbursts, particularly anger.” She glances knowingly over at the crowd while adding, “I think we’ve all seen the Dynamight blowing up compilations.”
Katsuki swallows, anxiety crawling up his spine. He doesn’t like where this is going. His chest suddenly feels very tight, palms clammy. He doesn’t want to answer, wishes he was anywhere other than this stupid interview. But if he doesn’t say anything, she’s going to start prodding him with more questions, so he takes a deep breath, settles his nerves, and opens his mouth. “I’ve had some difficulties with emotional regulation, but I’ve worked very hard on myself over the past few years and I’m confident that this won’t interfere with my work as a pro hero.”
The interviewer turns back to him, flashing a winning smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure you have, though I can’t help but worry about the permanence of that solution. It’s all well and good to speak about these things in an interview setting, but in the heat of the moment, will you really be able to control those intrinsic urges? I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ll admit I’d feel safer being rescued by one of the gentler heroes like Deku.”
Katsuki feels his jaw tighten. His teeth grind together, throat suddenly very tight. He tries to open his mouth, come up with some kind of response, but his mind comes up blank. Words keep spiralling through his head, repeating over and over.
You’re a failure. Dangerous. Unsafe. You could never be a hero. Not with the way you are. Not when you can’t even control your own emotions.
He swallows again, thick, slow. There’s a deep, throbbing ache in his throat, radiating up into his mouth and across his chest. It burns, aches at the back of his throat each time he swallows. “I’m not. I—I’ve worked very hard on those issues. I’m not like that anymore.” The words choke up his swollen throat, spilling past his lips. To his horror, his voice shakes slightly, coming out feeble and uncertain. He swallows again, coughs.
The interviewer nods again, and when she speaks, her voice is drenched in pity. “I believe that, but do those things ever really change?”
The vice around Katsuki’s throat tightens. He blinks hard, eyes suddenly burning, and with a horrifying wrench of shock, he realises he’s close to tears. He blinks again, swallows around the thick, burning lump that’s lodged itself in his throat. “I have,” he says, though the words come out more as a feeble whisper. “I have changed.”
The interviewer smiles again, a small, knowing smile as if they’re sharing some close secret. “Have you? Because I couldn’t help but notice your friends didn’t come to watch your interview.”
There’s silence for a moment, deep palpable silence that fills the entire room, and in that moment, Katsuki feels something inside him break. He wants to run. Bolt off the stage and hide, but it’s too late. Because then that moment is over and tears are welling up, burning and burning in his eyes and they’re spilling over, rushing down his cheeks and he can’t stop them, can’t hold them back no matter how hard he tries. He swallows, gulps and gasps in heavy breaths, but they don’t help. He’s full on crying, tears dripping slowly down his cheeks and he can’t fucking stop. Desperately, he brings a hand up to his face, rubs at his eyes and presses down hard, tries to get the tears to stop but they just flow harder, faster.
The interviewer is staring at him in shock, eyes blown wide in horror as she watches his face scrunch up against the tears. “Oh. Oh dear,” she stammers. “You’re crying.” She’s still wearing a mic and her voice echoes out over the room.
Audience members gasp, some calling out in surprise and worry and horror as they watch the scene unfold.
Katsuki gasps out a breath, hand still pressed against his eyes. He feels a sob crawling up his throat and swallows hard, angrily trying to shove it back down. Because of course this situation has to get worse. It’s not mortifying enough to shed a few tears. He has to fucking sob because just like everything else in his life, he doesn’t half ass crying, so he’s a really fucking loud crier.
“How about we talk about something else. Can you tell me about any jobs you’ve worked recently?”
Katsuki shakes his head, trying to get his ragged breathing under control. He can’t speak past the horrible tightness in his throat. Why the fuck is the woman still trying to continue the interview? He can’t do this. He needs to get out of here. But he can’t get himself to move, so he just sits there as waves of humiliation crash over him.
People are standing from their seats, phone cameras flashing right in his face. He turns his head away, trying to shield it with his eyes, but he feels trapped, surrounded and watched and panic suddenly wells hot and thick.
His breath quickens, sharpening with each gasp he drags in. He knows he’s breathing wrong, knows he’s hyperventilating and it’s just going to make everything worse, but he can’t stop, can’t slow down because everything’s moving too fast and he’s dizzy and the lights are flashing and it’s just all too much.
He reaches for the water bottle on the little table, unscrews the cap with shaky fingers and brings it to his lips. He swallows a few gulps, feels the cool liquid run down his throat. It soothes the burning a little so he chugs some more, desperate for any form of relief.
It seems to help, at least in the moment, but that moment is short lived. As soon as he pulls away, his stomach begins to churn, angry at the sudden influx of water. He swallows, fights the urge to close his eyes as nausea creeps along his chest. He can feel it crawl up his throat, settle right at the back as it tries to initiate his gag reflex.
He’s sweltering again, skin burning and itching and he wants to scratch it off. Wants to get away from the people and the flashing cameras because he doesn’t feel well. “I—I need to go,” he blurts, eyes unfocussed as he tries to signal the interviewer. He doesn’t know if she responds, but he gets up anyway, tripping over his feet in his haste to exit the stage.
As he rises, a wave of dizziness slams over him, fuelling the nausea already bubbling within. He feels himself sway, swallows and swallows.
Someone’s standing in front of him, saying something he can’t make out through the static swarming his ears. He shakes his head, trying to push past them. He needs to get out of here. Needs to leave right the fuck now.
“Hey, let’s get you out of here,” someone says suddenly. There’s a hand ghosting over his arm, not quite touching, but there, ready to support him if his legs give out.
He nods, swallows as thick saliva fills his mouth. “I don’t feel good,” he says, because he feels like he needs to tell someone, warn them because he knows he’s moments away from throwing up.
“It’s okay,” the person says. Her voice is kind, gentle but not condescending.
Katsuki appreciates the difference, but at this point he doesn’t have the emotional capacity to fully comprehend why. He shakes his head, walking on shaky feet across the stage. The stage hand walks beside him, staying close. She’s quiet, but Katsuki can tell she’s watching as she leads him along.
He’s so close, almost away from everyone, but as he walks, his stomach jolts, sours and squirms and he feels his throat tighten suddenly. He stops, hand coming up to cup in front of his mouth. His throat bobs as he swallows, once, twice, and then he’s jolting forward, doubling over as a harsh heave rips up his throat.
It’s empty, rakes against his throat but he knows in that moment with absolute certainty that he’s about to throw up in the middle of the stage. He turns slightly, trying to tilt himself away from the audience as his stomach constricts with another heave and then there’s liquid rushing up his throat and he can’t stop it.
He leans over, awkwardly hovering over the ground as half digested food spills past his lips to splatter across the floor.
People are shouting around him, rushing up from the sides of the stage. More cameras flash and with a sickening jolt Katsuki realises this is all on camera. Shame crawls through him, hot and burning like the acid still lingering on his tongue.
It’s disgusting, hot and thick and he desperately wants to rinse his mouth out, but he needs to move, get off this stupid fucking stage because he knows from the way his stomach churns that he’s far from done.
Almost as if on cue, someone grips his arm, tugging him toward the stairs at the edge of the stage. It’s the woman from before, the stage hand who’d spoken so understandingly. She leads him away from the mess, down the stairs and back behind the curtain that shields the little back stage area.
People rush around, all speaking at once and Katsuki wants to close his eyes and hide from the world. Mortification spreads like a thick fog over his body, filling up his chest until it aches with horror and humiliation.
“Let’s get you sitting down,” the woman says gently. She leads him to a couch off to the side, motions for him to sit.
He does, sinking down into the cushions. As soon as he’s down, he leans over, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his forehead rest against his upturned palms. His breath comes in quick, short pants, fast and frantic.
“There you go, just breathe,” the woman says, voice calm despite the situation. “Are you still feeling sick?”
Katsuki nods, swallows down a sob as his stomach churns angrily at the motion.
The woman disappears for a moment, moving off somewhere Katsuki can’t see, and then a trash can is being pressed into his lap.
He lifts his head, wrapping his arms around the bin and hugging it to his chest.
The couch dips slightly as she moves to sit next to him. “Is there anyone I can call to come get you?” she asks.
Katsuki swallows. He has his eyes tightly closed as he fights the nausea churning away in his stomach. “I can—I can call.” He doesn’t want anyone to know. Doesn’t want his friends to see him like this but he knows he can’t stay here forever because they have to run other interviews and he’ll have to go back to the hotel eventually. He doesn’t really want to stay here anyway, where all the stage hands and crew are staring at him and rushing around trying to do damage control.
The woman nods as he fumbles around in his pocket to find his phone. He locates it quickly and taps the screen to turn it on. As he stares down at it, he suddenly feels very lost. Who should he call in such a situation? He clicks to the messaging app and reads over the names, blinking to clear the tears from his eyes. His eyes land on the name at the very top of the list and he feels a tiny surge of comfort rush through him. Before he knows what’s happening, he’s hitting call and bringing the phone up to his ear.
It rings for a while and for a minute, Katsuki fears the call won’t go through, but then a familiar voice filters through the speaker.
“Katsuki?”
He lets out a small sigh of relief at the familiar tone. “Shouto. H-hi.” His voice wobbles on the last word and Shouto immediately picks up on it.
“Are you okay? Shouldn’t you be in your interview?”
Katsuki shakes his head even though he knows Shouto can’t see him. “I don’t. I… can you come get me?”
There’s a sharp inhale of breath and then Shouto’s speaking again, voice dark with worry. “What happened? Where are you?” There’s a shuffling sound, like he’s already moving.
Katsuki feels tears burn in his eyes as humiliation rises. “H-hall B6,” he says, swallowing thickly. “I don’t feel good.” A sob rushes out with the last few words, chasing up his throat right on their tail.
“Okay, I’m coming. Just hold on,” Shouto says and then the call disconnects.
Katsuki lowers the phone from his ear, staring down at the screen, and then another sob jumps up his throat, followed by another and he just can’t hold them back.
The stage hand stays next to him, sitting quietly as Katsuki cries and hugs the trash can to his chest.
It doesn’t take Shouto long to get there. He must have run across the convention centre because not long after the call, he’s bursting through the dark curtain and rushing over to Katsuki. “Hey, what happened?”
Katsuki shudders, eyes welling with tears as he sees Shouto. “I d-don’t know. It was… They asked about stuff and I didn’t know what to say and they w-wouldn’t listen. I just s-started fucking crying and I couldn’t stop and I th-think I’m sick cause I feel r-really really bad.” He cuts off, sucking in a breath.
“Okay, um… shit.” Shouto glances around the little curtained room, then back at Katsuki. “Did you throw up?”
Katsuki nods, face crumpling. “O-on stage.” The words come out with a sob and he curls into himself, wrapping his arms tighter around the bin.
Shouto’s face twists in sympathy and then he’s moving to sit next to Katsuki. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay.”
“No it’s fucking n-not okay,” Katsuki sobs. He can feel his throat tightening again, nausea coiling within and he just wants it to stop.
“The interviewer asked some really inappropriate questions,” the stage hand says in a hushed tone. She gets up from where she’d been sitting on Katsuki’s other hand, grabbing a plastic bag and a water bottle and handing them over to Shouto.
Shouto’s eyes darken, lips twitching with anger, but he simply nods. “Okay. Thanks for sitting with him. Uh… Katsuki do you think you’re okay to walk to the train station?”
Katsuki swallows, shrugging slightly, but he moves to stand, setting the trash can on the floor next to the couch. His arms snake around his middle, wrapping tight like he can hold himself together just by pressing down hard enough. And he knows he can’t really, but it feels a little better like this.
“Okay, I’m gonna text Izuku we’re heading back to the hotel early. He and Denki are still doing their interview.”
Katsuki stares at him, watery eyes wide and brimming with tears. “You left your interview? For… for me?”
“Of course,” Shouto says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You called.”
Katsuki feels something shift inside him, a huge, crushing weight that had been pressing down on his heart lifting away. He swallows, feeling a rush of emotion swelling up at the realisation of what Shouto just did. And then he’s crying again, sniffling quietly and Shouto holds out a tissue, smiling gently.
“Let’s get you back to the hotel. I think you might have a fever.”
Katsuki nods, too tired to try and argue. “Felt sick this morning too,” he admits.
Shouto frowns, eyes narrowing. “What? You’ve been feeling like this all day?”
Katsuki shrugs. He suddenly doesn’t want to meet Shouto’s eyes. “Not as bad.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Another shrug.
Shouto’s staring at him with wide eyes, horror written all over his face. “When you left suddenly during Denki’s interview did you… were you throwing up?”
He looks horrified and Katsuki doesn’t want to confirm his suspicions. He can see the guilt flitting across Shouto’s face, creasing his brow. His mouth opens and then falls shut again, moving beyond his control. So he stays silent, but Shouto knows, Katsuki knows he does.
“You should’ve said something,” he says finally, eyeing Katsuki with worry.
Katsuki nods, looking away. “Yeah, guess so.” He feels another tear slide slowly down his cheek and then Shouto’s reaching out, pulling him into a tight hug.
He stands there for a moment, frozen in place, and then he feels himself melting into the hug.
Shouto’s a really fucking good hugger. His arms are strong, wrapping around him in a firm embrace and holding him tightly. It’s a safe feeling, secure. A hug was the absolute last thing he’d been expecting, but he realises now it’s exactly what he needs.
He leans in, rests his aching head against Shouto’s shoulder, breathes in the familiar scent. He likes being this close to Shouto, thinks he’d like to do this again some time, maybe under better circumstances. Because it’s nice.
When Shouto finally pulls back, Katsuki misses the soothing touch, but he follows as Shouto leads him to the door, staring down at the ground as they walk so no one sees his tear stained face.
They take the train back together, sitting side by side on the worn bench. Katsuki closes his eyes and breathes slowly through the motion induced nausea, but he manages to make it through the twenty minute trip without throwing up, so he counts that as a win.
By the time they get back to the hotel, Katsuki’s beyond exhausted. He’s feeling unpleasantly nauseous again after the train ride and he just wants to curl up into a ball on the bathroom floor and sleep.
Shouto guides him to the elevator, one firm hand on his arm. He holds the plastic bag at the ready through the whole journey, eyeing Katsuki as if he expects him to throw up any minute. Which is fair considering Katsuki feels about three seconds away from hurling. He’s dizzy again, vision wobbling unsteadily with the motion of the elevator. As he steps off, he stumbles a little, and Shouto lunges forward to steady him.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles, glaring at Shouto, but he doesn’t move away from the grip.
“Come on, we need to get you lying down.” Shouto leads him down the hallway and Katsuki just follows, heavy feet dragging across the carpeted floors. They pause at their door, Shouto leaning forward to unlock the door.
As soon as it opens, Katsuki moves inside, kicks off his shoes and flops face down on the bed. As soon as he’s horizontal, he curls up, arms tugging up around his stomach again.
Shouto closes the door and moves over to the bed. He reaches out, then pauses, hand outstretched. He seems to have been about to try and touch Katsuki, hand hovering close to his face, but he stops, hesitates. “Are you feeling nauseous right now?
Katsuki nods. He’s a little disappointed as Shouto lowers his hand back down to his side, but he doesn’t have the energy to think too hard about it.
“Feel like you might throw up?”
Shouto’s going through his usual questions. He does this a lot, like he’s following a pre determined script for what to say when people are sick and Katsuki thinks it’s fucking annoying but also kind of… sweet. Almost. In a weird sort of way.
“Dunno,” he says finally, giving a small shrug. “Feel really queasy but I think I’m okay right now.”
Shouto nods but brings the little trash can from the bathroom over to Katsuki’s bed. “Okay. I’ll put this here just in case.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes dramatically. “Dunno why you even bothered to ask if you were gonna bring it over anyway.” He’s relieved to have it though, because he’s not entirely sure he’d be able to make it to the bathroom with how exhausted he’s feeling.
“Forgive me for not fully trusting your answer,” Shouto says, moving to turn out the light.
Katsuki sighs, burrowing into the blankets.
Shouto steps over to the bed and sits on the edge. He reaches out and tugs the covers up over Katsuki’s shoulders. “I know you don’t like talking about this kind of stuff, but do you want to tell me what happened?”
Katsuki’s silent for a moment. He digs his fingers into the edge of the blanket, feels the way the material catches on his nails. “I thought I was better,” he finally whispers. The words come out soft, breathy, drenched in emotion. “I worked so fucking hard but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” He pauses, sucks in a slow, shaky breath.
Beside him, Shouto shifts on the bed, but he doesn’t speak, just waits for Katsuki to continue.
Katsuki appreciates his patience—the way Shouto doesn’t push and prod for him to answer immediately. He swallows, feels a single, hot tear slide down his cheek to drop onto the clean white sheets. “She said I can’t control those kinds of angry urges. That no matter how hard I try, I can’t change that part of myself. And she—she wouldn’t feel safe being rescued—” He breaks off, sucks in a sharp, painful breath before breathing the last two words, “by me.”
Silence falls, thick and heavy and Katsuki feels that now familiar ache rise in his chest. He swallows, gulps and gasps as he tries to fight against the raging onslaught of tears. Because he doesn’t want to cry in front of Shouto. Doesn’t want to let him see. Cause he’s a fucking mess. A failure. And that interviewer was right. He hasn’t changed. Not really.
“Katsuki,” Shouto says, and it’s firm, commanding almost.
Katsuki sniffles, tucks his face into the blankets as tears roll slowly down his hot cheeks.
“That’s fucking bullshit.” The words rush from Shouto’s mouth, tart with the sharp bite of anger. “I don’t know how that person got to be a reporter but she’s just plain wrong. She knows nothing about what you’re like. Hasn’t seen all the work you’ve put into yourself. All the work you still put into yourself. And that’s her loss cause you’re one of the bravest, kindest people I know. I’m continually in awe of the way you work to better yourself. You’re an inspiration, Katsuki. To me, to other heroes and civilians—to the world. And honestly if someone can’t see that, they don’t deserve to spend time with you.”
And then the bed’s shifting, and Shouto’s moving, and before Katsuki knows what’s happening, he’s being pulled into a tight hug. Shouto’s arms are strong, firm and comforting and Katsuki sinks into them. He closes his eyes, lets the tears fall as his body shakes and shakes.
When Shouto speaks next, it’s whispered, his voice low and soft, only for Katsuki. “I want you to know I’m here for you. Always. You’re really important to me, Katsuki, and I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but you don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to do anything alone.”
Katsuki nods his head slowly, fighting to form words as his throat constricts around sobs. “You’re such a…fucking…sap,” he mumbles, voice choked and shaky. But when he turns around and meets Shouto’s eyes, he can’t keep the smile from his face.
“Maybe I am. But I think that’s what you really need right now.”
And he’s right. As always, he’s fucking right. Cause Shouto seems to somehow always know. Without Katsuki saying anything. Hell, he seems to know before Katsuki himself most of the time. And he finds he doesn’t actually mind all that much.
“There you go, just breathe,” Shouto says softly. He brings a hand up to Katsuki’s forehead, brushing it lightly across to press against his damp skin. “I think you have a fever. You’re really warm.”
Katsuki groans lightly, not looking up. “’m fucking freezing,” he mumbles, voice still hoarse from tears.
Shouto hums in sympathy, pulling back from Katsuki. “You should rest. Hopefully this is just a 24 hour bug or something.”
“Mm,” Katsuki breathes, nuzzling down into the blankets. Sleep sounds like a really good idea right now, and he finds himself comforted by the fact that Shouto will be right there with him in the room the whole time. Which is something he should probably be embarrassed about, and probably will be later after he inevitably ends up vomiting in front of Shouto, but for now, it’s okay.
“Sleep well.” Shouto stands from the bed, moving slowly so he doesn’t jostle Katsuki too much. “I’m gonna call and see if room service has any Gatorade or something.”
“Light blue stuff,” Katsuki mumbles, cracking his eyes to blink up at Shouto.
“What?”
Katsuki waves a hand at him, too dizzy to lift his head. “Get the light blue stuff. Glacier freeze. ‘s my favourite.”
Shouto smiles, expression softening as he watches Katsuki. “Good to know.”
There’s something else in his smile, something Katsuki can’t quite identify, but it makes his heart jump and his chest pool with warmth. “Thanks,” he whispers, and closes his eyes.