The Weight of Ashes

The sirens had faded hours ago, but the ringing in Katsuki Bakugo’s ears refused to stop. He sat on the edge of a cot in the medical wing, staring at his hands. They were trembling—not from exhaustion, not from the residual adrenaline of the fight. They trembled because he could still feel the tiny fingers slipping through his grasp.

A child. A little girl with red ribbons in her hair. He had reached her just as the ceiling gave way. He had been fast enough to grab her, but not fast enough to shield her from the falling debris. She had looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes before they went dark. The paramedics said she would live, but the image of her limp body was seared into his retinas.

“Bakugo.”

He didn’t look up. He knew that voice—low, tired, perpetually unimpressed. Aizawa-sensei stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his capture weapon coiled like a serpent around his neck.

“You need to eat something. The others are in the common room.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Aizawa sighed. “That wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. “I had her. I had her, and I let go.”

“You caught her in the first place. Most people wouldn’t have even made it that far.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they only sharpened the blade twisting in his chest. His quirk—Explosion—was made for destruction. He was a weapon, not a savior. That was Deku’s job. Always Deku.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered.

Aizawa studied him for a long moment, then turned and walked away. The door clicked shut, and the silence returned.

---

Downstairs, the common room was a mess of tension. Class 1-A huddled in small groups, speaking in hushed tones. No one was celebrating the victory. The villain had been captured, but the cost had been high. Several civilians were injured, including a six-year-old girl who was still in intensive care.

Izuku Midoriya sat on the couch, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had gone cold. He hadn’t been there—he had been on the opposite side of the city, dealing with a different threat. But he had heard the reports. He had seen the footage of Bakugo diving into the collapsing building, of him emerging with the child in his arms, of his anguished roar when she stopped moving.

“Deku.”

He looked up. Ochaco Uraraka stood in front of him, her face pale. “Have you talked to him?”

“He won’t talk to anyone,” Izuku said. “I tried going up there, but he just yelled at me to go away.”

“That’s not new,” Katsuki said dryly, but there was no humor in his voice. Even he looked shaken.

“This is different,” Izuku whispered. “He’s not angry. He’s… broken.”

The word hung in the air like smoke. Broken. They had all seen Bakugo angry, arrogant, explosive. They had never seen him silent. They had never seen him tremble.

---

The next morning, Bakugo was gone.

His room was empty. His bed was unmade, his costume missing from its hanger. Aizawa checked the tracking chip in his hero license—it placed him at the edge of the city, near the old industrial district.

“I’m going alone,” Aizawa said, shrugging on his jacket. “He’s unstable. If he sees too many people, he might bolt.”

“Let me come.” Izuku stepped forward. “Please, sensei. I know him. I know what he’s thinking.”

Aizawa hesitated, then nodded. “Stay behind me.”

They found him at the ruins of a warehouse—the same one where the villain had set up his base. The building was a skeleton of twisted metal and rubble. Bakugo sat on a chunk of concrete, his head bowed, his gauntlets lying in the dirt beside him.

“Kacchan.”

Izuku’s voice was soft, but Bakugo flinched as if slapped.

“Go away, Deku.” His voice was hoarse, raw. “I don’t want to hear your inspirational bullshit.”

“Then don’t listen.” Izuku stepped closer, ignoring Aizawa’s warning hand. “But I’m not leaving.”

Bakugo’s head snapped up. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face streaked with grime and tears. “You think you can fix everything, don’t you? You think you can just smile and say the right words and suddenly it’s all better? It doesn’t work that way!”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t! You don’t know what it’s like to have blood on your hands!”

“Actually, I do.” Izuku’s voice cracked. “I remember the Sludge Villain. I remember drowning in filth while All Might watched. I remember thinking I was going to die—and I remember you standing there, frozen.”

Bakugo’s breath hitched. That day. The day he had been too weak, too scared, to save Deku.

“I’ve never blamed you for that,” Izuku continued. “But I know you blame yourself. Just like you’re blaming yourself now.”

“She’s a little girl, Deku. She’s six years old. And I couldn’t—” His voice broke. He buried his face in his hands.

Aizawa remained silent, watching. Izuku took another step and sat down beside Bakugo, not touching him, just close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

“You saved her life, Kacchan. Yes, she got hurt. But she’s alive. She’s going to grow up and have a birthday and fall in love and become a hero—because you were brave enough to run into that building.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It has to be. Because if we let ourselves drown in the things we couldn’t do, we’ll never be able to do the things we can.” Izuku paused. “Eri taught me that.”

The name hung between them. Eri—the girl they had rescued from Overhaul. The girl whose trauma had taken years to heal. The girl who still had nightmares, still sometimes flinched at loud noises, but who smiled more and more each day.

“She’s not the only one who needs to forgive themselves,” Izuku murmured. “You’ve been carrying this weight for a long time, Kacchan. Not just this. Everything. All the way back to when we were kids.”

Bakugo’s shoulders shook. “I was a terrible person.”

“You were a kid. A kid who was scared and angry and didn’t know how to deal with it. But you’re not that kid anymore.”

“I told you to jump off a roof.”

Izuku’s chest tightened. He remembered. He remembered the words like a brand. But he also remembered Bakugo’s face afterward—the flicker of guilt, the way he had stomped off without looking back.

“You were nine. And you’ve apologized a thousand times since, in your own way.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Then do more.” Izuku turned to face him. “Be better. Not for me. For yourself. For the people you’re going to save. For that little girl.”

Bakugo lifted his head. His eyes were hollow, but there was a faint spark—a flicker of the stubborn fire that had always defined him.

“How?”

“By not giving up. By letting us help you. By accepting that you’re not alone.”

A long silence. Then, slowly, Bakugo reached out and picked up one of his gauntlets. He held it in his lap, fingers tracing the scratches and dents.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m drowning.”

“One breath at a time.” Aizawa finally spoke, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “One step at a time. And when you can’t take a step, you let someone carry you.”

Bakugo looked at his teacher, then at Izuku. For a moment, he looked like he might bolt again. But instead, he let the gauntlet fall and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Izuku didn’t say it was okay. He just put a hand on Bakugo’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I know.”

---

They returned to the dorms in the early afternoon. The rest of Class 1-A was waiting, their anxiety palpable. When Bakugo walked in, they all fell silent.

He looked around the room—at Kirishima, who grinned; at Kaminari, who gave a thumbs up; at Uraraka, whose eyes were wet; at Todoroki, who nodded once. He saw Eri peeking from behind Aizawa’s leg, clutching a small stuffed rabbit.

She walked up to him, her steps hesitant. “Mr. Bakugo?”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

“I heard you saved a girl yesterday. I was saved once, too. It was scary, but I’m okay now.” She held out the rabbit. “This is my favorite. Do you want to borrow it? It helps me when I feel sad.”

Bakugo stared at the toy. His throat tightened. He took it carefully, as if it were made of glass.

“Thanks, kid.”

Eri smiled, and for the first time in two days, Bakugo felt something other than guilt. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet. But it was the beginning of a path.

He still had a long way to go. But he wasn’t walking it alone.

---

That night, Aizawa found Bakugo sitting on the roof of the dormitory, the stuffed rabbit in his lap. The stars were out, cold and distant.

“You’re not going to jump, are you?” Aizawa asked flatly.

“No.” Bakugo’s voice was steady. “I’ve got too much to do.”

Aizawa sat down next to him. “Good.”

They sat in silence for a long time, watching the city lights flicker below.

“Sensei?”

“Mm.”

“Thank you.”

Aizawa didn’t reply, but he allowed a small smile to cross his face. It was a start.