Silence (KiriBaku) {Deaf Bakugo AU}

I'll never be a hero like this

TW:: Self-h

He grumbled as he exited the doctors office for the second time that month. He had been told that his hearing would continue to worsen as he got older, but it shouldn't get too bad until he was eighteen. He was silent the whole car ride home and tossed his bag on his bed. He collapsed on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. He felt tears roll down his face as he thought to himself I can't be a hero like this! I can't even use my quirk! He sniffed and sat up, wiping his eyes. An image of Kirishima popped into his head and a small smile graced his lips as he mumbled to himself "I guess I shouldn't cry Kirishima. It isn't manly." He laughed a bit and rolled his eyes, thinking of the manliness obsessed redhead.

He leaned back into his pillow, closing his eyes, images of Kirishima floating past his eyes. His smile, his laugh, his eyes, his hair. The truth was, he was a very soft person, but he knew he couldn't let it show. He hated Izuku for being able to be soft. If he let anyone see his soft side it would all come flooding out. Things that were better kept secrets. He sighed and stood up cursing himself for letting himself be weak. He swallowed hard as he began packing up his suitcase to go back to the dorms after the weekend was over.

He flicked open his pocket knife, staring at the knife, at its sharp blade. Cut Katsuki. You deserve to hurt for being such a monster. Kirishima would never love a monster like you. The voice in the back of his head whispered to him, making the knifes blade seem to glint invitingly. He placed the blade against his bare shoulder, pressing down, hissing slightly from the pain. He pressed down until he began to see small spots of blood spurting up from where he pressed. He gasped from the pain and rushed to his bathroom to bandage his arm. Disgusting monster. Cutting yourself where people might see. How could you cut yourself? Kirishima would never love someone so broken. Bakugo slammed his hands down on the sink, clenching his fists on the tile. He made his way to his room feeling hot tears drip down his face and onto his sketchbook as he began to draw.

Drawing, singing, and cooking were some of the few healthy coping mechanisms he had. He, of course, had other... less healthy coping mechanisms. Those though, he kept hidden much better. Hours later he put down his pencil, yawning as he checked the time on his phone, flinching at the bright light. 2:33 AM. He stumbled over to his bed, wrapping himself in the soft orange blanket.