Chapter Text
It’s not the first time it’s happened.
(Duh.)
He came to expect it at some point. Don’t speak or you get muzzled. If anything, school was a break from the norm. The dorms, an even more welcome reprieve seeing as he’s able to stay there on weeknights. The norm being that he wasn’t allowed to talk and if he did he’d get punished. Punishment varied. Hit, yelled at, at one particularly bad house he had gotten lashed across his feet. He wasn’t able to walk normally for two weeks. He was twelve when it happened.
But it was normally a muzzle.
Sometimes his foster parents were prepared. They had checked the little box when applying to be foster guardians that said they were prepared for children with enhanced (re: dangerous) quirks knowing full well it came with more government money. Those ones usually already had muzzles. Honestly he preferred those types of foster parents. If they had already bought a muzzle then usually they knew to buy one which would fit. Or at least one that was made for a human person. Sometimes they would even allow for eating and drinking even though they still kept him from talking.
But eventually they ran through the prepared foster parents. His case worker would haul him up to the door of some unlucky family by the ear, usually cursing about what a nuisance he was, and would knock on the door until some bastard answered. She’d explain his quirk and then, the only reason they said yes, explain the financial benefits it came with. How fostering a “difficult” child like Shinsou came with 50% more government money. Normally upon hearing that the foster parents would say yes.
They were unprepared. They never had human muzzles so they would work with what they had. Rope, or saran wrap, or spare leather. Always tied too tight. Always hard to breath.
But the worst were the dog muzzles. It had only happened three, maybe four times. But it was excruciating. They never fit (obviously). It always squeezed his face wrong. Made it nearly impossible to breathe. Fucked with his jaw so bad he still wears a jaw spacer to bed nearly two years after the last time he had to wear one.
But the worst part was that it never stopped hurting.
With other muzzles he’d get used to it eventually, no matter how uncomfortable or ill-fitting. But not with dog muzzles. They never stopped digging. Pinching. Cutting .
He still remembers when he was seven years old and his foster parents held him down to get one on for the first, but certainly not last, time. It wouldn’t have mattered if they hadn’t been able to get it on. His voice was too hoarse from screaming and shouting to be able to speak for the next two days after.
This is worse though. He didn’t think anything could be worse than the first time. The shock of it, the confusion, the realization that people thought he was dangerous; he didn’t think anything could be worse than that.
But this is.
He’s bleeding on the bathroom floor. He thinks he must have passed out there after they put it on. It’s not a lot of blood. The muzzle is keeping enough pressure against the wounds it’s creating to make too much. But it’s still sticking around the edges some.
He feels sick.
He’s dealt with bad muzzles before. The rope burn around his mouth for days. The ones that had plastic that went nearly all the way down his throat to make sure he utter a single word. The dog muzzles .
This is worse.
He doesn’t know the way it's set up. Doesn’t know the mechanics. But he can feel it cutting into his skin. Not digging, cutting . It’s sharp . It’s intentional . It’s set up like this on purpose .
There’s something thick and plastic running down his throat. He couldn’t make a sound if he tried. He’s choking .
He needs to figure out a way to get it off .
He stands up slowly, the full brunt of his headache immediately hitting him. He wraps his hands around the porcelain sink and then he looks up.
Fuck .
He looks like a mess. Blood is crusting around the edges of the muzzle and his hair is mussed up from the fight he put up and his eyes are red from crying he didn’t even realize he had been doing. The muzzle comes all the way up to the bridge of his nose, probably for more security as opposed to ones which covered only his mouth.
He won’t be able to get it off himself. He can already tell that just by looking at it. Or at the very least not without a sharp knife to cut the leather straps running around his head. A knife which he obviously doesn’t have possession of because God knows what his foster parents would do or, worse, his case worker if they found him with one. They’d probably just throw him in one of those group homes for kids straight out of Juvie again. He’s only ever been in those while in between foster homes and he sure as hell doesn’t want to land himself an extended stay.
He didn’t ever consider using his quirk. Not even once. Not even when the foster parents were holding him down and putting this thing on his face. Because then they’d be right. Then he’d deserve it.
He needs to get out of here.
He doesn’t run from foster homes unless they’re really bad but this… He lifts his hand to touch the spot where metal meets skin. This is really bad.
He takes a step back, forcing himself to turn away from his reflection. He puts his hand on the bathroom door knob. Steadies himself. He’s been through worse. He can get through this.
…
He’s standing on the corner maybe two blocks away from the foster home. The corner right where the subway trains empty out. He has a duffle bag full of his stuff hanging at his side. Over the years he’s learned to pack light. The necessary clothes, his capture weapon, toiletries, a pencil case full of random jewelry and makeup Jirou has given him over the past couple months, and a battered copy of Midsummer Night’s Dream that Kaminari had gifted him at some point. He said it’s Shakespeare's best, even going as far as to get into a very heated debate with Mic in the middle of class at one point.
He texted Bakugou.
Why the fuck did he text Bakugou?
His first instinct was Kaminari. But he didn’t want to scare him off with all this bullshit. Second was Jirou, but she would just want to kick his foster parent’s asses which wouldn’t help anybody. And… Shinsou doesn’t really have anybody else. He’s not close with anybody else in his class and he’s okay with that. He likes it like that. But at moments like this it’s… unhelpful to say the least.
But he still remembers when Bakugou got muzzled at the first sports festival.
Still remembers watching the smoke pour out of the holes in the muzzle as Bakugou vehemently pulled against the steel holding him there.
Remembers the way his stomach dropped as he watched it happen. Realized it could happen to him .
And so he thinks Bakugou might get in. On the most basic level Bakugou will at least understand what it feels like to have a muzzle on. Maybe not everything around it. Maybe not the foster homes, or the abuse, or the fear. Fear that you’re in danger, and that you never won’t be in danger, and that you are a danger.
But he’ll at least get what it’s like to wear a muzzle.
And he hopes he gets here soon because it’s cold out and he doesn’t want anybody to see him like this and the muzzle fucking hurts .
And Bakugou said he was coming. He said that he would meet him on the corner that Shinsou specified and that he might be late because he had to take the subway and it's unreliable but that he’s coming . But it’s Bakugou so Shinsou’s not really sure if he should believe him. Actually, he’s not really sure of anything about Bakugou. They’re not close. Which is why it makes even less sense that he would take a half hour train just to come help Shinsou get a muzzle off and figure out a place to crash.
And then the train comes in and even as it’s slowing to a stop Shinsou can see Bakugou standing in an otherwise empty cart (which would normally point to the cart smelling awful or being similarly disgusting but is relatively expected considering it’s nearly midnight).
The doors stutter open and Bakugou steps onto the platform. He looks like he crawled out of bed for this, still wearing flannel pajamas and a stained Red Riot sweatshirt. His backpack is hanging limply from his shoulder. He looks over Shinsou who's dressed similarly only with a duffle bag and a muzzle. His eyes catch on the muzzle, the crusting of blood. His eyes widen slightly and his mouth falls open a bit. Not pity. Surprise. Apologetic, maybe.
The silence sits in the air for a moment. The space between them tense and unbroken. They’re both waiting for it to crack.
“Well, fuck.” Bakugou comments matter of factly.