Chapter Text
Saturday evening arrived faster than Bakugou had anticipated.
He'd held it together all week. Work, patrols, training to the point of exhaustion—anything to collapse face-first into Shouto's pillow by nightfall and shut his brain off. But Kirishima had sent the message on Thursday:
"Bro. Saturday. 7 PM. Hero. Kaminari already booked a table. No excuses. You haven't left the house for anything but work all week."
The bar called "Hero" was a spot their agency had claimed since their sidekick days. Dim lighting, exposed brick walls, music that hummed in the background instead of screaming—you could actually talk without shredding your vocal cords. And they poured drinks without asking stupid questions.
Bakugou sat with his back to the wall—old habit, drilled in by combat experience. Kirishima settled across from him, and Kaminari slid in on the side, already studying the cocktail menu like it was the most consequential decision of his life.
"I'm getting the Green Lightning," Kaminari announced. "It's got lime, mint, and something sparkly. Sounds like me."
"Sounds like carbonated piss," Bakugou cut in, not even glancing at the menu. "Whiskey. Neat. Nothing else."
"Straight to whiskey?" Kirishima raised an eyebrow. "Maybe start with a beer?"
"I'm not on a fucking date, Shitty Hair. If I'm drinking, I'm drinking."
"Whoa," Kaminari hummed. "You're extra prickly tonight. Even for you."
Bakugou said nothing. Because there was nothing to say. He was prickly. Because waiting at home was an empty apartment, Shouto's stupid flowers—which he'd already checked on twice today—and a bed he'd been sleeping in for six nights straight.
The excuse of "just checking if they croaked" had stopped working after night two.
"How's Shouto, anyway?" Kaminari took a sip of his cocktail, which had turned out to be a violently neon green. "He keeping in touch? Or is it the usual—one word every three days?"
"He's in touch fine," Bakugou muttered. "Messages every day."
A pause settled over the table. Kaminari and Kirishima exchanged a glance.
"Every day?" Kirishima clarified. "Like, every day?"
"THE HELL'S IT MATTER?!" Bakugou already knew he'd screwed up, but backing down wasn't in his nature. "He wants me to water his stupid flowers, so he messages!"
"Flowers," Kaminari repeated, in a tone that promised nothing good. "You're watering his flowers."
"I ALREADY TOLD YOU! SO THEY DON'T STINK!"
"Bro, flowers don't stink when they wilt," Kirishima said gently. "They just... dry up."
"WHATEVER!" Bakugou knocked back half his whiskey in one go. The burn was welcome—familiar. Unlike that dull, nameless ache somewhere beneath his ribs that flared every time his phone buzzed with a notification that wasn't Shouto.
"Okay, okay," Kirishima raised both hands in surrender. "We're just messing with you, bro. Relax. Another round?"
Bakugou exhaled. Nodded. Kirishima ordered more whiskey.
The second glass went down easier. The third might as well have been water. Somewhere on the blurry border between the third and fourth, Bakugou felt the world soften—edges rounding, thoughts slowing to a lazy crawl.
"Y'know," Kaminari was on his fourth cocktail by then, speaking with that drunk sincerity that usually ended badly, "it's kinda sweet."
"What's sweet?" Bakugou turned his head, and the room swayed gently. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second.
"Y'know. You and Shouto. He leaves, and you take care of his flowers, wait for his messages... It's real, bro. Like... like an old married couple."
"We're not a couple." Bakugou's voice came out flat, stripped of its usual explosive protest. "He's just... my roommate."
"Right," Kirishima smiled, a little too knowingly. "The roommate you bought soba for."
Bakugou froze for the second time that night.
"How. Do. You. Know. About. The. Soba."
"You told us, man," Kirishima shrugged. "Like, five minutes ago. You said, 'That idiot doesn't even have decent soba over there, had to buy some, otherwise he'll come back and there's nothing to eat.' Verbatim."
Bakugou stared at his empty glass. Then at Kirishima. Then at Kaminari, who was quietly losing his shit with his forehead pressed to the table.
"I didn't say that."
"You did, bro."
"I FUCKING DID NOT SAY THAT."
"You also added," Kaminari lifted his head, wiping tears from his eyes, "that the soba's on the top shelf, and if he doesn't appreciate it, you'll shove it up his ass. Direct quote."
Bakugou opened his mouth. Closed it. His temples throbbed, his chest burned, and it wasn't just the alcohol.
"I'm going home." He stood abruptly, and his chair wobbled traitorously. Kirishima caught his elbow immediately.
"I'll call a cab. Kaminari, you got the tab?"
"Yuh-huh." Kaminari's head was already back on the table, but a thumbs-up appeared.
Outside, the cold hit like a slap. The October wind cut through him, sobering him up just enough. Bakugou stood with his hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, staring at the empty street while Kirishima fumbled with his phone to call a ride.
"Listen," Kirishima spoke first, not looking at him. "I'm not gonna push, I swear. Just gonna say one thing, and you can blow me up later when you're sober."
Bakugou said nothing.
"It's okay. To miss someone. Even if you don't wanna call it that. Even if you yell at flowers and pretend everything's normal. It's okay to wait for someone to come back."
Bakugou still said nothing. He stared straight ahead, into the dark alley across the street.
"He'll be back soon, bro. Missions don't last forever."
The cab pulled up. Kirishima opened the door and helped Bakugou climb in.
"Seatbelt. And... don't blow up the driver, yeah?"
"Fuck off, Shitty Hair," Bakugou muttered, but there was no venom in it. Just exhaustion.
The car pulled away. The city drifted past the window—lights, shopfronts, the occasional pedestrian. Bakugou leaned his forehead against the cold glass. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Todoroki_Shouto:
How was your evening?
Bakugou stared at the message for a full minute. Then he started typing, deleting, typing again. His fingers weren't cooperating. The letters blurred and bled together.
bakushinchi:
Finr
Todoroki_Shouto:
You're drunk.
bakushinchi:
M'not
Todoroki_Shouto:
Drink water before bed. And don't sleep on your back.
bakushinchi:
Stop acting like my mom Half-and-Half
Todoroki_Shouto:
[Dog with a glass of water emoji]
Bakugou snorted. He put the phone away. Took it back out a minute later.
bakushinchi:
Come back soon
Sent. He froze. Too late—the message showed Read. A minute passed. Three dots appeared. Shouto was typing.
Bakugou held his breath. The dots vanished. Reappeared. Vanished again.
Todoroki_Shouto:
I'll try.
Bakugou exhaled, pressed his forehead back against the glass, and closed his eyes. The car carried him home—to an empty apartment where soba sat on the top shelf, and Shouto's bed waited, still smelling like him.
"I'll try."
It wasn't "soon." But somehow, it was enough.
***
It happened on a Tuesday.
Bakugou got back from patrol earlier than usual. They'd only nabbed one robber, and the guy had surrendered the second he saw sparks crackling across Bakugou's palms. Boring. It was different when Shouto was around—they'd argue the whole time about who'd reach the target first, and patrol turned into a competition. Now Bakugou was just... doing the job. No thrill. No flavor.
He kicked off his boots in the hallway, tossed his jacket over the back of a chair (Shouto would've hung it up in silence, and Bakugou would've yelled that it was his jacket and he'd decide where it went), and headed for Shouto's room out of pure habit.
Nothing needed watering today. He was just... checking. On principle.
The door creaked. The room was bright—October sunlight flooded the windowsill where the pots sat. The Orchid bloomed with tiny white flowers. The Kalanchoe bristled with fleshy leaves. The Anthurium—
Bakugou froze.
The Peace Lily. The one that needed watering on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays. Its leaves—yesterday still green and firm—now drooped lifelessly. The edges had yellowed, and one stem had collapsed entirely toward the soil, like it had simply given up.
"SHIT." The word tore out of him.
He lunged for the windowsill, snatched up the pot, and glared at the plant like it had personally insulted his entire bloodline.
"THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! I WATERED YOU! WATERED YOU MONDAY! IT'S FUCKING TUESDAY, YOU SHOULD BE FINE!"
The flower offered no reply. One yellow leaf detached with a soft rustle and drifted down to the sill.
Bakugou stared at it, and panic surged up his chest—sticky, irrational, completely unbefitting a Pro Hero who'd survived actual battles.
"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK."
He set the pot back down and paced the room. Water? He'd watered it. Too much? Not enough? Shouto's stupid little notes didn't say how much to pour. "Water on Mondays"—what kind of braindead instruction was that?!
Bakugou grabbed his phone, opened his thread with Shouto, and froze. What was he supposed to write? "Your weed is dying"? "I killed your flower"? "Come back. There's a corpse."?
He imagined Shouto returning, seeing the wilted Peace Lily, and just... looking at Bakugou with those mismatched eyes. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just silent. And that silence would wreck him more than any screaming ever could.
He hit the call button.
One ring. Two. Three. He was about to hang up when—
"Bakugou?" Shouto's voice held a note of surprise. "You're calling. Is something wrong?"
"Your flower!" Bakugou burst out. "The—the—the Spathi-whatever-the-fuck! It's dead!"
A pause.
"Completely dead?" Shouto asked.
"I mean—almost! The leaves are hanging, they're yellow, one fucking fell off! I did exactly what you said, Half-and-Half! Monday—watered! Tuesday—today! And it's—!"
"Bakugou."
"WHAT?!"
"Calm down."
"I AM CALM!"
"You're yelling at a flower."
Bakugou became acutely aware that he was, in fact, standing in the middle of Shouto's room, clutching his phone in one hand and the potted Peace Lily in the other. He set the plant down with exaggerated care.
"Show me," Shouto said.
"Hah?"
"Video call. I want to see."
Bakugou's brain short-circuited. Video call. With Shouto. Now.
He ran a hand through his hair (it was fine, he always kept it fine), tugged at his t-shirt (clean, he'd put it on this morning), exhaled, and hit Accept Video.
The screen lit up, and there was Shouto.
He sat at a desk—a hotel room, by the look of it. Pale wall behind him, the edge of a perfectly made bed to one side. Shouto himself looked... fine. A little tired, faint shadows under his eyes, but alive. Whole. Wearing a plain gray t-shirt. His hair, as always, split exactly down the middle—red and white.
Something in Bakugou's chest unclenched. A knot he hadn't even noticed was there loosened, just slightly.
"Show me," Shouto repeated.
Bakugou flipped the camera around, aiming at the windowsill.
"See? Yellow. And this one fell off."
Shouto leaned closer to his screen, studying the plant. His face remained calm, but the corner of his mouth twitched—Bakugou missed it entirely, too busy glaring at the flower.
"It needs more light," Shouto said finally.
"WHAT?! Your window faces the goddamn sun!"
"It's autumn. Less sunlight. Move it to the nightstand by the bed. It'll get direct light in the morning."
Bakugou flipped the camera back to his own face and scowled.
"Seriously?! That's it? Just move it?"
"And also..." Shouto paused. "They say talking to plants helps them grow."
Bakugou stared into the screen with the expression of a man who'd just been asked to waltz with a cactus.
"Are you shitting me?!"
"I'm serious. There are studies. Plants respond to voices, to vibrations. It stimulates growth."
"I AM NOT TALKING TO A GODDAMN FLOWER, HALF-AND-HALF! IT'S STUPID! IT DOESN'T EVEN ANSWER! AND I'M NOT CRAZY!"
"It's not supposed to answer. Just talk to it. About anything."
"WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY TO A FUCKING SPATHI-WHATEVER-THE-FUCK?!"
"I don't know." Shouto shrugged, and Bakugou could have sworn there was a ghost of a smile in his voice. "Tell it about your day. Complain about Kirishima. You're good at that."
Bakugou opened his mouth to detonate, then abruptly realized that Shouto had just—just—made something almost resembling a joke. And had called his complaining skills "good." It was... weird. And that weirdness was making the tips of his ears heat up.
"Fine," he muttered. "I'll move it. And... I'll watch it. If it croaks, it's your own damn fault."
"Deal." Shouto nodded. "I have to go. Heading out to the site in an hour."
"Again? You were at a site yesterday."
"There's a lot of work."
"Let them work! What, are you the only one out there?! Like some kind of pack mule!"
"Bakugou."
"WHAT?!"
"I'm fine. Really."
Bakugou fell silent. He stared at the screen—at Shouto's tired but steady face, at the clean line of his scar, at those mismatched eyes looking directly back at him.
"Fine," he managed at last. "Go, then. Save the damn world, Half-and-Half."
"Goodnight, Bakugou."
"It's not even night over there."
"It's night for you. You'll be going to sleep soon."
Bakugou wanted to snap "Why the hell are you keeping track of my schedule?!" but the words died in his throat. Because he knew Shouto's schedule. And Shouto, apparently, knew his.
"...Night," he grunted, and ended the call first.
The apartment sank into silence. Bakugou moved the Peace Lily to the nightstand by Shouto's bed, just as instructed. Now it sat beside the lamp, where the morning sun would hit it directly.
He lay in Shouto's bed, under Shouto's blanket, head on Shouto's pillow. He stared at the ceiling, then shifted his gaze to the flower. It stood in the dim light—drooping, pathetic, with one fallen leaf resting beside the pot.
Bakugou glanced at the door. Shut tight. The window. Curtains drawn. No one would see. No one would know.
He turned onto his side, facing the plant. Took a breath.
"Listen up, you. Spathi-whatever-the-fuck."
Silence.
"I don't know how to talk to you things. It's stupid as hell. But that idiot said it helps, and he doesn't usually spout bullshit. He mostly just doesn't talk at all, but when he does, it's important, got it?"
The flower didn't answer. But Bakugou could've sworn one leaf swayed slightly. Probably just a draft.
"Anyway. You're important to that Half-and-Half bastard. He labeled all of you, the moron. Got little notes with your names on 'em. Orchid. Kalanchoe. Spathi-whatever—you. And Anthurium. He grows you, waters you, watches you. You matter to him. And if you fucking die while he's gone, he's gonna be upset. He won't show it, but I'll know. Got it?"
Bakugou paused for breath. His cheeks burned. He was whispering, but in the silence of the empty apartment, every sound felt deafening.
"So do me a favor and live. I got you the light, the water's on schedule, and now you're getting the damn conversation. Don't ask for anything else. I've hit my sentimentality quota for the rest of the fucking year."
He stared at the flower. It didn't answer, of course. But it looked... slightly less dead. Probably his imagination.
"And tell the others," Bakugou added, even quieter now, already sinking toward sleep. "That he's coming back soon. And when he does, they can talk to him. I've done my part."
He closed his eyes. The pillow smelled like Shouto. Somewhere on the edge of sleep, Bakugou could've sworn the flower swayed a leaf in reply.
***
When Bakugou opened his eyes the next morning, the first thing he looked at was the nightstand.
The Peace Lily stood there. The leaves—the ones that had drooped so pathetically yesterday—had visibly perked up. The yellowed edges remained, but there were no new casualties. The plant looked... alive. More alive than yesterday.
Bakugou sat up in bed and stared at it.
"You've gotta be shitting me," he breathed. "You seriously just wanted attention?!"
The flower said nothing. But in the morning light, it looked almost smug.
"DRAMA QUEEN!" Bakugou's roar echoed through the empty apartment. "YOU PLANTS ARE WORSE THAN WOMEN! ALL YOU WANNA DO IS MESS WITH MY HEAD!"
He shoved off the bed and stalked toward the kitchen, but paused at the door and shot a glare over his shoulder.
"I'll be back tonight. And don't you fucking look at me like that."
The flower wasn't looking at anything. But Bakugou was absolutely certain—it understood.
His phone was waiting in the kitchen. Two new messages.
Todoroki_Shouto:
How's the Peace Lily?
Todoroki_Shouto:
[Dog looking at a flower emoji]
Bakugou snorted. He poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and thumbed out a reply.
bakushinchi:
Your Spathi-bullshit's alive. I talked to it. Now it's acting all high and mighty.
The response came almost instantly.
Todoroki_Shouto:
I knew you could handle it.
Bakugou stared at the screen. Took another sip of coffee. The mug trembled in his hand—just slightly.
bakushinchi:
Of course I handled it. THE FUCK, YOU DOUBTED ME?!
Todoroki_Shouto:
Thank you, Bakugou.
Bakugou didn't reply. He just finished his coffee, gazing out the window at the autumn sky. Somewhere out there, a thousand miles away, Shouto was gearing up for another mission. And he'd said "thank you." Not for the flower. For something else.
Bakugou decided not to think about what.
But that night, before bed, he turned onto his side and faced the Peace Lily.
"No talking tonight. I'm tired." A pause. "Just... stay alive. Okay?"
And the flower lived.
***
Mornings at the agency always started the same—hum of voices, footsteps, doors slamming, the smell of coffee drifting from the communal kitchen. Bakugou hated this office anthill, but at least today he had something to keep his hands busy. Reports from last week: three missions, two arrests, one civilian pulled from the rubble. Routine. Whatever.
He dropped into his chair at his desk—the one directly across from Shouto's empty desk. Three meters apart. That space used to fill with silence: Shouto working through his paperwork, Bakugou pretending he wasn't watching the way those perfect characters flowed from Shouto's pen.
Now the desk sat empty. Just a monitor, a stack of blank forms, and a mug with cold, forgotten tea that Shouto hadn't washed before leaving. Bakugou hadn't touched it. For some reason. It just... sat there.
He booted up his computer and had just opened the report file when a shadow loomed over his shoulder.
"Kacchan!"
Midoriya. With his eternal notebook and that perpetually worried look.
"What do you want, Deku?" Bakugou didn't even turn around.
"I just wanted to ask... Do you know how Todoroki's doing? Did he message you yesterday? I wrote to him the day before, but he didn't reply, and I'm a little worried if everything's okay, because things are pretty unstable in Europe right now, and his missions are complicated, and—"
"OKAY. STOP." Bakugou spun in his chair and fixed Midoriya with a blistering glare. "One: he's alive. Two: he's busy. Three: if he's not answering you, it's 'cause he's got more important shit to do than read your whiny-ass messages. Clear enough?!"
"But he answers you?" Midoriya looked at him with genuine curiosity. No hidden agenda. Which somehow made it worse.
"THAT'S NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS!"
"Got it. He answers you." Midoriya smiled and jotted something in his notebook. "Thanks, Kacchan. I'm glad things are going well between you two."
"BETWEEN WHO?! HE'S JUST MY ROOMMATE!"
But Midoriya had already retreated to his own desk, leaving Bakugou to stew in those words. "Things are going well between you two." What the fuck did that mean—"you two"? Who was "you two"?! He slammed his fist against the keyboard, hammering out the first lines of his report. The letters blurred with rage.
Fifteen minutes passed. Bakugou had nearly finished the first section when Uraraka materialized beside him.
"Bakugou! Hi!" She beamed her usual sunshine smile—the one that made Bakugou's jaw clench on instinct. "Hey, quick question—did Todoroki happen to mention when he's coming back? A bunch of us are hitting 'Hero' in a couple weeks, and we were thinking of inviting him if he's back in time..."
Bakugou slowly lifted his eyes from the monitor.
"Tell me something. DO I LOOK LIKE HIS GODDAMN SECRETARY?!"
Uraraka waved her hands frantically.
"No, no! You just live with him, so I thought maybe he mentioned—"
"He didn't mention. He doesn't talk to me about work."
That was true. Shouto called to ask about the flowers. About the weather. About whether Bakugou had eaten. Sometimes they just stayed on the line in silence—each doing their own thing, neither hanging up. Work? Almost never.
"So... what do you talk about?" Uraraka tilted her head.
Bakugou opened his mouth. Closed it. He did not want to talk about the flowers. Or the soba on the top shelf. And the fact that he slept in Shouto's bed—he couldn't even think about that out loud.
"NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!" he roared.
"Okay, okay! Sorry!" Uraraka backed away. "Just... tell him I said hi! Next time you talk!"
She fluttered off. Bakugou sat there, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. "Next time you talk." Everyone in this damn agency was absolutely certain that he and Shouto talked. Regularly. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He slammed his fist on the desk. Shouto's mug on the neighboring desk wobbled slightly.
Lunch crept up on him. Bakugou was heading to the cafeteria when Yaoyorozu intercepted him at the open office doorway—polite, refined, eternal cup of green tea in hand.
"Bakugou. Forgive the intrusion. I wanted to ask about Todoroki-san. Did he mention which city he's currently in? We were discussing a European modern art exhibition, and I wanted to recommend a gallery if he happens to be nearby..."
Bakugou inhaled deeply.
"WHY THE HELL WOULD I KNOW HALF-AND-HALF'S GODDAMN ITINERARY?!"
"Oh." She frowned slightly, utterly unbothered by Katsuki's routine aggression. "But doesn't he tell you? You two are so close."
Bakugou felt his palms start to heat. Not from anger. From something else. Because everyone—everyone—was completely convinced that he and Shouto were "close." And the worst part? They were right.
"Amsterdam," Bakugou ground out through clenched teeth. "He's in Amsterdam right now. Yesterday he was in Brussels. Day before that, Berlin. Any more questions?"
Yaoyorozu blinked. Then she smiled—soft, knowing—and that smile made Bakugou want to melt straight through the floor.
"Thank you, Bakugou. That's more than enough."
She left. Bakugou stood frozen in the doorway, fully aware that he had just incriminated himself beyond recovery. He knew Shouto's route. By day. By city.
"Fuck," he said to no one.
"Language."
Kirishima stood against the wall, smiling that stupid knowing smile of his.
"Don't start, Shitty Hair."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You're looking."
"I'm always looking. You're my bro. I'm happy for you."
"HAPPY FOR WHAT?!" Bakugou's voice nearly cracked into a shout, but Kirishima already had his hands up.
"Happy that you're okay. And happy that you know where he is. It's normal to worry about someone, Bakugou. It's human."
Bakugou wanted to snap back that he wasn't worried. That he didn't care. That Shouto was a grown man who could handle himself. But instead, he remembered waiting for last night's call. Checking the flower first thing this morning. Keeping Shouto's unwashed mug on his desk like some kind of—
"Lunch," he grunted, and pushed toward the cafeteria.
Kirishima followed in comfortable silence.
***
It was Thursday.
Bakugou knew for a fact: Shouto was coming back tomorrow. Evening flight. 7:40 PM. He hadn't asked—Shouto had sent the flight number three days ago without comment. Just a screenshot of the ticket and a brief: "Home Friday evening. Don't wait up if you're tired."
Bakugou, naturally, hadn't replied. But he'd put it in his phone calendar. And in his head. Friday. 7:40 PM. Less than a day left.
He stood in Shouto's room, watering can in hand. Thursday was Anthurium day. The one with the red flowers—the plant Shouto called "men's happiness." Bakugou snorted every single time he remembered that name, but he watered it religiously anyway.
"Half-and-Half's coming back tomorrow," he informed the flower, carefully dampening the soil. "So don't screw this up. Look decent."
The Anthurium gleamed with dark green leaves and appeared to be in perfect shape. Just like all the others. The Peace Lily had fully recovered, even pushed out a new leaf, and now sat on the nightstand with a distinctly triumphant air. Bakugou sometimes felt like he was losing his mind and that this flower was genuinely listening to him.
He finished watering, set the can back in its place, and scanned the room. Three weeks had changed almost nothing—same pristine order, same pots, same little labels. But something had shifted, imperceptibly. Maybe the pillow that now held the shape of his head. Maybe his phone charger, shamelessly colonizing Shouto's nightstand. Maybe his own t-shirt, which had somehow migrated to the back of the chair in this room.
Bakugou didn't analyze it. He just showered, changed into sweats, and drifted into Shouto's room on autopilot. His own room felt foreign now. Cold. Unlived-in. He only went in there for clean clothes.
His phone buzzed.
Todoroki_Shouto:
Home tomorrow.
Bakugou stared at the screen. Shouto had sent this three times this week, like he was afraid Katsuki would forget. Or like he was convincing himself it was real.
bakushinchi:
I remember. Quit repeating yourself, Half-and-Half.
Todoroki_Shouto:
Just want to be sure.
bakushinchi:
Sure of what?
A pause. Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again.
Todoroki_Shouto:
That you're waiting.
Bakugou froze. His thumbs hovered over the screen. Something clenched in his chest—not painful. More like the moment before jumping off a high ledge. He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
bakushinchi:
Hurry up.
Sent. Because he couldn't write "yes, I'm waiting," but Shouto, it seemed, could read between the lines.
Todoroki_Shouto:
[Dog hugging a bowl of noodles emoji]
Bakugou snorted and tossed his phone onto the nightstand. He climbed into bed, pulled up the blanket, and turned onto his side. The Peace Lily sat beside him, stretching its leaves toward the lamp.
"Tomorrow he's back," Bakugou told the flower. "So this is the last night I'm sleeping here. Tomorrow it's over. End of the mission. End of... all this."
The flower said nothing. Bakugou sighed and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow Shouto would be home. Everything would go back to normal. Separate rooms. Separate schedules. Separate lives. He'd sleep in his own bed again, wake up to his own alarm, eat his own ramen with his own hot sauce.
Something in his chest tightened unpleasantly at the thought of "his own bed." He shoved the feeling aside and forced himself to sleep.
***
Shouto landed at 9:30 PM.
The flight had been delayed by forty minutes. He'd already mentally said goodbye to the idea of finding Bakugou still awake. Katsuki went to bed early when there were no night patrols.
A taxi home. Clear roads. The nighttime city sliding past the window. Shouto watched the familiar streets and felt a strange mix of exhaustion and impatience. Three weeks wasn't that long. But somehow these three weeks had stretched differently than other missions. He'd caught himself counting days. Checking his phone more often than usual. Sending "good morning" and waiting for a reply—when before, he could go days without messaging at all.
The key turned in the lock at 10:16 PM.
The apartment was dark and quiet. Just the refrigerator humming in the kitchen, and the soft tick of a clock somewhere. Shouto removed his shoes, set his bag by the door, and listened. The silence wasn't empty. It was lived-in, settled—with a faint trace of hot sauce and something else. Something familiar.
He walked into the living room. A mug of unfinished tea sat on the table. Beside it—Bakugou's phone, face-down. So he was home. Just asleep.
Shouto headed toward his own room to drop off his things and maybe change out of his travel clothes. The door was slightly ajar. A faint glow spilled from inside—the bedside lamp, probably.
He pushed the door open and stopped dead at the threshold.
Bakugou was asleep in his bed.
He lay on his side, facing the door, blanket pulled up to his chest. One hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other stretched outward, like it had been reaching for something. His hair was a mess. His face was relaxed—no furrow between his brows, no tension in his jaw. He looked... peaceful. In a way he never did during the day.
Shouto stood and watched.
On the nightstand—the Peace Lily, deliberately moved closer to the bed. On the floor by the bed—a phone charger, plugged into Shouto's outlet. Draped over the back of the chair—Bakugou's t-shirt. His room wasn't just his anymore.
Slowly, very quietly, Shouto set his bag against the wall. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the hook. He pulled a worn t-shirt and soft pants from the closet and changed, careful not to make a sound. Bakugou didn't stir. He breathed evenly, deeply. Sometimes his brow twitched in his sleep, and he murmured something soundless.
Shouto approached the bed. He stood there for a second, watching Bakugou sleep. Then, carefully—almost weightlessly—he sat down on the edge of the mattress.
Bakugou didn't wake. He just breathed a little deeper and turned his head slightly toward Shouto.
Shouto lay down beside him. Slowly. Carefully. Trying not to disturb. The bed was warm—heated by Bakugou's body. The pillow smelled like him. And like something else. Something Shouto suddenly recognized as home.
He settled onto his side of the bed—the half that had stayed empty. Bakugou had drifted toward the middle, but there was room enough. Shouto lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling.
Beside him, still half-dreaming, Bakugou stirred. His hand—the one that had been stretched out—brushed against Shouto's shoulder. It paused there for a second. Then, as if recognizing the touch, it relaxed. And stayed.
Shouto turned his head. Bakugou was still asleep. But his hand didn't move.
Shouto closed his eyes.
For the first time in three weeks, he truly slept.
***
Bakugou woke to sunlight spearing directly into his face. He grimaced, tried to turn away—but something stopped him. Something warm, pressed against his side.
He opened his eyes.
Next to him, barely an arm's length away, Shouto was asleep. Face relaxed. Peaceful. The scar bisecting his left eye. The clean line of his cheekbone. Red and white hair scattered across the pillow. One hand tucked beneath his head, the other almost touching Bakugou's shoulder.
Bakugou froze. His brain refused to process the information.
Shouto was supposed to come home tonight. EVENING. 7:40 PM. Bakugou knew this for a fact. He'd been counting the goddamn hours.
"What the..." he started in a whisper, and cut himself off.
Shouto stirred. Eyelashes fluttered, and a second later, two different eyes—gray and turquoise—were looking at Bakugou. Sleepy, but already aware.
"Good morning." Shouto's voice was quiet, a little rough from sleep.
Bakugou opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"YOU... YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO COME HOME TONIGHT!"
"Flight got moved. I caught an earlier one."
"AND YOU DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING?!"
"Wanted to surprise you."
"SURPRISE?!" Bakugou sat up so fast he nearly launched the blanket off the bed. "YOU SHOW UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, CLIMB INTO THE BED WHERE I'M SLEEPING, AND YOU CALL THAT A SURPRISE?!"
Shouto blinked. Then he sat up too—slowly, calmly, like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
"It's my bed, Bakugou."
Silence. Deep, ringing silence. Bakugou could hear his own blood boiling.
"I..." he started, and stopped. "I WAS JUST—"
"You were sleeping here," Shouto finished for him. "On my pillow. With my flower on the nightstand. And your charger in my outlet."
Bakugou followed his gaze. The damn charger. The damn flower. The damn t-shirt on the chair.
"IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK!"
"I don't think anything," Shouto looked at him steadily. No mockery. No judgment. "You were sleeping here. That's a fact."
"I... MY ROOM IS STUFFY! THE WINDOW DOESN'T OPEN!"
"It opens. I checked before I left."
"THE... THE BED IS UNCOMFORTABLE!"
"We have the same mattress. We ordered them together."
Bakugou felt the ground crumbling beneath his feet. Shouto deflected every argument calmly, methodically, without raising his voice. And he watched Bakugou with those mismatched eyes, something unreadable flickering in them—something Bakugou couldn't name.
"I JUST GOT USED TO IT!" he burst out finally. "THREE WEEKS SLEEPING HERE WHILE YOU WERE GONE! WATERING YOUR FLOWERS, BONDING WITH THIS ASSHOLE—" he jabbed a finger at the Peace Lily, "—I BOUGHT YOU SOBA! AND THIS IS YOUR FAULT FOR LEAVING!"
He stopped, breathing hard. Silence filled the room again.
Shouto looked at him, and something warm slowly spread across his face—like dawn breaking.
"You bought me soba," he said. It wasn't a question.
"YES! TOP SHELF! GO CHECK IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME!"
"You watered my flowers. On schedule."
"I'VE GOT A GOOD MEMORY, I REMEMBERED!"
"You talked to the Peace Lily."
Bakugou's voice died in his throat. How did he—
Color flooded Bakugou's face, from his neck to the roots of his hair. He opened his mouth. No sound came out.
"You waited for me," Shouto said. Quiet. Simple. A statement of fact. "You slept in my bed because you missed me."
"I DIDN'T—"
"Bakugou."
Shouto leaned forward. Just slightly. Enough that Bakugou could feel the warmth of his breath. Enough to see every eyelash—pale on the white side, dark on the red. So close he could make out a tiny mole beneath Shouto's left eye, one he'd either never noticed or never let himself look at before.
"I missed you too."
Three words. But in the morning silence, in the dim room that smelled like Shouto and faintly of soil from the flowers, they landed like a thunderclap.
Bakugou went still. His heart hammered somewhere in his throat. His pulse throbbed in his temples. His palms—he could feel them—had heated, but not for an explosion. They just... burned. Like all the warmth in his body had gathered in his fingertips and was demanding release. Not destruction. Something else. Something he had no name for.
"You..." His voice cracked, came out hoarse. He swallowed, trying to regain control. "You, Half-and-Half, have no idea how to come home like a normal person. You should've warned me. I would've... I would've..."
The words tangled. His thoughts tangled. Shouto was too close. His mismatched eyes gazed directly at him—no games, no mockery. The way he always looked. Direct and honest. Only now there was something else in that gaze. Something that stole Bakugou's breath.
"You would've what?" Shouto's voice was soft, like he was asking about the weather instead of standing on the edge of something enormous.
"I WOULD'VE AT LEAST MOVED THE CHARGER!" Bakugou shouted it louder than he meant to, and immediately regretted it. The charger. Of all the things he could have said, he'd picked the charger.
Shouto glanced at it—the black cord, the white adapter, shamelessly plugged into the outlet by his bed. Then back at Bakugou. And the corner of his mouth—for the first time all morning—twitched upward. Not even a smile. The shadow of a smile. But it made something inside Bakugou snap clean in half.
"Leave it. It doesn't bother me."
Bakugou opened his mouth to reply—something sharp, familiar, defensive. But he didn't get the chance.
Shouto closed the distance. Smoothly. No sudden movements. The way he did everything in life. He covered the last few centimeters between them and pressed his lips to Bakugou's.
The world stopped.
Shouto's lips were warm. A little dry from sleep. And so, so careful—he touched Bakugou like he was giving him every opportunity to shove him away, to pull back, to explode. But Bakugou didn't move. Couldn't.
Inside him, a million tiny detonations went off. Not the kind that destroyed. The kind that lit everything up from within. Like fireworks in his chest. Hot. Bright. Deafening. And he didn't want it to end. Not even a little.
He felt his own hand—the one resting on the blanket—curl into a fist, twisting the fabric. Not from anger. He just needed something to hold onto, because the ground had disappeared and he was falling, and the only anchor in the entire world was those warm, careful lips.
Shouto smelled like home. Like his own pillow. Like his own body wash. Like something nameless that Bakugou had breathed in every single night in this bed and never been able to identify. Now the source of that scent was kissing him.
Then Shouto pulled back. As unexpectedly as he'd started. Leaving just a few centimeters between them—enough for Bakugou to see that his own lips were still slightly parted, and that the usual composure in Shouto's eyes had cracked. There was warmth there now. And something vulnerable, buried deep but floating close to the surface.
"Thank you," Shouto said quietly. "For waiting. And for saving the flower."
Bakugou blinked. Air rushed back into his lungs, and with it came the ability to speak. Or, more accurately, to yell.
"DON'T YOU EVER LEAVE ME ALONE WITH YOUR SPATHI—" he stumbled over the stupid name, "—YOUR SPATHI-BULLSHIT AGAIN! YOU HEAR ME?!"
He shoved off the bed and immediately regretted it. His legs were useless. Jelly. The world swayed like he'd just come out of a brutal fight or a bad bottle of whiskey. He had to grab the back of the chair just to keep from showing how completely wrecked he was. His t-shirt, draped over that same chair, swayed traitorously.
"AND ANOTHER THING!" He spun back toward Shouto, who was still sitting on the bed, looking up at him. Hair mussed. Wearing a rumpled t-shirt. Lips slightly swollen from the kiss. "I'm sleeping here now. Got it?!"
Shouto said nothing. He just looked at Bakugou—at his burning ears, his clenched fists, his chest heaving for breath.
And he smiled.