Chapter Text
Smoke billows in his face, thick, cloying. His lungs are used to the burn, the wisps curling out of his nose on a shaking exhale.
His heart races to the left of his throat. His arm throbs, the muscles twitching as fingers seize against his palm. When he uncurls his fist, it’s in harsh, creaking jerks.
A breeze takes the smoke and brushes it away, clearing the air. There’s Bakugou, standing tense, body shaking. There’s Kirishima, eyes wide, chest swelling with each heavy breath. And there’s the fist just inches from him, quaking in the air from the explosion it just absorbed.
Bakugou’s jaw, clenched tight, grinds to one side. The sensation makes him jerk his head as his eyes squeeze shut, forcing a tear to wet the skin at the corner of his eye. A curse hisses out between his teeth. It hurts. He drops his arm, slow breaths finally giving way to shallow panting. “Fuck,” he growls. “God, fuck me , damn it.”
Kirishima’s shoes crunch in the dirt. Bakugou opens his eyes, scanning him in a quick glance. Unharmed, at least in any meaningful way. Beneath a wave of relief, he almost wishes differently, that he’d left just enough of bite to linger. Telling a kid that fire hurts won’t teach the same lesson as letting them get burned.
Bakugou takes the time to catch his breath before he lifts his head, biting out, “What the fuck was that, Kirishima?”
He expects guilt, or shame, or embarrassment, or just a sheepish apology. So when Kirishima’s eyes flash, it catches him off guard. The strain of his voice is jarring, low with fury, “Are you kidding me?” Kirishima’s posture sways forward, arms tight at his sides as his face twists. “What was — what about you? What was that?”
Kirishima’s voice has never been so harsh. Bakugou squares his shoulders against it, digs his feet into the ground. “You mean not killing you? Cause you dropped your fucking quirk?”
“I could have taken it!” Kirishima blows over him before he finishes the words and closes the distance between them. They’re nearly the same height, and Kirishima’s eye-level as he leans into his face, letting Bakugou see all the creases of his glare and the snap of his teeth with his snarl. “Don’t pull your punches when you’re the one who’s always shouting about taking you seriously. What makes me different?” There’s a gloss of insecurity as he snaps, “You think I can’t handle it?”
“ Don’t.” He wants to grab Kirishima by the shirt, shake him and force him to listen. “Don’t put words in my fucking mouth, asshole, I’m not doing shit . You should have called it. You ran out of stamina, your quirk dropped, and you didn’t say shit.”
“I —”
Bakugou doesn’t let him get a word out, “Don’t make me a fucking villain. I’m not here to blow your fucking chest open!” And here he brings the side of his fist against Kirishima’s sternum, not to hurt, just to punctuate it. “Get the fuck over yourself, Kirishima.”
Kirishima swipes his hand away. His shoulders are shaking, his jaw tense. “I’m not,” he says, but his voice is hoarse now. “It’s not about you. I need you, cause you’re the only one I can trust to hit hard. I can’t just call it when I’m fighting a villain, I need to be able to take it, I —”
“You’re useless if you’re dead.” Bakugou’s insides are twisting up. Anger is easy, but it’s not alone. “I should have let you take the fucking hit, then you’d be fucking begging — no.” He chokes the words back. “ Damn it, Kirishima, If you want to beat yourself to death, be my fucking guest, but don’t drag me into it.”
There’s a glint in Kirishima’s eyes. “What about Midoriya?” The words are tight, trembling, teeth bared around each one. “How many people would he save if he stopped because he’s hurt?”
It nearly does it. Bakugou feels rage, hot and poisonous in his belly, his breath dragging in to come out tainted. Then he forces it out.
He’s not taking the bait, he’s not going to be a tool in Kirishima’s self-destruction. “That piece of shit won’t be saving anyone when he can’t move his fucking arms, idiot.” And when Kirishima makes to speak, he snaps, “ Stop. Shut your fucking mouth, Kirishima.”
He steps forward, and Kirishima tenses. Bakugou shoves right past him.
“Hey!” Kirishima shouts. He keeps walking. “Baku — damn it! Look at me!”
Bakugou’s eyes remain forward, breath too fast, each inhale jerked into his lungs. His eyes sting, but he refuses to wipe them, doesn’t want Kirishima to see.
He keeps walking. Off the fields, across campus, inside. Slams the door to his room, ignores Todoroki’s irate stomp overhead as he tosses himself into his bed.
It’s the bed that’s pushed up against Kirishima’s wall. He breathes in slowly. Pulls the blankets up, curls them tight around his body, and hates himself for having to pretend he doesn’t wish there was another in bed with him.
When footsteps come down the hall, he listens too closely. They pause, and Bakugou holds his breath, waits for them to resume, for a knock to sound.
He hears the creak of Kirishima’s door, open, close, then nothing. Silence. The echo of his closing door is what rings in Bakugou’s ears until he falls asleep.
Stares burn into his neck all throughout his classes. He paces from lecture to lecture, decidedly not fleeing from the pursuit. He’s sick of bullshit, he doesn’t want to deal with it, and he’s not going to. It’s their own damn fault if they can’t catch him.
By lunch hour, they apparently wisen up. Maybe Bakugou would be proud — it’s a flawlessly executed ambush — if he wasn’t ready to blow them sky high.
He finds himself leaning against a wall, arms crossed and sneering at the trio that has surrounded him. Kaminari stares right back, Ashido and Sero looking like they’re trying to soothe a rabid animal, hands up with apologetic faces.
“Man, for someone who’s so loud, you’re hard to pin down,” Sero laughs, slinging his hands into his pockets. “I feel like I deserve extra credit for catching you.”
“Might wanna tape him down before he runs,” Kaminari huffs, wincing when Ashido elbows him.
It’s a spark of gratification on Bakugou’s part, but barely. “Quit beating around the fucking bush,” he growls, “and say what you want already.”
They look between each other. It’s Ashido who steps forward to say, “I mean, you know, don’t you? Kirishima’s been acting weird again.”
Kaminari meets his eyes. Some of the glare fades, a question taking its place.
“It’s none of your business,” he tells them. The words bring the exact reaction he’d been expecting, a range from annoyance to outright anger depending on whose eyes he meets.
“It kinda is , though,” Ashido says, slow, an eyebrow quirked. “Look, Bakugou, I know you have your own issues, but like, it’s not about you this time. We’re worried about Kirishima.”
“And it’s not your goddamn business,” Bakugou repeats, snappish. He straightens up, lip curling. “I thought you would know, you’re his fucking confidant.”
Ashido’s jaw snaps shut, her own temper flaring. Kaminari grips her shoulder, voice just under a shout, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve got a big head but I thought maybe you’d be able to extract it from your asshole for the two seconds it would take to think about anyone else but yourself for once.”
“Hey, hey,” Sero says, ignored under Bakugou’s retort.
“That’s your fucking fault then,” he snarls. “Ask him yourself. See what the fuck he says.”
He gets nothing but the finger in return, Kaminari turning to stride back down the corridor, Ashido giving Bakugou a lingering glare as she follows. It leaves only Sero behind, sighing.
“That went about as well as expected,” he says, voice tired.
“If you have something to say,” Bakugou starts, but Sero shakes his head.
“Nah, nah.” He raises his hands in surrender, then drops them, giving Bakugou a half-smile. “I told them that if Kiri’s upset, you definitely will be. That being said, you really didn’t have to go after Ashido like that, man. She cares about him, too.”
Bakugou is quiet, and apparently that’s an invitation cause Sero adds, “We all do, actually. And like, if there’s something going on, we’re gonna make it our business.” He scratches the back of his neck, a considering look on his face. Then he exhales, and shrugs. “Dude, I’d say call us if you need us, but we both know that’s not gonna happen, huh?”
There’s no chance for him to snap back; Sero is already striding away, giving a wave and a small call of farewell.
Bakugou watches him go. He shakes his head, forcing himself forward, taking the long way to the cafeteria. All the food is tasteless, and Kirishima is noticeably absent. The stares are gone, at least, leaving him to stab at his meal in peace.
He takes another path to class as well, too tired to deal with Kaminari’s snide remarks. It takes him past the nurse’s office. There, he slows his step. Comes to a halt.
Through the window, he can see Kirishima. The red hair that had caught his eye is sticking out of place, his head turned down, a hand curled tight around a newly-bandaged arm. There’s a pause, then Kirishima’s head lifts.
Bakugou pushes back down the hall, hands curling into fists at his sides. It’s only to be expected. The image lingers in his brain, though, alongside the scolding echo of Sero’s voice.
He’s useless in class. Zones through the notes, blinks and finds himself not knowing what’s on the board. Halfway through, he stands up without so much as a mumbled excuse and walks back to his dorm, only to hesitate outside of Kirishima’s.
He lifts a fist, poised to knock. Then he drops it, enters his room instead and lays out across his bed.
So nothing he’d said got through that thick skull. He shuts his eyes. What, exactly, had Kirishima done to his arm. A sprain, lacerations, a broken bone. Had he pushed his quirk too far or abandoned it entirely. Had he dragged himself to Recovery Girl alone, biting back the pain with every step..
His eyes lift open. Bakugou rolls over to sit up, sliding his phone out of his pocket. Time stretches out, he watches the clock shift — :17, :18, :19.
Bakugou swallows, hard.
To: Black Eyes, Sparky, Soy Sauce (1:20)
The message is short, to the point. He reads it over three times, then highlights it, thumb hovering over the button that would wipe it clean. Then he hits send.