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Talking to Midoriya is simple.
It’s not that it’s easy, however. A conversation can be described as easy when it’s effortless, and Midoriya’s relationship with Bakugou can hardly be described as effortless. Rather: It’s simple. If they had an instruction manual for talking to one another, there’d be one or two steps per page. It’d be in a little pamphlet with a big font size. It could fit in-between your fingers.
It’s hard to describe someone who can read you just as well as you can read yourself. It’s not effortless, because nothing about them could ever be effortless, but their history speaks volumes. They have a natural chemistry to them that bubbles and spits; it’s unforgiving and harsh — but it seems to work.
It always seems to work for them just enough for them to stay. Whether or not they want to stay in such close contact will always be up to them — a stiff wind could change Bakugou’s mind about staying in close quarters with Midoriya, but the stiff wind hasn’t blown him astray, yet.
Besides — Midoriya’s looking fuckin’ bad off today.
There’s a hunch to his shoulders that wasn’t there three hours ago. Freckled shoulders are kissed sunburnt and red: he looks like someone ran him over and left him like roadkill in the sunlight. Bakugou’s working with insurance today, but he could see the sparks of green lightning even from his elevated position in their shared agency.
Midoriya cracks his right thumb over a couple times — a mannerism he’s taken up from Bakugou. He does it less nowadays, but Midoriya makes up for it with how often he does it when he’s stressed. He looks like he’s rubbed the skin raw, but he continuously pops it. Rapid-fire. It sounds like he’s gonna break it again.
Midoriya’s eyes glow abnormally. The veins in his hand look the way they do when he overuses his quirk — the bruises he’s growing look like they’ve been dusted with gold and emerald.
Bakugou feels a little sick — he doesn’t, usually. Midoriya’s a grown man who can help himself. It’s not Bakugou’s responsibility to force Midoriya not to break himself over and over — and he’s not Midoriya’s fuckin’ nanny, and he’s not going to be with him patching himself up if he doesn’t care enough not to kill himself fighting.
And yet — he walks over. Bakugou knows the signs that Midoriya’s overwhelmed — the darting of his eyes, the way his eyes well with tears when he’s about to speak. The trembling of his bottom lip when someone gets just a little too close a little too quickly — when someone does something he can’t prep himself for, when there’s no preparation to be had but he can’t cope well enough post-battle to handle it.
“Deku,” Bakugou says — voice thick with heavy emotion he’s learned how to hide. He wants to scream at Midoriya for being a fuckin’ idiot all over again, for hurting himself unnecessarily, for being such a Deku. But he knows how that ends, and he knows it ends with tears falling on newly formed bruises on unblemished skin. “You look like shit.”
Midoriya perks up a little, but sinks back into a defensive position. He looks nervous. “Hey, Kacchan,” he says, still trembling like always. His nails, uncut but not long — bitten, probably, to the cuticle. “Thanks uh. You — you don’t. Look like shit.”
“I hope not,” Bakugou says, creating meaningless small talk. Midoriya’s radiating discomfort in waves, but Bakugou’s trying to back himself up with warmth. Midoriya always did calm down when he felt warm. “I haven’t done shit all day.”
Midoriya doesn’t look surprised by that answer, but he manages to cough up a nervous laugh anyways. Bakugou wants to move closer — he knows Midoriya will feel better, in the long run, if he does. But he also knows that Midoriya’s a piece of shit who won’t admit weakness ever and will either cry instantly or push him away, and there’s no way to avoid humiliation in either scenario.
Bakugou’s not sure he could stomach humiliation done by Midoriya’s hand. Bakugou’s not really sure Midoriya could stomach any more humiliation when he’s this overwhelmed.
“Deku,” Bakugou adds, in a low, almost gentle tone of voice. “If you need me, call me,” Midoriya immediately begins to stammer — to try and find the words he knows he’d be bullshitting.
Bakugou gently splays his fingertips across a bruised forearm and dips in to Midoriya’s space. It’s a fluid motion that Bakugou has practiced a million times before. He’s learned how to warm his hands up enough to make it comfortable, to the heat of a newly brewed cup of tea. With his other hand, he sprawls gentle fingertips on Midoriya’s cheekbone and jaw.
It’s an affectionate motion. It feels and looks like something intimate — an experience to be shared by two people who are perfect for one another. “I know you have my phone number, nerd,” Midoriya breathes, heavily and tirelessly — but Bakugou can feel the way he relaxes in the way he sets his jaw. “It’s okay if you wake me up,” he says, reassuringly. “I go to bed early. You can keep me up if you call late.”
He sinks back. Midoriya looks like he wants to follow, like an obedient lap dog, but he doesn’t. Professional. “Okay?”
Midoriya breathes — slow and steady does it. “Yeah, okay. Okay. Thank you, Kacchan.”
Bakugou’s more sure that Midoriya’s words are more genuine, now. They leave the mouth of someone who looks too tired to lie. Bakugou smiles, confidently and smugly. It fits on his face evenly — the smirk-less smile makes his eyes look a little softer, and Midoriya watches as his face twists into something more peaceful.
“Catch you later,” Bakugou says. He raises a hand up and sticks his fingers into Midoriya’s post-battle bedhead hair. It’s a little damp — curls lock in sweat, but Bakugou doesn’t mind. It’s not like he’s never sweat in his life or anything. “Smelly. Take a shower.”
Midoriya looks miffed as he watches Bakugou leave.
##
The bright blue light of his phone lights up his whole damn bedroom, and it’s so unfamiliar that Bakugou briefly thinks he’s imagining it. He rolls over with a little too much theatrics than strictly necessary, and he emerges from his sweat-soaked sheets to grab his phone, unplug it, and put it near his face.
He reads the name: DEKU, in all it’s fucking glory. The clock above his screen name reads 3:19 AM, and Bakugou regrets every choice he’s ever made that led him to this point of deep, sincere misfortune.
On the third ring, he picks up. “Who the fuck stays up until three-twenty in the morning to call somebody?”
Midoriya’s laughter is still shaky — it hurts Bakugou’s ears from how fake it sounds. Like barbed wire. “I couldn’t — I couldn’t sleep. I can — I’ll hang up, sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you —”
“No,” Bakugou says. He squeezes the word in-between Midoriya’s stammer. It sounds unnatural. It doesn’t sound like his words are fitting to the beat of Midoriya’s heart like they usually do. It sounds — it sounds like conflicting heartbeats. Like somebody’s queued two songs at wrong intervals. “What bothered you so much today? Lookin’ like a zombie, Deku.”
“It’s — it’s um… old trauma, I s’pose? It’s been haunting me, I guess, ah — conflicting with.. with my work, just a little —” He breathes, as shaky as it is, and Bakugou can hear him cracking his thumbs.
“I see — I see you and Kirishima and Ochacchan — I see.. I see you being taken away. It’s like I’ve never — n-never known fear until I was — what, sixteen? And that’s absurd. But it’s… it’s like I can’t think anymore? I see — and it’s irrational, I know, like, I get it — but I… It’s like I’ve never really escaped it.”
Bakugou’s no fucking therapist. He isn’t and he shouldn’t expect himself to be, but he remembers tactics. Very quick briefings heard in passing, to and from missions, in-between his classes — overheard conversations from studying students and interns and shadowers. He remembers Kirishima and Kaminari talking about it, too — about hearing shit out loud to help you process trauma.
“I want you to say something out loud for me, mkay?” Bakugou says, voice low and uncomfortably thick. He clears his throat while Midoriya’s nervous laughter stutters and halts.
“Uh — okay? Okay.”
“It is not my fault that villains attacked us,” Bakugou says. The way he says it — yikes.
“I — ah, I know that — I know it isn’t —” Midoriya’s beginning to laugh. His voice sounds strained and wet.
“Deku,” Bakugou warns. There’s no joke in his tone. “Cooperate, dipshit.”
“It isn’t — it’s not…” He pauses. He makes a sound like he’s crying — and he takes a moment to pull himself together. “It’s not my fault villains attacked us.”
“It’s not your fault villains attacked us,” Bakugou repeats, talking over the sniffling that Midoriya makes through the other end. “And it’s not like we died or anything. Shit happens. You were a kid. You are not responsible for everybody, Deku. Not little kid you, not you now.”
“I — oh — okay. Okay. Right. Not my fault.”
“Go to bed. Get some shut-eye, and call me back tomorrow night.” Bakugou shouldn’t be extending his services. He doesn’t owe Midoriya any of his time — and he doesn’t owe Midoriya any free therapy sessions. He doesn’t want Midoriya’s emotional baggage. “And get a fucking therapist tomorrow, aight? Jesus fuck.”
“I — I will. Thank you, Kacchan. Goodnight.”
The line goes dead soon after. Bakugou plans to hold Midoriya to that promise.
##
Bakugou’s working out in the field. He’s running from beating up baddies to rescue sites to hospitals — he’s hitched a few more rides via ambulances than strictly necessary. He’s been running around for the past three hours or so — the smoke and dust in his lungs feel thick, like solidified milk, and he’s proud of the way his chest feels heavy. His arms are shaking with adrenaline — he likes it.
He hangs at the edge of the door handle of an ambulance and watches cars and buildings zoom by. Orange halos burn into buildings from apartment complexes — swirls of human lightning strikes whirl on sidewalks, becoming a blur in Bakugou’s crimson irises.
And never once does he see Midoriya — he’s supposed to be in this area for patrol unless he called in sick. Their agency has a counselor’s office, Bakugou thinks in proud passing, maybe he took some fuckin’ advice for once in his life.
He hopes to get a call tonight.
The ambulance slows to a halt. The bleached white interior of the hospital glows into the dusk sky, where lavender turns blue turns black. “Ground Zero, they could use you in the hospital.” Some EMT says — crocodile ass lookin’ face.
“Mkay,” Bakugou says, hopping off the rear of the car. “Which floor?”
##
The rest of the night goes similarly. He’s running from floor to floor. The scent of bodies mixed in with smoke stays in his nostrils, and adrenaline runs along his chest and stomach until he’s breathless. He sees lots of heroes in passing — he sees Uravity more than once, Ingenium a few times — he sees Red Riot at least once, and Creati in the hospitals.
Phantom Thief covers more than a few healing quirks when the night goes long, tapping chests in-and-out in rapid succession. Bakugou’s never liked Monoma, the annoying bastard, but Bakugou respects what he does. He’s learned a lot since the hero course.
“Give me your quirk,” Monoma said during one of Bakugou’s upstair trips, without even a moment’s notice. Bakugou stuck out his arm instantly, even though his muscles screamed at him for it, and Monoma tapped the inside of Bakugou’s elbow and sparked his hands experimentally. He stopped before continuing, though, to look back at Bakugou. “Would you have done that in high school?”
“Would ya have asked?” Bakugou asked back, watching Monoma’s sunlight-colored hair tremble in its hastily made high ponytail. “Don’t remember you sayin’ anythin’ unless it was incoherent bullshit.”
Monoma’s grin turned manic. “Guess not, huh?”
That bastard gave Bakugou a boost of energy — a different kind of adrenaline, more spiteful, but Bakugou’s not really a picky kind of guy about these things.
Monoma’s presence kept Bakugou’s fire alive during the hospital trips back-and-forth, even as the night went long and the triumph over the villains turned into weary feelings — the weight of the bodies was like a growth on Bakugou’s back, but he wouldn’t let himself be bested by Monoma or any of the other heroes he’d seen intermittently.
He gets home late — he almost considered just sleeping in the hospital he’d been running to, but they didn’t have almost any vacancy and he didn’t want to be a bother. Heroes aren’t supposed to do that shit. He lets his muscles hum with a severe intensity and tries to build the idea that he likes the burn he feels. That’s success. That’s what success feels like.
It’s fucking annoying, though.
Barely even twelve minutes after he gets home — and he’s making some kind of stew or somethin’, shit, he can barely think straight — Midoriya calls.
“My name is Ground Zero, I’m here to assist. Are you injured?” Is the first thing he says when he answers. Judging by Midoriya’s silence, that is not the right thing to say. Bakugou pauses, rubs his eyes, and tries again. “I mean — fuck. Hey.”
Midoriya’s voice is giving him away from the fucking moment he opens his mouth, and Bakugou is already preparing himself for torment. “Thank you for asking! I am completely injury-less,” Midoriya says, his stifled giggles evident even as he tries to smother them. “I took your advice. From — from last night? I wasn’t — at work today if you didn’t notice. I was in — in a therapy session. I took a mental health leave — they didn’t have any previous mental health leaves in the record for me and it’s — it’s weird, isn’t it? How I haven’t done that before? I thought so at least —”
“Too many words, Deku,” Bakugou says, his voice like a flatline. His arms feel like he wiped ‘em down with alcohol. His apartment feels as cold as the hospital did. “Not following. Try again.”
“I found a therapist and I took a mental health leave from work. I hope everything was okay while I was gone,” Midoriya says, slowing down his speech and stopping his stammering.
“Everything went fine,” Bakugou says, shrugging his shoulders noncommittally. “Just long. We were short on rescue heroes an’ some of the tough lookin’ fucks went out t’the.. the what’s left of the battlefield. Saw Creati and Uravity out there lots.” He says as Midoriya practically whispers acknowledgments to signify that he’s listening. “Fuckin’ Monoma works in hospitals? Bastard grew into his face when he got older.”
“You knew that, Kacchan,” Midoriya says. A pause — then he says: “Are you tired? You should sleep. I shouldn’t keep you.”
“Heroes don’t need sleep, fuck you,” Bakugou says stubbornly.
“Hah — maybe heroes don’t, but symbols of victory do! Make sure to get your rest so you can triumph again tomorrow!”
“Guess so,” Bakugou says, eating his food harder than strictly necessary. The bowl clinks heavily against his sink. “G’night. Deku.”
“Sleep well,” Midoriya says — fondness evident in his voice. Gross.
Bakugou doesn’t remember hitting the bed, but he does remember looking at his phone a little longer than necessary, staring at Midoriya’s contact after he hangs up.
##
Midoriya’s back at work the next day. Bakugou’s on his usual patrol, and his usual route is adjacent to Midoriya’s. They’ll see each other in passing, small glances to individual stars walking their patrols.
Midoriya’s back no longer has a hunch to it. His head is held high, and his arms swing leisurely at his sides. Some small dam inside of Bakugou’s chest breaks and relief floods through him — he should not be this fucking relieved at nothing, but he still is, and seeing Midoriya healthily back at his patrol route is...reassuring.
Midoriya sees him staring. Bakugou’s not that embarrassed — they’ve stared at each other before. Midoriya’s jaw slices his lips into a grin, and he waves a peace sign at Bakugou before continuing.
Bakugou’s left a little bit miffed.
##
Bakugou sees a few people recognize him, and only when a crowd begins to form, does he resign his shift and quit his patrol a little early. He’s super anal about his interviews, and if he doesn’t have time to prep for interviews, he’ll say something dumb, or harsh, and he’s deciding for now that it’s not worth it.
He got like, fuckin’ four hours of sleep last night. He’s not into the bullshit of dealing with preteen girls asking him for dating advice. It’s not that he can’t — but some things just aren’t in the realm of possibilities.
Midoriya’s on his heel when Bakugou’s almost at the agency, though. Fuckin’ bastard sneaks up on you — like a weasel soaked in grease and stealth. Bakugou’s not sure whether he knew that was Midoriya and he just didn’t react because he knew it was safe — or he didn’t hear Midoriya at all. The fucker.
“Kacchan,” Midoriya chirps, his voice uncomfortably high, uncomfortably fond. “You look tired today.”
Bakugou instantaneously regrets ever being reassured by Midoriya’s presence. “Is this payback for me telling you you look like shit the other day?”
“What? I — of course not,” Midoriya says, eyes very nearly rolling into the back of his skull. “That’s absurd. I’m just making an observation. You look tired, did you get enough sleep last night? Did I keep you up? Should I stop calling?”
“It wasn’t you, asshole,” Bakugou says, his tone just barely edging on reassuring; Midoriya visibly softens. “Got home late anyways. Couldn’t have gotten much more if I’d just passed the fuck out.”
Midoriya looks just a little concerned, the douchebag, like he’s ever worried about himself when he gets home late — “did calling help you go to sleep?”
Bakugou pauses on the handle of the agency’s door. He furrows his brows before he relaxes them, cracks his ankle, and looks back at Midoriya. “What?”
“I mean — whenever I call you, it helps me go to sleep. I don’t know what’s particularly relaxing about you fussing at me — but it’s.. nice? Do you feel that way, too? It gets my mind off everything that I couldn’t do at work. All the people I couldn’t save — and it just leaves me… warm, I s’pose.”
Bakugou is not so sure about that. He doesn’t remember much from last night, if at all — his memory gets hazy when he’s tired, and long nights working turn into blurs. He can remember glimpses of last night, but no more feelings of safety occurred during the call. He felt safe when he got home — and maybe, maybe just a little but not by much, safer when Midoriya’s voice came from his phone.
That’s bullshit. “You’re gross,” Bakugou says instinctually, and he can hear Midoriya’s noise of surprise even as he swings the agency’s door open and enters. He can feel Midoriya staring holes into his back, and it gives Bakugou a smudge of satisfaction to feel him do it.
Midoriya is practically nipping at Bakugou’s heels, and although he’d usually be annoyed at someone’s presence at his back, he isn’t. He’d set an intern on fire for doing the same thing — but it’s normal with Midoriya, and it’s not like Midoriya hasn’t been doing it these past two decades either.
Bakugou slows at, what he hopes to be, sporadic intervals — but every time Midoriya predicts his movements ahead of time, and slows down without ever bumping into him.
“How’d you know?” Bakugou says, taking the long ride up a few flights of stairs up to his office.
“Huh?” Midoriya asks — his voice is ricocheting off the walls, bouncing with a high velocity that’s familiar. “How’d I — how’d I what?”
“When I’d slow or stop. Am I so easy to read?” Anger seeps into his voice, and there’s heat that’s supposed to be there that rolls in like waves. He shakes his head, runs a couple of fingers through his hair, and tries again. His pace speeds up a little. Midoriya matches it effortlessly. “I mean. D’you know what I’m gonna do just ‘cus we’ve known each other for so long, or is it a lucky gut instinct?”
“Oh,” Midoriya says, like suddenly everything makes sense. “It’s not — it’s not because you’re easy to read, Kacchan, you just have little… signs. Signs you may not notice, necessarily — just little things! When you slow down, your back straightens. Did you know that? It’s like you — you stand a little taller to see above stuff. And when you speed up, you ball your fists. It’s the — the little things, but they’re easy to miss! I just… like noticing things about you.”
Bakugou’s face turns bright red. He can feel Midoriya’s gaze shift from Bakugou’s back to where his ears are lit up like red fairy lights. “That’s creepy, Deku.”
“It’s not as weird,” Midoriya says, earnestly — so fucking earnestly. “If you consider the fact you’re very interesting.”
##
Midoriya continues to call him after their conversation that day. When he doesn’t, Bakugou does. Not quite as often, not as regularly, but he does. Midoriya goes a week without calling him before Bakugou goes to bed, and Bakugou calls: he hears Midoriya sniffling, wet and thick and struggling, and he goes on to talk about all this free merch of his that he doesn’t fucking want. And Midoriya laughs with him, and his voice doesn’t sound as strained after.
Bakugou learns that he has a tolerance for increasingly fucked up shit, and that Midoriya has less of a tolerance when it’s other people that go through it, and that he cries even if Bakugou doesn’t. He also learns that Midoriya is a shit-texter, and never texts before he calls.
you were in a call with DEKU 59:08
you were in a call with DEKU 26:01
you were in a call with DEKU 10:59
you were in a call with DEKU 2:34
you 3:05 AM
hey you fucking ass did you drop the call
DEKU 3:25 AM
oh!! :( did i? i thought u went to bed & i didnt wanna bother u
you 3:26 AM
call me back you ass
DEKU 3:56 AM
ok kacchan!!
“I’m never texting you again,” Bakugou says, running his tongue over the bottom row of his teeth. “You’re the fucking worst.”
“Ah,” Midoriya says, all fucking innocently. “That’s fair.”
Midoriya doesn’t get any better at texting as the nights go on, but Bakugou just stops asking. If Midoriya can’t call then he won’t, he says shit like ‘can’t talk, gotta go, love you, bye!’ like he’s spent some time talking to his mom and his stupid brain’s on autopilot. Some kinda bullshit to deal with.
Midoriya calls during breakfast, now. Bakugou’s started to recognize the differences between what Midoriya sounds like when he’s just woken up, when he’s getting dressed, or when he’s jogging — the changes in pitch, in tone. Bakugou’s a little weirded out by his own creepiness, but he appreciates the noises of surprise that Midoriya makes whenever Bakugou guesses correctly on his current activity.
Bakugou gets wireless earbuds. It’s a damn inconvenience to carry his phone around or pack some kinda headphones. He always breaks the chunky ones anyways.
“Am I annoying you?” Midoriya asks out of nowhere, as far as Bakugou’s fucking concerned.
“Wuh — huh?” Bakugou responds, as fucking eloquently as he’s always been.
“Am I — we’re talking all the time — I can’t remember a time where we did that. Am I — is this annoying?”
“No,” Bakugou answers quickly. Too quickly, he bites internally, that’s fucking conspicuous. “If I was annoyed, I wouldn’t pick up.”
“I s’pose that’s true, ah, thank you, Kacchan.”
The bastard doesn’t believe him, Bakugou can hear it in his voice, but he can’t make himself argue with him over it. “Say, when are you going on your morning jog? ‘S late.”
That’s the only time Bakugou hears civilian Midoriya exclaim fuck!
##
It’s several months into this arrangement, and it’s morning. Evening has already passed and it’s entered into the point where it’s neither morning nor night, somewhere in-between, but Bakugou has decided to begin calling this in-between abyss morning. The sun hasn’t yet risen over the apartment complexes of the city, but it’s there: it colors the sky golden, and it peppers inky splotches of pink into the fading blacks and blues.
He gets a call he knew was coming, despite not hearing the ringtone, or seeing the familiar blue-tinted screen. He sleeps with his earbuds still in, now, and they’re a comforting presence that dulls the noise of Musutafu at night. (The sleepless cars remind him of being abroad, in New York City, but there’s something homey about Musutafu that isn’t present in New York City.)
“What’s up, babe?” Bakugou says, words slurring in the way they usually do: what’s up? turns to g’morning turns to can I help? turns to on my way. But they’re not there yet. They wouldn’t be there yet for some time.
“I just got home from an all-nighter shift,” Midoriya says. The golden sunlight streams through the blinds of Bakugou’s bedroom, and it spreads across his spotless white sheets like wings spread on human bodies like butter; there’s a quality to Midoriya’s sleepy yet sleepless voice that molds the sunlight into something tangible and comforting. “And — can I tell you about it, babe?”
Bakugou shifts. He reaches out for something that isn’t there, yet. He lets his wrist hit the edge of the bed, fingers dangling. “Don’t keep m’waiting, now. Your calls are the highlight of my day.”