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It’s dark.
There’s nothing around and it’s all dark and if he could fucking see right now, Bakugou would say the world is slightly out of focus, twisted to the side like it’s been tilted by some invisible giant. But he can’t see. He can’t see shit and he’s uncomfortably aware of the race of his heart in his chest as it drums quicker and quicker.
There’s something behind him.
He can’t explain how he knows, but he knows it’s there, lurking in the limitless dark behind him. And Bakugou would turn to face it, fight it off, but suddenly he’s shrinking and he’s fourteen again and trapped in an alley and choking on the hand clamped down over his mouth as he kicks uselessly.
His friends ran away as soon as he came up behind Bakugou. There’s no one around, just him uselessly kicking as his eyes fill with furious, blinding tears and his legs lift of the ground and he can’t see and he can’t breathe and his muscles hurt from kicking and kicking and trying and failing to fight off his attacker and he can’t breathe-
He jolts awake.
It’s raining today, like it has for the past week and Bakugou lies still, watching the droplets race down his window as sweat cools on his skin. Even though he’s awake, one part of his mind is still in the dream, somewhere in the back of his head, where hands close over his mouth and drag him backwards, so quick he can’t fight them off.
Maybe, in some other world, there’s a Bakugou that couldn’t fight them off, and that’s where the dreams are coming from. The Bakugou that’s trapped in the dark-
Suddenly furious, Bakugou throws himself out of bed, shaking his head to rid himself of stupid thoughts. There is no other world; his dreams are just fucking dreams. Nothing else. No matter what Racoon Eyes reads out from those stupid magazines about meaning and symbols and subconscious. It’s not real, and it doesn’t mean shit.
And those dream journals never talk about the shit he dreams about anyway.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Bakugou stumbles over to his window, flicking on his kettle. He watches the rain fall as he waits for it to boil. Then he chugs steaming black coffee, and he is himself again.
The day is icy, the way all the days have been lately, and the radiators are on full blast in the Drama Studio. The heat, combined with the rain that’s been coming down in sheets all week, is becoming claustrophobic and muggy, making the air in the studio hard to breath. And his Drama group is already fucking annoying, but the weather combined with the closeness of their performance is making the entire group hyperactive, and Bakugou would walk out if it weren’t for his perfect attendance.
He’s getting a headache.
Racoon Eyes isn’t helping; she’s blasting music as loud as she dares with that bluetooth speaker Sparky bought her for her birthday and trying to teach the sparkly kid a dance that isn’t ballroom. Her legs, gaudy in neon pink legwarmers, almost take out the light, something the rest of his group finds hilarious.
Bakugou clenches his fists, closes his eyes.
It usually takes longer than 10 minutes for his group to rile him this much, but maybe it’s the weather or maybe it’s that fucking dream, but he can feel that familiar pop in his veins that means there’s too much going on too fast and he’s ready to explode.
It was easier in school, when people actually took his outbursts seriously.
Bakugou himself is sat against the wall, studying for his biology elective. He doesn’t need the dance lessons, because he’s not part of the scene, and disco isn’t even part of the damn play, no matter what Raccoon Eyes insists. Just because it’s modernised doesn’t mean they’re changing from ballroom. It’s possible the only thing him and that Icy Hot motherfucker agree on.
Even so, watching the groups failed attempts to imitate Raccoon Eyes’ moves threatens to bring a smile to his face.
His day just gets better from there.
Because after practise, there’s a French workshop, which means he doesn’t have to talk to anyone, and then…
And then it’s lunch, and then he’ll see Kirishima.
When he first began to base his day around Kirishima, Bakugou was entirely frustrated and vaguely embarrassed. In fact, the only thing that stopped him from ending their stupid lunches together was the thought that… That he wouldn’t get to have their stupid lunches together.
And the three weeks over the holidays without Kirishima.
After those three long, boring weeks, Bakugou was willing to put up with frustration and vague embarrassment. But willingness didn’t make it any less fucking annoying.
Even so, Bakugou practically throws himself out of the door at the end of the workshop, slinging his bag over his shoulder and almost crashing into Kirishima.
“Woah!” Kirishima laughs, and Bakugou swears he could count all his stupid spiky teeth, “You’re in a rush!”
“I’m hungry.” Bakugou grunts, trying to ignore the explosions in his stomach that go off when Kirishima swings an arm around his shoulders.
Kirishima smiles again, “Drama stressin’ you out?” He pulls Bakugou in closer, laughing when Bakugou shoves him off, snarling, “So, where to today?”
That’s another thing that Bakugou just can’t understand; Kirishima always lets him pick the place. He never complains about it, just lets Bakugou guide him somewhere and finds something he likes on the menu, simple and easy. All through lunch, he keeps up some kind of conversation, and Bakugou consistently finds himself supressing his face muscles as they try to copy Kirishima’s ever-present smile.
He’s been told he looks scary when he smiles.
So Bakugou leads them to the same place they went last week and orders the spiciest thing on the menu without hesitation. He doesn’t have to look to see Kirishima scanning over the menu to find the meat section. When their food arrives, Kirishima takes some of Bakugou’s before he himself can get his fork in and chugs an entire glass of water to wash the taste away, laughing as he goes.
The rain has dried up by the time they leave.
On the walk back, Kirishima tries to balance his way along the curb, laughing when Bakugou yells at him and merrily shaking his fist when a car drives by and splashes him. Instead of chasing after the car and dragging the driver out through the window like he wants to, Bakugou just rolls his eyes. Kirishima doesn’t need anyone to look after him, after all.
(That doesn’t stop Bakugou wanting to.)
Kirishima really is nothing special, not really. He’s only in university because of a dumb sports scholarship, and his cheerfulness is level with Raccoon Eyes’, and he shares his over flowing niceness with most of halls- even if he’s not as pathetic with it as the rest of them are. So what Bakugou really, really can’t understand is why his heart is running loops around his ribs. Kirishima’s doing nothing special, for God’s sake, so why is he, Bakugou, suddenly flushing up to his ears when Kirishima grabs his arm for balance.
Out of instinct, Bakugou pushes him off.
“Not fair, Blasty,” Kirshima complains, smiling up at him from his position in a puddle, “I was defenceless.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Bakugou says, watching Kirshima pull himself out of the puddle, brushing down the shorts he somehow decided were a good idea. He’s decided to go for some tie-dye pastel monstrosities today, coupled with a bright orange sweater and (of course) his red crocs.
It’s an entirely awful look. Bakugou feels like he should want to burn the outfit as quickly as possible, or at least try to pretend he’s not with Kirishima, that he doesn’t even know the walking disaster that keeps talking to him. Instead, he just wants to pull him closer.
There’s something wrong with him.
Kirishima keeps walking like nothing happened, turning to look over his shoulder when Bakugou doesn’t move to catch up or tell him to stop walking so goddamn fast. His eyes are full of inquisitive confusion, “Blasty?”
“I’m fuckin’ coming.” Bakugou grumbles, refusing to let himself to rush to catch up to Kirishima, even though it’s all he wants to do.
There has be something wrong with him.
Bakugou lies back in bed, staring up at his ceiling and trying to think of nothing. It’s only nine, but it’s already dark out, which helps. In summer, it’s even harder for Bakugou to sleep, with the sky still dusky blue even at ten. And he can’t stand shutting the curtains. It’s like shutting himself in the small, dark box of a room he inhabits. The thought makes him ill. Even with the early winter nights, the nightmares still hang over Bakugou’s head, every night when he’s trying to sleep.
He tries to think of his nightmares as little as possible during the day, but at night, when he’s lay in bed with nothing to distract him, they’re all he can think about. Sometimes, his nights are dream-free and dragging himself out of peaceful sleep is a struggle. Other nights, he wakes up drenched in sweat, after reliving grossly exaggerated memories. Going back to sleep is always a struggle on those nights.
Sometimes, he can’t sleep at all.
And it gets later and later and later.
And Bakugou lies on his back, straining his eyes as he stares at the darkness of the ceiling, eyes itching for sleep he jerks out of as soon as he feels himself slipping away. It’s the worst kind of infuriating. If he were stronger, he wouldn’t be dwelling, if he weren’t so fucking weak-
Bakugou rubs one clenched fist over his eyes, groping blindly until he finds a light switch, bathing his room in a dim yellow glow. He turns onto his side, opening the book he was reading to mindlessly flick through the pages, searching for his favourite part. It may not help him sleep, but it can take his mind away, at least for a short while.
He doesn’t reach it before his phone buzzes softly on his bedside table. Without thinking, he grabs it, shaking hands making typing his passcode hard.
ur up late!
Bakugou presses his face into his pillow and groans, because of course it’s Kirishima. It’s not even late, only half eleven, but sometimes Kirishima seems to know his habits better than Bakugou himself does.
It’s almost scary, how much attention he pays.
Go to sleep shitty hair, Bakugou replies, hitting send before he can think about sending anything else. Because if Kirshima knew what was keeping him up, he’d want to talk about it, and Bakugou can’t even consider talking about any of this. He just can’t.
And Kirishima pushes and pushes and pushes, like he actually wants to know. It almost makes Bakugou want to hit him, even though the very thought makes his stomach curl in on itself as sickness whirls through it.
He’s just turned off the screen when his phone hums again, and Bakugou’s embarrassed by how little time it takes for him to turn his phone back on, slamming his thumb into Kirishima’s message.
i can’t i’m too busy talkin 2 u !
Bakugou spins his thumb over the keyboard. He can’t even bring himself to yell at Kirishima, even though he desperately wishes he could, the way he did at the start of the year.
It’s not like Kirishima ever took him seriously anyway.
Before he can find the right words, Kirishima’s grey texting bubble pops up again, and Bakugou waits for his reply, trying to pretend he can’t feel his own heavy heartbeat.
Eventually, the bubble is replaced by Kirishima’s message: do u want me 2 come up ?
No Bakugou types out quickly. He hits send as soon as he finishes typing, too scared of the alternative response his hesitance might bring.
He turns his phone off before Kirishima can reply, heart hammering in protest. Is his fear of sleep really so visible? Or is it just Kirishima’s sixth sense for anything that’s remotely off?
At least he has something else to think about now, instead of the possibility of nightmares.
The thought doesn’t help.
He’s even more grumpy than usual the next morning, and not even two cups of coffee and his usual jog can rouse him fully. It took three hours for Bakugou to finally slip into sleep, and even then he was plagued by lucid dreams of shadowy figures leaning over him as he slept.
Scowling to himself, Bakugou forces another balled up sheet into the washing machine at the laundrette in town. He only changed his sheets a few days ago, but after his restless night these ones are fully soaked in sweat.
Bakugou slams the buttons down with perhaps more force than he should.
He hates the laundrette.
It’s always busy, whether he comes at 6am or 11pm, and he’s never once had a trip without some shitty idiot trying to talk to him and getting offended when he forgets their name.
Today is no exception. The door of the laundrette crashes open, and Sparky and Raccoon Eyes barrel in. Bakugou feels his eye twitch as a hand claps down on his shoulder.
“Bakugou!” Racoon Eyes yells, way too loud for 10am on a Saturday morning, “You should have told us you were doing laundry today!”
“We could have walked down together.” Sparky adds as he tries to open a machine. Just for that, Bakugou decides not to tell him he’s trying to open it from the wrong side.
They’re both so annoyingly loud, all the time. But, what makes them the most annoying is that Bakugou just can’t bring himself to hate them. He gets angry at them, and sometimes he wishes they would just leave him to get on with things in peace, but he can’t hate them.
Sometimes, he even finds himself having a good time.
Racoon Eyes drops into the seat beside him, grinning, “How are you doing with your lines?”
“I’ve finished.”
Her eyes bulge, “The entire script?!”
“Yep.” He can’t stop his smug pride showing as her jaw drops.
Racoon Eyes dips into her bag, pulling out a mangled, coffee stained booklet, “Great! Then you can-“
“Fuck off.”
He’s only got a few seconds to smirk before Racoon Eyes does what any reasonable person would do, and hurls herself into his lap. “Bakugou! You’re heartless!”
“Get the fuck- fuck off!” He shrieks, standing up and dragging Racoon Eyes off her chair as she continues to cling to him, sliding down until she’s wrapped around his knee.
“Not until you help me with my lines!”
Bakugou groans in frustration, “Fine!”
Beside them, Sparky triumphantly opens the washing machine door. “What did I miss?”
“Bakugou’s helping me with my lines!” Racoon Eyes finally climbs back to her own two feet, grabbing her script from the floor as an after-thought.
Sparky grins, “Told you he would.” He begins hurling handfuls of washing into the machine, only for Bakugou to snatch half of it back.
“You can’t wash your whites and colours together, dumbass.”
“Told you!”
It doesn’t take long for Bakugou to realise he’ll be spending the rest of the day with them.
“What are we doing here?” Bakugou snaps as they traipse across possibly the hugest field he’s ever seen. He’d planned to somehow dump Raccoon Eyes and Sparky when they got back to halls, only for them to drag him out before he could even shut his door.
“We’re saving the free world.” Sparky says, glancing at Bakugou over his shoulder and almost tripping over a clump of grass.
“You can do that without me.”
Raccoon Eyes pouts, dark eyes sparkling with something Bakugou doesn’t like the look of, “C’mon, Bakugou, you’ve got the best shouting voice. Plus, Kirishima will be there.”
“Fucking so?”
Sparky and Raccoon Eyes exchange looks as they keep walking, getting closer and closer to a small crowd of people right at the edge of the field. They seem to be having some sort of silent argument, and Bakugou’s just preparing himself to knock their heads together when Sparky turns ‘round to face him again.
“Well, you like him, right?”
“Who the fuck-“
“You came!”
Bakugou can feel himself turning red.
Kirishima’s beckoning them over from the crowd, cheerily waving a placard attached to what could be the leg of the communal coffee table.
“We came!” Raccoon Eyes practically sings, bouncing over to him, “And we brought Bakugou!”
Bakugou grunts, side-eying Sparky as he snickers. He doesn’t know how they found out, but when he does, he’s gonna-
But he can’t think of what he’s going to do, because Kirishima’s so close he can see the individual hairs that need redying and any thoughts he was having have all dried up in his brain.
“I didn’t know you cared about the environment, Blasty.”
“Neither did I.” Bakugou says, glowering at Sparky and Raccoon Eyes.
Kirishima shrugs, eyes sparkling with something that can’t mean anything good, “It’s never too late to start. Wanna hold my placard with me?”
Bakugou does. He really really does.
By the end of the protest, Bakugou’s covered in dirt from being wrestled to the ground by Kirishima’s silver-haired friend, and he’s been reminded at least three times that ‘Battery is a crime’ as various people pushed his placard into a less spear-like position.
Because he might not be as obsessive about the environment as Kirishima is, but he does get mad when some idiot in a suit thinks money gives him the right to mow down an entire forest. Or a field, or a hill, or-
“Or a deer.” Kirishima nods earnestly, dragging one hand through the bushes. His hair has begun to wilt, and even the weak winter sun has managed to tinge his skin a deeper brown.
All Bakugou does is burn.
They’re strolling back to halls with the type of leisurely pace Bakugou almost never experiences, Sparky and Raccoon Eyes bouncing about in front of them, human cannonballs in the fields of grass.
Bakugou’s feet hurt from standing for so long.
His feet hurt and his mouth is dry and he wants nothing more than for the rest to disappear, so he and Kirishima can walk back to halls shrouded in that comfort that Kirishima always exudes, so Bakugou’s shoulders can drop from around his ears and he can feel relaxed once more.
Because watching Kirishima march up to some twat in a suit, in his crocs and tie-dye top made Bakugou’s heart beat in an unfamiliar pattern, and Kirishima is usually the cure. Of course, he’s also the cause but in the coin toss of spend less time with Kirishima or spend more time with him, it’s a no brainer which Bakugou will chose.
Even if he’ll never, ever let Kirishima know.
They arrive back at halls just in time to hijack Soy-Sauce Face’s takeout order.
He’s ordering pizza when they crash in, and because he’s actually got feelings, unlike those fucks on floor B, he asks them what they want and makes conversation with the person on the phone while they fight over the menu.
Pizza has never really been Bakugou’s favourite, but he stops caring when Kirishima orders a Mighty Meaty with a grin that says he knows exactly what he’s walking into. And, sure enough, Racoon Eyes and Sparky spend the entire 30-minute wait taking the piss out of him for it. Soy-Sauce Face joins in, when he’s not busy giving Sparky desperate puppy eyes that no one else seems to even notice.
Bakugou doesn’t even tell them to shut up. But that’s mostly because last time they ordered pizza that abominable floor B magician fuck stole it, and he’s ready to sprint down and grab it before that bitch even has time to grab his stupid thrift store tailcoat. He’s not taking any damn chances.
They get their pizza, uncontested, five minutes later.
And, because everyone on their floor is also a filthy food thief (he knows Half ‘n’ Half stole his goddamn chicken nuggets and he will prove it one day), Bakugou has taken precautions with his pizza.
“I can’t believe you only got jalapenos as a topping.” Sparky whines, fanning at his mouth.
Bakugou smirks, “That’s what you get for stealing my shit.” He plucks a green pepper from what’s left of the stolen slice and eats it without breaking eye contact, just to prove his point. And because he’s not got weak taste buds like the rest of them do.
From the corners of his eyes, he watches Kirishima fetch a jug of water, a strand of cheese hanging from the corner of his grin. Sparky chugs it in one.
“Masochist.” Racoon Eyes says, as Sparky wipes away dribbles of water.
Bakugou rolls his eyes, biting into another slice of pizza. It burns when he runs his tongue over his chapped lips.
As they plunge into March, the rain freezes into sleet then snow, huge flakes which form flurries around figures as they sprint for the safety of halls. The streets are repaved with ice, making any journey an injury risk. Worse still, the pipes freeze and burst, plunging the entirety of halls into a bitter, freezing cold.
And if there’s one thing Bakugou can’t stand, it’s the damn cold.
At night, he sleeps restlessly under two duvets and a wool blanket he picked up at the thrift store, in his thickest flannel pyjamas. He falls asleep shivering and wakes up drenched with sweat, his overheating elevating his dreams until he wakes up four times a night, shaking and panting and terrified. During the day, he walks around in his usual baggy pants and tank tops, only giving in when temperatures reach the minuses. Even then, he only switches to long sleeves.
Because Bakugou Katsuki may be rude and moody and in a constant state of pissed off, but he is not a fucking pussy. He’s not gonna shopping for an entire new warm wardrobe just because of a little snow.
He just wished the rest of halls would get the message.
“Put it on!” Raccoon Eyes says, waving a bobble hat in front of his nose. She’s got Soy Sauce Face and Tails flanking her on either side, making Bakugou’s escape from his chair impossible.
Unless he’s prepared to fight them. But he’s not, and it’s not because he’s weak, it’s because if he lays a damn hand on them they’ll feel how cold his skin is and they’ll just get more and more fucking annoying.
So instead, Bakugou snaps, “I’m not your fucking Barbie doll!” and tries to absorb as much heat as he can from his lukewarm tea.
He’s not a fucking quitter. He’s just suddenly discovered a taste for tea that he’s never had before, because tea is gross.
“If you get sick, don’t blame me.” Raccoon Eyes huffs, folding her arms.
Bakugou snorts. He doesn’t get sick.
Bakugou gets sick.
His nose feels stuffed up and gross, and his tongue always feels like cotton because he has to breathe through his mouth like a loser. His head feels like he stuffed it with cotton wool, and his ears itch and overall it’s just the most unpleasant Bakugou has felt since Deku gave him freshers flu.
But he can’t afford to skip class, even though going out in the cold makes him want to kill himself and he’s been sleeping even less now he can’t breathe.
Which is why, on Sunday night, Bakugou finds himself in bed at 8:30, cuddling a hot water bottle and desperately searching for sleep he can’t seem to reach. He’s just found it, that bliss spot where he can almost feel himself slipping away, when someone knocks at the door.
Bakugou’s eyes snap open and he feels like screaming.
“Hey, Bakugou? We’re making drinks, d’you want anything?”
And of course, it’s Kirishima, because only Kirishima would think to include him in halls activities after he’s said no every single time. Bakugou wishes with all his heart Kirishima would just give him up as a hopeless case and move on. Because Bakugou is a hopeless case and the sooner Kirishima realises, the less hurt he’ll be. The less hurt they’ll both-
“Bakugou?”
The door creaks open, the hall light silhouetting Kirishima and his stupid spiked hair and stupid thick coat and for a second, in Bakugou’s fever-addled brain, he looks a little like an angel.
Bakugou shoves his face into his pillow so he doesn’t have to look. “Go ‘way.”
Predictably, irritatingly, Kirishima doesn’t.
Instead he steps further into Bakugou’s room, shutting the door behind him. They’re plunged into semi-darkness, only the dim glow of the streetlamps outside to illuminate them. Warily, Bakugou lifts his head from his pillow.
“You okay, Blasty?” Kirishima asks, stepping closer again.
“’m fine!” It comes out as a strangled wheeze.
Kirishima reaches forward.
His hand is rough and cold when it presses against Bakugou’s forehead, and Bakugou pulls his body back while pressing his forehead further into Kirishima’s palm. He’ll be embarrassed about this when he can think cohesively again, he knows it, but right now all Bakugou can think of is comfort and he can find all the comfort he needs in Kirishima.
God, he’s so weak.
“You’re really sick.”
“No shit, genius.” Bakugou coughs, glowering up at Kirishima with bloodshot, sleepless eyes. He still pushes his forehead into Kirishima’s palm.
Too soon, far too soon, Kirishima takes his hand away. He disappears through Bakugou’s door; before he’s even fully out, Bakugou begins to miss him.
“Here,” Kirishima’s voice echoes a few minutes later, and Bakugou’s eyes snap open, “I’ve got you some-“
“I don’t need your damn charity.”
Kirishima shrugs, smiling, “If you want, I can take all this medicine away…”
“Fuck you.” Bakugou shuffles himself up in bed, as slowly as he can just so Kirishima knows he hasn’t won. From his grin, Bakugou can tell it didn’t work.
“Here. Take the medicine first, and then you can have your soup.”
“Soup?” Bakugou says as he snatches the medicine from Kirishima’s hands. He may be sick, but he’s not a damn kid. He can give himself medicine.
Kirishima nods, grinning wider, “Chicken noodle. Todoroki has, like, a stockpile in the freezer and he said he didn’t mind. I even put chili flakes in, just for my Baku-bro.”
Bakugou chokes on his medicine.
Kirishima casts Bakugou the biggest puppy eyes he’s ever seen as he sneezes one, two, three times in quick succession.
“It’s your own fucking fault.” Bakugou snaps, tossing a tissue into the bin.
They’re both huddled under blankets in the common room, playing Mario Kart with remotes Glasses promised to sanitise thoroughly once they were finished.
Mario Kart isn’t really helping Bakugou’s mood.
It’s partially because he’s so sick of it. It’s the only game they have on the Wii-They’re-Not-Actually-Allowed, and he gets so bored of the endless loops around the same tracks. Which is why he and Kirishima are playing the least touched track- Rainbow Road.
Which brings Bakugou to his other reason: Kirishima plays manual (“It’s more manly!” he insists whenever Bakugou protests) and Bakugou, for the life of him, cannot drift.
And while Kirishima isn’t as good as, say, Soy-Sauce Face (Who singlehandedly unlocked every character and track for them) or fucking Deku (because he has nothing productive to do with his time), he’s better than Bakugou.
In fact, although he’d never admit it, the only person worse than Bakugou is the Grape Fucker. And that’s only because whenever he tries to play, everyone else pushes him off the track when he comes close.
So Bakugou may be the worst player in Halls, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna-
“Motherfucker!” He shrieks as Bowser spins off the track yet again.
“Bad- oh, shit.” Kirishima says as he follows suite, “That was your fault, Blasty.”
“How the hell was it my fault?”
“I was looking at you. You distract me.”
The bottom of Bakugou’s stomach seems to fall out.
“Distracted! I meant distracted!” Kirishima says hastily, but the damage is done and Bakugou can feel his ears getting more and more red as he struggles to find words.
“Wow Blasty,” And Bakugou can hear his grin, what even, “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
Bakugou stares at Kirishima, and Kirishima stares back with a grin that makes Bakugou think he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Then Bakugou sneezes and the spell is broken.
Bakugou doesn’t know what Kirishima’s doing, but he wishes he’d stop. He wishes he’d stop, because Bakugou can feel himself getting more and more attached and that’ll just make both of their falls worse in the long run.
He’ll accept cuddling when they’re both sick and too cold and overtired, but the cold was shortlasting and this is the third time Kirishima’s slung an arm around Bakugou’s shoulders and pulled him in until they’re too close.
He’s also taken to greeting Bakugou with taps on the shoulder, and grabbing him when Bakugou (inadvertently) says something funny. Worse still, every time Bakugou shakes him off, Kirishima tosses him a look, filled with confusion and a glow of mischief which just screams that he knows what he’s doing and doesn’t understand why Bakugou won’t let him.
It’s frustrating. But what’s even worse is Bakugou doesn’t want him to stop. But Bakugou’s many things and confrontational is one of them.
“What the fuck?” he snarls, shrugging Kirishima’s hand from his shoulder.
Kirishima laughs, showing off his stupid spiky teeth, “Too close?”
No. “Yes.”
“Sorry, Blasty. I’ll try to keep my hands to myself!” and he winks, for God’s sake, and Bakugou feels like tearing his hair out.
“You don’t,” and he’s tripping over his own tongue, “I. Fucks’ sake.”
“Use your words.”
“Fuck off!” Bakugou snaps, slumping down and crossing his arms over his chest.
Kirishima leans across to ruffle Bakugou’s hair, “Take your time.”
“I just- Why the hell d’you keep touching me?”
Kirishima blinks, “I like touching you. I mean, we’re friends, right?”
Bakugou steams from the ears.
He’s still steaming hours later, when Kirishima pulls off his flannel for what he calls the Ultimate Display of Manliness and what everyone else calls an arm wrestling contest. At least when he’s focussed on slamming his opponents fist into the coffee table, he can’t notice Bakugou staring.
“Yo.”
Bakugou grunts as Soy-Sauce Face drops onto the couch beside him. He’s been wallowing for half the day, and his hair hangs lank around his face. Bakugou, for what it’s worth, tries not to stare at him.
“Why’re you all the way over here? Instead of like… Like, up close and personal?”
“Fuck off.” Bakugou says automatically. His tongue trips and stumbles, and he knows if he says the wrong thing, Soy Sauce Face will go back to wallowing; he’ll go back if Bakugou says nothing too, “Why are you spending all morning pretending to sleep?”
The sarcastic twist of a smile tells Bakugou he’s said the right thing. It raises his courage.
“I bet you haven’t eaten all day either. Dumbass, if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll feel worse.”
It’s almost lunchtime. His recipe book is out, because Sparky robbed off with it earlier, and he needs to make something for himself anyway.
“That’s fucking it,” Bakugou says when Soy Sauce Face shrugs at him, as if his wellbeing doesn’t even matter, “I’m making you lunch.”
“You don’t-“ Soy Sauce Face starts.
“Shut your whore mouth.” Bakugou grabs his book on the way to the kitchen, flicking through until he remembers the right thing. A little spicy, a lot of green vegetables and pasta. And cheese. Because he knows Soy Sauce Face can eat it by the block.
As he flicks between the pages, he says, “That Sparky bastard stole my hot chocolate recipe. Now everything’s out of order.”
Soy Sauce Face has the gall to apologise, so Bakugou feels justified in telling him to fuck off.
He also feels justified- though slightly less so- in slamming a glass of water down in front of him, “Hydration.”
“Uwu.” Soy Sauce Face adds after his first sip. Bakugou points his vegetable knife, and Soy Sauce Face’s smile, his first real one of the day, makes all this damn effort worth it. He speeds his chopping as they fall into silence and Soy Sauce Face’s stomach rumbles.
Fucking idiot.
“Bakugou! Eric doesn’t kick things when he walks on stage.” Raccoon Eyes calls across stage, flapping her copy of the script at him. It’s freezing in the drama studio, especially since the heating hasn’t been on since yesterday. Their breath is coming out in steam and their teeth chatter together whenever they’re not reading their lines. And Bakugou can hear the pipes working, so why can’t he feel the heat? He just kicked the wall to hurry the pipes the fuck up.
“And Sheila doesn’t jump off stage to tell Eric what to do!” Bakugou kicks the wall again for emphasis. The cardboard paintings they’ve hung seem to droop even further at the assault. But Bakugou doesn’t think he should be blamed for that, because the roof’s been leaking for months, so it’s not his fault they’re soft.
But all thoughts of the set are chased from his mind when Bakugou sees the spin of tailcoats from the corner of his eye. He grits his teeth in preparation.
“Oh dear! Is the up-and-coming star Bakugou Katsuki losing his touch?”
“There’s something wrong with you.” Raccoon Eyes says, as Monoma Neito laughs at his own shitty voice.
“Fuck off and die.”
“Feeling threatened?” Monoma says, a cocky glint shining in his eyes. From day one, he’s been consistently annoying, but since auditions he’s ramped it up. The only thing stopping Bakugou hitting him every time he’s close is the fact it would mean breaking character.
Right now, though, they’re both already out of character, so Bakugou feels no shame when he throws his script into Monoma’s face. The corner collides satisfyingly with his eye.
As Monoma wails, the sparkly French kid reminds Bakugou that, “Gerald doesn’t have a black eye.”
“He does if he gets into fights. Just get Half ‘n’ Half to add in a scene where I kick his ass.”
“Out of character,” He reminds Bakugou, tightening the tie that Bakugou has been steadily loosening throughout rehearsals, “Eric isn’t a thug, he’s the son of a wealthy businessman.”
“Stop type-casting Eric.”
“He looks like he can throw a punch.” Raccoon Eyes chips in.
“That’s because I’m fucking playing him.”
Raccoon Eyes waves a dismissive hand, “Whatever. I’ll ask Todoroki how Gerald can get a black eye.”
“As if he’ll know,” Bakugou snorts, pulling at the knot of his tie until it feels slightly less like a chokehold, “He’d probably try and make us all vampires.”
“Probably.” Raccoon Eyes agrees. She retightens Bakugou’s tie, ignoring his efforts to slap her hands away. Neither of them have forgotten the last performance they put on, where Macbeth was taken from regicide to werewolves before they could blink and Ms. Joke- for some ungodly reason- approved it.
Even with the script needing changes, they only finish rehearsals when it’s dark outside. Bakugou watches everyone else pull on layer after layer, preparing for the snow outside, as he slowly winds a scarf around his neck. After last time, he’d rather not risk another cold.
Walking back to halls is more like ice skating, and Glasses comes out halfway to meet them, yelling something about snowshoes that’s drowned out in the howl of the wind. On the way, Raccoon Eyes grabs Bakugou’s arm for support as she almost over-balances.
Bakugou can’t bring himself to shake her off.
They have another dance number now. In it, Gerald falls and hits his face and that, according to Half n Half, is how Gerald gets a black eye. There is one issue.
“I’m not dancing.” Bakugou insists as Raccoon Eyes spins around him. She’s got a long skirt on, pinned at the waist because she borrowed it from Ponytail, and it hits his legs when she spins too close.
“You have to. Todoroki scripted it.”
Bakugou grits his teeth, “Who would I even dance with?”
“…Maybe dancing isn’t so great.” Raccoon Eyes says after a long pause. Bakugou feels a burst of smugness that Half ‘n’ Half is gonna have to do yet another rewrite. A rewrite that doesn’t even interrupt rehearsals.
He’s just starting to feel a little smugger than he should, which is probably why everything crashes around his ears.
“Hey! Mind if I watch y’all?” Kirishima strolls through the rows of empty chairs as if it’s okay for him to be here. As if he’s allowed to be here when Bakugou isn’t fully word perfect and prepared to pull Eric through three acts of character development with his entire heart in the role.
He’s not ready for Kirishima to see him, at all, because he’s not perfected this role yet. And he can’t have Kirishima seeing him doing anything that isn’t perfect. Especially not the thing he’s meant to be good at.
“What are you doing here?” Bakugou grits out through clenched teeth. Kirishima just laughed.
“Well, y’all tell me so much about this play. I thought I’d come see. Like a private viewing? And my lecturers off, so.”
Raccoon Eyes grins back, “A full runthrough sounds good- right, Bakugou?”
“No.” Bakugou says. He wishes he could bite the words back, that he could tape his jaw closed so he won’t say what he knows he’s going to say. He can’t. He can’t.
He braces himself for the wreckage.
“There’s no damn point putting on a show for one person.”
Kirishima blinks up at him, and his eyes shine bright red, so bright Bakugou can’t tear his own eyes away. He should. He needs to look away before he sees the damage he’s caused, the wreckage he can’t stop himself from making of every-fucking-thing. He keeps looking.
And Kirishima pulls away first.
He tears his eyes away and walks out of the theatre. His boots squeak against the polished floor, echoing in the silence as he walks away, head high. And Bakugou can’t help but note his hair is freshly gelled, not wilted the way it usually is this time in the afternoon.
It doesn’t take long for it to click.
Kirishima didn’t just come here because his lecture got cancelled.
Raccoon Eyes shakes her head at him, “What’s wrong with you, dude?” Turning her back, she hurries after Kirishima, calling his name.
It’s done
Kirishima knows what Bakugou is, what he really is. He’s gone, and he’ll be gone for good, and everything can settle back to the way it was, before Bakugou heart beat fast at the sight of red hair and sunshine smiles. And no one will ever see his weak sides or find out Bakugou Katsuki isn’t nearly as put together as his grades say he is.
Bakugou feels his breathing accelerate, and he pulls at the tie, too tight around his neck, so hard it rips. He can feel the pressure behind his eyes and in his throat, a familiar burn that aches and aches and he can’t be here anymore.
Because if he stays any longer he’ll burst into tears, in front of everyone.
And he can’t have that.
The letters are blurring in front of Bakugou’s eyes when he finally lets himself look up from the textbook. He’s been copying the same chapter, over and over, for two hours, and it’s dark out now and he’s been desperate for water for almost an hour and a half. His tongue feels dry and his throat hurts from crying. His eyes are probably still red, but that can be passed off as low light.
And that’s if people ask.
Kirishima would.
But Kirishima won’t see him. He won’t want to see him, because Kirishima knows where he stands, and he stands way, way above what Bakugou deserves. And he knows that now.
Bakugou’s never tried to hurt him before. But he did. And he did.
And everything is back to the way it was. The way he wants it to be.
He wants it to be like this.
Doesn’t he?
“Kirishima’s upset.” Sparky says, closing Bakugou’s door behind him. It’s been almost two days, and Bakugou has barely left his room in all that time. He’s hungry, a little dehydrated and sick of being inside. But he can’t leave, he can’t.
“Get out my damn room.” Bakugou snarls. His voice is scratchy.
Sparky rolls his eyes, “What’s my name?”
“Are you that fucking stupid?” Bakugou pulls his pillow over his head. It smells of sweat, but he can’t go down to the laundrette. Not yet.
“Just tell me my name. And then I’ll leave.” Sparky sticks his face under Bakugou’s pillow, forcing him to pull it back off.
“Kaminari. Your name is Kaminari- now-“
“See, I told Ashido you know our names, and she said you didn’t. Because you never use them.” Sparky said, his coffee breath wafting onto Bakugou’s face.
Bakugou groans, shoving a hand through his unwashed hair, “So you won your bet. What do I care?”
“Scooch over,” Sparky says instead of replying, pushing at Bakugou’s side.
“Just fuck off!” Bakugou hisses, clutching at his blankets.
“But we’re friends,” Sparky insists, pulling at them, “We’re friends, right Bakugou? Right, Kacchan? We’re friends, and we sit in the same bed and we talk about our issues.”
“This isn’t a damn sleepover.”
Sparky shrugs, “I’m not asking for a sleepover. I’m asking why you won’t call your friends by their names. And why you told your crush you don’t think he’s important enough to see your play.”
They fall into silence. And Bakugou rolls over. He makes room.
Kaminari climbs into the bed. It’s too cramped, his cell single, with the two of them in.
“Why’d you do that, Blasty?”
And then the tears come.