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Todoroki Shouto is a human of very low expectations.
Well, or no expectations, to be precise to the nanometer. Either way, he’s learned over the past few years of his life to not assume, to not judge. He held a very much pessimistic view of “don’t judge a book by its cover”, and was content to maintain that belief with his head high and dignified.
His current boyfriend of 2 months is threatening to shatter that concrete statement he’s placed on a pedestal for 17 years.
“Corn chip,” Todoroki murmurs, doodling on his English handout.
Bakugou Katsuki, said boyfriend, peers up from his orange Chemistry textbook and grumbles, “You’re literally twenty centimeters away from the bag, dimwit.”
“And you’re literally ten centimeters away.” He twitches in annoyance as his intended smiley-face volleyball turns into an oval-shaped emoji. “Did you just call me a dimwit?”
“Pretty Boy,” Bakugou exasperatedly corrects himself, whilst pushing in another corn chip into his boyfriend’s mouth. Todoroki munches on the snack – he’s more than aware how utterly weak the blond is for him, although he makes it transparent that he despises it. All that really matters is that Todoroki is the victor in the endgame, as Bakugou reluctantly flaps the white handkerchief.
The thing is, Bakugou Katsuki is indeed, a possible interpretation of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’, but without Todoroki’s ordinary negativism. On the exterior, one would see a ruffian-athlete, marching through the campus with his potty mouth and bad-boy attitude. On the inside, there’s still everything on the outside, along with an extremely shrewd, passionate, and even quite caring young man.
He’s everything that Todoroki has never known, and he’s in love.
“You done with that worksheet yet?” Bakugou closes his textbook, and the thick papers compiled slap together. “Since you’re fucking doodling.”
“I was waiting for you to finish reading,” Dropping his pencil mid-sketch, Todoroki explains, “Since you were reading about an experiment involving explosions. And you like chemical explosions.”
“I,” The other opens his mouth to retort, but whatever argument he’s prepared drowns through his throat as Todoroki smiles arrogantly once. “Whatever.” See, Todoroki’s perfectly aware of what Bakugou can’t compete against – Todoroki biting down erotically on his bottom lip, Todoroki playing volleyball (with a white shirt), and especially Todoroki smiling. It can be any kind – a gentle smile, a bright smile, a boastful smile – Bakugou’s a glass heart for every single one.
Todoroki thinks it’s adorable.
They exit the empty classroom, and the sky is dotted with magenta clouds. It’s their newly developed habit – as they weren’t exactly open about their relationship (or hidden, for that matter), after practice, they’d finish their homework and hang out in the deserted classrooms and walk home together. Pretty much the entire volleyball club had caught on to the hints, but none of them dared to mention it. It was Bakugou Katsuki, after all – and if there’s one individual you do not mess with in UA, it’s him.
Their journey back home is relatively quiet, but it’s not awkward or tense. It’s how they favor their time together – neither of the two was fond of constant chatter and boisterous noise, and preferred silently exchanged phrases and actions.
Todoroki pauses in front of Seven-Eleven and glances at the colorful neon sign. Bakugou halts his steps along with him and rolls his eyes. “Get something other than the fucking sweet flavors for once.”
“So you’re not kissing me if I get strawberry?” Todoroki questions with a smirk, tilting his head a little. Bakugou snorts, and characteristically stuffs his hands into his uniform pockets.
“Of fucking course I’m not,” Is what he claims, obviously, but Bakugou’s fiery orbs blaze in a disparate language, one that Todoroki is still educating himself with – but he does know for this time, it translates to: Of fucking course I am.
He buys ginger ice cream.
Bakugou sends him an incredulous scowl at his choice, “You hate spicy.”
“Yeah, well,” Todoroki twists the lid and removes the silver foil covering, licking the remnants of the spicy-sweet ice cream from its surface. “You like it, so.” The ginger’s taste and its tang are a little too strong for his liking, but the flicker of Bakugou’s flame stops him from regretting a second of his decision. The boy yanks Todoroki’s jacket sleeve and smashes their lips together in a violent collision – the latter knows it’ll swell, with how Bakugou is sucking viciously and prying his tongue into his cavern, mellowing out the sting of ginger and supplanting it with Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou –
“Shit,” Bakugou rasps, “You can’t just fucking,” his long, calloused fingers caress and thread Todoroki’s hair, and the latter wants it to be eternal. “Blabber crap like that and expect me not to attack you.”
“Hm,” Planting a kiss on Bakugou’s right temple, Todoroki hums, “That’s just what I’m expecting, though.”
“Hah,” A gravelly laugh jitters from his ace, as he twirls his grasp in his setter’s silky hair and brings them together, with a little less force than the previous one. “You’re so fucking cheeky.”
Todoroki mumbles against his partner’s chin, “Is docile your type, then? I can adjust, you know.”
“Fuck no,” Bakugou wraps his muscular arm around Todoroki’s thin neck, “Sassy and naughty is my kink.”
“Good, because I don’t date manipulative assholes.” It’s scarce that the shorter boy ever curses, but he also knows that Bakugou finds it pretty hot. But no, that particular explanation wasn’t for the effect – if there’s one category of humans Todoroki cannot stand to breathe the same air with, it’s controlling, abrasive, belligerent people, for a self-justified reason. He hopes Bakugou comprehends the underlying message, his superficial warning.
And just like that, Katsuki’s flame dies out into a star, not overwhelmingly blinding or fierce, but with a somewhat rough, yet shimmering glow. He gets it – he gets it, as he strokes Todoroki’s scar with his thumb and kisses him on his eyelid.
“Yeah, since you have great taste, Pretty Boy.”
It’s not that Bakugou runs back and forth between dual personalities. This is him – insightful, gruffly affectionate, doting, but also everything else. He doesn’t cross boundaries unless permitted, he doesn’t bombard him with questions, he simply waits – he waits until Todoroki is ready to share. He doesn’t interrogate him about the fateful evening of thunderstorms and why Todoroki reacted with terror, or about his scar. Especially about his scar.
“See you tomorrow,” Todoroki smoothens out the crease of Bakugou’s shirt – a product of their terse interaction – and slips into the opposite alley. The blond mumbles a phrase of farewell under his breath, barely audible, and turns around to face the road again. Almost instantly, Todoroki senses the chill of autumn seeping into his bones, indicating the absence of his significant other.
It’s mortifying, to a fair degree. To fall so hard, so fast – it’s an absolute first for him. He’s never been willing to disclose himself to someone; he’s never been this quick to lose authority over his own body. And although it must be the same for Bakugou, he doesn’t seem to be as anxious, as terrified, or as insecure.
His keys jingle from his bag as he inserts one into the keyhole, parting the door and narrow corridor to his desolate apartment. He’s been faring well alone since his transfer to UA, albeit the fact that his diet consisted of 3-minute noodles and MSG-packed convenience store bentos. The longing for homemade food lingered in the pits of his gut, but the desire was never too powerful or raging. He could deal with slightly uncooked noodles, salty broth, and stiff egg rolls.
Ever since he’s began dating, Todoroki’s finally noticing how ridiculously spacious his apartment is. The lack of furniture is apparent – in his only bedroom, he literally has a bed, a foldable desk, and a closet, while his living room has a television set and pillows on the tiled floor instead of a proper couch. His kitchen is far worse, without a single culinary utensil in the numerous drawers. He wondered why he never realized before, but he’s quick to notice that when he’s around Bakugou, there is nothing such as ‘spacious’ or ‘deserted’. They’re always walking within a 5-centimeter boundary, in proximate distance.
Compared to that, his home could’ve been the universe.
He lies down on the scratchy mattress, which dully reminds him that he needs to purchase a blanket and an actual covering for his bed. When he turns on his phone, there’re 10 new messages, and 4 missed calls from his sister.
Not the greatest sign.
He ignores the messages and proceeds to ring Fuyumi.
“Shouto? My gosh, I’ve been trying to reach you for the past three hours –“
“I had practice.”
“Prac-? Oh, right, you play basketball or whatever it was over there –“
“It’s volleyball.”
“Same difference. Look, that’s not the issue right now, okay? How are you? Are you adjusting all right to your new school- do you have friends? Isn’t that the whole point of joining a club in the first place? What about a girl- I’m sorry, boyfriend, or –“
When I enrolled a few months ago, you never asked those questions, Todoroki retorts bitterly inward, “I’m well. I… suppose I do have some friends, but it’s nothing too special. And…” Boyfriend. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah? Yeah, that’s fantastic… uh… right, I remembered. See, I know you were… well, sent away, parceled off in a box because… you know. But father really, really, doesn’t want Touya as the heir, and I can tell it’s irritating both of them. I just wanted to warn you that you might confront one of the two- or both, sometime this week, at this rate.”
“I was scratched from the family line, nee-san.” His voice transforms into a grumble, as the image of his brother and father crosses his exhausted mind. “Father’s not as pride-less as to bring me back into the household – and even if he is, I won’t be going back.”
Fuyumi’s agitated, elongated sigh echoed and vibrates over the receiver. “Shouto, I’m sure you understand, but Touya’s just… he’s not the best candidate we could have. And as a person who’ll succeed a portion of the business, I’d prefer to venture with a responsible, collected individual, not –“
“Father kicked me out, Fuyumi.” He did. Kicked out, for the most stereotypical bourgeois reason. “And there’s Natsuo nii-san if it really rolls downhill. I’m not paving my way back to that place.”
His sister is silent for some agonizing seconds until she relents. “Alright, Shouto. But know this: if you could’ve just been ignorant about your sexuality, we might all be in a brighter place right now.” And she hangs up.
He almost launches his phone out his window.
If he’d shut up, if he hadn’t been such a drama queen, if he’d been less sensitive to his father’s remarks, his actions, and if he overlooked what that man dared to do to his mother –
Then what?
Then where would he be, right now?
His phone buzzes amidst his foggy processing, and he squints his eyes to see the sender.
[Katsuki: Fk I forgot my chem textbook]
Todoroki stifles a laugh, the headache and anxiety dissipating instantly. He shuffles over to his desk, and spots the identical orange textbook, lying open on the right where he left it yesterday.
[You: I have mine at home – pick it up]
He sends his address and walks over to the kitchen, scanning the cupboards and drawers for tea – Bakugou was fond of ginger tea, so Todoroki took a personal note to purchase extra bags whenever he passed by the stores. Tearing the wrapping of the box, he boils the water and removes two mugs from the sink, where he last washed them. He tries his best to not let his trail of thoughts drift towards Fuyumi’s warning and his family’s predicament.
I was crossed off the family. He says inwardly, I’m not their business, and they aren’t mine.
He drops the teabags into the bubbling water and heaves a sigh. The whiff of ginger that floats into the vacant room puts him at ease; the aroma reminds him of his boyfriend, and Todoroki misses the man that he kissed a mere half an hour ago. Bakugou Katsuki possessed a distinct smell – not only of ginger and spice but the sea-salt detergent his mother seemed to use for the laundry, the strong lime-scented deodorant that he applied after practice, and also of the rubber of volleyballs and sports wear. He sniffs his unchanged uniform top and exhales – the cloth still holds a hint of Bakugou, and it induces the tiniest quirk of his lips.
The doorbell chimes minutes later, and Todoroki answers it – and there’s Bakugou, in a fresh green T-shirt and baggy jeans, his hands in his pockets with his own characteristic fashion. Todoroki doesn’t know why, but the sight of the other makes him step forward and wrap the blond into a loose embrace, as he buries his head into the crevice of his neck. Bakugou stiffens momentarily, but returns the hug, his arms tight around Todoroki’s lean frame.
“Hey.” His gravelly voice rumbles, “It’s been less than an hour.”
“Are you complaining?”
“No,” Bakugou ruffles his hair, “Just saying.”
Todoroki hums complacently, and then releases the boy. “Your textbook is inside – there’s tea on the table, so sit around for a while.” The latter shakes his shoes off from his feet and enters the house – it’s just around then that the hetero head realizes that Bakugou’s never visited his apartment before (or anyone, for that matter). Maybe… this was a risky idea.
He grabs the textbook from his desk and heads to the living room, where Bakugou is sipping on his tea, propped on one of the cushions scattered about the floor. “Does your house have any legitimate furniture? Ever gone to IKEA? Index?”
“I guess I never found it essential.”
“I’m fucking sure,” Bakugou rolls his eyes exasperatedly, gulping down the remnants of the tea. He licks his thumb and then stares at Todoroki, his gaze scrutinizing and sharp. Then he begins with, “Shouto.”
He flinches – because his name sounds magical when Bakugou utters it like that, the syllables thick and enunciated, causing an electric spark to jolt over his veins. He expends all his patience and energy to remain impassive, as he drinks his own tea. “Hm?”
But the question that follows throws him completely off guard.
“You alright?”
He snaps up in doubt, and Bakugou’s crystal ruby bores into him, unmoving and determined. Others would be intimidated – they’d cower away at the intensity of the fire, overwhelmed by his strength, but Todoroki could see the depth of those eyes, as they expressed pure concern and affection. He wasn’t quite sure what gave it away. But Bakugou worked mysteriously like that – he just seemed to notice Todoroki, whatever it was.
Finally, he mumbles, “Not really.” His nails scratch apprehensively against the glass of his mug, as he lowers his own gaze. “Hence why I told you to stay.”
“Hm,” Bakugou hums, “Okay, then.”
And this is why Todoroki had fallen deep. Bakugou didn’t pry further – of course, it wouldn’t be considered imposing to at least inquire, ‘do you want to talk about it’, but the ace wasn’t that kind of person. He simply asked a question to gain sufficient information about Todoroki’s condition, and didn’t expect an explanation for it. He was there solidly whether Todoroki needed him or not, and would leave him alone. Todoroki had never encountered anyone so infinitely understanding or persevering – and he loved it.
“How long can you be here?” Todoroki snuggles up against Bakugou, whilst turning on the TV set. There was some obnoxious comedy show going on, and he switched channels. Bakugou adjusts his posture to accommodate, and then responds,
“However long; my pops don’t give a shit.”
“We have school tomorrow, though.”
“Skipping once can’t possibly scar my GPA.”
“Aizawa-sensei is going to contact your parents.”
Bakugou gives it a few seconds and allows that to seep in. “Well, fuck them.” Todoroki chuckles and curls into his boyfriend’s side – the only source of discomfort from the position are the hardness of the living room floor, which has Todoroki creating a mental note to surf the online shopping mart for a new couch. They remain like that for about twenty minutes, until Bakugou shifts beneath him, and he lets go.
“You have Chemistry homework.”
“Don’t fucking remind me.”
Todoroki snorts, as he leans his head against the doorframe, to see Bakugou off. “Who’d remind you if I don’t?”
The spiker presses his lips thinly, and then concedes. “I guess you’re right, Pretty Boy.” Said Pretty Boy smirks and tugs aggressively on the collar of the ruffian’s shirt, causing their mouths to collide into each other. Bakugou somehow balances the textbook’s weight with one hand as he embraces Todoroki’s back with another, closing the distance that’s hardly existent, and his taste consumes the latter, hot and piquant.
“Good night,” Todoroki whispers into his ear, and Bakugou murmurs the phrase back at him as he turns to depart.
It’s a quite lukewarm night.
Days fly by since the brief call from Fuyumi, and although her speech lingers at the periphery of his mind, Todoroki pretty much eradicates it from the center of his thoughts. The critical point is that he was wiped off their family, and that was his father’s decision, not his. He outright refused to be treated like some object, free to dispose and retrieve when necessary. He valued his happiness – ignorant about sexuality, in a brighter place? – The excuses of his siblings were absolute bullshit, if he ever heard one.
So he shrewdly kept his attention to the upcoming tournaments and practice matches with rival schools for volleyball, as the commanding tower of the team, assisting Bakugou as his partner. They had begun to build a title for themselves – the Monster Duo of UA wasn’t some jest. They were the real deal, and after triumphantly seizing their victory during first semester at the Nationals, they weren’t just like any other trivial powerhouse. They were the UA.
Todoroki liked his team to a generous degree, sans the rowdiness and rambunctious nature of the minority. Kaminari and Kirishima were the mood makers of the team, and also Bakugou’s very, very scarce best friends, and Tokoyami and Midoriya were on the much quieter side of the spectrum. He constructed a connection with Midoriya especially, as he strived to hone his skills for receives when he first joined. Iida was a superfluously passionate captain, but Todoroki soon learned that that was the epicenter of the team dynamic. Everyone was a passionate and ardent player, including their coach, “All Might”, and though it was draining during the majority of occasions, it was also somewhat uplifting.
Even in class, his homeroom was the special one – especially problematic.
“Todoroki!” Mina exclaims, “Watch it!”
And he can instinctively predict that something is going to smack him on the head, just around –
“You better fucking watch it, Crazy Hair.”
The grouchy voice has Todoroki’s cheekbones elevating before he even affirms its origin. When he does, there is Bakugou Katsuki, clutching a Pikachu figurine that was two inches away from hitting Todoroki’s backside in his left fist, sporting his signatory scowl. Kaminari is biting back a cooing noise, and the girls of the classroom are squealing at the rare ‘protective boyfriend Bakugou’ moment. Kirishima laughs sheepishly.
“Sorry, man. I swear I wasn’t trying to kill your cute boyfriend.”
And the class erupts.
It’s quite embarrassing to claim so himself, but Todoroki Shouto and Bakugou Katsuki are the couple of UA. Not as in they were disgustingly sweet and gooey over one another like Kirishima and Mina, or the cliché high school teensy, romcom couples like Midoriya and Uraraka – but just their presence.
Todoroki was still relatively new to the school, but infamously known as The Human to Die For. He was regarded as a gem to both genders alike, sinfully attractive and innocently impure, a prancing oxymoron. From appearance to intellect, he did not stagger. Due to his preference for solidarity and antisocial character, he was wrapped in veils to other homerooms and grades, therefore the perfect gossip material. Rumors scurried across the halls like a viral infection, from ominous tales about his scar to the secret of his heterochromatic hair color and orbs.
And then there was Bakugou – the Bakugou Katsuki. Top scores, top performance, top eye candy, and absolutely dominant and unconquerable on his throne adorned with trophies. Everyone knew him, and that was everyone, period. You were either a fungus or actually dysfunctional if you had never heeded the name in UA – or anywhere in that region, for that matter. While Todoroki came to terms with his own overblown fictional novels about his backstory, Bakugou’s rumors were oddly believable – one could scream that Bakugou just defeated a Persian army alone and you’d have to spend some minutes to confirm the truth.
The school’s new hot topic and the most influential student, dating.
If that wasn’t a sufficient reason for them to be the couple, then Todoroki didn’t know what was.
The Pretty Boy was in reality, quite confuddled as to how the ace was going to act towards him at school, once they became an item. He never judged Bakugou as the showy kind, like Kirishima who practically announced that Ashido Mina was the best fucking girlfriend in the Milky Way on Day 1. Perhaps he’d favor being under the covers, just letting time do its thing.
Lord, was he wrong.
No, Katsuki isn’t showy. He doesn’t use amplifiers to profess his love for Todoroki, or write out ‘I LOVE YOU’ on the school’s sand field. But he’s very blunt about their relationship in unprecedented aspects – like now.
They’re in PE, the class engaging in a heated game of dodgeball. Their teams are separate – Bakugou’s on red, and Todoroki’s on white. So far, the whites have the lead, but red has Bakugou, Kirishima, and Tokoyami surviving – and they’re quite the trio to battle.
The ball is tossed to the volleyball star, and Todoroki lowers his weight on his legs.
And then Bakugou just grins – and that just can’t indicate anything good –
“Hey, Shouto,” He shouts clearly, and everyone’s attention draws to him. The setter deadpans, because there is no way that sly expression is just going to fade in tranquility, Bakugou, what the hell are you going to pull now –
“You have that fucking hickey on your collarbone.”
Freeze.
And it’s many milliseconds too tardy when he realizes that it’s false, because the hickey was not on his collarbone but his hip (or was it). The ball collides squarely into his shoulder, and Todoroki stumbles. He’s still in a daze about what has just whizzed by, and his skin reddens at the trickery.
He hollers angrily, “Katsuki, you did not –“
“Yes, I did, Pretty Boy.”
“Okay, Bakugou, Todoroki, I adore you guys and you’re my bestest bros, but we have teachers around right now and we’d better keep this game PG or Aizawa-sensei would –“
“All of you,” A whistle in his mouth, Aizawa motions, “Ten laps.”
Todoroki knees Bakugou in the shin during the laps.
So yeah, not showy, but maybe a notch worse. He’d pick french-kissing in the fucking cafeteria over indirectly mentioning his sexual activities with his boyfriend in front of his classmates and homeroom teacher. Because flirting could be avoided, but verbal declarations were final unless you were deaf.
On their detour to fifth period, Kaminari pipes in – “Is Bakugou rough in bed?”
He wants to murder someone.
(But on a side note, Bakugou is surprisingly, the gentler dom. He was unquestionably experienced in the field, more so than the pitiable hookup Todoroki had in his first year of high school, out of petulance and a flimsy stress-coping mechanism towards his father and the pressure. Bakugou didn’t vocalize his desires during sex; he just sent Todoroki a look. But in the end, the latter made the decision – if he didn’t want it, Bakugou didn’t do it.)
“You will not mention the products of our sexual intercourse on school grounds.” Todoroki grits his teeth, as he sets a ball to Bakugou. The ace spikes it with ease.
“What, you wanna brew a contract or something? ‘Clause 1, both parties will not mention products of sexual intercourse in public’. ‘cause then I demand for a second clause – ‘Todoroki Shouto will not wear white during practices or any athletic events’.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It’s either you morph into a cherry tomato in homeroom or me stuck with a boner in practice. Your choice.”
“At least I can suck off a boner.”
“Are you fucking suggesting?”
“Are the terms of the contract disagreeable?”
Pause. “They’re fucking not, you can’t do that.”
“Sure I can.”
“You know,” Kirishima pipes in, “Boner isn’t really daily-life vocabulary, or common terminology in volleyball. Just thought you all should know.”
Kaminari pitched in the conversation, “That’d be a cool team cheer, actually! Go, go, let’s go, let’s go, boner –“
Anyway, it’s chaotic, being Bakugou Katsuki’s boyfriend. Not that he particularly minds – it’s not a dynamic he’s accustomed to.
He had been educated to be the heir of the Todoroki estate. His father, Todoroki Enji, also known as Endeavor to the public for his devotion and concentrated effort, was officially the most renowned figure of Japan, probably has more influence on the country’s economy than all the small businesses combined. His older brothers were years above him, but had been deemed unsuitable for the seat of the throne, and his sister had been denied due to her gender. The next in line was Shouto: charismatic, intelligent, capable, and talented.
His life, for solid fifteen years, had consisted of handpicked tutors, best in the field, giving him 90-minute lessons daily in every subject, ranging from mathematics to physics, from Spanish to Introduction of Business. He attended a stereotypical high-class school, various heirs from other companies and corporations attempting to befriend him for the connections. He had acclimated his mind and body to that dynamic and rhythm, where people were constantly buttering their lips for his praise and favor.
And then, he came out.
The trigger had been in middle school, with a boy in his class. He was plain, from a politician family, his mother an ordinary commoner. He was always lost in his own world, his own imagination, and had been labeled a creep from the entire class – except Todoroki. He found the mysterious classmate intriguing, as he was unlike anyone else in his life until then. It wasn’t like anything significant had occurred between them; in fact, nothing had. It was more or less an interest, and nothing serious, but it had been a sufficient indication for him, and finally explained why he had never felt attracted to anyone of the opposite gender.
His father had been enraged, his brothers and sister hanging their jaws open in shock, as their youngest sat there with a dispassionate face, repeating, “I’m gay.”
And their steady dynamic, so meticulously constructed, fell apart instantaneously.
Which, in all honesty, ranks in the Top 3 of The Most Entertaining Moments of Todoroki Shouto’s Life. His mother had been the one person that had opposed with all her might of the removal of his name from the family records, even threatening her husband for divorce if he were to do so. Without any twists, his father had chosen the company’s reputation and so-called “fine bloodline” over his wife and son, and Todoroki was guaranteed the payment of his tuition and housing until he graduated high school.
Hence why he’s still in the process of getting used to Bakugou’s sporadic “Eat shit” lifestyle.
“Hey.” Bakugou grunts, “Let’s go out this weekend.”
Todoroki rinses his body in the shower stall beside him, “That’s sudden.”
“It’s not like you have shit to do.”
“You could just phrase it as asking me out on a date like any other normal boyfriend, Katsuki.”
There’s a moment of silence filled by the pattering of water against the walls, and the squeaks of feet against the tiled floor. “Would you like a fucking normal boyfriend?”
Todoroki blinks for a second. “I suppose not.”
“Exactly.”
They both exit their respective stalls, and hastily pull on their uniforms. Most of the club members have already departed, which is a given, as Todoroki and Bakugou typically waited until everyone was gone. It just permitted some personal space that they weren’t granted during school hours.
“There’s a soba place downtown.” Bakugou gruffly mentions, swinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “We can grab lunch there.”
Todoroki feels warmth soaking through his chest. “I want ice cream.” His boyfriend snorts, but doesn’t say anything to chastise him. “And there’s a movie that’ll be released in the cinema this weekend. I want to watch it, and you’re coming with me.”
“You’re such a spoilt brat.” Bakugou spits, as they enter their usual convenience store – the blond slams open the iced box of ice cream cones and cups and reaches for the vanilla-flavored one, and tosses it to Todoroki. “It better be a good fucking movie.”
Todoroki hands the part-timer a stack of coins and tears open the lid. “It’s a musical movie, actually. I have a picture of the poster, actually; it reads… ‘Packed with heavenly harmonies, the thrill of a great laugh, and summer romance you’ve never experienced’.”
“Tell me you’re fucking kidding.” So he shoves the screen of his phone in Bakugou’s face. “Jesus Christ, you are not making me watch a damned musical film, you jackass.”
“This jackass is, in fact, making you watch a damned musical film.”
“I should’ve fucking known what kind of Satan’s spawn you were before I decided to fucking kiss you.”
“You love me.”
“It’s in Bakugou Katsuki’s Top 10 What Not to do If Reincarnated list.”
“I’ll meet you at the station, Saturday, at 11.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Has Todoroki ever mentioned that his boyfriend is definitely Hot Material?
Well, even if he has, he will reiterate that statement. His boyfriend is most definitely Hot Material.
He sees Bakugou sitting on a wooden bench next to the gate of the station, wearing leather pants and a jean jacket, a tight white T-shirt beneath. It’s very casual attire, and somehow it looks like a photoshopped image straight out of a girl’s secret magazine. Todoroki glances at his reflection in a glass column – he just selected his turquoise jacket and a button-down shirt, and some ordinary khaki pants.
There are two girls circling and teetering around the bench Bakugou’s sitting on; approximately the age of college students, with short mini-skirts and faces caked with expensive makeup. Todoroki feels a twinge of irritation in his lower abdomen as he watches the scene unfold, one girl with a ponytail approaching Bakugou bashfully, her eyelashes fluttering at the speed of light.
“Excuse me, are you with someone?” She smacks her rosy lips, as Bakugou squints at her, detaching his gaze from his phone.
“What does it fucking look like to you?”
The chick flinches at his sharp voice, but doesn’t back down. “Well, we were wondering, since we were s’posed to have some guys on our trip today, if you wanted to –“ And then suddenly, Bakugou snaps his head to the right, straight at Todoroki, and shouts,
“Hey, babe.”
Hey, what?
The girls flick their heads towards his direction, and narrow their shaded eyebrows. Bakugou stands and wraps an arm around Todoroki’s slender waist. “Hey, Pretty Boy. Took you fucking long enough.” Then he turns to face the girls, and sneers, “Not into ugly girls, by the way. Or girls. Tough luck.”
Their cheeks redden through their powdery foundation, as one of them snatches the other’s wrist and stomps away. There’s a crowd whispering at them, and Todoroki heaves a sigh, albeit not all that disappointed. “That wasn’t really necessary.”
“Huh,” Katsuki lets his hand fall from his boyfriend’s waist. “Sure it wasn’t. I could sense your death glare from ten meters away.”
“I did not –“
“Yeah, yeah.” The ace waves dismissively, and leads them into the station platform instead. They purchase the tickets and board the train, in which they head downtown. They stand side by side between groups of people grasping the handles above, some random advertisement and brief news reports on the small rectangular screen on top.
“Today’s weather in the later evening will be stormy, so please remember to bring an umbrella if you are to head outdoors at all –“
“You know,” Bakugou cut in, “Your name is pretty common.”
Todoroki blinks, “I don’t hear that often.”
“Really,” The other drawls, his vision fixated on something ahead. Todoroki follows, and glues his orbs to an advert stuck on one corner of the train. There’s a photo of one of their main products, and Todoroki Enji’s august form pasted right next to it, his red hair styled like flames. “Because that old man is hella famous, isn’t he? Endeavor.”
“Oh,” He responds rather monotonously, “He’s my father.”
Bakugou is wordless for a second, his pupils dilating by a fraction. Todoroki doesn’t know how to decipher his reaction. “Huh. Makes sense, I guess.”
Makes sense? Something irks in him – makes sense? There’s absolutely nothing he wanted to be logical that he was that man’s son; he wanted to be an irrelevant piece, he wanted to be as disconnected as possible from him in every single way. There’s nothing that should make sense.
He must’ve outwardly displayed his distaste, because Bakugou adds, “I meant in terms of why you’re here.” Todoroki sends him a puzzled frown. “Traditional family, conservative standards, all that. I can guess the general idea of what must’ve happened.”
“And…” He sucks in a deep breath, as people file out of the train at the new station. “And that doesn’t bother you.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” Bakugou answers matter-of-factly, “You’re not fragile, or a damsel in distress, any of that crap. Isn’t that why you’re fucking living out here?”
(“If you could’ve been ignorant about your sexuality, we’d all be –“)
“Right.” Todoroki smiles softly, “You’re right.”
“Of course I am. I’m always right.”
“Sure you are.”
They arrive at their destination, and walk alongside each other on their journey to the cinema on the highest floor of the mall. Bakugou buys the popcorn and Todoroki buys the drinks, and they have a mini-battle over the flavor of popcorn. Todoroki endorses for the essentiality of caramel popcorn in any bucket of popcorn, while Bakugou strongly stands for butter popcorn being the Madonna of any fucking stage of popcorn. It costs one very petrified amateur part-timer and a more experienced, professional staff member to guide them through the menu, and that there’s a half-half option they could order at a cheaper price.
Bakugou wolfs down two-thirds of his butter flavor before the film even starts, while Todoroki patiently waits for the ads to end, and for the actual movie to commence. The male protagonist is one he recognizes from some other popular works, and overall, it’s a pleasant experience. He’s not a talented singer or musician, but he’s always enjoyed watching musicals and opera concerts and listening to classical music and other genres while studying. He knows that Bakugou’s much more of a rock person, skilled with the drums and the electric guitar, more knowledgeable about how musical notes actually function together as a whole piece.
The plot of the movie itself is predictable, but he still finds himself amused. People mill out from their seats as the credits roll down, and Todoroki mumbles, “How was it?”
“Not as crappy as I thought it’d be.” Bakugou supplies bitterly, discarding the bucket of popcorn in the large trash bin on their way out. “Want lunch?”
“Sounds good.”
So they stroll over to the soba place, which is vacant, as it’s past lunchtime. They order their meals, and engage in minor conversation – and halfway through a joke, Bakugou inquires, “Why do you even like soba so much? And ice cream. They’re all fucking cold dishes.”
The flutter in his chest seems to switch off immediately, as he’s flooded with the memory of his childhood. His screaming mother, his mortified siblings, his furious father, and his traumatized self. He carefully says, “I don’t like the hotness of… of anything.” Bakugou stiffens at the shift in atmosphere, the ice in his cup clinking against one another.
“You don’t need to talk about it.”
Todoroki swallows. “No, it’s fine. It’s not I try to hide it.” He inhales the air, which holds the waft of wheat and soy sauce and broth. “My parents have a strained relationship. It was an arranged marriage – my mother’s family owned a business dwindling in power, and father married her and took complete control over them. It was for mutual benefits, apparently. They fought often, and my mother’s health began to weather, both physically and mentally. And after one particularly damaging argument with my father, she splashed a kettle full of boiling water on my face.” The story comes out easily – because it’s Bakugou. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t even have managed this far into the relationship.
All his life, all he had ever received from his surroundings, relatives, and acquaintances after settling their attention on his scar, was distorted expressions of sympathy and sorrow, with comforting caresses on his head and clumsy attempts at “I’m sorry”s and “How awful”. Everyone related to their household could more or less picture what had occurred, and they labeled his mother as insane, as weak, as someone who couldn’t control their urges and someone that resorted to abusing her own child.
In that very child’s eyes, they were all bullshitting him.
And right now, Bakugou stares at him and huffs, “It’s a cool scar.”
Todoroki almost chokes on his water. “What?”
“I said,” The waitress swiftly puts down a bowl of Bakugou’s ginger shoyu ramen and Todoroki’s cold soba. “It’s a cool scar. Not everyone gets a badass scar on their eye over their lifetime, you know.”
A badass scar. “… Really.” Bakugou nods, breaking his wooden chopsticks in two. “I never… thought of it that way.” And he really hadn’t. All that inundated his mind when he looked at his own face in the mirror was the memories of that night, when his mother had knocked over the kettle, the hot lid tumbling to the tatami floor. There was a sizzling noise, and unbearable hotness searing through his vessels and nerves seconds after. His doctor clucked his tongue at him, whilst telling him that he could perform a surgery to conceal the scar. Todoroki didn’t do it, for some unknown reason.
“What,” The spiker furrows one brow, “You don’t like the scar?”
Who would? It wasn’t a product of some heroic act – it wasn’t like he had gotten it from salvaging a cat from a burning building. It was solely from the battered relationship of his parents, his belligerent father, and his mother that was driven to the corner against her will. “No, not really.”
A light flickers across Bakugou’s fiery gaze. “Shame,” He lowers his head into the bowl of ramen, “I like it.”
And maybe it’s that easy. That easy to forget about his father howling at his mother who had dropped the kettle to her feet, that easy to erase the aghast expressions of terror on his siblings’ faces, and that easy to have the 17 years’ worth of self-loathing and disgust to dissipate down the drain.
Maybe it’s that easy, because he likes it.
Todoroki suppresses a smile. “Do you?”
“Sure,” The other smirks triumphantly, “Adds spice to your European doll appearance. It’s more interesting.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is a compliment. I’m saying that you’re fucking pretty.”
“I’ll leave you here.”
“Yeah, thanks for tagging along.”
“You called it a fucking date, not tagging along.”
“Well, I guess you could call it a date, too.”
Bakugou murmurs, ‘you’re such a spoilt brat’ under his breath, and Todoroki captures his lips into a kiss before he finishes his complaint. The blond intertwines his body with his and bends into him, his canine tooth grazing Todoroki’s lip and his tongue coating a spicy tang over Todoroki’s. They share a variation of kisses: ones that involve bruised skin and puffy lips, ones that involve melting bursts of flavor, ones that involve knotted hair and friction of cloth against surface, and others – Todoroki can’t choose a favorite, after all this time. He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to.
The sky rumbles above, and Bakugou parts from the heat. He glowers at the clouds, at how they drift closer together, transforming into a darker color. “The weather’s fucked up.” Then he turns to Todoroki, “My old hag’s going to screech at me to fucking gather the laundry.”
Giggling, his setter ushers, “You should get going then. Your mother sounds stronger than you are.”
“What the fuck, that’s not true.” Bakugou retorts, but with no malice – then the creases of his muscles smoothen, and he bores into Todoroki, as if wanting to assure him of something – “I’ll see you soon.”
Soon? That has him wondering, but he merely whispers a farewell back, and regresses into his living room. His house feels as empty and desolate as ever, since detaching from the embrace with his boyfriend. It’s ridiculous, really – he had never known that he was such a clingy individual until he fell in love.
The skies out the window are now gray, almost a gray-black, resembling the kind of mood you’d perceive from a dystopian film. He can see mothers with children in their carts, rushing back home with plastic bags of groceries in both hands, and a group of teenagers with magazines thrown over their heads in futile protection.
And it comes – the first lightning strike, a blinding bolt of electricity flashing the city, followed by a splitting crackle and thunder. It rattles the cup on the table and his utensils in the kitchen, some books on his desk collapsing over one another. He flinches, turning on the television volume to its maximum level and sinking into the comfort of his pillows on the floor.
He wasn’t always afraid of thunder. In fact, he often drifted to sleep to the accompaniment of a stormy night, curling into the warmth of his cotton blankets and burying his head in the fur of his dolls. To be specific, his fear never revolved around the concept of thunder. It was the sheer loudness, the dominance of that cacophonous sound, how he felt utterly powerless and fragile under its booming voice, under its booming voice –
His voice.
He shudders, as another roar of thunder causes the glass of his window the rattle.
The voice of his father, compressing his mother into a cage of anxiety, deprecation, and loneliness. He saw his mother deteriorate from the beautiful lady she formerly was, her snowy locks cascading down her back, her silver gems twinkling with youth, and her gentle smile enthralling. After every thunder of his father, after every storm of the flame of his eyes, her hair lost its healthy color, her silver crystals dull, and her smile nonexistent. She had descended into an abyss where she didn’t budge, didn’t even try to climb out of. The storm had scared her – she was scared of shivering in the icy chill of the rain, scared of another bolt of lightning running through her skin, and scared of the thunder finally rendering her body into dust.
At first, it had been her.
And then before he could fully realize, it had been him.
He gasps for breath, as the beast yowls in his ears.
He’s not over it. He’s not as brave, not as competent, not as nonchalant and definitely not as strong as Bakugou. He doesn’t think he’ll ever surmount this wall, not because it’s insurmountable but because it’s him. Because he’s cowering in trepidation, perpetually nervous that one day, the rain will freeze him over, that one day, the bolt will kill him before he can bother to struggle, and that one day, the thunder will overwhelm him into submission – the storm that he had eluded from, will return.
It’s terrifying – it’s more terrifying than anything he’s ever been through.
I want this to stop, please stop, just stop, stop, stop –
He chokes, the thunder vibrating violently against his eardrums, suffocating him into a rag, and –
And there’s –
“… outo!”
“… Todo…”
“Fuck, I… you’re…”
In between the terse crackles of sound, there’s an intruder, cries muffled out by the pattering of rain on surfaces, along with a rather boisterous banging on his door, enough to clatter the doorknob and break the hinges. He gasps out of the storm and ghosts in his mind, his vision hazy from moisture and the lack of oxygen, the world spinning around him.
“Fuck, Todoroki, you better open this shitty door or you will pay for a damn exorbitant maintenance fee –“
Bakugou? He scrambles to his feet, almost stumbling over a stray pillow and stubbing his toe against the leg of the roundtable. His body feels sore from compressing his shivering form into the tiles and wood of his walls, and he can taste the metallic, acerbity of blood on his tongue, combined with a cut in his inner cheek. The banging just gets louder by seconds, and Todoroki cusses under his breath as one of the golden hinges actually squeak and click against the door.
“Katsuki, what even –“ He snarls upon instinct, his head still ringing from the aftershock and bare recovery – but everything seems to freeze as he lands his sore eyes on Bakugou, the boy’s shoulders soaked with rain and sweat, his hair half-matted down to his forehead and half-sticking upward. He’s panting heavily, rasping for breath as he grimaces. The umbrella he’s carried is sprawled on the ground, and his white sneakers are ruined with the residue of mud. “Why are you here?”
“Because,” Bakugou enters without permission, kicking off his shoes at the doorway. “The forecast said there was going to be a dumbass storm today.”
“You have a house with a roof over it.”
“Well, obviously.” Todoroki cocks his head to the side in question. “But you’re too fucking stubborn to ask, so I’m here.”
“What do you mean –“
But before he can finalize that thought, Bakugou grabs his wrist as they tumble down to the pile of pillows, Bakugou cushioning him from the fall. The other’s right arm is locked over Todoroki’s neck, the left tucked around his waist, creating space for the smaller man to cuddle into the blond. Another round of thunder resounds and echoes in the town outside, as Todoroki quavers from the impact – Bakugou just holds him tighter.
“I said I’m fucking here, Pretty Boy.”
And that – breaks a dam in him.
He inhales a salty breath, the remnants of the dried blood in his mouth slithering down his throat, as a sob crawled out. He curls his fingers into Bakugou’s wet shirt, a strangled moan muted out by the commotion.
“I –“ I want it to stop, “I’m not- over it, it’s fucking pathetic, it’s so fucking stupid, I’m just not okay, and I don’t know what to do to make it stop, I hate it so much, I hate him so much, I hate myself so much, why the hell is this so difficult, I just don’t want to do this anymore –“ His words jumble, his cries growing incoherent and his speech becomes indistinguishable from the blubber of his sobs.
Bakugou’s there through it all, quiet and warm, his calloused hand rubbing circles on Todoroki’s back, and his fingers combing and caressing his sweaty locks of hair. Todoroki’s tirade weathers down to sniffles, as his thoughts whiten with blankness.
That’s when Katsuki speaks, “Do you know why I like your scar?”
Shouto rolls his eyes, worn out. “I don’t even know how you can like it.”
“Because you could’ve gotten rid of it, but you fucking didn’t,” Bakugou explains, paced and tranquil, which is uncharacteristic of him. “Says a lot. That you’re not a twig that consumes a millisecond to shatter and step on. That you’re willing to actually overcome the trauma. That it might not be a priority or a possibility at this very impending moment, but that you’re at least trying.” He pauses, “It tells me a lot.”
“If I never overcome the challenge,” Croaking back, Todoroki breathes against his boyfriend’s chest. “What does that tell you?”
“That you’re human.” Human. “That you’re human, and not some object that should be abandoned or discarded when it fulfilled its purpose. Nobody can judge you to be any less, or any more for that. And if they do, then I’ll fuck them up, but you don’t stand shit like that either so you’d probably do it before I do. So maybe I’ll spike a ball into their ass, I don’t know.”
This man. “And who’s going to set that ball for you, hm?”
“Huh.” Bakugou ponders, “Fuck, you’re right. We’ll figure it out.”
“You’re so reckless.” But, “… Do you really like my scar?”
“Sure,” His response is as solid as ever, and in fact, even more secure and self-confident than before. “Adds to the prettiness, as I said.” Todoroki searches for the lie in Bakugou’s ruby red. There’s none, as the latter strokes the border of the scar with his thumb, his lips quirked north into a curve that resembles the most minuscule smile, staring at Todoroki with a lingering emotion that can only be defined as – “Anything on you is fucking perfect, Shouto.”
It’s that easy.
It’s that easy to like the permanent marking of his father, imprinted on his skin, to be forever remembered. It’s that easy to evolve that ‘scar’ into a trait that his boyfriend likes. It’s that easy to like his given name, one endowed by his father himself, because Bakugou calls him so.
“It’s really that easy.” He whispers, and Bakugou frowns in bewilderment.
“What?”
“No,” You’re so, “It’s not important.”
And he gently pushes Bakugou’s scalp and leans into the familiarity of that ginger balminess. Bakugou’s kiss has the tinge of the storm, rainwater dribbling down his chin, but the usual tang predominates, setting off a tender flame in his heart, the heat buzzing through his nerves to his chilled fingers. It’s not rough or rushed, no polyester ripped apart or buttons popping out, or quite subdued or slow, as they do in the locker rooms of the school. Instead, it’s a whispery, raspy kiss, where Todoroki sighs into Bakugou’s mouth, the fire in him ready to take over, Bakugou mumbling phrases of affection between the confinement of their lips, his voice crossing over the rumbles of thunder. There are no stars that burst or twinkle, or lust that looms over them, inducing them to shift towards the sheets. It’s just a kiss, a rhythm they know and have learned over time, and yet it’s a kiss – it’s their kiss, where Katsuki has, for the first time in his life, managed to remove Shouto’s mind from the thunderstorms.
There’s no ‘I love you’s – it’s three words, and about a second to utter.
They don’t, because every action, every kiss, every sentence that isn’t ‘I love you’ still possesses the same message.
I love you.
It’s really that easy.