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When Todoroki asks to meet after class, expression betraying absolutely nothing, Bakugou gives no answer. He does not confirm or deny he will do whatever Todoroki wants him to do because the horrible ugly truth is that yes, he is probably going to go along with it.
So he walks to his seat in disgruntled quiet, and keeps his attention on the board Aizawa writes on. He feels eyes on him the entire time.
Something as ridiculous as hope flutters in his chest despite how much he’s tried to cage it away. Hope for what exactly - he dares not speak it into existence.
Preferably ever.
Unwelcome sentiments aside, holding Todoroki’s attention never fails to leave a swirl of satisfaction under his skin that is not remotely personal or beyond rivalry.
Obviously.
So whilst those mismatched eyes are on him, which they should be because Bakugou is going to surpass him to the top spot, he’s going to draw out this moment. Savour and bask in it.
Not to mention, Todoroki’s request is more of a badly disguised challenge.
If Bakugou doesn’t show up then that smooth bastard would win whatever game they’re playing. And whilst Bakugou is not prepared to face the uncomfortable swell in his chest that gets bigger each time they catch eyes, he is less prepared to lose face to Todoroki.
Class is over in a few frantic heartbeats.
Bakugou spins in his seat, gestures to the door with his chin. It’s supposed to look casual, collected - cool, but the angle is all wrong and too sharp. He might as well be punching the fucking air with his face.
Damn it all.
Todoroki blinks twice. Belated realisation flashes over him a second later. He gives a small nod that Bakugou absolutely will not ever admit is kind of fucking endearing. A mop of green hair and wide eyes flit between them, far too perceptive and curious.
Christ.
They walk out of the classroom in silence, side by side. This is the part where Todoroki usually attempts to make conversation, or give an astute observation Bakugou already knows. He does neither of those things.
In the unfurling quiet, questions dance in Bakugou’s tongue. He bites down on his lip, shoves his hands into his pockets and squeezes them into fists.
After a fucking lifetime of walking through the U.A ground, Todoroki seems to think the spot they’ve reached is adequate for whatever shit he’s about to pull.
Coming to a halt, Bakugou waits with far more patience than Todoroki deserves. Really. There’s only so much time in a day and Bakugou has a lot of important shit to get done if he’s going to be the best of the best.
Todoroki glances around, gives a hum of approval. The cherry blossoms are in bloom above their heads, swaying gently in the breeze. Sunlight trickles through the treeline, speckling Todoroki’s face with warmth.
Bakugou averts his gaze, kicks the gravel under his feet.
Nobody has any business looking this effortlessly attractive. Especially Todoroki.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
“Oh. Right.”
Todoroki reaches into his bag. From it, he takes out a red and white sweatband. It’s unwrapped and Bakugou has an irrational - but at the same time totally rational - fear that maybe it has been worn before.
Maybe it’s covered in the sweat of his sworn rival and horrible crush he cannot seem to crush.
He stares down at it, unsure what the hell is happening. But it’s happening under the cherry blossoms, like a fucking shoujo manga.
“You sweat a lot,” Todoroki says bluntly.
Or maybe not.
What the fuck.
Unfazed, the bastard seems to think it’s a good idea to keep talking.
“So I thought you might want this. It also matches my wristband.”
He holds up his arm, discreetly of all things, as if to provide proof. Like this is some fucking shady mafia deal in a backlit alleyway that for some reason Bakugou would be interested in making.
Despite everything, Bakugou’s palms are growing clammy. There’s a tremor in his pulse that won’t settle down.
All he can do is look between the matching bands. They’re fucking red and white like Todoroki’s hair. And they match.
Apparently, he’s taking too long to find words for this really fucking weird situation because Todoroki pulls the sweatband back.
There’s a strange gleam in his eyes that has nothing to do with the sunlight creeping through the clouds and setting them ablaze. Bakugou can’t place it, it’s not a look he’s seen directed his way before so openly.
He doesn’t mind it, maybe.
“If you don’t want it, then I suppose I can give it to Midoriya…”
That’s the catalyst.
Bakugou snatches the sweatband from Todoroki and pointedly puts it on. He does this much faster than is dignified.
Of all things, Todoroki stares in disbelief. Like he isn’t the one that offered it to Bakugou in the first place.
To provide proof, he holds up his arm until they’re both standing there like total losers braced against each other. Their matching bands touch.
Wrist to wrist.
It’s a little tacky, a lot terrible.
It’s also fucking good and Bakugou is wearing this stupid sweatband forever, bitch.
“There,” Bakugou says in the absence of anything better. “Happy now?”
Todoroki’s lips twitch, and he looks far too pleased with himself. Bakugou clicks his tongue, something less fiery than annoyance but just as warm coils in his gut without permission.
It lingers for the rest of the day.
Things are relatively normal after that. Bakugou wears the sweatband everyday as he vowed to do and Todoroki wears his. They match in quiet solidarity, they acknowledge each other in small fleeting glances before class starts and sometimes hover in each other’s orbit outside of lessons.
Nobody mentions the bands, not even Deku. It’s not a secret, but it’s also not anything Bakugou is about to reveal either. This is a level never-in-a-million-years story to unlock.
For a while, Bakugou is foolish enough to believe that maybe just maybe he will get some god damn peace and be able to live his best life around here.
He’s proven wrong one evening in the common room.
“Hey, Bakugou,” Sero starts with a shit-eating grin that completely discredits anything genuine in whatever he’s about to say. “I’m just wondering - where did you get that sweatband?”
Well.
All of reality simmers down to the sweatband on his wrist. Bakugou delivers his most ominous, most ferocious glare. It gets him nowhere which is unacceptable.
They’ve become immune - it’s terrifying.
Without any prompting, like vultures, the rest of his awful friends swarm around him. He can see it in their eyes - they are thirsty for blood. Tough shit. He refuses to throw them a bone.
Mina leans forward to examine the sweatband.
“Oh yeah. That’s definitely new.”
“It’s definitely none of your fucking business either,” snaps Bakugou.
Sero’s grin gets impossibly wider, and it soon infects the rest of them. Bakugou is never going to speak to anyone ever again. What’s the fucking point.
“Why?” Sero asks bravely, on think fucking ice. Since when has tape elbows been so bold. “I mean, it’s just a sweatband - isn’t it?”
The words are fuel to an ever-growing fire and Bakugou is being roasted right in the centre of it. Unbelievable. This can’t be karma, kings are above that.
Still. The silence is very telling.
Fuck.
Kirishima looks at least mildly apologetic before encouraging the madness further. Traitor.
“Actually, now that you mention it… Bakugou, aren’t those the same colours as Todoroki’s wristband?”
There’s only so far Bakugou can entertain this charade. He’s been extremely tolerant. Whatever happens next is their own fault. Jumping to his feet, his voice jumps decibels and also octaves to his dismay.
“So fucking what?! People can’t wear the same colours now, is that what you guys are saying? Do you realise how fucking dumb that shit sounds, huh?”
Then because his life can’t get any worse, Todoroki walks into the common room at that exact moment.
Dishevelled hair and sleep-addled - no less fucking perfect. He’s wiping his eyes, blinking slow between poorly stifled yawns. And of course, on his wrist sits the red and white bands.
The matching ones.
Mina glances between them, smiling. It’s venomous.
“Todoroki, how come Bakugou is the only one that got a friendship bracelet?”
“Shut the fuck up, raccoon eyes.”
Everyone should be so grateful he hasn’t blown them all into oblivion yet. Figuratively. But maybe even literally at this rate.
“Out of everyone, he sweats the most,” Todoroki offers with no tact. “I thought it would be the most useful to him.”
Around them, the group erupts. Kaminari almost causes a blackout with his laughter. Laugh now fuckers, the time for payback will come and Bakugou will ensure they regret every second of this.
The mood splinters into something more sincere when Todoroki continues speaking. He doesn’t wait for the raucous to stop, his presence alone seems to command the attention of the room.
“But also, I suppose I wanted us to match.”
Holy shit.
Their eyes meet. Bakugou isn’t sure why the floor beneath his feet is suddenly no longer steady.
Mercilessly, Todoroki keeps going.
“We make a good pair, don’t you think?”
At this point, Kirishima is trying very hard to usher everybody out of the room. In his peripheral, Bakugou can see Mina clinging to the doorway whilst being dragged out the room by force. He thinks that’s what is going on anyway.
Bakugou isn’t about to take his eyes off Todoroki for a second.
How can he, god.
There are a lot of ways this could go but there’s one way he really fucking hopes it’s heading. Out of instinct, he surrenders to sharpness. It’s better than addressing the budding hope.
“Are you messing with me?” he asks, and it has less bite than he wants it to.
Bakugou could take the damn sweatband off, but he already knows it would sting. Like peeling a bandaid off tender bruised skin, reopening a wound and letting too many things seep out.
For god’s sake.
Todoroki must hear everything Bakugou doesn’t want him to, because he inches closer. There’s a soft curve in the corner of his mouth that could be coaxed into a lazy smile in the right conditions.
Bakugou doesn’t know them - yet.
“Not entirely.”
At that, Bakugou bristles. But the words aren’t unkind. Just playful in a way he didn’t realise has become so familiar between them.
Somehow, it’s comfortable which is fucking absurd.
“Then what the hell are you saying?”
Todoroki nudges his wristband against Bakugou’s sweatband, the way a cat nuzzles into the side of something it likes. Really likes.
Fuck.
The gesture is so quiet, so small. But Bakugou of all things presses back against it. That seems to encourage Todoroki.
He holds out a hand.
“I’m saying that we make a good pair. Does it have to be complicated?”
It doesn’t. But Bakugou cannot process any of this or what lingers unspoken between them.
He looks down at the hand, unsure whether to shake it, hold it or slap it away. He’s even more unsure what exactly Todoroki wants him to do. Breath hitching, Bakugou curls his fingers around Todoroki’s wrist, over their matching bands.
It’s the best he can do right now.
Todoroki glances down at their hands, barely grazing. The skin burns at contact and it has absolutely nothing to do with quirks. None of this ever has.
“We could get matching keyrings as well, if you want.”
“Yeah?” Bakugou manages, voice shakier than he wants it to be.
“This weekend,” Todoroki clarifies.
It’s so fucking stupid but also the best thing he’s ever heard in his life. He can’t believe he’s been reduced to such an uncomposed mess over bands and keyrings and Todoroki Shouto.
“Okay.”
Drawing his hand back, Todoroki nods.
“Good night, Bakugou.”
And that’s it.
He’s walking away, as if everything is fine and nothing has changed. Maybe that’s true. The worst part is Bakugou doesn’t want it to be. This is more than bands and keychains.
They both know it.
Bakugou musters what’s left of his pride, hurls it towards the doorway. He has to restore the balance, at least a little.
“Oi!”
Todoroki pauses, glancing over his shoulder. He looks expectant, which is exhilarating in itself. It’s a small victory.
“Stop saying I sweat a lot, it’s fucking rude.”
This time the twist of Todoroki’s lips is definitely born from amusement.
“But it’s true. It’s a key component of your quirk.”
Alright, congratulations there’s a fucking smartass in the room. Bakugou purses his lips, an uninvited flush spreading up from his neck the longer Todoroki stands there watching him.
Consolation comes in the form of steam gradually rising from the idiot’s left side. Todoroki clears his throat and offers his final words in a total deadpan.
“Anyway, it doesn’t bother me.”
Bakugou watches his retreating form, resists the urge to chase after the voice. What a gorgeous, ridiculous, striking-
“So don’t sweat it.”