Chapter Text
He’s watching a plane descend in the distance, silhouetted against a peach orange sky, when a scraping rattle cuts through the quiet of a summer afternoon on the riverbank. Bakugou blinks and almost sees a boy rushing past. Almost, Bakugou isn’t certain he ever really saw him pass through his field of view. He turns his gaze away from the sky to follow him carving an undulating path down the river boardwalk, jacket ballooning out behind him, red hair fluttering in the wind. He watches the nameless boy step from edge to edge, lean backwards off the board, then tilt forward again, arms thrown out graceful and wild and brazen.
Bakugou is about to turn away when the boy jumps , and suddenly his mouth feels dry and all he can hear is his jackhammer heartbeat.
Bakugou thinks about him later. He wonders if they’ve ever crossed paths before, because this is a small town, and it’s not much of a tourist destination. People are born in the hospital up the highway and they go to school here and some seek out the city over the hills. The rest, they stay and they become part of the quiet place beside the river.
Bakugou does not intend to stay by the river.
He wonders what the nameless boy on red wheels intends to do. He thinks about him a handful of times over summer, and he swears under his breath when he realises that he's just assumed that he's from here, when in fact Bakugou knows nothing about him at all. The thoughts are intrusive, and he growls and punches the couch cushion. Midoriya yelps beside him, almost drops his controller. They don’t talk about why he’s conceded the Bowzer’s Castle race. He’s usually really good at this.
Bakugou refuses to admit that he’s started looking. He starts looking out of the window as he studies, starts bouncing a leg over and over, a nervous tick, an urge he can’t seem to stop. Can’t seem to stop looking. Not for anything in particular. He carries this aching restlessness in his bones through the last of the empty humid days, he wakes with it, twists his torso, struggles to get at a crick in his neck. He sighs into his pillow, closes his eyes and keeps seeing red.
He clicks down gears as he pedals up the hill on the way to school. His thighs and calves burn in a familiar way and he can afford to look at the sky as he pedals. Everything about his life so far is muscle memory. Some days he dares to close his eyes as he crests the last hill. He opens his eyes and sees the river and the glimmer of the thousand suns dancing on its surface.
The river disappears from view and he brakes as he approaches the intersection. The pedestrian light blinks red at him, he lowers a foot to the ground. He waits, and then he hears it, the scrape of wheels on asphalt.
He's not flying this time, but he floats. He has one foot lowered as he approaches the crossing, then he bends a knee, pushes off the pavement, and glides across. Bakugou witnesses all of it as one smooth motion, and he struggles to form concrete thoughts as he watches his unbuttoned gakuran catch the wind.
Then he realises the meaning of that jacket flowing from his shoulders - the very same one that he wears. He pedals the usual route to school with a twist in his stomach and a tightness in his chest. And god he pedals, faster than he'd ever dare to admit.
Bakugou takes both feet off the pedals as he brakes, slows to a stop beside the bicycle racks at the front of the main building. It feels like fighting a losing battle, how he keeps fucking looking , for that boy and his board and his red, red hair. He grits his teeth and runs a hand through his hair as he trudges towards class, furious, but he can’t place why.
He stews all morning, glaring out at the white lines of the school basketball courts in the distance.
He finds himself glaring from the rooftop during lunch. He sits on the dusty roof, cross-legged and bento boxes spread out before him, growing pile of edamame shells in the lid. He glares through the high wire fence, and still, he can’t find a clear defined point to focus his gaze. He hears the creak as the door behind him swings open and he doesn't turn to look. The teachers can boot him out and give him a warning after he’s done eating.
But nobody walks up to him, there’s no familiar droning voice telling him to go eat his lunch somewhere else. Nobody to talk back to. Instead, Bakugou chews and swallows his rice and konjac and keeps staring out past the wire fence undisturbed as a rolling rattle and a grind of wheels on concrete skates by behind him. He puts his chopsticks and half-eaten lunch down, feels a tremble in his hands, a thundering sound in his ears. He swallows hard, and closes his eyes. He hears it again, the unmistakable sound of a boy with unshakable balance and broad smile. Bakugou almost doesn’t turn to look, fearful of how if he turns and sees the same boy from the summer beside the river, he won’t know what to say or do. Fearful of how he would be choosing to make an if, a burning afterimage, a summer haze of a dream into flesh and blood.
Bakugou turns and chooses to see a real boy, with spiked, sharp red hair, with bright eyes and bent knees. Unbuttoned collar fluttering in the breeze. His heart hammers and his palms sweat against the concrete. “What the fuck,” he says, not really at him.
But the boy looks up at him, grins, and slides the board around. He rolls over, stopping before Bakugou beside the wire fence. “Hey man, did you say something?”
“What the fuck,” he manages through gritted teeth, “are you doing here.”
He steps on his board, flips it up. It hits the concrete sharp, and he grabs the top curve of the deck. Bakugou feels red rushing up his collar, clenches his jaw, near bursting with indignant rage as his physical being betrays him.
“Practising,” he says, fingers tapping against the board as if to emphasise. As if Bakugou can’t see that scuffed wood and fiery dragon painted on the underside. Good god, that smile is powerful - it eases everything twisting and taut inside him.
“You can’t come up here, Shitty Hair.” Bakugou wants to die. But he doesn’t regret those words really, because what else would he say? Your hair is beautiful, actually, you’re beautiful . No, he’d rather die, truly.
“Kirishima.”
“What?”
He laughs and jabs a thumb at himself, “that’s my name. Kirishima Eijirou, not Shitty Hair.”
Bakugou has to squint. It’s a bright day, it’s cloudy but the sun illuminates the sky bright white and Kirishima glows underneath it. “Alright, Shitty Hair.”
Kirishima sighs and starts to turn away, “see ya.”
Bakugou watches him break off into a run for two, three steps. He drops the board down with a short clatter and hops on. Kicks off, on and on, away from him and across the roof. Bakugou watches as he carves circles and long arcs across the concrete, watches as he flips the board and tries to find footing as it flies out of control. Kirishima stumbles as his board clatters and rolls away. He laughs. It floats across on the slow breeze, rings in Bakugou's ears.
Bakugou turns away and buries his head in his hands as his cheeks burn.
He sees Midoriya wave to Kirishima in the hallway on the way to homeroom one day, and he starts wondering when the fuck did they start talking? Bakugou broods as he lags behind Midoriya on the way to class, but finally caves in the doorway of the classroom. Upon asking, he is rewarded with Midoriya’s detailed explanation of how Kirishima had just transferred in, how he had been going to an international school because his parents worked overseas, but he’s living with his aunt now, and he’s already been told off for bringing his longboard to school (which the teachers called a skateboard, which is just wrong - Kirishima’s words, not Midoriya’s). Midoriya stops talking with a sharp inhale, then laughs weakly and mumbles something else about how this was probably too much information.
Bakugou offers his blankest stare while silently counting his blessings. It turns out his childhood friend isn’t entirely useless.
Bakugou ends up waiting a week before he goes back up to the roof again. He’s spent the whole week wondering what he would find if he went up there, and each day he hadn’t been sure which scenario he would have been okay with. So when Bakugou has his hand against the door to the roof, he sucks in a breath and doesn’t give himself the chance to think. He twists the handle and pushes, and there he is. Shitty Hair with his board beside him, leaned up against the wire fence.
Bakugou wills himself to not overthink it, just go to your usual spot. And he does, marches forward up to the fence and sits down beside Kirishima. The other boy watches him the whole time with a smile.
Bakugou narrows his eyes at him, “You’re in my spot.”
Kirishima grins wider, “your spot? You haven’t been here all week.”
Bakugou feels a deep compulsion to punch him, but softer. Maybe only enough to bruise. He focuses on unwrapping the cloth tied around his bento instead of falling into the trap of wondering what Kirishima meant - all week? Did that mean he had been waiting -
“You’re Bakugou right?”
He freezes in the middle of taking the lid off the top box. "Yeah. Who’d you ask?”
Kirishima leans into the fence. It rattles. “Just someone in my class. What’s the big deal, everyone knows you anyways.”
Bakugou focuses on ensuring the tuna and cucumber sushi roll makes it into his mouth and refrains from saying anything that suggests he actually cares what people think of him. Because he doesn’t. Except maybe what Kirishima thinks of him. “What’d they say about me?” Yeah, he cares, it really shows. Fuck.
Kirishima looks away, at something past Bakugou’s shoulder. Hums before he speaks, “that you’re a huge jerk.” He laughs afterwards, “they’re kinda right.”
Bakugou huffs, reaches for more food. The spicy tuna roll might drown out that sinking feeling in his gut.
“But only kind of, I reckon.”
Bakugou swallows, too quickly, he’s not done chewing, so much rice is trying to travel down his throat - he coughs and reaches for water. Kirishima laughs and reaches over to pat his back. Bakugou only makes a half-hearted attempt to swat him away, and he lets Kirishima marvel at his lunch. Lets Kirishima steal a bite, lets him talk about how this town is so nice, everybody he’s met has been so good to him. Bakugou wonders if he’s part of that everybody that Kirishima talks about. And maybe he’d like to be.
Bakugou goes to the roof every day. He always has, so long as it's dry and not too cold. Kirishima isn’t there as much. Bakugou figures that it’s to be expected, and he kicks the fence when he finds that he’s disappointed. Kicks a second time as he lets it sink in, that Kirishima doesn’t belong to him, has never promised to have lunch with him. He sighs and throws his head back, squinting, tearing up as the sun streams into his vision. He knows that Kirishima has other friends, he’s in a different class after all, and he smiles at everyone, doesn’t put up walls, gives everybody a chance. He doesn't carry a past darkness, a heavy shadow that lingers.
Bakugou closes his eyes and sees red behind his eyelids. Figures that if Kirishima is the sun, then maybe he’s the moon.
Bakugou lets himself wallow for exactly three days before he marches over to Kirishima’s classroom (2-C, Midoriya told him) and slides the door open with way too much force. Everybody jolts and turns to look. “Shitty Hair.”
Kirishima smiles at him from the back of the classroom. He’s sitting on a lanky dark-haired boy’s table. “What’s up?”
Bakugou summons every shred of willpower and composure in his body and shrugs, as though he is not freaking the fuck out right now . “You heading up?”
There’s a blank look on his face at first, but a beat later, Kirishima beams and scrambles to his feet. He apologises to everybody he needs to get past, longboard knocking some knees. “Lead the way bro,” he grins when he gets to the doorway.
Bakugou doesn’t know it, but by the end of the day, every second year has heard about how the new kid has somehow earned the affections of their resident demon child.
The third time Bakugou personally summons Kirishima to the roof, he suggests that maybe they should swap numbers, since it must be such a drag for Bakugou to walk down the hall and cause a scene just so they can have lunch together. “What the fuck,” Bakugou goes off, balking at the possibility that he might have been so obvious in his desire to spend time with Kirishima.
Kirishima keeps looking at him, all wide eyes and a cheeky smile.
Bakugou admits that he’s right, he’s been really obvious about wanting to eat lunch with Kirishima. “Fuck, fine, ” he growls, digging into his pocket for his phone.
After trading numbers, Kirishima asks for all of Bakugou’s social media handles. Bakugou says he doesn’t have any. Kirishima sighs, “damn, I wanted to show you my longboarding videos.”
Bakugou suspects that Kirishima might have faked his dramatic sigh, but he’s already saddled with an inexplicable weak spot for Kirishima, so they spend the rest of the lunch break setting up Bakugou’s instagram account (@l0rdexplsnmrdr, naturally, it’s the fucking coolest, Kirishima doesn’t know what he’s talking about) and browsing Kirishima’s longboard dancing account. It’s incredibly indulgent, and Bakugou is generally pleased about this development in their friendship.
Then Kirishima asks what Bakugou thinks after they watch the video of a bunch of failed attempts at a 180 no comply that eventually culminates in a successful landing. Bakugou thinks that Kirishima is fucking awesome , but also knows he isn’t capable of actually saying that out loud, so he settles for criticising his video quality.
Kirishima complains about the struggles of trying to record himself, since he’s a moving target, and a lot of his old skating buddies from the city didn’t have the steadiest hands.
“What, none of you skater idiots bothered to get a gimbal?”
“What?! What’s that?”
Bakugou doesn’t have enough time during their lunch break, but he texts Kirishima a link to one for a mobile phone.
Kirishima complains that it’s too expensive.
Bakugou says he might have one. (He has one, definitely. His mum bought one for a holiday.)
Kirishima sends him a bunch of emojis, including the prayer hands and star eyes and pleeeeeaaase bro I’ll teach you how to skate n can you film for me .
After Bakugou texts back ffs fine from under his desk in class, he balances chemical equations with a strong suspicion that he is fucked.
He finds himself on that same riverbank boardwalk that weekend. The sun is setting over the hills, and a chill runs across the water, numbs Bakugou’s hands. His cheeks are warm though, and whether it’s exertion or embarrassment, he doesn’t want to know. He steps off Kirishima’s spare board when the sun sinks past the hills behind them, knees still shaky and one ankle sore after a fall. Kirishima has spent the entire afternoon encouraging him with variations of it’s okay, you’re just starting out, you’re doing great , and Bakugou would much rather skip to the part where he’s no longer incompetent in the eyes of his stupidly hot skater boy crush.
He exhales heavily as he sits on the bench they're taking a break at, that word weighing heavy, crush . He looks at Kirishima beside him, breathing heavily, leaning forwards, elbows on knees. Even resting, even when he isn't speaking to anybody, just gazing out at the blue-grey river, he's smiling.
Bakugou doesn't understand it, but that smile weighs heavy on his heart.
He can admit, at least to himself, that he likes Kirishima in that special way. He leans back against the metal slats of the bench, the cold pressing against his back, and marvels at the wonder of this bright-eyed boy who had skidded into his life, reckless and wild and booming laughter in the wind.
He reaches out, a gentle fist bumping against Kirishima's shoulder. "Hey, Kirishima."
Kirishima turns to look at him with one eyebrow raised, "not Shitty Hair anymore?"
Bakugou rolls his eyes, "alright, Shitty Hair. Let's get out there. I can go like ten metres without falling off, we can try filming."
"More like five -"
Bakugou punches him in the arm, harder this time, and Kirishima laughs, apologising between chuckles as he stands.
They kick off side by side, and Kirishima pushes forward, leg swinging in wide and sure arcs. Bakugou breathes deep and tries to stay steady. He feels so out of place, barely balanced on a rickety piece of wood, one arm forward, trying to hold his phone steady as it films.
Gaze flickering between what's in the shot and the real Kirishima, Bakugou thinks he finally gets why Kirishima keeps referring to it as dancing. He'd seen him skate - that glimpse by the river, the moment on the roof, but now, unfolding before him, Bakugou finally sees him dance .
Bakugou hopes he never forgets seeing Kirishima longboard like this. There's maybe one second of footage where both his feet are on the board. Then he swings one foot, hops and all his weight has shifted as the other leg goes swinging. Bakugou feels a dangerous wobble beneath his own feet when Kirishima springs upwards and twists in the air, one leg bent as he goes around.
And Bakugou curses something colourful as he loses his footing, board clattering beneath him but grip around his phone firm.
On his back, Bakugou stares up at the fading fires in the sky, chest heaving. A fucking pirouette.
The clouds look heavy the next time they meet. They hang grey and low, and Kirishima keeps looking up at the sky as he glides beside Bakugou. Bakugou growls at him to pay attention, to which Kirishima says "you're getting good, I don't need to baby you."
Bakugou almost shoves him, almost.
And the rain pours.
Suddenly, his hair is drenched, and his hoodie gets heavier by the second. Bakugou scowls as he pulls the hood over his head and grabs his board. Kirishima does the same, tucks it under one arm.
Then grabs his hand, yanks him forwards. Bakugou yells, but Kirishima keeps running, pulling him along. He's laughing, it's triumphant, joyous.
The rain gets into Bakugou's eyes, is cold running down his neck when his hood blows off. His hands are numb, his feet are soaked. God he hates the rain.
Kirishima's grip is warm.
They stop running when they reach cover. Kirishima lets go.
Bakugou wonders if they'll hold hands again.
He starts noticing how tactile Kirishima is. He catches glimpses of Kirishima on the basketball courts, leaping into teammates' embraces after successful shots, grabbing arms and elbows as he insists they get a snack together after. He throws arms over other boys' shoulders in the morning, greets girls in his class with hugs that wrap around their shoulders. Bakugou passes the 3-C classroom one lunchtime because Kirishima hasn't responded to his text, and some pink-haired girl has pulled up a seat next to Kirishima's desk. He lingers and stares, and figures out that she's doing his nails when she leans back.
They eat lunch on the roof the next day, and his nails are red. Bakugou grits his teeth and doesn't mention it. Pretends he doesn't see.
Instead, he borrows Kirishima's board to practise and basks in the warm glow of his praise.
Midoriya bests him in end of semester exams and Bakugou fumes as he stalks away from the main noticeboard. He pedals home with a stinging sensation in his nose and a clenched jaw. He slams his bedroom door and his mother doesn't call for him to come down for dinner.
His instinct is to assign blame. It should be easy to point to the only change in his routine, the afternoons spent on the riverbank boardwalk every few weeks. It makes sense. He should be resolving to stop using his time on something that doesn't serve his goals of asserting his superiority over the extras in his small-time school and getting the fuck out of this quiet town and into a prestigious Tokyo university.
Instead, that's the only place he wants to be right now, cold air biting at his neck, stumbling over his own feet as Kirishima carves a graceful path ahead. He is undecided as to whether this is weakness, or if the things he wants has changed.
Bakugou agrees to meet with Kirishima by the river the first weekend of winter break, fully intending to return the borrowed board and to say that he can't do this anymore, he doesn't have the time, and whatever other excuse Kirishima will accept. He arrives early at their usual meeting place, the second bench from the stairs, and he sits with his feet up, knees tucked under his chin. Numbness seeps through his gloves. It reminds him of his mother, and her I told you so tone of voice, mittens are warmer . He rubs his gloves hands together, huffs through his scarf. It condenses, a low-lying cloud.
He's jolted out of watching his breath fade by Kirishima's unmistakable voice and the tell-tale grind of his wheels. Bakugou watches him approach, irritation mounting as he observes a long puffer jacket unzipped and floating in the wind, providing absolutely fucking zero insulation to combat the cold. Kirishima waves at Bakugou with fingers exposed by useless fingerless gloves.
It's like Kirishima is intentionally trying to piss him off.
Bakugou tears off his own gloves and holds them out, "Swap with me."
Kirishima just stares at him.
"Fucking dumbass," Bakugou grumbles, getting up and stepping over to tug at Kirishima's gloves, "your hands are too cold."
"Wait, but what about you?"
Bakugou glares at him, "I need to take my gloves off anyway to film." He digs his phone out of his coat pocket for emphasis, waves it at him.
"Oh."
"Yeah, Shitty Hair, so put mine on. Stop wasting my time."
Bakugou fumbles more than he would like as he clicks his phone into place in the gimbal, tests its calibration by shifting it side to side, up and down. His fingertips are growing numb already, they'll be an angry red soon enough. He shrugs it off and films Kirishima until it starts to snow. His fingers are fucking freezing, but it's unavoidable and he probably regrets nothing. They play the footage back in a convenience store on the main street, hair and coats damp with melting snow. Watching Kirishima dancing lines, puffer jacket floating around him and hands outstretched in Bakugou's chunky black gloves, Bakugou knows for sure that freezing his fingers off was totally worth it.
"Oh man, this is awesome - you're so good, we gotta do this again!"
All of a sudden, he is frozen to the core.
He can see Kirishima watching him, cheerful expression falling away as he takes way too long to respond.
Bakugou tries to get the words out. Tries to find the words at all. They don't come, there isn't anything that sounds alright. Of course there isn't. But he has to say something .
"I'm not doing this again." He pushes the borrowed board back at its owner, and shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets. Turns to leave, eyes averted, he can't bear to be seen like this, but more than anything, he doesn't want to see what face Kirishima might be making. Bakugou places one foot in front of the other, and heads out into the snow.
He doesn't really pay attention to where he's going, just needs to walk. Just needs to breathe. He waits at a crossing even though there aren't any passing cars. Just looks at the blinking red light on the other side of the street, just inhales, just one shaky breath.
His nose burns, and he supposes it's the cold, but knows that really, tears are coming. God, he hates this.
But then there's a heavy embrace around his shoulders, and he stumbles forwards. He yells as he turns, swings his arms to get his assailant off - and he already knows its Kirishima, but it doesn't make any sense -
"Hey! Hey, it's me!"
He knows. He stands there, gasping, scrubbing at tears.
Kirishima steps closer, asks if he's okay.
"You really need to ask?"
Kirishima pauses, puts the two boards aside. "Bakugou. Don't punch me, okay?"
Bakugou barely has time to pull his hands away from his face before he's in Kirishima's arms again. He stares out over Kirishima's shoulder, dazed, "what …" he murmurs, hands hovering at his sides.
"It's manly to hug," Kirishima says with an airy laugh. "You look like you could do with one," he offers.
"I don't need -"
"You're not fighting me off though."
"Motherfucker -"
Kirishima laughs again. Bakugou can feel the bright sound against his own chest. "Just hug me bro, you'll feel better."
He doesn't have it in him to keep fighting, so he lets himself sink into Kirishima's warmth, presses his hands against the back of Kirishima's puffer jacket. Snow piles up on them, Bakugou mumbles a curse and sniffles, his hands are freezing (fuck, he's still wearing Kirishima's useless gloves).
"So …" Kirishima starts.
"What," Bakugou spits.
"What's really going on? Because if you really wanted to stop longboarding or filming me you could've just said and it wouldn't be a big deal. Like it's not a big deal for me, and I pushed you to do this, so it's on me. But you don't seem like a guy who does stuff just to be polite, so if you really didn't want to do this you would've said so earlier, right?"
Bakugou sighs into Kirishima's shoulder. Squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. "My grades are slipping."
Kirishima laughs and Bakugou shoves him away. "Man, I'm sorry, but you're like, second in the grade, you're fine."
Bakugou glares at him. Seriously contemplates talking about how he needs to be number one, the best . Decides against it.
Kirishima gives him a crooked smile, "but hey, I get it. It's important to you right?"
"Yeah."
Kirishima kicks up one of the longboards and holds it tilted towards Bakugou. "Still think you should hold onto this though."
It hurts to say, "I don't need it though."
Kirishima shrugs, "I definitely don't need it. And I just figured …" he looks away, "maybe you'd like to get back to it when the studying is handled."
He knows he really should say no, walk away. It's not a big deal, they might still have lunch together after this. He doesn't need this.
But he also wants the window into this part of Kirishima. He knows what he wants - to be special to Kirishima. Learning to longboard, filming him dance, they're also things that friends can do, but so far he knows they aren't things that Kirishima shares with anybody else.
So it's special .
Bakugou wants to be special to Kirishima. He can see it clearly, his selfish desires. And it's well within arm's reach, Kirishima's offering it to him with an easy smile and snow-speckled hair, wearing his gloves.
Bakugou takes the board, and admits that this is what he wants.
He blushes something fierce when he gets home and his mother asks where his gloves went.
Kirishima asks if he'd like to study together. Bakugou texts back don't distract me followed by when and where . He slams his head into a pillow.
The morning of, Bakugou lingers at his dresser, contemplating whether he should bring Kirishima's gloves. He holds them in his hands, runs a thumb over the knit fabric. He caves to his selfishness and leaves them at home.
Kirishima seems to have terrible focus. Truly abysmal. Bakugou can't hear any of his fidgeting thanks to his headphones, but every time he glances up, Kirishima in a new slouched position or is not fully focused on the task at hand. When it's plain that Kirishima has been watching a video instead of working on his English translation exercises, Bakugou pulls his headphones off and grumbles, "there's no way you're studying."
"Ah, well -"
"Hand over your report card."
"Hey, I don't carry around all my past papers like you do, nerd. "
"Fucker, hand over your report card and I'll let that slide. I know you have it on you."
It turns out Kirishima has above average grades for English, which partly explains his disinterest but Bakugou also refuses to be impressed because he went to an international school before coming here, of course he's good at English. His sciences hover around average. His maths is mediocre. Japanese literature is shocking .
History is fucking spectacular.
Bakugou glares at him over the top of his report card. "What the fuck is up with you," he hisses.
Kirishima just smiles and shrugs, and goes back to watching Longboard Trick Tip FS 360 Pirouette.
Bakugou usually goes to the temple with Midoriya. Well, their families go together. They meet a little way down the street from the entrance of the temple to avoid the crowds. After they locate each other - the Midoriyas are always in green, Bakugou's mother giggles that it's so cute every year - they walk in a little group. The adults converse about the usual things, the boys' grades, house prices, dinner invitations. The boys trail behind side by side. Bakugou has seen Midoriya in all manner of festive attire - green formal winter kimono to bright red and blue All Might™ branded puffer jacket. Two years ago, they'd both turned up with fading bruises and clenched fists.
This year, they walk side by side in kimono in a quiet peacefulness, their breath drifting upwards in the morning air. They stand side by side when they pray like they always have.
He’s never asked for anything when he prayed in previous years. His mother had taught him to declare his intentions and to promise to demonstrate his discipline. Dared the gods to consider him unfit.
This year, he bargains.
He’s never asked to turn out this way. He couldn’t have chosen, he couldn’t have known to choose, so it must be them - they’ve chosen for him and he’s had to live with it. He’s thrived in spite of it, he argues.
And in return, they’ve brought a beautiful, bright-eyed, fearless boy to this quiet riverside town, and what is he meant to do? Of course this would happen , he argues, eyes squeezed shut and palms pressed together. He’s never asked for anything, and definitely never love.
But still, they brought an unbearable brightness of a boy to the riverbank, and Bakugou has to make do.
Kirishima turns up to school on a cold January day with torn trousers and a bloody knee. Bakugou sees him walk through the school gates as he's locking up his bike, and he cycles between panic and rage multiple times as he runs over. "SHITTY HAIR." Half the kids in the quadrangle turn to look. Kirishima rubs the back of the head sheepishly as Bakugou skids to a stop and grabs his shoulders, "what did you do."
"Uh, I fell?"
"That's not, whatever -" Bakugou pries the longboard away from his dumbass friend and grabs his arm, "just get cleaned up."
Kirishima tries multiple variations of dude I'm fine and awh you really don't need to. He manages to land a you're my angel before they reach the sick bay, and Bakugou flushes bright red where there's nowhere to hide.
Later the same day, Kirishima shows up at the door of class 2-A with his lunch, all smiles and kitted out in gym clothes. He says hello to several people at the front of the class as he makes his way to Bakugou's seat by the window. Bows after asking to borrow Hagakure's seat. Bakugou huffs as he sits down, "What're you here for?"
Kirishima quirks an eyebrow, "we're having lunch?"
"You know what I meant."
"Nope. No idea."
Bakugou lets it go, and starts eating. He can feel Midoriya's burning gaze on his right. He’s acutely aware suddenly, of what an odd sight this must be for people. He’s not one to make friends - he hasn’t really had an easy time of it either, since starting high school with lingering rumours of how he’d tormented Midoriya in middle school. He doesn’t anymore obviously. But it doesn’t change the fact that there are only a handful of other kids who talk to him. None of the girls save Uraraka from cooking club talk to him more than necessary, and maybe a few others have the guts to ask him questions about classwork. Everybody else gives him a wide berth.
Before Kirishima, he’d gotten used to eating lunch alone. In the warmer months, it was easier to hole up on the roof. In winter, it got much harder to hide how nobody really wanted him around.
Maybe more than anything else, Bakugou doesn’t want Kirishima to know about this.
But it’s getting harder to hide these things from Kirishima. He must notice, the way Iida glances across, how Hagakure has lunch with Tsuyu at the other side of the classroom. If he notices, it doesn’t show that day. Instead, Kirishima pokes Bakugou’s shoulder to get his attention.
“What?” he looks up from his bento.
“Thanks for looking out for me.”
Bakugou sighs as he leans his forehead into his left hand, elbow propped up on the table. Runs his hand up into his hair as he hunches away and grumbles, “whatever.”
He should’ve seen it coming, that somebody was going to ask eventually.
They're baking chocolate cookies in anticipation for Valentine's Day, and Bakugou's the only guy in the club so naturally he gets shafted with handling the eggbeater while the girls scoop batter into baking trays and measure out ingredients. The easy shit. He shrugs it off and just holds steady.
Then Uraraka walks up and asks him, "so what's up with Kirishima?"
Bakugou bites his bottom lip. Doesn't respond.
She tries again, "you gotta tell us if you're taking the bench scraper home to make chocolates y'know."
"Fuck off Round Face," he switches off the beater, taps it against the edge of the bowl to dislodge some of the batter, "this isn't some shōnen ai novel."
She blinks, "hey, it's cute -"
"You don't get to say what's cute." He pushes past her and ejects the beater components into the sink. Pulls off his apron and shoves it in his bag on the way out.
Outside, he fumbles with his bike lock, drops it. He's trembling as he picks it up. Tries to calm his breathing, but each inhale is shuddering. He clutches the handlebars but doesn't get on, just stands in the dim February afternoon with a hammering heart and panic racing through his veins.
Watches each shaky breath leave him, shuts his eyes to see hazy stars. His ribs rattle with fear.
The morning of the cursed day, Bakugou hunches inwards in his seat, doesn't take his scarf off even though he's indoors. When the lunch bell rings, he grabs his stuff and heads out immediately. Midoriya stands and his chair clatters, a few heads turn. Bakugou dares to meet his eyes, watches him murmur a barely audible "Kacchan". He turns away - he doesn't need this today.
He goes up to the roof and sits at the usual spot beside the wire, leans his head against the cold metal, eyes unfocused as he gazes out. Looking into the blur, he wonders how many people know now. It's a small town, but was there really nothing better to gossip about? Did shit from one middle school punch on still have to follow him everywhere?
He presses his palms to his closed lids, sighs into the shapes blooming in the dark. "Maybe next year," he murmurs. He doesn't have the courage yet, but next year, he might.
They go to skate in the park towards the end of semester. Bakugou can feel that he's come a long way, he knows how to shift his weight, pushes off the way Kirishima does, a long smooth swing, a bend in his knees. He loves how he can speed down the tree-lined walkway, golden hour glare in his eyes and illuminating Kirishima's focused expression. Being able to keep up brings him closer, keeps him in Kirishima's orbit.
He finds that it's easy to smile when they're gliding down the pavement side by side, that it's uncontrollable, the stupid urge to smile when he's got wind in his hair and believes for a brief moment that he's invincible, that maybe he can fly, and he certainly can't fall. It's easy to smile when he gets to share something Kirishima clearly loves. Easy when he trails behind and watches Kirishima kick up speed and carve beautiful lines and leap off the board like he doesn't know fear.
He can feel spring in his bones, and a warm ache in his chest.
So Bakugou tells him when the first cherry tree blooms. He clutches the board with a crushing grip, it hurts his hands, and he stumbles over the words, that he doesn't like girls, probably never has, maybe if he has he's never noticed or can't remember. He definitely likes boys.
When Bakugou dares to look up, he sees an impossibly gentle smile and warm red eyes. A few loose petals flutter by in the cool breeze. His heart slams against his chest in the best way when Kirishima says, "cool" and asks if he wants to try carving again.
"Fuck yeah," he breathes out, a tumble of relief and elation.
Kirishima asks if Bakugou wants to come to a cherry blossom viewing that Ashido is organising. He peppers in you don't have to in the invitation, but he also adds that he'd really like to hang out with all of his friends.
And it's that easy. All it takes is a selfish request, and Bakugou opens himself up to the possibility of unbearably annoying companionship that he could never admit he's wanted so badly for so long.
He doesn't really know how to do this, what version of himself, how much of himself he can bring to a picnic under a sky bursting with cherry blossoms. So he gets up early to shape onigiri with grilled salmon and flip tamagoyaki while a honey sponge cake rises in the oven. His father doesn't say anything when he steps into the kitchen that morning. Just ruffles his son's hair as he reaches over for the kettle. Bakugou scowls, for his father smiles all-knowing.
Bakugou packs everything snug so it doesn't jostle, doesn't fall apart. He digs around in their drawers for the cloth that he likes and lingers over a thermos as the green tea steeps. He feels tense in his shoulders, all the way down his back. He doesn't know how to do this, has never had to do this before.
Kirishima softens all his edges.
It's suddenly easier to be around people he's never cared for. It's easier to learn names, to hold unimportant and inconsequential conversation, because even if Bakugou doesn't care that Kaminari is struggling to keep his light music club together, he's Kirishima's friend, and somehow that means something to him.
It doesn't feel like an urge to impress - rather Bakugou proceeds on an assumption that they should have something going for them if Kirishima likes them. And he might not get it immediately, meeting them for the first time under the cherry trees, but he's willing to take the time, wait for something about them to matter to him.
And maybe they'll do the same for him, let him into their vicinity, bump elbows and knees as they sprawl out on the picnic blanket.
Ashido laughs high and loud, and Bakugou thinks her eyeshadow leaves a lot to be desired. But she has good hair, and she's unafraid of his harsh glare and is plainly defensive of Kirishima. She asks Bakugou questions like it's an interrogation, like a challenge, a test of his worth. He likes that, he's unafraid, but he likes the challenge, a fight. He sneers, and her eyes are fiery and unwavering. There are moments when she laughs with him, and Bakugou's sneer shifts into a joyous grin.
Kaminari's feelings show on his face. He smiles up to his eyes and discomfort tugs at every inch of his expression, his body language. Bakugou doesn't care that he harbours some kind of wariness, distrust. He casts obvious looks at Kirishima after some nastier comments he lets slip. But Bakugou figures it's better this way actually, because he doesn't have to play the infuriating game of does he hate me and if so, how much. And he gets the satisfaction of watching Kaminari's confusion as he fails to live up to his reputation.
Sero smiles kindly at him the whole time, and marvels at his cooking. And Bakugou thinks he's more devious and devilish than he lets on. He keeps his eyes narrowed in suspicion as Sero talks through all the rice and salmon in his mouth, "how does a pissy gremlin at you learn to cook!" Bakugou thinks he sees a stray grain of rice fly out of his mouth, Ashido wrinkles her nose, "gross!"
They cackle and yell between bites of food underneath the cherry trees. A stray gust of wind sends petals fluttering all around. Bakugou looks up at the rustle of pink overhead, patches of a peaceful blue between the branches, sunshine on his cheeks. He closes his eyes, and lets it all settle - so it stains his heart with all the colours of spring, the lingering taste of honey, and the ringing laughter of a boy he loves.