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The best songs are the kind that loop. The ones that feel endless, that represent a bottomless ocean of blankets. The fluffy kind that wraps you up on cold mornings and still retains the heat from the night before.
The best songs are the ones that sound like a harp for the first time. Bakugou doesn’t know what draws him to it, maybe it’s because of the delicacy of each pluck, but he catches himself listening endlessly to songs like that in private.
It’s such a silly, uncharacteristic thing. If anyone else heard what was playing in his headphones they would definitely have too much fun with his torture. Everyone except you, maybe.
Sighs that decrescendo endlessly leave him when he thinks of you, his favorite song, his favorite chord, his favorite key, blanket, warmth, any and everything in between. If there was a record of how many times he’s thought of you, he would be in the top 0.01%. And if there were a count of how many times he’s thought fondly of you, he’d have to find the end of infinity.
What a silly, uncharacteristic thing. But he figures it can’t be so uncharacteristic if he’s been doing it for years now.
Loving you from afar — with headphones on across the room — has become a part of him. He didn’t ever mind it, he tells himself. Loving alone is easier; who wants to face rejection? As long as he can be there for you, do things for you, just be near you then he didn’t ever mind. The music never stopped for him, the warmth always lingered, the currents only raged stronger.
No matter what, Bakugou’s heart was full.
“Who’s that from?” was always a question asked on your birthday and on other gift-giving holidays, and you never could answer it. He preferred it that way. You still smiled, right? That’s what matters. A simple shrug and a curious glance across all your friends in the room was all you could muster at gift parties. You never had the answer.
“Who’s that from?” was sometimes asked when you saw flowers on your doorstep. Fuck, his heart used to soar when he’d leave them for you, hiding just around the corner like a coward with his tongue in his throat and pulse in his ears. Your melodic voice always reached him in the best way, exciting and calming him even as he heard the telltale signs of you picking up the bouquet. After a few weeks of doing so, he stopped getting so nervous. It became natural to leave you quaint gifts like this and talk to you like normal the next weekend.
And god, you loved to talk. With him, at least. He’s lucky — no one else gets the soft treatment you give him, the annoyingly funny jokes, the playful jabs at his arm or side. That’s all reserved for him and he knows it. Surely, that should be enough of a sign that he should push on, ask you out on a date or something, but he never brought himself to do it.
“There’s someone leaving flowers on my doorstep lately,” you told him during one not-date, your feet bumping into his under the dinner table.
“Oh, weird,” he huffed, biting into his steak. “Didja throw ‘em out?”
“Of course.”
He choked. “What?”
You snorted in amusement. “I’m kidding, I always keep them. But I feel bad since I don’t have a way to tell them I’m interested in someone already."
It was hard enough swallowing his food, but it was even harder swallowing the lump in his throat. “Leave a note,” he muttered, sipping on his water to hide his expression next. He really thought he was the only one.
If life — love — were easy, he would’ve stopped leaving you flowers after that. He did talk himself into it, but in the end he found himself sneaking around the corner while you were out for the day like usual. Dread filled him when he saw a note, which was so ridiculous — he’s the damned idiot who suggested it — but he prides himself in being brave enough to face the music.
“Thank you for the flowers :) Stay warm out there and enjoy this song!”
Classic you, you left one of your favorite songs at the bottom. No “Leave me alone,” or a “Go away, creep!” You simply were just you. Had it been anyone else, then Bakugou would’ve crumpled the note in his pocket and carried on, but he was careful while folding it up, going home with the song you suggested playing in his earbuds.
Weeks and months passed all the same. Flowers, songs, not-dates, gifts. It’s a melody Bakugou knows well by now, similar to your laugh with how it makes his heart skip a beat. He loves it. And even though the notes you leave behind are short, you always have another song you both seem to like.
“What are you getting Jonna for Christmas?”
Bakugou looks at his best friend for a long moment before turning his attention back to the TV. “Tch. Nothing.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Kirishima sighs, “you were the one who got her those fluffy slippers she wears around her apartment all the time. I saw the receipt.”
“Yeah, and what the hell are you doing in her apartment?”
Kirishima holds his hands up in surrender, desperately holding in a toothy grin behind upturned lips. “I bet a hoodie would be nice — to replace the one you got her for her birthday two years ago.”
His jaw tenses, blood rushing to his ears. “Whatever. It’s none of your business.”
“You can tell me, Bakugou,” Denki chimes in. “I’ll even hang mistletoe above you guys; just say the word!”
Aggravating snickers leave the red-head, the three of them going back to their Christmas movie when there’s no answer. Well, make that the two of them; now Bakugou can’t help but wonder who else saw right through him.
Of course, Dunce Face would know — he probably went through my shit when I wasn’t looking. He gives him a glare that rivals the fireplace before moving on to Kirishima. And Hair-for-Brains probably didn’t stop him.
When it comes to their gifts, Bakugou will make sure it’s something that’ll go out with a bang. As for you...
He was already planning on giving you your gift in person for the first time. It’s no big deal, he can do that much at least. It wouldn’t be weird — everyone else got you gifts — and the worst thing that could happen is that you find out he was the one who brought you flowers too. There are some things the hero isn’t quite brave enough for yet.
There’s no harm in that, either. It’s not gonna kill either of you if you don’t know it was him. So he hefts himself out of his own apartment on Christmas morning with your gift and some resolve in hand. No flowers, but he does have the most recent song you suggested to him endlessly playing in his head. A few firm knocks to the beat of the music to your door and then you’re there in all your glory — the slippers he bought you and Christmas pajamas.
“Oh! Merry Christmas, Bakugou,” you beam, moving aside so he can come in.
“I just wanted to give you this,” he says gruffly, holding out the present.
Your eyes widen upon seeing the familiar neat wrapping, but he assumes you’re just shocked he got you anything at all. “Don’t be like that. Come in for a little bit.” You gesture him in.
“Tch. Don’t be mad when I leave sooner than expected.” He walks past you, taking note of the decorations you’ve put up around the house and the absence of last week’s flowers. Probably went bad or something...
But that’s not right, he never bought you cheap flowers like that.
“Here,” you interrupt his thoughts with a gift of your own, using it to point toward the couch. “Sit down so we can open these together!”
He grumbles under his breath the best complaint he can think of about you — practically none — and listens to your instructions. You follow suit, sitting close beside him with Christmas glee rolling off of you. It’s now that he notices you had carols softly playing through your speakers and candles lit around the room with wintry scents to complement the tree in the corner of the room. He doesn’t know how you put so much effort into a single holiday by yourself, but it almost wrecks his heart.
If he hadn’t been loving you from afar, then would you be putting up these decorations alone?
If he hadn’t been loving you from afar, then would you have someone to match pajamas with?
He glances at the clashing red pants and green shirt.
I take that back. I ain’t wearing that shit.
“Quit bouncing around so much,” he gripes, handing you the heavy box. “You’re gonna drop it.”
“Oh, is it something really valuable?” you tease holding your ear close to it as you shake it with a grin. “Sounds a little heavy duty. Did you put a bomb in here?”
He hesitates, almost doubting himself and his ability to pick out the difference between your gift and Kaminari’s. “No. Just open it so I can open mine.”
You grin wider, noting his eagerness and letting it mingle with yours. Just a few rough tears (he really knows how to wrap gift!) and you get to see the front of the box, big letters and a humorous image filling your wondrous eyes. “A Snuggie?! Thanks, Bakugou!”
“It’s not a Snuggie, loser!” he barks back, ears flushing pink. He points at each word on the box with vigor as he reads them off. “Heated. Blanket. Heated. Blanket! I wouldn’t get you something that stupid.”
Your laughs overpower his protests, glee overflowing now and making it hard for him to express anything but the same. He’s always avoided getting too close to you because of this — the feelings of your loved ones are always contagious.
“I love it,” you laugh out, “and it’s perfect for winter. Did you remember how painful my joints get in the cold?”
“No,” he lies.
“Oh, then you’re just really good at this.”
“‘course I am,” he huffs, not lending you his gaze so you can’t see through him. Instead, his focus goes to the gift you handed him, large hands lifting the tissue paper away from the top of the bag to get into its contents. What he was expecting — with your corny pajamas, Christmas carols, and pine candles — was a red reindeer nose he’d never willingly wear.
Instead, it was something he doesn’t imagine taking off unless absolutely necessary.
“I hope it fits,” you mention idly, unsure of what to do in the silence as he lifts the gift out of its box. “It’s flame-resistant and the battery should be in, just push the-”
“You do it for me.”
“Huh?”
Bakugou, braving the waters, holds his wrist out to you, not even bothering to pretend that he fumbled with the lock as it hangs off of him. He looks pointedly at it, admiring the silver gleam as you admire his audacity with a smirk.
“Big, scary hero can’t put his own watch on?” you joke, shifting a little closer to clip the watch in place on the inside of his wrist. You can’t deny that you’re enjoying this small show of skinship. It’s so incredibly minimal, but when it comes to him, you know he wouldn’t be asking anyone else of such a silly task. You can’t suppress your smile.
“You bought it,” he counters, “so this is just how it is.”
“Every day?”
He falls quiet, spine stiffening and body freezing up even though you’ve long finished assisting him. You almost had him. No way in hell am I answering that.
Stuffing the tissue paper and the watch box back into the bag, Bakugou stands. “I gotta get home and cook. I left the oven on.”
“Aw, don’t be like that!”
“Oi, didn’t I say not to get mad when I gotta leave?” He’s gotta get out of here — any longer and he might get too comfortable and let his guard down more. It’s different now. You know he pays close attention to you, more than a distant friend would. You two were never deemed close, only seeing each other when schedules permitted and it’s not like that was a lot. Hell, he barely saw you. This was too much. He should’ve kept the safe distance he had before, dammit.
“How can I not?” you grumble, getting up and walking ahead of him to the front door.
He can’t stop himself from perking up at that response.
“Since you’re leaving-”
He drops his shoulders slightly.
“-then you should at least look at the way I decorated my front door. Or did you see it already?”
“I didn’t,” he answers, stepping outside and turning around to see what you’re talking about. He nearly turns right back around — he wishes he could so you wouldn’t see the symphony of emotions play right across his face.
“I tried writing songs from your playlists but I was starting to run out. I thought you’d catch on eventually, but...”
He stops listening, only hearing the rapid tempo of his runaway heart. Like frantic drumbeats, it pounds and pounds in what he thought was a lonely cage, but he’s quickly realizing you’re a lot smarter than he took you for.
Flowers from the past months are dried and twisted together, pinned along your door frame. It was so obvious but he didn’t realize it, too focused on his gift and what’d he say to you to see the glaring sign in front of him. And worse than that, his heart stops when he sees a different flower at the very top, one that he didn’t give you.
Is she giving this one back to me? He hesitates. You’re still talking, filling the silence while he fills himself up with confidence and resolve for his next action. It’s fine. He glances at your eyes, gleaming with smug excitement that matches the smirk on your lips. Each feature he’s memorized, sure, but this moment is definitely going to be burned into him forever,
“Oi,” he starts lowly, stepping closer and putting a hand on the back of your neck to draw you near. “If you wanted to kiss me that bad,” he points at the mistletoe, cutting you off and successfully getting you to tilt your head up, “then you should have just asked.”
The loop in his head ends. He realizes for the first time that it wasn’t all the same. The smiles and laughs you gave him yesterday, the week before, the years before, they were all different than the one he feels against his lips. Songs that don’t come to an end are wonderful, but the reprise is quickly becoming his favorite. No matter what, it’s still something that belongs to him, this smile of yours.
His lips fit with yours like a lock and key, like the notes of a major chord that he can’t forget. God, he never wants this to end, and he can’t help himself from repeating it over and over and over, your shared kisses now on repeat.
“You think it worked?” Kaminari asks his friends, the group of Class 1-A graduates all sitting together with hot cocoa and unwrapped presents.
“Look for a receipt for a ring in a few years,” Mina snickers, earning a boisterous laugh from Kirishima and the others.