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Friday afternoons are a madhouse. Hitoshi would never have guessed that an occult store would be the apex of weekend traffic, but turns out that powerful witches and psychic mediums work the same dreadfully dull nine-to-five shift as normal adults. They start filing into Mindsight an hour before Hitoshi’s shift ends, clogging the narrow aisles with sweaty bodies and the jingle of necklaces bedazzled with crosses, eyeballs, and other goth paraphernalia. The real occultists were much more plain-looking, squirreled away in the back with the herbs and the blank 7,000-yen leather spell books.
They gave the highest compliments at the checkout counter. Admirable paper quality, they would say. Herbs grown and stored with perfect precision. Hitoshi would ring them up and drop hints at where they could find the original, mass-production online listings where Mindsight procured their supply.
Once the current group of customers leave, Hitoshi has a half a moment to himself while others mill about. He lounges on his stool behind the register, massaging his achy shins. Never really picked up any of the divining talent from his loudmouthed Papa, but his arthritic knees sure can forecast rain.
He leans an elbow on the counter, chin resting in his hand. The parking lot is visible through the front window, asphalt waiting for the unshed drizzle. The brightness of the sun and the clear sky beg a different story, but Hitoshi knows better. Someday this corner shop and its cracked block of weathered pavement will belong to him. That’s what Papa says, anyway. He says a lot of random shit, though, like how he swears his husband can curse a man with just one glare (when in reality Dad just needed some fucking eyedrops and a single night of uninterrupted sleep). Papa also conducts extensive tarot readings for lump sums of cold cash by the skin of his teeth. Can’t even hear the sitters’ responses for his dying hearing aids—he just nods along with a wide, kind smile, blonde ponytail bobbing and the dull points of his mustache prodding at his cheeks.
Lying runs in the family that way. Maybe that’s why Papa thinks Hitoshi would be a decent fit to carry on his legacy. Though, honestly, Mindsight is probably the only possession Papa has that’s worth passing down. And, Hitoshi had to imagine, playing shopkeep for the rest of his life was better than becoming a teacher like Dad.
Hitoshi’s half second of peace evaporates, and new customers step up to make their purchases. While he tiredly rings them up, he spies a pair of younger teens making a mess of the rear display tables and pinching the cheaper items. They think they’re so smart, hiding talismans in the baggy sleeves of their hoodies. Cute. Reminds him of his teenage years, when he stole moe cat keychains from the arcade gachapon machines. So, he feels extra warm and fuzzy inside when he steps out from behind the counter before the kids can run off and threatens to call the police.
They’re pretty adorable, too, with the little needlepoint glares they shoot him as they relinquish their stolen goods. He can see them shaking in their boots, though, especially after he wrenches a tiny hidden crystal from inside one of the boys’ sleeves.
Of course, with Hitoshi’s terrible fortune, at that moment Papa leaves the back room with one of his tarot reading clients. Hitoshi can see those bright green eyes from the complete opposite end of the store, and though Papa is still wearing his customer service smile, he can already hear the smartass comment brewing.
The clients must have already paid, because they give his Papa a cheery thank you and disperse to browse nearby shelves. And Papa makes a beeline for Hitoshi with a face full of flat, perfect teeth on display. Even though the kids are facing away from him, they hear Papa coming too, by the clack of his boot heels and the squeak of his faux leather pant legs rubbing together.
“‘Toshi, baby ,” Papa croons in English, “care to tell me why you’re manhandling children in the front of my shop? Blocks the door, you know.”
Offering him a sliver of a smirk, Hitoshi says, “Got two regular Lupin III’s here. Caught them with 1,000 yen’s worth of junk in their pockets.” He uncurls his palm to show Papa, who leans over and squints at the stolen items from behind his spectacles.
“Stealing ?” Papa gasps, and since the kids have no way of knowing that this is Papa’s regular speaking volume, it scares the piss out of them. They jump ten feet in the air and shove past Hitoshi in their haste to get out the door.
“Way to use your inside voice, Pops,” Hitoshi snorts.
“Hey. At least I use my words,” Papa chastises, snatching the knickknacks from Hitoshi’s hand. One curved eyebrow raises all the way up to his hairline. “Though, I guess I should be grateful that you only pick fights with kids your own age.”
Hitoshi watches, appalled, as Papa returns the items to a random nearby display stand. “I’m 28.”
“Really? Thought you were still 25,” Papa shrugs, and Hitoshi can’t tell if that’s a joke or not because on his birthday this year, Papa wrote “Happy 25th Birthday” in Hitoshi’s birthday card. Hitoshi can’t even tell if that was a joke.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Hitoshi leans one hip against the checkout counter and says, “Laugh it up, old man. I still have video of you terrorizing those kids who came in here and tried to steal one of your blank spellbooks. Dad hasn’t seen it yet, has he?”
Papa puts on a stellar performance of nervousness, despite lacking an ounce of fear in his entire body. He’s dripping sweat as he saunters over and pinches Hitoshi’s nose.
“Yeah and we’re gonna keep it that way. ‘Cause if your Daddy makes my life hard, I’m gonna make your life hard too, okay baby ?”
“Dokay Baba,” Hitoshi replies in a nasally tone. And then Papa’s expression dissolves into affection, a smile creasing the worn wrinkles at the edges of his eyes, and Hitoshi tries to hide how the sight warms his chest.
One of Papa’s lanky hands musses his purple hair into even worse tangles. After that, Papa pats his cheek and tells him, “Well, if you spy any trouble while I’m out, promise Papa that you won’t go grabbing more customers, okay?”
“Out? Where are you going?” Hitoshi asks as his Papa steps behind the counter to retrieve his pleather jacket.
“Radio station,” Papa answers cheerily. As he gracelessly fits his arms through the sleeves, Hitoshi’s eyes are drawn to the raggedy patch sewn into the back, emblazoned with a poorly-embroidered white triquetra. He had embroidered that for Papa when he was ten years old, and seeing it still brought a rush of blood to his cheeks.
Papa only works at the station at night, though. Wrinkling his nose, Hitoshi inquires, “This early?”
“Need to help get ready for the interview with Best Jeanist tonight. We’re conducting it off-site and he’s … very … specific about what he wants.”
“Oh. Right. Him. The anal guy,” Hitoshi deadpans, drawing out a squawk of laughter from deep in Papa’s chest.
Stopping to give Hitoshi a one-armed hug on his way to the door, Papa pleads, “Hold the fort, kiddo. I’ll be back before lockup, okay?”
“Sure,” Hitoshi sighs. He winces when Papa gives him a quick smooch on his forehead and struts out the door. The sunlight hits Papa’s hair as he strides across the parking lot, ponytail tossing in rivers of straw-spun gold. He gets in his car and leaves Hitoshi alone with the next set of customers.
By the time Papa officially gets off work tonight, Hitoshi and Dad will be fast asleep. Must be nice to have all that drive. Perhaps Hitoshi should thank him for passing down Mindsight. What better gift than a purpose?
A memory intrudes on his consciousness. A hoarse voice, and a red glare.
There is little time to feel sorry for himself before more people appear at the counter, and still more materialize at the door. So he doesn’t.
ↈ ↈ ↈ
Eight o’clock rolls around and the crowds have long since cleared out. Closing time is an hour away and Papa still hasn’t returned. He’s posting on social media, though, so he can’t be dead, unless the witches and paranormal investigators are all right and ghosts do exist.
The main area is completely empty now. The wide swaths of cherry hardwood flooring bear dusty footprints, and the barest suggestion of a presence makes the shop just a touch lonely, just a dash full. Most of the last of Hitoshi’s shift is spent answering phone calls while scrolling through his phone looking up where he’s going to eat dinner. If all of Mindsight’s open hours were like this, he could see himself doing this job forever.
He doesn’t bother looking up when the bell tinkles with the opening of the front door. Perhaps he should be annoyed, but kicking out assholes who show up half an hour to closing is a sport he enjoys and is quite skilled at. So, he announces in a monotone, “We close at nine. Better be quick.”
“Wow, at least look me in the eyes if you’re gonna fuck me over like that.”
He recognizes the voice in a heartbeat, though he wishes he didn’t. Lifting his gaze from his phone, he sees Ashido standing there, decked out in a Hot Topic imitation of goth gear, from her studded off-the-shoulder sweater to her ripped black jeans. Her amber eyes are still smudged with a plaster sheet of black eyeliner, her hair is still pink, and she’s still got that sticky fake suntan that she stubbornly clung to during their years in college. Must be a different brand, though, because now she’s dripping cheap silver jewelry instead of brown sugar stains.
Part of him is glad to see her. That part is killed in cold blood when he glances past her and her radiant smile to see the person she’s walked in with.
Standing several feet behind her is Bakugou, wrapped up in a hoodie and a thick scarf. The ends are tucked into his collar, wrapped neck bulging out of the hood like a sausage. He’s hedging, and rightfully so. If he takes one step closer, Hitoshi’s stomach might jump into his throat.
And he knows Ashido isn’t ignorant, but she goes on talking like nothing’s wrong. “Aw, Shin-chan, where’s the warm reception? I’m just kidding you. Cooome on. Bring it in,” she laughs before ducking behind the counter and wrapping him in a bone-crushing hug.
“Finally entering your emo phase, I see,” Hitoshi wheezes, and she lets him go with a rough smack to his back. “Bargain bin emo, for that matter.”
“Listen, dude, I’m on a budget . When you can do better than drug rugs and headbands, then you can judge me.”
Hitoshi looks down at his own outfit before he can stop himself. “I brought a nicer coat with me. Just got a bit lazy with the undershirt,” he says, and Ashido’s grin grows wider. Like, he gets it, but the comment still stings, especially considering the company.
“We’ll be out of here soon. Just need to grab a couple things for our ritual,” Ashido assures him, jogging toward the herbs section of the store.
Frowning, Hitoshi asks, “Uh. Your what?”
“Is it any of your fuckin’ business ?” Bakugou growls, and Hitoshi schools his expression to remain calm.
He turns to Bakugou, who is still lurking near the back, garnet eyes blazing beneath the hem of his hoodie. A few strands of waxy, bleach-blonde hair shadow his forehead. With as much cheer as he can muster, Hitoshi parrots his Papa’s cheerful shopkeep persona, saying, “Sure, it’s my business. Here at Mindsight, we pride ourselves on providing excellent service for all your occult needs—”
And then Bakugou is swaggering toward him with violence in his eyes and as he rounds the corner of a display table, he checks Hitoshi with his shoulder. Even after getting checked by Bakugou a thousand times, Hitoshi still stumbles over his feet, and still feels his stomach lurch with bittersweet familiarity. As Bakugou follows Ashido to the herbs, he shouts over his shoulder, “Might believe you, if you had an ounce of self-respect.”
Well, now, that was uncalled for. The tone is confusing, too, so much like the way that Bakugou used to speak to him back when things were better, and yet brimming with hidden malice.
“You know junk about summoning demons, right?” Ashido calls to Hitoshi as she pulls a few baggies of garlic and rosemary from the neatly-separated shelves.
A thick wave of exhaustion washes over Hitoshi. He suddenly regrets not kicking them out right away. He pauses, mouth agape, and asks, “Excuse me?”
Ashido turns back to him with an innocent grin. “Like, demons. Y’know, like, rawr,” she says, curling her hand into a claw tipped with midnight-black nails.
He scrubs a hand over his face and breathes in deep. “Please. Never do that again.”
“Stop wasting time with him,” Bakugou cuts in. He puts his hand on Ashido’s head and, with unprecedented tenderness, turns her face away from Hitoshi and back to her task. “Let’s just get the shit and go.”
For once, she listens, and they set to bustling about the shop to pick out their paraphernalia. Seems like Ashido is done talking, and Bakugou never wanted to talk to begin with, so all Hitoshi can do is lope back to his post behind the counter and pretend he doesn’t care. App games on his phone and unanswered texts help maintain the illusion.
He carefully sizes Bakugou up while waiting. How long has it been since they saw each other? A year, maybe two years? Even longer since they last had a polite conversation. Not much has changed, as far as Hitoshi can tell, and that’s unfortunate. After their tense parting, he had hoped that Bakugou would lose his edge, or at least his good looks, but no dice. He was still hot in that ugly kind of way, a giant slab of meat wrapped up in an ill-fitting hooded sweatshirt. The only way of knowing the shapes underneath was through experience, and Hitoshi definitely has a lot of experience getting to know Bakugou’s geometry.
He frowns to himself. Had. He had experience.
Breakups suck. At least, they do for Hitoshi. He’s never lucky enough to get the last word in. Though, he doesn’t know if what he lost with Bakugou can even count as a breakup now. But closing time is approaching in a mere few minutes, so there’s no point in worrying.
When the time is up, they’ll leave, whether they want to or not. And then he’ll go back to never seeing Bakugou again. He just figured that the passage of time would numb the wound a bit more than it had. That he wouldn’t feel that spark of nausea in his gut just thinking about Bakugou’s disdainful glare.
Honestly, though, the worst part was the fact that Bakugou hadn’t glanced his way even once. Cut deep. That was the way Bakugou was, though. Never looked back. Hitoshi spitefully checks the clock on his phone. The time is 8:55. They have five minutes. Maybe six, if he’s generous.
There is a rustling of clothes to his right, and he looks up to see Ashido walking over. She helps herself to a bare patch of the countertop, hopping up to plop her ass on some of the monthly occult magazines stacked in short piles stacked on its surface.
Hitoshi can’t help himself. “You gonna pay for those? Can’t sell them with bent covers.”
She tilts her head in confusion and he gestures to a corner of an issue of Nighteye’s Weekly Horoscopes poking out from underneath her leg. Once she notices, she waves away the complaint without another word.
“So I’ve been getting super into all this witch stuff lately,” Ashido starts, already sounding scientific and totally reliable , “‘cause you can use magic to talk to aliens and fairies and stuff. And I thought it’d be really cool to summon a demon to hang out with.”
That’s not suspicious at all. Hitoshi squints at her, speaking slowly, “What kind of demon?”
“Guess,” she tells him, chest puffed out with pride. She radiates the sticky-sweet scent of perfume and stupid decisions.
Bakugou makes it up to the front before he can. Tossing herbs and crude talismans onto the empty area in front of Hitoshi, he scoffs, “Can we just fucking get on with this? I’d like to get home before it’s dark and freezing outside.”
“Still going to bed at nine every night?” Hitoshi inquires coolly, not bothering to meet Bakugou’s eye as he rings everything up.
All he gets in response is a dismissive, “There you go, putting your fuckin’ nose where it doesn’t belong again. What, this part of your pride in service too?”
With a shrug of his shoulders, Hitoshi starts gathering their purchases into a few paper bags. He replies while keeping his eyes on his work. “Well, sure, I could provide you a service before bedtime, but that would have to be negotiated off the clock. That’ll be 2,899 yen—you paying cash or credit?”
When he looks up again, Bakugou’s jaw is set. There’s that glimmer of fury in his eye, so warm in its familiarity, and Hitoshi can only respond with silent disbelief as Bakugou wordlessly retrieves his wallet and thumbs out 3,000 yen in bills. After slamming them down on the counter he snatches the bags out of Hitoshi’s hand and stomps out of the shop.
“Let’s fucking go, Mina,” he snarls as the door jingles shut behind him.
“That went well,” Hitoshi sighs to himself, putting the money in the till.
From her perch, Ashido gives him a sheepish shrug. “Hey, your head’s still attached to your body. I’d say that’s a win, especially considering that stunt you just pulled.”
A sour feeling curls in the pit of his stomach. He grabs up the dish rag and cleaning solution they store in a cubby behind the counter and informs her, “Store’s closed. You can leave now.”
“C’mon, dude, I’m not tryna be mean. That one was your own fault,” she says comfortingly. Changes her tune real fast when he aims the spray bottle at her, though. Jumping off the counter and raising her hands in surrender, she chirps, “Okay, okay! I’ll get outta here soon, I just wanted to talk with you, y’know? It’s been a while.”
Yeah. It’s been since the last time he and Bakugou spoke. There are a lot of friends Hitoshi stopped talking to after the “breakup,” though he never had the heart to delete their phone numbers. Both Kaminari and Ashido still text him memes from time to time, though he never opens the messages.
He doesn’t realize he’s failed to respond until she continues, “There’s a reason I picked your shop, y’know? Bakugou wanted to go someplace else, but I insisted.”
“How magnanimous,” Hitoshi murmurs, spraying the till and wiping off the grime until the hard plastic shines under the dim fluorescent lights.
The counter creaks nearby and though Hitoshi can glimpse the shadow of Ashido leaning over to look at him, he refuses to make eye contact. He’s about to tell her to get lost, but she beats him to the punch.
“Y’know, since you’re knowledgeable about all this occult stuff, why don’t you help me out? With this whole summoning thing,” she clarifies, and a migraine begins to form at the front of his skull.
He levels her a flat, unimpressed look and she blinks at him with coal-smudged, owlish eyes. “You actually believe in that shit? I figured you were just starting a new hobby.”
“Hey. If it is real, that would be hella rad, y’know? So, I figure there’s no harm.” She straightens and rubs at the back of her neck, laughing, “Well, I say that, but it still kinda spooks me. Summoning a demon is supposed to be pretty scary, right?”
“It’s a demon,” Hitoshi answers drily. Of course they’re supposed to be fucking scary. If she believes in this shit at all, he has no idea why she’d want to fuck around with a creature that’s obviously bad news. Not that demons are real anyway.
“That’s part of why I came here to talk to you, I guess. You’ve got more experience with this stuff than I do, ‘cause of your dad and all, so I thought …”
She stuffs her hands into her pockets and gives him what he assumes is meant to be a hopeful, puppydog expression. Comes off more like a starving raccoon scratching at the sliding glass door to the balcony of his family’s apartment.
For a moment, he considers it. Hitoshi isn’t exactly unpopular, but friends are in short supply. He tries not to make a habit of trusting folks with more than his name, his basic interests, and his place of work. Acquaintances aren’t fun anymore if they know enough to be a liability. And though it utterly disgusts him to imagine that he is a mere bag of flesh and bone, he is a human after all, and humans are social creatures. Ashido isn’t the worst company by far, either.
There’s gotta be a catch, though. Mouth set in a thin line, he asks, “Is Bakugou gonna be there?”
Her expectant silence answers for her. Shaking his head, he mutters, “Thought so.”
“I mean, yes, but Shin-chan,” she whines, lunging to grab his elbow, “He’s barely gonna be there. Like, I told him he didn’t have to be, but he keeps saying I’m gonna destroy public property, or hurt myself, or some shit. Hurt myself! Drawing a summoning circle ! He’s just gonna be some decorative muscle in the background. You and me—we’ll be in the real shit. In the thick of it, in the middle of the circle, facing off against the demons—”
“There’s no ‘we.’ And demons don’t exist,” Hitoshi tells her, yanking his arm from her grip.
A somber expression flashes across her face. He can’t tell if she’s disappointed or hurt. Maybe a little of Column A, and a little of Column B. Part of him wants to care, but the chasm of years stretches wide between them, and he can’t help feeling numb on the other side.
Outside the window, a car pulls up. A silver truck—Bakugou’s car, which still proudly wears the dents from his many displays of road rage over the years. The most boring fucking car for the world’s biggest tight-ass. Even through the thick glass, Hitoshi can hear Bakugou hollering through the open passenger window.
“I’m fucking coming—! What am I saying, he can’t hear me,” Ashido sighs. She puts her hands on her hips and gives Hitoshi a crooked smile. “I get it. If you don’t want to. But it would mean a lot to me if you were there, too. I’d feel safer, y’know? And—he still talks about you. Bakugou does.”
Bitterness lashes at the inside of Hitoshi’s ribcage, squeezing his lungs in tight tendrils. Yeah, he bets Bakugou still talks about him. He can imagine what Bakugou says, based on all the venom from their last goodbyes, and he doesn’t need to hear it again. If he could just explain that to Ashido, maybe she would get it. Maybe she’d stop inviting him to get-togethers, and sending memes on the lonely weekends.
The stagnant air of the parking lot is cut through with the wail of Bakugou’s horn. When Hitoshi sneaks a peek outside again, he sees Bakugou practically laying on the horn, piercing Ashido with his pinprick pupils.
Shaking her head, Ashido reaches out to clasp Hitoshi’s shoulder and reaffirms, “Look. I can’t make you come. But you’d make my night a thousand times better. And if Bakugou starts fighting you, leave it to me, alright?” With a final pat, she pleads, “Think about it,” and hurries out of the shop.
As he watches Ashido jog across the asphalt and clamber into Bakugou’s car, he remembers the faux leather of the passenger seat cover. The feeble scent of the sandalwood air freshener, clipped to the sun visor. Bakugou’s coarse hand sliding over his own, thick fingers interlocking with his, a promise of more than they originally bargained for.
A thread of tension pulls Hitoshi’s shoulders together. That was years ago.
He doesn’t miss it. He doesn’t.
ↈ ↈ ↈ
Occasionally, Hitoshi thinks that Bakugou’s a narcissist. He has to be, judging by his propensity to make all of Hitoshi’s decisions about himself. Though, after a few years of introspection, Hitoshi wonders if that’s just easier to swallow than the idea that he fucked up.
When their relationship started, they had just wanted a bit of company. And in fact, Bakugou explicitly insisted on Hitoshi as his companion because he was absolutely certain that Hitoshi was the most unimpressive, unexceptional, unremarkable warm body on the market. No risk of developing attachment. Perhaps Hitoshi should have felt offended, but then again, he felt the same way about Bakugou. Just another loudmouth bastard with bleach-blonde hair. Self-obsessed closet homosexuals could be purchased in bulk.
To be honest, he wasn’t sure why they kept in touch after college, but somehow Bakugou’s number remained in his phone, and his in Bakugou’s. They kept getting invited to the same events by the likes of Midorya and Kaminari. Kept running into each other at the proverbial punch bowl.
That indifference turned to a dull spark, and Hitoshi made the mistake of courting an egomaniac. Which was a mistake anyone could make, really. Again, how could Hitoshi have known how hot Bakugou would be when he molted his shitty band tees and stone-washed jeans?
The guy had a way of balancing his meanness on the head of a tiny pin of kindness. Made it easy to fall into a routine. One minute they could be in a fight to the death about what they should stream for the night, and under cover of the shouting, one of Bakugou’s hands would take up residence on Hitoshi’s shoulder. Unnoticed, until he started stroking the muscle in slow circles with his thumb. Anger was convenient. No matter how many times they accidentally held hands, or how many too-soft kisses they shared when the heat of the moment passed, or how many nights they stayed cozied up in bed just so Hitoshi could press an ear to his chest and listen to him breathe , anger ameliorated it. Made it burst into a white cloud. Made those moments okay.
That should have tipped him off that eventually things would get complicated. Though at first they agreed they could have partners on the side, Bakugou never took one. And he started getting antsy when Hitoshi’s phone display lit up with unknown callers. They had also sworn against conventional “dates,” but they still joined each other on errands, and snuggled on the couch, and what the fuck had they been thinking , pretending that they could keep treading such a thin thread over that abyss?
The ending fight was so fucking stupid, too. Hitoshi had gone out for coffee with a friend of his, and Bakugou found out. The night after while they were at Bakugou’s apartment, inevitably, Bakugou confronted him. Hitoshi’s mouth had moved before his brain could stop him, and he said, Yeah. I was on a date. Thought he was cute, and we had a nice conversation. And Bakugou did what he did best—he exploded.
It was a fight Hitoshi was ready to have. He wanted to have it. And damn did he get his money’s worth, because they hissed and muttered and shouted for hours. Or, at least, Bakugou did. Like usual, Hitoshi retained his composure.
“I don’t know what you fucking want from me,” Bakugou had growled toward the end, voice sore and scratchy in his throat.
Calmly, Hitoshi repeated for the hundredth time, “You know that already. I’ve told you, since the beginning—”
“Yeah, Shinsou, I know what you said . There’s a lot of fucking shit that you say and I don’t think you have any goddamn idea what you actually mean .” Bakugou had covered his face with both hands and wandered toward the window, back to a patch of carpet he had paced in circles over more than once that night. His fists were lashing out at the air and maybe Hitoshi should have been terrified at that, but he wasn’t. His heart hammered on the cusp of a desire he couldn’t name. “What, you want me to just be okay with this shit? I’m supposed to just be okay with you and some random fucking extra getting together behind my back? Because the last time I fucking checked , you’re the one who follows me on errands like a goddamn housewife, and you’re the one who wants to lay up in bed all night talking about your stupid fucking feelings —”
The bottom of Hitoshi’s stomach dropped out. His chest burned, tight and bereft of air, like every breath was full of black smoke. He faltered, a note cracking at the end of his sentence as he shot back, “If you thought they were so fucking stupid, you could have stopped me.”
Bakugou’s head whipped around to face him. Though Hitoshi quickly recovered his mask, he knew Bakugou had seen. One mistake was too many. Bakugou was too smart to miss that. And the way that sadness flooded his rugged features, sharp with that same frustration, cut deeper than the screaming had.
He crossed the room and stood in front of Hitoshi, taking up both of his hands. Those palms were too hot, clammy with sweat, but they were Bakugou’s . They were filled with lazy memories and slow kisses on overcast weekend afternoons.
Those hands clasped his firmly. The jeweled red of Bakugou’s eyes had faded to a simmering, muted color in the dim light of the evening. He squeezed Hitoshi’s hands and whispered, “I didn’t want to stop you.”
To that, Hitoshi had no reply. He released Bakugou’s gaze to stare at his collarbone, which angled out from beneath the stretched hem of his t-shirt. That was so easy for Bakugou to say. So dreadfully pleasant, and warm, so painful in Hitoshi’s throat, and the conviction Bakugou spoke with made him want to throw up.
“I know what I want. So what do you want?” Bakugou asked him. “What do you actually want?”
A pause. Hitoshi opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened his mouth again.
“I want this. All of this,” he admitted. “But I can’t promise it’ll mean anything.”
The whites of Bakugou’s eyes glistened with fire. Moisture rimmed his lower lids in a glossy ring. His hands fell away, leaving Hitoshi’s bare and cold. Panic rose in Hitoshi’s throat as Bakugou retrieved his jacket and his wallet from the coffee table, but no matter how Hitoshi reasoned and goaded and pleaded, he couldn’t shake Bakugou’s resolve.
“Get your shit. I’m taking you home,” Bakugou told him, tone frosted with indifference.
If Hitoshi thought the ride back to his parents’ apartment was painful, he certainly wasn’t prepared for the next few weeks. He tried making contact with Bakugou over that time, and eventually got a message back telling him that they were through. If Hitoshi remembered correctly, it was, “Don’t care. Go get your dick wet someplace else,” to be exact.
A while after that, he received a voicemail from Ashido conveying her condolences. “Try not to take it personal,” she had said, “you know how he is. Give him some time to cool off.”
So, Hitoshi did as she asked. And he never heard from Bakugou again.
ↈ ↈ ↈ
The dirt lot is snuggled neatly against the forested area of Musutafu’s cramped public park. Chalk didn’t make a solid mark on the icy ground, but praise be, Ashido had thought ahead and brought white paint with her as a backup. She kneels on the ground, painstakingly copying an inner circle and an outer circle from a printed-out, stapled-together booklet of tips she’s compiled from the internet. Inside the space between those circles, she prints sigils, too, with quick flicks of her wrist. The tip of her pink tongue sticks out the side of her mouth, and by now it must be cold and dry, just like her knees where they connect with the muddy ground. The coat Hitoshi brought is too light and he’s freezing his goddamn nips off while ignoring Bakugou, who’s sitting on the open bed of his pickup truck and pretending not to watch them. The idiot brought a metal baseball bat with him, as if they would actually encounter trouble that would merit a stronger defense than his bare firsts. Above, the guileless moon keeps watch with its half-shut eye.
Avoiding Bakugou’s glare is harder than Hitoshi had expected, but it’s better than the awkward drive over, spent smushed together in the cramped cabin of the truck.
He can’t believe he agreed to this.
Then Ashido stretches herself into an awkward position to begin painting a pentagram in the ice, and Hitoshi regrets thinking for a moment that she was actually taking this seriously.
“Really, Ashido? Are you a budding witch, or a horror movie fanatic?”
She spares a moment to frown up at him before continuing her work. “It’s important, yeah? The body, the elements—a pentagram connects those all together. Makes a good container for the sigils too.” Embellishing her next statement with a final swipe to connect the last point of her pentagram, she shouts, “Like a cupholder!”
His brows knot together as he struggles to see how, exactly, a white summoning star is like a fucking cupholder.
At his request, when she is finished she straightens up and shows him her size A4, hand-folded grimoire. Inside are rows of symbols and incantations Hitoshi doesn’t recognize, all cut out and pasted in. Her cheeks are rosy with the cold, puffed up by the width of her smile, and Hitoshi can’t find the strength to critique her research skills. At this point, he can’t even make himself ask which branch of witchcraft Ashido is studying. She probably isn’t sure herself.
“So, I think like, you put the demon’s classification symbol in the middle? And then you like, put other sigils around it to kinda, y’know. Give it some flavor,” she explains, drawing circles in the air with her paintbrush.
Hitoshi wrinkles his nose at the mess of paint on the ground. That thing might not even hold long enough for them to personalize the pentagram. He’s surprised the paint hasn’t slid right off the icy ground already.
“What are you even trying to summon? Asmodeus, or something?”
This horrifies her, for reasons Hitoshi is too exhausted to try and comprehend. With her lip curled in a disgusted snarl, Ashido answers, “Of course not! Though, I guess you’re not too far from the truth. Tonight we’re going for a regular old succubus.”
If Hitoshi had the freedom, he would scream. He’s got a reputation to uphold, though, so he tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and inwardly begs for the sky to swallow him back into the anonymity of the universe.
“I can’t fucking believe you,” he groans.
“It’s the easiest way to get laid and I’m running out of options,” Ashido asserts, bending over to paint what he guesses is the “succubus sigil” in the middle of the pentagram.
“No, I’m pretty sure there’s easier ways to get laid than asking a demon for a one-night stand.”
Undeterred, she whines, “You’re heartless , Shin-chan! Here I am, wasting away, pussy-less, and you can’t be bothered to help me paint my pentagram —”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hitoshi wheezes. Against his better judgment, he leans over to watch her delicate work, and sees her writing a new symbol in the tip of the star, which she copies studiously in every other point of the pentagram, too. “What is this?”
“The sigil for ‘lust!’” she exclaims cheerfully. “If you’re summoning a succubus, you need to add one. To make her feel, like, welcomed, or whatever.”
“Why do you need five ?”
Sitting back on her haunches, Ashido curls her hands into greedy fists and grumbles, “You don’t get it, dude. I want puss, like, so bad .”
Hitoshi thinks he might be developing heartburn just from listening to this. Scraping numb fingers over his face, he warns her, “If you wanna be actually legit about this, you’re gonna need at least one protection sigil.
Once more, Ashido’s face twists in a scowl. Using the edge of her jacket, she gingerly sops up one of the lust symbols and copies a septogram in its place. She gestures to the new one and grumbles, “There. Happy?”
That’s not exactly the correct type of protection sigil. Not that he can afford to be choosey after getting dragged out to a public park at night to summon an imaginary sex demon.
As she picks her way around the outer circle to check her craftsmanship, she waves a hand at Hitoshi and orders, “Do me a favor and go get my bag from the truck, yeah? Ask Bakugou—I think he put it in the lockbox in the back.”
Right. Just so happens that he has to talk to Bakugou to complete this task. If Ashido survives her encounter with the demon, Hitoshi might just kill her himself. However, he knows that this is the price of admission, and so he hesitantly leaves her to make the journey back to the truck.
Bakugou is predictably unhappy to see him. Those beady red eyes follow Hitoshi’s approach without blinking. The intensity of his stare makes Hitoshi feel that much more foolish for his red nose and his shivering shoulders.
Stopping short of him a couple feet, Hitoshi says, “Ashido wants her bag.”
“Yeah, I heard her,” Bakugou huffs. There’s a woollen blanket tugged across his lap, which he begrudgingly tugs off so he can climb further into the truckbed.
The clanging of the lockbox is the only sound that breaks the awkward silence as Bakugou retrieves Ashido’s backpack. As Bakugou bends down to hand over the bag, their fingers brush. That touch alone lights up Hitoshi’s numb digits with a starburst of welcome warmth.
Hitoshi yanks at one of the straps of the backpack, only for Bakugou to hold fast. The bastard is observing him with a familiarly disdainful expression. “You’re fucking freezing,” Bakugou notes.
Quirking an eyebrow, Hitoshi replies, “Yeah. I am.”
Instead of responding, Bakugou hops down from the truck and tosses the blanket at Hitoshi’s face. By the time he recovers enough to pull the fabric from his face, he realizes Bakugou has stalked off to return Ashido’s bag himself. Hitoshi stares after him, clenching the wool in his fists to soak up the residual warmth of Bakugou’s body.
The intention of this gesture is unclear. Bakugou is hardly ever kind for kindness’s sake.
He still talks about you , Ashido’s voice repeats in the back of his mind.
Hitoshi takes his chances and sits on the edge of the truck bed to wait. As he massages the sensation back into his fingers beneath the blanket, he allows his gaze to roam the dark expanse of the surrounding forest. He’s tracing the outline of a rustling tree branch when the truck bed dips down a touch further and the heat of Bakugou’s leg presses against his thigh.
“Bring gloves next time. This shit ain’t worth losing a finger,” Bakugou sighs. There’s a slight gust of icy air as he lifts one half of the blanket onto his own lap. Hitoshi’s pulse pounds in his throat. If Bakugou noticed his tension, he makes no mention. “You think this will work?”
A derisive snort leaves Hitoshi’s throat, though the stuffiness of his nose dampens the effect. “Of course not. Magic isn’t real, and neither are demons. We’re all gonna sit out here chanting internet poems written by amateur witches until we get hypothermia and have to leave.”
“Wow. A skeptic working at an occult store. How fucking edgy.” There’s a brief silence, and then Bakugou murmurs, “Thought you said you were gonna quit working there.”
Not this shit again. Maybe trying to make nice with Bakugou is a bad idea.
Shrugging, Hitoshi hums, “Might as well keep the job, if Papa’s gonna pass the store down to me someday.”
Bakugou heaves a mammoth sigh. “Really? You’re really gonna take it over?”
“For at least a little bit, I guess. Customer service is a drag, but for better or for worse, the shop is important to him.”
Another unimpressed noise. It’s not a shout or an angry rebuttal, though, and Hitoshi wonders what changed between now and their reunion at Mindsight. This is almost a normal, adult human conversation. They fall into a slightly-discomfited lull and Hitoshi breathes into his palms to continue bringing the nerves back to life. Several yards away, Ashido plucks black candles from her backpack and starts placing them around the pentagram.
“You know, it’s weird,” he starts, then hesitates. “Papa didn’t want Mindsight at first, either. He’s not even a witch, or a real psychic. He only started his business because Dad didn’t wanna date a guy whose only job was seasonal work at a radio station. Then Papa’s dad died, and Papa inherited his shop, and he took that as a sign. He promised Dad he’d get his life together, and he did. The occult is the only hobby he’s interested in besides radio, so he bought up some supply for resale, planted an herb garden at home, and … now we’re here.”
“Obviously turned out well for him,” Bakugou replies distractedly.
Hitoshi scrapes at the bed of his thumbnail. “Yeah. I hate the work, but … I wanna be like him.”
“An old gay conman?”
“A man who can keep his promises,” Hitoshi mutters ruefully, peeling back a thin strip of his cuticle.
There’s another pause. Finally, Bakugou turns to face him, brows pinched together. “None of this cryptic shit, alright? If you got something to say, then just say it.”
There’s so much Hitoshi wants to say. Way too much for an evening of ghost hunting. He picks at his nail again, watching the skin swell up puffy and pink.
“When we used to be together—” he starts, and Bakugou makes a noise of disgust in his throat. Jaw setting, Hitoshi grits out, “Just give me a fucking second, alright? I get it. I was being unfair to you—”
“Yeah, no shit,” Bakugou hisses. “You don’t get boyfriend benefits without giving anything back—”
“But you know what would’ve been way more unfair?” Hitoshi chimes in, raking a hand through his hair. “Promising you a relationship I wasn’t sure I could give to you. Back then, I don’t think I could have given you an equal partnership. So yeah, I was a dick. I just didn’t know how to keep you without lying to you. And I’m just—sorry.”
At the far end of the lot, Ashido shouts for them to join her. He ignores her for a few moments in favor of leaving Bakugou with a meaningful, lingering stare. When she squawks at them again, however, he rises to his feet and makes his way over to the summoning circle.
As he draws closer he notices a spatter of mud seeping through the white band of the outer protective ring. “Uh. Your circle,” he tries. She simply rolls her eyes and moves him into position on one side of the circle. She does the same with Bakugou when he saunters over. He’s still carrying the baseball bat in his fist.
They exchange a glance while Ashido is distracted. Unfortunately, Bakugou is impossible to read at the most inconvenient times. This is one of them.
Ashido distributes a scrap of paper to both men. Written on each strip are two short sentences printed in Latin: Veni nobis, O carnalis concupiscentiae. Nos ad beneficia de vagina sua. Hitoshi is determined to run the phrase through an automatic translator after he gets home. There is no way this is a real, linguistically-accurate incantation. Nonetheless, she insists they repeat the words together six times. This opens the gateway for the demon, she claims.
“This is fucking stupid,” Bakugou snaps, and though he agrees, Hitoshi is ready to tackle this step with enthusiasm just for the joy of his spite.
They have trouble getting started at the same pace—much less wrapping their tongues around the words—but through sheer persistence they all catch a rhythm that carries them to the end of the sixth repetition. After that, there’s other phrases Ashido yells in English, and then in a different language that is also ill-suited to Japanese phonetics.
Once completed, she clasps her hands together and bends down on one knee. Her cheeks are rubbed raw with the wind as she calls out, “Please, mighty succubus, we seek your favor! If it pleases you, I, your humble follower, desire a night in your care! Or even just three hours, or two, or one—I’ll settle for a single hour! Just allowing my hands to hold you, or to be held in turn, would be the greatest blessing on my withered soul.”
For a moment, Hitoshi is awed by the effortless shift Ashido makes to formal Japanese. And with such beautiful prose, too. He wonders if she would ever consider a career as a poet until she bows her head and adds, “Thank you for heeding my plea! Now I’m gonna give you my blood, okay? It’s gonna be metal as fuck .”
“Mina, no ,” Bakugou shrieks, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare!”
Hitoshi’s eyes blow wide as Ashido tugs a pen-knife from her pocket and cackles into the cold night. Oh, Jesus, she’s actually gonna cut herself—
“Relax, guys! I brought bandaids,” she assures them, and with no further preamble, nips a tiny slice in her forefinger. While Bakugou continues cussing her out, she half-crawls into the middle of the pentagram, swiping her forefinger over the center sigil in a red smear.
Their bickering passes unheard through Hitoshi’s ears. His sight is fixated on the blood offering, and the place where her knee further breaks the integrity of the white perimeter circles. Dread climbs up through his diaphragm and nests in his throat. It’s stupid, he knows, but something feels wrong , painfully off-kilter, like an arm hanging limp after getting wrenched out of socket.
All the candles blow out, and Ashido stops laughing. She’s frozen in her leaning position, mouth hanging open. Making a quick check of her surroundings, she asks, “Uh. You guys, um. Did you do that?”
The wind has grown completely still. No breeze. No nibbling chill. Nothing.
“Ashido. Get out of the circle,” Hitoshi orders, as calmly as his racing heart will let him.
“What?” she squeaks.
He’s the closest to her, so he hurries around the perimeter of the outer protection circle to grab her and pull her out. Just before he can touch her, a solid force grips him by the chest and pushes him back. It feels like a hand, like five claws digging into his skin, but he looks down and there’s nothing there. But the claws are pushing in deeper, unheeding of the flimsy barrier of his flesh, and his lungs start to fill with fire.
A crack rips through the stagnant silence, followed by the ringing of metal and a screech like steel cables collapsing. The pressure lifts from Hitoshi’s chest and breath rushes back into him so fast he’s lightheaded. Across the circle, he sees Bakugou, baseball bat nocked against his shoulder in preparation for another swing. An unseen force lifts him off his feet and throws him away in a clean arc. He hits the dirt like a ragdoll.
“Oh god, oh shit,” Ashido gasps, and they’re both scrambling toward Bakugou’s unmoving body.
Hitoshi reaches him first, hauling him up by the shoulders, parroting Ashido with a frantic, “Oh shit, oh god, are you okay?”
All Bakugou can do is hiss in reply. Hitoshi casts a helpless look at the truck. Too far. If Bakugou is injured, they definitely won’t be able to reach the pickup, much less drive home. With Ashido’s help, Hitoshi rushes to drag Bakugou to his feet and they run blindly into the forest, letting the bushes swallow their trail.
The sparse outskirts of the forest quickly give way to denser undergrowth, along with gnarled roots that snag their sneakers and boots. At first, Bakugou drags his feet so much that Hitoshi is convinced his leg is broken, but he soon regains his fine motor control. Goddamn, the man got tossed like a fucking beanbag, and within a few minutes was up to speed with both Hitoshi and Ashido. Was that the adrenaline, or was he just that fucking strong?
“Let’s push further off the trails. Gotta make sure she can’t find us,” Bakugou pants. “Watch where you’re fucking stepping, alright? If you break your goddamn bones, I’m not coming back for you.”
They clamber through obstinate shrubbery and a few dozen plants that will have Hitoshi covered in hives later. Ashido knows the park the best, so they follow her lead through the thicket, until they stumble upon a recession at the bottom of a steep hill. There, under the canopy of a massive fallen tree, they take shelter to catch their breath.
Hitoshi barely manages to stagger underneath the trunk of the tree before he crumples to the forest floor in a heap. His legs quiver, overtaxed with use, though they hold long enough for him to scoot himself further into the shadow of the tree’s leafy branches. Each breath is a knife in his sternum, and he blinks his eyes open to find that he’s lying on his back, with Bakugou kneeling over him with concern.
“Mina, get the fuck in here!” Bakugou calls over his shoulder. Then he’s turning back to Hitoshi, naked concern gleaming in his eyes in a way that Hitoshi never thought he’d see again. “You still with us?”
The point of Bakugou’s nose hovers a scant few inches away. His breaths puff against Hitoshi’s cheek in a rhythm that matches the staccato thump of his own heartbeat. A warmth builds in the center of his chest, radiating outward in a pattern that imitated the burning hand that had gripped him while they stood in the summoning circle.
“I don’t feel so good,” he mumbles, tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.
Bakugou presses a calloused hand to his forehead. The warmth is more tepid than he remembers, cooled further by a layer of sweat, though it burrows inside Hitoshi’s skin all the same. His eyes flutter shut and he breathes carefully through a sudden bout of dizziness.
Distantly, he hears Bakugou shout for Ashido again. Concern pricks at his chest and he forces his eyes open again. Near the edge of the tree’s shadow, Ashido is bent in half and wheezing like it’s all she can do to keep her dinner down. Her back faces them, her head turned toward the stoic gauntlet of trees at the top of the rise that they descended to get here.
She says something about the car. Bakugou isn’t happy about that, and they get into a brief scuffle. That’s what Hitoshi assumes, anyway, from the dry scrabbling of leaves getting kicked up around him. He doesn’t realize his eyes have shut again until Bakugou returns to his side. Tromping off through the sticks is Ashido’s slender outline, growing smaller with each passing second.
“Where is she—” Hitoshi grunts.
“She’s headed for the pickup truck. If that thing is still there, she says she’s gonna drive for help,” Bakugou tells him. Sweat streaks down his temples and traces the cut of his cheekbone. Man, this is not the time for it, but he’s fucking pretty. That face fits so perfectly in Hitoshi’s hands—he knows from experience—and he wants that again. The desire glows in the pit of his stomach in a dense ember.
His entire body sizzles underneath the thin fabric of his coat. Freezing his balls off was much preferable to the pins and needles jabbing his arms and thighs, muscles screaming with exertion. The searing heat climbs higher and he blindly fumbled with the zipper of his coat in a desperate attempt to at least get rid of the sweat .
“Fucking don’t ,” Bakugou hisses, forcibly tugging the zipper back up. “Do you know how cold it is outside?”
“ Yes , Lieutenant Obvious, I am well aware ,” Hitoshi grates out, fighting Bakugou’s hand. “I’m fucking dying in here though, so be generous and let me get a bit of air —”
“I’m sorry, ‘ Lieutenant ’—?”
The struggle devolves into a slapfight, with a couple knees and elbows thrown in for good measure. Each breath scalds the inside of Hitoshi’s throat. Bakugou is wild above him, teeth bared and fingers grasping at Hitoshi’s wrists with a bit too much force. He has always been stronger, so when he eventually overpowers Hitoshi and pins his arms on either side of his head to the dirt, that’s no surprise. Above him, Bakugou crouches on all fours, knees bracketing his hips. They lay there for an agonizing moment, suspended in mercury, so close that Hitoshi is terrified their chests might brush if he breathes in too deeply.
There’s no victory in Bakugou’s feverish expression. Just worry, and warmth, and relief .
“I missed you,” Hitoshi blurts out. “So much.”
Pain flashes across Bakugou’s face, slashing creases at the corners of his eyes. And then he’s leaning forward to press a rough kiss to Hitoshi’s mouth. On reflex, Hitoshi gasps and parts his chapped lips. As soon as he does, Bakugou’s tongue sneaks inside.
Hitoshi’s fists clench against Bakugou’s grip, aching to hold him close, and oh god, oh fuck, he missed this, the heated and frantic way Bakugou always explored his mouth. He arches off the ground and melts in relief when Bakugou sinks down to meet him. Even through their coats, Bakugou sheds heat like a furnace, adding to the humid fog that Hitoshi is currently suffocating in. He pants against Bakugou’s lips in a futile attempt to reclaim some oxygen, and when Bakugou finally, finally releases him, he gets to cup that rugged jaw in his hands again for the first time in years. As he loses himself in the slick slide of Bakugou’s tongue, he smooths trembling fingers over Bakugou’s neck and the swell of his broad shoulders. In return, Bakugou’s hand curls in the scruff at the base of Hitoshi’s skull until his scalp is stinging.
They break apart, foreheads pressed together, and Bakugou’s tongue swipes across Hitoshi’s newly moistened lips. His head is spinning, the sky is spinning, pinned down only by the solid weight of Bakugou’s body. He wants— he needs—
A horn warbles shrilly in the distance. They both jerk into a sitting position, straining their ears. That’s definitely Bakugou’s horn, bleating in fitful spurts that are occasionally punctuated by longer bursts. Shortly after, there’s a crunch of metal and the dry crash of windshield glass breaking. Hitoshi’s blood runs cold in the silence that follows, until the honking starts back up with just as much fervor.
“This crazy fuckin’ animal—” Bakugou snarls, and Hitoshi doesn’t know if he’s referring to the succubus or Ashido. Either way, Bakugou stands up and offers him a hand to help pull him to his feet. Disappointment curls in Hitoshi’s throat, though that is outweighed by the thought that Ashido might be, y’know. Dying. Or at least causing extensive property damage.
They tear ass through the trees in the direction of the horn. The shrubbery they crashed through initially is still mashed in a formation that resembles their silhouettes to an almost comical degree. Out in the dirt lot, a swarm of tire tracks have made a muddy slush of the summoning circle. At the end of the lot Bakugou’s silver truck squeals to a halt, with Ashido in the driver’s seat, turning the wheel in hysterical jerks. The front fender of the vehicle is completely caved in and all the windshields are blown out.
“ What the fuck did you do to my truck ?” Bakugou screams.
For all that Bakugou yells, Hitoshi isn’t accustomed to hearing serious backchat, so they both jump when Ashido roars at him, “I ran her ass over, now get in the fucking back, you absolute piece of shit !”
She throws the pickup into reverse and careens toward them. They narrowly avoid getting mowed down as she approaches, leaping into the bed at the moment before impact. The gate on the back has come off, swinging drunkenly on one hinge, and as she puts the truck back into drive it falls with a dull thwack onto the icy ground. They lurch forward, tires screeching, and Bakugou hooks an arm around Hitoshi’s shoulders to keep him from sliding right out of the truck bed.
As they pull out of the dirt and back onto solid pavement, Hitoshi’s eyes desperately comb the lot for a sign of their attacker. Hopefully she’s bleeding out in the bushes, or fading into ash, or whatever demons do after suffering a full-on collision with a lesbian in a pickup truck. The engine thunders on and carries them out a dozen feet farther each second, until the lot fades from view. Only when they exit the park and turn out onto the nearest residential street does he allow himself to fully relax, though. He sags against Bakugou’s chest with his head propped on Bakugou’s collarbone.
“You’re fucking welcome , by the way,” Ashido hollers out the window.
Neither of them have the energy for a witty quip. They simply huddle in the corner of the truckbed, feet braced against one of the bulging wheel wells, and breathe together. If Hitoshi ignores the whipping wind and the unforgiving metal beneath them, he can get swept up in the nostalgia. He can imagine they’re cozied up in Bakugou’s musty apartment.
Despite the years between them, Bakugou still breathes the same. His chest is still so firm, and yet soft. So warm.
They eventually stop at a gas station so Bakugou and Hitoshi can crawl into the cabin. Until then, Hitoshi rests against Bakugou, lost in the sensation of rough fingers carding through his tangled hair.
ↈ ↈ ↈ
“You seriously didn’t see her?” Ashido asks again.
“If you ask me that shit again I’m gonna take the steering wheel and drive us all into a ditch,” Bakugou groaned, head thumping back against the headrest. He is squished against the passenger door, his left arm occupied with cradling Hitoshi’s exhausted body.
Hitoshi cracks open one eye to survey Ashido’s condition. Her hands have long since relaxed on the steering wheel. There are several shallow cuts on her cheek, as well as the last remnants of glittering crushed-up glass on her black winter coat. She seems fine. Not only that, she’s … excited, by the looks of it. Glowing from head to toe, with a tawny flush on her cheeks.
He can’t help himself. “Was she everything you dreamed of?”
Pink lips pursed in thought, she says, “You remember Kayama-san? We all took a class with her in our third year of college. Looked exactly like her.”
“ Mina ,” Bakugou chastises.
“She was hot,” Ashido shrugs.
“Our modern art history teacher? Have some fucking dignity, will you?”
“She was hot ,” Ashido insists. “Always regretted missing the chance to hit on her after graduation.”
Alright. That’s enough of that conversation.
They trail off into a comfortable argument as Hitoshi leans sleepily into Bakugou’s side. Feels like only a moment passed before the truck pulls up outside Ashido’s flat. She gingerly climbs out of the driver’s seat, brushing off the last fine coating of glass with her jacket sleeves. They offer to join her for the night to make her feel safe, but she declines. As she tromps up the stairs to her apartment alone, Bakugou gets back behind the steering wheel. He keeps a close watch on her until her front door clicks shut.
Silence settles over the truck, save for the buzzing of cicadas and cars whirring in the distance. Turning the key in the ignition, Bakugou grunts, “You want me to take you home?” and if Hitoshi didn’t know him better, he might think that was a dismissal.
He reaches across the center console to squeeze Bakugou’s knee and whispers, “I want you to take me back to your place.”
Those garnet eyes flicker over to meet his. Blood rushes in Hitoshi’s ears and fills his already-raw cheeks. There’s still so much fear and uncertainty for the future. This time, though, he’s ready for it. He’s ready to try. Can’t be any worse than what they witnessed tonight, which is going to give him food for thought for years to come.
Bakugou’s hand covers his, giving him a firm squeeze. A weakness spreads in the center of Hitoshi’s chest, sweet with the taste of relief. And then Bakugou shifts into drive and pulls out onto the empty road.