Archive of Our Own

(-)

Bakugou is tense, and it is his first day of kindergarten.

He is six years old, and his mother leans over to speak to him, gives him a small ball to hold on to as he walks to school. “Don’t lose it, okay?”

It’s yellow, with this dopey smile on it. The print squishes into a frown when Bakugou closes his fingers tightly around it. He doesn’t lose it.

He doesn’t lose it, but when he gets into class, he blows up his deskchair. He didn’t want to sit in the front row, and he hates the crayon marks on the tabletop, so of course he blows it up.

The teacher pulls him out of the class to speak with him, and this lady doesn’t lean over to speak to him—as his mother did—no, she kneels down, tells him to behave himself, voice babbling, babied down.

As if she’s lowering herself to Bakugou’s level.

He doesn’t lose the smiley ball, but it explodes in his hands.

He’s sent home to write I won’t use my quirk carelessly fifty times. His fingers shake and he wants to blow up his pencil too, but he steels against it, grits his teeth. 

(1)

春

SPRING

UA brings with it more than just competition, more than just textbooks and gritty practice in dusty training grounds. It brings with it something Bakugou hasn’t been willing to accept for a while.

It brings a boy with firetruck red hair.

The first thing Bakugou ever learns about this Kirishima Eijirou is how he ranked right after Bakugou, plotted Number Two at the Entrance Exam.

Bakugou sees the name under his own. He swears that he doesn’t care. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t care; there’s no points for second place. You either win or you don’t, and Bakugou fucking won.

Yet, the name stays with him.

Kirishima Eijirou. It was written out on the announcement board, in a yellow digital font. The meanings surface: cut and island. Sharp, pointed.

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What UA brings is something Bakugou doesn’t want at first.

Bakugou has always been the best alone.

He’s strong, palms crackling with the promise of powerful explosions. He holds his own just fine. He’s spent his entire life like this, arrogant and proud—and for good reason. He’s matched every praise, has struck through the odds and become the best.

All his life, Bakugou’s had nothing but lackeys who looked up to him in fear. And those who didn’t fear him, he turned them down with harsh words. He incited that fear.

So yes. Yes, he turns his nose up and twists his lips distastefully whenever that shitty haired fucker calls for him from across the classroom.

Apparently this Kirishima has made it his personal mission to befriend him, and all Bakugou can do is scoff. He ignores Kirishima, ignores his outstretched arm and unwavering smile, his broad grins. The idiot’s always fucking smiling, always eager and always got some shit to say as he waves, jumps.

He’s annoying in the most bright, obnoxious way possible.

He’s an eyesore, too. Wide red eyes and his bright red hair and the slant of his brows and these fucking razor teeth, daggers that poke through with every smile.

Kirishima is at Bakugou’s heels every goddamn time he walks out to the lunch hall, or after class when he heads to sit on the couches in the common room.

Of course, Kirishima’s annoying, but he’s not a complete idiot. He sits half a foot away from him, and stops talking if Bakugou turns around to cut a glare at him. Kirishima doesn’t tag along with him on the days that Bakugou’s hostility surfaces: in the tension of his shoulders, the angry knit of his brows.

It changes, though, at the sports festival.

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The sports festival leaves Bakugou wide eyed as Kirishima knocks blows with him.

It leaves his mind turning with the realisation that there’s someone who can withstand his explosions. Someone rival to his quirk, someone at stalemate with his own power: an equal. An unwavering object in the path of his unstoppable force.

Kirishima’s knuckle grazes past his face, leaves a slit blooming in red at the crest of his cheekbone.

He wins, but not without a realisation settling in, easing out his eyebrows.

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Change spreads out like ripples in a lake.

It takes a while for Bakugou to take this change. They share a table at lunch, they walk together to the training grounds. Kirishima waits for him as he fills up water at the dispensaries. Bakugou impassively bitches at Kirishima while he ties up his shoelaces.

It takes a while, but the schedule digs in and eventually runs like gears of a well oiled machine. They spend less time in the day, more in the afternoons as Bakugou tutors Kirishima since he’s so fucking bad at the easiest math sums.

The ripples course, water lapping outwards.

Friends, huh, he thinks as Kirishima steals a seasoned shrimp from his bento. As Bakugou flicks a finger into his forehead and in return Kirishima pinches him in the thigh. As they knock elbows when studying together.

Friends.

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Bakugou takes Kirishima’s hand in the night sky, and his chest is bursting as he grins.

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One day, there’s Pikachu who joins at his table, dragging Soy Face in tow. Mina follows.

Bakugou glares at Kirishima, who only shrugs with an apologetic smile. “We’re kind of. A package deal, man. Heh, sorry.”

Bakugou grips his chopsticks so hard they snap. He doesn’t speak a word, even as Mina asks him questions about his quirk or when Sero offers him a strip of fish. When he gets up, he deliberately shoves a shoulder into Kirishima.

The three goofballs join at their table the next day, and the next, and then Bakugou realises that they won’t stop any time soon.

He starts to snap and curse at Kaminari each time he tries to steal a dumpling out of Bakugou’s tray, and tells Sero to tape Mina’s mouth shut. Kirishima glows on the walk back into class after that day of lunch, so easy to please.

“I’m so glad, man,” Kirishima says, and he’s fucking smiling all wide. “And I saw you talking with Uraraka earlier too!”

“What’re you, a stalker? The fuck are you glad about.”

“You’re making friends, dude, I can be happy about that!”

Bakugou clicks his tongue and stares to the side, swearing.

Bakugou beats Kaminari at SmashBros after that, cackling.

“You cheated,” Pikachu says. “You definitely cheated.”

“Sore loser,” Bakugou says, grin full of pride. “Who the fuck’s next?”

Sero takes in next, and doesn’t end up any better, though the game is more equal. Bakugou has his tongue pushed up in his cheek and Sero laughs throughout.

Mina takes up the controller next, fluttering her lashes owlishly and going on about how she’s never played the game. Then, she utterly destroys all three of them and leaves no survivors.

Kirishima probably knew about Mina’s video game skills because he doesn’t play at all, and only watches with a swollen chest as Bakugou lets himself be.

“Bakugou,” he says, later that night as they walk to the elevators. “I’m so—”

Bakugou pushes a hand into the idiot’s chest, shoves him aside as he stomps into the elavator. “Don’t fucking say your sappy bullshit. That shit meant nothing. ”

Kirishima chuckles, turns his palms up. “Okay, okay, sure, whatever you say.”

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Kirishima leans over his desk, grinning.

The fuck’s somehow got it into his head that he still wants his annoying presence around, even in class. And maybe Bakugou does. Maybe Bakugou doesn’t mind Kirishima’s presence, maybe Kirishima is the one person who has met him headfirst, who has invited him without ulterior motive.

“Hey, man!” Kirishima greets, bright. A smile, flashing a row of razor white teeth.

“The fuck you want,” Bakugou grunts.

“Just checking if we were still going to study together today!”

Bakugou looks up, raising an eyebrow. Of course we’re fucking studying together, his expression reads. It’s scheduled. It’s obvious, and yet Kirishima asks him. It’s an excuse to speak to him. They both know this. It’s painfully obvious.

At Bakugou’s expression, Kirishima laughs. And there it is again, a pat on his shoulder, warm. In there time together, he's learned that Kirishima has no sense of personal space. And maybe Bakugou doesn’t care, when it comes to him. Maybe.

So he fixes Kirishima with a hard glare, answers his dumb question. “Yeah we’re fucking studying together.”

Kirishima’s lips curve up into a grin. He nods, eyes squeezing shut in a collection of happy wrinkles. He wants to thumb at the crows feet at the corner of Kirishima’s eyes.

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Bakugou’s UA dorm room is full of plants.

There’s dozens of them: money plants at his window sill, creepers curling around the edge of his wall, a devil’s ivy in a pot on his floor, on his study table.

It’s all green, bunched up leaves and dark brown clay.

It’s a habit he picked up from his mother as a kid. They have a garden out in the backyard of their home, and Bakugou would water them in the mornings ever since he was young.

And now, he takes the habit with him to his new dorm.

Bakugou is careful with his plants.

He tends to a growing collection of plants cluttering the corners of his room, of new pots and twirling money-plants in old Kombucha bottles and bacterial growth promoters.

Bakugou is very particular with his work. He snaps on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, a spade in hand when he finds a new root from the market. Gardening is a quiet pastime for him, a fifteen minute routine in the mornings.

He unwinds and calms down with his plants, letting his hands get dirty as he pulls weeds out and wipes the dust off the leaves, rinses his hands later.

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It grows, slowly.

Bakugou treats Kirishima differently than the rest of the class. And it stems from the fact that Kirishima treats him no different from anyone else.

There’s fear in people’s eyes as they talk to him. They approach him like some ticking time bomb, like someone who can’t fucking restrain themslef.

And at first, Bakugou thinks, fine. Fine, let people treat him that way, let people fear him, for all he cares. He only wants to climb up to the top hero rank, he wants to be respected and if it is born out of fear, so be it.

He hardly cared, in the beginning.

Until Kirishima Eijirou.

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Everyday, they meet at the training grounds in the afternoon.

They meet when their school finishes at 2 PM, and they beat the shit out of each other. It’s a solid workout. It’s also the time that Kirishima shuts up and stops his stupid smiling. The weather’s not too unbearable, what with the remnants of January wind that greets them and cools the sweat off.

Bakugou doesn’t find it tiring in the least. It’s a perfect release of Bakugou’s pent up sweat from being cooped up in the classroom.

Bakugou finds himself grinning as he lands the finishing blow, laughing as Kirishima groans in the dirt. He finds himself pushing harder when Kirishima bests him, finds the competitive burst of energy coursing through him as Kirishima drives a fist into his chest.

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They share an umbrella one evening.

Spring offers gentle showers to Mustafu and brings the pollution down.

Of course Kirishima doesn’t check the weather forecast. Of course he walks out in the rain, getting damp, hair soaking up and hanging in red knots around his temples.

Bakugou has his earphones plugged in, and he watches the idiot quietly. Kirishima dances from puddle to puddle, kicking up water and mud.

His shirt dampens up and grows translucent. He starts shivering, and that’s when Bakugou rolls his eyes.

Kirishima smiles sheepishly. “Can I—”

Bakugou tilts his umbrella wordlessly. Kirishima clamps his mouth shut, steps towards him.

His sneakers are all muddy. “Thanks, man!” He says, voice apologetic.

Bakugou rolls his eyes again, clicks his tongue. “Whatever, asshole.”

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“You know,” Kirishima says, and he is eating an apple.

They are sitting on the couch in the common rooms, and there’s Sero out front, flicking through Netflix, trying to find a decent show. The rest of the class’ bickering over which movie to land on fades to white noise.

The sofa is never comfy, so many people have sat in it, flattened out the foam and ruined the spring it may have once had. There’s stains of mayonnaise and dropped broths of cup noodles, at least a thousand pens lost in the corners of the sofa.

But Bakugou is more concerned with the overpowering spaces between Kirishima and himself: the couch dips as Kirishima shifts. The couch is so fucking uncomfortable.

Bakugou leans backwards, legs spread out in a V in front of him, shoulders caged up as his face turns sour.

“You know,” Kirishima repeats. He bites into the red. There’s the clear hollow sound of a fruit being bitten, and Bakugou is sitting beside him on the couch. He can see the green-white insides of the apple, the curve of his bite, the hardness. He can see a line of juice sliding down the slope of Kirishima’s chin.

Kirishima wipes his lips, but the juice falls down to his collarbones.

Bakugou tears his eyes away, glares down at the suede of the couch, how it furls over with the brush of a hand, how it forms patterns of two kinds of brown. He can see how it slopes over, dents towards Kirishima and takes his weight.

Bakugou looks up at the TV.

“We never study in your room,” Kirishima says matter-of-factly, and Bakugou can hear how he’s talking around a mouthful of the apple.

God, Bakugou bites the inside of his cheek. He curls his fingers into a fist, blunt nails biting into his palms. God, Kirishima is a fucking mess. Bakugou stares pointedly at the names of a bunch of shows off the screen, the little autoplay snippets being flipped through as Sero reads the titles out.

Kirishima is munching, loudly. A fucking mess.

And yet. His eyes slowly come back to Kirishima. He always comes back for Kirishima.

Bakugou’s gaze slides to the side, achingly, vision cut out the corner of his eye. He drinks Kirishima up, as if he has been parched for days, finally kneeling into scalding sand to bring the blue of an oasis to his lips.

He drinks up the rise and dip of his nose, his cheeks, his broad forehead. The wrinkle in his nose as he opens his mouth wide, brings the apple to his mouth. Kirishima takes another bite, white fangs bare, gums pink. Tongue red. His teeth sink in, and there’s another line of juice curving down the side of his lips.

Bakugou looks back at the TV again. Grunts, and his response is a full three seconds late to Kirishima’s question. “Because you’re fucking messy.”

Kirishima swallows.

Bakugou looks again, watches as Kirishima’s Adam’s apple bobs, as he swallows down the fruit. There’s something coiling up in Bakugou’s stomach, mouth suddenly dry. He hates this, how he slips up, how he steals glances over and over.

It feels a crime to watch, and Kirishima Eijirou turns him into a fucking criminal.

So Bakugou stares, commits to this crime. He stares at the little pleading rise in Kirishima’s eyebrows, his small red eyebrows, and watches him as he talks with his mouth full.

“Aw, come on, man,” Kirishima says, and Bakugou watches the swell of his cheeks as he chews on. “Come on, I’ve never ever been to your room before.”

“No one has.”

And here, Kirishima turns to Bakugou. There’s a tilt in his small fucking eyebrows.

No one has. But Kirishima is not no one. Kirishima is someone that Bakugou lets walk in front of him. Someone Bakugou doesn’t mind being led by. Someone he himself finds an ease to lead, someone he takes an alternating chance to walk before.

And there it is again.

Kirishima Eijirou is not no one.

He is the pull at Bakugou’s elbows, in the loose spaces of his shirt, asking him to turn around and he is the nudge in his side in the interesting parts of a movie and he is the poke in his knee when he’s leaning across a table to whisper do you have an eraser and he is the bump in Bakugou’s shoulder when they sit in a bus and he is the one who plays stupid games of chopsticks with his fingers no matter how many times he might lose. He is a thousand brushing contacts, a thousand useless, unnecessary touches.

Here, Kirishima shifts further on the couch, and his knee bumps into Bakugou’s.

Bakugou’s lips twist to the side, and his eyes darken. Expression sours more, and he scowls.

Kirishima’s knee is warm.

Sero’s voice breaks through. “Ayo! How about we watch some trashy reality TV?”

Mina squeals, lurches over to dive for the remote, flicking through the different international versions of Famous Lives of Some-or-the-other Wives, throwing herself into a rant about the latest Bollywood version.

Kirishima’s knee pulls away. Suddenly Bakugou can feel the existence of other people.

Kaminari is doodling stars on a sleeping Jirou’s sneakers, Midoriya and Todoroki are leaning over a notebook, Ochako getting her nails done by a floating nail paint brush—Hagakure, a pair of floating fluffy bunny slippers—and there’s Iida, asking Sero to make sure the shows are under eighteen rated.

Bakugou’s thighs feel sweaty. He imagines studying with Kirishima alone in his own room, with nothing more than plants for company. Perhaps Kirishima’s knee will find him again. Perhaps he can find more, too. “Fine. Tomorrow.”

“Same time as always?”

Bakugou only scoffs—fucking duh—and is already up, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants, shoulders hunched. He walks away. He doesn’t want to see some shitty Reality TV.

The same afternoon he sees an apple core in the dustbin. There’s three leftover seeds, browning parts of what was left, and the stem.

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And Kirishima’s right.

Bakugou lies awake staring up at his ceiling, arms tucked under his head, thinking.

Kirishima’s right, they have only ever studied in the library, and when it got too late in Kirishima’s dormitory. Never in Bakugou’s room; he hasn’t invited anyone in at all. Kirishima is the only person who will see the inside of his door.

Bakugou stares up at his ceiling, waiting for sleep to take him.

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“Oh,” is the first thing Kirishima says, when Bakugou lets him into his room.

Bakugou usually crowds up the small crack of his door that he opens, the black of his tank top filling up Kirishima’s view, a scowl pulling his lips as he waits for an explanation for any interruption that led Kirishima to knock on his door. Usually, he’s blocking Kirishima’s view to the inside of his room, and usually, his brows are pushed up expectantly.

But today, when he opens his door and sees Kirishima, he lets the fucker step in. He toes off his school shoes, and Bakugou mutely closes the door behind them.

Then, Kirisihima takes in the room.

There’s the sunlight tilting out of the window, spilling out on Bakugou’s tiles. There’s the spread of green leaves, a thousand bunching and pushing out the soil, all stems and black dirt and succulents and hanging veins. There’s some money plants keyed into old milk-tea glasses, roots floating on display. There’s some hanging off his wall, some atop his bookshelf. Sunlight falls over the plants, tangles with the creepers waterfalling off his window.

“Oh,” Kirishima says, again.

They study, bumping their elbows. Kirishima’s knees find Bakugou, and so do his eyes, from time to time, and as Bakugou lazily explains the flip of a sign in an equation, Kirishima whispers, eyes careful. “Thanks for letting me in here.”

Bakugou underlines a polynomial. “S’ nothing.”

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They go to an arcade.

There’s the rest of the class, split up in different parts of the mall—and they don’t leave Deku alone for even one second (“villain magnet,” Uraraka chides)—but the two of them have nothing to buy.

“Wanna go to the play Sakura Arms?” Comes Kirishima’s question. The flash of a row of red teeth, the offer of a hand, the spread of palms and rounded fingernails. “They opened a new arcade on the top floor, next to the food court.”

And when Bakugou doesn’t answer, walking stolidly on in front of him, Kirishima tacks on: “C’mon man, I’ll beat you and the highest score!”

And it’s obvious bait, and yet Bakugou takes it anyway—the spark of challenge shines in his eyes and he grins, teeth flashing as he tips his chin upward to glare at Kirishima down his nose. “You can fucking try.”

Kirishima laughs, pulls him to the arcade.

The first thing Bakugou notices is the neon lights. The arcade is lined with lights, glowing pink green blue and then pink again. It’s noisy, crowded. It smells like popcorn and chocolate. The buzz and thrum of different games fills the air, the fanfare of pacman and the electropop of some shoddy action video game.

It’s all in a rush. It’s too much, and Bakugou finds his gaze pulling back to something familiar, something known: to Kirishima, the look of awe in his face as he takes in the arcade like a magnet to Bakugou.

And maybe that’s it.

Bakugou’s lips pull into a flat line, and he watches the pink green blue pink lights reflect off Kirishima’s eyes. Maybe that’s it. Maybe Kirishima is a magnet, some kind of north pole to his south, something that sets Bakugou in its pull, a perfect orbit. An orbit, a magnet to entice and settle, to pull. To have and to hold.

Kirishima’s brows are pushed up, his lips parted, fangs peeking through. Kirishima’s eyes look more purple than red in the lights. Then suddenly his face falls. “Oh, no,” Kirishima bemoans.

“What,” Bakugou grunts.

Kirishima wordlessly points at the Sakura Arms game stationed at the back of the arcade. It’s busy and in use, with a long line of kids. They probably won’t get a chance to play even in an hour.

Bakugou laughs, rudely. “You’re in luck. Would’ve beat your ass to pieces at that goddamn game.”

Kirishima blinks, and frowns. “Dude. Not cool. I still have to beat you at something otherwise—Wait, hey! Look at that, let’s play the strength tester!”

Before Bakugou can say anything, Kirishima’s tugging at his arm, his fingers close around his wrist.The force of a magnet pulls at him, and Bakugou can resist. He can, he can break away easily, but he doesn’t.

They stand in front of the Gunhead! Strength Test. There’s a cheap cardboard cut-out of the battle hero, a hammer hanging off a rope.

“Give it a shot!” Kirishima eggs on, grinning broadly.

Bakugou scoffs. “Fuckin easy,” he says, gripping the hammer. He slams it down, watches the LED lights flicker on and race up the length of the damn thing.

“Seventy points!” The game exclaims, a loud fanfare trumpeting.

“Hey, that’s pretty good!” Shitty Hair says.

Bakugou clicks his tongue. Whatever. Fuck.

Kirishima holds his hand out expectantly, for the hammer. Their fingers brush, an index over Bakugou’s thumb, a burn.

Kirishima hoists the hammer up. “Now watch me,” he says, voice hard, and gives him a megawatt smile over his shoulder.

Bakugou’s gut twists.

Oh, he thinks, as Kirishima’s fangs are all bare, a row of razor sharp teeth. The neon lights gleam off the flat of his teeth, the pink curves down his cheeks. There’s a line of blue in his eyes and green flooding his collarbones. Watch me. The light fills Kirishima, and drowns him in it: and it’s a mellow battle of this—Kirishima stands in the middle of a gorgeous sea of lights, like a shaped stone, and they tousle for Bakugou’s attention: the light or Kirishima, until in a bout of realisation, Bakugou sees that it’s all Kirishima. It’s not the light or him, it’s one or the other, they are a perfect combination, Kirishima is painted with colours and is not independent of them. Watch me. It’s Kirishima and then some, and Bakugou devotes himself to all of it.

Oh, he thinks, when Kirishima’s eyes don’t leave his, as the lines of his Hardening quirk surfaces at his arm. There’s lines surfacing up at his forearms, his nail beds disappear and fingertips sharpen and his hand becomes rigid as he grips the hammer.

That’s cheating, Bakugou thinks. He can’t breathe, though.

Kirishima finally turns away from him, the shit eating grin so goddamn bright on his face. His grip tightens around the hammer, and he slams the shitty Gunhead machine with one arm.

It breaks. The machine fucking breaks, a dent puncturing through the metal base.

The fanfare trills again, a little glitched out. “Congratulations! New personal record! 100 points! A true Gunhead force!” There’s fucking confetti falling in the little display board, a little chibi version of Gunhead dancing on-screen.

That’s fucking cheating, he thinks again. Bakugou really can’t breathe. His tongue is dry, and he stares as Kirishima cackles at him. The neon lights dance on.

Because. Because of course Kirishima would do that. Of course—Kirishima is one for all these fucking knock-knock punchlines and he joins in on pranks in class and he belly laughs through practical jokes and these schoolyard games and. Holy fuck.

Bakugou is fuming on the bus ride home. Kirishima laughs all the way.

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“Oi,” Bakugou grits out.

They’ve been at it with trigonometry for about two hours, drawing up right-angled triangles in their notebooks. Bakugou quips and barks out tweaks in Kirishima’s answers, and drones out explanations laden with curse words.

And here, he’s stuck in a particularly tricky question. When Bakugou finally works it out, scrawls out his answer harshly with his pencil pressing hard into the paper—and looks up, sees that Kirishima is fast asleep.

“Oi. Dumbass.” He flicks a finger at Kirishima’s forehead. The sturdy hero doesn’t budge.

Bakugou sighs, annoyed. Pinches the bridge of his nose. He still has half an hour to kill before he can bathe, go to sleep.

But Kirishima’s here, in his room.

Kirishima’s here, and he’s drooling out on the table, lips parted. His eyes are closed, his face at ease, and Bakugou can really see him. See the scar that cuts Kirishima’s eyelid, the slopes of warm tanned skin. The button of his nose, the resting shape of his lips.

Kirishima’s hair is tied all the way back, a few strands curling at his ears, not styled as it usually is.

Bakugou pointedly looks away, eyes narrowed. He cages his shoulders up, suddenly feeling intrusive. Bakugou curses under his breath. For fucks sake.

If it felt a crime to see before, it feels as sin now: Kirishima’s back heaves up and down with each gentle breath of his own, and Bakugou can see his eyelashes—they’re black, unlike his red hair, and thick. Kirishima’s cheek is squished upwards, a curve dipping towards his eye at the crest of his cheekbone.

For fucks sake. Bakugou gets up, roughly and steps away from the lowtable.

There’s plants cranning over him, and Kirishima’s in the middle of it all, sleeping away. He sleeps, unaware of the broad leaves and stems keening over. The shorter ones: the money plants and the round-potted devils ivy are cluttered by the table, at Kirishima’s knees.

Kirishima looks at home, in the middle of all this green.

Bakugou thinks of Kirishima’s broad, fanged smiles at the ring of ice-cream trucks and the messy juice that runs down his chin as he bites through a citrus fruit, he’s all these stupid supid, sunny things in the middle of all these plants that magnetise towards him.

Kirishima stirs for a second, mumbles something and then pushes his face deeper into the table, smooshes his nose in. The idiot’s going to suffocate himself, like that.

Bakugou leaves his own room.

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“Kirishima,” Bakugou says. His voice is low.

They’re standing out in Kirishima’s balcony, not quite looking at anything. Bakugou’s throat feels dry, chest feels heavy.

“Yeah man?” He smiles, warmly. The sharpness of his teeth pushes through, nose crinkling up with his grin.

Bakugou bites the inside of his cheek. “Get me one of your apples.”

“Huh?”

“Get one. Give me the seeds.” It takes many seeds to tend and soak, to leave in direct sunlight and finally bed in the soil, only to have four of them sprout up.

Kirishima’s small eyebrows raise up, and his mouth falls into an O, realisation painting his features. “You’re going to add it to your garden?”

Bakugou grins, harshly. “And you’re going to eat a fuckton of apples.”

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The touches linger, now.

Bakugou realises it one evening as he stands in the common kitchen and dices onions, cubes the tomatoes. He’s slicing vegetables to shape and Kirishima is seated atop one of the kitchen islands, humming to himself and kicking his feet.

Bakugou points at a cabinet above him with his knife. “Pass the chilli powder.”

He needs to chop everything before his onion rings turn golden-brown. He pushes the tomatoes out into the sizzling pan, hearing it all crackle as the fruit hits the scorching oil. He turns around to glare at his friend, who failed to pass the goddamn chilli powder.

He sees, now, that Kirishima’s got his earphones plugged in. He half-sings on to some foreign english song, eyes closed as if really trying to understand the lyrics. His brows are furrowed up, scar folding in deeper.

“Kirishima,” Bakugou says, nudges his thigh with his left hand. “Oi. Can you not fucking hear me.”

Kirishima pulls out his earphones, grins at him. “Sorry. Hey. Have you heard this song?” He tugs him towards himself, his index and thumb fitting together around Bakugou’s wrist easily, as though utterly practiced. Bakugou belatedly wonders if Kirishima can feel his pulse.

He pushes one earphone into Bakugou’s ear, and it’s some shitty english pop song. Bakugou listens to a line or two, completely lost in the way Kirishima watches his expression with this smile on his face, nodding to the beats.

Kirishima hasn’t let go of his wrist.

Bakugou frowns. He can’t really catch the lyrics, the words all muddled together. He catches the whiff of some lost romance and sunny days or someshit.

And somewhere in the middle, the brush of Kirishima’s knee into his hip feels far too much. Some parts of Bakugou burn up. There’s a lull, and the world around them fades white. As if it’s only them in the whole world.

Kirishima’s still watching him.

Bakugou drowns. He drowns, like someone lost at sea and sinking. Like Kirishima’s a siren who will take him to the depths of the ocean with his fucking magnetic pull and hold him down, majestic and powerful like some mythic creature, hold him till Bakugou’s lungs are filled with salt, till he is choking on this love.

He is drowning. The music beats on, and the foreign pop singer raises his voice as the song plunges into the chorus.

Bakugou forces himself to look away from Kirishima’s too-careful gaze. His neck burns up. The press of Kirishima’s knee in his side is unbearable, overpowering. His senses are full of Kirishima Eijirou.

Bakugou pulls away. “I’m cooking, dipshit. I’d asked your ass for the chilli powder.”

“Oh! Oh, sorry, wait,” Kirishima shuffles to stand, and leans closer to Bakugou as he climbs off the counter—

Bakugou’s got a cramp in his brows. He pushes a palm into Kirishima’s shoulder, glares harder. “I’ll fucking get it.” A pause. “Just sit.”

Kirishima’s eyes widen a little as he moves back to the counter.

Bakugou stolidly walks away, takes his goddamn chilli powder. His steps are stilted and hard, annoyance in his very gait. His ears feel warm. Fucking hell.

He stirs his chilli powder in. The onions are overcooked.

.

.

.

And it all blooms, or someshit.

The touches. They linger. Kirishima’s thumb hooks in the loop of Bakugou’s belt from behind to drag him to the swimming pool. Bakugou brushes a thumb over Kirishima’s knuckles to point out how bruised they are. Bakugou finds himself pinned under Kirishima during spars and he burns up all over, one afternoon, and that’s when it becomes truly clear as day.

It’s all blooming. Like plants in spring.

Fuckin whatever.

.

.

.

There’s a sprout in his apple pot, that evening.

A sapling, with a pair of blade leaves, and it’s the bright green of a newborn plant. Fuck yeah, Bakugou thinks and grins at it before dropping water down in the soil with his fingers.

(2)

夏

SUMMER

It’s hot as Bakugou toes off his slippers and collapses on the uncomfortable couch of the common room. He sinks in, crosses his feet. It’s hot as he plucks the remote of the aircon off the side table and switches on the AC and it’s hot as he pushes back into the cushions, and closes his eyes, waiting for the cooling air to roll over him.

His eyes are closed, his head is heavy.

There’s chatter that gravitates towards him, the rest of the class walks out to join him in the common room.

Bakugou pushes deeper in the suede, bites the inside of his cheek.

He can tell Kirishima’s among the chatter, Bakugou has since memorised his gait. He’s memorised more than he’s willing to admit, Bakugou knows Kirishima now as the back of his hand, knows Kirishima by the shape of his nose and the bate of his breaths and Bakugou can see Kirishima behind his eyes when he wants, can tell his laugh from a thousand laughs.

Kirishima’s footsteps stop in front of him.

“Hey, Bakugou’s sleeping!” Kaminari’s voice comes, and Bakugou thinks, sure. If it’ll get the damn Pikachu off his dick, sure.

Kirishima doesn’t say anything. Bakugou can feel the weight of his gaze on him.

The thing is, Kirishima is oddly knowing. He’s got these wide cat eyes that track after Bakugou in the most careful way, in the most warm way. He can gauge Bakugou’s mood just by a glance, and here, he can probably tell. Maybe Kirishima has him memorised too.

Bakugou swallows. Shit, maybe Kirishima caught the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“I guess,” Shitty Hair says, to Kaminari. His voice crackles out, and there’s mirth in the form of the words, as though spoken through a smile.

Bakugou bites down the inline of his cheek a little harder. Fucking hell. Kirishima knows. Kirishima knows, he can tell. Maybe he can tell more, too.

Then Kirishima adds on, with the same goddamn playful tone of voice, “Should we draw on him?”

Bakugou shows no reaction, but he thinks he could draw blood from how hard he bites down on his skin.

“Dude, no way, I don’t have a death wish,” Kaminari says. “You’d get away with it so I don’t know about you, man, but I don’t want that kind of action from Recovery Girl.”

From the other side of the room, Sero chimes in: “It’s the only action you’ll ever get, Denks, enjoy it while you can.”

Kirishima laughs, and Pikachu whines. They both walk away, Kirishima’s footsteps distinct in their retreat.

Bakugou lets go of his breath.

He doesn’t sleep for a while after that.

.

.

.

Kirishima and Bakugou watch a foreign sitcom through together.

It’s some european thing with the dry kind of humour Bakugou likes, and there’s a pretty female actress Kirishima really focuses on when she takes frame.

They share snacks as they watch, usually some scratchy packets of salted chips and KitKats or Satou’s dorayaki. Today, though, Kirishima says that he’s been trying to watch what he’s eating.

“Why,” Bakugou says, simply, as Kirishima picks up the wedge of a sliced carrot.

“Because we’re going home for summer break soon, you know! And I don’t get much exercise done there, not like we do here.”

Bakugou squints. Kirishima bites down on his vegetable. Then Bakugou turns around, presses play on his laptop.

Kirishima leans into his side as the opening theme plays.

They watch, the crackling laugh track fills out the pauses. Summer break is coming up. Summer break is coming up and he will go home, they will no longer meete everyday. Kirishima's shoulder pushes into Bakugou's. He's hyper-aware of everything, feeling how close Kirishima’s shoulder is to him. He can feel Kirishima, feel his warmth and tell every breath that he takes.

And for an instant it all feels like a magnetic pull, a compass destined to point north, an obvious answer—Bakugou looks back at Kirishima, eyes hard and lips stagnant.

He’s pretty down to the catlike shape of his eyes as he watches the show, lights flickering in his irises. He's pretty in ten different ways, down to the line of his fucking shoulderblades and every ripple of his muscles and tendons, the dimples in his smiles and the lines of his palms and the razor edges of his lips, the sturdiness of his back, the set of his lips and the curve of his jaw—

The pretty female actress that Kirishima likes walks into the show, delivers a few jokes and punchlines.

Kirishima’s leaning closer to the laptop, to Bakugou, biting into his fucking carrot as a laugh rumbles through him, the warmth and timbre of which passes on to Bakugou and leaves him burning up.

She’s got a clean face of no worry, hair swept out of the way. She’s pretty, Bakugou guesses, but there’s nothing fucking special about her.

“Why do you like her,” Bakugou bites out, finally. There isn’t jealousy, Bakugou isn’t jealous. It’s curiosity. Like a magnet being coaxed to the pole of the earth, the question pulls out his mouth. Kirishima’s presence demands authenticity, and Bakugou isn’t one to not speak his mind.

“Huh?” Kirishima blinks as he shifts his focus from the sitcom to find Bakugou glaring right at him.

Bakugou feels tense, his brows pushed together to meet in a dip at the centre. He levels out his voice. “The actress.” He thrusts his chin towards the girl in-frame, doesn’t leave Kirishima’s gaze.

“Like. She’s fierce, you know? And she holds her ground. And, well, she reminds me of you.”

Bakugou chokes.

Reminds me of you. Kirishima’s eyes are wide and genuine and warm.

There’s a flush creeping up his neck, and fucking hell, how does Kirisihima manage to say this shit just like that, so easily splayed out, so accessible. So obvious.

“You okay, Bakugou?”

Bakugou clears his throat. His glare doesn’t soften. “I’m not at all like her.”

“Sure, man. You want a carrot?”

“Fuck off.” A pause. Three seconds pass. There's another joke on screen, another roll of the laugh track, and then Bakugou takes a carrot. Kirishima's shoulder pushes into his side again.

.

.

.

They are spread out after, and the dappled sun beats down on their warm skin. Bakugou drowns in the sticky, sweet sweat that makes the backs of his knees burn. The huff of their breaths push out in unison.

He hears Kirishima groan as he tries to stretch out the cricks in his neck, twisting his arm over his head till his shoulder pops too.

“Oh, man,” Kirishima says, his eyes still closed, breathless; he has been shot with his howitzer multiple times. Bakugou grins, at that—the fact that he’s done this, rendered Kirishima spent, made him tired like this with the blasts from his palms.

“Dude,” Kirishima breathes, and sits up in the grass. “You’re really strong.”

Bakugou’s breath punches out his lungs, suddenly. He hopes Kirishima writes it off as a tired exhale. What the fuck, he thinks. Where is this coming from. He stares at Kirishima, gaze blowing wide and his eyebrows tensed.

“No, like really,” Kirishima says, still heaving. He’s kissed gold in the sun, the bare chest of his hero costume gleaming in sweat. “I mean it.” He smiles at him, and rolls his shoulders, deliberately. Bakugou watches as the tendons and muscles ripple on his back, as the dimples at the base of his spine all dip and curve in.

Bakugou wants to scoff, but all he can do is stare.

“I mean, shit dude. You’re incredible. The way you can blast off your quirk like that, pom pom—” He spreads out his fingers, imitating little explosions in the air around him, “—from just your hands, and how you can just take the… the recoil in your shoulders. You must’ve had to lift a whole lot to take that, you know?”

Bakugou’s neck warms, and it’s because he’s hot in the sun, and tired from a harsh spar. What the fuck, he thinks again. Because Bakugou knows all this, knows how his explosions work and knows how strong he is. He has grown up with praise and matched to it even as a goddamn kid.

The warmth in his neck crawls up to his ears as Kirishima just grins at him, calmly. Bakugou knows how strong he is, and praise is just obvious to him most of the time. He’s heard compliments from fucking everyone before, and it has never felt like this. Why is it that when Kirishima… What the fuck what the—

Kirishima isn’t done. “And you look like you’re having fun, too! You smile when you blast up your Howitzer at me, dude—it’s insane!”

“Shut up, dumbfuck,” he says, and his voice comes a little bated. It’s not as harsh as he intends it to be.

Kirishima is still fucking grinning. He’s always smiling, so how dare he comment on when Bakugou’s smiling: Kirishima can’t seem to wipe the fucking smile from his face whenever he faces Bakugou. He always looks friendly and red and annoying. What the fuck.

“I’m glad I get to train with you outside classes,” Kirishima says, his teeth shining in the peak zuhr sun.

Bakugou’s stomach drops, and something swells in his chest. Kirishima should be glad, he should be fucking honoured, Bakugou doesn’t train with anyone just like that. And he knows these things. Why does it feel like. Why does it feel like its too much when Kirishima says it out loud, why does it fucking...

“Shitty hair,” he grits out. His voice dangerously raspy, like it’s grating out from somewhere behind his throat. “You been in the sun too long?”

“What?”

“Your heads fucking baked,” Bakugou barks.

Kirishima laughs, and takes off his face mask. The forelocks of his red spiked hair droops, softer than they usually are. He laughs still, as he sets the metal gauge down. “No, ’m just saying the truth, Bakugou.”

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. Bakugou’s face feels too goddamn hot. He hates the way Kirishima says that sentence. The smile he gives is too knowing, the laugh too fucking stupid, and he can’t stand the way he holds the syllables of Bakugou’s name, the even weight of his syllables—Ba-ku-gou—even and unhurried.

Kirishima is still fucking smiling. He means what he says and does as he wants and he smiles through it all and Bakugou’s head’s spinning a little.

Bakugou curses under his breath, shoves Kirishima in the shoulder, pulls himself off the training ground. Dusts his trousers. “Fuck off, I’m going to shower.”

And it’s not an invitation for Kirishima to get up and follow him, but of course Kirishima does just that.

What the fuck. He wonders if Kirishima’s still smiling at his back. It feels too goddamn hot. What the fuck.

.

.

.

Kaminari and Kirishima are sitting in front of a fan, drinking soda.

Kirishima drinks his Fanta with his eyes closed, humming contentedly. The wind wafts his hair like it’s waxing and waning. Kirishima’s completely relaxed, expression slack, lips parted and jaw loose, feeling the wind run over him.

In times like this, with his hair swept away, you can really see the core of Kirishima, and just how easily pretty he is. The planes of his features, the warm tone of his skin.

The sunlight tilts out from the window, filters through the electric fan and flickers across Kirishima’s face with every turn of the blades. The sun is yellow and warm, and it butters the crest of Kirishima’s cheekbones, kisses the gleam of his red eyes and marries his collarbones.

Kaminari leans over turns the fan speed up one more, and Kirishima’s hair pushes out his forehead. Bakugou can see a pink-red line pressing along Kirishima’s hairline.

He frowns, stuffs his hands in his pockets. Bakugou counts a few seconds before he walks towards them from where he’s standing, shoulders tensed and expression indifferent.

Kirishima looks back up at him at the shuffle his feet, and notices how dutifully Bakugou’s staring at him.

“Hey man,” he greets, immediately brightening up with a grin. He pushes up off the floor after he drowns the rest of his soft drink. “What’s up?”

“You’re hurt,” Bakugou says, tightly.

Kirishima blinks. “Huh?”

Bakugou uses two words where others use three, and rather prefers not to speak at all. So he reaches over with one finger, and runs his index slowly down the angry red line pressing at Kirishima’s forehead. Kirishima blinks some more.

“Oh,” Kirishima says, distantly. His voice cracks, comes out a little raspy. “So I am. It’s from my face mask, sometimes it digs in too hard when I go Unbreakable.”

His finger glides, slower. Feels the bite of pink flesh, and then finally Bakugou drops his hand to return into his pockets. Kirishima’s looking right at him, red eyes overwarm and brimming. He feels like the careful subject of a painter. He feels studied, known, because Kirishima’s eyes flitter to take him in like a familiar form, and his gaze pauses at all the right places.

Bakugou stares back, almost defiant and burning. He deliberately looks at Kirishima from head to toe. He comments, voice bursting out. “You don’t fuckin’ take care of yourself.”

Kirishima raises a brow, offers a wry smile. “’S not like that, hey.”

They’re standing close. It’s hot, and the sun falls over both of them now.

Bakugou watches as it casts over half Kirishima’s face, as it leaves the rest in dim flaxen. Then Bakugou turns, and walks out the common room with purpose as if he’s got something extremely important to tend to.

.

.

.

They clear out for summer break.

Bakugou’s finished his packing already, but Kirishima’s clamouring around in his dorm, rushing back and forth in a stupid dance as he tries to find one sock and then the other, and then where he left the first one.

Bakugou scrolls quietly through his phone and bitches at Uraraka on iMessage as Kirishima tries to stuff his ten different D.J. shirts into one bag.

Kirishima finally manages to get his crimson-riot duffle closed and turns to grin at Bakugou. “Call me over break, bro?”

He twists his lips, stands up. “Whatever.”

There’s a pause. Kirishima’s looking at him in this careful, expectant sort of way, his stupid small eyebrows pushed upwards.

Bakugou frowns. “The fuck you want.”

Kirishima spreads his arms, as if waiting for a hug. Bakugou rolls his eyes.

Kirishima smiles and leans over him, arms slotting around the width of his back, chin fitting at his shoulder. Bakugou doesn’t close his eyes, but he presses one hand at the curve of Kirishima’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt.

He counts three seconds, before Kirishima pats his back twice and pulls away. He’s grin is more wobbly now, and he presses a hand to his eyes.

“Are you fuckin’ crying?”

“No. Yeah. Gonna miss you, bro!”

“Get away from me!”

.

.

.

“You got a plant home, eh?” is the first thing Mitsuki says to him, noogying his head as he steps in. Bakugou shoves her arm away, and she laughs heartily.

Masaru sets his suitcase in the foyer as Bakugou pulls off his shoes, stacks them in the rack.

“Just the one, too,” she says, and places it by the rest of the plants in their house, the indoor garden lining their kitchen. “This one special?”

“Something like that,” Bakugou says.

.

.

.

They text a bit, and Bakugou actually replies.

Uraraka’s messages pile up and he usually just shoots her a middle finger emoji, but for Kirishima, he’s been caught smiling at his phone while he cooks in the kitchen.

Mitsuki asks him what he’s looking at, one morning, over her coffee mug.

Bakugou stuffs his phone in his pocket, ears flushing. “Nothing, hag.”

She grins, a look crossing her eyes. It’s vaguely nostalgic and it looks too proud, too fucking knowing, as if she’s keeping a big secret.

Bakugou squints at her. “No,” he says immediately.

“Sure thing, kiddo.” She ruffles his hair and he steps away roughly. Mitsuki’s laugh fills the living room after that. Bakugou swears and pigeons flutter away from their kitchen ventilator, batting their wings in surprise as Bakugou stomps to the oven.

No, he thinks again, as his phone chimes once more. No, he thinks as he stares a the barrage of smiling emojis Kirishima just sent him. No, no, no.

.

.

.

The first time Kirishima calls is pretty late.

It rings, twice, and Bakugou’s sleeping light enough to wake up and reach for his phone blindly. The light staggers him, and he turns down the brightness.

Kirishima’s name shows up in his notifications. It’s a missed call.

Bakugou blinks. He returns the call.

The rings buzz out against his ear, phone cold on skin. Kirishima picks up almost immediately.

“Shit,” is his first word, and Bakugou stares into the dark, eyebrows furrowing.

“Shit, you must’ve been sleeping,” his voice slurs and crackles out in a dry way, rasp caught in his tone and it vibrates through the phone to Bakugou’s fingers. “Sorry, bro.”

Bakugou blinks again, eyebrows mounting higher. “The fuck’s wrong with you,” he says, then, because Kirishima sounds so unlike himself.

“Ah, nothing, I was just working out. And m’ sleepy, so.”

“Working out. At eleven PM.”

Kirishima laughs nervously. It’s unsettling, the pitch of Kirishima’s voice hanging two octaves lower. Bakugou pulls his phone away to glare at it in utter bafflement, and then repeats, “The fuck is wrong with you.”

There’s a pause. Bakugou can hear shuffling and static, then the sound of breathing for a few seconds. Then, “I… It’s nothing, really. Was thinking about you.”

Bakugou shifts in his bed, sits up. It’s suddenly sweltering hot, suddenly the fact that his parents are in the room beside him seems utterly important. Bakugou’s pulse races, eyes blown wide. He almost says, Thinking of me, at eleven PM, but bites back his words, swallows them till they settle at the back of his throat like tannin.

Bakugou doesn’t want to make this something it’s not.

“You there?” Kirishima’s voice comes again.

“No,” Bakugou mocks. And he earns a laugh, breathy and warm, and it feels so personal to hear it right in his ear, through the speaker of his phone. It feels like too much.

Bakugou stares everywhere and yet nowhere in the room, the dark is a purple blue and it’s all grainy and unfocused, redundant to Bakugou in this instant.

“Why’re you up late?” Kirishima asks, voice a little hesitant. He’s draging out the conversation. He wants to talk to Bakugou, and Bakugou could have cut the line a minute ago, but he didn’t.

Bakugou clears his throat. “I wasn’t.”

“Sorry.” He wonders if Kirishima had winced, if he had frowned. He wonders if he’s smiling or if he’s lying down in bed. He wonders, he wonders—

“I just…” Kirishima says, and his voice like this, low and burdened, is all for Bakugou. “I just can’t sleep too well, I guess. Nightmares, and stuff. You?”

“I’m fine,” Bakugou says. “Or whatever.” A silence hangs, but it’s not uncomfortable, just heavy.

Then, Kirishima speaks. “I’m not proud of who I was in middle school.”

Bakugou clenches his jaws. He isn’t, either, but this—isn’t about him. And in that instant, Bakugou kind of thinks of how mysterious Kirishima is, of how little he speaks of himself. It becomes clear tonight because of how personal this all sounds, how there’s nothing around them to comment on or laugh at. There’s only them, the far distance in between, and their voices.

Kirishima goes on, “Red’s not—my natural hair,” he says, as if it took something out of him to admit.

Bakugou’s realisation feels like the result of foreshadowing, it’s a more obvious oh, because the details click in place, Kirishima’s dark eyelashes, his darker body hair… Bakugou flushes, clears his throat.

“And my quirk wasn’t like this at all, before, like. I didn’t try all that hard and I just laughed off most of my weakness… And I—fuck, I thought of you. Because, that day, you reassured me.”

He stops there, and waits. This time, the silence is more expectant, the conversation tilted to Bakugou.

Bakugou says, “I fuckin’ said the truth, Kirishima. You’re stupidly strong.”

Then Kirishima laughs, again, and it’s much more like himself. Warmer, higher and more full.

Bakugou lets himself smile genuinely, out in the dark, at nothing.

.

.

.

The late night calls become a frequent affair. Their conversations aren’t as heavy as the first night, and they’ve synced over Netflix Party to binge through more of the British sitcom on speakerphone.

Bakugou’s yawning over breakfast one morning and Masaru looks at him over the newspaper he’s thumbing through. “You good, Katsuki?”

Bakugou pours milk out into a bowl, looks at his father. His dad’s always been a light sleeper, and a flush crawls up his neck. “Fuckin’ peachy,” he drawls, and picks a handfull of cereal.

Masaru smiles in a way that he thinks is private.

Bakugou points his spoon at him, “No. No, I’m just talking to—friends.”

“Friends.”

“Friends.”

.

.

.

“An apple, plant, huh?” Mitsuki says, as she tends to their garden.

Bakugou nods.

“They’re hard to grow at home, Katsuki. You buy fertilisers? Growth promoters? Where’re you planning to plant the actual tree?”

“I got it covered, Ma,” he cuts. “Leave me alone, god.”

.

.

.

“I wasn’t that great in middle school either,” Bakugou says on call this one night.

He’s too tired to pay attention to any movie so they both agree to just listening to the sound of each other’s voice before either passes out. Bakugou has his phone pressed against his ear, and his tongue’s been loose.

“Hey,” Kirishima says, softly. “It’s okay.”

Bakugou grits his teeth. Kirishima would probably hate him for who he was back then. Call him unmanly and lacking chivalry. It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t sit right with Bakugou, the fact that they can be friends now when they wouldn’t have respected each other’s past self.

“It’s not okay,” Bakugou says, and he closes his eyes. Not for the first time, he imagines what Kirishima looks like, curled in bed with his face twisted in concern. “It’s not okay. You wouldn’t have… fucking liked me or whatever.”

Kirishima hums, unconvinced. “You know what I’ve realised. Maybe… whatever happened, happened but. Maybe like. We’ve shaped to become who we are, right? I mean.” There’s a small pause before Kirishima breathes in, as if weighing what he’s about to say. There's the inflection of hope, hesitation and something that sounds far too warm in the throes of the night. “Don’t—Don’t you think... all that’s happened made me the person for you?”

Don’t you think—Bakugou feels heavy with each word, like he’s sinking deeper with every implication. All that’s happened— He feels like he’s losing his breath, like he’s settling down in the depths of the ocean an overpowering nothing around him. Made me— Bakugou’s very aware of himself, and very alone in a dark room, sheets at his feet and a thrumming phone pressed to his ear. The person for you?

How does Kirishima do that, how does he dare so easily, how does he just say this shit and—

“Did you fall asleep, man?”

“Yes.”

“Haha,” Kirishima says, blandly. “You sound tired though. See you soon, dude, schools opening Friday.”

Bakugou licks his lips, croaks, “Monday.”

“Monday?” Static. “Shit, that’s two whole days more! Ugh. I’ll miss you.” He almost whines towards the end, like a displeased toddler.

Bakugou laughs, finally, but it feels far too raspy on his chest. “Dumbass.”

“Good night!”

Bakugou ends the line. Don’t you think— Bakugou presses his head into the pillows, sinks in. All that’s happened—

He stares at nothing till sleep swallows him.

Bakugou dreams of falling. He can’t see anything, he just feels this rush in his chest, and the roar of blood in his ears. His stomach pushes up to his throat and he is falling, aimlessly, for what feels like infinity.

He can’t wake up.

He feels the drag build against him as he falls, feels his arms flailing by his side and he can hear himself shout, hear his own voice being pulled out from his lungs as the world tears by in a nondescript blur.

Bakugou’s had lucid dreams before, and he prides himself in pulling his nightmares to a more comfortable place.

He dreams of a hand catching him, a pair of red eyes staring through him.

His chest bursts for an utterly new reason.

He wakes with a start, and his eyes blow wide to stare up the ceiling, the image of Kirishima dissolving against the white.

Bakugou’s overwrought with thoughts the rest of the night. He doesn’t relax, doesn’t slacken up and fall asleep.

He mulls this over the same he’s done for most things that have mattered to him. Applying to UA. Selecting gadgets for his hero costume. Choosing his hero name.

But he’s always been methodical, writing rough and jagged notes as he thinks the stuff through.

This, though. This is a bumbling stream of nothing.

At first, he thinks of his friendship with Kirishima, whether it is a friendship at all.

Because Bakugou has friends, or whatever. He has laughed at Sero’s clever practical jokes and he has borrowed eyeliner from Mina. He doesn’t mind completely annihilating Kaminari at Wii Tennis.

Do friends act as he and Kirishima, do they stare at each other and have deep late night calls and admit to shit they’ve done in the past and do they think of each other, do they dream of each other and do they—

Fuck. Bakugou bites down on two knuckles as if completely distaste by his own thoughts., twists to one side in his bed, feet shifting. Every touch on his skin burns: the press of the mattress into his bed, the soft sheets pooling around his waist. It’s too warm, and he pushes out his bed to turn down the temperature on the A/C.

He’s too warm, too disturbed. Bakugou runs a hand through his own hair, frustration mounting. He doesn’t sleep, at all.

Bakugou isn’t like this. He’s methodical, he’s careful and he’s definite. He’s neat and he knows who he wants to be, what he will become. He is climbing his way cleanly to take the number one spot as a pro hero. He will fill out his class work notebooks and tire himself out in training grounds and burst and burst, the spread of his gloved fingers. He is firey oranges and forest greens and brash, rude smiles out into the world.

He is going to step into the world and stand at the epicentre of it all, like the core of an earthquake and let cracks spiderweb out around him. He will fold his arms across his chest and stand defiantly with his chin taut and a hard pair of eyes staring down any villain who dares cross him in his patrol.

But maybe, Bakugou thinks, as he settles down in his bed, and suddenly the aircon is too cold. Maybe in the future, some parts of him will still ache as he does now, despite making it to the top ranks of Japan. Maybe some parts of him will still soften, maybe when he returns home, he’d like to lock his lips to anothers, like to run his fingers through red hair.

Bakugou feels alone and foolish. His chest is racing. He doesn’t think like this, and he’s talking about years in the future. He’s always planned, since he was young, but this is. This is different.

Bakugou pulls at his hair, groaning in frustration. He snaps, throws his pillow at his door and curses loud enough to have his father’s voice call out to him through the wall.

“I’m fine,” Bakugou barks.

“Okay,” Masaru’s voice comes again. “Good night.”

Bakugou walks back to his thermostat to turn the temperature back up two degrees, and then returns to lie awake in bed. Sleep doesn’t take him a second time.

.

.

.

Monday comes and summer ends. Bakugou takes his Apple plant with him on the metro ride to school, watches it jolt with every stop.

He thinks of sharp teeth sinking into red apples, thinks of wide eyes and almost confessions under the covers of the purple moonlight.