Chapter Text
You’re stewing in that ever present ache in your chest, in the melancholy of the night, and the inherent melodrama of hanging out on the roof with a mug of tea when the door to the roof opens.
“What the fuck?” It’s a mutter and still it echoes across the roof, the loudest thing in the middle of the night.
You take a sip of your drink before turning. “'Sup.”
Bakugou scowls.
“What’re you doing up?”
“Training.” His reply is gruff and vague and you nod, fine with leaving it at that, before turning back to the waist-high fences that wrap around the roof. He was, indeed, in training clothes - a nondescript black tee and shorts.
The door doesn’t open and close again. Instead, footsteps approach where you’re sitting, growing louder and louder until the buzz of another presence prickles over your side.
“Fuck ‘re you doing up here?” He leans back against the fence, crossing his arms across his chest. You take a sip of lukewarm tea.
“Enjoying the inherent melodrama of the roof.”
His scowl deepens.
“Y’know how in dramas - ok you might not know but, look.” You set down your mug at your side as you gesture and explain. “The roof is where everything goes down. Confessions, breakups, revelations - you know, the spectacle of it all with scenery to boot!”
He remains unmoved, but quiet as you ramble.
“This,” You knock, thump-thump, on the ground. “Is prime real estate for drama.”
“Sure.” He scoffs. “But what are you doing here.”
“Ah.” You pick up the mug and wrap your hands around it. “Being dramatic.”
Though you don’t lift your eyes, you can still feel the glare he levels at you. You sigh.
“Heartbreak,” You begin with another sigh and a hand to your forehead. “Is such a troubling thing.”
“You.” He starts. Stops. Starts again in a flatter tone. “Some extra broke your heart?”
You hum. “Well, not necessarily.”
“The fuck does that mean?” An almost angry tint comes to his words and you smile at the familiarity.
“Means,” A lump forms at the base of your throat and you take another sip of your tea, force it down with a wince. “Hm.”
You breathe through the sting that flares up behind your nose as you flick through the words you know. The words you can use. He lets you deliberate even as he remains a no less angry presence that looms over you.
“I don’t know.” It comes out quiet and fragile. You clear your throat and begin again. “Had a crush, I think. Gave me those airy feelings.”
“What,” It’s nearly a snarl. “Like flying and shit?”
“No.” You laugh, but it’s shaky. “Yeah. It was horrible.”
He doesn’t say anything as you get your breathing to even out again.
“It was real cliché. Wanted to see them all the time, touch ‘em, just - be with ‘em, you know? Make them happy but like, in the small things. See ‘em smile.” You meet his eyes and they’re stony. You look away. “Whatever they wanted to give me.”
“And?”
You run your fingertip around the lip of your mug. “And what?”
He huffs, his arms crossing tighter. “And they rejected you?”
“Oh. Oh!” You laugh. “No.”
“What’s so funny?” His tone sharpens - you can hear phantom little explosions. Your laugh fades and you smile.
“They don’t know.”
The only sound then is the slurp as you take another swig of now tepid tea.
“That’s fuckin’ stupid.” He grumbles. His eyes won’t meet yours when you look up. They skate away and you look at the tension in his arms instead, at the muscles and tendons that stand out against tan skin. The scars, too.
“Oh, it super is.”
“Too much of a pussy to handle rejection?”
That sting returns with a vengeance.
“In essence.”
He mulls that over.
“So what’re you doing on the roof?”
“Giving up.”
His eyes narrow as he looks at you, at the fence he’s leaning on, and back.
“Not like that!” You wave away the sudden tension. Try to, anyway. “Worrywart. No, I’m giving up on my crush.”
“Sounded worse than a crush.”
You snicker at the phrasing.
“Yeah.” You say, clinging desperately onto casual as you draw your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around them. “I think it felt like love. A little.”
“And you’re giving up?” His words come faster. “You didn’t even fuckin’ try.”
“No no, don’t slander my good name like that. I did.” The sting splits, takes a place behind your eyes. “And I can say that I am, for one, not their type, and two - well, they’re not even interested in the things I’m interested in. So. Moot, you know?”
His nose scrunches. “What’re you interested in?”
“Ach, shut up.” You slap his knee and he kicks your calf in retaliation. “Romance. Taking ‘em on a date to the park or something nature-y so I can hold their hand while we walk, watching movies so I can figure out which one’s their favorite and then finding another favorite that’s all ours, just - hanging out and - “ You swallow down another lump. It’s a short, dumb thought, but you do know his favorite movie. He's made you see it enough times. Your mouth is dry and you lick your lips before glancing back up at Bakugou with a big, dumb smile that aches. His eyes are wide. “Sappy bullshit, y’know?”
His jaw tenses. “How d’you know they’re not interested in that?”
“Observation.”
Following where his eyes lingered. It’s a little weird and you get elbowed for staring but it’s a weight on and off your chest.
“Context clues.”
Valentines day, two years in a row. He scoffs at anything related to “that bullshit” but he takes the little gifts you give to the group you’ve designated as your friends without much fanfare. It’s not much in the end, just another day, and you wouldn’t care either if not for this unfortunate —
“Why’re you so invested, anyway?”
He bares his teeth. You hold your hands up, placating.
“Nevermind then.”
There’s nothing left in your mug besides the dregs of tea. You eye it, sigh, and stand. Your back pops.
“Well.” You look over at Bakugou. “See?”
He meets your eyes. There’s something dull in them that reminds you of your own on the days where you can feel the ache all the way down to your bones at the futility of your feelings, the dogged masochism, and the pride you can’t choke down. Your smile is sympathetic, bitter, as you clap a hand to his shoulder.
“Prime drama real estate.” You lean down to snatch your cup and when you’re back up, Bakugou’s facing away from you with his hands on the railing. His fingers are curled over it like he wants to rip it from the concrete. You set a hand on his back. “If you ever need tea or the roof or whatever, hey, I won’t get on your case for copying my shtick. I’ll help - there can never be enough of me for this earth, eh?”
“Whatever.” His voice is tight. You pat his back one more time before making your way over to the door.
Just before you leave, you toss a “G’night” over your shoulder and neither of you say anything about how watery it sounds, or how similar his short “Night” is.