Archive of Our Own

“Here, dumbass.”

Something pink and white blurs fills his vision and stops inches away from his face. Cross-eyed, Shouto squints down the tip of his nose. Strawberry milk?

“You gonna take it or not, Half-and-Half?” Bakugou asks from behind him. He shakes the carton impatiently. “Huh?”

Shouto grabs it before Bakugou can drop it in his lap. Tilting his head back, he sees Bakugou’s familiar scowl. His heart thumps again in the strange, electrified rhythm that always drums when Bakugou is close nowadays. Inexplicably shy, Shouto fiddles with the edge of the carton. “Thanks.”

Bakugou’s eyes flick to him and away. He grunts in answer. Already pivoting around, he holds his own tray of food and heads to the table where he usually sits with Kirishima, Kaminari, and Sero.

Shouto turns back and then stops. He glances over his tray. Oh. He forgot to take a drink. Is that why Bakugou brought him a milk carton? How did Bakugou notice? He toys with the carton. Does . . . does Bakugou always notice what he takes for lunch?

Affection sparks, warm and bright, a fluttering firefly in his chest. Shouto ducks his head, lips twitching up. Happy, he sets the carton down and meets three sets of wide eyes staring back at him. 

Shouto tilts his head. Curious, he asks, “What is it?”

He watches the piece of beef drop from Iida’s slack spoon into the stew. A minute passes, and then:

“Nothing! It’s good! Great!” Iida emphasizes, hands chopping sharply like he mimes setting his syllables down. “I’m very glad that your relationship with Bakugou-kun is going well! You two — Mmph?”

Uraraka shoves a steamed bun into his mouth. “Shh! You’re too loud, Iida-kun!” She turns back and beams. “It’s sweet! We’re happy for you.” She tilts her head, turning to Midoriya. “But hmm, how do I put this?”

Midoriya scratches his cheek. “It’s, ah, different? Kacchan is usually, er . . . ” 

“Loud?” Uraraka offers.

“Er, well, no. I mean yes. But I mean—”

“Belligerent?” Iida suggests, picking up his spoon again. “Competitive? Combative?”

Shouto nods. Those are all true. Bakugou likes being loud. And fighting. He likes fighting. Shouto picks up his own chopsticks.

Midoriya winces. He opens his mouth, closes it, and finally makes another pained expression. Waving his hands, he says hurriedly, “A-Anyways! I’m happy that you and Kacchan are getting along.” 

“Thanks,” Shouto answers sincerely. He reaches for the cold soba on his tray. 

Midoriya smiles and tucks back into his katsudon.

“Oh! That’s right!” Uraraka blurts aloud. Eyes sparkling with excitement, she leans forward and whispers, “What are you planning to give Bakugou?”

Shouto blinks. “Give?”

He glances at the strawberry milk carton. Oh. Is he supposed to give something back? Maybe a beverage in return? Huh. Well, Bakugou does get dehydrated quickly due to his Quirk.

Before he can decide between a water bottle or an energy drink, Uraraka nods eagerly. “Yeah! For his birthday!”

Shouto stares. The thin buckwheat noodles slip through his chopsticks and plop back into the dipping sauce. “His birthday?”

“Oh.” Uraraka blinks, doe-eyed. She tilts her head. “Did you not know, Todoroki-kun?”

Midoriya pauses mid-bite. Swallowing quickly, he gives Shouto a curious look and explains, “Kacchan’s birthday is coming up. Um, it’s on the twentieth.”

“His birthday is coming up?” Shouto echoes. Birthday? Bakugou’s? Bakugou’s birthday is coming up? Why didn’t Bakugou tell him? His forehead creases. Or . . . is he already supposed to know? Is knowing each other’s birthdays something boyfriends automatically do?

An uncomfortable, thorny feeling prickles the pit of his stomach. He frowns. 

Uraraka, Midoriya, and Iida all exchange a look. 

“W-Well, you still have time!” Uraraka tries, patting his hand. “It’s okay!”

Midoriya nods. He smiles in encouragement and reassures, “It’s still a week. That’s plenty of time to choose a gift. Don’t worry!”

“The thought is what counts anyways,” Iida adds sagely, scooping up another spoonful of his stew. “Bakugou-kun will appreciate whatever you get him. You are his boyfriend, after all.”

The thorny bramble in his stomach thickens. Iida’s words ring through his head less like a reassurance and more of a condemnation. So it is true. Birthdays are something boyfriends should know. Shouto bites his lips. “ . . . Right.” His fingers twitch on the chopsticks. Nodding, he says carefully, “I can get Bakugou a gift in time. It’s fine.”

Uraraka and Midoriya beam. Iida flashes a thumbs up as he takes another hearty spoonful of soup.

Right. How hard can getting a birthday gift for Bakugou be?

Hard. Very hard. Impossible. Fighting a villain would be easier than finding a birthday gift for Bakugou.

Shouto stares down at his notebook. The white page is as blank as his mind. 

 . . . He is going to have to ask Midoriya or Iida if he can borrow their class notes later. 

Shouto shifts in his seat. It has already been a day, and he still does not know what to get Bakugou. Panic buzzes sharply. His foot taps against the leg of the plastic desk. A gift, a gift, a gift. What should he get? What does Bakugou want for a birthday gift?

Shouto presses his lips together. He does not know. He does not usually give gifts. He gives letters to his mom because she likes hearing about his days, and when he can visit, he brings her the daily special from the bakery because the new flavors of cakes and pastries make her happy. Shouto likes it when she smiles. 

He . . . does not celebrate birthdays either. Not really. Natsuo is usually out with his friends on his birthday. Fuyumi is always taking care of everyone every other day, so her birthday should be a day where she can be selfish and take time for herself. 

His own birthday . . . Truthfully, Shouto does not care. It is still just a day in the end, and what he wanted as a child was a wish that blowing out a candle on a cake could never grant him.

He does like the way Fuyumi tries to cook his favorite foods on his birthday and the fuzzy sweaters she always gets him though. 

Oh. His toe bumps his heel. Fuyumi usually takes care of birthday gifts for everyone. Maybe she can help him. Shouto nods to himself. He will call her after school ends and — 

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. 

“Fuck!” a very familiar voice shouts in frustration. 

“Shhh! It’s study period, Bakugou-kun,” Iida reminds him just as loudly, bringing a finger to his mouth.

“Hah? I already know that, Four Eyes!”

Curious, Shouto looks up to the front of the room and catches Bakugou sweeping his hand across his desk. Jabbing a black mechanical pencil furiously, he presses the tip against his notebook.

Snap.

Bakugou’s eyebrow twitches. His fingertips spark ominously. He glowers at his pencil.

Sero reaches out and taps him on the shoulder. “Hey, I thought you didn’t like using mechanical pencils.”

Shouto thought so too. Whenever they study together, Bakugou uses wooden pencils or pens. He frowns. Is Bakugou’s preference in writing utensils also something he does not know either?

“I don’t!” Bakugou snaps, pushing the broken lead out again. “The shitty lead breaks every three damn seconds!” He scowls. Pressing the pencil, he gripes, “I ran out of pens.” 

“Here, man. Have one of my pencils!” Kirishima calls out. A yellow pencil arcs through the air over Jirou’s head.

“Oi!” Jirou ducks, covering her head. “Watch it!”

Leaning out, Bakugou stretches his hand out and easily catches it.

Shooting a dirty look over her shoulder, Jirou complains, “Don’t throw things across the classroom, Kirishima!”

“Yes. Please don’t do that again,” Yaoyorozu says firmly, looking up from her textbook.

“Sorry, sorry!” Kirishima presses his hands together in apology and smiles sheepishly.

“Everyone, shhhh!” Iida repeats, jerking his head from side to side and making another shushing gesture. 

Asui tilts her head and comments, “But, Iida-chan, you’re the loudest one right now, ribbit.”

Iida’s eyes widen in horrified realization. “You’re right. I apologize — ” He slaps his hand over his mouth and bolts up from his seat. He bows deeply.

Amused smiles flit across everyone’s faces. 

Shouto’s eyes dart back to Bakugou’s pencil now gliding effortlessly across the page. 

Hmm.

“Here’s your receipt. Have a good day!” the store clerk chirps. She holds out the plastic bag across the counter and grins. Her braided lilac buns bounce as she bobs her head to the pop song blaring through the store.

Shouto takes the bag and receipt. Nodding his thanks, he steps out of the convenience store.

Ding!

The automatic doors slide shut behind him with a chime. Shouto peers into the bag. A single pack of black ballpoint pens. He took the ones with the extra grip just in case they are more comfortable for writing. Shouto frowns.

This should be good for a birthday gift, right? Bakugou ran out of pens, so he needs more. Getting Bakugou pens is therefore practical. Useful. Bakugou likes useful things.

Satisfaction curls through him. Tying the bag, Shouto heads down the sidewalk. 

There. Problem solved.

“Argh!” Ashido yells out, catching Shouto’s attention. She ruffles her fluffy pink locks and tips back her head with a groan. “What do I do?! I don’t know what to get for my mom’s birthday!” 

Shouto pauses. Birthday?

Asui strokes her chin for a moment. “Didn’t you say that your mom needs a new whisk and frosting knife, ribbit? How about that?”

Uraraka’s eyes gleam brightly. Nodding enthusiastically, she adds, “And your allowance will cover it.”

“I can’t get her that!” Ashido protests. She scratches her cheek and amends, “I mean, yeah, she needs new ones. They’re kinda bent out of shape.” She crosses her arms in an X and slices her hands dramatically. “But they’re too practical! If I get her baking tools, then it’s no different than helping around the house like any other day.” Ashido pouts. “It’s her birthday, you guys. I want to get her something special. Something she likes, not just needs. Something . . . “ She twirls her pointer finger as she visibly thinks. Her eyes brighten up. “I know! Something cool and nice!” 

“Ahhh,” Uraraka realizes aloud. She furrows her brows. “In that case . . . Huh. What else does she like besides baking?”

Asui smiles. “You really want to make your mom happy, huh, Mina-chan? Hmm. Then what about . . .”

The dorm doors swing shut as they head in. 

Shouto stares, unmoving. Special? Something she likes, not just needs? Something cool and nice?

Bakugou likes pens. He needs new pens. Shouto presses his fingers to his chin. But, pens are not cool. They are standard writing utensils. Does he need to think outside of the box? Maybe rainbow colored pens? 

Something special . . . The wording snags onto his thoughts. Do birthday presents need to be special? Well, it is his first birthday gift for Bakugo. It is also the first time either of them has a birthday since they started dating.

The thorny feeling from before pricks his stomach again. Yes. Shouto frowns. The birthday gift does need to be special. He is not giving it as a friend. He is giving it as a boyfriend. 

What . . . what should he get Bakugou then? What does Bakugou like? He — 

“ — Half-and-Half!” 

A heavy hand clasps his shoulder. Shouto stiffens. Automatically, he turns around and looks right into Bakugou’s scowling face. His heart slams against his ribcage, threatening to somersault out of his chest.

Bakugou blinks. Eyebrows knitting together, he gives Shouto an odd look and withdraws his hand. Slipping it into his pocket instead, Bakugou asks gruffly, “You daydreaming, idiot? Didn’t you hear me calling your name?”

Oh. Shouto shakes his head. “I  didn’t hear you.” 

Bakugou raises an eyebrow.

Shouto fights the sudden urge to fidget. He makes himself return the skeptical stare and projects calm, the blank notebook pages, the cloudless sky, and not at all the panic of a boyfriend who does not know what to get their significant other for their birthday.

The crease between Bakugou’s eyebrows deepens. His other eyebrow raises too. “Did you eat something weird? Why the fuck do you look constipated, huh?” 

Shouto blinks and then blinks again. Constipated? “Yes.” He nods. “I am.”

Bakugou gawks. He jabs sharply to the front doors and splutters, “You — Then go take a shit or something! Don’t just fucking stand here! What the fuck, Icy-Hot?”

Shouto wonders if this is the wrong lifeline to grab after all. He does not feel saved. With no choice but to commit, he agrees, “I have to go to the convenience —” He catches himself, nearly biting his tongue. Hefting his school bag on his shoulder, he says stiltedly, “Restroom. I mean. I have to go to the restroom.” 

Bakugou narrows his eyes. “What the hell did you do?”

Confused, Shouto tilts his head. “Nothing.”

That is precisely the problem. He needs to restart from scratch. He needs to come up with a different idea for Bakugou’s birthday present. 

“Don’t lie to me!” Bakugou hisses, jabbing Shouto’s chest with a finger. He steps closer and glowers. “I know that fucking face! That’s the face you always get when you’re about to do something stupid and shitty and embarassing as fuck! Spit it out! What the hell did you do, huh?”

Bakugou scowls. Shouto’s eyes flick down to his lips inches away. His heartbeat thunders in his ears. What did Aizawa say the other day? It’s important to know when to retreat or strike? Right. Retreat, it is.

“I have to go to the restroom,” he repeats, turning on his heel and striding down the pavement.

“Hah?! The dorms have bathrooms! Where the fuck are you going? You — OI! I’M STILL TALKING TO YOU ASSHOLE!”

Clunk!

Shouto sets the shopping basket down on the counters. The glass bottles roll and clink against each other. The cashier — huh, she’s the same one from before — stops mid-head bob, lilac high pigtails swinging. She stares at him with wide golden eyes. 

He takes out the hot sauce bottles one by one and sets them down. 

“All of these?” the cashier asks, peering down. She whistles. Picking one of them up, she runs the bottle over the scanner and says cheerfully, “Wow, you must like spicy food!”

 “I don’t,” Shouto answers automatically. “My boyfriend does.”

The word tingles on his tongue. His heart flutters. Still new and fascinating, the title sends a thrill streaking through him. Boyfriend. He mouths the word again, thumbing it over in his head and tasting the shape of it on his tongue. Heat rushes to his cheeks.

Shouto shifts. He wonders if he will ever get used to calling Bakugou his boyfriend.

The cashier beams. “Aw. That’s so sweet!” She reaches for another hot sauce bottle and then hesitates. Her forehead creases in worry. “But are you sure he is going to finish all of them? What about one for starters?”

“Ah.” Shouto glances at the bottles. She has a point. No matter how much Bakugou likes spicy food, the bottles should last him at least a few months. Shrugging, he explains, “I couldn’t pick.”

“Hmm. In that case . . .” She reads through the bottles and picks one up with an acid green label. “How about this one? People buy this all the time for those viral spicy food challenges.” She winks. “It’ll be fun!”

Bakugou does like challenges. He also likes tormenting his taste buds with hellish levels of spiciness. Shouto knows. He tried dipping his chicken in hot sauce once, and his lips and tongue still stung even after icing them, much to Baugou’s amusement. Shouto nods. “Sure.”

“Cool! Then let me take this bottle off your purchase,” she hums, pressing the buttons on the number pad and rescanning the previous bottle. She reaches for the new hot sauce bottle and scans it instead. “It will be six hundred sixty one yen.”

Shouto hands over the credit card.

She swipes it and hands him the plastic bag. “Have a nice day! I hope your boyfriend likes it!”

He hopes so too. Shouto takes the bag and says sincerely, “Thanks for the help.”

“No problem!” she says brightly, bobbing her head again to the music.

Ding!

Shouto steps out on the sidewalk. The catchy pop song replays through his head. Humming the chorus, he makes his way back to the dorms.

There. Done.

Shouto curls into the blanket. The warm softness wraps comfortingly around him. His thoughts haze out. Eyelids fluttering down, he presses his cheek into the pillow.

Will Bakugou really like the hot sauce as a birthday present?

The thought pops up like a weed between the cracks of a sidewalk. Shouto’s forehead creases. Of course, Bakugou will. He likes hot sauce. 

Decision made and confirmed, he plucks the thought away. Pulling the blanket up, Shouto turns on his side and presses his cheek back into the pillow.  

But he eats hot sauce every day. How is it special when Bakugou can get it just as easily from the cafeteria?

Shouto’s eyes snap open. He stares balefully up at the darkened ceiling. Silver moonlight flickers and dapples the fuzzy gray blobs of furniture.

Damn it.

Shouto stares blearily down at his phone. Running his finger down the screen, he scrolls through the online delivery store for the thirtieth time. What should he order? Why is a birthday gift so complicated? Shouldn’t it be easy? He is Bakugou’s boyfriend. Who else should know his likes and dislikes more than Shouto?

Shouto frowns. The anxiety and panic climbs up again, prickly and unpleasant, like a bed of thorns. No. He shears it off. Gripping his phone, Shouto moves on to the next category and scans through the exercising equipment. Bakugou likes training. What about that? He — 

A hand suddenly yanks him back. Shouto stumbles, back hitting a firm chest. Startled, he looks back into Bakugou’s exasperated face.

“That’s a tree, you idiot,” Bakugou bites out, scowling. “Watch your damn step. Half-and-Half.” 

He stops. Bakugou steps closer, shrewd scarlet eyes roving over Shouto’s face. 

Shouto blinks. Hand automatically touching his face, he asks, “What is it? Is there something on my face?”

Bakugou’s forehead creases. Scowl deepening, he criticizes, “You look like shit.”

Shouto blinks again. Unhappy, he crosses his arms and says flatly, “That’s not nice.”

Bakugou scoffs and retorts, “When am I ever nice, huh?” Without warning, he brushes his knuckles underneath Shouto’s eyes. “Why the hell did you pull a late nighter? We don’t have any shitty exams.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t fucking tell me you stayed up late watching funny cat videos again.”

“Mmgh,” Shouto garbles out. His heartbeat jolts, a startled rabbit. It is not fair. Here he is racking his sleep-deprived brain for ideas, and Bakugou is just reaching out to him so easily and exploding the rest of his uncooperative brain cells.

The warm pad of Bakugou’s thumb presses in and flicks across his cheek as if to rub away the apparent dark circle there. Dropping his hand, Bakugou gives him an unimpressed look. “I don’t speak idiot. What the fuck does that mean?”  

Shouto’s feet twitch, toes already tipping forward. He wants Bakugou’s touch back. He does not know how to ask though. He never does. Words are so hard sometimes when his face does one thing and his tongue another. On cue, his brain sabotages him again, and he blurts out, “You like training.”

It is meant to be a question, but it sounds blunt even to his ears. Frustration flares up and writhes right into misery. There should be a manual on dating and birthday presents.

Bakugou stares blankly. “Yeah. And?”

Wait. Shouto perks up. Right. The birthday present. Leaning in, he peers into Bakugou’s face and presses, “Are you sure?” 

Bakugou’s palm slaps his forehead and shoves him away. Glaring, he bites back, “What kind of stupid fucking question is that?” 

Betrayed, Shouto looks unhappily at him. Is it really a strange question? He knows Bakugou does, but Shouto just wants to make sure. He pouts. “Bakugou.”

Bakugou’s face twitches, spasming between utter bewilderment and total exasperation. Red oddly tinges his ears. Throwing his hands up, he glares like Shouto badgers him with questions instead of just the one and yells, “Fucking fine! Yeah! I like training!” 

Shouto stares and then looks back at his phone. So exercising equipment is good. He taps on the weights and selects express delivery. 

There. Now he is done.

Bakugou clears his throat, drawing Shouto’s attention back. 

His face pinches like it always does whenever he wrangles with untamed emotions that dare to stray. Rubbing his neck, he asks gruffly, “Oi. Is something, uh, wrong? You’re acting weird.” Bakugou looks away and mutters under his breath, “Weirder than usual anyways.”

Fondness curls warmly inside Shouto’s chest. He reassures, “I’m fine.” 

Bakugou frowns. The skeptical furrow between his eyebrows returns. He watches Shouto for another minute and then presses his lips together. Jerking his head to the doors, he says a little sourly, “Whatever. Hurry the fuck up. We’re going to be late, Half-and-Half.”

He turns. Shouto quickly slips his phone in his pocket and follows in step with him. His eyes flick down to Bakugou’s hands at his side. The phantom touch on his cheek underneath his eye tingles. He thinks of those same fingers, always deft and dangerous in combat, but gentle on his skin. He thinks of them gripping his hand, solid and warm. Yearning tugs again at his heartstrings.

Without warning, Bakugou turns his head and catches his gaze. Feeling strangely caught red-handed, Shouto opens his mouth, even though he does not have the faintest clue of what to say. “I —”

A rough, calloused palm covers his own. The very same fingers he wanted to hold lace in between his own, folding over his knuckles. Yanking him along, Bakugou does not look back and grumbles, “You’re so fucking sappy.”

 . . . Bakugou really is better at this whole “we’re now boyfriends” bit than Shouto is. Either that or Shouto just fails spectacularly. 

Wide-eyed, he stares raptly at their linked hands. He squeezes Bakugou’s hand carefully. He wonders if his palm feels cool or cold to Bakugou. Bakugou feels warm to him. He likes it. He likes the weight of Bakugou’s hand on his too. 

He glances at Bakugou’s profile, still determinedly focused straight ahead. His eyes linger on the embarrassed flush to his cheeks. Maybe it is not that Bakugou finds being boyfriends easy. Maybe he just knows Shouto and can read him now even without words. Pleased, Shouto squeezes Bakugou’s hand again and confesses, “I like holding hands with you.”

“Quit being mushy,” Bakugou complains, but his ears tinge red, and he does not let go. 

Shouto smiles. He shamelessly swings their hands together.

Boom!

Crackle!

Whoosh!

Zwip!

The cacophony of battle rings out in the air. Already, smoke curls in gray-white tendrils, and sparks flash all around him. Shouto stares blankly.

Hold on. Why would Bakugou need exercising equipment when the school has training grounds and gyms? A stimulation of a disaster zone or a civilian hostage situation would be much more efficient and useful for hero training than weights ever can.

Frustration burns so red-hot through him that Shouto checks his left hand to make sure he did not accidentally trigger flames from his Quirk.

“Watch out!”

Something whips into the back of his knees. The world tilts sideways. Pain streaks up his legs and side. Shouto blinks, cheek now pressed to the gritty concrete.

“Todoroki-kun!”

“Todoroki-san, are you okay?”

“OI! DUMBASS! WHERE ARE YOU EVEN LOOKING? ARE YOUR STUPID EYES FOR SHOW? HUH?”

“Todoroki-shonen! Do you require medical aid?”

Shouto rolls over, flat on his back, and stares up into everyone’s concerned faces. He sighs. “I’m fine.”

He is really not.

Bakugou’s death glare bores into the side of his head. If looks could kill, Shouto would be a smoking pile of cinders right now. As it is, Shouto stubbornly snuggles into the black covers. Bakugou’s familiar scent of burnt sugar saturates the sheets and surges up. Liking it, he breathes it in. The abject misery churning in his stomach ever since the disastrous training exercise calms.

Bakugou growls. His pencil taps ominously against the desk. He snaps, “I asked if you wanted to study, not if you wanted to lie down like a useless, shitty starfish on my fucking bed.” The chair scrapes across the wooden floor. The sharp point of the pencil jabs Shouto right in the arch of his foot. “Get the fuck up!”

Shouto flinches. Glaring right back, he rolls over and tugs the covers over himself. “No.” Bakugou’s eyebrow twitches. Sensing that he is one more eyebrow twitch away from being thrown out, Shouto wriggles out of the covers. He plops down on the floor and reaches for the math textbook with a sigh. “I’m working on it.”

He is. All day and night. Who knew shopping could be stressful?

Bakugou shoots him another dirty look before he scoots his chair back to his desk. Pressing his pencil back to his notebook, he grouses, “You’re like one of those furballs hanging out behind the garden shed.”

“I like cats,” Shouto says, not offended in the least to be compared to his favorite animal. He gives another longing glance to the bed. The sleep deprivation in his bones aches. He wants to lie down and cuddle. He does not want to solve for x in calculus.

There is something comforting about being wrapped up in Bakugou’s scent too. It reminds him of when they hug. His eyes land on something black in the corner. Curious, he leans over and tugs it out. 

Oh. It is a sweatshirt. He scans it over. It looks clean enough. He sniffs it. Bakugou’s scent floods his nostrils. Without hesitation, he shrugs off his blazer and scrunches the sweatshirt open.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bakugou asks, sounding bewildered.

Black, fuzzy fabric fills his vision. Tugging it over his head, Shouto tries to find the arm sleeves. “You kicked me out of your bed.”

“What does hogging my bed have to do with stealing my sweatshirt? That’s a dumbass way of being petty.”

“I’m not being petty,” Shouto corrects, slipping his arms through the sleeves. He pulls the sweatshirt down. “I just like the way you smell.”

A strangled sound reaches his ears.

Oh, soft. Distracted, Shouto rubs the worn fabric across his arms. It feels nice. Bakugou likes wearing oversized clothes, so the sweatshirt still feels comfortable on him. Shouto tugs the sleeves down and stops. Tilting his head, he holds out his wrists and looks up. “Why are there holes?”

Bakugou does not answer. His gaze roves over Shouto, riveted. 

Shouto automatically looks down at himself too. Does the sweatshirt look weird on him? 

After a moment, Bakugou says finally, voice rough, “You’re a menace.” 

Shouto blinks. Bakugou turns back to his notebook. Ears tinged red again, he rubs the back of his neck and picks up his pencil. “I wore it when I was training off hours. My sweat burned holes through the cuffs, I guess.”

Shouto eyes Bakugou curiously, but he does not turn back or explain any further. Shrugging, Shouto focuses back on the calculus homework that he still has not started. The scritch-scratch of Bakugou’s pencil fills the room.

It soothes him. Shouto smiles to himself. He likes this too, the way silence curls comfortably between them. He absently pokes his fingers through the holes as he scans his class notes.

Shouto is reading through the examples a third time, thumbs fingering the holes, when inspiration strikes him. Jolting up, he breathes aloud, “I got it.”

“Yeah? Number ten or twelve?” Bakugou asks distractedly, erasing a wrong calculation. He turns around and peers down. “Huh?” His voice sharpens with outrage. “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GET? THERE’S NOTHING ON YOUR DAMN SHITTY PAPER!”

“I have to go,” Shouto says, scrambling to his feet. Does he still have time to order things? 

Bakugou’s glare flattens. “Go where, huh? The bathroom again?”

“Yes.” Shouto nods, one foot already out the door.

“What.” Bakugou swings his head to send him an incredulous look. “Oi. You — DO YOUR DAMN HOMEWORK, YOU SWEATSHIRT THIEF!”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Shouto raps his knuckles on the door. 

“Coming!” a voice calls out, muffled by the door. The door swings open. Yaoyorozu’s eyes widen in surprise. “Todoroki-san? What brings you here?”

“Do you know any online clothing shops that will deliver in two days?” Shouto presses. The sense of urgency charges him like a live, frayed wire. She blinks. Right. He needs to work on his greetings. Shouto amends, “Oh. Hi.”

Yaoyorozu looks at him curiously. “Two days?”

Shouto nods. “It’s for Bakugou’s birthday.”

Yaoyorozu’s eyes light up. She ushers him in and says excitedly, “Please come in! I’ll help you shop!” Inching around the too large four-poster bed, she unplugs her laptop and carries it over. She sits down and asks, “What are you looking for?”

Shouto sits down next to her. He holds out his hands to show the holes in the arm sleeves. “A new sweatshirt. His is ripped.”

Yaoyorozu peers down. Her brow furrows. “He does need a new one.” She opens her laptop. The bright glare of the screen flashes on her face, but the excitement in her eyes gleams even brighter. Typing quickly, she scrolls through her bookmarked sites. 

Shouto watches the bookmarks blur across the screen in a trail of words and icons. He relaxes. He made the right choice in asking her to help. Yaoyorozu likes shopping. 

“Hmm. Bakugou-san’s style is a bit like Kyouka’s,” Yaoyorozu thinks aloud. She scrolls back up and clicks. “This one? No, wait. I remember this boutique is local, so delivery might be faster. Are you looking for anything specific?”

“He likes black,” Shouto offers. He thinks for a moment. “And baggy clothes.”

Yaoyorozu smiles. She clicks on the outerwear category and tilts the laptop towards him. “Here. Do you see anything you like?”

Shouto scrolls through. He stops on a black sweatshirt with orange tread marks on the sleeves and an X in the back. “I like this one.”

“Oh! That fits him,” she approves. Leaning closer to the screen, she scans the page in fascination. “It’s so fun looking through different styles. How exciting.” She taps the bottom right item and suggests, “What about this one too? The zippers and pockets are interesting. And it’s oversized.”

Shouto clicks on it. The label tells him that it is a bomber jacket. It is not black, but the deep crimson color matches Bakugou’s eyes. The pockets remind him of the cargo pants that Bakugou wears sometimes too. He adds it to the shopping cart.

His eyes land on another black sweatshirt with just a simple skull on the front. He clicks on that too. “What about this one?”

Yaoyorozu nods. She points to a dark gray denim jacket in the suggested list down below. “And this one too? Oh, have you looked through the t-shirts yet? They had some band ones and ones with logos that Kyouka liked last time . . . ” 

Shouto and Yaoyorozu are trying to decide between a black t-shirt that says “I’m My Own Warning” and a hooded black and white plaid shirt when someone knocks on the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Getting up, Yaoyorozu calls out, “Please wait a moment!”

The door swings open. Curious, Shouto looks over.

Jirou tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey, it’s dinnertime. Are you still doing homework? Do you want to — ” She catches his gaze over Yaoyorozu’s shoulder. Blinking rapidly, she asks, “Todoroki? What are you doing here? Are you guys studying — Huh? Momo?” 

Yaoyorozu hushes her. Closing the door, she pulls Jirou along and explains, “Todoroki-san is trying to find another sweatshirt for Bakugou-san’s birthday present.”

Shouto nods.

“Yeah?” Jirou looks him over. Her lips quirk up in a teasing grin, mischief glittering in her eyes. She drawls, “Are you sure you’re not buying another one just so you can keep his old one?”

Shouto touches the sleeves. Bakugou’s scent still drifts up every time his cheek brushes the hoodie. Bakugou probably does not need it after Shouto gets him a new one, right? He considers it for a moment and decides, “I’m not giving it back.”

Jirou grins. Yaoyorozu’s lips twitch up in similar amusement. 

Taking a seat, Jirou looks over at the laptop. Her grin slips. She does a double take at the upper right hand corner. “Wait. I thought you said you were just looking for a sweatshirt. Why are there already twenty items in your shopping cart?” Lifting her eyebrow, she asks dryly,  “Are you getting Bakugou a birthday present or a new wardrobe?”

Shouto blinks. Why can’t he do both? He answers as much, “Both.” 

A pained expression instantly pinches Jirou’s brow. It uncannily reminds him of Bakugou’s exasperation whenever Shouto does something that sounds doable in his head and impossible in real life. Although, usually that has to do more with cooking and not clothes. He tilts his head. Not understanding, Shouto asks hesitantly, “Is that . . . bad?”

Yaoyorozu cups her cheek in similar confusion. “What’s wrong with giving him more clothes, Kyouka? It’s nice giving gifts to people you care about. We picked them out very carefully.”

Jirou presses a hand to her forehead. “I know you guys did. And yeah, there is nothing wrong with giving gifts. But, it’s — you —!” She groans. “Agh, you guys are nightmares when it comes to shopping.” 

Shouto exchanges a bewildered look with Yaoyorozu. They both turn and look questioningly back at Jirou. What is wrong with their way of shopping?

Her nose scrunches up. After a moment, Jirou sighs. Raising her palm, she says resignedly, “Cut it down to five.”

“Five?” Yaoyorozu repeats, eyes widening in alarm. “Isn’t that too little?”

Shouto frowns in agreement. “Bakugou will look nice in all of them.”

“Trust me. Five is already a lot. You guys are just the exception,” Jirou deadpans. 

Shouto blinks.

Jirou groans again. She swipes across the touchpad and clicks to open the shopping cart. “Look. How many jackets does he really need? He — Oh hey, this red one looks cool.”

Yaoyorozu claps her hands and says eagerly. “Right? Right? So is this one with the leather accents . . . ”

They end up settling on ten, much to Jirou’s dismay and Shouto’s satisfaction.

Shouto stares at the delivery cardboard boxes and the plastic bags. Should he leave the presents like this? He strokes his chin. Something is missing. Don’t presents usually look colorful and glitzy?

He needs . . . Shouto tries to remember how Fuyumi always wrapped presents. Wrapping paper. Ribbons. Tissue paper. Shouto’s eyes rove over the tatami floors and the plain walls.

He does not have any of that.

Shouto turns on his cellphone and eyes the time. He does not have time to go out and buy any either. It is too close to curfew. Maybe one of his classmates will have wrapping paper.

Grabbing his phone, he steps out of his room into the hallway. He walks to the elevator and jabs the down arrow button.

Ding!

The elevator doors slide open. Shouto steps in. His eyes trail over the number pad. Hmm. Is anyone in the lounge? Maybe he should check there first before he knocks on people’s doors. 

Decision made, he presses “1” for the lobby. The elevator doors slide shut. Floor thrumming underneath his feet, the elevator descends.

Ding!

The elevator doors slide open. A floating skirt and blazer appears right in front of him. Sleeve waving, Hagakure’s familiar voice greets cheerfully, “Oh, hello, Todoroki-kun!”

“Hi.” Shouto nods in return. He automatically steps forward, one foot out, when he remembers his objective. “Oh. Hagakure.”

“Hmm?” Her sleeve shoots out to hold the elevator door, skirt ruffling, as she turns away from the number pad.

“Do you have any wrapping paper?”

“I do!” Hagakure answers brightly. Her shoulders tilt left. Curiosity tinges her voice. “Do you need some?”

Relieved, Shouto nods. “Yeah.”

“I don’t mind! Come, come! They’re in my room!” Her sleeve flutters excitedly, beckoning him to step back into the elevator. He follows. Turning back to the number pad, Hagakure presses “3” and explains, “I like collecting cute stationary, and they always sell wrapping paper in the shops I go to. They’re really cute too! And it’s nice having it on hand because we’re in the dorms, and someone’s birthday is always around the corner.”

“It’s good to be prepared,” Shouto agrees. “I don’t have any. And it’s too late for me to get some now.”

“Luckily you have me!” Hagakure cheers, bouncing back on her heels.

Shouto nods. Put at ease by her cheerfulness, he admits, “I was going to ask around, but I don’t think anyone else has wrapping paper.”

Ding!

The elevators slide open. He barely takes in the hallway before Hagakure tugs him by the elbow. Stopping at the room at the end, she swipes her key card and pushes open the door.

Shouto blinks. His eyes rove over the pastel pink carpet and the matching bedsheets and curtains. “Your room is very pink.” His gaze lingers on the stuffed animals perched on the shelf above. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks!” Hagakure says happily, tugging open a blue striped drawer. “I had fun decorating it!” She rummages through it for a second and then pulls out three mid-sized rolls of wrapping paper out. Gathering them in her arms, she offers, “Here. Take your pick!” 

Shouto carefully takes them. Curious, he scans over all three of them. There is a pastel blue one with white clouds, rainbows, and prancing unicorns, a pastel pink one with multicolored, fluffy llamas, and a pastel purple one with dozing teddy bears and stars. Oh. They are cute. Fascinated, he comments, “I like them. They’re nice.”

“Aren’t they?” Hagakure asks happily. She snaps her fingers and springs back to the drawer. “Oh, wait. I forgot. Let me get you ribbons and gift bows too! And gift tags! Can’t forget those.”

He watches her pull out box after box of neatly organized ribbons and stationary tags. Hagakure really does like collecting stationary. She also seems used to wrapping up presents. Shouto is not. In fact, considering the last time he consulted an online video for help, Shouto does not think his chances of wrapping presents by himself are very good. 

Hmm.

“Can you help me wrap presents?” he asks. After a second’s pause, Shouto adds, “Please?”

Hagakure turns back. “Is this for Bakugou-kun?”

Shouto nods.

“That’s adorable!” Hagakure squeals, clapping her hands. She nods vigorously, her shirt ribbon fluttering. “Sure! I’ll help!” Without hesitation, she scoops up the boxes and skips out the door. “Let’s go!”

Shouto follows after. His lips twitch up. 

Everyone is so nice. It is good having friends. Gratefulness nestles warmly in his chest. Hopefully, everything will work out.

Shouto checks his cellphone again. 12:00 am.

It is time. He eyes the carefully wrapped presents. He probably should not carry them all in his arms. It would be a shame to drop one of them accidentally and ruin all of Hagakure’s hard work.

Instead, he rifles through his closet for a larger backpack. Grabbing the blue and white striped one off the hook, Shouto gingerly places the presents into the backpack. He hefts it over his shoulder and heads to the balcony.

Grabbing the cold metal rod of the banister, he swings his leg over. Shouto flicks his right hand. Frost crackles in the air and solidifies in a rough platform below. He swings his other leg over and steps down. Turning, he hops down on the balcony below.

His foot just touches the concrete when the screen door bangs open. Shouto’s head jerks up, eyes wide. 

Sparks already igniting off his palms, Bakugou rages, “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK — Half-and-Half?”

Bakugou gawks, lowering his hands.

Shouto adjusts the backpack on his shoulder and shifts on his feet. Maybe he should have texted Bakugou first. “Hi.”

Bakugou’s eyes flash in outrage. He stomps forward and snarls, “I was about to explode your face! What the hell are you doing? Hah? Why are you climbing up my balcony like some suicidal, shitty Romeo?”

“Does that make you Juliet?” Shouto asks curiously, tilting his head, He does not really like that comparison. Wasn’t that story a tragedy?

Explosions spark off Bakugou’s fingers again. His eyes narrow dangerously. “HAH? YOU WANNA SAY THAT AGAIN?”

“I wanted to say happy birthday,” Shouto explains hurriedly before Bakugou hurls him off the balcony. He stops. His eyebrow furrows. No. He did that wrong. Frowning, Shouto lifts his head up. He steps closer. Mustering all of his sincerity into three words, he tries again, “Happy birthday, Bakugou.”

Bakugou blinks.

Shouto frowns again. Oh, no. Is he supposed to give the presents before he says happy birthday? 

Before he can redo the order — why are birthdays so complicated? — Bakugou says slowly and bluntly, emphasizing every syllable like a drumbeat, “It’s midnight.”

Shouto nods, pleased. It is midnight. He timed it perfectly. 

Bakugou’s eyebrow twitches. He enunicates even more slowly, “When people fucking sleep.”

Shouto nods again. Yes, people do sleep at midnight. Luckily, he set up an alarm.

Bakugou’s whole eye twitches for some reason. Jaw clenching, he grits out, “At night.”

Unsure, Shouto nods again. People do sleep at night. Midnight is still night. Shouto pauses. Well, people on night shifts have different sleeping hours.

“WHY CAN’T YOU FUCKING WAIT UNTIL MORNING, DUMBASS?” Bakugou bellows, throwing his hands up. 

Shouto frowns. “But I oversleep a lot. I want to be the first one to say happy birthday to you.” 

Bakugou blinks rapidly. He opens his mouth and then closes it. Rubbing his neck, he looks away and grouses, “You’re so fucking sappy.” Not waiting for an answer, he turns around and trudges back in. “Hurry up and melt that already. You’re drawing attention, idiot.”

Shouto smiles. He presses his right palm over the ice chunk. Hot air blasts his skin. The ice dissolves. Pivoting away, he steps through the sliding door.

The orange halo from the desk lamp cuts through the darkness and sets Bakugou’s golden blond hair ablaze. Sitting on the bed, Bakugou raises an eyebrow. “What’s with the backpack, Half-and-Half?” 

“I have presents,” Shouto answers placidly, taking a seat next to him. He pulls the backpack off and unzips it. He takes the colorfully wrapped presents out one by one.

Bakugou’s eyebrows climb up. Noticing, Shouto explains, “Hagakure helped me wrap them.”

Gesturing to the pile of presents on the bed, Bakugou splutters, “That’s not why — I only have one damn birthday, Half-and-Half! Did you ransack a store?” He narrows his eyes. Watching Shouto suspiciously, he warns, “Don’t you fucking dare give me some sappy bullshit about trying to make up for my birthdays that you missed.”

Shouto stops. His stomach plummets. Jerking his head up, he stares wide-eyed and asks, “Am I supposed to do that?”

He only has five presents. That is far from enough.

“NO!” Bakugou pinches the bridge of his nose. “Forget I fucking said that. Got it? If you try to give me any more presents, then I’m banning you from my room for the rest of the damn year.”

Shouto frowns. He does not want that. He nods and concedes, “I won’t do that then.” He picks up a small rectangular gift wrapped in the baby blue unicorn wrapping paper. “Here.”

Bakugou stares blankly. Shouto nudges it into his hand. Expression suddenly stiff, Bakugou gingerly tugs the pink satin ribbon like it is a wire to a bomb about to detonate in his hand.  “Didn’t Deku and the rest of the extras talk to you about — about — Fuck, I don’t know. About buying shit for other people or something? Why the hell did you get so many presents?”

“Because it’s hard,” Shouto blurts out. 

Bakugou stops. “Hard how?”

Shouto presses his lips together, regretting the slip of his tongue. Shrugging, he looks away and admits, “I haven’t really bought birthday presents for people before.” His fingers twitch. “And it’s for you. So I wanted it to be special.”

Bakugou’s knee bumps into his own. Automatically, Shouto looks up. 

“You put a lot of time into this, huh?” Bakugou mutters, no longer careful and tearing into the gift now. “I ain’t saving the wrapping paper, but”— his eyes flick to him and away—“it’s not bad.”

The wrapping paper shreds away to reveal the pack of ballpoint pens. Bakugou’s forehead creases. “These are —”

“Pens because you needed more the other day. But they’re too normal, I know,” Shouto interrupts and shoves the next present into Bakugou’s hands.

Bakugou blinks, head jerking from the gift to Shouto. At Shouto’s insistent push, he grumbles, “Alright, alright. I fucking got it.” The pink wrapping paper falls away to show the bottle of hot sauce. Bakugou rubs his thumb over the label and lifts an eyebrow. “This is —”

“Hot sauce,” Shouto answers for him, nodding. “It’s because you like eating spicy food. But hot sauce isn’t new. You eat it everyday.”

He pushes the next present towards Bakugou. Bakugou glances at him, gaze contemplative and considering. Wordlessly, he takes it.

He tears a swath of the purple wrapping paper with the teddy bears away. Bakugou pulls out the exercise weights and hefts them in his hands to test their weight. He tilts his head. “Huh. This is —”

“Because you like training,” Shouto cuts in, already knowing what Bakugou’s reaction will be. He frowns at himself, still miffed at the lapse of logic that day in the training grounds. “But we have gyms anyways.”

He presses a thin, flat rectangular present into Bakugou’s hands. Bakugou’s mouth twitches, but he does not say anything and takes it. Making sure not to rip the present itself, he carefully unwraps the present. Bakugou holds up the flat package and blinks in surprise. “A wrist guard?” 

“Your wrists get sore when you overuse them,” Shouto explains, frowning harder. It sounded like a good idea when he was online shopping at three am in the morning. A lot of things do actually. This must be why infomercials play so late at night. Miserable, he swings his feet and sighs. “But we have an infirmary if you’re really injured.”

He also does not like the reminder of injury and the dangers of overusing Quirks in a birthday present.

Shouto picks up the last present. Heartbeat drumming, he holds it out.

Bakugou tugs the yellow satin ribbon off and tears the pink llama wrapping paper off. The set of neatly folded clothes plop into his lap. He gawks. 

“Because you had holes in your sweatshirt,” Shouto says, biting his lips. Anxiety worms through him. He watches Bakugou’s reaction carefully. This is the last present, the one that he hopes makes Bakugou happy. 

“So you got me five jackets and five t-shirts instead?” Bakugou says incredulously, eyes widening. He flips through the clothes again and groans. Closing his eyes, he says exasperatedly, “No wonder you’re shitty at math.”

“I liked all of them,” Shouto answers defensively. “I thought they all would look nice on you, so I couldn’t choose.” 

He bites his lips again. Bakugou does not seem really happy. Maybe Jirou was right. He should have gone with five, not ten.

Bakugou rubs his neck. His voice turns wry. “Your credit card doesn’t have a limit, huh?”

Shouto blinks. What does his credit card balance have to do with anything? Confused, he answers slowly, “I don’t think so?”

“Well, that’s a fucking oversight,” Bakugou mutters, shaking the clothes out and folding them again.

“You hate these,” Shouto says bluntly. Dejection and frustration clambers up, a tangle of spiked vines inside his chest. He presses his lips together. No. Unacceptable. He can’t fail at Bakugou’s first birthday present. Getting up, he says grimly, “I’m going to redo them.”

“Hah?” A hand catches his elbow and yanks him back. Bakugou gives him a challenging look and retorts, “Where the hell are you even going? To ransack another store? They’re not fucking open right now, idiot.” He tugs Shouto back down to sit. Scowling, Bakugou snaps, “And when the hell did I say I hate them, huh? Don’t fucking put words in my mouth.”

Shouto narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me. That’s not your happy face.”

Bakugou wrinkles his brow. He looks askance at Shouto. “What the fuck is my happy face?” He jerks his head to the pile of presents. “The pens would have been fine, idiot. You didn’t have to get me so much damn stuff.” 

Shouto shifts. Picking at the black bed sheets, he asks hesitantly, “Really? You like the gifts? Are they okay?”

Bakugou surveys him again, eyes shrewd and considering. His lips tug down in displeasure. “You’re overthinking shit again.” He huffs aloud. Reaching out, Bakugou gathers the stray scraps of wrapping paper and aggressively balls them up. “I like them. Alright? I need the pens, so I’ll use them. Probably tomorrow even. I haven’t tried that hot sauce yet, so I don’t know what the fuck you’re going on about it being too damn normal.”

Bakugou hasn’t? Pleased, Shouto makes a mental note to thank the cashier the next time he sees her.

“The exercising weights are, uh, light.” Shouto furrows his brow. Bakugou glares and barrels on, “But I can probably use them as fucking stress relief.” He makes a face. Bakugou mutters under his breath, “Those crappy stress balls explode every time I use them anyways.”   

“As for the clothes,” Bakugou continues, jabbing his thumb to the folded pile, “they’re . . . not bad.” He glances at them again. Shouto catches interest flickering across his face. Sounding impressed, Bakugou adds, “I’ll wear them.”

Shouto relaxes. So Bakugou does like the clothes then. He should thank Yaoyorozu and Jirou after this.

Bakugou’s knee bumps into him again. “So stop fucking moping. It’s pissing me off.” He looks away, mouth pressed into the palm of his hand. Gaze still averted, he tugs the hem of Shouto’s shirt and says gruffly, “I like this better than any present anyways.”

Shouto stares down at his worn white t-shirt with a cat’s sleepy face. Bewildered, he questions, “My shirt?”

Should he have gotten Bakugou a cat t-shirt? 

“No! Stupid! I mean you!” Bakuou glowers and spits out furiously, “What the fuck would I do with your stupid furball shirt?”

Oh. “Oh.”

Shouto flushes. Bakugou likes him better than any present? Affection squeezes his heart mercilessly. Helpless, he ducks his head to hide his growing smile.

Bakugou still catches it because he kicks Shouto’s foot. Crossing his arms, he scowls and gripes, “You’re such a fucking idiot. Skipped out on me all damn week. Made me think shit was happening that you wouldn’t fess up or something.” He makes an aggravated sound. Kicking Shouto’s foot again, he bites out, “And you were just stressing over birthday presents this whole fucking time.”

Guilt stabs Shouto. Is that what it seemed like to Bakugou? He was so busy trying to think of a birthday present that Shouto did not realize. “Sorry.” He bites his lips. “I just didn’t want to disappoint you.” 

“Over birthday presents?” Bakugou says, voice stark with disbelief. 

Shouto squirms under Bakugou’s skeptical stare. “Because we’re boyfriends now,” he tries to explain. “And I don’t —” 

His thoughts glitch, words shorting out on his tongue. Shouto swallows. How does he explain that making friends is already hard enough, much less dating? He likes what he has with Bakugou. He really, really does. The more he spends time with Bakugou, the more that warm, tingling happiness blooms, and the more he likes Bakugou. He wants it to be the same for Bakugou too. 

Shrugging, Shouto looks down and folds his hands. “I like you. I don’t want to be a bad boyfriend.”

The truth hits him as soon as he lets it slip. That is really why finding the perfect gift for Bakugou is important. He wants Bakugou to be as happy as Bakugou makes him.

“Who the fuck says you are?” Bakugou barks. 

Shouto widens his eyes and lifts his head up. 

Bakugou glares. Fingers tapping furiously on the underside of his elbow, he vents, “What the hell did I just fucking say about putting shitty words in my mouth? Hah? I don’t waste my fucking time with people I don’t give a damn about! I don’t know shit about dating either! You’re the only fucking person I wanna go out with! Get it through your head!” 

Bakugou scowls. Throwing him another dirty look, he complains, “Actually get out of your shitty head. There’s nothing there that makes any damn sense. You — Oi!”

Shouto dives into him, tumbling them into bed. Wrapping his arms around Bakugou, he smushes his face into Bakugou’s shoulder. Their knees knock painfully together, but Bakugou’s familiar scent surges all around him. The sense of comfort wraps around him like his favorite blanket, and Bakugou is — he is just so warm and comforting and everything Shouto wants. He presses closer and does not let go.

Bakugou stiffens underneath him. His hands hover across Shouto’s back, not quite touching like he does not know where to put them. He asks stiltedly, “What .  . . what are you, uh, doing?”

“Hugging,” Shouto mumbles into his t-shirt. He squeezes tighter and buries his face into the crook of Bakugou’s neck. “Hug me back.”

There is a silence for a heartbeat, and then Bakugou grumbles, “You’re like a damn cat.”

He slings his arm across Shouto’s back though, grip light and careful. Shouto relaxes and leans into his touch. Bakugou’s fingers twitch on his back before he tightens his grip and hugs Shouto closer.

Shouto smiles into his shirt. Affection lights up, bright and exhilarating, a shooting star where his heart should be. Squeezing Bakugou again, he glances up and says, heartfelt, “Happy birthday, Bakugou.”

Bakugou gazes down, expression rapt and focused the way Shouto only ever sees when he trains and is on the verge of advancing a new type of attack. His hand flexes on Shouto’s side, and then he tilts his head down. Warm lips graze Shouto’s forehead, hot breath tickling his skin. “Thanks.”

Bakugou draws back. Ears tinged red, he does not meet Shouto’s wide eyes and pushes Shouto’s head back down. 

Shouto stares unseeingly at the black fabric of Bakugou’s t-shirt. The kiss tingles on his forehead. The shooting star streaks through him again, and he wonders how it is possible to like someone this much. Popping back up, Shouto bumps his head into Bakugou’s palm and tugs his sleeve. “Bakugou.” He leans in, trying to catch Bakugou’s eyes. “Again.”

Bakugou blinks and then blinks again. His face flushes red. Twisting away, he shoves at Shouto’s shoulders. “GET OFF!” Shouto latches on tighter. Bakugou’s eyebrow twitches. He kicks, trying to roll him off. “YOU — THAT’S IT! I’M KICKING YOUR DUMB ASS OFF THE BALCONY!”

“Bakugou. Again,” Shouto protests, grabbing onto him. “I  want — Mm?” A knee slips in between his legs. He barely registers Bakugou’s fingers fisting his shirt before he hauls Shouto up and over. The bedroom flips upside down. “Oof.”

Shouto blinks up at the ceiling. Pain streaks up his tailbone. Turning his head, he stares at Bakugou, scowling and red-faced. “Ah.” Right. Maybe he is too blunt. He tries again, “Please?”

“FUCK OFF!”

“He likes the sweatshirt, huh?” Jirou drawls, sliding into the sofa empty cushion next to him. 

Shouto nods. His eyes travel over the black and orange sweatshirt. Profile facing him, Bakugou opens the gift bag that Kaminari gives him. He immediately snaps it close and hurls it back at Kaminari, cursing loudly. Kaminari doubles over in laughter. Matching teasing grins spread across Kirishima’s and Sero’s faces.

Yaoyorozu sits next to Jirou and smiles. “I’m glad he does. You put a lot of thought into choosing the clothes for him.”

“And you tried really hard wrapping the presents!” Hagakure quips from behind them. Leaning over the back of the sofa, she giggles, her pink ruffled dress fluttering. “It was so sweet!”

Jirou grins. “I didn’t know you were a romantic, Todoroki.”

Shouto shakes his head. “Hagakure did most of the wrapping.”

“But still! Effort counts!” Hagakure protests. Yaoyorozu nods emphatically in agreement. 

Shouto tilts his head. Grateful, he says sincerely, “Bakugou likes the clothes. And the rest of the presents. Thanks for helping me.”

Hagakure giggles again. Reaching out, she slaps his palm in an abrupt high-five. “Of course!”

“Yes, any time! Feel free to drop by when you want to shop together again!” Yaoyorozu says enthusiastically. “Right, Kyouka?”

Jirou looks a little pained, but her eyes flick to Yaoyorozu’s smile and away. Cheeks a little pink, she nods. Changing the subject, she asks, “By the way, why’s your forehead so red?”

Shouto’s lips twitch up at the memory. Both the second kiss and the exasperated facepalm he got tingles on his skin again. “Nothing.”

He glances back towards the kitchen. As if he can tell, Bakugou turns his head and catches his gaze. He looks over at Shouto and then at Jirou, Yaoyorozu, and Hagakure. Bakugou raises an eyebrow.

Shouto’s lips quirk up again. Iida was right. Finding the perfect gift is not important. Being the one to give a birthday present to Bakugou is. 

Happiness and affection surges warmly, fanning out inside of him like a soft halo of candlelight. Shouto smiles. 

After all, no one else is Bakugou’s boyfriend . . . or can wake him up at midnight and not get flung off the balcony.