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You don’t even like oranges.
They’re too sharp, too acidic, like lightning on your tongue and the backs of your teeth. You only took them to class with you out of spite, pissed off at your housemate for some reason you can’t even remember.
You would never buy oranges for yourself. But you’d sure as hell storm out of the house with someone else’s.
Fucking idiot, you don’t even like them! The gross white bits stick under your nails as you peel them. Little droplets of juice fall onto your half-hearted biology notes. This class is so goddamn easy that you don’t even know why you bother showing up.
To your right, someone sighs like the world is ending.
Okay, maybe that’s a lie. Maybe you do know why you bother showing up.
Kaminari buys oranges again. He dumps them out of the grocery bag and onto the bottom shelf of the fridge where they roll around like baseballs every time you open it. Seeing them in there drives you insane.
So you take two to class.
You’re in the habit of not looking at him, when he sighs. It’s dangerous. He has a gnarly facial scar and an even gnarlier dye job. He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Looking at him is like staring into the sun, you’re going blind in your 8am lecture on cell mitosis.
He sighs and sets his pen down, shifting around in his seat to tuck his legs up under himself. You see the motion in your periphery. There’s an empty seat between you.
You blink hard, refocus. Peel your goddamn oranges.
There’s always a break in the middle of lecture. The professor’s one of those progressive types, believes in stretching and hydrating and all that shit in the middle of the ninety minute block. It’s your orange peeling break.
He slouches down in his seat, long legs stretched out on either side of the one in front. Over the chatter of your classmates, you hear his stomach growl. Of course he’s the kind of idiot who doesn’t eat breakfast.
You don’t look. You meticulously strip off all the stringy white bits on your oranges, both of them peeled but still whole. Break is almost over.
Your dad used to say that sharing food is an act of kindness. But you really don’t know much about sharing, or about being kind.
Maybe you should try learning something in this godforsaken class for once.
You rip off a small piece of notebook paper and place it on the empty desk between you and him, then set one of the oranges on top of it.
“Oi,” you say, because he’s sitting there with his eyes closed like it’s fucking kindergarten nap time (not that you looked at him to find out).
You’re very focused on sweeping all the peelings into a little pile on the corner of your desk, but you feel his gaze land on you. You gesture vaguely at your citrus offering.
“For…me?”
Why do you always fall in love with the stupid ones? Karma for your childhood sins or some shit?
“Who fucking else?”
There’s not nearly enough students in this course to fill up the lecture hall. There’s no one sitting around you two for three full rows.
“Oh,” he says, all this soft surprise coloring his voice. It’s horrible. The professor claps her hands together to signal the end of the break. “Thank you.”
You nod your head once in acknowledgement. You hardly did anything worthy of thanks. You hardly ever do.
The next day during break, you peel faster, possessed by something you cannot name. It’s stupid. You’re a fucking idiot. It’s just a dumb orange. They’re not even good.
“I really like oranges,” he says, because of course he does. He picks up the one you offered to the empty desk, same as yesterday. “Thank you. I’m Todoroki Shouto.”
Oh. You weren’t expecting to ever know his name. That’s- okay. Alright. You carefully store that information away where you won’t forget it.
(As if you could forget anything about him.)
“Bakugou,” you give back, half to his whole. Then: “You should really eat breakfast.”
He digs his thumb into the center of the orange, pulling it into two pieces. “I’m not really a morning person.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Sorry,” Todoroki says, smiling, somehow managing to not sound sorry at all. “I’ll try harder.”
Class goes on. You grimace around the taste of your orange slices and think about tomorrow.
Todoroki absolutely does not fucking try harder. He rolls into class every day at 7:59 looking like he just came from a photoshoot for some high-concept loungewear, disheveled and sleepy and gorgeous. Objectively, you can’t stand him. He flops into his seat like a deflated balloon and mumbles morning, Bakugou in your general direction, and the first forty minutes of class pass in a blur while you witness him waking up slow.
He perks up at the break, curls his body towards your seat to watch you peel the oranges. It occurs to you somewhere in the third week of this nonsense ritual that you could just give him an unpeeled one and make him do it himself, lazy goddamn bastard.
But you don’t.
You learn a lot of things about Todoroki, in these precious in-between minutes. Now that you’ve allowed him to start talking to you, he won’t shut up. Your brain is getting uselessly filled up with mundane little Todoroki facts. He takes his tea with two sugars, no milk. He doesn’t have any classes on Tuesdays. He’s only in this course because he needed a natural science elective, goddamn humanities majors. There’s a stray cat behind the music building that he feeds every day. He bought a new winter coat and he’s wearing it today, do you like it, Bakugou?
You hate it. It’s this oversized, grey, woolen number that makes his legs look a mile long and that he never buttons up even though it’s freezing outside. You lose time thinking about being wrapped up warm inside of it.
“It’s fine,” is what you say. God. You’re such an asshole.
But Todoroki just laughs and holds his hand out for you to deposit an orange into. “So complimentary,” he says. “Tell me something else you like about me.”
“I can’t stand you.”
The sun, the sun - don’t look, Katsuki, lest you burn up. You’re always flying too close. Learn your lesson for once.
“Let’s see each other tomorrow,” Todoroki continues, because he never fucking listens to a word you say.
“Tomorrow’s Tuesday.”
“Mm. It’s my day off.”
You already know this. It’s just one drop in the puddle, the lake, the ocean. You’re drowning.
“We can’t all be spoiled like you,” you say, deflecting. “I have class til noon.”
Todoroki hums again, peeling apart the wedges of his orange one by one and balancing them all in a little pile on his knee. He’s so goddamn weird. “Do you give oranges to all the boys in your other classes?”
Your heart is beating in your ears, suddenly. It’s so hard to fight. Just drown, already. Just light yourself aflame.
“I’m not a fuckin’ citrus charity.”
“Aren’t you?”
You look up at him. You feel the time ticking down, running away from you, all these moments you stole.
“Have lunch with me tomorrow, Bakugou. After your class.”
He doesn’t get it. You’re no good for him. You’re no good.
If you’re anything, it’s selfish.
“Alright.”
You have lunch on Tuesdays. You start hanging around after biology class all the other days, waiting for Todoroki to pack up his shit at a snail’s pace so you can leave together. You walk him to the dumb little plaza at the center of campus where all the paths meet, and Todoroki fucks off to the music building with a wave and a see you tomorrow, Bakugou. You’re always late to your next class but cannot bring yourself to give a fuck.
You get roped into helping Todoroki’s humanities major ass study for your midterm. Well, ‘roped into’ is a strong phrase. What actually happens is that Todoroki bitches and moans about taxonomy so much that you demand he comes to the library with you one evening to sort his shit out. And then suddenly you blink and like, half your week is filled up with Todoroki, he’s wormed in his way into all the cracks and crevices of your life.
All that time you spent not looking - you missed it. You missed it.
You’re walking home one day, the roundabout path through the trees at the bottom of campus. It goes past that weird little rotunda building, nestled away off the main road. You’ve never been in there, but sometimes in the late afternoons you can hear music coming from inside. Probably guest concerts and student recitals, that kind of stuff.
Like today. You stop outside, because you’ve got nowhere else to be and because it sounds…nice. Some classical shit, as if you know anything about what’s classical, but you can tell that whoever’s playing is pretty good. The wind blows, warm with the spring sunshine, carrying the sound away from your ears.
You backtrack towards the entrance without really thinking about it. There’s a pamphlet stuck to a wooden signboard near the door, advertising the performance.
Student Recital | Today, 3:15pm
Todoroki Shouto, violin
accompanied by Yaoyorozu Momo, piano
Then there’s a list of works and composers that don’t mean anything to you. But that name does. His name does.
You go in.
Quietly, as quiet as you can possibly be. You don’t really know the rules here but it’s probably rude as fuck to interrupt the middle of a performance by arriving late. You slip in silently, inching the door shut behind you.
Todoroki is on stage, dressed in a sleek black suit with his hair clipped back neatly from his face. Vaguely, you knew he played the violin. He’s always complaining about having to go practice, in the way people half-heartedly begrudge something they love. But you didn’t know he was actually good, holy shit.
The afternoon sun spills in through the rotunda, lighting up the stage in golden haze. He looks ethereal, blazing, focused like he never is in class or when you’re studying. Focused like when you talk about yourself and all his attention is on you, the weight of it buzzing in your chest. You don’t know shit about music like this but you stay and watch the entire performance, leaning against the back wall like a weirdo, too entranced to even bother creeping forward to sit in the back row. It’s incredible. He’s incredible.
He takes this awkward little bow at the end while the audience claps, shy and sweet, and you- you don’t know what to do. Leave, slip away, pretend that you never saw this piece of him, pretend that he’s just a boy you sit next to in class and not half the reason you go to class at all. Or stay, stay and- and let him see you standing here with your heart bouncing around against your ribcage, here because you saw his name and wanted to hear him. Wanted him.
He looks up and catches your eye while you’re frozen in indecision and just- lights up, flares up, the sun, the sun. It crackles under your skin like sparks.
The piano girl, Yaoyorozu or whoever the fuck, goes over and takes him by the elbow, corralling him down the shallow platform steps into the crowd of concertgoers. They gather around him, swallowing him, probably professors and family and friends and people who want Todoroki to play in their orchestra, or something. You don’t know. You don’t belong here, remember? You’re just some guy wasting his pocket change on oranges four days a week.
So you turn away, leaving as quietly as you came.
“Wait, Bakugou!”
You’ve made it as far as the back of the rotunda, circling around to the path home. You just want to go home.
But you turn at his voice, of course you do, and he’s running so fast that he barrels straight into you, nearly toppling you both into the grass.
“Sorry, sorry,” he gasps, breathless, arms around your shoulders. You catch his weight and find your footing, steadying him, steadying yourself. “Where are you going? Don’t leave yet.”
Don’t leave yet. His breath is warm on your cheek, he’s warm all over. He squirms closer to you and now it’s just a hug instead of a collision, too long, too much. You don’t have it in you to let go.
“You didn’t tell me you were performing,” you say, and try your best to not sound like you’re sulking. Todoroki huffs and squeezes you tighter.
“I didn’t think you’d want to come. It’s boring.”
“Like hell it is. Fuck, Half-n’half, you’re like, actually talented.”
Against your will you force yourself to pull back, because you want to- to look at him. You want to look at him and see him flushed and brilliant, focused and beautiful, sleepy and eating your orange slices one by one.
“Thank you. Try to make it sound less like a backwards insult next time,” he says, cheeky, smiling, hands slipped off your shoulders to tangle in your scarf, still so close. “Come see me next time.”
He tugs gently on the fabric, and it could be nothing, or it could be something. You could make it into something.
If anything, you’re selfish, and you thought you didn’t know how to be kind, how to want something outside of yourself. Is it still selfish, to take what’s offered? To covet what’s freely given?
He makes this pleased little noise when you kiss him, hands slipping right back up to your jaw, the nape of your neck. You kiss him slow because that’s how he makes you feel, like your whole world is sliding to a halt, narrowed down to a single point, to him. He’s so warm, warm, warm. It doesn’t burn like you thought it would. It doesn’t hurt, not at all.
“Bakugou,” he says when you part, pressing his thumb to the corner of your mouth, “I really like you.”
“Shut up,” you say reflexively. Then: “You drive me insane. I like you, too.”
Todoroki hums and worms his way back into your arms, tucking his face against the side of your neck. “Glad that’s settled, then. Take me to dinner? I’m starved.”
“Your leagues of adoring fans are waiting for you to grace them with your presence.”
“Mm, don’t care,” he says, carving a space out of your shoulder for his body. “I want soba.”
“‘Course you fuckin’ do. Eat a vegetable once and a while, you gremlin.”
“No, thank you. Your gremlin, right?” The hint of insecurity in those last three words makes your chest clench.
“You’re so goddamn embarrassing. Only you could get kissed on a public path and misconstrue what it means.”
“You can just say yes, you know. I won’t mind.”
You kiss him again just to shut him up. Absolutely no ulterior motives at all.
(And so you take him out for soba, and for ice cream afterwards, and you call him embarrassing again when he picks orange sherbet over every other flavor, and then you press him up against the door of his room and kiss him until you can’t breathe, until he’s pulling on your scarf and saying don’t leave yet one more time.
And it’s not selfish, you think, to stay. To want to stay. Not when he’s the one asking.
So, you do.)