Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in Troy is sterile. 

That’s the only word for it. 

It’s too new, too clean. 

In actuality, it’s probably no different from Heights Alliance when they first moved in, but it’s missing something. 

Hope, maybe. Or the promise of tomorrows. The anticipation of memories waiting to be made. 

There is anticipation here as well, but it’s of another kind entirely. It hangs heavier. Sharper. A hospital full of bright needles and empty beds, waiting to be filled. It’s all cold concrete, and it echoes as they pad through the hall, nothing soft or warm to dampen their feet or their pounding hearts. 

And it feels both too much and not enough like their old dorm, like a cardboard cutout, like a disposable one-use version, which it essentially is, right? Because all it needs to do is get them through the night, because tomorrow everything’s going to hell. And their footsteps are still echoing through the entryway and the tension is so fucking palpable that—

“I don’t want this to be my final resting place… but it’ll do.”

It’s Sero that breaks the silence, with a grin that doesn’t begin to reach his eyes. 

Satou and some of the other extras grumble about the appropriateness of the comment. 

Mina giggles, and it doesn’t sound quite right.

Kami buzzes. Literally buzzes. It’s a low hum and Bakugou feels it more than he hears it. Tastes it even. Like copper and ozone.

Kirishima doesn’t react at all. Unless tightening his jaw and grasping his box of belongings a bit tighter warrants the word. And perhaps it does, because Bakugou goes out of his way to bump shoulders with him, to look him in the eyes, to see those eyes soften at the attention paid to them.

“I wanna room next to you again,” the redhead blurts out.

Bakugou scoffs. “Why wouldn’t you? We’re using the same assignments, aren’t we?”

Kirishima shakes his head. “Some people are talking about mixing it up. They wanna be close to their friends. I think Midoriya, Todoroki and Iida are planning on getting rooms together.”

“Figures,” Bakugou huffs, passing their classmates filling up the elevators and heading toward the stairs. “Those morons are always making things more complicated.”

Kirishima follows him. “I think it’s nice, actually. Especially since…” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“So anyway,” he continues, “if our regular rooms are taken, let me find one next to yours, yeah?” And then Kiri's looking up at him, and he’s making that face—the stupidly earnest one that’s both hopeful and pouting at the same time.

Bakugou wonders—not for the first time—if the redhead knows the power he wields with that expression, but he doubts it. That’s what makes it so powerful.

“Pleease?”

“Whatever. It’s not like it really matters where our rooms are, anyway.”

Kirishima deflates a bit at that, but when Bakugou holds open the door to the fourth floor for him, his smile returns.

Their rooms are still empty, and they feel no less empty once they’ve claimed them and dropped off their things.

Kirishima bites his lip as he looks down at the bed. One box, and the bag he’d had on his back. That’s all he’s brought with him. That’s all most of them brought. Just the bare necessities and a few personal items to make it feel like home. Bakugou hadn’t even bothered with the box. Nothing is going to make this feel like anything but what it is. Still, he doesn’t like Kirishima hesitating. 

“You going to unpack or what?” he blurts.

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t bring anything worth unpacking.”

“Yeah, well,” Kirishima frowns. “I’m not sure I see the point anymore.”

Which wouldn’t do.

At all.

Because it’s one thing for Bakugou to be pessimistic. That’s a given. But Kirishima losing his trademark optimism is like—well—something bad, okay? Because the boy actually deserves to be optimistic, dammit!

“Fine.” Bakugou stomps out, and when Kiri doesn’t immediately follow, he goes back, grabs the idiot’s hand and drags him to his room. Where he promptly makes a show of taking each item out of his duffel and displaying it prominently along the top of his dresser.

After plunking down his toothbrush with an unnecessary flourish, Bakugou spreads his arms. “Fucking ta-da. Unpacked. Your turn.”

“Bakugouuu,” Kiri groans, covering his face with his hands, and Bakugou can already tell he’s helped, because Kirishima only stretches out his words like that when he’s pleased. 

Which makes Bakugou pleased. Which is why he ignores Kiri’s protests and pulls him out the door and back into his own room. “Your turn,” he repeats.

“But it’s silly.”

“You like silly things.”

“But you’ll think it’s silly.”

“So what? You wear your hair up in those shitty spikes all the time and you don’t see me complaining.”

Kiri blinks. “But you do. Like. All the time.”

“That’s not the—”

“You literally call me Shitty Hair.”

“Whatever. Bad example.”

“Shitty. Hair.”

“Okay. Fuck. Yeah… but it is shitty.”

“And there it is.”

“And I reserve the right to tell you that as often as I see fit.”

“Which you do.”

“Which I will continue to do. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Decorating. We’re talking about decorating. And that maybe I think it’s stupid, but so what? It makes you happy. So decorate.”

Kirishima crosses his arms. “Promise you won’t make fun of me?”

“Ughh. Fine. Just open the damn box.” Bakugou grins. “I wanna see what Kirishima Eijirou’s priority decor looks like. Bet there’s at least one ugly ass motivational poster in there.”

“Bakugou, you promised!”

“What? I didn’t call it stupid. Just ugly.”

“You’re impossible. You know that, right? But… no. I didn’t bring any posters.”

“Flame curtains, then.”

“No.”

“The muscle clock?”

“No!”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Bakugou—”

“But seriously—if you didn’t bring any of that gaudy shit, what do you have to be nervous about?”

“Just…” Kirishima opens the box, but instead of the colorful mishmash Bakugou expects—the flashy trinkets Kiri had displayed so proudly back at UA—there’s a pile of… stuff. 

Just that. 

No colors. No flames. 

Just. Unremarkable. Stuff.

Some envelopes, a few newspaper clippings. Half an eraser. A chunk of brick. A piece of metal. 

Bakugou can’t help but look at the other boy, confused. 

“Look," Kirishima sighs, "I know what you’re thinking—”

“I don’t think you do.”

“—that I’m depressed or something—”

“Okay, maybe you do.”

“—but I swear that’s not it.”

“Though honestly, we’re all fucked up at this point. If you’re not at least a little bit depressed, there’s probably something worse wrong with you.”

Kiri smiles sadly. “You’re probably right about that. But… that’s not what this is.”

“Alright. So tell me. What is it, then?”

“It’s just…” Kirishima rubs the back of his neck, staring determinedly down at his feet. “Back in the dorms, I sort of went all out, ya know? Like I was trying to project what I wanted to become. Manifest it. Fake it ‘til you make it or whatever. Just—I was trying to become someone else. Someone better. More like Crimson Riot. More like someone—anyone—confident and strong. And it kind of worked. I guess? I think I did grow. Change a bit, maybe. And I’m proud of who I’ve become. Really. But that’s just it! Here… I—I don’t want to be someone else anymore. Because if—if I don’t stay long—I want to at least have spent my time here as—well—me.” Kiri blinks and swallows thickly, gaze still fixed on his shoes. “Just me.”

Bakugou doesn’t know when traitorous tears started welling up in his eyes, but hell if he’s going to draw any attention to it by wiping them away. Instead he wills his voice to remain clear and strong. “Then tell me about this stuff. What does it mean to you?”

“Well,” Kiri says, grabbing the bent metal, “this is from that guy with the blade quirk, back when I debuted. It was the first time I'd really put Unbreakable to the test. I’ve got a couple newpaper articles about it, too, and some about other things. USJ, the Shie Hassaikai raid, stuff like that.” He pulls the papers out and spreads them across the top of the dresser. Bakugou notices a couple are about their friends as well. There’s even one about his own debut with Todoroki after completing his provisional license course. 

“And these,” Kirishima goes on, his voice brightening as he takes the envelopes from the box, “are some of the letters I’ve got since then. One is from someone who was in the street that day with the blades, another is from—well, it doesn’t matter. They’re just—it’s cool, you know? Knowing you made enough of a difference that someone would take the time to write.” He sets the pile next to the clippings and Bakugou could swear he sees his mother’s handwriting peeking out on the corner of one of them.

Which is surprising.

But also not. Because of course she’d want to thank him for —

Kirishima frowns a bit as he sets the brick on top. It’s broken and it’s charred. And there’s no way it’s not in his head, but Bakugou could swear he even smells the thing—some mixture of ash and desperation—the same scent that permeates his nightmares.

“Kamino,” Kirishima admits, his face reddening. “I know it’s not a happy memory, exactly. Especially for you. But—it—it’s part of me now. You know? It changed a lot of things.”

Bakugou does know. It changed… well… everything. All Might. Hero Society. Society at large. The school. 

The stakes. 

His sleep. (Or lack thereof.) His perspective. His relationship with Izuku. His relationship with… everyone.

His view of hope. Of its power. Of the difference it can make in the midst of despair. Of the forms it can take. Of the explosions it can ignite at the sight of red flashing across a darkened sky.

“Bakugou?”

He realizes at once that he’s gotten lost in himself again. That he’s been staring. That the red he sees are eyes, and that they’re locked on his, full of everything he never wanted. 

Until.

“Sorry. Just. Kamino. Yeah. But, yeah. I get it.”

Kirishima searches his expression for a moment more, before looking down at his dresser.

“That it, then?”

“Oh—yeah, no. But mostly. Just some pictures.” He fiddles with something in the bottom of the box, takes out a few picture frames and sets them on the desk. Puts his hands in his pockets.

There are three. 

Bakugou’s seen them before, scattered across a corkboard in Kiri’s dorm back at UA, along with dozens of others. The boy loves pictures with his friends, after all. He has several with Mina, the two flashing bright smiles—Mina often with her tongue out, Kiri often putting his fingers up in makeshift horns to match his friend. He has nearly as many with Denki, and they’re all ridiculous—the two idiots flexing, or wrestling, or posing, or climbing on one another, or whatever—like they couldn’t just stand still and take a normal picture.

Of course, these aren’t the only ones. Kirishima has at least one photo with everyone in the class. That’s how he’d justified making Bakugou take a selfie with him in the first place. Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past Kiri to have taken at least a few of them (Tokoyami, Kouda and Shouji look less than thrilled in their entries) just so he could use the argument.

And there it is. 

Three pictures framed. One of the redhead just after he’d gotten into UA, blushing in the middle of a hug between his moms. One of the squad. 

And one with him.

Bakugou wasn’t even smiling in it. But Kirishima was beaming, his arm thrown recklessly around Bakugou’s shoulder. 

And it’s doing weird things in his stomach. It’s a picture of him, but looking at it feels disrespectful somehow. Like he’s looking at something private. Like he doesn’t deserve to see the other boy’s smile radiating up at him that way. Especially not with the look on his own face staring somewhere off camera. Like he couldn’t have been bothered. Like he hadn’t even tried. 

And yet here he is. One of three. And he doesn’t deserve it. He’s known that for a while now. Doesn’t deserve standing in—

“Hey, I’ll be—I just gotta—I’ll be right back,” he blurts, not even looking at his friend before turning and fleeing to his room. 

He shuts himself in the bathroom. Breathes. 

Calm the fuck down, idiot. This is not the time.

There may never be another time. 

He knows that. But it doesn’t matter. Because if time is short, then fuck if he’s going to waste it on tears. Not with Kirishima in the other room. Probably wondering why he ran off. Probably assuming the worst. Probably thinking Bakugou hates that he brought the picture.

Fuck.

He stands up, turns on the sink and splashes cold water in his face. Flushes the toilet for good measure. Washes his hands and his face again.

It’s fine. It’s not. Everything’s fine.

When he returns to Kirishima’s room, he finds him standing on the balcony. The picture is still on the desk.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Kiri returns, gaze never leaving the sky.

Bakugou joins him on the ledge overlooking the ruined city. So much loss. So much more of it to come. But the sun is determined to set all the same, bathing the scene in purples and pinks. Like it’s still meant to be beautiful.

“Why the hell do we even have balconies?”

Kirishima shrugs. “Why do we still have desks?”

“It’s like they want us to think we’re still in school. Like any of this is normal.”

“Would you rather they’d given us windowless cells?”

“No. I just—I don’t understand.”

Kirishima looks up. Closes his eyes. “I’m glad.”

“For what?”

“For the balconies,” he says, looking back at Bakugou.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Tonight… I wanna look at the stars.”

Tonight. And it’s almost tonight. Is already tonight. 

A door shuts somewhere below and Uraraka walks out toward the ledge, wrapped up in a cardigan. She plays with her sleeves, hair blowing in the breeze. 

Kirishima’s brow furrows in concern. “Do you think she’s—?”

But then another door shuts, and there’s Deku, jumping from his own balcony like an idiot. (As if the two of them weren’t thinking of doing the same.)

Kirishima sighs.

“She’ll be alright,” Bakugou mumbles, watching the boy in green go to stand beside her. “Fucking finally.”

The damn nerd better manage to tell her, while he still has the chance.

“Huh?”

“Deku.”

“Oh… so you think he’s gonna confess?”

Apparently the situation was obvious to everyone. Everyone but the green-haired moron down below. 

“He’d better,” Bakugou growls. “If he’s man enough.” 

Kirishima frowns. “Baku—”

“Let’s go check on the idiots.”

Kirishima shakes his head, manages a smile again. “Yeah. Okay, then.”

They make the rounds, checking in on most everyone, if only for a moment. They spend a bit of time in Shouto’s room, and even more in Midoriya’s, before claiming a corner of the common room with the squad. 

Bakugou’s not a drinker. Not really. But he could be, right now. It’s the kind of night that begs for alcohol. For fun. For forgetting. For just getting through it, if only he could afford the hangover.

He can’t. None of them can.

So they pass around melon soda and pretend that it’s just another school night. They try, anyway. But pretending is hard. Silence creeps in too often, stays too long. Their banter feels forced, their laughter hollow.

The sun has fully gone down and the room is beginning to empty when Jirou walks over.

“Bakugou said you needed something?” She asks, glancing nervously at Kaminari.

“Um, no?” Kami flails, looking accusingly at Bakugou. “I don’t think so? What the hell, man?”

“You need to go to bed,” Bakugou grunts, sitting up straighter and putting his phone away. “You all do.”

There are groans all around. 

“Kacchan—”

“Shut it, Pikachu. You have to power a damn electromagnetic barrier tomorrow, and if I see you yawning, I swear to God—”

“Ugghh… fine. But—”

“And the rest of you. Think the villains are going to go easy because you’re short on sleep? Hell no. I don’t want any of you idiots dying because—”

He freezes—the words stopping, jamming. Revolting. Because he’s done it. Messed up. Broken the unspoken rule. Said the word.

Dying.

He stares at his shoes, trying to stop the spiraling, trying to ignore the silence that has engulfed them once again. The silence he caused.

And his eyes are burning. And he needs to fucking get a grip and—

Mina’s hand is on his.

“We love you, too, Blasty.”

And then Kiri is there, rubbing slow circles into his back. 

And suddenly the whole group is on him, encircling him, holding him and holding each other. And usually this would be too much, and he’d be breaking up it up with loud explosions and louder words. But nothing about this night is usual. So he holds them back. 

Until it really does need to stop. Because the morning is still coming. And he meant what he said.

“Alright. That’s enough. Bedtime.” 

There’s another round of protests, but he ignores it, pushing them away.

“Come on, guys. Fucking… detach yourselves, dammit. Denki, walk Jirou to her room.”

“I don’t need a—”

“Fine. Jirou, walk Denki to his room.”

She apparently has no argument with this and neither does Kaminari, who just shrugs and holds out his hand. 

She looks at it a second too long before taking it, a blush creeping up her neck. And normally this kind of slip-up would warrant some sort of teasing. A laugh, a whistle, a catcall or two. 

But not tonight.

The two hesitate at the group’s edge, their expressions saying everything they can’t.

“You love us. We know. Now get out of here.” Bakugou orders. “And you two,” he says, turning to Mina and Sero. “Walk each other to your rooms.”

“But,” Sero stutters, “we’re on different sides. How do we—?”

“Fuck if I know,” Bakugou rubs a hand down his face. “Figure it out. I’m taking Kirishima.”

Said redhead manages to choke on air, somehow.

Mina smiles and pats Kiri’s back.

“Mina—” Bakugou growls.

“We love you. You know. And we know you love us, too.” She smiles and puts her hands up placatingly. “We’ll get out of here.”

“But how are we—?” Sero is still scratching his head.

“Oh honey.” Mina just takes his arm and leads him to the elevator. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

Bakugou watches them go, watches them join Denki and Jirou behind the elevator doors. Watches the doors slide shut.

And suddenly it’s just him and Kirishima. Just the two of them and the moment they’ve both been dreading. Because time is up.

“Come on,” Bakugou huffs, holding out his hand.

Kirishima looks at it a second too long before taking it, a blush creeping up his neck. And normally Bakugou would ignore this kind of slip-up. 

And he still does.

The wait for the elevator takes forever. It isn’t nearly long enough. And their joined hands are stiff. Uncertain. But neither of them mention it.

The ride to the fourth floor is quiet. Another silence they don’t know how to break. And their hands are getting sweaty. But neither of them mention it.

The walk to their rooms is agony. It feels too much like credits rolling, like the last page in a book they never meant to finish. And their hands are gripping tighter. But neither of them mention it. 

They stand in front of Kiri’s door. Bakugou doesn’t want to see it open. (He doesn’t think he can watch it close.)

“Bakugou, I—”

“You should take a shower.”

“What?”

“You should take a—”

“Why? What does it matter?”

“You’ll feel better.”

They’re still staring at the door.

“You’ll sleep better.”

“Bakugou—”

“Guess I should, too.” He drops the other’s hand. Turns to his door.

“No.”

“What?”

“No,” Kirishima repeats, and he grabs Bakugou’s arm, pulls him back so they’re facing each other once again.

“You need to go to bed, Kiri. So do I.”

“Not before we’re done talking.”

“There’s nothing left to say.”

There’s too much left to say.

“I’m trying to say good night.”

“That’s not a thing we do.”

“This isn’t any other night, Bakugou. I know you know that.”

“Fine. Goodnight.” 

He turns away again, tries to break free from Kirishima’s grip, but the other boy just pulls him back.

“Fuck, Kiri, what do you want from me?”

“I’m trying to say GOODBYE, dammit!” And if the raised voice and the swearword isn’t enough to clue Bakugou in, the sight of his friend’s face leaves no argument. Kirishima is upset. Hurt. Angry.

Devastated.

Bakugou can’t do it. Kirishima is a mirror now. Because if the other boy looks hard enough, he’ll see the same thing in Bakugou’s eyes. See it pour out of him. Because it is.

Because both of them are.

And tears are something Bakugou has never known how to handle—his or anyone else’s.

“I’ll still see you tomorrow,” he chokes.

“Maybe,” Kiri’s voice breaks. “Briefly.”

It’s too much. Bakugou can’t do it.

So he won’t.

“Fuck it.”

“What?”

“Go take a shower, Kiri.”

“But I don’t—”

“Go take a shower. A quick one. I’m gonna take one, too, and then I’ll come over.”

Kiri’s eyes widen, and he swallows down another sob. “Really?”

“Really. Now go. We don’t have all night.”

And suddenly the redhead is all movement. One second he’s there and the next he’s behind his door already. Bakugou’s about to go in his own room when he hears the other’s open again.

“Bakugou?”

“Yeah?”

“This isn’t a trick?”

“This isn’t a trick.”

“Promise me.”

“What kind of—?” Bakugou sighs. “Fine. I promise.”

Kiri looks at him a second more before nodding and disappearing again.

And Bakugou can’t blame him. Not really. 

He hears the shower turn on in the room next door and goes to start his own. Will this be the last— 

No. He's not dealing with that word. Last. There are too fucking many last goddamn things. And he doesn’t want to think about them. This is just another shower. And the longer he takes, the less time he has to sleep. To try to sleep. 

The less time he’ll have with Kiri.

And that’s all the motivation he needs.