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Rat poison, they said it was. Drank it down in one big gulp. No one knows how he got hold of it. Shouldn’t be rat poison in a holding cell. Even if there are rats. Shouldn’t be poison lying around like that. Smells like an inside job. Like a cover-up.
He doesn’t know the details. He always knows the details but not this time. Can’t get anyone to talk, and he always gets them to talk. But it’s different when you’re interrogating people on your side. People who are protected in ways criminals aren’t. People who wouldn’t drink rat poison down in one big gulp. Wouldn’t need to. People you aren’t supposed to be interrogating anyway.
So he files the incident away under “mysteries for another time.” A section in his brain that’s full to bursting. All these crimes hidden under crimes he can’t fix because they won’t let him. And there’s so much to do out there—so many bad guys blowing shit up. Only he’s allowed to blow shit up.
There’s no time anymore. No time to focus on detail. Only time to sweat, ignite, arrest. Ask questions later. Ask questions never.
There’s no time anymore. But there is time for this. Just now. Just today.
“It’s crazy, right?” Kaminari says, his fingers twitching against the side of his drink. Bakugo wonders if he’s on something these days. Has wondered for a while. So twitchy. But then again, electricity flows through those fingers. Is he on something, or is he just on? Ready at a moment’s notice? “I think if the commercial goes well, they’ll finally consider me for a merch line.”
“That’s sick, dude,” Sero replies. He grins the way he always does. Not the way he used to back at school, but the way he does now. The way he grins at interviewers while bloodied and beaten after a fight. Grinning to show the world he’s okay, of course he is. Better than okay. Victorious.
But Bakugo knows his smile from back then. Back when it reached his eyes. Back when it held a bit of humor, a bit of mischief.
“Any tips?” Kaminari asks, eyes flicking to Ashido.
“For the commercial or the merch line?” she replies. People like her. Like her look, like her spunk. They think she’s weird in a hot way, hot in a weird way. Think she’s hot in a way that being attracted to her is a form of activism.
“Both, I guess.”
She isn’t the most successful out of them, but she is the most televised. In a glamorous way, that is. Always selling something—her own merch, usually. Her makeup line. Cosmetics for mutant-types like her.
He wonders if they’re any good, her products. She never seems to wear them herself if the purple rings under her eyes are anything to go by.
“Be pliable,” she says, tapping a finger to her chin. Her manicure is chipped. “Do whatever the director says, even if it feels stupid. Or sounds stupid. Fighting back early on will only make you ‘difficult to work with.’ You don’t want that.”
He stops listening. He’s heard this before. Not from Ashido, but from his people. His sidekicks, his manager, his PR team. He’s done commercials, too. Has merch, too. But he’s difficult to work with, so the commercials don’t air until late. The merch gets limited drops. For urgency, they told him. Buy it now or it’s gone forever.
Yeah, sure.
“What’s on your mind?” Kirishima asks, elbowing him.
He doesn’t answer, just elbows back.
“Come on,” he prods, flashing his pointed teeth. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing. Work stuff.”
“Bad guy got your tongue?”
“Fuck off, Shitty Hair.”
Bakugo doesn’t know how he does it. How he can make jokes and laugh for real and eat a full plate of food without feeling sick after. But he does it. Seems to, anyway.
He doesn’t know how to tell him about the rat poison. How to tell him it’s all fucked. The system is worse than they thought. School prepared them for a lot, but not for everything. Not for all this.
It’s not like Kirishima doesn’t know. He has to know. He’s in just as deep as they all are. But he gets a full night’s rest. Makes new friends. Responds to messages.
But there’s a part of Bakugo that just can’t. Can’t tell him about the grit. He looks at Kirishima and sees his childhood dream. Sees a hero happy, a hero strong and courageous, a hero who always wins and doesn’t go home with blood staining his hair and teeth and shower floor and tears that won’t come but need to. Really need to.
He sees the ideal. He sees what he’d thought he’d be.
If there’s a chance Kirishima doesn’t know—hasn’t seen the things he’s seen—he’ll keep it that way. Maybe for him, being a hero is just flashy fistfights and saving the day. Maybe for him, his perps don’t wind up dead. Don’t wind up killed, but he can’t say that. Not if he doesn’t want a belly full of rat poison himself.
“Whatever it is,” Kirishima says, “you can tell me.”
They don’t go out for drinks again until five months later. Kaminari’s commercial aired, but it didn’t land the way they’d all hoped. He’s jittery again. Maybe he always is.
“They’re going the family-friendly angle now,” Sero groans. “I don’t mind kids, but I never saw myself doing this kind of thing.”
It’s that time of year students go back to school. Cellophane’s line of branded school supplies has sold well. Nobody expected it. And now he’s not allowed to swear. Not allowed to date. Not allowed to get too bloody or too violent or be too menacing. Otherwise parents might not buy his stuff.
Sero was never the menacing type. Never too rough and tumble, not like Bakugo. But now he can’t be. Now when he’s facing a life-or-death situation he’ll have to think twice. Think about his image. His branding.
It’ll get him killed. Bakugo told him to forget about his manager’s instructions, but he won’t. Can’t. He’s not as high in the ranks as Bakugo. Not as invincible. It’ll get him killed, this new image.
It wouldn’t be the first funeral they’ve attended for a classmate. Wouldn’t be the last, either.
“I’m going to get another drink,” Kirishima says. “Anybody want anything?”
Everybody wants something.
Bakugo follows him to the bar. He can’t carry that many drinks by himself, though he’d try to. He’d try to and he’d drop them and it’d be funny coming from him. Charming. Red Riot would be in the headlines for making a mess. For buying the whole bar a round after causing trouble. He’d smile and it’d be real and a civilian would take a picture from across the bar and it would go viral.
So Bakugo follows him.
“I never thought you’d grow up to be a white wine guy,” Kirishima says as they wait for the drinks.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “I just would’ve pictured something stronger. Like whiskey.” He holds out his hands, fingers slightly curled in the way Bakugo’s do when he fights. “Fireball, maybe.”
“It’s not my fault the rest of you have shitty fucking taste,” he snarls.
He’s not much of a white wine guy. Not really. But he overheard his sidekicks talking once. They were going out. A party somewhere. Wanted to meet up ahead of time to pregame. Tequila shots, maybe. Or vodka. Anything but white wine. White wine makes them cry.
So he’s drinking it. It’s gross. Too sweet. But maybe it’ll do the trick. Not tonight, but maybe one of these nights.
“Listen,” Kirishima says, leaning forward so no one else can hear. “I really think you should try whiskey next time.”
They don’t go out for drinks again until five weeks later. They’re quiet this time. Barely a word between the four of them.
“We don’t think it’s true, right? What they’re saying?” Ashido hedges.
“No way,” Sero says. He has a face mask on and his hood up. Cellophane isn’t supposed to be seen drinking. “He’s tougher than that. He’s unbreakable. There’s no way he’d go down that easy.”
“If he was gone, they’d have evidence by now,” Kaminari says, running shaking hands through his hair. “A body. A psycho criminal taking credit. Literally anything.”
“Maybe,” Ashido shrugs. “Depends on who he was fighting. They won’t release that information, though.”
“Yeah,” Sero says. “Nobody on my end knows anything.”
Bakugo doesn’t speak. They sit as if waiting for him. His input. Because he should know. Better than any of them. He should know where Kirishima is. He always knows where he is. Always knows. As if they’re connected. Linked, somehow. But he doesn’t say anything. Just drinks his white wine.
“I think my agency is going to drop me,” Ashido says.
They don’t get drinks after that. Not for a while. Not with him, anyway. He says no. Says he’s busy. Says he has work. And he does. There’s always work to be done. Always fights to be had. Mysteries to file away.
But he isn’t going to let Kirishima become one of those mysteries.
His friends say it’s because of the funeral. That’s why he doesn’t go out anymore. Saying goodbye was too hard. He didn’t even cry, what a pity. Not even the death of his best friend could break that shell of his. What a pity.
But it’s not that. It’s not.
There aren’t many whiskey distilleries in Japan. Doesn’t take him long to find the right one.
He’s been out of the news lately. One nasty fight and he has to lay low. Has to recover. Has to get used to the new eye. His irises don’t quite match anymore. Two different shades of red. It’s annoying. Makes him think of Icy Hot. But it’s better than the alternative. Better than no eye at all. And the scar is cool. Makes him look tough. Makes him look different. So he’ll take the cybernetic eye. Slightly miscolored, but it’s something different.
He has on glasses. Not because he needs them. He has on a face mask, too. Not because he’s sick. His clothes are unbearably normal, and his gait is a little unsure. But that’s on purpose.
He sees him right away. He looks different, too. Black hair. Tattoos across his arms that couldn’t be real, he thinks. Surely not. A scar across his throat. Healed, but nasty. Bakugo knows what a scar like that means. He bristles but keeps his cool.
Kirishima sees him too. They lock eyes. It’s tense.
Tense in the way it was at school. Tense in the way of many firsts—the first time Kirishima grabbed him by the hand to pull him away from some audacious first years.
Tense in the way Kirishima pinned him down during sparring practice—Bakugo’s first time losing to him. But he didn’t mind it. For once, he didn’t mind losing. Not when it felt like this. Not with Kirishima pressing against his thighs, his chest, his everything.
Tense in the way Kirishima pinned him down again, but this time against the wall of the locker room after everyone else had changed. Tense in the way their faces were just inches apart, their breath tickling each other’s noses, their cheeks flushed and heads unsure but wanting.
Tense in the way they tried new things.
Tense in the way they stopped after graduation. Moved to different cities. Lived different lives. Tried new things with new people. Tense in the way they both moved back. Found each other. Again and again, they found each other.
And here they are. Bakugo found him again. And it’s tense like it always is.
“Evening,” Kirishima says. “How can I help you?”
They get drinks a few short days after that. Just the two of them. The story hasn’t broken yet. Red Riot is alive. Red Riot singlehandedly brings down an entire yakuza ring posing as a distillery. Red Riot is back, arms scrubbed clean of fake tattoos and head full of whiskey facts he learned undercover.
The world doesn’t know that yet. The world still mourns. But Bakugo knows. He didn’t interfere with the case. Just had to know. Had to solve this one mystery. He could’ve blown the whole thing. Literally. But he didn’t. Let Kirishima handle it. Just had to know.
It’s tense. The two of them alone. Kirishima’s place is small. They never go here, but he can’t leave. It’s like he’s still in hiding. Still undercover. He has to lay low for a few more days. That’s all. Then they can go back to the bar.
But for now they sit on his couch. Facing forward, but close. Thighs nearly touching.
“It wasn’t too bad,” Kirishima shrugs. “They took me by surprise. Usually, I harden up before someone can get to me, but I didn’t hear them coming. I don’t know why I thought this, but I thought if your throat was slit you died. No matter what. But turns out that’s not always true. Sometimes you live.”
“Why didn’t they kill you after that? After they realized you were still alive?”
He laughs. Somehow, he laughs.
“I don’t know for sure. But I guess if you’re crazy enough to go back to the people who tried to murder you, they start taking you seriously. Start thinking maybe you mean it when you say you’re loyal. You believe in their mission. I think I just got lucky if I’m being honest.”
“That’s not luck,” Bakugo says. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” Kirishima says, glancing at Bakugo. “I wanted to, but…”
“No,” Bakugo says. That’s all he needs to say.
“It felt kind of cool, you know. Pulling off a mission like that. I think it must be how you feel all the time.”
“The hell are you on about?”
“You know,” Kirishima says, rolling his eyes. “You’re always so…good at this kind of thing. You always win. Nothing ever gets to you, no matter how hard the job is. You’re kind of my hero, man.”
Bakugo stares at him. He holds the glass of white wine in his hand so tight it could crack. Does a little.
“That’s not…” he begins. But he stops. Can’t talk around the lump in his throat.
Kirishima studies him. Just for a second. Doesn’t need long.
“Oh,” he says. “So…you feel like me, then.”
Bakugo nods.
“I didn’t know. I never realized.”
Bakugo nods again. It’s one of the hardest things he’s done, admitting it.
He thought Kirishima wouldn’t understand. Thought he could save him from the ugliest parts of it all. But Kirishima doesn’t need saving. Never has.
A few tears fall. A few more. Could be the white wine. Could be the man in front of him. Either way they fall.
Kirishima closes the gap between them, pulling Bakugo into an embrace. They haven’t done this since school. Haven’t done this since Bakugo’s nightmares stopped. Since he found a bit of peace lying next to someone in the dark.
“Stay over tonight?” Kirishima asks. “Like we used to?”
Bakugo nods again. Kirishima’s place is small. But he doesn’t mind. He’ll stay over. Tonight, tomorrow—however long. However long Kirishima will have him.
Like they used to.