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“Do you actually get this shit, halfie?”
Shouto comes to a halt. Turns around. The shit Bakugou is referring to, waving it in the air like he’s scared it’ll suddenly come to life and bite him, is their most recent reading assignment.
Shouto shrugs. “Sometimes,” he says. “Intellectual understanding isn’t always the point of art.”
“That makes no fucking sense,” Bakugou says, scowling. “Although it’s not like this thing does, either. Fucking absurd, alright.”
“I find it comforting,” Shouto says.
Bakugou scoffs. “Only you would find the inherent meaninglessness of life comforting,” he says.
“It’s not inherent,” Shouto says. “According to Camus, neither the world nor humanity are absurd on their own. But the meeting of both gives birth to the feeling of absurdity.”
“Could you tone it down a little for us poor mortal peons who weren’t blessed with whatever grotesque fascination you have with words?” Bakugou asks.
Shouto hides a small laugh behind his palm. “Grotesque isn’t exactly kindergarten-level vocabulary,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I open books sometimes.”
“Evidently.”
“Stop laughing, you bastard.”
“I’m not laughing at you, it’s just that—well, language is fascinating. The way people use language can be an indication of culture, upbringing, personality—,”
“Fucking nerd.”
“Case in point,” Shouto says.
Bakugou smiles, just a little. “Just help me understand this bullshit enough not to fail,” he says.
“Last I checked your literature grade was almost as high as mine,” Shouto says, shoving his hands into his pockets and beginning to walk. “You don’t need help.”
“Hey,” Bakugou says, chasing after him with the expected amount of vehemence, “just because I can do enough of this that our education system is pleased with it, doesn’t mean I get it.”
Shouto blinks. “Oh,” he says, “so you want to get it?”
“Of fucking course,” Bakugou says. “I intend to be the best at everything. And that includes fucking incomprehensible depressed French authors.” He gestures to the book again, eyeing it as if it personally wronged him.
Shouto bites at the inside of his mouth. “Well,” he says, “it’s not that difficult, really. Camus wanted to put into words something that concerns human life. Don’t you ever feel like you do the same things every day, the same pointless things, just because someone said you had to, and they don’t really bring anything to your life, but you do them anyway?”
Bakugou stares. “Of course not,” he says. “Yeah, some shit is pointless, but I do it to get where I have to, so it’s not like it doesn’t bring anything to my life.”
“Figures,” Shouto says. “You’ve always been a natural at revolt.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Bakugou asks, a couple of steps behind him.
“That you’ll make a good hero, probably,” Shouto says. “Come on, just walk with me. It’s almost lunchtime.”
For some unidentifiable reason, Bakugou goes red. “I—I’m fine here, halfie.”
“Oh?” Shouto asks. “I thought we could have lunch together. I could talk to you some more about how Camus perceived the absurd and how that reflects in his literary work.”
“What the— You want to have lunch with me?”
“Yes?” Shouto says. “I mean, it is pretty—pretty, uh, time-efficient. But if you don’t want to—”
“I want to,” Bakugou says firmly. He grabs Shouto’s hand and pulls him along, almost dragging him in the direction of the cafeteria, and Shouto can only follow, a little bemused but also—strangely glad. (For reasons he would greatly prefer not to elaborate on.)
…
“So,” Bakugou says, chewing thoughtfully, “the fact that there’s no universal meaning to life doesn’t stop us from creating our own meaning? Is that it?”
Shouto nods. “That’s right,” he says, taking a sip of his water. “The world is absurd, but we don’t have to take it. In The Myth of Sisyphus, he quotes Nietzsche. Art saves us from the truth. So it’s basically like—you can create your own meaning, every day. As long as you make something, it’s a form of revolt. You’re not giving in to the absurd.”
“That—sounds kind of nice, actually.”
“It is,” Shouto says. “It solves a lot of moral dilemmas.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s still fucking crazy, but I guess it makes sense. Better than when we covered the Romantic Movement, at least. If I have to read another love poem—” Bakugou shudders.
Shouto wants to laugh. Desperately. “Romanticism wasn’t all about love, though,” he says. “It was about—everything that evokes emotion. Even the dark and the grotesque.”
“All I know,” Bakugou says, “is that if I ever have to read that She walks in beauty like the night bullshit again, I’m going to hit someone.”
“To be fair,” Shouto says, “you’re probably going to hit someone either way.”
Bakugou snorts. “Probably,” he says, and it’s—
It’s mean and it's graceless and it makes Shouto want, want, want, nameless and twisting.
For a bit, it’s quiet, just the sounds of chewing and utensils moving. Then, “It’s kind of nice though, isn’t it?” Shouto asks.
“What?” Bakugou says.
“When—when what you feel for someone is so vast you have to make it exist outside of you.”
Bakugou laughs. It’s not necessarily unkind, but still—, “You want someone to write poems about you, halfie?”
Shouto flushes. “Not really,” he says. “I just wonder what it’s like. To love like that.”
“Probably really fucking lame.”
Shouto goes quiet.
“Look,” Bakugou says, after a while, “if I were, you know, in love with you or whatever the hell, I think I wouldn’t want to write poetry about you. The way your eyes light up when you smile, or how pretty I think the curve of your mouth is—I’d want to keep that shit to myself until the day I fucking died. Because it’s—too big to share, you know?”
Shouto looks up, eyes very wide. “You think my mouth is pretty?”
Without warning, Bakugou drops his spoon. It hits the ground. He doesn’t move to pick it up. “Yes,” he says, finally. “Sometimes.”
“Oh, well, um—thank you, Katsuki.”
Bakugou laughs. It’s bitter. “Very polite of you,” he says.
In a fit of—probably foolish, considering the explosions—bravery, Shouto reaches across the table, and takes his hand. “I,” he says. “I, um, I guess—I mean—,”
“So much for big words,” Bakugou says, but all of a sudden he’s smiling, wide and open.
“I like you,” Shouto says. “Even though your temper is—questionable, at best.”
“High praise,” Bakugou says. “I’m touched.”
Shouto scoffs, and tries to pull his hand away, but Bakugou (Katsuki? Can he be Katsuki now?) only clutches it tighter. “I’m pretty damn sure I need extra lessons,” he says. “Do you think I could come over later?”
Skin very much overheated, Shouto says, “You could.” Then, just because he can, “We can brush up on French Symbolism, too.”
Katsuki groans. “Please keep Baudelaire’s daddy issues and Rimbaud’s general debauchery out of my life.”
Shouto laughs. “And here I thought general debauchery was your end goal."
“Did you want it to be?” Katsuki asks, waggling his eyebrows. “Because that could be arranged.”
“You’re the worst,” Shouto says, shoving him away hard enough that his chair creaks against the floor.
(Later, when Katsuki tucks a few strands of hair behind his ear and leans in, he doesn’t say anything, just lets him.)