Chapter Text
The first time he saw it, he didn’t think much of it.
Just another damn crack in the wall.
He sat up in bed, chest heaving, breath ragged and uneven. The dream had been brutal—louder, bloodier than usual. His quirk had gone off again in his sleep, judging by the scorched corner of his blanket and the smoldering edge of his pillow.
Sweat clung to him like glue, skin burning hot and then suddenly cold as the remnants of the nightmare evaporated, leaving him with the familiar aftertaste of smoke and helplessness.
He pressed a hand against his ribs, trying to slow his breathing. His fingers trembled.
It was always the same: debris raining down, screams echoing in his ears, hands slick with blood—too late, too slow, not enough.
But this time, something felt different.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, letting his heels rest against the cool floor. It was too early for anyone else to be awake. The room was dark, washed in the faint silver light of the moon slipping through his blinds.
He wiped at his face and stood, intending to change out the ruined pillowcase before it set off the smoke alarm again.
That’s when he saw it.
A thin fracture in the drywall, just beside his pillow. Jagged, imperfect, snaking out like the start of a spiderweb. It must’ve been from earlier—heat pulsing out through his palm when he couldn't stop it. But this crack wasn’t like the others. Not superficial. Not like the usual scorch marks and dented plaster from his midnight flareups.
It went deep. Through.
Bakugou stepped closer, frowning. The surface was charred at the center, edges singed in a sharp V shape. He squinted.
No, not just deep.
This one went all the way through.
The drywall was split wide enough that, when he leaned just right, a sliver of light bled through from the other side.
His breath caught.
Another room.
His brain flipped through the dorm layout like a mental blueprint. Room placements. Who was next to him. Unnecessary really, he knew whose room it was.
Bakugou blinked. Then again, slower this time. He wasn’t imagining it.
He edged closer, practically nose to the wall. The gap was narrow—barely wide enough to see anything at all—but when he tilted his head, the picture sharpened.
A bed. A nightlight glowing faintly in the far corner. A pile of clothes left on a chair. Posters on the wall—one of Crimson Riot, of course. A familiar camo comforter twisted around long legs and—
There he was.
Kirishima.
Sprawled on his side, fast asleep, one arm tucked beneath his head.
Bakugou didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
He just stared.
Kirishima looked peaceful.
His breathing was slow and steady, the kind of deep sleep that came after a hard training day. His shirt had ridden up just slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband. His hair, wild even in rest, fanned out messily across the pillow.
Bakugou’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed, throat tight.
He should’ve turned away.
Should’ve stepped back and grabbed literally anything to cover it.
But his feet didn’t move.
His eyes drifted lower.
The hem of Kirishima’s shirt was bunched, just above the gentle dip of his waist. The muscles along his back and side shifted subtly with each breath, the curve of his spine visible in the soft shadows of the moonlight.
And then, just above the waistband of his shorts, a faint line of scar tissue—a pale ridge across his skin.
Bakugou knew he shouldn’t be looking. He knew what this was—what it was becoming.
But the heat in his chest didn’t stop rising.
He dragged a hand down his face, tried to force himself to move away. To blink. To stop. But his fingers tingled. His legs felt rooted.
This wasn’t some generic fantasy. It wasn’t like the half-formed images that sometimes hit during late-night showers or locker room glances. This was real. It was Kirishima. And it was right there.
Bakugou didn’t jerk off.
Not usually. Not the way others did. Porn bored him. His classmates’ constant talk of crushes and fanservice meant nothing. He didn’t get it.
Until Kirishima.
And now—fuck—now, he couldn’t look away.
Eventually, shame kicked in. Enough to make him turn away and collapse back into bed, eyes wide and unblinking, heart racing so fast it made him nauseous.
He stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, the shape of Kirishima’s body seared into his mind.
When sleep came, it was shallow and bitter.
He didn’t fix the crack the next day.
He told himself he was too busy. Training. Classes. Patrol schedules. It wasn’t urgent. Just a stupid mark in the wall. Nothing dangerous.
And every night, it called to him.
As the days passed, Bakugou found himself increasingly distracted.
The crack in the wall became a constant reminder of that night, a haunting echo of the vulnerability he had witnessed.
He would catch himself staring at it when he should have been working on his homework, his mind drifting to the image of Kirishima, peaceful and unaware, while he fought against his own chaotic thoughts.
He tried to focus on his training, pushing himself harder, but the memory of Kirishima’s sleeping form lingered like a shadow, creeping into his thoughts at the most inconvenient times.
During sparring matches, he would find himself hesitating, his punches losing their usual ferocity as he recalled the way Kirishima’s muscles had shifted beneath his skin, the way the moonlight had danced across his body.
Bakugou’s friends noticed the change in him.
They exchanged glances, whispered among themselves, and he could feel their eyes on him, judging, questioning.
He brushed it off, pretending it didn’t bother him, but inside, he was a storm of confusion and frustration.
One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, Bakugou found himself alone in his room again, the crack in the wall looming in his mind.
He could hear the distant sounds of laughter and chatter from Kirishima’s room, the warmth of camaraderie spilling out. It made his heart ache.
He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, and made his way to the wall. He pressed his palm against the crack, feeling the rough texture beneath his fingers. It was a tangible reminder of the boundary between them, a barrier he was too afraid to cross.
What if Kirishima knew?
What if he could sense the way Bakugou’s heart raced at the thought of him? The idea sent a shiver down his spine.
He stepped back from the wall, the crack now feeling like a chasm between them. He didn’t know how to bridge that gap, how to express the turmoil inside him.
As the days turned into weeks, Bakugou found himself caught in a cycle of longing and denial. He would catch glimpses of Kirishima in the common areas, laughing with their classmates, his vibrant energy lighting up the room. And each time, Bakugou felt that familiar heat rise in his chest, a mix of admiration and something deeper that he couldn’t quite name.
He wanted to reach out, to connect, but the fear of rejection held him back. What if Kirishima didn’t feel the same way? What if he was just a passing thought, a fleeting moment in the chaos of their lives?
But the crack in the wall remained, a constant reminder of the connection he was too afraid to acknowledge. And every night, as he lay in bed, he could hear the distant sounds of Kirishima’s laughter, echoing in the silence, calling to him like a siren song.
It was a fracture that ran deeper than drywall, a crack in his own heart that he couldn’t ignore.