Chapter Text
“It's mandatory.” Mr Aizawa's arms are folded across his chest, and his broad shoulders are pushed back in a show of good posture. Bakugo thickly rolls his eyes.
“I don't care. I don't give a shit about some club.” He says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sagging, dark school trousers, bag hanging onto his shoulder. Beside him, Midoriya shifts his weight between his feet. He looks like an owl with such wide eyes. Mr Aizawa exhausts a deep sigh.
“I can tell. You didn't even pick one.” He murmurs. His eyes move to Izuku. “I know this isn't what you wanted, but after counting everyone's forms, there's not enough space left for you to join the sports club.” He explains. Katsuki observes the drop in Midoriya’s shoulders and the way he pushes them right back up and smiles politely.
“That's okay.” He says. Mr Aizawa scratches the back of his head. His greasy, black hair slips around his neck as he tilts his chin up.
“So, you've both been put into the art club.” The man concludes. “How joyous.” He tags on, dryly. Katsuki recoils as the information breaks through to him that he's going to have to spend two more hours of his precious time within the confines of the school building. And doing something as pointless as drawing, no less. Really? There's no way.
“This is ridiculous. I'm not doing that.” He states. Mr Aizawa squints at him.
“Do you know what mandatory means?” He asks. Katsuki frowns back with indignation. Izuku moves in the corner of his eye.
“It's only a few hours a week.” He says. “It could be fun, Kacchan, loosen up.” Katsuki huffs air out of his nose like a bull. If it wasn't Izuku saying this, he'd tune it out entirely. But there's something about him that Bakugo always finds himself holding onto. Mr Aizawa shuts his laptop, and scoops it up.
“The club's on Wednesday in the art block, room AD4. Are we done here?” He scratches his stubble spotted chin, and glances at the clock that hangs above the door. Midoriya nods, still smiling his stupid, perfect smile. He fidgets with his hands a lot - he's doing it now. Bakugo gives an apathetic nod of his own to conclude this meaningless conversation, and nudges Midoriya in the direction of the classroom door.
Whatever gave Principal Nezu the idea to implement mandatory school clubs is beyond Bakugo's knowledge. He was irritated when the class was informed about it, and he remains so now. Izuku marches out of the class and into the hallway. It's lunch hour, so most students will be in the dining hall now.
“I think Shoto got put in the art club.” He says. “He paints; I've seen some of his work, although he's pretty shy about it.” Izuku chuckles. Katsuki walks behind, the two of them making their way through the building. Sure, it makes sense a brooding gifted kid like him would be into all the artsy crap. Bakugo runs his hand through his blonde hair. He's never really understood art. Occasionally he gets it - maybe there's some connection that he has with the picture, or it's mesmerising in its use of colour. But how people spawn such pieces into existence, he doesn't understand. Izuku seems interested though. But Izuku's interested in everything.
Katsuki follows him through another set of doors, and into the vast dining hall. He usually sits on the left with Kirishima and the rest of their group. He's not one for jabbering endlessly during lunch, but he likes the feeling of people around him, and the background noise of whatever dumb stuff they're invested in. Izuku spins on his heels to face him again. His hands dip behind his back. They're heavily decorated with the same scars that stretch his arms and legs. “See you later, Kacchan.” He chirps. Bakugo clicks his tongue, and walks past him.
“Bye.” He replies, more to the air in front of him to Izuku himself. The boy's seemingly never-ending nature of positivity gives Bakugo an aching feeling. It used to be that of shame, and anger, and paranoia. A crying of “how dare you see the pathetic parts of me, and compare it to yourself”. But as time has continued, it has become a soft, dull ache - a tearing of the heart. A wonder of how. How can Izuku be so perfect? How can he perform optimism so violently? And most dreadfully of all, why does Katsuki feel so warm around him?
Eijirou waves at Katsuki as he approaches the table. He weaves between students, and finally tosses his bag onto the floor. Denki forks salad into his mouth from across the table as Bakugo drags his chair out, and slumps down. “Art club.” He says. Eijirou laughs.
“Told you that would happen if you didn't pick anything, didn't I?” He props his head on his hand, as Bakugo tries glaring the smugness out of him.
“Oh!” Mina exclaims, pointing at Katsuki with her spoon. “That's so cute, you're going to train to be the next Hokusai or something.”
“Shut up.” Katsuki grumbles. Kirishima slides a plate of tempura across the table, and chugs the last of his energy drink. He almost exclusively downs protein shakes or water, so it must be a special day.
“No, really.” Mina continues. She's bunched between Kaminari and Sero on the other side of the table. “Might be good to exercise your creative side once and a while.” She muses.
“Creativity is a nothing trait.” Bakugo sniffs.
“Your insults are pretty creative.” Kaminari interjects. He's been slowly isolating all of the cherry tomatoes to the edge of his plate, and every few minutes Mina pops one in her mouth.
“But seriously,” Kirishima says. “It could be a good time. Everything's worth a shot.” And whilst Eijirou can be a bit wild and scatter-brained here and there, Katsuki can acknowledge the effort he's put into their friendship. When Katsuki first joined the school, and he was still at Izuku's neck every minute, he wasn't particularly focused on any team building. Nevertheless this idiot attached himself, something that Bakugo can see in hindsight was rather positive. He punches Eijirou in the shoulder.
“I'm sick of talking about it. Did you get what you wanted, dumbass?” He asks. Eijirou nods.
“The odds were indeed in my favor. I'm doing sports.” He purrs. “Mina’s in music, and those two are in film.” Kaminari leans across the table in front of Mina, and he and Sero high-five.
“I don’t know why you’re so excited.” Katsuki smirks. “You’ll probably have to write essays about the crap you watch.” Kaminari’s honey eyes shut tight as he whines and tips his head back.
“You always have to ruin it, don’t you?” He groans. Mina folds her arms, resting them on the table.
“Bakugo’s probably right.” She says. Her bush of bubblegum pink hair, and the way it curls around her face - it reminds Bakugo of Izuku. They look somewhat similar, at least to him. Big eyes, fluffy hair, their behaviour to a degree. But as he thinks about this, he figures how creepy it might be. He’s never been one to look at girls with any level of interest higher than platonic. Maybe because he just hasn’t formed that connection - crossed a certain line of friendship. But he and Mina study together. She drags him and Kirishima out on shopping trips, and organises game nights. She’s a good friend, and a reliable one. Katsuki should be in love with her, right? That’s how it’s meant to be. Probably. Maybe.
He glances down at the tempura Eijirou passed him. It’s still warm, and he should eat something today, if he doesn’t want to get hangry by the end of afternoon classes. But now he can’t get the thought out of his head. Izuku started this. His hair, to which he compared to Mina’s. His eyes. And this is all really dumb. Katsuki rubs his neck, and stares out across the canteen. Midoriya’s sitting where he always sits, eating what he always eats. And he’s smiling. And Bakugo takes a breath. He squeezes his hands together underneath the table; he squeezes tight like he’s trying to break the bones in his fingers. Because it isn’t jealousy is it? It isn’t admiration either. Izuku makes him feel other-worldly, alien things. And Bakugo hates it.