Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Bakugo sensed that something was off, childhood had only just begun. Dresses itched like nettles and clung in all the wrong places. Dolls sat useless in reluctant hands. Every birthday brought gifts wrapped in pink ribbon, and each one felt like a cruel joke.

Hair bows turned his stomach. Compliments about prettiness struck like slaps. Neighbors cooed, “what a lovely girl,” and something inside him recoiled, folding inwards ashamed.

Climbing trees offered a kind of peace. Scraped knees made more sense than soft voices and folded hands. Running fast, falling hard, shouting until his throat burned, that felt like being alive.

One summer, Bakugo snatched a pair of shorts from the laundry basket and refused to take them off. The day ended in yelling, but something had settled in him. That feeling never left.

Names fell wrong. All of them. But the right one hadn’t arrived yet.

During a school play, a boy offered him a plastic sword and asked if he wanted to switch. He did. The sword fit perfectly in his hand. That was the only day he smiled in costume.

The years crept forward, and the wrongness grew sharper. Mirrors became strangers. Changing rooms became battlegrounds. Silence became armor.

People circled around it. Some saw the fury, the clenched fists, the unbending refusal to wear anything but black. Fewer saw the quiet terror underneath.

No one spoke the word.

But one day, Bakugo glanced at the boy beside him in class and thought, I’m like him. Not her.

And the world shifted. Not enough to make it easier. Just enough to make it real.

High school made everything worse.

Bodies changed. Voices dropped, shoulders broadened, and his didn’t. His stayed soft, curved in the wrong places, filled out in ways that made him flinch when passing windows, that made him hide in the back of group photos, arms crossed tight over his chest. Every inch of him felt wrong, like someone else’s skin had been stitched around him.

He avoided locker rooms like they were cages. Gym class became a nightmare. Every time the teacher said “girls over here,” something inside him screamed. Every time someone glanced too long, or not at all, the shame sat heavier on his spine.

Friends faded. He pushed them away before they could look too closely, before they could ask questions he didn’t have the words to answer. It was easier to be alone than to be seen like that. Easier to bite than risk being held.

But Midoriya stayed.

Even after the yelling, the slamming doors, the cruel things said just to hurt. Even after months of silence, he still lingered like a bad habit. He’d show up with band-aids when Bakugo’s knuckles split, or pretend not to notice when he skipped lunch again.

Bakugo hated it. Hated how stubborn he was. Hated that some people saw them walking home together, even if they were just two kids from the same block, and assumed otherwise.

“Cute couple,” someone had said once, smirking.

He’d nearly thrown up.

The thought of being seen that way, of being read as a girl with a boy, of being mistaken for something so far from what he was, it festered. It made him cold. Mean. The words lashed out before he could stop them.

Midoriya never fought back. That only made it worse.

He started walking home alone, even if it meant taking the long way. Started skipping group work. Avoided birthday parties, school trips, anything with cameras or swim days or sleepovers. Every interaction became a threat. Every smile from a stranger, every assumption, every sentence that began with “she”, all of it scraped raw.

There were nights he couldn’t look in the mirror without wanting to claw his skin off.

And still, no one said the word.

Not even him.

Graduation came closer, and so did the dread.

His mom wasn’t cruel. She let him wear black hoodies through the summer, never forced him into skirts, never asked why he flinched at mirrors. But a few days before the ceremony, she held up a lavender dress, with little pearl buttons down the back.

“I know you don’t wear dresses,” she said, almost careful. “But just this time. For me.”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. His hands curled into fists before he could stop them, but he nodded, because she never complained about the way he dressed. Never told him to act more like a girl, never tried to fix what she didn’t understand.

This was the first thing she’d asked in years.

So he did it.

The zipper caught at the top. His mom’s hands were gentle as she fastened it. The fabric clung to everything he hated. His chest. His shoulders. The lines of his neckline, soft and curved and all wrong.

His hair was too long. He only kept it that way because it was easier to tie up and hide under a hoodie. Today it framed his face. Loose. Pretty.

He stood in front of the mirror and had to fight the urge to smash it.

Then came the makeup. Just a little. Lipstick the color of cherry blossom petals. A swipe of mascara that made his eyes sting. His mom’s hand was warm against his cheek. She looked so proud.

Not of him.

Of her daughter.

He didn’t say anything, he just stood still while she adjusted the hem, made him twirl, and snapped photo after photo on her phone.

He hated every second, but he let her.

Let her brush his hair and coo over how grown up he looked. Let her hold his arm and smile like nothing had ever been wrong. Let her have this one moment.

Because maybe it was easier than saying no.

Because sometimes surviving meant swallowing every scream and pretending it didn’t burn on the way down.

So he went to the damn graduation party.

Midoriya showed up at his door in a wrinkled button-up and a crooked tie, fidgeting like always, and said something stupid like, “I figured you wouldn’t want to go alone.”

Bakugo hadn’t invited him, but there were no other names on his phone. No other people who cared enough to ask. And Midoriya, stupid, persistent Midoriya, always cared too much.

They walked there in silence. The lavender dress clung to his thighs with every step. The mascara made his eyes itch. The gloss on his mouth tasted like plastic.

“You look pretty,” Midoriya said, almost shy.

Bakugo almost threw up.

The party was already loud when they arrived. The bass was vibrating through the pavement, laughter spilling out the front door, light flashing from the windows. The kind of noise that made his skin crawl.

Inside, it was worse. Sweat and perfume. Cheap soda and cheaper speakers. Glitter and heels and cameras. Too many eyes.

And they were looking.

Bakugo knew what they saw. Knew his own face too well. The curve of his nose. The shape of his cheeks. The kind of lips people complimented without thinking. Pretty, pretty, always fucking pretty. He knew it was true. Especially now.

Now that he looked like a girl.

A pretty girl in a lavender dress with a flushed face and long lashes. A girl standing next to Midoriya, close enough for whispers to start.

He hated the feeling of eyes tracing down his body like fingers.

Midoriya kept talking. About school, maybe. About the ceremony. About something dumb. He smiled too much.

Bakugo didn’t listen.

His head buzzed with static. His throat burned with things he couldn’t say. His skin felt like it didn’t fit right, like it had been turned inside out and left on display.

He stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice the people staring back. Pretending he couldn’t feel Midoriya’s eyes flick toward him every few seconds, full of concern he didn’t ask for.

The party was too hot, too loud, too full of perfume and sweat and eyes that didn’t look away fast enough.

He was making his way toward the drink table just to have something to hold when the captain of the baseball team blocked his path. He was tall, red-faced, stinking of cheap beer and cologne sprayed too heavily. His grin came lazily, like he thought it was charming.

“If I knew you looked like that without a baggy hoodie,” he said, slurring just enough to be dangerous, “I would’ve asked you on a date before, pretty girl.”

Bakugo didn’t think.

His fist moved before the words finished. The crunch of nose against knuckle came satisfying, followed by the thud of the guy hitting the floor.

Gasps rose around him. Midoriya’s voice broke through, calling him by the name he hated and it was too loud, too concerned.

Bakugo didn’t even look back.

He left.

His shoes scraped the pavement as he walked, arms tight across his chest like he could erase it all.

When he stepped through the front door, the house was dark except for the blue glow of the TV. His mom was asleep. His dad sat on the couch, half-watching some late-night rerun, nursing a cup of tea gone cold.

He looked up when Bakugo entered. Met his eyes and he raised a brow in question.

Bakugo shrugged.

His dad nodded once and looked away.

In his room, everything felt louder.

He pulled the dress over his head with shaking hands. It caught on the zipper. For a moment he thought he’d rip it apart. Instead, he laid it on the bed like it would burn him if he touched it longer.

He crossed the room and pulled open the drawer he never used. The one with junk, with things half-forgotten.

He found the scissors near the bottom. The metal was slightly rusted. The handles were too small.

He stood in front of the mirror and cut.

Strands fell in uneven chunks. His breath came faster with each snip. His scalp felt lighter, freer, exposed. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the lipstick across his cheek. Rubbed harder, until the mascara streaked down his face in uneven lines.

And then he looked up.

The reflection stared back. Cropped hair. Bare shoulders. No makeup. No dress.

And still, still, it was a fucking girl’s body.

The reflection laughed first. Bakugo didn’t join.

He just stood there, breathing heavy, with scissors in one hand and nothing left in the other.

When college started, Bakugo moved to Tokyo.

His parents didn’t fight it. Didn’t ask why he chose a school far from home or why he seemed so certain about leaving. Maybe they thought it would be good for him. A fresh start. A new city, where the streets were too crowded for anyone to look twice. A place where being different didn’t mean being alone.

They didn’t say much when he packed. His mom folded a hoodie into the suitcase. His dad left a can of coffee in the front pocket of his bag. No big speeches, just quiet acceptance, which felt almost like permission.

His dorm was small, the kind of space that felt more like a closet than a room. He’d been assigned to the girls' dorm. No surprise there. All his documents still said what they shouldn’t. And he was tired. Too tired to argue, too tired to fill out forms, to knock on the right doors, to fight for a room that matched the life he was barely holding together.

So he let it happen.

The girls on his floor kept their distance. Maybe it was the way he carried himself or maybe it was the hoodie that never came off, the low voice that answered questions without looking up, the way he avoided shared showers like they were fire.

Nobody asked and he didn’t offer.

Most nights, he sat on the edge of the narrow bed, headphones in, music too loud. Some mornings, he didn’t bother going to class. Some afternoons, he didn’t eat. He got used to the shape of hunger. Got used to the echo of his own footsteps on the tiled hallway. Got used to people thinking he was just shy.

He wasn’t. 

He was just tired of waking up in a body that betrayed him. Of dodging pronouns like bullets. Of using toilets that made his hands shake. Of standing at crosswalks and wondering what would happen if he just kept walking forward, into traffic, into noise, into nothing.

In Tokyo, he could disappear. That was supposed to be the gift.

Instead, it just made him feel more like a ghost.

One quiet afternoon, Bakugo sat in the cafeteria with a book open in front of him, the pages half-blurred from reading the same sentence three times. The noise around him faded into background static. His hoodie was pulled low. His coffee had gone cold.

Then he heard it.

“That’s cool, dude, but my pronouns are they/them.”

His head snapped up so fast it nearly gave him whiplash.

A few feet away, standing by the vending machine, was someone blonde. Medium-length blonde hair that curled a little at the ends. Nails painted pale blue. A few silver piercings along the curve of one ear, catching the cafeteria lights.

They looked comfortable, like it was the most natural thing in the world to exist like that.

The person they were speaking to blinked, nodded, and said, “Oh. Sorry about that.”

“That’s ok, don’t worry.”

And they kept talking.

Just like that. No drama. No weird looks. No tension. The conversation didn’t change. The tone didn’t shift. The world didn’t fall apart.

But Bakugo felt like something in his did.

He stared. Not rude, not open-mouthed, just stunned. His book lay forgotten on the table, fingers slack on the pages.

That person, whoever they were, had said it out loud. With a clear voice. With no apology in it. And someone listened. Someone nodded. Adjusted. Moved on.

Like it was normal.

Like it was allowed.

Like it could be.

Bakugo stood up before he could stop himself.

The chair scraped against the floor with a harsh sound, but he didn’t care. His feet carried him forward, heart pounding too hard for such a short distance. He waited until the other person, the one blonde had been talking to, walked away, disappearing into the crowd of students.

Then he said, “What did you just say to him?”

The blonde blinked, eyebrows lifting. “That electronic engineering classes are hard as fuck?”

“No,” Bakugo said, sharper now. “The other part. About your pronouns.”

A flicker crossed their face, like a door closing, or maybe opening. 

“Do you have a problem with that?”

Bakugo froze. Eyes wide. Mouth half-open but nothing coming out. The cafeteria felt too loud suddenly, the lights too bright. He wasn’t used to wanting to speak and not knowing how.

The other person stared at him for another beat, then blinked again. Something softened behind their eyes.

“Oh,” they said. Not annoyed. Just understanding. “I’m Kaminari. They/them. And you are?”

“Bakugo.” The word came small, too small for someone like him. He looked down after saying it, unsure where to put his hands, unsure what his own voice was supposed to sound like when he wasn’t spitting venom.

He didn’t know how to say what he was. Didn’t have the words, just the years of silence pressed into his skin like bruises.

But Kaminari didn’t push.

“Hey, cool name,” they said, light again, smiling. “Want to go grab coffee with me and my friends? The coffee here sucks and I can’t survive another two classes without caffeine.”

Bakugo looked up.

Kaminari’s nails were chipped. Their shirt was oversized and covered in faint pen marks. Their smile wasn’t careful or pitying. It was just there.

“Sure,” Bakugo said, before he could think too hard.

And just like that, his feet started moving again.

Weeks passed, and suddenly Bakugo wasn’t alone all the time.

Not that he spoke much, but he showed up. He sat near Kaminari and their group in the cafeteria. He listened.

Mina was a lesbian. Loud, brilliant, unapologetic. She called everyone “babe” and talked with her hands and always offered to paint his nails in pastel colors.

Sero was aromantic. Said it so casually between bites of soba that it took Bakugo a minute to understand he wasn’t joking. “I like people,” Sero had said, shrugging, “just not like that.”

Jirou was bisexual. She always had one earbud in, one out, and wore black eyeliner that smudged by lunch. Her voice was dry, sarcastic, but kind.

Shinsou said he went by anything. “Gender’s made up anyway,” he added, spooning yogurt into his mouth like they were discussing the weather. “Pick whatever, it’s chill.”

And then there was Kirishima.

Kirishima, whose hair was a deep, bright red that glowed like fire under sunlight. Kirishima, who laughed too loud and too often, like he hadn’t learned to be ashamed of joy. Who sat cross-legged in chairs, hugging his ankles like a kid, and somehow managed to fold his tall body into the smallest shapes.

Kirishima, who was just light.

It poured out of him, effortless. Even when he was tired. Even when he was quiet. It clung to his smile, to the way he waved at Bakugo every time he walked into a room, even if they hadn’t spoken directly in days.

Bakugo didn’t get it, but every time he saw him, his eyes locked on instinct.

He was a moth.

And Kirishima was the brightest, stupidest, kindest flame.

One night, somehow, Bakugo found himself at a party.

A small club, half-basement, walls painted black, speakers too loud for the size of the room. The air smelled like cigarettes and vodka and sweat. Sticky floors. Cheap lights. That faint burn of something sweet and artificial in the back of the throat.

Bakugo didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke either. But most of the group did, and it didn’t bother him. Mina kissed a stranger on the dance floor and disappeared into the crowd. Kaminari and Sero argued about the playlist with their arms around each other. Jirou was headbanging half-ironically near the DJ booth. Shinsou leaned against a wall, half-asleep and entirely content.

And Kirishima was there too.

Maybe three beers deep. Not enough to be drunk, just enough to shine. The smile was bigger than usual, more open. The laugh louder. Warmer. The touches came casually, a hand on Bakugo’s shoulder, fingers brushing down an arm, leaning in to talk close, even though the music wasn’t that loud.

They stood near the bar, nowhere near the drinks, just on the edge of everything. Kirishima swayed a little, red hair catching flashes of purple light. The grin didn’t leave, not once.

“You always look like you’re pretending not to have fun,” he said, voice low, teasing. “But I see you, you know.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but didn’t step away when another hand found his back.

Kirishima leaned closer. “You know what I think?”

Bakugo didn’t answer.

“I think you’re hot when you’re annoyed.”

The words sank in slowly, like honey over bruised skin.

He didn’t know what to do with them. His mouth opened, then shut again. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, like it was trying to get out.

No one had ever flirted with him before.

Not like this. Not in a way that made his throat tighten and his stomach twist. Not in a way that made him feel seen, even with short hair, even with clothes too baggy and dark to catch anyone’s eye. Even with the wrong shape, the wrong everything, standing in a room full of soft skirts and smooth legs and glittery eyeshadow and beauty Bakugo couldn’t touch.

But Kirishima looked at him.

With flushed cheeks and wandering eyes, like there was nothing confusing about it. Like it made sense to want Bakugo. Him, exactly as he was.

And right now, Bakugo was greedy.

He’d never had this.

Never had someone lean in with heat behind their smile. Never had someone call him hot like it was a fact, not a dare. Never had someone’s fingers ghost along his elbow just to see if he’d flinch.

And he didn’t flinch.

He leaned in too.

“You gonna keep staring,” Bakugo whispered, “or say something stupid again?”

Kirishima grinned, as if he had opened a door without realizing it.

“Depends,” Kirishima said, voice low and playful. “You gonna let me buy you a drink first, or should I just ask if I can kiss you?”

Bakugo stared at him.

Something in his chest snapped, and before he could stop himself, before he could think, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to Kirishima’s in a fast, clumsy kiss.

Barely anything.

But Kirishima froze.

Then his eyes went dark.

Bakugo had never seen that look before.

“Come with me,” Kirishima murmured.

And Bakugo did.

They slipped through the crowd, past swaying bodies and laughter, into a quiet corner where the light didn’t quite reach. The air back there was thick with the echo of bass, muffled voices, something electric between them that Bakugo had never felt before.

Kirishima’s hands found his waist like they’d done it a hundred times. Bakugo didn’t stop them. Their mouths crashed together again, rougher this time, deeper.

Bakugo had never been kissed before. Never let anyone close enough. Never let anyone touch him like this, look at him like this, like he was something worth worth devouring.

He didn’t know what to do. His hands hovered awkwardly at Kirishima’s sides, unsure whether to pull or push or hold still. His mouth moved without rhythm, teeth clashing once, then again, but Kirishima didn’t seem to mind. Not at all.

Kirishima groaned low, a sound that sent heat straight through his spine, and pressed closer. Bigger body, broader chest, all of it pushed against him, caging him gently against the wall like he could swallow him whole. And maybe he could. Maybe Bakugo wanted him to.

Big hands were everywhere. One curled around Bakugo’s jaw, tilting his face up, guiding the kiss like he knew every answer Bakugo didn’t. The other slid down, gripping his waist, fingers pressing through the fabric like they could burn him right through it.

Bakugo’s knees nearly gave out.

He melted under those hands, under lips that dragged across his mouth like a promise, under the weight of a body that felt like safety and heat and want. His breath caught, his whole body aching with a greedy kind of need he didn’t know he had.

They stayed like that for a while.

Pressed together in the shadowed corner of the club, mouths tangled, hands growing bolder with every minute. Bakugo stopped thinking about his body, about the noise, about what he looked like under flickering lights. It all melted under Kirishima’s touch. The drag of lips across his, the heat of breath against his cheek, the gentle but insistent way Kirishima kissed like he wanted him. Not an idea of him. Not a mistake. Him.

Bakugo’s fingers finally found a place, hooked into the hem of Kirishima’s shirt, pulling him closer, trying to anchor himself in the moment before it could vanish.

Then, “Oh my god, sorry! Sorry!”

They broke apart fast, chests heaving, flushed, eyes wide.

Mina stood nearby, half-laughing, half-wincing. She waved her hands like she could physically erase the interruption. “Didn’t mean to ruin the vibe or anything, babes, but uh, Kaminari’s not doing great. Cheap vodka’s catching up to them, and I’d rather not watch them throw up all over my shoes, so maybe we wrap it up?”

Kirishima blinked, still breathless. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

He gave Bakugo one last look, then turned toward the others.

The group left the club together, Kaminari draped over Shinsou’s shoulder, mumbling something about sparkling water and justice. Kirishima unlocked the doors to his old car and everyone piled in. Bakugo slid into the front seat, still too dizzy, still tasting Kirishima on his lips.

Streetlights washed over them in gold pulses. Kaminari groaned every now and then. Shinsou hummed low to himself, eyes half-lidded. Bakugo stared out the window, heart still pounding.

When they reached the dorms, Shinsou climbed out first with Kaminari in tow, mumbling a thanks. Kirishima stayed parked, hand still on the wheel.

Bakugo reached for the door handle, and before he could move, Kirishima leaned across the console and kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Right there, in front of the others. 

When they parted, Kirishima smiled, hand brushing against Bakugo’s knee.

“Night,” he said, voice quiet. “Text me, okay?”

Bakugo nodded, opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air, still burning.

He watched the car pull away, taillights flickering red as Kirishima drove off toward Kaminari’s dorm, because of course he’d make sure Kaminari got home safe.

Kirishima was like that.

A good friend.

Bakugo avoided Kirishima for days.

Not because he didn’t want to see him. He did. Every time his phone buzzed, every time someone mentioned his name, something in his whole body leaned toward the thought of him.

But he couldn’t do it. Not after the dream.

God, that stupid dream.

It started soft, him and Kirishima at some hilltop ceremony, flowers and candles and all that romantic garbage people liked to talk about when they didn’t know better. Everyone was there. Cheering. Smiling. Kaminari was crying like a baby. Mina had a camera. It should’ve been funny.

Except, he was wearing a dress.

Not just a dress. A bridal gown. Puffy. Long. Ugly as hell. White and lacey and choking around the neck, pulling at the chest in all the wrong ways. He could feel every seam pressing into his skin. And Kirishima was beaming, saying things like “my bride” and “can’t wait to have kids” and “you’ll be such a good mom.”

Bakugo woke up in a cold sweat. The sheets felt too tight around his legs, like layers of tulle wrapped around him, dragging him down.

It was just a dream. It didn’t mean anything. He knew that.

But he couldn’t shake the nausea it left behind.

Kirishima didn’t mean any of it. Of course he didn’t. Kirishima had never made him feel like anything other than himself, but still, his own brain had conjured it all up. The dress. The words. The feeling of being seen wrong by the one person who had only ever made him feel right.

So now he was avoiding him.

Not out of anger.

Not out of disinterest.

Out of fear.

Because what if Kirishima wanted more? What if that dream came from somewhere real? What if, deep down, Kirishima thought he was just some version of a girl in baggy clothes?

Bakugo didn’t have answers, only silence, so he buried himself in it. Ignored texts. Ducking into buildings when he saw red hair on the sidewalk. Pretended to be busy when Kaminari asked if he was coming to lunch.

He wasn’t proud of it.

He was just a coward.

Kirishima found him after class, just like Bakugo had been dreading and hoping for at the same time.

He was standing by the courtyard gate, holding two cups of coffee in chilled fingers, steam rising in lazy spirals. The air was colder now, but Kirishima wore just a pair of jeans and a shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he hadn’t noticed the change in the season.

There was no escape this time.

Kirishima smiled, a little unsure, and tilted his head toward the trees lining the edge of campus. Without a word, they walked there together and sat under the tallest one, bare branches scraping the grey sky above. The grass was damp. The ground, cold. Kirishima didn’t seem to mind.

“I know you’re ignoring me,” he said after a few beats of silence. His voice was soft, not accusing. “If it was too much, if I was too much, I’m sorry. I just really like you.”

Bakugo blinked.

“It’s not that it was too much,” he said. “You’re not too much.”

Kirishima looked at him for a long time, sad in the way that meant he’d been thinking about this every day. Picking it apart. Blaming himself. Wondering what he’d done wrong.

He didn’t say anything, just looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing along the lid.

Bakugo looked down too. 

And then he breathed in. Breathed out.

“I don’t think I’m a girl,” he said, voice barely there.

Then, louder, “I know I’m not a girl.”

And then everything just spilled.

“I was trying to make distance,” he said, fast now, the words tripping over each other. “Because I like you. I really, fuck, I like you, and it scared me. Because I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t want you to think I was someone I’m not. I didn’t want to make you believe in this version of me that’s not real. And I can’t keep pretending to myself either. I can’t keep pretending that this,” he waved vaguely at his own chest, his clothes, his whole body “is okay. Because it’s not. It hasn’t been okay for a long time.”

He ran out of air. Eyes stung. He gritted his teeth and kept staring at the lid of his coffee cup like it might give him a way out.

There was silence, and then Kirishima said, gently, “Oh.” Then he added, just as softly, “Can I ask you something?”

Bakugo gave the smallest nod.

“What's your name?”

Bakugo swallowed. His throat felt too tight. His eyes burned.

“Katsuki.”

The word fell out like a secret, almost like something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say out loud.

Kirishima’s smile bloomed. He reached out and took one of Bakugo’s hands, gentle fingers curling around his.

“Katsuki,” he repeated, like he wanted to memorize it. “It’s a pretty name.”

Bakugo nodded once. The wind moved through the bare branches above them. The coffee in his lap had gone cold. 

There was nothing poetic about it. No huge relief, no soaring music in his head, just his name in someone else’s voice. 

Just a little more space in his chest than there was a minute ago.

After that night under the tree, things started changing.

The group didn’t make a big deal out of it. They didn’t treat him like a project or a symbol or a mystery. They just adjusted. Names changed. Pronouns changed. Jokes stayed the same. And Kirishima, well, Kirishima stayed, too. Always just close enough.

There were touches that didn’t ask for anything. Smiles that didn’t push. Dates that didn’t need to be called dates. When Bakugo sat next to him, he always found Kirishima already turning toward him, like the space between them had never really existed.

Kaminari mentioned a student club, half political, half historical, all queer. They held small lectures in unused classrooms, film nights, group talks. 

“Japan’s not great for us,” Kaminari said, shrugging, “but it won’t get better unless we do something.”

So Bakugo went.

At first, he just listened. Sat in the back with his hood up, arms crossed, letting the voices in the room roll over him. Stories. Names. Fights. Losses. Progress.

He saw people cry and people laugh and people show up. Over and over again.

Kirishima came too, when he could. He worked early shifts twice a week and couldn’t always make it, but he tried. Sat beside Bakugo and scribbled notes even if no one asked him to. Mina was there almost every night, always holding hands with Camie, the girl from the club who wore rhinestone eyeliner and made everyone feel cooler just by being near her.

Sometimes Bakugo caught himself smiling.

Sometimes he spoke.

Some days, the words caught in his throat. Some nights, he came home too tired to breathe. Some mornings, he looked in the mirror and still flinched.

But it was good. Better than before. Better than hiding.

Being surrounded by people who got it. Who’d fought the same fight. Who looked at him and didn’t ask for explanations, only room on the bench, or half of a shared snack, or his opinion on the week’s reading.

It was good.

Not because it fixed him.

Because it reminded him he didn’t need to be fixed.

Two months passed.

Bakugo didn’t count the days out loud, didn’t mark them down, but he knew. He remembered the shift that came with that first kiss in the car, the coffee under the tree, the slow unfolding of something real between them. He felt it in the way Kirishima’s hand always found his when they walked, in the way his voice softened when he said Katsuki, in the way he waited when Bakugo needed silence, and spoke when the silence got too heavy.

Winter break was close. Campus grew quieter, colder. Most people packed bags and planned train rides home. Lights went up in the dorm windows. The coffee shop switched to holiday drinks, everything cinnamon and overpriced syrup.

Bakugo didn’t expect a gift, but one afternoon, Kirishima showed up at his door, breath fogging in the cold, cheeks red from wind, holding a carefully wrapped package. 

“I know it’s early,” he said, “but I wanted to give this to you before you leave for break.”

Bakugo blinked at the package, then took it with both hands, slowly peeling away the paper.

Inside was a binder. Black, clean lines, new. The tag still attached.

For a moment, his fingers hovered over the fabric like it might vanish.

“This is...” He started, but the words caught.

Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, smiling, nervous now. “I asked Kaminari which brand was best. Got a couple sizes, just in case. You don’t have to wear it right away. Or at all. I just thought it would help. If it feels good, then you should have one.”

Bakugo stepped forward and kissed him.

Hands still curled around the binder, heart beating too loud, too fast. 

When he pulled back, the redhead was smiling the way he always did.

Bakugo let out a shaky breath and pressed the binder to his chest.

“Thank you,” he said.

Kirishima didn’t say you’re welcome, he only leaned his forehead against Bakugo’s and held it there, like there was nowhere else in the world to be.

Bakugo didn’t go home for the holidays.

His parents were traveling to some cousin’s house in Hokkaido, some long-lost uncle he barely remembered. They’d offered to buy him a ticket. He’d said no. Said he had things to do on campus, work to finish. They didn’t push.

He didn’t tell them the truth: that he just didn’t want to go. That the thought of putting on a mask for a week, answering loaded questions, sleeping in a room full of things he didn’t choose, it made his skin itch.

Mina stayed too.

Her dorm room was slightly bigger than his, closer to the kitchen, with warmer lighting and a pink lamp shaped like a heart that she claimed was a joke but never turned off. It made everything glow. Camie had gone home for the break, but Mina stayed behind, said she didn’t mind, said she liked the quiet.

Bakugo ended up spending most nights there.

They made a kind of rhythm; late mornings, microwave dinners, blankets piled on the couch. They watched terrible slasher films that made Mina yell at the screen and Bakugo scoff even though he kind of liked them. They made ugly friendship bracelets out of leftover yarn. It was stupid, and better than he expected.

Then one night, somewhere between the second movie and a half-eaten bag of gummy worms, Mina got quiet.

She was lying on her side, knees pulled up, one hand loosely holding her phone.

“My parents don’t accept me,” she said.

Bakugo blinked. The screen kept playing in the background. Some killer in a clown mask. He muted it.

“For being a lesbian,” she added, voice flat, not sad. Like it was something she’d had to say too many times. “They told me I don’t need to come back home. Not for holidays. Not for any other day.”

Bakugo didn’t know what to say.

Mina didn’t cry, she just stared up at the ceiling, chewing the inside of her cheek.

“Camie’s mom said I can stay with them next summer,” she said after a moment. “She makes shitty pancakes and hugs me like I’m glass, but she means well.”

Mina glanced at him, then smiled. 

“I’m okay,” she said. “Just thought you should know. Just in case you ever wonder why I’m always here.”

Bakugo didn’t say I’m sorry. He didn’t say they’re wrong. He didn’t know how to say those things and make them mean anything.

So he just passed her the bag of gummy worms again and leaned a little closer on the couch.

They watched the rest of the movie in silence, sharing sugar and space, and said nothing else. 

Bakugo started working at the coffee shop near campus during the winter quarter.

It wasn’t glamorous. The hours could suck. The espresso machine leaked when it got too hot. People left crumbs everywhere and pretended not to see the tip jar, but it wasn’t the worst job, either.

Shinsou worked there, too, usually during the night shifts, slouched behind the counter with dark circles under his eyes and a dry sense of humor that somehow made customers tip more. They rarely spoke on the clock, but it helped to know someone else behind the bar understood the rhythm of silence.

Bakugo wore a name tag. 

Katsuki.

he/him.

Most people respected it. Some glanced at it and moved on. A few smiled. A couple didn’t, but he didn’t work for them.

The paycheck wasn’t great, but the tips were decent. Students tipped well if you spelled their name right. Drunk people tipped better if you pretended to listen. Professors didn’t tip at all.

Still, it was enough to keep him going.

One night, after his twentieth birthday, he told Kirishima.

They were lying on his bed, legs tangled, Kirishima’s hand curled loosely around his wrist like he always did when they got quiet together.

“I’m gonna start saving,” Bakugo said, staring at the ceiling. “For top surgery.”

Kirishima blinked, then shifted closer, listening.

“I’ve been looking into it. Reading everything. Japan’s not exactly the best for this, but it’s possible. You need a lot of appointments. Letters. Therapy stuff. And it’s expensive.”

He paused.

“I wanna start hormones too. But it’s even harder. Most gender-care clinics are in Tokyo or Osaka. You need an endocrinologist. Qualified diagnosis. Everything costs, like, fifty thousand yen just to start. And none of it’s covered by insurance.”

Kirishima’s thumb brushed over his wrist. 

“Still,” Bakugo said. “I’ve got a goal.”

He didn’t say I’m sure or it’ll happen soon. He just said it with that hungry for something that always felt too far away.

Kirishima leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll help,” he said.

And he would. Not just with money. With rides to appointments. With waiting rooms. With warm hands. With quiet understanding when everything felt too heavy.

Bakugo just turned toward him and held on a little tighter.

Sero was the one who started cutting Bakugo’s hair.

“My mom has a salon,” he said one day, watching Bakugo fumble with dull scissors in the bathroom mirror. “And you keep fucking with your hair every time, so let me do it before you shave your ear off or something.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but he agreed. Mostly because Sero didn’t make a big deal of it. He shrugged, told him to sit on a stool in the kitchen, and pulled out his own set of clippers and scissors from a worn canvas bag.

They didn’t talk much during the first cut. Music was playing low, Sero humming now and then, tapping his fingers against the counter while the buzz of clippers filled the quiet.

He worked fast but careful, sectioning and trimming, layering the top and tapering the sides until it all came together. He even showed Bakugo how to style it with a little wax.

Short on the sides. Sharp around the ears. Messy at the crown, just enough to feel light. 

Blonde strands fell around his feet in soft piles, the color catching the light like dust.

When Sero finished, he handed Bakugo the mirror.

And Bakugo smiled.

A real smile. One that reached the edges of his face. One that felt like breathing with both lungs for the first time.

He turned his head side to side, fingers dragging through the new texture. Buzzed underneath, cropped close at the neck. Something about it made his jaw look sharper. His eyes clearer.

He looked like himself.

Sero grinned behind him. “Told you I got you.”

Bakugo didn’t say thank you, his smile said enough.

In June, the heat pressed heavily against the city, thick and sun-soaked.

Bakugo stole a tank top from Kirishima that morning. It smelled like his laundry soap and sunscreen and a little like him. 

They were going to the pride parade.

It wasn’t massive, not like in Brazil or the Netherlands, where streets flooded with color and sound for miles. But it was something. A growing thing. People from all over Japan came to Tokyo for it, students, elders, kids with flags painted on their cheeks. Queer couples walking hand in hand, smiling.

It was hot. 

Loud. 

Alive.

The whole group went. Mina and Camie with glitter on their cheeks, Jirou in leather shorts and fishnets, Kaminari already yelling about how they were gonna cry before they even left the station. People from the queer club were everywhere, handing out stickers and bracelets, holding banners they’d painted themselves during late-night meetings.

Just before they joined the march, Kirishima turned to Bakugo, his face split in that ridiculous, honest grin.

“I got you something.”

He pulled a tiny folded trans flag from his bag. He handed it to Bakugo with both hands like it was something precious.

Bakugo stared at it, and held it in his palm like it might float away.

Kirishima didn’t say anything, but he turned around and pulled off the shirt he’d been wearing over another.

The shirt underneath was bright white, and printed across the chest in bold block letters: “That’s my boyfriend over here.” With a giant red arrow pointing to the side.

He looked back, still grinning like an idiot.

Bakugo rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.

But he kissed him anyway.

And then they marched.

Through the streets. Through the noise. Through the heat and the flags and the songs and the cheers. Bakugo held the little flag in one hand, Kirishima’s fingers in the other.

No one looked twice. Or if they did, it was with joy.

Bakugo didn’t feel out of place in his own skin.

He felt seen.

And proud.

Kirishima’s birthday came with blue skies and cold air, the kind that made everything feel a little easier, a little lighter.

Their friends had planned a party for Friday night; jokes about beer towers and karaoke were already flying around in the group chat, but tonight was just for the two of them.

They went out to eat. A little yakitori place with wooden booths and soft lighting, tucked between two bookstores on a hidden street. They didn’t talk about anything big, they just laughed, shared plates, and teased each other over who could handle the spiciest skewer.

Bakugo smiled more than he realized. The kind of smile that lingered in his eyes even when he wasn’t looking at Kirishima directly.

By the time they got back to Kirishima’s dorm, the hallway was quiet, most of the floor already gone home or asleep. They stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind them.

Bakugo didn’t wait.

He kissed him hard. Both hands curling into the front of Kirishima’s shirt, pulling him in without hesitation. Kirishima made a surprised sound, hands coming up to steady them both, but he didn’t ask questions.

Bakugo walked him backward into the room, mouth still pressed to his, and pushed him onto the bed. Climbed into his lap. Felt the way Kirishima’s breath caught beneath him.

They’d kissed before, a lot. They’d touched, mouths, necks, thighs. Bakugo had felt the heat of Kirishima’s dick against his leg, had once ground down without even thinking and came so fast it left him blinking and breathless and kind of embarrassed.

But they hadn’t gone further, and Kirishima had never asked. Never hinted. Not once.

Always patient. Always careful. Always waiting for Bakugo to move first.

And now he was, because he wanted to.

Even if his body still didn’t feel like home most days. Even if the reflection in the mirror still startled him sometimes. Even if there were parts he didn’t love or couldn’t look at, because he’d started talking to other trans people. Listening. Learning. And one thing they kept saying over and over was that gender wasn’t in the parts. It was in the knowing. In the being.

He didn’t always believe it yet. Not completely. But something inside him had shifted, and he wanted Kirishima.

Wanted the warmth. The closeness. The skin. The ache of it. The choice of it.

He pulled back just enough to meet Kirishima’s eyes.

“I want to,” Bakugo whispered. “Okay?”

Kirishima looked at him, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Okay.”

So the redhead kissed him thoroughly. Mouth on his throat, his jaw, the dip beneath his ear. Along his shoulders, down his arms. He didn’t rush, didn’t ask. Just kissed, everywhere Bakugo let him. And when his hands slid beneath the hem of the tank top, they didn’t wander far. 

He never touched the binder.

Never tried to take it off.

And Bakugo, God, he was grateful for that. He couldn’t have handled it, not tonight.

When Kirishima’s hand slid lower, down between his legs, Bakugo went still.

He had never done this.

Not with anyone. Not even himself. He hated it. Hated how it felt, how it reminded him of everything he tried not to think about. Sometimes even showers were too much. The texture, the wrongness, the slick unfamiliarity, it always sent him spiraling.

But Kirishima’s hand was warm. The kind of touch that asked, is this okay? without ever needing to speak it. He didn’t force, he touched him with his fingers like he was learning something sacred, and kissed every noise Bakugo made.

And Bakugo made a lot.

Breathy little sounds he didn’t know he could make. Trembling gasps he tried to swallow but couldn’t. He turned his face into Kirishima’s neck, embarrassed, too full of heat, but the other man only kissed him harder.

When it was time, when Bakugo reached down with shaking hands and fumbled with the drawer beside the bed, pulled out a condom, handed it to him, Kirishima paused. Looked at him again, pupils blown, hands trembling just as much.

Bakugo helped him roll it on.

He guided him, whispered a yeah, and then his legs opened.

When he finally pushed in, Bakugo gasped. 

Kirishima kissed his forehead, his temple, the corner of his eye, all that while holding him like something precious.

And Bakugo clung to him, overwhelmed and dizzy and completely his.

That winter, Bakugo went home.

The train ride felt longer than usual. The small bag at his feet heavier than it should’ve been. When he stepped through the front door, the familiar smell of cooking rice and old wood wrapped around him like something half-forgotten.

Both of his parents were in the kitchen. His mom stood by the stove, tea in her hand. His dad was reading something at the table, glasses slipping down his nose.

They looked up when he entered.

He didn’t wait.

“I’m transgender.”

It landed in the room like a dropped plate, loud in its silence, even though nothing broke.

His parents blinked. His mom’s hand hovered in the air for a second, then she slowly set her tea cup back on the table.

Bakugo’s hands curled in his lap.

He kept going.

“I’m not a girl. I’ve never been. I use he/him pronouns. My name’s Katsuki. I’ve been binding. I’m gonna save for top surgery. I’ve been looking into hormones. I’ve talked to doctors. I’ve done my research, and no, this isn’t a phase, and no, I’m not confused, and I don’t want to hear some ‘but you were such a cute little girl’ bullshit, because I wasn’t. I never was. I just...”

He paused, breath caught.

“I just want to tell you now. Before it gets worse. Before you hear it from someone else. Before you say something you can’t take back.”

Still, silence.

The clock ticked. The kettle hummed. His dad closed his book, eyes unreadable. His mom just stared at her hands like she was trying to find the words printed there.

Bakugo braced himself.

For anger. For confusion. For disappointment.

For anything but what came next.

“How much is it?” His dad asked.

Bakugo blinked. “How much is what?” 

“The surgery.”

Bakugo stared. Mouth half-open. Brain still catching up.

Before he could say anything, his mom moved to the table and sat across from him, folding her hands like she was about to discuss weekend plans.

“Well,” she said, “we did save a lot in case he decided he wanted to go study abroad.”

His dad nodded, already reaching for a pen. “Yeah. And we can check with the health plan too. See if they can recommend someone.”

Bakugo’s throat closed. His pulse roared in his ears.

“Only the best,” his mom said. “I’m not letting some half-doctor touch my son.”

She said it so casually, so easily.

Son.

Bakugo’s heart gave one loud, aching thud in his chest.

He’d spent years preparing for rejection. For disgust, disappointment, silence that would stretch on forever. But this simple, stubborn acceptance, they’d met him at the edge of the cliff, and without hesitation, stepped forward to build the bridge themselves.

His mom was already opening her notebook, his dad sketching out a list, as if this was a future they’d always expected. 

Bakugo tried to hold it in.

He bit the inside of his cheek, focused on the steam rising from the kettle, dug his nails into his palms under the table, but it didn’t work.

The tears came anyway.

He turned his face, tried to blink them back, to breathe through it, but his throat kept burning. His vision blurred, and when he finally wiped at his cheek, his hand shook.

His dad reached across the table and placed a warm hand over his.

“It’s okay,” he said, smiling.

His mom stood up again without a word and went back to the stove. He heard the soft clink of cups, the sound of water being poured. She moved slower than usual. When she returned, she placed a cup in front of him, and said, “Drink, and tell us more about all the research you did.”

Bakugo looked at the tea.

Then at her.

Then at their hands still touching on the table.

And he cried a bit more.

Spring again. Warm breeze, blue sky, the kind that made everything feel a little easier.

The group had taken the train out to a big second-hand store on the edge of the city, the kind with too-bright lights and rows of furniture stacked high like cardboard cities. Mina and Camie were finally moving into a place of their own, a tiny apartment with bad tile and good light. They'd saved enough for a new kettle, a rice cooker, and a TV, but the rest would be second-hand. Camie kept making jokes about “vintage vibes.” Mina just looked happy.

Shinsou, Sero, and Kaminari had wandered off toward the back of the store to find drinks, arguing over canned coffee versus soda.

So it was just the four of them, Camie comparing two nightstands, Kirishima pushing the cart with one hand and holding Bakugo’s with the other, and Mina bouncing between couches, holding her phone up like it would help her choose.

And then Mina stopped moving.

She went pale all at once and backed up until she was half-hiding behind Kirishima, hands fisted in his hoodie.

Bakugo turned.

He saw them immediately. A man and a woman in conservative clothes. Faces pinched. The kind of posture that made everything feel colder. Their hard eyes locked on Mina.

“Look at you,” the woman snapped, already marching forward. “Parading around like you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Camie stepped closer to Mina, wrapping an arm around her waist.

The man’s voice joined hers. “A daughter like this. Disgusting. Ungrateful. Sinful.”

Mina flinched but didn’t move.

Bakugo stepped forward. Past Kirishima. Past Camie. Right up to the woman. Right into her space.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” he said.

The woman blinked, taken aback by the glare. “Excuse me...”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

The man took a step forward. “Who do you think you are...”

“I’m someone who doesn’t give a shit about your delicate feelings,” Bakugo snapped. “You don’t get to come in here and act like you’re victims because your daughter decided to be happy without your approval.”

“She...”

“She’s better off without you,” Bakugo said. “Both of you.”

The woman opened her mouth again. Bakugo didn’t wait.

“You should be embarrassed,” he hissed. “Not because of her, but because you’re cowards. Cruel, small cowards. You lost your daughter the day you made her feel like she had to earn your love.”

Silence.

The woman’s mouth closed. The man’s hands twitched at his sides.

They turned and walked away.

Bakugo didn’t watch them go. He stood there, fists clenched so tight his knuckles burned, breath shallow, eyes burning with fury he hadn’t fully let out.

When he finally turned, he saw Kirishima standing behind him, looking twice his normal size. Shoulders squared, eyes sharp in a way Bakugo rarely saw, like he’d been ready to step in the moment Bakugo needed him, ready to do more than just watch.

Mina was still behind him, pressed against Camie, small and shaking. She looked up at Bakugo with red eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”

Kirishima stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She melted into it, face buried in his shoulder.

They stayed like that for a long moment. Camie’s hand rubbed Mina’s back, and after a while, she kissed Mina’s cheek and said, “Let’s go home. We can pick furniture another day.”

But Mina shook her head. Swiped the tears off her cheeks with both hands.

“No,” she said. “It’s for our house. I want to keep looking.”

Camie looked at her for a second, then nodded.

So they did.

Kirishima took Mina’s hand. Camie linked their arms together. And they kept walking down the aisles, past used bookshelves, chipped mugs, sun-faded couches. Laughing quietly again. Picking things up. Putting them down. Starting over.

Bakugo followed behind, still burning, but the fire didn’t feel like it was eating him alive.

It felt like it was protecting something worth holding on to.

With the money he’d been quietly saving in a shoebox beneath his bed in the form of folded bills from coffee shop tips and leftover change from late-night conbini runs, Bakugo scheduled his first appointment with a qualified endocrinologist.

He didn’t need to save for surgery anymore. His parents had insisted. His dad already had a spreadsheet. His mom had already emailed three private clinics asking for dates. “That money’s yours,” they told him. “Use it to take care of yourself.”

So he did.

He started with the evaluation. It was long. Intense. Personal in a way that made his skin crawl some days, but he sat through every question, every form, every conversation about dysphoria and medical history and his future. Kirishima came with him to some of the appointments, always waiting outside, always ready with water or a hand to hold afterward.

By the end of autumn, it was time.

He picked up the prescription himself. Held the box in his hands and the vials were small. Ordinary. Not magic, but something close.

They sat on his nightstand that evening for a long time, untouched, the golden light from his desk lamp making them glow.

“Do you want help?” Kirishima had asked softly.

Bakugo nodded.

So Kirishima read the instructions twice, washed his hands carefully, and applied the first injection with hands that were always reverent. When it was done, he reached for the box again and peeled off a square bandaid, smoothing it gently over Bakugo’s skin with his thumb. He didn’t say anything after, but he pressed a soft kiss to Bakugo’s shoulder and held him for a long while as the heater hummed beside the bed and the world shifted, just a little.

And then the months began.

It started small.

A scratch in his throat that wouldn’t go away. Then a change in the way his voice caught on vowels, deeper now, rougher around the edges. The first time he laughed without thinking and heard it come out lower, it left him stunned for the rest of the day.

His face changed next. Slowly. His jawline grew sharper. Cheekbones shifted. Baby fat disappeared from his cheeks, replaced by angles he didn’t recognize at first but liked more every time he caught his reflection in passing glass.

There was hair, too. More of it. On his stomach, his legs, under his chin. Light at first, barely there, but it grew darker as the days passed, as the season turned again and the first frost clung to the windowpanes.

Kirishima noticed every change like it was a miracle.

He never made a show of it, never overwhelmed him, but Bakugo would catch the glances. The soft smile when he spoke, the way Kirishima’s hand would trace the new stubble on his jaw like he was committing it to memory.

The mirror stopped feeling like a threat.

Not every day, though, there were still bad ones, but most days, he could look and see himself. Not an echo. Not a shadow. Just Katsuki, as he’d always been, now visible to the world.

His body was still a work in progress, and he knew it always would be, but the work felt worth it.

It felt his.

Bakugo got the surgery during the summer before his final year of university.

He did it in Tokyo. He and his parents had researched the clinic for months, read every review, checked every credential, triple-checked the forms, the fees, the aftercare protocol. The doctor said he’d only need a week to recover, maybe a little longer, but his parents took a month off anyway.

They didn’t just come with him, they planned. Booked an Airbnb a few blocks from the clinic, somewhere with soft beds and a little garden out back, a quiet street lined with hydrangeas and the steady hum of cicadas in the heat. His dad brought books. His mom packed enough food for a small army. They said they’d stay the whole time.

And Kirishima was there too.

Of course he was.

He had taken time off work, moved his schedule around, packed extra chargers and three different types of tea. He stayed by Bakugo’s side through every consultation, every prep appointment, every awkward conversation with medical staff.

The day of the surgery was long. Bakugo didn’t remember much, only white ceilings, cold floors, the voice of a nurse telling him to breathe deep.

When he woke up, the room was cold and everything ached in a way that didn’t quite feel like pain.

But he didn’t cry at first.

It was hours later, maybe the next day, when a nurse gently helped him sit up, still drowsy, still dizzy, and handed him a mirror.

He blinked down at it, hands shaking. The bandages were still there. Swollen, taped, still healing, but even through all that, the shape was different.

Something inside him cracked open.

He cried. Ugly, gasping sobs that wracked his whole body even through the fog of painkillers. His chest hurt with the shaking, but he couldn’t stop. He cried because it was real, because it had happened, because he had done it.

And he knew, even as the drugs blurred the edges, even as he sank back into sleep with tears drying on his cheeks, he would never forget that feeling.

Back at the Airbnb, everything slowed.

His mom cooked soup and cooled washcloths for his forehead. His dad moved the futon to the center of the room so he could look out into the garden. Kirishima slept beside him every night, curled up on a tatami mat like he belonged there, because he did. He helped him sit up when he couldn’t. Changed the bandages with warm hands. Set alarms for his medications.

“You’re not supposed to move too much,” Kirishima would say every time Bakugo tried to shift or reach for something. “You’re healing. Let yourself rest.”

So he did.

For once, he let people take care of him. He let himself lie still, surrounded by the sound of cicadas, a rice cooker ticking, the rustle of Kirishima’s breath beside him.

And every morning, he woke up in his own body.

No dread. No disconnect.

Just himself.

Finally.

Graduation came with the smell of early spring grass and the sound of a thousand voices packed into chairs, some anxious, some proud, some simply trying not to fall asleep. The speeches blurred together, names were called, and Bakugo sat in the middle of it all with his hands clasped in his lap and his heart thudding so loudly in his ears it nearly drowned out everything else.

And then he heard it.

“Bakugo Katsuki.”

His name. His name.

It echoed through the speaker system.

People clapped. His friends, Kaminari shouted something half-coherent, Sero whistled too loud, Mina was already tearing up. His parents stood and clapped, his mom’s hands moving fast, his dad's slower but firm. Even strangers joined in. People who didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about him, still clapped. And it didn’t matter what they knew or didn’t. It was his name on the program. His name being read aloud. His name on the diploma.

He walked across the stage and took it with both hands, and when the staff member smiled and nodded, he smiled back.

Later, after the crowd spilled out onto the campus lawn and everyone was tossing caps in the air, after cameras clicked and tears were wiped away, Bakugo stood with his diploma tucked under one arm, surrounded by the people who had walked every inch of the past four years with him.

They were laughing, shouting, hugging each other, posing for photos they’d probably look back on in ten years and groan about. The sun was setting, casting long shadows and making Mina’s glitter cheeks sparkle like stars.

Then Kirishima touched his elbow, and pulled him a few steps away from the chaos.

He turned to him, a little confused, until Kirishima reached into his pocket and held out a small key.

“I rented a flat,” he said, a bit nervous. “It’s old. The pipes rattle when you turn the hot water on too fast. I think the upstairs neighbor owns a cockatoo, or maybe is becoming one, not sure. But it’s close to our internships. And it’s got two rooms and a balcony and it’s ours, if you want it to be.”

Bakugo looked at the key.

Then at him.

And Kirishima added, quieter now, “I would like it if you came to live with me.”

The diploma was still under his arm. The applause still echoed faintly in his ears. But here, in the quiet between them, everything slowed. Everything narrowed down to a key in a palm, and a voice full of hope, and a future so real he could almost reach out and touch it.

He took the key with fingers that trembled just a little.

Kirishima was watching him with that open expression he always wore when he was being brave, hope stitched into every corner of his face, like he wasn’t sure if he’d asked for too much.

Bakugo stepped forward, cupped his face in both hands, and kissed him.

There wasn’t anything slow about it, just years of love, of fear, of trust, of becoming all pressed into the space between them.

When he pulled back, he said, “Of course I want to live with you.”

Kirishima’s face broke into the kind of smile that didn’t need sunlight to be bright. He kissed him again, hands warm against Bakugo’s waist, pulling him in.

And then, just beneath the breath between them, he whispered, “I love you, Katsuki.”

And Bakugo, who once thought there was no future that could belong to him, stood on the edge of one that did.