Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kirishima likes to pretend his life began in high school. Not because the years before were particularly awful — though, thinking about it, he can’t remember them well enough to decide — but because nothing worth holding onto seemed to exist before then.

There are flashes of memory, scattered pieces of mornings in his old bedroom — the unsharpened sound of his alarm, the unkindly fluorescent light in his bathroom mirror, the small cut on his finger from a razor when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He’d tried to blame it on a dull blade, but the truth was simpler. He was nervous.

He remembers fussing with his tie that morning, convinced it would look perfect in the mirror only for his mother to tilt her head and step forward, gently straightening it herself. He remembers her smiling at him in that way that mothers do, even though the tie immediately slanted left again.

The details blur after that — his shoes on the wrong feet for a moment, the taste of toast gone cold, the restless hum in his chest as though the air itself was vibrating with some countdown he wasn’t watching.

It should’ve been impossible to forget a soulmate countdown. People were obsessed with them, the numbers on their wrist like a compass guiding them to their forever. But Kirishima hadn’t been looking. He didn’t need to.

Because when the moment came — when the timer fell silent, when the last second burned away — it wasn’t the numbers that told him. It was him.

Bakugou.

Kirishima can still see it — vivid, crystalline, burned into every neuron like muscle memory. One blink, one inhale, and there he was. He hadn’t been doing anything remarkable. No lightning bolt, no cinematic music swelling in the background. Just Bakugou, looking up, meeting his gaze with eyes that had no business being that sharp, that alive, that explosive.

And Kirishima had known.

It wasn’t a thought, or a calculation, or even something he could reason out later. It was a gut-punch of certainty, a tidal wave slamming into his ribs, the air leaving his lungs like he’d been waiting years to exhale. He saw his entire future in that split second — the good, the bad, all of it — and nothing in his life had ever made more sense than this did.

Before Bakugou, life had been something to get through. After Bakugou, life was something to have.

He doesn’t remember what he said to him that first day. Probably something dumb. Definitely something awkward. Bakugou had scowled — of course he had — and Kirishima had laughed, unable to stop himself.

He still feels that same ridiculous laugh caught in his chest sometimes, years later.

Even now — at university, no longer boys fumbling through high school but men sharing a cramped flat and bills and life — Kirishima wakes up with the same shock of wonder he felt then.

Because Bakugou is still here.

Every morning, he wakes seconds before the alarm, lying on his side so he can watch Bakugou sleep. The curtains never quite close all the way, and a line of sunlight spills through, catching in the pale ends of his hair, tracing the edges of his face like some kind of private blessing. His lashes twitch. His brow, normally pulled tight in irritation or focus, is smoothed out in sleep.

The alarm rings, sharp in the stillness. Bakugou’s eyes crack open, slow and reluctant, like the world is intruding too early again. He yawns — loud, unbothered — and Kirishima feels the same thing he’s felt every single day since that first one.

Awe.

It doesn’t matter that they’ve done this a thousand times. Bakugou yawning today is new. Bakugou yawning yesterday was new. Bakugou yawning tomorrow will be brand new and Kirishima can hardly wait.

Because nothing, nothing, in this life will ever be ordinary when it comes to Bakugou.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima woke before the alarm.

It wasn’t unusual — not anymore. His body seemed to know when the clock was creeping towards morning, as though it had been trained by the soft rhythm of the days they had built together. He lay there for a moment, eyes still half-shut, cocooned in that fragile hour between night and day where nothing had quite started yet, the whole room holding its breath.

The curtains were drawn just enough to let in a ribbon of light, a pale, clean gold that spilled across the sheets and the slope of Bakugou’s shoulder. It clung to him like something protective, almost reverent, catching on the fine strands of his hair, turning them into soft, uneven halos. Kirishima always thought he looked different in the mornings — less sharp-edged, like the day hadn’t yet reminded him to keep his guard up. His mouth was slack, his brow smooth for once, the faintest crease just at the corner of his eye where he’d squinted into the pillow.

Kirishima didn’t move. Didn’t dare. He knew any shift of the mattress might stir Bakugou, and he wasn’t ready to let the quiet dissolve just yet. It felt like standing on the edge of something sacred. He let his gaze trace the line of Bakugou’s cheekbone, the pale scar there that had long since faded to something you’d only notice if you’d stared long enough. The kind of thing Kirishima couldn’t not see.

Every morning should have felt the same by now — the same alarm, the same sunlight, the same warm weight beside him. But it never did. Every morning startled him a little. Every morning felt like the first, and maybe that was why he clung to them so tightly.

Bakugou stirred faintly, shifting under the blanket with a soft, muffled breath that caught against the back of Kirishima’s ribs. And then, inevitably, came the yawn.

It was nothing remarkable, if anyone else asked. Just a small sound and a widening of his mouth, a wrinkle forming across the bridge of his nose. But Kirishima felt it like a blow to the chest. It was so new, every time. Bakugou yawning yesterday hadn’t been the same as this. Bakugou yawning tomorrow would be something else entirely. He couldn’t explain it properly — he’d tried, once, to tell Bakugou that mornings felt like discovering him all over again. Bakugou had snorted, muttered something about him being a sappy idiot, and kissed him anyway.

The alarm went off. A sharp, insistent trill breaking through the haze.

Bakugou’s eyes cracked open, sluggish and unwilling, lashes dark against the pale light. His gaze wandered the room before finally settling on Kirishima, and there was a moment — there always was — where his expression softened, barely perceptible, like he’d just remembered where he was and who was next to him.

“Morning,” Kirishima said softly, voice still thick with sleep.

Bakugou hummed in response, the sound low in his throat, before burying his face into the pillow again. His hand, still warm from sleep, found its way to Kirishima’s side without him even looking, curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

And Kirishima thought — not for the first time — that there was nothing in the world he could want more than this exact thing. This quiet, unremarkable miracle of waking up and seeing Bakugou in the sunlight, knowing that no matter how many times it happened, it would never stop feeling like the start of everything.

The kitchen was still half-asleep when Kirishima padded in, hair sticking out in every possible direction, a hoodie pulled on over loose joggers that dragged faintly against the tiles. The floor was cool beneath his bare feet, grounding him in the soft stillness of the morning. The light was only just beginning to spill in through the half-open blinds, the golden warmth inching across the counters like it had all the time in the world.

Bakugou followed behind him, one hand holding tightly over Kirishima’s, the other scrolling through his phone with an expression that looked far too awake for someone who’d been yanked from sleep less than fifteen minutes ago.

They moved around each other with the kind of ease that only came from years of knowing exactly where the other would be — Kirishima reaching for mugs before Bakugou even set the coffee down, Bakugou nudging him away from the hob without a word when he started on the eggs. It wasn’t choreographed, but it might as well have been. The whole thing was a quiet dance of habit and familiarity, like muscle memory, and Kirishima felt his chest ache faintly just watching Bakugou pour the coffee without needing to ask how he wanted it.

It had been years, and yet somehow, the edges of moments like this still felt sharp. New.

Kirishima found himself stealing glances when he thought Bakugou wasn’t looking — the slope of his jaw in the pale morning light, the slight furrow of concentration as he cracked eggs into the pan. Every movement was precise, intentional. Kirishima marvelled, as he always did, at how something so small, so painfully ordinary, could feel so profound.

He didn’t say any of this aloud. Bakugou would call him a sappy idiot and shove him away, even if his ears went pink at the tips. But he thought it anyway, quietly, like a secret he’d never have to explain: that somehow, brushing shoulders over a pan of scrambled eggs was the most romantic thing in the world.

Breakfast passed in the comfortable hum of background noise — the low simmer of the eggs, the muted thud of cutlery against plates, Bakugou telling him to stop putting so much jam on his toast like he wasn’t halfway through his second slice already.

Afterwards, they brushed their teeth side by side, leaning against the bathroom counter, the mirror fogging faintly from the heat of the shower one of them had taken earlier. Kirishima’s hair was still wild, sticking up in every direction despite his half-hearted attempt to flatten it with his hand. Bakugou caught his reflection in the mirror and snorted, toothpaste foam in the corner of his mouth.

Kirishima laughed, rinsing his mouth out, spitting into the sink before leaning down to splash cold water over his face. The water shocked him awake, dripping from his jaw and soaking the collar of his hoodie. He caught Bakugou glancing at him in the mirror — just a quick look, unspoken, before he turned away to spit into the sink himself.

It was stupid, Kirishima thought, how even that tiny, fleeting glance could make his stomach feel like it had tipped over.

When they left the bathroom, their shoulders brushed again in the narrow doorway. It was nothing. It was everything. Kirishima marvelled, privately, at how each day still felt impossibly perfect — not because it was flawless, but because Bakugou was there, existing in all the quiet, ordinary spaces they shared.

He didn’t need grand gestures. He didn’t need fireworks. This — the shared kitchen, the mint taste of toothpaste lingering in the air, the brush of shoulders in a doorway — was enough.

More than enough.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima wasn’t paying attention.

Which was funny, considering how much of his life lately seemed to revolve around time — alarms, deadlines, class schedules, Bakugou’s impossibly precise internal clock that always seemed to drag him out of bed five minutes before Kirishima was done taking in his freshly woken up face. But on this day, in the thick press of the campus café, with too many voices and too much steam curling from the overworked machines, he wasn’t thinking about time at all.

He was thinking about how badly he wanted caffeine.

The place smelled like warm bread and burnt espresso, sharp and sweet at once. His hair was still damp from his shower, sticking in a damp curl at the back of his neck, and he was halfway through fumbling coins from his pocket when it happened.

The impact was quick and messy.

Hot liquid soaked through the sleeve of his hoodie before his mind caught up to the physical sensation. His startled sound tangled awkwardly with another, and the next second he was staring down at his arm, dripping with coffee that hadn’t been his.

“Shit!”

The voice came fast, hurried, unsteady. Kirishima’s head lifted, meeting wide dark eyes and a flustered expression that somehow made the situation both worse and funnier. The guy was maybe his height, wiry, with an apologetic grin that looked like it might fall apart at any second. His hands fluttered uselessly at the air, like he couldn’t decide whether to pat Kirishima’s sleeve or just disappear entirely.

“I’m so sorry, man, I wasn’t looking, I’ll, uh, I’ll pay for the dry cleaning? Or shit, you’re probably late now, huh?”

Kirishima shook his head, instinctively laughing — not at him, but at the whole situation, at how quickly his morning had unravelled into something messy and alive. “It’s fine, really. I was just here for coffee, not a fashion show. Are you okay?”

The guy let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. His eyes flicked down to his own cup — now almost empty, dripping onto his trainers — before darting back up. “Yeah, I’m fine. My pride? Not so much. But physically? Fine.”

Kirishima could see the way his shoulders didn’t quite settle. There was a restlessness in him, a coiled nervous energy that didn’t feel like it came just from spilling coffee.

“Guess that’s karma for cutting in line,” the guy went on, his smile all sharp edges now. Then, almost as if he’d just realised who he was talking to, he extended a hand. “Sero Hanta. Again, sorry about your hoodie.”

Kirishima clasped it easily, warm despite the damp sleeve. “Kirishima Eijirou. And seriously, it’s fine. This hoodie’s seen worse. Got tackled during a game of bulldog once wearing it — didn’t even rip.”

That got him a genuine laugh, quick and fleeting, before Sero’s expression folded in on itself again.

The café had grown louder around them, people shifting impatiently, the hiss of steam and clink of cups swallowing the space they’d carved. Kirishima gestured toward the counter. “You want another coffee? On me this time. Consider it a peace offering.”

Sero hesitated — just long enough for Kirishima to notice. And when he nodded, there was something strange in the way his fingers tapped against the counter, almost like he was keeping time to something only he could hear.

They found a table near the window, both of them wrapped in the faint awkwardness of strangers making polite conversation. It should’ve been nothing. It should’ve been just coffee, a brief encounter over spilled drinks and damp sleeves.

But there was something in Sero’s eyes that didn’t settle.

He talked in easy bursts, quick humour and sharp timing, but between the words was a tension Kirishima recognised — not in the details, but in the shape of it. The way he kept glancing at his wrist like it might betray him. The way he shifted in his seat as if he couldn’t quite get comfortable in his own skin.

Kirishima had seen that look before. In mirrors. In other people. In moments before everything changed.

The seconds passed in the space between them, the conversation drifting from classes to campus life, until Sero’s laugh faltered. He tapped his cup, glanced at Kirishima’s wrist almost unconsciously, and then dropped his gaze to his own.

It wasn’t the usual curiosity — the casual how long you got left? everyone with a timer eventually asked. It was sharper. Quieter.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “Six years.”

Kirishima almost missed it under the noise of the café. “Huh?”

“My timer,” Sero said, his mouth pulling into a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Six years left. Which is a lot. Feels like forever.”

There was something about the way he said it — like it wasn’t just impatience. Like each number carried a weight he couldn’t shake.

Kirishima felt a small ache twist low in his chest. He didn’t know what to say, not without sounding like the sort of person who had already found his answer.

Sero gave a short laugh, leaning back like he could hide from the thought. “I just, I don’t know, man. Six years feels impossible.”

Kirishima nodded slowly, his thoughts already tangling in the quiet spaces between the words. He didn’t know the details — didn’t know why Sero looked like the weight of the world was strung between the numbers on his wrist — but he knew the expression. He’d seen people drowning before, in different ways.

Six years. Kirishima could barely remember when his said six years, it had been so long ago. It was strange, thinking of what that stretch of time might feel like — to wake up and see the same number, to watch it crawl by.

Sero ran a hand through his hair, letting out a laugh that wasn’t much of a laugh. “Feels like forever, man. And I know it’s dumb, but I don’t, I don’t want to wait. I don’t know if I can. I don’t want to have lived another six years of my life and know they amount to nothing compared to the rest of it,”

Something in Kirishima softened, instinctively. He remembered what it felt like to be on the other side of that countdown, the way the whole world tilted towards the moment it hit zero. He thought about what it would’ve been like to still be waiting now. To still be looking.

“What if,” Sero hesitated, then blew out a breath. “What if you helped me look? I know the odds are shit. I know it’s impossible. But I can’t just sit around. I’ve been… I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I don’t know where to start, and,”

“Yeah,” Kirishima said, without needing to think about it.

Sero blinked at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeated, grinning a little. “Of course I’ll help. You’re right, the odds suck, but I get it. And I don’t know — maybe it’s worth trying anyway.”

For a second, Sero just looked at him like he hadn’t been expecting the answer to be that simple. Then he huffed out a breath, some of the tension in his shoulders unwinding, just barely.

“Thanks, man,” he said. It sounded like something heavier than gratitude, but he didn’t elaborate.

Kirishima only nodded, already turning over ideas in his head. He wasn’t sure what they’d try yet, or if it would work at all — but he remembered the way his own life had begun at zero. He couldn’t imagine telling someone else not to run towards theirs.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

It’s late when Kirishima comes home. That kind of late where the city’s gone quiet, and even the soft hum of traffic beyond their building feels dulled, as if everything’s folding in on itself for the night. The air outside had been cool on his walk back, the kind that clings faintly to his jacket, but stepping into their flat is like being pulled into a different kind of warmth.

The door closes softly behind him. He’s careful with his footsteps — half from habit, half because he can hear Bakugou somewhere deeper in the flat. There’s the faint sound of running water, the clink of something set down. Kirishima’s half-wondering if he should save it for the morning, for when the day feels new and less fragile, but then he hears Bakugou’s voice call from the kitchen, sharp even when softened by distance.

“Oi. You’re back late.”

There’s no real bite to it. It’s tired, curious, the kind of thing that comes out when Bakugou’s already winding down for the night.

Kirishima finds him leaning against the counter, hair damp, T-shirt loose on his frame. He’s got a glass in his hand, condensation marking his fingers. The sight tugs at something steady in Kirishima’s chest — it’s always like that, seeing him at the end of a day. It’s grounding.

Bakugou gives him a look that’s hard to read, one of those measuring ones, as Kirishima toes off his shoes. “What’ve you been doing?”

Kirishima hesitates, the weight of it settling in his chest — not guilt, not exactly, but the kind of heaviness that comes when you’re carrying something fragile, unsure how it’ll sound out loud. “I met a new friend, his name’s Sero, asked me for a hand with something. I said I’d help.”

Bakugou’s brow furrows instantly. “With what?”

“He’s looking for his soulmate,” Kirishima says, and even to his own ears it sounds strange, too small a phrase for how charged the words feel. “He doesn’t want to wait. He’s got six years on his wrist, and he’s,” He struggles for the word, gestures vaguely. “He’s tired of waiting.”

Bakugou stares at him for a beat, unimpressed in that particular Bakugou way. “Six years?”

“Yeah.”

“And you think you can help him how? You're gonna magically track them down in the middle of the night?” His tone isn’t cruel — it’s flat, edged with incredulity.

Kirishima smiles faintly, a little helpless. “I don’t know. But he’s really desperate, man. It’s not just about the time left. It’s about, I don’t know, feeling like he’s wasting everything before then.”

Bakugou’s still watching him, arms crossed now, the faint tap of fingers against his bicep a tell that he’s thinking hard. His expression doesn’t soften, but it shifts — something quieter threading into his eyes.

“You don’t even know if it’ll work,” he mutters.

“I know,” Kirishima says, stepping closer, leaning against the counter beside him. “I just — I want to try. Even if it’s stupid.”

Bakugou makes a low sound, halfway between a sigh and a scoff. His head tips slightly, as if he’s weighing something in his own chest. He’s sceptical — Kirishima can see it, can almost feel the sharp edges of it in the air between them — but there’s no hard wall.

Finally, Bakugou pushes away from the counter, setting his glass down with a dull clink. His eyes catch Kirishima’s, sharp but steady. “You’re an idiot,” he says, voice low. “But if you’re gonna do it, do it properly. Don’t half-ass it. And don’t let it drag you into something you can’t get out of.”

The words are brusque, but there’s an undercurrent there Kirishima knows well enough to hear — the weight of care disguised in irritation, the kind of support Bakugou gives that’s all spine and no flourish.

Kirishima feels his chest tighten in that familiar way, warmth curling in through the ache. “You’re okay with it?”

Bakugou rolls his eyes, grabbing his glass again. “Did I say I wasn’t?”

Kirishima grins then, small but genuine. “Thanks, man.”

“Just don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face,” Bakugou mutters, but he doesn’t pull away when Kirishima reaches out, fingers brushing briefly against his wrist. There’s something wordless in the moment — the kind of thing that settles in the spaces between sentences, unspoken but steady.

Kirishima lingers there for a breath longer before straightening, the quiet between them comfortable now. Bakugou still looks faintly unimpressed, but he hasn’t told him to stop, hasn’t told him it’s pointless again. And that, Kirishima knows, is its own kind of yes.

He heads toward their room, and Bakugou follows a few moments later, the soft tread of his footsteps grounding against the hum in Kirishima’s chest. Skeptical or not, Bakugou’s still here. And that’s more than enough.

[break}

Kirishima had never thought much about what made one conversation different from another — how one might linger and weave itself into the folds of memory while the rest dissolved without a trace. But there was something about late-afternoon roads, about the gentle ache of his muscles after a long day, about the weight of another person’s unspoken hope riding quietly in the passenger seat, that made every word feel like it carried further.

The city slid by in pieces — flickers of yellow light through petrol station glass, the smear of red tail-lights stretching thin across the wet tarmac, the occasional burst of laughter from a group of students spilling out of a kebab shop. His hand rested loosely on the steering wheel, thumb tapping a lazy rhythm against the leather, eyes on the blur of the road ahead. Beside him, Sero had his forehead tipped lightly against the window, watching the glow of streetlights break over his reflection like ripples in dark water.

They weren’t driving anywhere in particular — just letting the roads take them, doubling back when one street ran out, looping through stretches of road that felt almost identical but not quite. It was easier this way, somehow. To just move.

Sero spoke first, voice quiet in a way that made Kirishima think of someone testing the weight of their words before letting them fall. “Do you ever think about what you’d be doing if your clock hadn’t hit zero when it did?”

Kirishima smiled faintly, a half-shrug caught somewhere in his shoulders. “Not really,” he admitted, and it wasn’t a lie. He thought of high school as the point his life started. Everything before was there in fragments — blurry, insubstantial — like someone else’s life. The tie that wouldn’t sit straight no matter how many times he fixed it. The nervous cut on his chin from the razor. None of it meant anything in the same way that moment had, when his eyes had found Bakugou across the room and he’d known. “I guess I can’t really picture anything else. Not after meeting him.”

Sero let out a quiet laugh, it was soft, almost fond, like he’d expected as much. “Yeah. I figured you’d say something like that.”

They fell into an easy silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the low thrum of a song that neither of them were really listening to.

Sero shifted in his seat, leaning back. “Must be nice, though. Just knowing.”

Kirishima glanced sideways at him, catching the faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s more than nice,” he said quietly, the words feeling heavier in his chest the longer he sat with them. “I don’t know. It’s like everything suddenly makes sense. Like you were living your life in pieces before, and then all at once they just slot together. You’ll get it. One day.”

For a moment Sero didn’t answer. His head tilted slightly, eyes still fixed on the lights passing overhead. “I hope it’s not in six years,” he murmured eventually. And then, almost absently, like the words had been weighing on him for too long to keep in any longer: “I check my timer all the time, you know. Half-expecting it to just,” he snapped his fingers loosely “start ticking down faster or something.”

Kirishima laughed under his breath. “And?”

Sero’s wrist flashed briefly in the dim light as he turned it over. The numbers were still there — six years — and something in the way he let his sleeve fall back down told Kirishima the sight had lost none of its sting. “Still six years.”

It wasn’t disappointment in his voice, exactly. It was quieter than that. Sadder.

Kirishima’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He wanted to tell him it was worth it, that six years was nothing, that the time in between didn’t matter because what waited at the end of it was everything. But the thought of Sero going home to an empty flat while Kirishima returned to Bakugou’s arms made the words feel heavier. Almost dishonest.

Instead he said, “I didn’t even look at my timer when I met Bakugou. I just knew.”

Sero turned his head towards him at that, studying his face as though there was some answer hidden there. “That’s what I want,” he said simply. “I don’t want to be staring at this thing waiting for it to tell me when my life’s supposed to start. I just want to know.”

The car was quiet for a moment, just the steady sound of the tires on the road. Kirishima swallowed, eyes on the curve ahead as the lights stretched thinner, fewer. “You will,” he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice because it wasn’t something he just hoped — it was something he believed.

The roads began to blur, the kind of blur that made Kirishima wonder if the world was stitched together out of the same handful of streets — just painted over and over again in slightly different shades. There were moments when he forgot where they were headed, because there was never really a destination. The city rolled past in a wash of greys and muted golds, afternoon sunlight slanting through smudged windscreen glass, turning dust particles into flecks of light. The hum of the engine was constant, almost hypnotic, and Sero kept one elbow slung out of the window like it was the only comfortable way to exist in the world.

They’d stopped trying to pretend they were looking for anything specific. It wasn’t a hunt anymore, not really — more like an orbit. A drifting through side streets and highways, letting conversation fill the space where purpose should have been.

Sero was mid-story about some first-year classmate who had confessed to accidentally messaging the wrong number for three weeks before realising, when his words trailed into a kind of absent hum. His eyes had flickered down to his wrist like they always did, as if there might have been a miracle in the half-hour since the last time he checked.

“Still six years?” Kirishima asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.

Sero huffed out a laugh, the kind that didn’t hold any real humour. “Yeah. Six years. It’s like it’s not even moving. Like I’m stuck in the longest queue in the world for something I’m not even sure I’ll get into. I don’t know. I just — six years feels like forever. How am I supposed to just keep living like this until then?”

Kirishima’s throat felt tight. He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced against his knees. “You will. It’ll be worth it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don’t even remember what my life was before him.” Kirishima smiled faintly, though there was no humour in it. “That wait you’ve got — it’s nothing. It’s… it’s seconds compared to what you’re going to get.”

Sero huffed a laugh, the sound rough at the edges. “You make it sound like six years is a blink.”

Kirishima let the words hang there for a while, because some things didn’t need rushing. The hum of tyres on tarmac filled the silence, soft and steady.

“You know how you said you just knew?” Sero said after a beat, voice thoughtful now. “With Bakugou, I mean. That you weren’t even looking at your timer when it hit zero.”

Kirishima’s lips curled faintly, almost involuntarily, at the memory. “Yeah. I wasn’t watching it. I didn't need to. I looked at him, and I don’t know. It was like my whole life just started. Everything before that felt blurry. Like static. But when I saw him,”

“You saw your future,” Sero finished quietly, not looking at him.

Kirishima hummed in agreement. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

Sero was quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traced circles against the steering wheel, absent and restless. “I want that,” he said eventually, almost too soft to hear over the engine. “I want to look at someone and just know. Six years feels like,” He cut himself off with a sigh. “Feels like forever. I know I’m repeating myself loads but I don’t — I don’t know how to live for six years like this. Like everything’s on pause until then.”

Kirishima turned in his seat, watching him. “It’s not nothing,” he said gently. “Those years still matter. You can still live them. You don’t have to just wait.”

Sero smiled, but it was the kind of smile that was stretched thin at the edges. “Easy for you to say. You’ve already got your person. You’ve already got your life.” His eyes flicked briefly to Kirishima, then back to the road. “My life right now it’s fine, but it’s not it, you know? It’s just the prequel. The part before the story actually starts. And I hate that it feels that way.”

Kirishima let his eyes linger, not long enough to make Sero pull away, just long enough to see how much weight those numbers carried. He looked at Sero’s expression then, the way it was tight at the corners like the time itself was pressing down on him.

The car turned down another road, the buildings thinning out, the light softening. The city was folding itself in for the night, and with it came a different kind of quiet.

Sero exhaled, shoulders sinking a fraction. “How the hell do you make a life that doesn’t matter for six years?”

Kirishima sat back again, the wind from the cracked window brushing against his arm. “You don’t.”

Sero glanced at him.

“You make one that does matter. And when they show up,” Kirishima’s voice softened, his chest pulling tight with something he couldn’t quite name. “When they show up, it won’t matter how long you waited, because you’ll already be living.”

The honesty in it twisted something in Kirishima’s chest. He thought of the way he woke each morning to Bakugou’s face, the way even the quiet, ordinary moments felt bright. It made the idea of six years of waiting ache in a way he hadn’t expected.

“You’ll get there,” Kirishima said, certain in a way he hoped sounded convincing. “And when you do, you won’t even remember how long the wait felt.”

Sero’s mouth pulled into a faint smirk, a tiny spark of humour breaking through. “Yeah? That’s what you’re betting on?”

Kirishima laughed softly. “That’s what I know.”

They fell into a quieter rhythm after that, conversation ebbing and flowing in small waves. By the time the sky began bleeding into shades of dusky blue, they had looped back towards familiar streets again — a full circle without meaning to.

The city lights began flickering to life, hazy halos in the summer heat. Sero’s sigh felt heavier now, not in defeat exactly, but in the tired weight of a day spent chasing something that had never been within reach.

As they pulled up outside Kirishima’s building, the air was thick with the kind of comfortable silence that came from shared exhaustion.

“It would be easier if we could just time travel,” Kirishima joked lightly, hand already on the door handle.

Sero laughed, low and genuine this time, the sound carrying into the warm evening air. “Yeah. Skip to the good part.”

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima slipped in later than he’d meant to. The flat was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the clock over the kitchen counter. It wasn’t unusual — Bakugou wasn’t the type to wait at the door or pace like a storm — but there was always a particular stillness in the air when Kirishima came home later than promised, like the place was holding its breath until he crossed the threshold.

He dropped his keys onto the counter, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and found Bakugou exactly where he half-expected him to be, sprawled across the sofa, one leg bent up, the faint blue light of the TV casting over his sharp features. He wasn’t watching it, not really — his gaze slid towards Kirishima the second the door shut.

“You’re back late again.” No accusation, just fact. His voice was low, rough with the end of the day.

Kirishima smiled in that sheepish way he always did when he’d lost track of time. “Yeah, I know. Sero had this idea for a route, so we drove out a little further than we meant to. Didn’t exactly pan out, but,” He let himself trail off as he moved closer, his shoes quiet against the floor.

Bakugou didn’t move from his spot, just arched an eyebrow in that way that somehow managed to say I told you so without a single word. But he didn’t need to say it. Kirishima already knew Bakugou thought this whole search was half a fool’s errand. The fact that he hadn’t outright shut it down said everything about how much he trusted Kirishima’s judgement — or maybe just how much he loved him, even if he’d never say it like that.

Kirishima flopped down onto the other end of the sofa, his weight sinking into the cushions as if the day had been sitting on his shoulders the whole time. “You should’ve seen him, man. He’s trying so hard not to look disappointed every time we come back empty-handed. But it’s like, I dunno, he’s still hopeful. And I just,” He stopped, realising his words were running too fast, his breath catching up with the pace of his thoughts.

Bakugou didn’t cut him off. He just shifted slightly, turning more towards him. That alone was enough to loosen something in Kirishima’s chest.

“I guess I kept thinking about us,” Kirishima admitted quietly. “Like what if we hadn’t met when we did? What if I’d had to wait years for my timer to run down? I don’t even know what my life would’ve looked like without you.” His voice dropped lower at the end, a half-confession swallowed by the air between them.

Bakugou’s eyes softened, just for a second. He didn’t say don’t be an idiot, though Kirishima could see the words hovering somewhere behind his teeth. Instead, he leaned back against the sofa and let out a quiet sigh. “You can’t think like that. We did meet when we did. End of story.”

“Yeah.” Kirishima smiled faintly, not quite looking at him. “Still makes me grateful, y’know?”

Bakugou didn’t respond right away, and Kirishima didn’t push. He’d learned a long time ago that Bakugou’s silences weren’t empty — they were full of things he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

A moment passed, quiet except for the low hum of the TV. Kirishima glanced sideways, watching the way the flickering light caught in Bakugou’s hair, turned the sharp edges of his face softer. There was something about this moment — mundane and still — that made his chest ache in the best way.

Bakugou broke the silence first, voice low, almost reluctant. “Just don’t run yourself ragged over this crap. We’ve got movie night tomorrow. Don’t miss it.”

Kirishima’s grin tugged wide before he could stop it. “I wouldn't dream of it.” He leaned back against the sofa, letting the weight of the day drain away. There was a strange comfort in Bakugou’s way of caring — not loud, not obvious, but steady. Like an anchor.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The TV murmured in the background, neither of them really paying attention to whatever was playing. Kirishima felt the warmth in the room wrap around him, a quiet reminder of just how lucky he was.

It hit him then — sudden and overwhelming — that they’d found each other in all the noise of the world, that somehow out of billions of people, it had been Bakugou standing there when his timer hit zero. He turned his head just enough to catch Bakugou’s profile in the dim light, and the words left him before he could think better of it.

“Hey.”

Bakugou glanced over, wary as always when Kirishima’s voice went soft like that.

“I’m glad we found each other,” Kirishima said, the words simple but heavy with everything he meant behind them.

For a long moment, Bakugou just looked at him. Then, almost imperceptibly, he huffed out a quiet breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh — and muttered, “Yeah. Me too, dumbass.”

And that was enough. More than enough.

The weight in Kirishima’s chest shifted into something lighter, something warm, as he leaned back again. They didn’t need anything more than this. Not really.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima almost feels bad for springing it on Bakugou so suddenly — though Bakugou’s raised brow and muttered “don’t make me regret this” were about as close to a warm welcome as anyone was going to get from him.

Still, he had said yes. And that was what mattered.

Which was how Sero ended up trailing Kirishima through the warm-lit corridors of their building, the easy sprawl of his frame and the restless curve of his grin already giving away how little he had to worry about fitting in. He kept pace easily, his trainers squeaking faintly on the polished floor, their footsteps soft against the hum of distant chatter from other dorms.

Kirishima could hear the movie already — the thrum of bass, the occasional, muffled burst of someone’s laughter from inside — and it did something strangely warm to his chest. It wasn’t just the movie, wasn’t even the night itself. It was the knowledge that he was walking towards Bakugou, towards the kind of chaos that only ever ended with a messy pile of friends and someone dozing off mid-scene.

When he knocked, Jirou answered, her expression already tilting towards exasperation — until she spotted Sero, at which point her brow arched in open curiosity. “Is this him?”

Kirishima grinned, sheepish. “Yeah. Be nice.”

“Mm. We’ll see.” She moved aside.

Inside, it was exactly as it always was — Mina draped half-over Kaminari, both already laughing at something the other probably didn’t even hear properly, Momo perched neatly on the edge of the sofa like she hadn’t yet resigned herself to the inevitable tangle, Bakugou in the corner of the couch with a scowl that didn’t quite hide how comfortably he’d made himself at home.

Kirishima had never loved a room more.

He introduced Sero, and it was almost anticlimactic how fast they all folded him in. Mina didn’t even wait a full five minutes before she was roping him into some ridiculous argument with Kaminari over which snacks were objectively the best, her voice rising in mock outrage as Kaminari pretended to be horrified. Momo, predictably, offered him a drink within moments, calm and polite but already faintly smiling at his easy responses.

And Bakugou — Bakugou didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at Sero, then at Kirishima, and then gave a low, almost inaudible snort as if deciding the guy could stay.

That was all the permission Kirishima needed.

He dropped down into the corner beside Bakugou, tugging him closer until he was leaning back into his chest. Bakugou made a faint, irritated sound in his throat but didn’t move away — didn’t stop his hand from resting loose and warm over Kirishima’s hip either.

The film started, but as always, it wasn’t about the movie. Mina’s commentary got progressively worse, Kaminari was laughing at his own jokes, Jirou kept threatening to throw them both out, and Sero was already playing along like he’d been part of the group for years.

Kirishima, head tipped slightly back against Bakugou’s shoulder, found himself smiling. Not the kind of smile he had to think about — just the slow, unshakable kind that came with moments like this. Bakugou’s presence steady at his back, the faint rumble of his voice when he muttered a sharp comment at Mina, the weight of warmth in the room.

Sero fit here. He’d known he would.

And Kirishima didn’t even have to say it aloud — he could see it already, in the way Sero’s grin had softened around the edges, in the way his shoulders weren’t sitting quite so high anymore. It wasn’t a soulmate. It wasn’t everything. But maybe, tonight, it was enough.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima had been thinking about it since the night before, the thought gnawing at him through the lull of movie night and into the quiet moments when the flat was dark and Bakugou’s breathing softened beside him. The problem was simple—Sero wasn’t going to find anyone just circling the same roads they’d already combed over. The chances were too slim. Driving aimlessly felt safe, easy, like at least they were trying. But it wasn’t going to work.

The morning light was barely spilling through the blinds when Kirishima sat up, hair sticking in every direction, mind already locked on his plan. He pulled on the first hoodie he could find and padded around the room quietly so as not to wake Bakugou—though of course, he wasn’t that lucky.

“You’re up early,” came Bakugou’s voice, low and scratchy with sleep, from the bed.

Kirishima turned, guilty smile creeping in. “Got another idea for Sero.”

Bakugou pushed himself up on one elbow, hair a wild halo against the pillow. “The hell kinda idea?”

“Not just driving this time,” Kirishima said. “We need to meet people. Real people. Talk to them. More chances.”

Bakugou stared at him, expression unreadable in the dim light. “Sounds exhausting.”

“Probably will be,” Kirishima admitted, grin widening.

Bakugou snorted, shaking his head like it was a lost cause, but he didn’t stop him. “Don’t miss dinner.”

Kirishima promised he wouldn’t and leaned down for a quick kiss before heading out, the taste of morning still warm between them.

By the time he met Sero, the air was crisp with that early chill that hadn’t yet burned off. Sero was leaning against his car, arms folded, as if he’d been waiting for something exactly like this.

“What’s the plan?” Sero asked, curious eyes following Kirishima as he climbed in.

“We’ve been doing this wrong,” Kirishima said, pulling his seatbelt across his chest. “Driving’s fine, but it’s not enough. We’ve gotta go to where the people are. Shopping centres. Campuses. Just — places.”

Sero blinked, then grinned. “That actually makes sense.”

It was easy to say. Less easy to do.

The first place they tried was the mall on the far side of town, the kind that was already buzzing before noon. They walked the wide corridors, Sero approaching strangers with a casual smile, his voice light as he explained. Most people were polite, a few even seemed interested, but none were the right one.

At a small café by the food court, they stopped for coffee, Sero leaning back in his chair with a huff of laughter. “Some people think I’m hitting on them,” he said, grinning at the ceiling.

Kirishima laughed, nearly spilling his drink. “Honestly, you kinda are.”

The second stop was a community centre, the kind with noticeboards covered in faded flyers and mismatched chairs scattered in the lobby. There was a pottery class running in one of the rooms, and Sero ended up talking to the instructor — an older woman who seemed delighted just to chat. She wasn’t the soulmate either, but she insisted they take a pamphlet and “drop by for tea anytime.”

From there, they hit the park near the river, where joggers passed in steady intervals and a group of students were sprawled on the grass with textbooks. Sero talked to two of them while Kirishima waited by a bench, watching the easy way his friend kept the conversation going. Even when they got nowhere, Sero never made it awkward. He just laughed, waved, and moved on.

By early afternoon, they’d crossed town to a second mall. This one was older, quieter, with dimmer lights and a faint smell of floor polish that never quite faded. Sero kept at it, asking shop attendants and passersby, his smile still in place but just a little less sharp than in the morning.

Kirishima noticed.

They stopped outside a music shop, where the warm hum of guitar strings spilled through the open door. Sero lingered for a minute, watching a guy tune a bass inside, then shook his head like shaking off a thought and turned back to the search.

The campus looked the same as it always did when they returned — the sprawl of buildings, the benches scattered like afterthoughts, the thin strip of grass that somehow remained alive despite the stampede of passing shoes. It was strange how a place could stay so steady while they felt worn down to the bone, both of them carrying the weight of three days of effort in their shoulders.

Kirishima slowed his pace, breath still uneven from their last round of talking to strangers. His voice had worn itself down to a rasp, throat raw from the constant introductions, from explaining Sero’s timer and watching hope flicker briefly in people’s expressions before fizzling out like a match in the rain.

Sero dropped into a seat on one of the benches with a soft groan, elbows braced against his knees, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled loosely over his hair. “Man,” he exhaled, dragging his palms down his face before letting them fall to his lap. There was something in the sound of it — a kind of quiet, exhausted humour that tried to mask how defeated he looked.

Kirishima stood for a moment, watching him. He could see it clearly now in Sero’s posture — the way the effort was starting to sink in deeper than just tired muscles. A heaviness that sat behind his eyes.

Still, when Sero lifted his head, there was nothing bitter in his expression. Just that lopsided grin that came so easily to him. “Seriously, Eijirou, thanks for all this. I mean it.”

Kirishima sank down beside him, his own knees aching with the relief of sitting. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “We’re not done yet.”

Sero laughed lightly, leaning back against the bench. “Guess not.” He glanced out across the quad, watching students pass in every direction — some alone, some in clusters, their conversations a blur of sound. His smile thinned a little. “It’s just, y’know. You look around and everyone’s got their person. Like it’s just normal. And I keep thinking I just want what they have.”

The words were simple, but they lodged themselves somewhere in Kirishima’s chest.

He thought about the weight of that sentence — how quiet it was compared to the ache it carried. He could picture it so clearly: Sero, sitting in a room filled with people laughing, all of them orbiting their soulmates without thinking twice, and him just on the edge of it, smiling along like it didn’t leave a hollow in him.

Kirishima turned his head to look at him properly. There wasn’t really anything to say that wouldn’t sound like a promise he couldn’t keep. But he knew, without a shred of doubt, that they weren’t finished. That they couldn’t be.

He leaned back too, shoulders brushing against Sero’s, their silence stretching comfortably for a moment.

“We’ll keep trying,” Kirishima said finally, his voice firm in a way that almost felt like it was willing the words into truth.

Sero’s gaze lingered on the ground for a second before he nodded, that faint smile returning, less for show this time. “Yeah. We’ll keep trying.”

They stayed like that for a little longer, just letting the weight of the day settle. The sun had begun dipping, casting the campus in a soft golden light that made everything look calmer than they felt. Students moved past, shadows stretching long across the concrete, the low hum of conversation a steady background.

Eventually, Sero pushed himself upright, stretching his arms overhead. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked, the question light, like they weren’t already exhausted at the thought.

Kirishima grinned despite himself. “Yeah. Same time.”

When Sero walked off towards his own building, Kirishima lingered for a moment, eyes following the slope of the sun as it sank lower. It wasn’t the ending either of them had wanted for the day, but it didn’t feel like a loss. Not exactly.

Kirishima came through his apartment door like the weight of the world was stitched into his shoulders. He didn’t mean to slam it, but the sound rattled the frame anyway. Bakugou, half-slouched against the kitchen counter, didn’t need to see his face to know he was wrecked — the thud of boots kicked carelessly aside, the heavy drag of his bag sliding to the floor, the way silence sat too thick between movements.

Bakugou had heard him come in like this before. Not often, not enough to make it a habit, but enough to know what it meant, Kirishima’s grin had finally cracked somewhere he couldn’t hide it.

He stayed where he was, waiting.

It only took a few seconds — barely even the time it took for Kirishima to tug his hair tie loose, run a shaky hand through it, and swallow hard like it hurt. His footsteps were too slow when he crossed the room, like someone walking through water.

Bakugou pushed off the counter.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. Kirishima’s eyes said it all — red in the way exhaustion burned, not anger — raw in the way someone’s chest gets when they’ve held everything in for too long.

Bakugou stepped forward, wordless, catching him by the wrist. It was enough to stop him dead, to pull him into that stupidly narrow kitchen space where Bakugou could press him back against the counter and get a better look.

Kirishima didn’t even try to make a joke. Didn’t offer one of his too-bright smiles to deflect. He just breathed, sharp and uneven, like he’d been holding it together all the way home and it was unravelling now, here.

Bakugou didn’t think about it — his hands found his shoulders, warm, solid, grounding.

Kirishima’s head dropped forward, pressing into his collarbone.

“Oi,” Bakugou murmured, the sound barely more than a scrape of air. Not reprimanding—just enough to let him know he was here.

That was all it took.

Kirishima shuddered. A real, bone-deep kind of tremor, his breath hitching on the way out.

Bakugou’s chest tightened. He looped his arms around him properly, drawing him in until there was no space left. Kirishima’s hair smelled faintly like wind and something sharp, the lingering edge of autumn air clinging to him. He was still warm from moving around all day, but there was a damp chill at the back of his hoodie where sweat had cooled.

“Long day?” Bakugou said, quiet.

Kirishima let out something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t cracked halfway through. He shook his head against Bakugou’s shoulder, muttering something about Sero that Bakugou didn’t quite catch.

Bakugou didn’t press. Not yet.

They stayed like that for a long while — Bakugou’s hand splayed between Kirishima’s shoulder blades, thumb moving in slow, absent-minded arcs. His breathing evened out against Bakugou’s chest, but the tension in him didn’t quite ease, still coiled tight like he was afraid to let it.

It was only when Bakugou felt the faintest hitch of breath — something like a swallow going wrong — that he realised Kirishima was crying.

He didn’t pull away to check. He just held on tighter.

There wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t sound like filler. Bakugou knew better than to talk over it.

Eventually, Kirishima’s voice came small, muffled in the fabric of his shirt. “I just, I keep thinking about him going home to nobody.”

Bakugou shut his eyes briefly.

“It’s stupid, I know,”

“It’s not stupid.” Bakugou’s voice was low but certain, cutting him off before he could get further into whatever spiral he was about to work himself into.

Kirishima’s breath stuttered again, heavier this time, like something in him broke at that.

Bakugou tipped his chin down, pressing his nose briefly into Kirishima’s hair before drawing back just enough to look at him. His eyes were glassy, lashes clumped together from unshed tears, expression pulled thin like it physically hurt to say the words.

“I hate that he feels alone,” Kirishima admitted, voice rough. “I hate thinking — if we hadn’t met yet,”

“We did meet,” Bakugou said, and there was more bite in it than he’d intended, but it wasn’t anger. It was the kind of edge that came from needing him to believe it, needing him to remember. “We met. We’re here. That’s not changing.”

Kirishima’s mouth pressed tight, like the reassurance almost hurt to hold.

Bakugou cupped the back of his neck, firm. “I’m not going anywhere. You got that?”

Kirishima nodded quickly, too quickly, like he couldn’t quite trust his voice. His eyes fell shut again, his head tilting into Bakugou’s touch.

They stayed pressed close like that until Bakugou could feel some of the tension bleed out of him. Kirishima didn’t seem ready to move, and Bakugou didn’t push him to. He only stepped away long enough to pull him gently towards the couch, making him sit before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he came back, it was with a plate of food he shoved lightly into Kirishima’s hands.

Kirishima huffed out the faintest laugh at the sight of it, though his eyes were still rimmed red.

Bakugou sat beside him, shoulder pressed to his. “Eat.”

Kirishima obeyed, wordless, leaning against Bakugou the whole time like he couldn’t quite bear the distance.

And Bakugou let him — quiet, steady, a constant presence until the tension in Kirishima’s jaw eased and the lines around his eyes softened, the exhaustion pulling him under.

Bakugou didn’t move when Kirishima’s head tipped against his shoulder, didn’t move when his breathing evened into the slow, heavy rhythm of sleep.

He just sat there, one hand resting loosely against Kirishima’s knee, the other braced along the back of the couch, anchored like he could keep the whole world from falling apart if he just held on tight enough.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Bakugou was already awake when Kirishima leaned over to press a kiss to his temple.

It was unusual. Mornings were usually a kind of quiet competition — Bakugou half-buried under the duvet, muttering something sharp when Kirishima tried to shake him awake, Kirishima laughing too softly for anyone else to hear at the way Bakugou’s voice roughened with sleep. But today, Bakugou’s eyes were open, pale hair in uncharacteristic disarray, an expression caught somewhere between suspicion and disbelief as he watched Kirishima pull on his hoodie in a rush.

Kirishima didn’t want to look at that expression too long.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” he said, and it came out bright, casual, practiced. He tugged the zip of his hoodie halfway up, hesitated like there might be something else to say, then added, softer, “Date night’s still on for this week. Promise.”

Bakugou’s brow furrowed, just slightly.

There was nothing overt about it, nothing you could point to and say there, that’s what was wrong. It was just a slight tightening around his eyes, a silence where there might’ve been some gruff retort. Kirishima’s chest ached, but he smiled through it anyway, leaning in to kiss him again — short, firm, like it might plant reassurance deep enough to keep everything steady while he was gone.

He told himself Bakugou wasn’t upset. Just tired.

The flat felt heavier for the few minutes Kirishima stayed — he could almost feel the weight of Bakugou’s unspoken thoughts in the air, the stillness of the morning light on the kitchen counter. He lingered a little longer than he needed to, half-expecting Bakugou to say something, to call him back, but when nothing came, he stepped out into the corridor with a wave that felt too light in his own hand.

By the time he reached the stairwell, he’d pushed it away.

The air outside was bright, colder than he expected. He shoved his hands into his pockets and pulled his hood up, trying to shake off the echo of Bakugou’s expression. It sat at the back of his mind, refusing to fade.

It was fine. It was all fine. Bakugou wasn’t the type to stew over something small, not the type to doubt — he was just cautious. That was all.

Kirishima walked faster.

Sero was waiting for him by the gates, the same loose grin plastered over his face as he rattled off some new route he’d mapped for the day. Kirishima laughed, falling into step beside him, letting the sound of Sero’s voice and the bright rush of their plan fill the space where his thoughts had been looping.

It worked — mostly.

But every so often, when Sero was craning his neck to check a building number, or flicking through his phone to cross-reference the app, Kirishima felt the quiet slip back in. It wasn’t guilt, not exactly. It was just a sense of imbalance, like he’d left something important behind without meaning to.

They stopped by the café near campus mid-morning, hunching over paper cups while Sero mapped out the next block. Kirishima checked his phone. No new notifications. His thumb hovered for a second longer than it should have before he locked it again.

“You good?” Sero asked, glancing up.

Kirishima grinned, a fraction too quickly. “Yeah. Just — thinking about how many places we’ve still got to hit. We’ll find them. I know we will.”

And he meant it. He could feel the truth of it like something wired into his ribs. They were close. They had to be. Every moment felt sharper now, charged, like at any second something could shift.

But as the day wore on and nothing changed — no glances that lingered too long, no sudden stops in the crowd — he found himself pushing harder. Staying out just a little longer. Checking the app one more time before heading home.

When he finally made it back to the flat, the hallway was dim, quiet in a way that felt heavy. He slid his key into the lock, hesitated for a heartbeat, then stepped inside.

Bakugou was in the kitchen, back to him, pulling something out of the oven.

Kirishima’s chest tightened, unexpectedly.

He dropped his bag a little too loudly, and Bakugou turned, eyes flicking over him in that quick, assessing way that always made Kirishima feel like he was being seen through to the bone.

“Did you eat today?” Bakugou asked, voice even.

Kirishima smiled, moving forward to wrap his arms around him, burying his face in his shoulder. “Yeah. But nothing beats yours.”

Bakugou snorted, but his hand settled at the small of Kirishima’s back. It lingered there, warm and steady, like something anchoring him in place.

Kirishima closed his eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable, just measured. Bakugou asked a few questions about the search, about Sero, but didn’t press when Kirishima’s answers turned vague.

Later, when Bakugou’s head dipped to rest against his shoulder, Kirishima realised how much he’d missed the weight of him today. It made something twist low in his chest — something that felt a little too much like guilt.

He tightened his arm around Bakugou, holding him closer.

Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d make sure Bakugou didn’t have that quiet look in his eyes. Tomorrow, he’d make sure everything felt balanced again.

And still — at the back of his mind — he was already plotting the fastest route to meet Sero in the morning.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

The idea started as a throwaway joke.

Something ridiculous in the way only Sero could say it, leaning back in his chair at the library table they’d been haunting for days, legs stretched out and a stupid grin plastered across his face. “You know, man,” he said, voice low but loud enough to pull Kirishima’s attention from the pointless notes he’d been doodling into the margins of an abandoned worksheet, “maybe I should just get famous. You know. Expand the odds. Cast a wider net.”

Kirishima barked a laugh, surprised at how good it felt to laugh properly after a string of days that had felt like they were slogging through wet sand. He tipped his chair back slightly, balancing on two legs. “What, like — the Kardashians?”

“No,” Sero said, pretending to think, “more like mysterious stranger famous. The kind people are curious about. People love a good soulmate mystery.”

The joke carried them for a moment, easy banter filling the otherwise stagnant air. But then Kaminari’s head appeared through a gap in the stacks — ridiculous grin, static hair, and a look in his eyes that said he’d overheard exactly enough to get ideas.

“Wait,” Kaminari said, resting his elbows on the shelves, like a cartoon devil popping up to whisper temptation, “that’s actually not the worst thing I’ve ever heard you say. What if — hear me out — we post your timer? Like, online.”

Kirishima blinked, halfway through a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

But Kaminari was already stepping through the aisle, phone in hand, face alight with that particular reckless confidence that had got them all into trouble more times than Kirishima could count. “Why not? We post a clear shot of the numbers, maybe tag the uni, maybe a few other places you hang out — hell, I can make a whole account just for it. People eat that kind of stuff up. You’d meet more people in a week than you would wandering around talking to strangers.”

It was absurd. Reckless. Exactly the kind of thing Bakugou would snarl at on principle.

And yet,

Something in Kirishima’s chest stuttered, a small thread of light winding through the fatigue that had been building in him for days. The idea lodged itself somewhere just behind his ribs, small but warm, refusing to let go. He looked at Sero, expecting to see doubt, but his friend’s eyes had gone wide in that particular way they did whenever hope blindsided him.

“You think it’d work?” Sero asked, voice softer now, as though trying not to disturb the fragile possibility hanging between them.

Kirishima shrugged, though he felt his own pulse quicken. “It’s worth a shot.”

They didn’t need much convincing after that. It was Kaminari’s nature to jump headfirst into ideas, Sero’s to cling to hope no matter how ridiculous it looked from the outside, and Kirishima’s well. His was harder to name, but maybe it was something like loyalty. Or maybe it was just that when someone looked at him like that — like he was the person who might make all the difference — he didn’t know how to stand still.

So they packed themselves into Kaminari’s flat, which was cramped enough that Kirishima had to duck his head coming through the doorway, the air carrying a faint metallic tang of leftover solder and burnt coffee. The place looked exactly as he’d pictured it: wires trailing off in directions that didn’t make sense, posters peeling from the walls, clothes in haphazard piles.

Kaminari shoved a stack of magazines off the small coffee table, revealing an old ring light wedged behind them. “Right,” he said, already pulling at the cord, “we’re making you look marketable.”

Sero laughed, awkward but genuine, tugging at his hoodie sleeves as he let himself be positioned near the only patch of clear wall. Kirishima leaned back against the arm of the sofa, watching the process unfold. It felt absurd — like they were in the middle of some last-ditch scheme from a bad film — but he couldn’t deny the energy in the room felt different. Lighter, sharper, alive.

“Okay, timer out,” Kaminari said, gesturing with his phone like a director calling a scene.

Sero hesitated only a moment before rolling his sleeve up, revealing the black digits stamped clean across his skin: six years, days, hours, ticking steadily downward. The sight of it still twisted something in Kirishima’s gut, though he told himself it wasn’t his countdown to feel.

The shot wasn’t perfect at first — Kaminari adjusted angles, fiddled with lighting, muttered to himself about shadows. Sero kept cracking jokes to mask his nerves, glancing down at the numbers as though they might vanish if he looked too long.

Kirishima found himself leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. He wasn’t even sure why his heart felt like it was beating harder than it should. Maybe it was the sense of motion — finally doing something that didn’t involve another dead-end conversation or another polite smile at a stranger who wasn’t the one.

When Kaminari finally stepped back with a satisfied noise, he turned the phone to show them.

It was strange, Kirishima thought, how something so simple could look so heavy. The photo was stark in its simplicity: just Sero’s arm angled against the soft blur of the background, the timer crisp and unmissable. No story, no context, just a number that meant everything to one person and potentially everything to someone else.

“That’s it,” Kaminari said, already tapping at the screen. “Account set up. Timer posted. Now we just wait for the internet to do its thing.”

It was ridiculous. It was impulsive. It was perfect.

And for the first time in days, Kirishima felt the air in his chest loosen, hope curling up like the faintest beginning of a smile.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima’s phone lit up again.

He didn’t even look at it at first — just shifted where he sat on the couch, his leg bouncing, thumb brushing the edge of the cushion like it was some unconscious reflex. But it went off again. And again. A little chime each time. Every flicker of the screen painting the room in sharp white light before dimming back to gold.

Bakugou was watching. Not the phone, not the clock, not the post. Watching him.

It was strange, how quiet things had gotten between them tonight. The room didn’t feel hostile — there was no slam of doors, no raised voices — but there was a heaviness. Like all the noise in Bakugou’s head was the only thing taking up space, like there wasn’t room for anything else.

Kirishima didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t want to. His attention was somewhere else entirely—his phone screen, his own thoughts, somewhere far away from here.

Bakugou leaned back into the sofa, not taking his eyes off him. His chest felt too tight for how still he was sitting.

He’d told himself he’d let it go. Kirishima was just excited — he’d always been that way, big heart pulling him toward people in trouble like gravity. Bakugou knew that. He’d known it back in high school when they were just two stubborn idiots finding their footing. He’d known it when he said yes to moving in together. He’d known it every time Kirishima left early, came home exhausted, curled up smelling like city wind and tired laughter.

But something about tonight — the way Kirishima kept checking that post like it was his clock counting down—was chewing at him.

Bakugou didn’t want a fight. He didn’t want to ruin the fragile kind of quiet they had right now. He just wanted him here.

“Eijirou.” His voice came out low, rough in the stillness.

It took a second, but Kirishima looked up, thumb still hovering near the phone like he was ready to check it again the second there was silence. His expression was warm, that easy smile he always had, like he didn’t even see the shift in Bakugou’s chest.

“Mm?”

Bakugou’s throat felt too dry. He glanced away for half a second, just long enough to breathe, then looked back.

“You’ve checked it, what, fifty times since you sat down?” His tone wasn’t sharp, but there was an edge to it — an unspoken weight.

Kirishima glanced at the phone, almost sheepish. “Just keeping an eye on it.”

“Yeah.” Bakugou’s jaw tensed. He could feel the words building, heavy and stubborn and unwilling to stay in. “It’s not going to have changed drastically since the last time you looked at it. The thing is, it’s not your timer.”

That landed heavier than he meant it to, but he didn’t take it back. His hands curled into fists on his knees, grounding himself.

Kirishima opened his mouth, but Bakugou shook his head before he could say anything. “I’m not,” His voice broke for a second, more from frustration at himself than anything else. “I’m not saying stop helping him. I’m not saying don’t care. I’m just,”

He exhaled sharply, eyes fixed on the floor for a moment before dragging them back to Kirishima.

“I just want you here,” he said finally, quieter than he meant to. It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t a demand. It was bare, stripped down to something almost uncomfortably honest.

Kirishima’s brow furrowed, the phone forgotten in his hand now.

Bakugou leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to make him understand without shouting it into the air like every other thing he ever felt. “It’s like you’re counting down with him. Every post. Every update. You’re watching his time like it’s yours, and I,” He trailed off, pressing his lips together like the rest of the words were caught in his teeth.

The silence between them wasn’t sharp — it was thick, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Bakugou dragged a hand over his face, leaning back again, feeling the exhaustion in his shoulders. “I don’t care if we’re just making dinner or watching some shitty film or sitting here doing nothing. I just,” His voice cracked again, and this time he didn’t bother to hide it. “I want you here. With me. Not halfway in someone else’s countdown.”

The words sat there, bare and ugly and true, and Bakugou didn’t take them back.

Kirishima could hear it in the stillness. That tightness in Bakugou’s voice wasn’t sharp the way it usually was when he was pissed — it was fraying, low and tired, the kind of exhaustion that came from holding too much inside for too long. It felt heavier than anything Bakugou had ever thrown at him.

The air in their small kitchen was thick. Kirishima could almost hear the clock on the wall, but it wasn’t ticking — not really. It was only the pounding in his ears that filled the silence.

He wanted to say something. Wanted to bridge the distance that had somehow stretched taut between them, invisible but aching.

“I’m here,” he said instead, because it was the truest thing he could offer. His voice felt too quiet for the room, almost swallowed by the faint hum of the fridge.

Bakugou’s shoulders shifted, but he didn’t turn. “Yeah?” It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t anything close to that. But there was something fragile in the single word, a doubt threaded beneath it that made Kirishima’s stomach drop.

He stepped closer, careful, like approaching a wounded animal — though that wasn’t right either. This wasn’t Bakugou wounded; this was Bakugou tired. Tired in a way that felt more dangerous than any fight.

“I’m here,” he repeated, softer this time, not even sure who he was trying to convince.

Bakugou finally looked at him then. It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t the kind of glance that could cut him down — it was worse. It was the look that made him feel like he was standing under a sky about to break open, as if something unspeakable was building behind it.

Bakugou leaned back against the counter, his arms crossing, not defensive but as if he needed to hold himself together. “Feels like you’re somewhere else.” His words came out flat, but the edges were frayed — like paper that had been folded one too many times, corners worn and soft.

Kirishima swallowed, throat tight. “I’m not,” But he hesitated, because wasn’t he? Not in the way Bakugou meant, maybe, but still pulled in two directions — here in this apartment, but also thinking of posts, comments, updates that weren’t his to chase.

Bakugou didn’t fill the silence. He just watched him, gaze steady and unbearably open in a way that made Kirishima want to look anywhere else, except he couldn’t.

“I just,” Kirishima started, words clumsy, too big for his mouth. “I don’t want to let him down. You know? I can’t just,”

“I didn’t say stop.” Bakugou’s voice was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that made Kirishima ache. “I’m saying don’t forget to be here too.”

Kirishima’s chest tightened, heat creeping into his face. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t guilt. It was something softer, heavier.

Bakugou’s jaw worked like he was trying to find the right words, but he stopped, letting out a slow breath instead, shoulders dropping just slightly. “I don’t,” His voice caught, uncharacteristically uneven, and he started again, steadier. “I don’t need all of you every second. Just I don’t want to look up and wonder when you stopped looking back.”

It felt like something lodged itself in Kirishima’s ribs. His breath caught, his hands curling uselessly at his sides because he didn’t know what to do with them — hold him? Grab him? Just keep them still so he didn’t make it worse?

“You’re,” Kirishima’s voice cracked before he could stop it, so he cleared his throat, tried again. “You’re all I see, Bakugou.”

Bakugou huffed, but it wasn’t sharp, wasn’t a scoff. His eyes softened in a way Kirishima wasn’t prepared for. “Then don’t make me feel like I’m not.”

That — that undid him.

It was such a simple request, but it felt heavy in the space between them. Not demanding. Not angry. Just honest.

Kirishima stepped forward, closing the last inches, close enough to see the small crease between Bakugou’s brows, the faint unevenness of his breath. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and this time it felt like a promise.

Bakugou’s mouth twitched, something almost like relief flickering there, quick and hidden. He shook his head, muttering, “You better not, dumbass,” but the words had no bite.

Kirishima smiled, but it wasn’t bright, wasn’t big. It was smaller, quieter, the kind that ached at the edges.

And Bakugou didn’t move away.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima woke before the alarm that morning, but something felt wrong. It wasn’t the light — though the sunlight filtered pale and cold through the curtains, a colour that made the air seem almost brittle. It wasn’t the hum of the radiator or the faint sounds of the street below. It was the silence beside him.

The bed was empty.

His chest tightened with the kind of stillness that felt unnatural, like walking into a room you’d just seen full of people and finding it hollow. His first thought — irrational, sharp — was that they hadn’t fixed it, whatever shadow had lingered between them the night before.

He sat up slowly, as though movement might wake him properly from whatever dream this was. The sheets were still faintly warm, crumpled into the impression of Bakugou’s body, as if he’d only just risen. Kirishima’s fingers found the hollow where his pillow had been, pressing against the dip like it could give him an answer.

That’s when he noticed the paper.

It wasn’t much — just a scrap from the notepad they kept near the microwave for shopping lists and half-finished reminders. Bakugou’s handwriting sprawled across it in hurried strokes, letters tilting impatiently like they’d been scrawled standing up.

Went out early. Don’t worry. See you later. Love you.

The words should have been enough. They should have sat like a reassurance in his chest, solid and certain. And yet something about them felt too neat. Like Bakugou had known Kirishima would wake before he returned. Like he’d planned the note so Kirishima wouldn’t ask.

He held the slip of paper between his thumb and forefinger, the ink faintly smudged where Bakugou’s hand must have dragged across it. Kirishima stared at the line Love you, the way it cut sharp at the end, no flourish, no punctuation — just left there, suspended.

He set the note down on the bedside table, but his chest didn’t ease.

Bakugou was never much for long goodbyes. He hated making a fuss about leaving. But there was something about waking up without him — after the strained, quiet way they’d drifted into sleep — that left the absence sitting heavier than it should have. Kirishima found himself moving through the flat in a kind of low, restless haze, expecting to see him around every corner: at the counter with his coffee, leaning against the doorframe pulling on his boots, hunched over his phone at the kitchen table.

Every room was still.

The note was supposed to be enough. Kirishima told himself that as he moved through his routine — pulling on a sweatshirt, pushing his hair back, forcing himself to eat a slice of toast that tasted flat in his mouth. But the quiet clung to him. It didn’t feel like Bakugou’s kind of quiet, the companionable, wordless kind. It felt like space.

And maybe that was fine. Maybe Bakugou just needed space this morning.

Still, as Kirishima sat at the edge of the bed again, slipping on his trainers, he kept glancing at the note. He tried to imagine what Bakugou had been thinking when he’d written it. He tried to imagine him standing at the counter in the early light, scribbling in silence, jaw tight from lack of sleep.

He wondered if Bakugou had hesitated at all — if he’d thought about waking him.

He told himself it was nothing. That Bakugou would come home later, same as always, with some gruff comment about whatever nonsense had kept him out, and they’d slip back into the same rhythm they always did.

But as Kirishima left the flat, locking the door behind him, he felt the note folded in his pocket, a little too careful, like a talisman he couldn’t quite leave behind.

Bakugou had said don’t worry.

And Kirishima wasn’t sure why he couldn’t stop.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima couldn’t remember a single word his professor had said.

The lecture hall was packed, a low hum of laptops clicking and pages flipping, but it all blurred into one meaningless, muffled backdrop. His pen sat still over his notebook, the blue ink smudged faintly under his thumb where he’d pressed too long without moving. The page was blank except for one line he hadn’t even realised he’d written — an absent, lopsided scrawl of numbers. Not his timer. Not Bakugou’s.

Sero’s.

Six years. Static and stubborn, unwavering no matter how many cities they combed, how many strangers they spoke to, how many nights Kirishima lay awake thinking about it. He could see it when he closed his eyes. He could see it when they were open, too — reflected in the cold white glow of his phone, sitting there in the timer app, taunting him with the same steady, cruel countdown that refused to shift.

He’d checked it twice during breakfast. Four times before his first class had even started.

Now he was on his seventh.

Kirishima’s leg bounced under the desk, a restless, constant movement that drew a sharp glance from the student beside him. He barely noticed. His phone, face-down beside his open notebook, felt like it was humming — magnetic, insistent. He flipped it over again, thumb swiping almost automatically to the app. No change. Not a second off. Not a fraction faster.

It was maddening.

He told himself it wasn’t his timer to care about, that it wasn’t his countdown to watch. He told himself Bakugou had been right — he’d already found his person, his everything, and they’d long since stopped counting. He told himself this wasn’t about him at all.

And still, he couldn’t stop looking.

The lecturer’s voice faded into the drone of the air conditioning, the scratch of chairs shifting as people packed away their laptops. Class was over. Kirishima had no idea what the topic had even been. He shoved his notebook into his bag without glancing at it, already fishing out his phone, already refreshing the social media account they’d made for Sero.

Nothing.

His thumb scrolled, refreshed again, scrolled further. There were a few comments — most of them useless, some joking — but nothing concrete, nothing that pointed to progress. Nothing to justify the pounding urgency in his chest that had only grown sharper with every day they went without a change.

He barely remembered crossing campus to his next class. The August air felt heavy, pressing against his skin, dampening his shirt against his shoulders. The chatter of other students was just noise. His mind was elsewhere—half in the glare of his phone screen, half with Sero and his stubborn timer, the rest with the quiet ache in his chest he couldn’t quite explain.

But as he sat through another lecture he couldn’t hear, his phone lighting up against his palm for the fifteenth time that hour, he wondered if forever was something he was wasting without realising it.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima didn’t even hear the door open at first. His head was buried in the couch cushions, his phone face-down on the table beside him, Sero’s latest update still buzzing faintly at the back of his mind. His world had narrowed over these past weeks to countdowns and coordinates, to endless scrolls of strangers’ timers, so much so that the sound of the door clicking softly shut almost felt alien.

Then he saw him.

Bakugou stood in the doorway like something out of a memory — except it wasn’t quite right. His hair was a little tamed in a way it never was when he was just coming back from classes. His shirt was crisp, buttons sitting perfectly against him, collar sharp like he’d taken the time. A jacket hung over his shoulders, darker than his usual choices, the kind he’d only wear if he’d thought about it, if he’d planned. His shoes were polished. His hands were tight fists at his sides.

And his eyes,

Kirishima’s chest gave a strange lurch, a deep, sinking twist he didn’t have a name for.

Bakugou didn’t say anything at first. His gaze scanned the room like it was something he couldn’t quite bring himself to step into, then landed back on Kirishima — and stayed there.

It was quiet in the apartment, too quiet, except for the faint hum of the fridge and Kirishima’s own pulse rushing in his ears. He sat up slowly, confused.

“You’re,” Kirishima’s voice came out rough, like he hadn’t used it all day. “you’re dressed up.”

Bakugou’s mouth twitched. Not a smirk. Not irritation. Something tighter. His jaw set, and for a moment, Kirishima thought he wouldn’t answer at all.

“It’s our anniversary,” Bakugou said, voice flat — like he was holding it in place with both hands, like it might fall apart if he didn’t.

Kirishima froze.

No, it couldn’t be, six years wasn’t for another four months, twelve days, and,

For a second, the words didn’t register. They just hung there, suspended in the air between them. And then they hit. Hard.

Six years. Six years of waking up beside him, of brushing teeth in the same cramped bathroom, of laundry done in the wrong order because Bakugou refused to read the tags, of breakfasts where Bakugou stole half his toast. Six years of everything.

And Kirishima hadn’t even—

He felt it like a punch.

“Shit,” His voice cracked, half-standing, half-reaching out like maybe there was some way to fix it instantly if he could just get there fast enough. “Bakugou, I,”

But Bakugou wasn’t looking at him now. His gaze had dropped somewhere to the floor, jaw still tight, shoulders drawn in like he was bracing for something.

“We stopped waiting years ago,” he said quietly. And somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d yelled.

Kirishima’s throat closed up.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them. Like he was tired in a way Kirishima had never heard before. Like he’d been holding something for too long, and it was finally too heavy.

He tried to speak — he wanted to explain, to tell Bakugou he hadn’t forgotten in his heart, not really, he’d just been caught up helping, just been trying to do something good — but the excuses tasted bitter before they even formed. Because what was the point? He had forgotten. He hadn’t thought about the day once.

Bakugou still wouldn’t look at him.

And suddenly, Kirishima saw it. Saw every time Bakugou had waited quietly at home, every time he’d been met with a rushed goodbye instead of a morning together, every time the couch had been empty on movie night until Kirishima dragged himself in half-asleep. He saw the anniversary date in Bakugou’s head, not because Bakugou cared about dates, but because it was another year they’d survived everything — another year of them. And he’d been alone with that.

Kirishima’s chest felt like it was caving in.

“Katsuki,” His voice was so small he barely recognised it.

Finally, finally, Bakugou looked up. His eyes were wet — not quite tears, but close enough that it made something in Kirishima splinter all the way through.

“You’re counting down with him,” Bakugou said. His voice didn’t break, but it felt like it did. “Not with me.”

Kirishima couldn’t breathe.

It was true. God, it was true. Every spare second, every thought, every ounce of energy had gone into Sero’s six years, into watching that number inch closer to zero. And in the process, he’d stopped noticing that his own clock with Bakugou had already reached it years ago — and now it wasn’t a clock at all. It was a life. A life he wasn’t living the way he should have been.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Bakugou’s jaw clenched, his gaze sliding away again — not because he was angry, but because he looked like he couldn’t bear to watch Kirishima scramble for words he should’ve had long before now.

“I’m not,” Bakugou’s voice caught, just barely. “I’m not gonna beg you to be here.”

It hit Kirishima so hard his knees felt weak.

Bakugou turned then, setting his jacket down on the back of the chair like it didn’t matter anymore. He moved towards the hallway, each step heavier than the last.

“Think about what you’re doing,” he said without looking back. And then he was gone, the bedroom door clicking softly shut behind him.

Kirishima stood there for a long time.

The room felt too quiet, too still. His chest was tight in a way he didn’t know how to loosen, like everything inside him was knotted up. He could still see Bakugou’s eyes, the weight in his voice. Six years, and somehow Kirishima had made him feel like they were still waiting.

He sank back onto the couch, hands buried in his hair, the silence pressing in all around him.

For the first time in weeks, the timer on Sero’s wrist wasn’t what he saw when he closed his eyes.

It was Bakugou.

It was always Bakugou.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

He lay on the far edge of the bed, curled in towards the wall like it might shield him from the weight in his chest. The pillow under his head was too cold. The rest of the bed too warm. It didn’t feel like his anymore — hadn’t for a while now — but tonight it was something else. Tonight, it was hollow.

Kirishima was still in the other room. Bakugou could hear the occasional creak of floorboards, the shuffling weight of someone pacing without purpose. But he didn’t move. He didn’t ask. He didn’t care.

That was a lie.

He cared so fucking much it made him sick.

The room was dark. He hadn’t turned the light on when he came in, hadn’t even changed out of the clothes he’d put on for their anniversary dinner. They clung to him now — stifling, stiff with dried tears, too formal for a night that had gone so goddamn wrong. The collar was too tight, the cuffs too neat. His heart beat like a bruise beneath it all.

He stared at the wall.

There were picture frames on it — moments they’d frozen, moments that looked golden from the outside. Kirishima’s stupid grin during the beach trip last summer. Their first New Year’s after moving in. A blurry shot Mina had taken at a housewarming party, the two of them half-drunk and clinging to each other like gravity wasn’t enough.

Bakugou closed his eyes.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that — hadn’t meant for his voice to sound like it was breaking. But it had. Because it was. Because he’d walked in hoping for one thing. One small thing. He didn’t need a grand gesture. Didn’t need champagne or flowers or some overpriced reservation. He just needed to be seen. To be remembered. To feel like this mattered to someone other than him.

Instead, he got silence. He got Kirishima’s wide eyes like he’d forgotten entirely.

It was like something had split in him.

They were standing on different timelines. Kirishima was counting down for someone else. Holding Sero’s wrist like it meant more than the clock they’d already beaten. Staring at a future that didn’t have Bakugou in it — not really, not in the way he used to.

And Bakugou had stood there in dress shoes and aching hope like a fucking idiot.

The bedroom door didn’t open. The floorboards out in the hall creaked again.

He rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the fabric of his sleeve rough against his temple. He stayed there, unmoving, barely breathing, trying to keep everything inside.

It wasn’t just tonight.

It was all the nights before.

The way Kirishima’s attention had started to drift. The way he reached for his phone before he reached for Bakugou. The way he lit up when someone else's countdown dropped a second, but barely blinked when Bakugou kissed him goodbye.

God, he didn’t want to be jealous. It made him feel ugly — small and childish and weak in a way he’d fought years to outgrow. But it was there, thick in his chest like tar. He hated himself for it. Hated how much he wanted to scream what about me? Hated how loud the silence was now.

His fingers curled into the sheets.

They used to lie here together every night. They used to breathe in sync. Kirishima used to talk so much it drove Bakugou insane — half-lucid rambles about their day, about some stupid pun Kaminari said, about whether or not he thought cats had soulmates too.

Bakugou used to pretend to be annoyed.

He used to lie awake for hours after, listening to Kirishima snore softly beside him, breathing in the scent of cedar shampoo and safety.

He used to feel like maybe he was enough.

But now the bed was empty. The light beneath the door hadn’t changed. The voices in his head were louder than anything outside.

He pressed the heel of his palm into his chest.

Hard.

Like he could silence the ache if he just pushed hard enough.

But it didn’t go away.

Because the truth sat in him like lead — unspoken and heavy, choking him with its weight.

He loved him. God, he loved him. Not in the way people threw that word around. Not like it was easy. Not like it was inevitable. But in the way that meant his whole life was built around Kirishima. In the way that every breath, every fight, every small moment they’d fought through had carved something permanent into him.

He would’ve done anything. He had done everything.

But it didn’t matter.

Because Kirishima wasn’t looking at him anymore.

He was looking at Sero’s wrist. At that damn timer. At some version of destiny that didn’t have room for what they already were.

The door creaked, just slightly.

Bakugou didn’t move.

He waited. Listened.

Nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just hesitation.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Don’t come in. Don’t you fucking come in now.

He didn’t think he could take it — not Kirishima’s apology, not his soft voice, not his hand on Bakugou’s shoulder like it would fix anything. He didn’t want to be forgiven. He wanted to be chosen.

And right now, he wasn’t.

Right now, he was the leftover. The afterthought. The person you forget to look at because something shinier is glowing in front of you.

The door didn’t open.

Eventually, the light in the hallway turned off.

Bakugou lay there, blinking up at the ceiling.

The room smelled like cologne and crushed flowers. Like the ghost of something he’d tried to hold onto for too long.

His chest ached.

He didn’t cry.

But he wanted to.

Because for the first time in years, he didn’t know if they were going to make it.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

He doesn’t go after him.

He should.

He knows he should.

But Kirishima just sits there — elbows on his knees, hands in his hair, spine bent like something’s been cracked down the middle and now he’s folding in on himself. The quiet in the apartment rings louder than shouting would have. No music, no television, not even the humming white noise of Bakugou cooking something aggressive in the kitchen like he always did when he was upset.

Just silence.

The kind that makes you hear your own heartbeat in your ears. The kind that makes you realise just how badly you’ve fucked it all up.

The clock ticks somewhere behind him. A real one, not the digital countdown he’s been watching for weeks. He wants to smash it. Wants to claw at the numbers until time itself rewinds — to this morning, maybe. Or a week ago. Or six years ago. Somewhere, anywhere, before tonight.

The truth is he forgot.

No excuse. No justifying. No noble reason, no catastrophe to hide behind. He just forgot.

Forgot their anniversary.

Forgot Bakugou.

And what’s worse, Bakugou remembered.

Of course he did. Not because he cared about flowers or dinner reservations or cliché bullshit like that. Not because he wanted a celebration. But because six years mattered to him. Because Kirishima mattered. Because every single day, Bakugou had been there, even when Kirishima wasn’t.

And Kirishima — god — he’d been so wrapped up in saving someone else’s story that he’d stopped showing up for his own.

It’s not just tonight. It’s not just forgetting a date. It’s the hundred small ways he’s been vanishing.

Late nights. Missed dinners.

Coming home with his heart still half somewhere else.

Bakugou never said anything. Never made him choose. Just kept showing up — quieter, maybe, but still there.

And now he’s gone quiet in a different way.

In that final, awful kind of way.

Kirishima drags a hand down his face. His skin’s cold, but his eyes are hot, and he realises with a start that he’s shaking.

He can’t remember the last time he saw Bakugou cry. Not properly.

That look.

That fucking look on his face — like Kirishima had kicked out the last piece holding up the roof and now everything was collapsing on him.

The bedroom door stays shut.

He stares at it like it might open again if he just thinks hard enough.

It doesn’t.

And he doesn’t even know what to say anymore. What could possibly be enough.

Sorry doesn’t even scratch the surface.

Sorry is something you say when you knock over someone’s drink, not when you forget the person you love most in the world.

Not when you make them feel like a placeholder in their own life.

He used to think love would always be louder than distance. That even when they were tired, even when the world was falling apart, they’d still find their way back to each other like magnets. That Bakugou would always stay.

But he’s realising now, even magnets lose their pull when you wear them down enough.

The lump in his throat rises, sharp and sickening. He swallows hard, but it sticks.

He should go in there. Should knock on the door, drop to his knees if he has to, tell Bakugou that he’s sorry, that he’s here now, that he’s choosing him, choosing them — always.

But he’s scared.

Because what if it’s too late?

What if the door doesn’t open?

What if Bakugou doesn’t want to be chosen second anymore?

The thought makes his chest cave in.

He sits like that for a long time. Doesn’t even know how long. At some point, the sun starts bleeding grey through the curtains. The light is cold, washed out. Unforgiving.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard. Like maybe if he squeezes tight enough, he can force the memories out — of the look on Bakugou’s face when he said, “We stopped waiting years ago.”

It was true. And Kirishima hadn’t even noticed.

He gets up slowly, legs stiff, body aching like he’s been through a war. He walks to the kitchen and stands in the doorway for a full minute, staring at the space where Bakugou usually stands — cutting board still out from this morning, kettle full but unused. He stares at the stupid mug Bakugou always uses, the one that says “DIE” in angry red letters but has a chip on the rim from when Kirishima dropped it a year ago and refused to throw it out.

It hits him all over again.

He doesn’t want to be in this house without Bakugou in it.

Not even for a second.

He walks to the bedroom door.

Lifts his hand.

Doesn’t knock.

Can’t.

He just presses his forehead to the wood, breath shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Katsuki.”

No answer.

Just the sound of his own breathing and the emptiness that follows it.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima couldn’t breathe. The sharp edge of it sliced through his chest like a jagged blade, relentless and cruel. It wasn’t just his own heart breaking — no, it was Bakugou’s, shattered and raw beneath the surface, and somehow that pain seeped into Kirishima’s ribs, wrapped itself tight around his lungs until every breath felt ragged and inadequate. His fingers trembled as he gripped his phone, thumb hovering over the contact named Sero. His voice cracked when he finally called, barely a whisper escaping as he told Sero they needed to meet. Now.

The stairwell was cold and echoing when Sero arrived, breath visible in the air even though it wasn’t quite winter yet. Kirishima’s heart thudded unevenly, wild and bruised, as they met downstairs. Sero’s face was lined with fatigue, but his eyes searched Kirishima’s for some kind of explanation — some answer to the sudden weight settling between them.

Kirishima’s voice was barely steady. “I can’t do this anymore,” he confessed, the words raw and vulnerable, more exposed than he’d ever let himself be. “I can’t help.” The words felt like a surrender, but also a desperate grasp for some kind of clarity.

Sero’s brow furrowed. “Is everything alright?” His voice was gentle, carrying that same quiet desperation Kirishima recognised — the fear of time slipping away, the ache of waiting.

Kirishima shook his head, voice breaking as he tried to steady it. “No, you should wait,” he said, the irony bitter on his tongue. “Everyone who waits loves it. I met Bakugou six years ago today. And.. I forgot.” His breath hitched, the memory crashing in like a wave — that fierce, overwhelming certainty when their eyes first locked, the way the world had tipped on its axis and never righted itself again.

“I’ve loved this — all of it,” Kirishima said quietly, his voice rough with the weight of everything they’d shared. His smile was fragile, like a flicker of light in the dark. “But I need to stop. I need to start my life with Bakugou. I owe him that.”

Sero’s smile was soft at first. Quiet. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. His shoulders rose like he was taking in a breath too big for his lungs. “You’re right,” he said simply. “I’d wait for something that wonderful.”

The silence that followed was thick. The kind that didn’t beg to be filled but swelled between them regardless, like pressure behind glass.

“But,” His voice cracked. Just barely. Not enough to draw attention if you weren’t listening. But Kirishima always listened.

Sero looked down at his hands, where his fingers had curled into the blanket on the couch, knuckles white. His throat worked around something unspoken, and then the words came — slow, trembling, like he had to force each one through a wall he hadn’t touched in years.

“My dad’s sick.” A breath. A tremor. “Really sick.”

Kirishima froze. The weight of it landed between them like a dropped stone.

Sero still didn’t look up. “Lung cancer. Stage four. He didn’t tell me at first — didn’t want me to drop everything. Said he was proud of me. That I’d found myself here, my purpose or something.” His jaw clenched. “But my mum called. Couple weeks ago. Told me to come home.”

The room shifted. Something small and steady inside Kirishima caved in. All this time — Sero had been holding that?

“I wanted to tell you,” Sero continued, voice barely more than a breath now. “So many times. But you were so focused. You had all this fire, and it felt wrong to throw my grief in the middle of that. I kept thinking we’d find whoever my soulmate is and,”

Kirishima’s chest pulled tight. “Sero,”

“I just,” His voice broke for real then. “I wanted to bring someone home to him. Just once.”

That did it.

The way Sero said it — not in bitterness, not in anger, but with this aching vulnerability, this quiet grief that lived in the spaces between his words — was enough to knock the breath clean out of Kirishima’s lungs. It wasn’t about the timer. It wasn’t even about fate. It was about family. Time. Regret. Trying to give something back before it was too late.

Sero’s head dropped, shoulders shaking as the first sob slipped out — a raw, broken sound that cracked open the room. His body curled inward, instinctively folding around the ache, and before Kirishima could think, he’d moved forward, arms wrapping around him, holding him together like something precious.

Sero buried his face in Kirishima’s chest, shoulders trembling under the weight of everything he’d held in. “She’s so tired, man. She’s been doing everything. The doctors, the care team, the house, the bills — and I just — what kind of son am I? I just wanted to bring someone home. Show them I wasn’t alone out here. Show them I made something of myself. That I,”

His voice cracked again, and he gave up speaking altogether, his body sagging in Kirishima’s arms like something finally allowed to fall.

Kirishima held him tighter. One hand curled around the back of Sero’s head, the other gripping his shoulder like he could shield him from all of it. The sorrow, the helplessness, the years of delay. It was strange, in a way — how something as small as a missed moment could split a person in two.

“You didn’t fail her,” Kirishima whispered, throat raw. “You’ve been here. You’ve been holding it all together. That counts for something.”

“But it doesn’t help her,” Sero choked. “I keep thinking — if I’d just stopped earlier. If I’d taken the hint when the leads dried up. If I hadn’t dragged this out, maybe I’d have time left. Maybe,”

“No,” Kirishima said, firmer now, steady despite the ache in his chest. “Don’t do that. Don’t carry that weight. You’ve done everything you could. You stayed because you cared. That’s never a failure.”

Sero clung to him tighter. “I was scared.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to be alone when he,” He couldn’t finish the sentence. It trailed off, jagged and unfinished.

And Kirishima understood.

Because even with Bakugou beside him — even knowing his timer was done and he’d found his forever — he still felt it sometimes. That fear. That clawing dread that there might be a moment when all of this ended and he’d still be reaching. Still be alone.

He pulled back just enough to meet Sero’s eyes. They were bloodshot, damp, open in a way he’d never seen them.

“You’re not alone,” Kirishima said softly. “You never were.”

“I’m sorry,” Sero cried, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry I held on too long.”

All he could do was hold him—hold this fragile, shattered piece of the friend he cared about more than he’d ever dared admit aloud.

Time slipped away, the world narrowing down to the soft, trembling weight in his arms and the sound of Sero’s quiet sobs, like a plea for something more than pain.

Kirishima wished fiercely — wished he could rewind the clock, wished he could pause the moment, wished he could make the hurt vanish like smoke.

But all he had was the steady thump of his own heart trying to be strong enough for both of them.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

Kirishima closed the door behind him, every step heavy and deliberate as he made his way through the familiar apartment they shared, the walls holding echoes of laughter and arguments, quiet moments and loud declarations. The air was thick with the unsaid, the weight of the hours lost chasing a future that had begun to blur into an endless chase. He could still feel the rough press of Bakugou’s hands when he’d crawled into bed that night, the warmth of that desperate grip, a tether to a reality that had somehow slipped just beyond his fingers.

He sank onto the edge of their bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight like a silent witness. The silence pressed in on him — not the comforting quiet that followed a shared conversation, but the hollow, aching quiet of absence. His fingers tangled in the rumpled sheets as he let the room close around him, the familiar scent of Bakugou’s shampoo and sweat mixing with the faint trace of burnt toast from their breakfast. It was home, but tonight it felt like a place paused, waiting for something he couldn’t name.

He swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears that had nothing to do with defeat, everything to do with exhaustion. This wasn’t just about a timer or a search; it was about the fracture that had opened between them, a slow bleed of time and neglect, a question Kirishima couldn’t answer: how do you fix something when the pieces are already scattered?

A soft shuffle from the hallway made him look up. The door cracked open, and there Bakugou stood—still wearing the sharp suit, the edges of his usually fierce expression softened, tentative. His eyes caught Kirishima’s, and without a word, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a slow, deliberate click that echoed like a promise.

“Hey,” Bakugou’s voice was rough, unsteady, but there was something fierce behind it — a hunger to mend, to hold tight. “I’m here.”

Kirishima’s throat tightened. Words tangled, but what spilled out was the truth he’d been carrying alone for too long. “I’m sorry. I — I lost sight. I got caught up in Sero’s timer, in trying to find something I thought would fix it all. But I forgot — I forgot about us. About you.”

Bakugou crossed the room in a few strides, collapsing beside him on the bed. His hand found Kirishima’s, fingers intertwining with a quiet desperation. “You didn’t lose me,” he murmured. “I’m still here. We’re still here.”

The rawness in Bakugou’s voice shattered something fragile inside Kirishima. He leaned into the touch, letting the quiet swell between them, the unspoken apologies and promises threading through their fingers. The night seemed to hold its breath as they sat there—two souls scarred but steady, caught in the delicate balance of breaking and becoming.

Kirishima swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice a whispered vow. “I’ll focus on us. From now on. No more chasing shadows or counting down someone else’s time. This — this is my compass.”

Bakugou’s eyes, glistening with unshed tears, locked onto his. “Good. Because I don’t want to keep waiting either. Not for anything. Not for anyone.”

They stayed like that, silence wrapping around them like a balm, the fragile thread of connection tightening, weaving back the spaces that had begun to unravel. Outside, the city buzzed on, indifferent and endless, but in that small room, beneath the low hum of distant traffic and their own quiet breaths, Kirishima felt the first real beat of something new—something worth fighting for. Together.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

The morning light slipped in softly through the cracked curtains, painting thin gold lines across the room. Kirishima’s body pressed warm and steady against Bakugou’s, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat humming through the quiet stillness. They were tangled there, wrapped up in each other like the world had stilled just for them, and Kirishima felt something fragile settle deep inside — a silence so complete it felt like home.

His eyes drifted open before Bakugou’s did, and he stayed that way, still and reverent, staring at the lines and planes of Bakugou’s face, the way his eyelashes fluttered lightly over closed lids, the faint crease where his brow relaxed in sleep. Kirishima thought he could stay like this forever—just breathe here, watch him sleep, and know that this was the only place he ever needed to be.

The soft whir of the alarm cut through the quiet, but Kirishima’s hand moved almost instinctively, sliding across the bedside table to kill it. No need to shatter this moment with beeping and urgency. Bakugou’s eyes blinked open slowly, dazed, the remnants of sleep lingering in their bright depths. He yawned, the sound low and unguarded, and Kirishima’s chest tightened in a way that surprised him—because waking up to see Bakugou yawn and smile, like this, was still something utterly new.

“Morning,” Kirishima whispered, voice thick with that raw, breathless ache that came from loving someone so fiercely it felt like it might break you. He stayed wrapped around him, fingers tangled in soft hair, heart hammering quietly but powerfully in his chest. The boy in front of him was wild and fierce, the very thing that made everything else quiet down. And just like that, waking up beside him was not mundane — it was an every day miracle, a new world opening and folding into itself again.

Bakugou’s lips twitched into a smile, barely there but enough to light the room in Kirishima’s eyes. There was something tender and unspoken in that look, a wordless confirmation that this was real — that here, now, they belonged together. It made Kirishima’s breath catch and slow all at once, grounding him in a way no timer or fate ever could.

But before Bakugou could answer, before the day could even fully begin, a sudden, sharp pounding shattered the fragile calm. The knocking was urgent, relentless — a frantic staccato against the door that felt like it might splinter under the force.

Both of them bolted upright, hearts hammering in sudden unison. Kirishima’s breath caught, an icy spike of adrenaline shooting through his veins as he swung the door open without thinking.

There, panting, eyes wild and bright with a mixture of desperation and disbelief, stood Sero. His breath came in ragged gasps, like he’d been running — or maybe fighting against time itself. His wrist was held up for them both to see, the numbers ticking fast, fraying like a countdown gone mad: 2 years, 11 hours, 4 minutes, 17 seconds, and then 8 seconds again — the seconds spinning, racing, tumbling down like grains of sand through a twisted hourglass.

Sero’s voice broke through the stunned silence, urgent and trembling. “It changed. The timer — it’s moving faster. I don’t have time, I have to find him. Now.”

For the first time, Kirishima didn’t doubt him. Not a flicker. He saw it in Sero’s eyes — the raw, desperate truth, the fear that had been lurking just beneath the surface, clawing its way out. The boy needed them. Needed him.

But then, hesitation bloomed inside Kirishima — a slow, heavy weight that pressed down deep in his chest as his hands brushed the familiar warmth of Bakugou’s waist, his steady presence grounding him.

Bakugou’s voice was calm but firm, steady as a rock amidst the chaos. “Then you have to go. Of course you do.”

Now, sprinting across the pavement towards campus, their laughter wheezing out between bursts of adrenaline, Kirishima couldn't stop grinning. The wind caught his cheeks and chilled the sweat sticking to his skin, his lungs burning just a bit in the best way. Sero looked like he was flying, feet barely touching the ground, the buzz in his chest palpable in the air between them. He wasn’t speaking — he was humming, vibrating, half-laughing and half-crying, shoulders tensed like he might burst apart at the seams from sheer joy.

The bus had barely pulled to a stop when they’d thrown themselves up the stairs. They’d sat at the back like teenagers — like teenagers again, Kirishima supposed, though he didn’t feel that young anymore, not really. But in that moment, he wanted to be. He wanted this to be the kind of morning that belonged to people who believed in magic, in fate, in numbers counting down to something beautiful.

Sero was jittering so much his knee bounced against Kirishima’s every few seconds. His hands were fidgeting — phone, pocket, wrist, pocket again — over and over, but his smile never wavered.

“I’m scared,” he said quietly, eventually, eyes on the grey blur of the buildings out the window. “But mostly I just feel,” he cut himself off with a nervous laugh, pressed his hand to his forehead like the emotion was physically overwhelming. “I just feel like I could explode.”

Kirishima bumped their shoulders together. “Then explode.”

Sero let out a breathy, choked laugh, more exhale than sound. He looked down at the timer again. The seconds were blurring. Kirishima watched them fly by — fast, too fast, like they were running toward something that didn’t want to be caught. But Sero’s smile only widened. There were less than two minutes left now.

Two minutes.

Two minutes to the rest of his life.

Kirishima’s heart was thudding. Not for himself, not in the way it had that day in high school when he’d turned a corner and met Bakugou’s eyes and known — simply, entirely, with every atom of his being — that he had arrived at the rest of his life. That he was home.

No. This wasn’t like that. But it was close. It was like watching lightning strike twice, and being lucky enough to see it happen.

When they got off the bus, they didn’t walk. They ran. Kirishima wasn’t sure why — it just felt right. Like if they walked, it wouldn’t be enough. The laughter bubbled up again, even with his lungs on fire. Even with the stitch forming in his side. Even as he watched Sero’s timer dip under thirty seconds.

By the time they made it onto campus, Sero’s timer was blinking. The seconds were strobing — 8, 7, 6…

Kirishima glanced at him, meaning to say something, anything, but what came out was a strangled sound — a gasp choked with something like awe, like disbelief, like fear.

Because Sero had stopped moving.

Because Sero had stopped breathing.

Because Sero had locked eyes across the field with someone standing on the edge of the green.

Kirishima turned to follow his gaze.

And he saw him.

The boy’s hair was stark and strange and perfect, split neatly down the middle — red and white, like a flag for something important. His wrist was raised. His eyes were wide. His mouth had parted like he'd been about to speak, but couldn’t remember how.

Sero blinked once.

Twice.

Three times—

And then he ran.

And the boy ran too.

Kirishima stood there, wind whipping against him, heart rattling in his chest as they collided in the middle of the field. No hesitation. No slow-motion pause for effect. No cautious, careful glances.

They just fell.

Into each other’s arms like gravity was finally working properly. Like every force of the universe had been leading them to that precise point. And Kirishima, who had believed in this before, who had fought tooth and nail beside Sero to reach this moment, still couldn’t quite process it.

Sero was crying — openly, shamelessly, his shoulders shaking as he clutched at the boy like he never wanted to let go.

The boy was holding him just as tightly. One of his hands had fisted into the back of Sero’s hoodie, the other gripping his waist like he was anchoring them both to the ground.

Kirishima’s hand went to his phone without him thinking. He pulled it out and recorded the moment, shaky hands and all, because he needed Bakugou to see this. Needed to remember it exactly as it happened. Not just for Sero’s sake. For his sake too. Because this? This was proof. Of everything. Of all the effort. Of all the pain. Of why it was worth it.

By the time they approached him, walking now — or rather, stumbling, still half-attached — Sero looked like a different person.

Like something inside him had clicked.

The boy, for all his quiet intensity, had a smile on his face so wide it looked like it might break him. It wasn’t perfect. It was awkward and lopsided and slightly shy — but it was real. And it made Kirishima’s throat feel thick.

“I’d shake your hand,” the boy said — his voice calm, soft, far too measured for the storm in his expression — “but I’d have to let go of him.”

Kirishima laughed.

He couldn’t help it.

It was the only thing to do in that moment. A bright, warm, full-bellied laugh that bubbled up from the centre of his chest and echoed across the empty field like it had been waiting to come out.

He extended his hand anyway. “Kirishima Eijirou,”

Todoroki nodded, eyes crinkling just slightly. “Todoroki Shouto.”

Sero’s face was still wet. His cheeks were blotchy and his nose was pink and his eyes were red-rimmed — but none of it mattered. Because he looked happy. Really happy. The kind of happy that reached down to your bones and settled there like it had been meant for you all along.

Kirishima hadn’t seen him smile like that before. Not once. Not even on their best days.

And it did something to him — something strange and tender and a little sad. Because he realised that this was the end of something. The end of the search. The end of the ache.

But more than that, it was the beginning of something else.

The beginning of Sero’s life.

And Kirishima felt lucky, standing there with the morning sun on his back, to have witnessed the start of it.

He couldn’t wait to tell Bakugou.

˚₊‧꒰ა ⏱️ ໒꒱ ‧₊

It’s strange, how quickly peace settles.

Not the quiet kind, or the distant kind — not a polite, post-storm stillness. But a peace that feels lived-in. Worn. Like a jumper stretched out in the sleeves or a sofa that sags where everyone always ends up sitting. That kind of peace. The kind you only get when things are right.

That’s what the days feel like now.

It’s not dramatic, not some sweeping change of atmosphere. There’s no fanfare, no sudden announcement that all the searching is done, that everyone’s found who they were meant to find. It just is.

The mornings are warmer. The laughter comes easier. And there’s something in Sero’s voice now — something freer, looser, softer around the edges. Like he’s finally exhaled after holding his breath for years.

Kirishima notices it even in the way Sero walks.

Like there’s less weight to carry. Like the ground isn’t quite so heavy.

And he’s not the only one who notices.

Todoroki isn’t a loud presence — far from it — but he’s a constant one. Like gravity. Like weather. He shows up without question, always exactly where he’s needed, without ever making a fuss about it. And he looks at Sero like he’s trying to memorise him. Like blinking might mean missing something. Like he’s waited a long time to believe he was allowed to look at anyone like this.

Kirishima catches him staring sometimes, and Todoroki doesn’t even try to hide it.

He just gives a little nod, like yeah. I know.

And Sero glows under it.

Actually glows.

They’re embarrassing, sometimes. Even Bakugou says it — loudly, dramatically, with a disgusted look on his face as he lobs a pillow across the room in their direction. But Kirishima’s not annoyed. He’s delighted.

He lives for it.

Because it’s not just a happy ending. It’s a happy beginning. He knows what that looks like. He knows how it feels to wake up every day next to the person who steadies you, who sees all the parts you don’t even notice and still chooses to stay. He knows what it’s like to build something with someone — brick by brick, day by day — until you wake up one morning and realise you’ve made a home without even meaning to.

Now Sero knows too.

And honestly? That’s enough.

Movie nights feel fuller. Game nights are louder. The apartment is never really quiet anymore, and there’s always someone draped across the couch or stealing snacks from the fridge or telling Todoroki to loosen up a bit while he calmly demolishes them all at Mario Kart.

Sometimes Kirishima wakes up in the middle of the night — not from a dream, not from any sound, just awake. And he’ll lie there for a minute or two, the room bathed in soft blue from the moonlight leaking through the curtains. He’ll look at Bakugou’s face, peaceful in sleep, and his chest will ache with it — the sheer rightness of it all.

He still checks Sero’s timer sometimes, out of habit.

It reads 0 now.

Permanent zero. Like his own.

It makes him smile every time.

Not because the countdown is over, but because the waiting is. Because they’re not counting down anymore. They’re counting up. Forward. Together.

A week after the field, Sero brings Todoroki to dinner.

They don’t make a big deal of it — they just show up, a bit early, hand in hand and grinning like idiots. Todoroki’s wearing a jumper Kirishima’s pretty sure used to belong to Sero, and Sero’s got his fingers linked in the collar like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he lets go.

Bakugou takes one look at them and groans. “Disgusting.”

Sero flips him off cheerfully. “You’re just jealous I’m prettier.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not even taller than him.”

Todoroki, very quietly “I am.”

Kirishima laughs so hard he nearly drops the salad.

Later, when the plates are scraped clean and the glasses are half-full and everyone’s sunk deep into their seats, full and warm and heavy with joy, Sero leans back and sighs — really sighs, like it’s from his soul.

Kirishima watches him, waiting.

Then “I think I’m happy.”

It’s said like a confession. Like a secret he hasn’t dared say out loud until now. Like it might disappear if spoken too boldly.

But it doesn’t disappear.

It settles into the air like sunlight. Lingers.

Kirishima doesn’t say anything. He just leans over and nudges Sero’s foot under the table. Lets the warmth of it sit between them.

Bakugou shifts beside him, arm brushing his, and Kirishima turns his head just in time to see the corners of Bakugou’s mouth tilt upwards — subtle, almost imperceptible. But it’s there.

And that’s it.

They wake. They eat. They kiss. They laugh. They run errands. They text. They plan. They live.

Kirishima thinks about it sometimes — about how it all started, how it almost didn’t. About six years ago in a hallway, a look, a number ticking to zero. About all the things they could have missed. All the things they might have never found.

And he feels lucky.

Not just because he has Bakugou, but because he was there. For all of it. For every part.

The beginning. The middle.

And now — finally, beautifully, quietly — the ever after.