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The lights were too bright when Bakugo opened his eyes. He winced, instinctively raising a hand to his temple. It hurt like hell, pounding with every heartbeat, but it didn’t feel like anything permanent. Nothing broken, no screaming alarms in his head. Just… a fuzziness. A void in places he should have had memories. Like someone had taken a giant eraser to his brain.
A nurse noticed he was awake and gave him a professional smile, saying something about observation and rest. She told him he'd hit his head during the mission, a concussion, they said. He’d been lucky. He didn’t feel lucky.
"We checked your file and already contacted your emergency contact, Kirishima Eijirou, he’s on his way," she added.
That caught his attention. Kirishima. The name lit something up in him; bright, warm, stupidly solid. He remembered that... He remembered him.
Bakugo didn’t say anything as the nurse left. Instead, he sat up slowly and grabbed his phone off the side table. He entered his passcode, muscle memory doing the work his head couldn’t.
The phone opened to the lock screen; a picture of him and Kirishima standing outside some takoyaki stand at night. Kiri was laughing, mid-blink, and Bakugo was scowling at the camera, but not really. Not the kind of scowl that meant anything. It was too soft around the edges. He blinked and opened the gallery.
Photo after photo scrolled by; Kirishima with a sunburn at the beach, Bakugo beside him, towel over his shoulder. A shot of them on a rooftop at sunset, Kiri’s hand raised in a peace sign, Bakugo half-out of frame. Then one of them crammed on a couch together watching a movie, Kirishima asleep with his head on Bakugo’s shoulder.
And selfies...so many. Goofy, half-lit, chaotic snapshots. Arms around each other. Laughing and comfortable. Too comfortable for just friends. Weren’t they?
Bakugo’s chest tightened. The world felt a little more stable now, like his brain was finding anchor points in the fog. He remembered having a crush on Kirishima back in high school. A stupid, hopeless thing he’d never said out loud. But these photos weren’t from high school. This was recent. This was them, now.
The door swung open. Heavy footsteps. Kirishima.
“Bakugo!” Kirishima looked pale, breathless, eyes wide with concern. “You’re awake. Shit. Are you okay? They said you hit your head-”
“You’re my emergency contact,” Bakugo interrupted, voice rough.
Kirishima blinked, thrown off. “Well...yeah. I mean, of course-”
Bakugo held up the phone, screen still glowing. “There’s a million pictures of us in here. You’re in like, half my fucking camera roll.”
Kirishima gave a nervous chuckle, trying to keep things light. “Yeah, well… we hang out a lot.”
Bakugo didn’t laugh. He was still scrolling, eyes scanning faster now, like he was chasing a memory that wouldn’t come. “I must’ve finally told you, right?”
Kirishima frowned. “Told me what?”
Bakugo looked up, frustration flickering behind his eyes. “That I liked you. Since U.A. I remember that much. I was just too much of a dumbass to say anything back then. But these pictures, this stuff...this has to mean I did, right?”
Kirishima froze. The honest answer rose in his throat like a blade, but he hesitated.
“No,” he said softly. “We’re not boyfriends.”
Bakugo’s whole face shifted; confused, almost hurt. “Then what the hell is all this? Why are you my emergency contact? Why are we always together? Why do I feel like I-”
His voice cracked at the edge, cut off by the rush of his own panic. He rubbed at his temple, jaw tightening. “God, this is so...Why can’t I remember the important stuff? Did we already get married or something?”
Kirishima’s heart lurched in his chest.
The nurse’s voice echoed in his head from earlier that day:
“Try not to upset him. Let him find calm. The brain needs stability right now, not shock.”
He looked at Bakugo; flushed, frustrated, unraveling and something snapped in him. A reflex, protective and desperate.
“No,” he said quickly, forcing the words out before he could think better of it. “We didn’t get married.”
Bakugo looked at him, wide-eyed.
Kirishima swallowed hard. “We’re… engaged.”
There was a beat of silence. The kind that stretches out and feels longer than it should.
Bakugo’s shoulders eased, just a little. He slumped back into the pillow, blinking like his brain was finally catching up. “Oh, okay. That makes sense.”
Kirishima nodded slowly, numb. “Yeah.”
He sat down beside the bed, heart slamming in his chest like it wanted out. He didn’t know why he said it. Only that he couldn’t take it back now.
Bakugo’s eyes were glued to his phone screen, thumbs flicking through photos like a man desperate to catch hold of a fading memory. The light from the screen reflected sharply off his gaze, and Kirishima winced.
“Hey Kat,” Kirishima said softly, reaching out to gently take the phone. “You shouldn’t be looking at your screen so much with your concussion, it’s gonna make your head feel worse.”
Bakugo blinked reluctantly, but let him take the phone, “Okay, Ei.”
Kirishima gave him a small smile, “I’ll let everyone know you’re awake and doing okay, alright? You just focus on resting.”
Bakugo’s eyes flicked to the door as Kirishima stood, nodding silently.
The second the door closed behind him, Kirishima leaned back against the wall and let out a sound between a groan and a growl.
“What the hell did I just do?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
He was shaking. Just a little. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that his thumb fumbled over his screen twice before he managed to tap Denki’s name.
The phone rang. Once. Twice.
Denki picked up on the third with his usual chaotic energy.
“Yo! Kirishima? What’s up, man?” Denki’s voice was light but laced with concern at the unexpected call. There was a pause on the other end. Not silence exactly, Denki was definitely still there, just processing...“Is… is everything okay?”
Kirishima sat down heavily on the floor leaning up against the wall, staring at the floor like it might explain everything.
“I don’t know.” Kirishima sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Bakugo got hurt and has a concussion. He doesn’t remember the last few years. But he remembers me. And he saw the photos on his phone and thought we were together, and I told him no and then he asked if we were married and I panicked and said we were engaged and now he thinks we’re getting married, Denki!” Kirishima finished in a rush, barely stopping to breathe.
Denki let out a long whistle. “Dude. That’s insane.”
“You think I don’t know that?!”
“Okay, okay, no judgment! I'm just trying to catch up here. So... you lied to a concussed Bakugo. That’s either super brave or super suicidal.”
Kirishima groaned again and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “What do I do? He’s gonna come home with me because we already live together, and now I have to pretend to be his fiancé until his brain resets like a damn video game save file?”
“Honestly?” Denki said thoughtfully, “That’s... weirdly convenient. You don’t even have to change anything. Just act a little more domestic. Maybe start leaving your toothbrush closer to his.”
“Denki. You’re not helping.”
“Okay, okay. Serious hat on.” There was a pause. “Do you want him to remember?”
Kirishima hesitated.
“…Yeah. Of course I do.”
“Even if it means losing the fake engagement thing?”
“I never had it to begin with. I just… I didn’t want to see him panic. I didn’t want him to feel like something was missing. And the way he looked at me, like it made sense that we’d be together…” His voice cracked a little. “I didn’t want to take that away from him.”
Denki went quiet for a second. “Damn, dude. That’s... actually kinda romantic.”
Kirishima pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not romantic. It’s lying to my best friend who just had a head injury.”
“Okay, fair. But you should probably start thinking about what you’re gonna do when he does remember.”
Kirishima swallowed. “Yeah.”
Because that was the part that scared him the most.
-----------------------------------------------
The door clicked open. Kirishima stepped in first, flipping on the lights.
“Home sweet home…” he offered, voice light.
Bakugo stepped in behind him, his gaze sweeping the apartment like it was a place half-remembered from a dream. His mouth didn’t move much, just a small grunt of acknowledgment, but he lingered by the doorway for a second, as if crossing the threshold took more effort than it should.
Kirishima helped him shrug off his coat, careful, slow. Watching him too closely.
“You okay?” he asked.
Bakugo nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, fingertips drifting toward the healing scrape at his temple. “Yeah. Head’s still weird, though. Like… I know this place. But I don’t know what I was doing here a couple days ago.”
“That’s okay,” Kirishima said gently. “You’re doing great. They said that’s normal.”
He gave Bakugo a light pat on the back, guiding him toward the couch. Bakugo let himself be led without protest, collapsing into the cushions with a tired sigh.
“Do you remember… anything else? Since earlier?” Kirishima asked carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Bakugo’s eyes roamed the apartment; couple framed photos sat on a low shelf: one of them with their old class at U.A., everyone crammed together and half-laughing; another of Kirishima grinning with windblown hair, snapped during some beach trip Bakugo didn’t remember taking. On the kitchen counter, two mugs sat drying side by side; one black with a dumb cartoon explosion that read "BOOM!" the other one chipped with a shark in sunglasses and the words “Bite Me” in bold letters.
“Kinda,” he said. “Bits and pieces. I know this is your place too. Our place. I just… don’t remember when that happened. Or why it feels so normal.”
Kirishima offered a small, crooked smile. “It was kind of a slow thing. I just kept showing up. One day, I just didn’t leave.”
That much, at least, was true.
Bakugo huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “Figures. That sounds like you.”
Silence settled for a beat. Not uncomfortable, just heavy. Kirishima sat beside him, close but not touching, like he didn’t want to spook something delicate.
“You hungry?” he asked. “I can make that spicy curry you like.”
“…That sounds good. Yeah.”
Kirishima stood and moved toward the kitchen, pulling open drawers and retrieving pots on autopilot. As he started boiling water, Bakugo’s voice drifted over, softer this time.
“I keep waiting to wake up and none of this be real. But you’re here. You feel real.”
Kirishima paused, one hand resting on the counter.
“I’m real, Kat,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Their eyes met across the space between them. Something unspoken flickered there, lingering until Kirishima turned back to the stove, heart pounding against his ribs.
Then Bakugo spoke, voice low but clear, “How’d I ask you?”
Kirishima blinked. “…What?”
“To marry you,” Bakugo said. “I keep thinking about it. I can’t picture it. I can picture you, though. That’s not the problem. Just… not that part.”
Kirishima forced out a chuckle, trying to play it cool. “You mean you don’t remember getting down on one knee and bawling your eyes out?”
Bakugo scoffed, leaning back on the couch with a wince. “Hell no. I better not have.”
They both laughed, and the tension cracked, just for a second. But the question still hung in the air, heavier than before.
Kirishima stirred the pot slowly, staring at the surface.
“You didn’t make a speech,” he said, quieter now. “No big gestures. You just looked at me one night and said, ‘I’m sick of pretending I don’t love you. Marry me, dumbass.’ Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.”
His voice barely wavered.
“I said yes before I could even think about it. It felt like the kind of moment you don’t forget.”
He didn’t look over his shoulder. Couldn’t. But in the silence that followed, he could feel Bakugo watching him, eyes pinned to him like he was trying to see through the story and into the truth underneath it.
Kirishima didn’t know if it was a mistake to say it. Only that he meant every word.
Bakugo didn’t say anything for a long time. But when Kirishima finally glanced back over his shoulder, he found him watching, eyes a little softer than before. Thoughtful. Quiet. Like maybe, somewhere in the fog, something was starting to click into place.
That night, after the dishes were done and the lights had dimmed low, Kirishima headed toward his bedroom like always, rubbing at the back of his neck, already half-tired. Behind him, he heard Bakugo’s footsteps following; steady, and unhesitant. Just as he reached the door, he glanced back.
Bakugo was right behind him, like he meant to walk in too.
Kirishima blinked, thrown for a second. “That’s… your room’s down the hall,” he said, motioning toward the other besroom.
Bakugo frowned. “Don’t we usually share?”
There was no heat in the question; just quiet confusion, like he was trying to match the pieces of the story to what felt natural in his gut.
Kirishima’s brain scrambled for something that made sense.
“Yeah, yeah, we do,” he said quickly, with a small laugh. “I just figured...I mean, your stuff’s still in the other room. I thought maybe you’d want to shower or change first. You can come in after, if you want.”
Bakugo looked at him for a long second, then nodded once. “Right...okay.”
He turned without a word and headed to the other room. Kirishima exhaled, chest tight, and slipped into bed.
But ten minutes later, when the door creaked open and Bakugo stepped inside; hair damp, wearing an old shirt Kirishima had forgotten he borrowed. Kirishima didn’t say anything, just lifted the blanket, and Bakugo slid into bed beside him.
At first, they lay there in silence; backs turned and space between them. But then Bakugo shifted. Slowly and cautiously, he moved closer until his body settled against Kirishima’s chest. He didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. Just curled in like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Kirishima held his breath, heart aching with the weight of how much he wanted it to be real. His arm slipped around Bakugo’s waist, almost without thinking, and Bakugo didn’t pull away.
They stayed like that; quiet, warm and close.
And when the light filtered in through the blinds the next morning, Bakugo woke up first; eyes wide open, heart pounding...he remembered.
The memories came back in pieces. Not a flood, not a dramatic snap...but enough to fill in the blanks. His last mission. The hospital. The way Kirishima looked at him when he lied. The truth underneath it. And all the real memories before that; the late-night ramen runs, the unspoken closeness, the quiet ache that had always lived between them. He remembered everything now. Every moment they hadn’t said what they meant.
Kirishima padded into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, expecting to find the apartment quiet. Instead, he stopped short in the doorway.
Bakugo was already there; sitting at the table with a mug of coffee in both hands, staring into it like it held the answer to something he hadn’t figured out yet.
Kirishima blinked. “Morning,” he said gently. “How’d you sleep?”
Bakugo didn’t look up right away. Just held the mug a little tighter.
“I remember everything now,” he said.
Kirishima froze.
“We weren’t together,” Bakugo added, voice quiet, steady.
A beat passed. Then another.
Kirishima nodded, his throat tight. “I know.”
Bakugo looked up, each word deliberate. “But I can’t stop thinking about what you said yesterday. That story you made up. The way I proposed.”
Kirishima swallowed hard and crossed the room slowly, lowering himself into the seat across from him, uncertain but listening.
Bakugo didn’t drop his gaze. His hands were still curled around the mug, but tighter now, like it was anchoring him.
“I meant it. I mean it now.”
His voice dipped, softened, but never wavered.
“I’m sick of pretending I don’t love you. So… marry me, dumbass.”
Kirishima let out a short, shaky laugh, more breath than sound. “You remembered the line.”
“Of course I did,” Bakugo said. “It was the most obvious fucking thing in the world.”
There was no grand gesture. No sweeping music. Just a quiet look between them and a hand reaching across the table, fingers brushing fingers, grounding them both.
Later that evening, they went out for dinner, back to the same takoyaki stand from the photo on Bakugo’s phone. This time, they walked there hand in hand.
This time, nothing was pretend.