Archive of Our Own ^omega

It was graduation day. 

Shouto shifts. 

The shirt of his uniform is a spotless, crisp canvas of pure white in the sun. After all, he ironed it smooth—washed and maintained its soft texture just for this occasion, the grand finale of a long test of patience. 

A streak of sunlight enters his vision and when he blinks, Shouto can see all the wisps of dust floating aimlessly in the air. The brightness penetrates through the overhang of tree foliage, spots his skin with the shadows of tree leaves, and at last, shines on the pale skin of his inner wrist. 

Shouto holds his breath.

‘番号’ [No] It reads, devoid of any reasoning, any blemish against his vein.

Underneath、 ‘できません’ [I can’t]. 

Shouto won't understand what it means. Perhaps not in this lifetime. 

He has to close his eyes to stave off the feeling, the door closing, a weed flourishing, something half lost, half found, sinking deeper. He can feel the burn of the word. A rejection. A denial. And when he opens his eyes, a curl of nausea trickles cold along the bone of his spine.

There is something, something so close—

The sound of gravel snaps Shouto out from his thoughts and onto Bakugou's heavy steps towards him. 

His shirt, once the pure colour of white, is streaked with yellow, and when Bakugou settles by his side, the smell of citrus permeates throughout the air. It doesn’t take long for Shouto to realize that it’s the sparkling orange-lemon fruit punch that they’ve all been drinking and toasting to in celebration. Yet despite the knowledge, Shouto’s gaze—lingering on the gravel ground and distant floral bushes—wavers. He swallows, and wonders if Bakugou will speak first. Contemplates for a moment, if he should. Should he?

Finally, after moments of hesitation, Shouto’s eyes flick towards him. 

“Kaminari?” He questions, and as Bakugou’s eyes meet his, Shouto hastily pulls the cuffs of his uniform down. He watches as Bakugou’s eyes flicker between him and the yellow stain on his shirt before looking away. 

“The fucker thinks he can create the biggest red cup tower in his hands…” 

Shouto cracks a small smile. 

“...while moving.”

A small chuckle escapes him. He turns to watch fondness steep gently in the depths of Bakugou’s eyes and can’t help but wonder what it might be like if they were on him instead. 

He wonders if Bakugou can feel it—

—feel the rejection which sits between them.

A sudden tremor runs down his arm, his left wrist stings, and despite being covered, Shouto can see the words in his memory, like the lingering feeling of warmth on one's skin. It’s a reminder that there is someone who will fit into him—beautifully, effortlessly, inevitably—and Shouto wishes, all too much, that he could find them, hold them, and reassure them that they truly are everything, absolutely everything he could have ever asked for. And that he is sorry, because as much as Shouto chooses to believe in fate, he wants one Bakugou Katsuki more. 

He likes Bakugou. 

Shouto bite’s back the strange sense of nostalgia which creeps through the surface of his skin. His neck is flushed, he can feel it through the collar of the uniform, it’s too tight suddenly, should he pull it open? Still, he tries not to smile, fails. 

“Are you going to miss this?” He asks tentatively. He shuffles, and can’t help but focus on how close Bakugou is besides him. 

Bakugou sighs, strangely wistful for someone of his stature, and when he turns to look back at him, Shouto is compelled to turn away. The distant chatter of Kaminari and Jirou is drowned out by his heartbeat. It pounds. 

“Yeah,” Bakugou finally responds as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, “I’ll miss all of my stupid idiots.” 

Shouto nods, there’s that itch on his wrist again and he fumbles with his next few words. His fingers twist together, “You—you’ll miss me too?” 

A beat. 

Then Bakugou laughs, the sound is so penetrating and so surprising that Shouto’s mouth goes slack, and he blinks, wide and completely caught off guard.

He can dream—has dreamed—of Bakugou’s laugh before, how he might throw his head back in unrestrained laughter, how he might allow Shouto to run a hand across the blades of his shoulders, the knuckles of his fingers, and grant him permission to stay by his side forever. 

A warmth spreads across Shouto’s face. Half in embarrassment and half in awe at the image of something he can’t have.

The sound of Bakugou’s shoes kicking at the ground pulls Shouto’s gaze away from the distance and back onto the soft corners of his face. 

Bakugou’s face, neutral just moments ago, is drawn tight in thought. He’s staring, not even trying to hide it, deeply searching for something unexplainable. As if he knows something that Shouto doesn’t, and for all of Bakugou’s anger, he gives little away. Still, Shouto holds his breath and can’t help the desperate way his heart flutters. 

“I will.” Bakugou whispers suddenly, voice light. 

The smile which makes its way onto Shouto’s face is breathless and genuine. He tries to swallow in the sound but it escapes him anyway. God, he really has fallen so far⁠— 

“Don’t laugh—” 

“I’m going to miss you too.” He presses instead, and Shouto wonders why his ribcage suddenly feels like exploding. 

Bakugou looks him over, once, then twice, and nods, as if he didn’t believe him before but now he does. Shouto wants to hold him—hold his hand gently and carry the invisible burden which seems to weigh itself in Bakugou’s eyes. 

When he steps forward, a sudden, rolling, wave of nausea hits him. A heat which collapses his lungs grows, festers and transforms into new pain. A pain Shouto has yet to be familiar with. 

He can feel his hands clamp up, his heart is beating, hammering in its confines. It’s on the tip of his tongue, if he can just say it, with no doubts, no regret, and face whatever happens next relentlessly—

“Bakugou.” He grabs Bakugou’s wrist, evades into his space desperately. He glances down at the cuff of Bakugou’s uniform and wonders carelessly what words lie there. It's too selfish for him to ever think of defeating the forces which tie Bakugou to someone else. Someone that isn’t him. 

And yet, he must do this. Must settle his feelings now, if only to leave them in the past.

Bakugou stares at him, his eyes wandering the plains of his face. Say it, Shouto urges. Please. 

“Bakugou I—”

“What are you doing?”

It sounds nothing like an accusation but it doesn’t need to be for it to bring Shouto back to reality. He lets go, and for a moment, Bakugou makes a sound, breathless and somehow wanting. Shouto makes a face, runs a hand across the backside of his neck, then allows his hand to fall limp like lead, at his side. They stare, quietly and without words. 

“I just want you to be happy.” He says finally with a weak smile, and then something shifts. A weight is lifted, a train in the darkness of the tunnel rattles into the sun, a key twists into its lock, clicks, clicks, clicks it open. Finally, it’s been so long. It’s as if Shouto has a hole in his lungs and he’s gasping, breathing too much and too fast that everything escapes him. 

Bakugou. Bakugou. Bakugou. Oh, God. 

Bakugou steps back, wobbly. 

“Bakugou?” Shouto reaches out to catch him but Bakugou shakes his head, jerks away from his reach. The rejection tastes familiar, like blood, like iron, like the familiar feeling of fire on skin, and Shouto pinches his eyes shut as if to prevent the darkness from consuming his vision. He isn’t too sure what he can do or what he can say to make sense of what is happening. Yet, he finds himself trying again if only to steady Bakugou’s shaking fingers. He reaches out, this time quicker, but stops midway when he catches Bakugou’s expression split viciously between a spread of fear and uncertainty. Shouto draws back in on himself. He tries so hard to breathe normally that it ends up catching up to him in one huge gasp. 

“Fuck,” Bakugou exclaims, voice hoarse, and before Shouto can take him into his arms Bakugou pushes him away. “No.” 

“Bakugou—” Shouto has tears in his eyes, it's like his body doesn’t know how to cope with the idea that Bakugou might not want him, now that he has him.  

Bakugou shakes his head. “I can’t.” 

And flees.

“It’s a soul bond.” The doctor explains. He says the obvious without an air of difficulty. Shouto halts. He stares ahead at the light in his eyes, at how it flickers, and can’t help but grit his teeth, clench his jaw and suppress the frustration bleeding from his pores. 

“In brief, it’s the manifestation of raw, unfiltered emotion which connects two people together. Theoretically, it stems from the biopsychological existence of Soulmates and is the conceptualization of love, or rather the potential for it.”

The man, named Ito-san, turns the light off and pulls Shouto’s shirt up by the cuff. 

Hastily, Shouto pulls away, his eyes are blown into wide spheres, and Ito-san's face crinkles into a small knowing smile. Gentler, he takes his other arm and asks with his eyes if it’s alright. 

"It’s just a check for your pulse.” 

Shouto blinks. Nods silently. 

He can’t look at them: the words on the pale of his left wrist. Not anymore at least. Not without understanding now, what they truly mean. When he closes his eyes he relives the moment, the chirping of the cicadas, the spotted sunlight shade, the faint smell of citrus—Bakugou, and how he laughed. How pretty it sounded. How he wishes he could hear it again. 

Shouto lets out a shudder, and he feels a rush of loss, tremble throughout him. He tries to remind himself that it was never his to begin with, but can't.

“The soul bond is something you’ll get used to.” The doctor reassures, and he rolls away on a small stool before coming back with a pill bottle. 

“It’s hard at first.” 

Slowly, Shouto nods his head. He takes the orange bottle and vaguely reads the prescription. 

Painkillers, of course. 

Anger—grows like the weeds of an untended garden, and it’s strange how fast it blooms and rots within him. Air licks at his exposed wrist and slowly with an uneven breath, Shouto pulls the cuff down. It’s too raw in his memory, still too fresh. But, Shouto knows what he said and could never find himself lying to Bakugou anyways. 

He just wants him to be happy, and if this is what Bakugou wants, what Bakugou needs, Shouto will learn to thrive without him. 

The medication works. At least Shouto thinks it has if the pain of the bond disappears and condenses into something much more manageable. 

It’s an unwanted flower, a flower that should not bloom, cannot. But it’s not enough to deter Shouto from searching for Bakugou in quiet, unknowing ways. The secret ways Shouto wonders if he can be allowed to have. 

Shouto searches for him in the news he reads, scans for his eyes in every tabloid and rough paperback magazine he buys off the shelves of convenience stores.

Somehow, Bakugou is there—always there—and yet, Shouto finds himself incapable of asking questions. Incapable of searching for answers in fear of them. 

It takes a quiet, rare conversation over green tea and daifuku with Midoriya for Shouto to first hear the news of Bakugou going to America. He halts, sickened despite himself as he stares at the tea leaves, how they sink and colour the water green. He blinks and finally glances up.

For how long? Is the first thing he manages to ask, and maybe it's the urgency which gives him away. His voice shakes. Midoriya’s gaze is without heat, so full of sympathy Shouto is unsure how he should react. No one knows. If it goes poorly, a few months, if it goes well, a few years. He keeps his eyes on the table as Midoriya carefully explains to him the process of overseas exchange. He tries and fails to steel himself. 

It will be the latter. They both know it. Bakugou will take this opportunity by its reins. He’s too smart, too brilliant to allow failure, and Midoriya doesn’t need to tell him for Shouto to know —it will be a success. 

So, Shouto adapts. He spends the next few years lingering on American news, translating everything from English back to Japanese to understand what exists in the North American hemisphere. More importantly, he cannot help but feel childlike excitement when Pro Hero Ground Zero is welcomed warmly by its people. 

And their bond, although barely there, continues to ground him. 

“I’m sorry?” Shouto says as he snaps his eyes open, frowns, and places a precarious hand on the ledge of the cubicle. 

“There’s a conference at Tochō* which requires your immediate attention.”

Shouto stares, then flips his wrist to glance at his watch.

5:00PM. 

“It will take two hours just to get there.” He states matter of fact, and the woman raises a brow. Her smile is sharp, urgent, and Shouto ignores the insistent tapping of her manicured fingernails, petal pink and reminiscent of all those get-togethers with Ochaka and Ashido. Ah, he should call them sometime. 

“It’s to discuss the new Hero rankings and what should be improved in Tokyo’s cybersecurity network.” The woman glances at him, her smile stretches and Shouto can see the last of her patience fume out when she sighs, short and curt like the smoke from a rail train. “It’s best if you hurry.” 

Shouto frowns, opens his mouth to protest but stops himself when personal security ushers him into the private taxi waiting at the mouth of Endeavour’s agency. He takes a breath, counts all twenty-three obnoxious steps of cold stone down the entrance before sliding in onto the car's cool, expensive leather. 

“Tochō?”

“Yes.” 

He’s no longer fresh meat. Mistakes; even the few he makes, are something he can no longer afford. Expectation cripples through his body with a cold shudder, and it’s strange how heavy it feels. How undefeatable it feels in the shadow of his father's agency. He must work harder. He needs more interviews, more paperwork, more of those painfully quiet conferences he goes to in his father's stead. Shouto taps his finger against the glass, eyes void. He likes work, and yet, he's already behind, isn’t he? After all, there are already others, branching outside of Japan into new unknown pools of competition. Like Bakugou–

Shouto shuts his eyes but it’s too late. He's pictured perfection; Bakugou soaring across the skies of America and it’s terrifying to him how vivid and beautiful it looks. He wants so badly to be there by his side. 

“You’ve grown—” 

The sudden voice makes Shouto snap his eyes open, he searches for the source until his eyes meet the chauffeurs in the rearview mirror, squinted into half-moons. 

“—so much since the last time I saw you!” 

Shouto exhales, before smiling politely. 

“Thank you.” 

He opens his mouth to say more, maybe offer a pleasantry of his own, but thinks against it. He’s no good with idle conversation. His younger peers tell him he’s awkward, too cold and too stony. Instead, he focuses his gaze at the small passing convenience store broadcasting its seaweed and salt potato chips. Shouto knows the brand. He thinks he might even remember its nostalgic taste but offers only a glance before making a half-hearted attempt to count those leaving the store. Only one so far. 

At a red light, the chauffeur speaks again. This time he leans back, swiveling his head towards him. “I’d say you’d be ranked number 1 this time!”

Shouto hums, he pretends to entertain the thought before shaking his head. Briefly, he identifies the figure in the distance. Blond, tall, good posture. 

“No, I don’t think so. After all, there is still Hero Deku, Ingenium, Uravity and Ground Zero—”

The man—holding two large plastic bags—shifts, reaches for something in his back pocket and halts. Shouto stares. He can't seem to look away. Not right now. His gaze travels across the pavement, stretches to the plastic ad and back onto the man, his eyes, and how when he looks up, they meet his own. 

Oh.

Shouto's mouth goes dry, and he knows he must have stopped breathing. Something in him rattles, clicks back to life. He tries to stop it, but fails. Suddenly, the years they've spent apart feel like centuries. How could he have ever hoped to escape the inevitable? Realization soon hits. He’s back from America? When? Thunder reverberates in the air, a long, dark peal, and Shouto's heart, pounding in his chest is suddenly as sonorous. It’s Bakugou, it has to be Bakugou. The bond is weak, discarded, but Shouto can see it, the incomprehensible string which ties him to the other. It's thin and frail and yet it travels red and blinding towards its maker. 

His body moves without command, without thought. 

“Stop the car.” Shouto whispers quietly—immediately—and the taxi driver stops his rambling with a pointed look.

“I was told we need to get there as soon as—”

“Please,” Shouto urges, and the desperation grows as he watches Bakugou turn away—doubt in every shred of his actions. “Stop the car now!” 

The taxi screeches to a halt and Shouto wastes no time to pry open the door. The rain begins to pours as he runs, and when he crosses the stretch of sidewalk, Shouto laughs textured and harsh into the air because it is Bakugou in every frustratingly wonderful detail which brings him to life. 

“Todoroki?” Bakugou utters, and his shock is poorly masked with a frown.

“Bakugou.” Relief leaks into his voice. 

Instinct takes control as he raises a hand, runs it across the top of Bakugou’s dampening hair. He needs to be sure that Bakugou is real, is with him, and no longer a moving image on a screen or a granular page in a magazine. His thumb touches Bakugou’s cheek, just once, before it falls to his side. Bakugou’s eyes, burgundy in the rain, are momentarily transfixed.

Finally, his voice comes out, “Bakugou, I—”

“I need to get to Tochō.” Bakugou interrupts, and Shouto stops, voice stolen by the wind. Another round of thunder shreds through their silence. 

“Let's go. My car is waiting. We can both go.” Shouto finds himself pleading. He is suddenly aware of how much time has passed between them. Where does that leave them?

“It will be faster.” He pulls on Bakugou’s hands gently, fumbling in the rain. “Please?” 

Bakugou stares at him and there it is again, that look that seems to understand him, love him maybe just a bit, but when Shouto blinks it’s gone. He's unsure if it even existed.  

“Okay.” Bakugou replies softly, all fight gone. “Fine.”

The car ride is a silent, tender moment before a battle. Shouto casts a nervous, desperate glance towards Bakugou before wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. He swallows, fiddles with the buttons of his cuffs and ignores the tightness of his wet-collar. He hates small talk, but it feels inevitable now. 

“Quit looking.” Bakugou fumes. His voice is hoarse, cracked around the edges, and Shouto feels embarrassment pool throughout his body. He glances at the labels peeking out of the white plastic bags, then turns. 

“You’re buying pre-made bentos?” 

Bakugou blinks before scowling. He makes a gesture, something between a wave and a ‘leave me alone’, but the colour underneath Bakugou’s eyes fail to go unnoticed. He is a fool to think he can hide it. 

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” Shouto asks slowly and cringes how it comes out, pointed, like an accusation. He can see Bakugou tense, jaw clicking shut and Shouto wants, so badly, to hold Bakugou gently, firmly, and ask him why he looks on the verge of breaking. 

“Why?” Shouto inquires instead. “Why aren’t you taking care of yourself? What's wrong?” 

The hand which makes its way onto his shoulder is a rough, tight grip. It reaches and crumples the white of his shirt like a sheet of thin paper. 

“What?” Bakugou retorts with a scoff, and Shouto is all too familiar with the nonchalance, “Are you looking down on me?”

Some part of Shouto wants to kiss him, right there, to make him understand that all these years he has been waiting and watching Bakugou grow into one of the most promising Heroes in the industry. But he can’t, so he frowns and shakes his head. 

“Of course not.” He looks at Bakugou, eyes pinched in conflict, searching for words. 

“I just, I mean—you’re brilliant.” Doesn't he know that?

Bakugou widens his eyes, and Shouto looks, without blinking, at how Bakugou tears his gaze away, pulls in a breath which sounds too close to panic. 

Finally, when the silence is too much to bear Bakugou speaks. 

“You’re such a hypocrite.” He forces out through gritted teeth, wrenches his head to look at Shouto in a gesture which hurts to witness. 

“Every night I can feel it,” Bakugou pauses, a breath in between sentences. “It’s you, it has to be you.”

Shouto blinks, “What?”

“Because you need to know, don’t you?” Bakugou pulls himself up, drawn tight like a bowstring ready to snap. Shouto narrows his eyes, feels a wave of careful heat tremble through him. “You’re such a fucking mess.”

“What are you talking about—” 

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Bakugou has the decency to whisper and it seeps out like a hiss. He’s vibrating with anger and Shouto thinks he might be numb with it if the tense, deep crescents left in the film of the seat mean anything. “You want me so bad? Is that what you think? Because of stupid shit like Soulmates.”

Shouto grinds his teeth together, “It isn’t stupid.” 

Bakugou scoffs again, rage lighting up his face as it twists into a sneer. 

“I don’t want you.” He spits out, and his voice, although lacking flame, is terrible in its efficacy.

“I know.” Shouto retorts, desperate, recoiling. There is no fight to be won. Just defeat.

Bakugou blinks, surprised. His mouth opens, closes. Tenseness settles in his jaw. He listens, briefly quieted. 

“I just want you to be happy.” Shouto whispers, and Bakugou, a man who can stop villains in mere minutes, is subdued, caught in a weak moment of vulnerability. When he regains himself, he smirks, harsh and mean, aiming to hurt. 

“Fuck off, of course you do—”

“It doesn’t have to be me.” 

Bakugou whips his head around, like the very words change his whole world. He frowns, looks about ready to uncoil to his feet and fight him but doesn’t. He’s still, barely breathing. Slowly, Bakugou shakes his head and his gaze, is muted, defeated. 

“You’re right,” is all Bakugou settles for saying.

Shouto looks down then back at the frustratingly brilliant man beside him.

“I’m sorry.” It sounds dreadful. 

Bakugou shakes his head again, this time he sighs, “I know.”

And Shouto believes him fully. 

Memories of the past bleed to the surface when Shouto pushes open the door to the conference hall. 

“Todoroki-kun!” He hears Midoriya greet as he stumbles to his side, and his smile—sheepish, and freckled—is the same altruistic smile he’s worn all his life. Some things don’t change, Shouto finds himself thinking, and he’s comforted by the few exceptions in life. The things beyond time and the cycle of life. He hopes desperately that Bakugou and him are one of them.

“You came with Kaachan?” Midoriya asks, and his eyes, seaweed green, squint in disbelief. Shouto offers a smile, though it falls quickly, and explains half-heartedly of the rain, the convenience store, and coincidence. 

Midoriya listens, then smiles, seemingly satisfied. 

“Kaachan came back from America last week but it’s been almost impossible to get in touch with him.”

At that, Shouto’s heart twists. Has he been back for so long already? How did he not know? He glances in search of Bakugou and finds him across the hall, head tossed back with Kirishima. He’s pulled into an embrace, and Bakugou, a man who weighs every word, every option, lets himself be defenseless, sinking into Kirishima before pulling away. It’s his gaze, a tender edge, which makes Shouto tear his eyes away, voice raw when he speaks.

“Have you talked to Bakugou?” 

When Midoriya nods, it stings. 

He feels like an invalid, excluded like a bird with cut wings. 

“He’s mentioned you.” Midoriya presses on instead, and his voice in all its boundless kindness, pierces. Shouto can see why Bakugou hates it. “Sometimes, out of the blue, he asks me if you've been taking care of yourself. He always seemed worried.” 

Shouto blinks, shock forcing his mouth ajar. 

"Oh." He responds and his voice is a transparent, strained echo. Midoriya sees through him completely. 

"He's been thinking about you." 

Oh. 

Shouto licks his lips, and he's helpless. Helpless in the face of this small, pure revelation. He surrenders to the hot rush of joy which settles, deep in his ribs. Has him brimming with it.

It's Midoriya who steps first, a scarred hand pointing to the conference table, "Let's sit down." 

The board meeting goes as one may expect; slow and at such a languid pace Shouto finds himself squinting down at the documents before him. He reads without registering, takes an offered pen and signs blindly on the red dotted line. He’s floating on the feeling, a careful strum of exaltation, at… at this revelation. The hopefulness of it. How maybe he hasn’t been alone in his longing. Shouto gazes at Bakugou from across the table, and his eyes, mismatched, are greedy now that he has the hope to take. 

A part of himself laughs. He’s pathetic. A man starved, wanting and desiring something to hold onto. To feel safe. He hears the distant sounds of his childhood. The loud, maddening sound of ceramic on tile, water on flesh. And it’s good to be reminded of the welts, lest he forget the blood, and the bandages of which he’s built from. He’s a canvas painted thick with red, has tried all his life to defy it, but has yet to escape Endeavour’s teachings, thick in his blood. He needs to prove himself. Maybe then, he’ll be deserving of something good. 

Of Bakugou.

“Now for the Hero rankings.” The presenter’s face morphs into a grin, and a silence fills the room.

“Currently, Hero Deku is ranked 1st.” 

The room erupts in applause, and Shouto likes to believe he’s the only person who witnesses the light in Bakugou’s eyes seize and blacken like the core of a rotting strawberry. His frown deepens, and his face morphs into that quiet, insufferable disappointment Shouto is all too familiar with. Bakugou ranks just 2nd, and it should be enough, but Shouto understands that it is never enough. Not for the likes of them. He ranks 3rd right after him. When everyone claps, he nods, smiles a fickle line, and wonders if his eyes brim with the same amount of discontent. When his gaze flickers towards Bakugou, he’s shocked to see a small, barely recognizable fondness.  

“Congratulations Todoroki-kun!” Midoriya grins and Shouto nods. There is no pity in the lines of Midoriya’s smile and Shouto is reminded instantly of his accomplishment. 

He smiles, "You too.” 

“Kaachan!” Midoriya beams across the table towards Bakugou, and Shouto’s stomach flips.

“Hah?” Bakugou yells from across the room.

“Congratulations! I saw your old interview on Might News yesterday and I had a few questions regarding your newest adjustments to your Hero suit. I was wondering if it was to combat impact repulsion or your sweat output because—”

“I’m not explaining shit to you.” Bakugou answers dryly, and despite the heat, joins the crowd.

“Let's go drinking!” Ashido prompts excitedly, a long smile on her face. Hagakure gasps, as if the very idea is unheard of, and Momo giggles, too caught up in the chatter and the gossip surrounding her. It’s a rare sight for everyone to be gathered. 

But Shouto’s tired. All he longs for is sleep, and Bakugou, but he can’t have both, so he settles with the former. There’s a stack of papers waiting on his desk at home. An open pen at its side. He left in a rush this morning. 5 minutes behind schedule. With a frown he pushes in his chair. The pot of tea he’s boiled is bound to be bitter now. His voice is soft, dripping with regret,

“Sorry, I’m a little tired— “

“I’m game.” Bakugou interrupts, and Shouto widens his eyes. He recognizes immediately the challenge—the lifeline Bakugou offers him with a slow raise of his brow. So? He thinks Bakugou says. He watches as Bakugou shrugs, his brows knitting together in some untold frustration. Your choice. Shouto swallows, hunches his shoulders before rising, red from embarrassment, red from want. 

“On second thought…”

Who is Shouto to deny the invitation?

The bar is but a small corner piece within the hulking shadows of Tokyo’s red-light district. It’s more intimate than Shouto would have expected—warm and fragrant with Melvin cigarette ash. Bakugou leads him to the end of the counter and as they sit, Kaminari teases, ‘loners’ he purrs with a laugh, and while Shouto shies away from the attention, Bakugou tells him to fuck off with a grin, wide and feral and fond.

“You cherish them so much.” Shouto says as he receives a sakazuki cup of sake. His voice is light, hesitant. 

“Cherish?” Bakugou spits out either way. “They’re just extras.”

Shouto tilts his head, doubtful. He looks distantly at Iida and Midoriya, then asks,

“Am I just an extra?” And it’s unfair really, even Shouto knows this. He glances at Bakugou, notices that he's also drinking a cup of sake and thinks that they must be on the same page. Sake is fast. Good for bad days. Tough realizations. Hard truths. A little stronger than wine. He knows they'll both need it.

“How could you just be an extra?” Bakugou responds, and there’s no malice in his voice. Simply admittance. 

Shouto hums, takes a tentative sip from his cup and relishes in the burn it provides him. His gaze is honest, betrays no emotion besides open yearn. Bakugou is beautiful, with his broad-shoulders, thin-waist, and long fingers which flex blue veins. He's in awe at the capability of them, the lives they've saved, the fruits they've peeled, the places they've touched. Scars peek underneath the hem of his collar, and a sudden surge of possessiveness trembles through him. If he was there, he'd never allow anyone to lay such carnage, but even marring his skin, they are good. Beautiful.

“You need to stop.” Bakugou says as he takes a swallow of his drink, and his voice, although quiet, contains the control of a man on the verge of confessing a larger, greater sin. 

Shouto’s pauses, “Stop what?” 

“Like you need me.” Bakugou quips quickly, he gestures a casual hand for another drink, “It’s so fucking stupid.” 

But Shouto does need him. 

Before he can retort, Bakugou waves him off. 

“I don’t believe in shit like Soulmates.” 

Bakugou’s merciless. He gets to the roots and rips them out before anything can grow. And maybe this is how Bakugou deals with his enemies; blasts holes in their chests, aims for the neck, guarantees triumph. All in all, it’s a sad, instinctive tell of his unease. When he looks over at Shouto his attention is a cautious, razor-edged thing. He’s assessing him, tracing down his movements. Shouto makes a sound, compressed and small, like the soft sound of a book closing. Unintelligible. He’s hurt before, has felt pain, and yet this is new, hurts differently. It’s his scars bleeding anew, scabbing, and bruising over into new lines and shapes. Peeled skin unable to heal.

But Shouto isn’t a fool. He's waited so long for answers, for closure. His fingers are tight around his cup, his eyes distant, battling against reason, fighting to pull away. ‘Okay.’ Shouto tries to say, and it’d be so easy. It should be, but Shouto can't find the strength within him now that Bakugou is just within reach. Heat rises to the surface. Maybe even anger. He feels robbed. Robbed of mist and wisps of something possible. 

“Todoroki.” 

Bakugou’s fingers are hot where they touch him. They curl at his wrist, rest there for several moments before leaving a trail of heat. Shouto looks up, witnesses the tenderness in the lines of his frown and hates himself.

“I…” Shouto’s voice is slow, he manages a rueful smile, a shake of his head, “I apologize… I don’t know what got over me.”

Bakugou shrugs, voice steady, an attempt at sounding impartial, “S’fine.”

Shouto bites his cheek, he thinks he might even taste iron.

“Is it me?” He asks, and he’s confused, honest and sad. 

Bakugou’s eyes are dark, murky pools of uncertainty, but Shouto still finds relief in them. Safety.

“I think,” Bakugou replies instead, “you’re chasing a dream.” 

Shouto shakes his head, his heart hammering in his chest. Bakugou tenses, and Shouto wishes he could run a hand there in the hollow of Bakugou’s throat. Make him understand the awfulness that seems to be taking ahold of him. 

“I’m not chasing a dream. I’m chasing after you.” 

Bakugou frowns for the hundredth time, creasing the soft skin of his eyes. He opens his mouth to retort but Shouto shakes his head, gestures with his entire body his incapability to stop. It shocks even himself. 

“And you’re not a dream.” Shouto shakes his head once more, jerking as he lifts his hands to reach for Bakugou’s. His cup spills over, sake drips onto his sleeves. “You’re right in front of me. You’re real, and I—”

“Don’t say it.” Bakugou interrupts and his entire face is strangely crestfallen. Anger, frustration, perhaps sick longing makes him continue.

“I love you.” It falls flat in the room; it disappears into the crowd and the walls surrounding them. It isn’t right, Shouto knows, and yet it tumbles out, loud, heavy. It means nothing. 7 years ago it’d have meant everything.

“Suddenly,” Bakugou’s lips raise into a sneer, “We can just throw that fucking word around. Doesn’t mean shit now, does it?” 

Shouto freezes. Humiliation paints his face red. Relief doesn’t find him. He draws in a breath at the sight of Bakugou: the disappointment simmering in the crevices of his frown. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want him. Shouto tears his gaze away, he’s so obviously out of his depth, and he tries, fails to rebuild the lost pieces of himself. Did he expect Bakugou to reciprocate his feelings? Should he have expected anything? It’s times like these when Shouto’s reminded of who he is. His flaws piled on flaws. The burden of them. And Bakugou flies, soars in the sky, how could Shouto have that?

“You’re selfish.” Bakugou says, and despite the accusation, his voice is without certainty. He grips his sakazuki cup, downs his sake in one fluid motion, and asks for another. He's on his fourth. 

“I’m selfish as well. I—fuck, I’m sorry.”

Shouto blinks. “Why are you apologizing?”

Bakugou’s posture wavers. He pushes away his empty cup and leans back, cranes his neck to the side. 

“I’m not...not fucking good, okay? I don’t believe in this shit. You’re throwing around the word, ‘love’, and I don’t get it. I don’t want it like this.”  

Shouto sucks in a breath, quieted by the confession, pale eyes shuttering. 

“It’s so out of my control.” Bakugou blurts out, and oh, the final piece of it falls into place. He's silent for a moment, eyes wet. Stunned.

“I’m sorry.” 

It’s been so many summers since that day.

He sees himself, clutching at Bakugou's hand, feeling for the first time, its warmth, and he's filled with the same, sad boyish longing which makes Shouto sick. Sick and lonely and angry for allowing himself to fall so far. He wishes he could go back, choose different words, let his feelings die like a single, cut branch of gingko. He’d be so good at it too. After all, he’s been taught—has learnt the ways of silence. Bakugou would look at him, ask him what’s wrong, and he’d smile, ‘Nothing’, he’d say, benevolent. ‘The weather is nice, isn’t it?’, and maybe that would defy their odds. Avoid their collision. 

“Todoroki?” Bakugou utters, and his voice is awkward, rough. Shouto looks up, vision tender. He unfurls his fingers, moves them gently to Bakugou’s forehead, repositions a streak of gold and stops. He hesitates for a moment too long, his eyes linger, exposing his adoration. Bakugou’s gaze is hot, waiting, maybe expectant for something Shouto forbids himself from indulging in. He can almost taste the sake on Bakugou’s lips, and Shouto would devour him in this moment. If he could. It’d only take one hasty bite of red lips—

Shouto tears himself away. His hand falls to his side. It’s the alcohol in their system. It must be.

“I’m not a fucking kid.” Bakugou grunts out after a beat, licks his lips and looks away. 

Shouto looks down, hunches his shoulders nervously, “I think you’re a little drunk.”

Bakugou pauses, eyes near-black in the low light. Then, he shifts, retreats from their closeness, and Shouto knows he’s said the wrong thing. The right thing though it tears at him.

It's a quarter past 8PM, when Bakugou finally stands up and asks for the bill. Shouto blinks up at him, swallows back the heat caught in his throat at the sight of Bakugou’s cheeks pink with alcohol. 

“I’ll help you.” Shouto says and he’s quiet, carefully reaching out until his fingers unspool at Bakugou’s wrist, the small of his back, his waist.

“I don’t need your help.” Bakugou whispers, blond hair falling into his eyes, head ducked. He’s spent his whole life a leader, a fighter, and this kindness, the excess of it, cuts.

Shouto replies lightly, as if it doesn’t matter, as if it’s all a joke, “I know.”

They pay, exchange numbers, and walk into the night.

That night, Shouto dreams with ease.

Bakugou had a mole on the curve of his left nape. 

Shouto's only seen it once.

Bakugou was at his locker, the mouth of it slightly ajar. His fingers darted to his waist, untucked his shirttails and moved to his buttons. Shouto watched as the fabric loosened, fell, like a butterfly shedding its cocoon, onto the bench. Bakugou’s secrets—whatever they were—were laid bare on untouched skin, took form in each tense roll of muscle, each scar there. Shouto wanted to slide a finger from Bakugou's shoulder to the edge of his pants, curl a hand at his hip, and rest it there. Just to feel the edge of bone underneath skin. The heat that would scratch underneath his fingernails. And if Shouto asked, would Bakugou let him?

Shouto looked away, ducked his head at this unfamiliar well of desire. How under dry gauze, wet with ointment, his words, still non-existent, burned. Felt like nails on skin. 

Then he saw it. The blemish: a single freckle of ink on wintry skin. 

Pretty, he thought, and he couldn’t help stop the same thoughts after. Pretty, pretty, pretty. 

“Good luck.” Shouto blurted out, and his eyes, pale, flickered across the plains of Bakugou’s face, recognized the awful attractiveness of all its parts. 

Bakugou gave him a look, his lip pulled downward, then pulled at the metal hinges of his locker.

“You’re organized.” Shouto commented, and Bakugou stilled. 

A silence between them, and when Bakugou turned, his voice was a low rumble of honesty,

“You’re going to lose.” 

Shouto’s wrist burned underneath dry gauze. Awakened by the honesty. How deeply certain it sounded. 

“No.” He answered, “I don’t plan on losing.” 

At this, Bakugou turned to him, eyes narrowed. Angered by his denial. The ridiculousness of him thinking he could win. He grabbed his gym uniform, put it on and slammed his locker shut. A warning. 

“You’re going to lose because you don’t use your other side.” 

And maybe he was right, but Shouto still shook his head, tore a hand through his hair and thought of Endeavour. Of his brutalized hands, the costs of his power, and pressed his eyes closed. He'd never stoop so low. When his eyelids fluttered open, Bakugou was closer now, a hand on his hip. 

“All because you’re fucking scared. It’s insulting.” 

“I’m not scared—”

“You are. I can see it in your stupid fucking eyes.”

Shouto scoffed, looked away, vision red.

"Why do you care?" He quipped, and when he looked back at Bakugou his eyes were downcast. The reds of them confused.

"I don't." 

"You do."

"I don't care." 

Shouto frowned. He yanked the cuff of his uniform over the bit of gauze and stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

"You're tactless," he said. 

"Well," Bakugou answered spitefully, "At least I don't have weird fucking eyes." 

Shouto paused. He thought of his mother and her grey, squinted smile. Her hand on his head. He’s half of her too. “Don't say that."

Bakugou stilled, glanced at his feet, and then stuffed his hands in his pockets. Maybe that was his version of an apology. An acknowledgement of boundaries. How he surpassed them.

Then, after a beat, asked, "Isn't it your quirk?”

Shouto eyes widened. 

A red string, thin and quivering unraveled.

And it was unfair, really, how Bakugou made him feel. Suddenly, Shouto was looking at those undeniable truths he had hid for so long. Facts he rather not confront. The dark parts of Shouto which scared himself. He is nothing like Bakugou—rough edges and something which would taste sweet. Bakugou is brave because he has been raised to be. Shouto wonders what that kind of certainty must feel like. 

He grit his teeth, hid from Bakugou’s unwavering gaze. 

“I’ll see you outside.”

On the field they're equals. 

Bakugou's explosions had burst hot against his skin. He fought, as if he had something to prove, and Shouto liked that, admired that. What was he fighting for? Endeavour? No. Then why was he holding back? A shock of red danced into his peripheral. A hand, flexed and aiming to hurt grazed at his face, the teal of his eye. Exploded.

Shouto dodged—just barely. 

Cold sweat trickled along his neck. 

"This isn't the fucking kiddy pool." Bakugou warned, and his gaze was nothing short of a caress. A dangerous, focused thing. 

"I know." Shouto ground out in response. He licked the dust off his lip.

"Do you?" 

Bakugou was raised to fight, to never waver. He is jagged edges, with something undeniably real, burning, like a flame at its core. Shouto wants that certainty. He’s only ever known how to split himself in two.

Is this your best? Bakugou seemed to taunt as he flew across the yard. And Shouto grit his teeth, placed his palms on the ground and channeled ice. Bakugou made a face, ugly and unsatisfied. 

Do better. 

He flew and it was beautiful and terrifying. A blast, hot and vicious struck his side. The pain was unbearable. 

"Scared?" Bakugou asked as he darted away. Shouto moved back, created distance, then focused on the wisps passing by him. 

He finally realized what Bakugou meant. Their differences. Why he’d lose.

Bakugou fought with his life on the line. He is the pitch black certainty of the night. The self-contained light of a supernova. Shouto is a weaker imitation. He is not Endeavour, never will be. He is something new. His power only rivaled by his great insecurity. 

Shouto’s eyes narrowed. He wanted a piece of that vulgarity. A piece of that roughness. 

He lit his flames, and it was painful, new untapped potential. Bakugou's Howitzer Impact was a flower, red and blooming in the air. He wore a grin on his face. Wide and childish and proud. So entirely different from anything Shouto’s ever received from Endeavour. 

But Endeavour was there, in the crowd—

Endeavour. Endeavour. Endeavour.

Fear.

His fire extinguished. Bakugou widened his eyes, tried to draw back, but failed.

Struck.

Shouto woke up in the nursing room. A drip of crystalloid in the thin skin of his wrist. He watched the play back with a helpless fascination. A strange feeling tore through him as he saw Bakugou—eyes wide, scanning for his body, for life, in his great coffin of ice. 

Then, rage. A plume of smoke. 

Aren’t you fucking better than this? I know you’re better than this. Bakugou shouted, and his voice was a hoarse strangled thing. You don’t want this do you? I’ll kill you. His eyes were puffed from the smoke which rose from the ground. It looked like he had demons to confront too, and Shouto thought that maybe they were the same, just created differently by the merciless love of a higher power. 

He dreamt of Bakugou—of light filtered through muted eyelashes. Dirt underneath his fingernails, a hand reaching out. The nook of a neck, a dot. 

When Shouto awoke, Bakugou was at his side. He blinked in shock and rose instantly, wincing as he tugged on his IV. 

“Congratulations—” He managed to say, voice strained, and he reached to take Bakugou’s hand. He stopped midway.

I hate you. Bakugou seemed to be telling him, and Shouto looked back at his hands, clean now from the dirt and the fight. 

Instead, Bakugou shook his head and pulled a chair over. He sat in silence, and his face: littered with Band-Aids, a gash, red and fresh on his forehead, was controlled, guarded. Even here, a winner, he looked diminished. 

Shouto’s heart pounded. That string, red and intangible danced in his vision. 

It came out instinctively, uncontrollably, “I’m sorry.” 

And its intensity rivalled Shouto’s love for soba and the soft petals of chrysanthemums. He remembered Bakugou’s grin at the sight of his fire, and in all Shouto’s fears, his anxieties and masks, awe swelled in the empty parts of him. The parts he thought were taken, consumed and eaten alive by the pale walls of his home. It... was enough joy to want to live for. And it was so much better than Bakugou and whatever this defeated, pale imitation of emotion was.

Suddenly, Bakugou stood up. 

“Why are you so fucking scared?” He asked.

Shouto paused, then looked up with a devastatingly honest smile. 

“I don’t know.” 

There was silence, and Shouto thought that Bakugou was too angry to speak.

Then Bakugou spoke, “I’m a perfectionist,” he started, “I want to win, in absolutely every possible way. I’m greedy. It pushes me to fight better. I won’t ever become satisfied until I’m at the top. Until it’s indisputable. I don’t have time for weaklings.”

He wanted certainty. Absoluteness.

Bakugou’s eyes were cut thin, “And right now, you’re a weakling.” 

He was looking, barely seeing, glaring right through Shouto and back at a whip of fire. Its touch, hot, open kisses. Shouto always thought it was ugly. The natural necessity of it under his skin, so carnal, so much like Endeavour, that he hated it. He's suppressed it for so long, but here, with Bakugou he is at a loss. At long last, two halves made whole. 

“You really are greedy, Bakugou.”  

Bakugou blinked, drew a hand and balled it into a fist. 

“Something wrong with that?”

Shouto looked down, twisted his hands together and then picked at his skin.

“No, I like it.”

Bakugou’s cheeks flushed.

“What?"

“I wish I was more like you.” 

Bakugou’s eyes went wide. He made a sound, deep and gravely, then stopped. Gave up and looked away. 

“Next time.” Bakugou ordered after a silence, and his eyes were adrift, red shallows floating to darker shores. 

“I’ll use it. My other side.” Shouto promised, and he reached for Bakugou's hand, held his fingers, all bandaged wrist down, in his own. They were warm. Warmer than Shouto thought they’d be. He thought of the destruction they were capable of, the paper they’ve folded, how they might feel as a caress across skin, and felt at ease. 

"I’ll try my hardest. I promise. I am not weak.”

Bakugou smiled, and Shouto saw an angel. An angel that flew on black smoke, its wings, golden dying sparks. He always liked the delicate things. The broken spine of a book, flowers and their momentary beauty, the aftertaste of tea, but he likes this—may even love it. It belonged to him in ways nothing else could. The moment felt like an eternity that stretched beyond them, then Bakugou finally drew away, said, “You better.”

When he left, Shouto felt cold. A hole, dark and looming crowded a space in his chest, took the left atrium of his heart. 

It belonged to a smile, warm, ferocious and consuming.

“An interview?" Shouto asks and it feels like déjà vu. He pulls open the collar of his newly stitched Hero suit and races a quick thumb over his pulse, presses it to feel it thud.

“You have an interview with Ground Zero tomorrow at 8PM. Formal wear, at the Tokyo news station—should last 3 full hours.” 

Shouto sputters, his cheeks reddening, “Ground Zero? Why Ground Zero?”

It’s been 11 days since they last met. He’s been counting. 

Shouto wets his dried lips. His heart is a careful strum of hope like the faint, sweet aftertaste of Hakuto jelly. He may never be what Bakugou wants, and yet he can't seem to turn away from this. Can’t seem to deny himself this chance to see what he could have had in another life. 

His secretary shrugs before looking up from her thin rectangular frames. She unfurls her palm onto the stack of papers on her desk, emphasizing her more pressing priorities. "He was allowed to bring an associate.” 

Associate. 

His phone, playing the sound of violins, rings.

“This is Pro Hero Shouto, do y—” 

“Got the invitation?”

Shouto inhales. 

Bakugou. 

He runs to the entrance of his agency, and he's pulled, tugged forward by imaginary forces. Forces larger than him. Shouto’s shoes, slick with grime and the remnants of grey vapour, echo in the hallway, bounce off the tile. And this feeling, the clouds underneath his feet, is like a home overstuffed with furniture. Warm and tangible and hopeful—a single breeze of air. Something worth fighting for.  

“It’s you.” Shouto's smile is helpless, guilty. Bakugou is there. So terrible in his perfection that Shouto's throat goes dry, and he wonders how he could be worthy of him. Of this happiness.

Bakugou is quiet, ears the shade of the skin on peaches. For once, speechless. 

“I missed you.” Shouto says, and the honesty, how it comes so naturally, is unlike him.

Bakugou ducks his head, makes a sound of acknowledgement. He’s made the first move. Has come, in all his glory, at his doorstep, and it’s Shouto’s turn now. He reaches for him, fingers slipping from his wrist to his shoulder to his hip. He traces lines at the muscle there, feels Bakugou's thudding heartbeat then tugs, pulls Bakugou into the shadows of an alleyway. 

“What the hell—”

“It’s been...” Shouto whispers, and he doesn't release his hands from Bakugou's waist. 

“11 days.” Bakugou answers. 

“You count too?” Shouto starts, and Bakugou, snarls, shows teeth. They tell him without words not to ask questions he cannot answer. Questions they both know the answer to. Shouto’s expression softens, he doesn’t push, and when he reaches for Bakugou’s dangling fingers they’re warm. His once steady hands trembling.

“Your hands are warm.” He whispers softly, sincerely.

Bakugou raises a brow, lets a breeze settle between their touching skin. He's thinking, blinking up at Shouto with confusion. Questions glaze the black of his eyes, and it makes sense that he asks this, that he has difficulty comprehending how Shouto still wants him. All Shouto wants to do is fist the thin fabric of Bakugou’s shirt and keep him tucked under the nook of his chin. Protect him, this, whatever this is, forever.

“Is it a long walk from Best Jeanist’s Office?” Shouto asks, then with a pause, “A day off?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I had a day off...” Shouto sighs.

“You don’t deserve one,” Bakugou responds, and Shouto watches triumph, glorious and bright settle in Bakugou’s eyes. He thinks that he should act the fool more often if this is what he gets. A dawn, its light rising over a lake of red water, and the shadows, the uncertainty of them, muted into violet. 

He looks down, cannot trust himself enough to hide his awe, “You're...being unfair.”

At this, Bakugou looks past him, at the light streaking beyond them, and something tender is in the lines of his mouth, the shadows of them wavering. “You’re so stupid.”

Maybe Shouto is.

Bakugou is not slender, or small, or as sweetly yielding as those women he’s seen flock to his family’s inner circle. He could never fit the image—the mirage—of what a Todoroki should want, and yet, he is not a blank canvas that can be reshaped or torn into new, organized meaning. When Shouto runs a thumb across the expanse of Bakugou’s hand, he feels protruded veins, calloused fingertips and scratches. He smells gunpowder and burning sugar and ozone on the white of Bakugou’s shirt. Damaged. They are damaged, and then together, are made whole, are reassured that with these hands they have saved lives. Have kept the ones which have stolen others, away.

And Shouto likes it. He loves it. 

Perhaps he is stupid. 

Before he can say more, Bakugou pulls away, voice low, tight, redefining new boundaries, new imaginary lines between them, “8PM sharp, don’t leave me waiting. I fucking hate these shows.”

He’s across the pavement before Shouto moves. 

An onyx limousine pulls up at 7:57PM.

Shouto blinks as the window rolls down. 

“A limousine?” He questions with a raise of his brow. 

“Just…get in.” 

Shouto obeys, and it’s the right decision as Bakugou flicks him a glance, the weariness of it wounding. He’s one moment away from bolting. A mere second away from telling him that this is all a mistake. A misunderstanding. Trust—has never come easy in their line of work. They trust in their hands, their ability to jump, to follow commands—but trust—the soft echoes of it, the one which Shouto has been searching for all his life, is still a hole in him. The sun sinks below the horizon, and Bakugou, dressed in all black, the first of his buttons popped open, peeled back, is so handsome it hurts. 

“You look...” Shouto whispers, and he thinks beautiful, hot, glorious, settles on, “Nice.”

Bakugou’s gaze shutters and as the sun sets, darkness creeps inwards towards them, consuming the warmth and the space between their fingers.

The car starts. Then, he leans in.

“Bakugou...?” Shouto whispers. 

His tie is a crumpled thing in Bakugou’s fist, and when he pulls, a whine, low and fragmented, escapes into the air. Every hope, every desire stuck in the strange hollowness of it. But it’s not the noise—as desperate as it is—which holds him there. It’s Bakugou’s gaze. How it eats him. Devours him without touching. In another world he’d pull Bakugou into him. Plead him not to tease. Beg him to spill his wants. ‘No more games’ he’d say, and it’s a profane, illegal thought. 

Shouto draws a breath. He’s terrified—devastated by what this does to him.  

“You’re such a mess.” Bakugou articulates as he reaches out. His fingers graze Shouto's forehead, and his hair, its careful styling, falls out of place. 

“You’re unfair.” Shouto manages, and he knows he’s a fool. A fool to pretend he isn’t leaning in as Bakugou withdraws. 

Bakugou smirks, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Shouto exhales, “You’re beautiful.”

Halos of light diffuse through the dark outside. Tension, thick and heavy, settles in the air. Bakugou looks at him as if he’s gone crazy. As if it isn’t the most natural and easy observation for Shouto to make. 

“Why me?” He questions, and he’s incapable of ignoring the implication—the suggestion of him being here. Shouto wishes, more than anything, that there is one at all.

Bakugou frowns. As if he’s heard something offensive, something stupid. And Shouto? He’s a ready fool.

“Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, Midoriya, it could have been anyone here today.”

Dying golden hues penetrate the air, and Shouto’s attention drifts, inevitably, to Bakugou’s hands. His fingertips hover over air, touches, and he pleads with the gentleness of them. 

Finally, Bakugou raises his head, looks at him with something approaching longing, “It just had to be you.”

If only they could stay here, in this moment where they’re so close to something. A maybe. An almost. But this too can be taken away from him. Can become smoke and dark fumes should Shouto choose it. He can ruin it by wrapping his hand around the small of Bakugou’s neck. Kiss him. It’s a depraved thought. A wrong one. Shouto tilts his head, leans impossibly closer until he’s near suffocating on the smell of him. The subdued traces of something he wishes to remove in its entirety is there in the hard lines of Bakugou’s face. One day he will be trustworthy enough. For now, this is enough.

“You really are beautiful.” Shouto repeats and his voice is warm, thick with adoration, hope.

A flame flickers in the heat of Bakugou’s eyes, “I know I am.” 

Shouto laughs. It’s the perfect answer. 

The station is a tall, shimmering Tokyo skyscraper. A screen, large enough to capture the whole block, plays their campaign. Bakugou, on invisible wings, flies into view, and it’s easy to forget, sometimes, what they’re capable of. How far they’ve come. One day, they will both reach Number One. 

“You ready?” Bakugou asks as the car halts. He’s slicking back the hairs on his head. Smoothing the creases of his silk shirt, “There’s a bunch of ‘em, goddammit.”

A light flashes in Shouto’s direction. The heat of it, a palpable sear on his skin. When he looks back into the brightness, he sees the reflective surface of his room's window. The walls of the Todoroki Manor. He’s trained in this room, has patched skin, open wounds and bled in this room. His room. The tatami creaks under his feet. When Shouto slides the screen door open, he knows there’s rot, hidden in the lines of the wallpaper decorating their hallway. 

The house is quiet without the sound of their gas stove on. He checks, but he knows it’s useless. Rei isn’t in the kitchen or the living room, or their garden, staring up into the rising sun. 

Goosebumps rise on the skin of Shouto’s neck. Trauma. Hah. He’s overcome this, hasn’t he? But Rei’s gone. She’s left. Taken. He remembers the tabloids. The image of his scar sprawled on their dining room table. He remembers the feeling; fire on skin, and it’s ugly—makes Shouto ugly. Unlovable. The press calls it beautiful, a testimony of his strength, but Shouto sees no beauty in scars. Not his. And he’s reminded that this golden cage is still a cage. His cage. He can barely breath—

“Todoroki?”

A hand touches his shoulder. Shouto widens his eyes, notices for the first time that he’s shut them closed. Bakugou is staring at him, his brows knitted together in confusion.

“I...” He draws a breath and realizes all at once he’s been aching for it. “Sorry.”

His hands tremble, and even this, Shouto thinks, is a weakness which must be removed. “I’m ready now."

Doubt forms creases in the corner of Bakugou’s eyes. He leans in, flexes a brutalized hand towards his face, but Shouto already has a hand on the door handle. He pushes it open, and the crowd outside begins to clap.

“Let’s go.” He insists, and Bakugou falters, knows a missed opportunity when it occurs. 

Whatever they were, those moments ago, is a star. Dying and wonderful and gone. 

The reporter is a woman. Her hair, pink and lavishly curled, is shiny, near wet-looking. Shouto looks away, he knows who she is. Akane Hirai, the woman who infamously pried into the details of All Might's death while the world was still grieving. She's a viper, her quirk a stupid eruption of bubbles every time she feels embarrassed. Funnily enough, it rarely manifests. She has no shame.

Shouto frowns down at the leather of his Oxfords, then back into the studio light. When the camera light blinks red, he smiles, wishes instantly for this to be over. To his right, Bakugou straightens his back, frowns.

“So, Ground Zero, how was America?” She begins with a smile, and her voice, a shriek moments ago, is a cat's purr. Sweet and sugary and everything Shouto dislikes. 

“Good.” Bakugou responds with a nod, and Shouto thinks of Bakugou, the boy; angry and resentful of this, the press, the noise, and wonders when they've gotten so used to this. 

"And Hero Shouto, how have you been?" 

Shouto focuses on the gleam in her eyes, the colour of washed up, murky water, and smiles, "Busy."

She tilts her head, her hair, cascades over her shoulder like soap scum on the surface of still water. There’s a smell in the air—a full garden of roses—and it does her no favours. Not when it clashes so poorly with the warm, spiced undertones of Bakugou’s cologne. 

“So, I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that neither of you two have been able to secure Number One this round of votes.” 

A low blow. 

"Not yet." Shouto responds, and when he glances at Bakugou he's surprised that the studio isn't already a pool of lit flames with the dangerous way he’s rolling up his sleeves.

"Oh?" She echoes, "Should Hero Deku be concerned?" 

Bakugou waves a hand in the air, and Shouto finds the hard, protective look in his eyes endearing, "It's friendly competition, is all."

“Oh, right! How would you describe your relationship with him?”

Another, impeccably dangerous blow.

Bakugou tenses, and his voice is measured when he forces out, “A working one.”

Which is a lie. Shouto knows of their past. He has witnessed their history, knows of the envy, the anger, and the dream they once shared together. How for all Bakugou’s wounds, none have hurt more than Midoriya. How after all this time he still bleeds the moment he’s mentioned. Bleeds memory and regret into the air. 

‘Bakugou and I are the same’ Midoriya told him once during the aftermath of AFO and All Might, and his eyes were sad, more lost than Shouto’s ever seen, ‘We’ve always wanted the same thing’. When Shouto saw Bakugou later that evening, he was pale, looked as if he'd been crying, and it’s Midoriya who went to him, who sat beside him in silence, comforted him. They are the waves which have made each other. The ocean and the skyline. 

Shouto just loves the view.

“Surely, there’s more.”

Bakugou folds his arms against his chest, draws instantly back into his own space despite the smirk resting on his lips. To think, even as one of the greatest Heroes in the world, Midoriya, gets in the way. Takes precedence before him. Overshadows him. “We’re Heroes striving for the same thing. He knows what he’s doing.” 

It’s the trust, the abundance of it, which sits like rocks in Shouto. Midoriya has won it, has maybe had it all his life, but Shouto is still watching, waiting for the moment Bakugou gives him some sign. Something more concrete than the flutter of his golden eyelashes. He wants it. He wants to be trusted, to be worthy of just a piece of the burden carried amongst Bakugou’s shoulders. 

“And Hero Shouto, who is your favourite Hero?” 

He doesn’t even need to think, “Ground Zero.”

Bakugou doesn’t turn to him.

“And why is that?”

Because… 

There is something about Bakugou which makes Shouto feel found. Feel less like a bird in a cage. A shadow amongst shadows, amongst men. He has belonged everywhere. On billboards and newspapers and the flashing lights of Japan’s largest cities. He belonged to his family, once, as a trophy—a thing—to use and dispose of, and those slow-burning dreams, the ones Shouto has hidden all his life, escaped him, rotted within him as the collateral damage of his childhood.

Bakugou stretches in the seat next to him, and with effort, Shouto turns to him, eyes fond.

And yet, Bakugou makes him dream, makes him want to dream of things he cannot have. If Bakugou were the sky, Shouto is a bird. He wants to understand every endless corner of it. 

“He’s...” Shouto says, and he thinks of a star, breaking through the darkness of space, “the most hard-working person I know.”

There’s an applause, somewhere, deep backstage, to which Bakugou rolls his eyes, plays up the confident Hero everyone knows himself to be. He must hear this all the time, from his fans and those fortunate enough to remain in the small, discrete circle of friends Bakugou keeps close to him. But his eyes, the shock behind them, expose him. As if even this, small, minuscule amount of praise, is beyond him. Undeserved. Which is wrong, because how could someone deny him of this? Of acknowledgement and praise and everything Shouto knows Bakugou wanted from All Might but could never truly receive. Not even in his death. 

“He inspires me.” Shouto says with a smile. Another round of applause. 

This time, Bakugou turns to look at him, and his eyes, fond, only make falling for him easier. 

It’s 2 hours of back and forth before Akane finally pushes closer, her smile, the ends of them, twitching, “Have either of you met your Soulmate?”

Shouto widens his eyes. 

Oh. A bomb. The air—nuclear smoke—suddenly smells of gasoline. 

“I suppose the better question is if you two have Soulmates. After all, not everyone has them. If you do, what are those lucky, lucky, words you two have?”

“What?” Bakugou’s voice is sandpaper grating on fine leather. The softness of it, the rasp Shouto normally loves, gone. Replaced with venom, shock. 

Akane pulls her seat closer, and Shouto watches as Bakugou unfolds his arm, flexes his palm open then close. 

“Though, Ground Zero, it’s better not to be so... Well, you know, I don't think most girls could tolerate someone like you.”

Bakugou looks gutted. As gutted as a fish could feel suffocating on the surfaces of land. For a moment, Shouto thinks that Bakugou might tear himself from the sofa and simply leave. He feels fire, reaches for it in his blood, under his fingertips, and if he were allowed, they’d be standing in flames. A room devoured by them. If Bakugou asked, they’d be far from here. Somewhere safe, and this building, this room, this television segment, would be gone, burnt to ashes. 

“Yeah—you’re popular, but it may be better to tone down your… persona. At one point we all need to settle down, don’t we?”

A chair creaks. Shouto realizes that it's his, “No.”

Akane looks at Shouto, frowns, “What?”

“He’s my favourite Hero because he’s the way he is!” Shouto retorts, and it is a hopeless, futile attempt at defense. Bakugou looks at him, and something in his eyes removes him, makes him untouchable, no longer human. 

Shouto falters, his breath stuttering, “And...”

“We can’t disclose information like that.” Bakugou interjects, and his voice is airy, uncaring, colder than Shouto’s ever heard before. “Sorry.”

Shouto’s hands twist tightly together as he sits down. He’s trembling, maybe from anger of the impossibility that a man so good could be deemed unworthy of anyone. That he could be undeserving of praise and acknowledgement and the gentle things, the kind things, Shouto knows Bakugou may ache for. Just as he does. 

A new question pops up on the teleprompter. Shouto breathes in, tries to catch Bakugou’s eyes, but fails. The light that was there is now extinguished, replaced by the same defenses Shouto is all too used to. He thinks he hears the popping of bubbles.

“So, Ground Zero, what do you do on your days off?” 

There’s a pain in Shouto’s chest when Bakugou bursts out from the studio’s back door, pulling Shouto with him.

"Bakugou?"

Old pain. New pain. The same sort of pain. He's fumbling with his steps, Oxford’s falling heavy in the crevices of the potholes by the side of the road. Bakugou’s eyes are tight, painful looking slits as he focuses on the limousine in the distance. The air, even with its stillness, smells of gas and rust. 

When it becomes too much, Shouto yanks his arm away. 

“Bakugou!” He yells, and he searches amongst the strange, offended look Bakugou shoots him for some semblance of tenderness. An opening.

“What’s wrong?” 

Bakugou scoffs. An instinctive, unsuccessful act of self-defense. They're not kids anymore.

“Bakugou," Shouto whispers softer this time, "Tell me.”

"I'm not quitting being a fucking Hero." 

Shouto widens his eyes, "Of course not." 

He feels anger flash hot in his head, and he wants to go back into the radio station and ruin everything. He thinks he might, if not for the way Bakugou suddenly clenches his hand, stops him. 

See, this is kindness. The kindness so few truly deserve. And Bakugou gives it to them. 

"They think this whole fate thing defines me." Bakugou blurts, and it's sickening how much the bond—or whatever they have—cooks and ferments the ache which Shouto feels. "It doesn't. Why do people even care about my Soulmate? Why does it fucking matter to them?" 

"You don't define me." Bakugou grits out, and Shouto wants to cry but not for himself, for Bakugou who has had such a hard time. "You can't control me. You can't tell me what to do. Fate stupid-fucking-destiny!”

Shouto shuts his eyes close. 

Foolish. Unworthy. Impossible. They are impossible. 

But even so—

—Is he enough to try?

“Bakugou,” Shouto cups Bakugou’s face in his hands and feels his heart wrench when Bakugou blinks owlish and unseeing up at him. “Bakugou, let’s go back to your place.” 

It’s a mistake. Of course it is. The kindness cuts where it shouldn’t and Bakugou speaks, this time harsher and every bit the vicious animal he makes himself ought to be, “Hah, fucking won’t solve anything.”

Shouto pales and something like disgust swells in his chest, “You know that’s not what I meant.”  

Bakugou rolls his eyes, then looks away, shame and anger fuels him, makes him want to hurt. It feels good to fester. To burn. 

“Right, because you care about me.” He laughs, a short, unforgiving syllable which makes Shouto wince. “For a moment, I believed you.”

Horror stills him. Numbs him all over. He's witnessing the death of a star. Its own self-annihilation. It’s painful; wrong. Bakugou wants to hurt, wants to feel pain and all Shouto can do is watch.

“Believed what?” Shouto manages to ask.

“That I—” Bakugou falters, and for a moment he’s silent, eyes lost, cheeks red. 

“That you’re my favourite?” Shouto interjects, and he steps closer, his anger, any of it which existed, is gone, replaced by grief, yearn. “It’s true.”

“It’s not—” 

“Bakugou.” 

They’re close. Close enough that Bakugou could push him aside. Punch him if he wanted to. Hurt him in the same devastating ways he seems to want to hurt himself. Shouto takes his chances. 

“All I want is to be with you.” He treads lightly, as sincerely as possible, “Is that okay?”

His hand reaches for the collar of Bakugou’s shirt, and Shouto tilts his head, thumbs at the tense skin of Bakugou’s neck.

“Just...trust me."

Bakugou’s mouth parts and Shouto can see the war, waging on in Bakugou's eyes. All-in, all-out. What will it be?

Then, he turns, and begins walking back to the limousine.

Bakugou’s apartment is smaller than Shouto would have thought his primary residence in Shizuoka to be. He expected something conscientious, something reminiscent of his home growing up, with its sparse interior and its pale wallpaper. But this is a home. Bakugou’s home. There are medallions hung on the wall, a poster of All Might next to the television, and a photograph of his parents on the coffee table. Under Bakugou’s careful gaze, Shouto traces the lines of the butcher block countertops of the kitchen island, and is suddenly, at a complete loss when he spots a photograph, hung with tape on the fridge.  

“It’s all of us.” Shouto murmurs, surprised, and when Bakugou catches him staring, hurt leaks into the crevices of his frown. “At graduation.” 

“What about it?” Bakugou responds and Shouto widens his eyes, tries and fails to stave off the colours dancing in his vision. He recalls the brief, short moment where everything was within reach. Suddenly, it all feels so far away. Shouto tears his eyes away from the photograph. The warmth of the room presses into him from all sides, and it hurts impossibly more than Shouto could have possibly thought. 

By the look on Bakguou’s face, Shouto’s sure he feels the same way.

“We were so young.” He says with a sad, short laugh, and he’s surprised when Bakugou steps towards him. His eyes, dark in the night, are unreadable. 

“I don’t understand how you can stand me.” 

Shouto blinks and the room falls mercy to the anger in Bakugou’s voice, “I can’t give you what you want. I won’t sacrifice myself for you, I won’t quit being a Hero for anyone—”

“I would never want that.” Shouto interrupts and Bakugou shakes his head. He wonders if that’s what Bakugou thinks Soulmates are. A trade? A give and take? Shouto just wants to love him.

“I’m not like the movies, I can’t control my emotions, I... have no fucking idea about this, this connection. A part of me is terrified of you, because I can’t. I hate losing control.” 

Fingers reach to grip at his. When Bakugou meets his eyes, he’s pale, looks as if he’s confessed to sins, maybe even killed a man. He’s shaking, and Shouto comforts him by raising each calloused knuckle to his mouth. Bakugou is afraid of this—of him—what they could be, and Shouto wants to so badly remove the world from this moment. Until they’re the only ones who remain, breathing the same air, forehead against forehead. Instead, Shouto presses each scarred knuckle against his lips. Each kiss a promise brimming with the naïve hope of what they could be.

“I’m a mess.”

“No,” Shouto denies, “you’re not.”

Bakugou’s eyes, fixate towards him, travel the lines of his scar, “How are you so sure?”

Shouto smiles, the yearn a hole in him, “It would not matter.”

This—is what they need, and Bakugou half-snorts, half-looks as if he may cry as he steps back. Shouto tightens his hold on the tense, shaking fingers in his hand. He can’t seem to let go now that they’re pushing the boundaries of what they can be. What they failed to be, and this chance, is sweeter and more precious than anything Shouto has ever hoped for. 

“I’m no good for you.” Bakugou says at last, even as he leads Shouto through the halls of his home, pushes open the door to his bedroom, “I’m all sorts of fucked up.”

The mattress sinks under their weight. 

“She’s wrong about you. They all are.” Shouto whispers back and he drinks in the curve of Bakugou’s neck, the press of his knee against his. 

“I’m exhausted.” Bakugou mumbles absentmindedly. He’s not listening. Perhaps choosing not to.  His fingers reach the knot of Shouto’s tie, and when it unravels, time slows as Bakugou pulls it off, tosses it onto the floor. As if it isn’t the layers between them which prevent Shouto from kissing him. Wanting him without abandon. His touch leaves a trail of heat as they find the buttons of his suit, resting there for several beats of time before they become undone. Shouto licks his lips, realizes suddenly that he may die a happy man tonight. 

“I—” Shouto mutters immediately, “I can sleep on the floor.” 

Bakugou pauses, the layers of his suit between his fingers, “You’re a Pro Hero. You need good rest.”

How… is Shouto supposed to believe that this is wrong? Is anything but warm and good and kind? He may not deserve this, but Bakugou deserves to know he is good. Is worthy of all things under the sun. Bakugou leans impossibly closer, until Shouto holds his breath, is too afraid to do anything but remain as he is. If he moves, he’ll kiss him, and then he won’t be able to stop. Calloused fingertips enter his vision, slide his eyelids close. Shouto feels a warm hand snake at his wrist. The rest of his suit slips off and he shivers.

“I—Bakugou, this…” 

An exasperated sound, “You’re over thinking. Stop.”

Shouto does.

When Bakugou slips under the covers, Shouto has the urge to hold him, tightly, if only to make Bakugou stop running and let whatever this is, overtake them. Akane is wrong about him. About them. She could never fathom the mistake of clipping Bakugou’s wings. The beauty of Bakugou in the sky. 

Shouto presses his eyes close, repositions under the duvet, “…She’s wrong.”

The bed shifts from underneath him and when Shouto opens his eyes, Bakugou is already looking at him, the intensity near physical on his skin. 

“She’ll always be wrong. I should have the agency cancel her broadcast—"

Bakugou laughs and Shouto wants to keep the sound to himself. This room, covered in deep purple shadows, feels like the safest place in the world, and he’s never had this. Not at home, not with Endeavour, not even at UA. 

“Since when were you so vindictive?” Bakugou rebuffs, and at this, Shouto scoffs. He leans forward, a hand propped under his chin. 

“Is it wrong?” He asks with a tilt of his head, and Bakugou smirk falls, is replaced with something hotter than the heat between them.  

“Go to sleep.” Bakugou musters and Shouto closes his eyes. 

He barely remembers the nights sleep has come easily, but when sleep overtakes him, he dreams, effortlessly, of Bakugou. Somewhere in his dreams, Bakugou caresses the rough skin of his scar, tells him he’s enough—has been enough—is loved and is worthy of all the good things Shouto has long since forfeited. Shouto cries, and Bakugou wipes them away with his thumb. ‘You’re a crybaby.’ he teases, and his eyes are forlorn, guilt-ridden.

Shouto reaches out, holds him and doesn’t let go.