Chapter Text
The week after the war was taxing for everyone.
Momo Yaoyorozu saw it around her, unfolding in layers of chaos: the destruction and legislative upheaval stranding citizens who clung to what they had left, tearful and sometimes angry but mostly grateful—parents of her friends, families of her teachers, children of people she’d never met. People who’d lost all their financial guarantees. Her own fortunate circumstances were a revelation she felt she ought to have experienced earlier, but she supposed it was better late than never.
Personal growth was a good thing to keep in mind. The here and now, the ways she could improve herself for the future. To be more empathetic, more heroic.
Looking at it like that, the future was bright. She and her classmates had been hurt, some more than others, but they were all doing better every day, and soon, their most injured classmates would come back from the hospital: Kyouka, one ear short; Uraraka, near-fatal stab wound patched up; Midoriya, recently conscious and sore; Ashido, overtaxed by her quirk; Todoroki, burned but healing excellently; and—
“Bakugou is awake,” Aizawa-sensei told them in the center of the common room, professional as ever.
He’d arrived in his hero uniform, scarf doing nothing to hide the stubble untended across his jaw. Mineta commented on the bags beneath his eyes before Sero shut him up.
Momo wondered if their teacher had slept at all since the war, then put the thought aside for more pressing matters.
“Awake?” From his seat between Kirishima and Satou, Kaminari had gone pale. “Does that mean they’ll let us visit, or…?”
For security reasons, they hadn’t been allowed into the hospital to see anyone.
“Not for a while,” Aizawa said mildly, and Kaminari’s shoulders fell. “Ask again in a few days.”
Kirishima cleared his throat. “But how’s he holding up? I mean, is he… talking, or…?”
All of them had seen the battle recordings of how Shigaraki had toyed with their classmate. But they’d also seen Bakugou rise up, dealing spectacular resistance despite everything.
Then rise again, bleeding and unstable and laughing maniacally, caught in blinding, alarming joy.
Then rise again, one more arc of light.
And now.
Anxious glances passed among the class, full of the fear that their dauntless friend had lost a part of himself among it all.
“I’d call it yelling,” Aizawa said, and relief cut the collective tension. “I’m told he’s already had a number of spirited interactions with the hospital staff. And Midoriya.”
The fondness in his tone was unmistakably relief, too.
“Man, that just makes me miss him more,” Sero groaned. “We gotta throw him a party when he gets out. Dude deserves it after everything.”
“He probably won’t want a party,” Kirishima mused sympathetically, “but maybe if we run it by him first.”
“We could do something small,” volunteered Hagakure, and Yaomomo felt the air shift beside her on the couch as her invisible classmate leaned forward eagerly. “Like a game night.”
From the opposing couch, Ojiro looked doubtful. “We’ve all seen how Bakugou gets with competition. He’d probably land himself right back in the hospital.”
That was a sobering thought.
“Maybe we could, like… make him a get-well card?”
Iida brightened. “A get-well card would be a great way for us, as a class, to show our support. Excellent idea, Hagakure-kun.”
“What if we made it extra big and let Itsuka-chan’s class sign it, too?”
Kaminari ducked his head into his hands and mumbled, “First thing he’s gonna do when he gets back is explode us all.”
Aizawa cleared his throat. As one, the class fell silent, refocusing their attention, and though she hadn’t been talking, Momo sat up straighter. She folded her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to fidget.
“We need to go over some things,” their teacher said flatly. His single eye was level, deadpan. “First of all, Bakugou’s cardiac health is far from cleared. I’m sure you all understand that now is not the time to agitate him.”
A round of chastised nods.
“Secondly, all the hospital staff are aware of this, and you all should be, too: he is not ready to see footage from the war.” Aizawa’s tone brooked no argument. “His parents are safeguarding his phone, so you won’t be able to message him. When you’re cleared to visit him, don’t bring up his experiences unless he decides to speak about them. Do you all understand?”
A smattering of yessirs and uh-huhs.
“Lastly…” Here Aizawa’s face did something strange. He didn’t smile, exactly, but the severity broke into something softer and more understanding. “His parents have agreed to drop off a care package, if you’d like to put something together. Individual cards are fine.”
A care package. Something, by all expectations, that Bakugou would reject in a fit of pride, refusing the implications it held. Weakness. Care.
Meeting the gazes of her classmates—Kirishima, Tokoyami, Kouda, Tsuyu—Momo knew it was important for them to do it well, and do it right.
“Okay,” Satou said, clapping his hands together, “what about miniature bundt cakes?”
Aizawa vetoed bundt cakes, but he promised to return with a list of doctor-approved food items. Yaomomo spent the rest of the day in her room, mulling over what to send to her classmate and drawing frustrating blanks.
It wasn’t as though she was distant from him. Bakugou was one of the loudest and most central members of their class, a touchstone, kind of. A tether to all the showy ideals of heroism and competitive drive, the counterbalance to Midoriya’s humility. And she talked to Bakugou a fair amount, enough that she would say they’d grown comfortable around each other; maybe, if she was so bold, she’d say they were friends, the quiet kind of friends who didn’t have a lot in common, but who didn’t need to say much to understand each other.
But she couldn’t think of what to send him.
Tea? She’d made herself a cup, growing lukewarm by the minute on her nightstand.
It would be a logical gift. Bakugou liked her brands, and she’d passed him brewing some late at night more than once—but no, one thing Aizawa had made clear in the earlier bundt discussion was no caffeine.
Chamomile, maybe? She didn’t know if Bakugou liked herbal tea. It wasn’t even technically tea. She could picture him chucking a cup against the wall, shouting, What do you take me for, hah? Someone who drinks fake plant pisswater like a loser? You callin’ me a loser?
No, she couldn’t accidentally call him a loser.
The thought made her smile, but in all seriousness, maybe iced barley tea was the better pick, since she didn’t even know if the hospital would give him hot water.
He was probably bored, confined to the hospital. Although he was able to spend time with Midoriya, at least, and that felt… like a good thing? They all knew how much Bakugou cared about him—the way his focus drew to him in battle, his ire in class, his panic in real, true danger—but it surely wasn’t good for his heart.
It would serve him well to just rest.
A distraction, then. That would be useful. Momo sat up against her headboard, struck by the thought. She could lend him a book.
She cast her gaze around her room, fairly sure he read for fun, at least sometimes in the common room when everyone else was being too rowdy, but she couldn’t remember any titles. Her own books jumped out at her, stacked neatly by her desk. They were very distinctly Yaomomo, as Kaminari would probably put it.
He’d been talking to her about action manga recently. There’d been an addled exchange, in the midst of the war—she couldn’t remember it now, but maybe he’d have a better repertoire of books to lend.
Well, that was a good place to start. She unlocked her phone.
Momo: Are you still awake?
Denki Kaminari: ?? yeah what’s up?
Maybe she’d caught him at a bad time. It was nearly midnight, after all. Or he was surprised that she would message him, considering their sparse text history, but she was trying to get more casual with all her classmates.
Momo: I was wondering if you could show me the manga you were talking about the other day.
Momo: What I mean is, I was thinking that maybe Bakugou would want something to read while he’s in the hospital.
That seemed to be the right thing to say.
Denki Kaminari: Hmm sure
Denki Kaminari: I can let you borrow some, but I don’t think he’d uhh be interested? I mean, anytime I saw him read this kinda stuff, he kinda
Denki Kaminari: Got really obsessively into powerscaling every character against himself?
Denki Kaminari: It was CRAZY yaomomo, I thought he was gonna rip the books in half
Denki Kaminari: He was like. Even cursing out Luffy
Denki Kaminari: Saying shit like “I could use your quirk better” like wym? Bro
Denki Kaminari: You don’t wanna know the things he said about Naruto
So that was it for her idea. Momo sighed, lifting her teacup again, only to realize it was empty of all but the dark dregs gathered at the bottom.
Well, that was for the best. She needed to get sleep. Mina was set to return from the hospital the next day, and after that, Kyouka would, too.
Maybe one of them would know what to send to Bakugou. Kyouka would probably suggest some kind of music, although without phone access, he couldn’t listen to any playlists. And it wasn’t as though Momo would be able to procure an MP3 player.
Hmm. Maybe she could create one herself, though. She could probably research the components in time, and then it would only be a matter of producing functional technology with her quirk. But could she make it download songs…?
Kaminari was still texting.
Denki Kaminari: Why don’t you give him some of the manga you like?
Denki Kaminari: Cutesy stuff, you know? Bet it’ll keep him calm or whatever
Momo returned her gaze to the stack on her desk, perplexed at how Kaminari had gotten the idea that her tastes were “cutesy.” Whatever that meant. And she was fairly certain those genres required at least some level of patience for pacing and willingness to engage in the saccharine, which Bakugou wasn’t exactly known for.
She hesitated, then hit the call button to best figure out a way to explain this to Kaminari.
He picked up immediately. “Wuhh? Yaoyo’ozu?” His voice was garbled; she heard a ppphhhht, presumably the sound of him expectorating a glob of toothpaste into the sink. When he next spoke, his voice was clear. “Give a guy some warning next time, okay?”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Unthinkingly, she’d stood to get a better look at her own collection, leafing through them slowly. She decided it was better to not argue the point of cutesiness, and said instead, “Do you really think it’s a good idea?”
“Texting me to give me a heads up? Uh, yeah, my ringtone’s the battle music from Gacha Stars 5, it’s kinda—”
“No, I mean lending Bakugou some manga.”
One book was a later part of a series. Another ended in a cliffhanger, and she didn’t have the next one to pair with it.
“Oh. Yeah, why not? It can’t hurt, right? If he doesn’t like it, he’ll stop reading. Or burn it to a crisp, I guess.”
Fair point. One by one, Momo set aside some volumes she wouldn’t mind sacrificing. “If you were in his place, is that what you’d want to read? A ‘cute’ story?”
She didn’t read much of whatever Kaminari was probably picturing. Mostly just tragic women’s workplace dramas. Regardless, she’d want to pick books that weren’t likely to alienate or bore a new reader.
“Uh, duh.” Somehow, the answer took her by surprise, but Kaminari sounded completely serious. “I’ll read one right now. Actually, we should swap recs—you need to get educated on the art of shonen protagonism, my friend. It’s all really Midoriya-core.”
Momo nodded absently, making a new pile. Manga that was plot-centered but not too dismal. Low-stakes for Bakugou’s heart, but exciting enough to counterbalance the sweetness.
She wondered what it must feel like to have regained consciousness so much later than everyone else. Midoriya hadn’t been awake for long, either; maybe he’d also benefit from something to read. At least with him, she could ask over text.
Kaminari kept talking. “On the flip side, there’s the rival trope. I bet Bakugou doesn’t get as pissy about that one ‘cause he relates to all the personality issues.” He contrasted that with a wistful sigh. “Anyway, I’ll think of something for you to read. There’s this one you’ll like” —a door swung open and shut, probably him returning to his room— “where this really shy girl falls in love with the main character—”
Yaomomo did her best to sound polite. She really did. But she couldn’t help the yawn rising between her words. “I’ll read it tomorrow, if that’s okay with you?”
Kaminari copied her yawn. “Sure, yeah. Hey, if Bakugou likes what you send him, maybe we can do, like, a manga book club, and teach him not to complain the whole time. Maybe it would get my dude to cut Naruto a break.”
“Maybe.” Momo hadn’t even realized it until now, but she’d sorted her books entirely according to her criteria, and a few series actually almost matched them all. Maybe one really would be satisfactory to lend to Bakugou.
It couldn’t hurt, at least.
“But anyway, I bet he’d like something with a little action, at least. Got anything like that?”
“I have some in mind,” she said carefully. “I’m not sure about… well, I suppose we’ll see.”
“Don’t sweat it, Yaomomo.” Kaminari’s voice took on a sympathetic air. “He’s a softie at heart. I bet he’s gonna love ‘em.”
The next day, Momo selected three volumes of a lighthearted fantasy series to pack alongside her classmates’ other gifts, which Aizawa handed off to Bakugou’s parents before noon. The rest of the week busied her with their other friends returning from the hospital, and everything marched onward into a new, stranger idea of normal.
Not long after, the class was finally cleared to visit Bakugou, and amid the tearful reunion, Momo didn’t wonder about the manga volumes. She couldn’t possibly. The whole class was stricken, reconciling the new, almost-fragile state of their toughest classmate, and—Bakugou might’ve been unable to read with only one functional arm, anyway. She hadn’t thought of that before.
But even though his injuries were disconcerting, there was still the same roughness of his voice, the same resoluteness in his gaze.
He really was lucky. They all were.
Graduation passed days later, and beyond that, Momo was too busy to even begin the manga that Kaminari had leant her. And when Bakugou eventually left the hospital, moving back into the dorms on unsteady feet, she didn’t feel the need to ask for her books back. They didn’t feel important.
So it rendered her speechless the next afternoon when, amid her lunch-packing, Bakugou entered the common room and unceremoniously dropped the volumes on the kitchen island between the two of them.
“Your manga sucks,” he said flatly.
“Oh,” she said, because there was nothing else to say.
Shouji, who’d been slicing cucumbers on the far side of the counter, wordlessly set his knife to the side and exited the common room.
Bakugou didn’t elaborate. He trudged over to the fridge, ducking to peer closely at the contents. It didn’t escape Momo’s notice how heavily he leaned on the door.
His right arm was still suspended and limp, and bandages rose from the collar of his messily buttoned shirt. He must’ve done it himself. His hair, too, seemed wilder than usual, and she wondered if he found it hard to—
The fridge door shut, levelling a pair of unimpressed red eyes at her.
She looked away, hoping he didn’t feel like she was pitying him, even if she sort of was. “What… didn’t you like about it?”
Unreadable though his scowl may have been, he seemed to acquiesce, choosing to lean against the island and face her with his good arm crossed judgmentally under the strap of his sling. “The characters. The plot. Goddamn everything.”
“Oh.” Despite herself, disappointment swelled somewhere in her stomach. She had expected this, even if Kaminari had tried to convince her otherwise.
“What the hell was Lily’s problem?” Bakugou leaned forward, insistent. “First she says Hioki makes her miserable, then she’s all gushy and pathetic over him? There’s nothing to fucking like about that piece of trash.”
Right, there was a background romance plotline. Of course that had been too much.
“W-well, she got to know him better,” Momo said, a touch defensive, since she actually liked the manga.
“Oh yeah? Funny, I must’ve missed a chapter. Or ten.”
Momo sighed and returned to her lunch boxes of rice. One was for Kyouka, and she gave her an extra cut of chicken.
“And the plot was all over the place.” Bakugou shuffled closer. “First Lily gets turned into a ghost, and then she’s worried about Hioki’s soccer team? Thought she’s on the swim team or something, so why’re they trying to pretend this is some kinda shitty nerd-jock garbage? They’re both nerds and jocks. And she’s got a lot more problems than the damn soccer team. She’s a ghost.”
Why did they have to talk about this? She understood that he didn’t like it. They could just move on.
“You… I see your point about the archetypes,” she conceded, “but of course she’s worried about the ghost part, too.”
“Hioki’s the worried one. Lily only starts using her brain after the underworld arc.” Bakugou was right up next to her, unblinking as she finished placing the broccoli and closing lids over the bento boxes. “And why the fuck is there an underworld arc? How come there’s suddenly this angel-demon shit between them when they’re all fucked up about soccer practice?” His voice was incredulous. “It’s like this author spliced three whole different stories together. ‘Cause what even happened to the ghost arc?”
Well. Momo had thought this manga was balanced, to say nothing of “calm” and “cute.” Maybe it was due for a reread.
“Lily discovers she’s an angel, so she can’t get closer with Hioki,” she explained, stacking the boxes atop each other. “And the ghost arc resolves when she loses her memories—”
“Bullshit. What’s even the point, if she just gets them back when she’s sent to super-hell? I bet you didn’t even remember she gets sent to super-hell.”
Momo had indeed forgotten. “I’m sorry.” She turned from her lunches to make eye contact, just a centimeter taller than him. “If I’d known you wouldn’t have liked it, I would’ve sent you something different.”
Or no manga at all. She’d just wanted to give him a good gift, distracting entertainment. Not to cause him so much consternation that he almost looked unwell. Aizawa had been right. They had to be careful not to strain him in this state.
Bakugou looked at her strangely. She couldn’t tell what the look meant. “All that plot crap is fine,” he said, perplexingly. “Doesn’t make a difference.”
In spite of herself, she was curious. “What makes a difference?”
“Lily and Hioki.” He said it like it was obvious. “Their stupid little song-and-dance. It’s gross as fuck.”
Yaomomo nodded, feeling as though she understood. “Lots of people prefer manga without romance.”
Again with that look. “Hah? You think I care about that?”
Once again, she was thoroughly lost. “Don’t you?”
He leaned his bad arm against the kitchen counter and fixed her with an unexpectedly understated scowl. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was just acting like a contrarian, pissed in being called out.
But—she did know Bakugou. The look in his eyes was fiercely passionate, and that recognition stunned her.
“I don’t care how much goddamn romance you dunk ‘em in,” he said. “These idiots have no chemistry.”
Oh. She stared at him, a wider realization dawning, recontextualizing their entire conversation.
As much as it sounded like a diatribe about how much Bakugou hated her manga—it was more importantly a ramble. These things mattered to Bakugou. In his own way, he was showing enthusiasm.
In terms of Kaminari’s hopes and dreams, it was something befitting a book club.
“Bakugou-san,” she said, suddenly needing to tamp down her own eagerness. “If you’re amenable to more romance manga… could I try again? And find you a different story to read?”
His mouth thinned into an expression that was less pronounced but still fairly negative, considering her offer, suspicious of her tone.
“Not like I’ll stop you.” It was as much of a yes as she could imagine. “I’ll read any dumbass gushiness, just make it less shitty this time.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, thinking back to the rising cheer throughout the war.
Do your best.
He gave her a half shrug, unbothered. The game was on.
Naturally, Momo wanted to be as judicious as possible with her next selection. She axed a few titles that would be definite flops, noted some old favorites to hunt down in a nearby unscathed library, then decided to consult Bakugou’s closer friends.
“I’m not sure,” Kirishima said, hand to his chin, face lifted in deep thought. It was evening, and the group sat in a circle in the common room where Momo had called them to convene.
Mina lay on the armrest of his couch, aimlessly braiding a miniscule lock of his hair despite all the gel. “I can’t even picture Blasty reading all the way through a romance. He gets mad when I talk about shipping, and he leaves the room when we watch rom-coms on movie nights.”
“Rom-coms are lame,” Kaminari pointed out, “but romance manga can be pretty good. At least, the ones I know.”
Momo, who’d finally taken a look at the one he’d recommended, wasn’t so sure.
“But would Bakugou think so?” Kirishima’s brows were knit. “I mean, not to assume, but…”
“No, say it louder.” Mina dropped the tuft of his hair to look at the others earnestly. “He’s pretty much the most unromantic person I know. It’s not a bad thing, but how can I work with that?”
“I guess that’s true,” Kaminari muttered, slumping on his cushioned ottoman, feet kicked out in front of him. “Did you see what they’re saying about him online? He’s probably gonna have girls lined up at his feet when we get started tomorrow, and he told me he doesn’t even care. But that’s why this is our chance to open his eyes to the wide, wide world of love.”
Each class of hero students—including new first years—was slated to receive their assigned rebuilding locations for the upcoming months tomorrow. For many students, it would be the first time setting foot in UA’s newly-renovated halls.
Momo hadn’t seen the online discourse, but she could imagine why Bakugou wasn’t interested.
“He probably doesn’t want our help with that,” Kirishima said, shrugging. “He’s an introverted guy.”
At the other end of the couch, Kyouka shrugged, too. “He’s a lot of things. The point is, how he feels about girls doesn’t necessarily translate to what manga he’d like.”
“It totally might help us out, though,” Mina said.
A smattering of agreement. Yaomomo suppressed a sigh.
“You already tried something with an action plot.” Kirishima turned back to her, serious. “And it for sure has to be romance?”
She’d told them that while Bakugou hadn’t explicitly asked for romance manga, she felt the pressure of an unspoken challenge to surpass his expectations. Which sounded silly when spoken aloud, especially by her; it wasn’t as though she was one of those nonsensical shonen rivals Kaminari had brought up, always desperate for competition.
Part of her felt that drive, nonetheless.
“I think so,” she said, burying her fingers into the folds of her skirt. Kyouka gave her a commiserating look.
The fact was: Bakugou was not opposed to love stories, and if there was a chance he’d actually enjoy one, she wanted to find it.
“What about something more chill, then?” Kirishima suggested.
Mina tossed her head back, leaning over the couch cushions behind him. “I know a bunch of light stuff. Devoted Flowers and Understated Love, those kinda series. I feel like Blasty would throw a fit if he had to read any of them, but maybe it’s worth a shot?”
Momo had read those. “Maybe so.”
“Man,” Kaminari sighed, stretching his arms over his head as he stood. “You’ll get him figured out, Yaomomo. Like I told you, he might not have a romantic bone in his body, but he’s still got a heart, so… uh…” A wince crossed his face. “That’s not funny yet, is it?”
Oh. The heart surgery.
Kyouka suggested wryly, “Give it another month, at least,” and the looks on everyone else’s faces softened.
They all, like Kaminari, were still in that strange place between wanting to joke, playing at normalcy, and feeling shaken by the gravity of the war. That’s what all this talk was, really. A lighthearted discussion about Bakugou that masked all their fear that he’d never be the same again.
“Fair enough.” Kaminari’s gaze fell somewhere behind Momo, and he perked up as if something had occurred to him, maybe more because he wanted to divert attention elsewhere. “Hey, why don’t you ask Midoriya? He’s known Bakugou the longest, so what if he can shed some light on our guy’s tastes?”
Momo turned to look, and sure enough, there was Midoriya, stepping out of the elevator at the far side of the room. He didn’t seem to notice them at first, at least until he reached the kitchen—then he stopped in his tracks, eyes lighting with confusion.
Right, all five of them were huddled in a corner and staring at him. Momo cleared her throat.
Kirishima thankfully spoke before her, a smile easing onto his face. “Hey, Midoriya, any chance you could help us out with something?”
The confusion didn’t completely melt, but he returned the smile warmly and crossed the room. Stopping a few paces away. “Sure, I mean—I have to go see All Might soon,” he said, “but I have time.”
Did he sound a little reluctant? Maybe he’d overheard Kaminari mention Bakugou’s “tastes” and knew where this conversation was headed.
“No problem,” Kirishima said, and Mina straightforwardly cut in—“Do you know Bakugou’s type?”
“His…” Midoriya’s face did something complicated before settling on a politely dumbfounded blankness. “Type?”
“Yeah, like what kind of girls does he like?” She plopped down on the couch between Kirishima and Kyouka, leaning forward eagerly. “We’re honestly not really sure he likes anyone, but has he ever dropped hints or anything?”
“What kind of girls Kacchan likes,” Midoriya echoed. “Kacchan?”
“Kacchan,” Kaminari confirmed sagely. He strolled past the shorter boy, clapping him on the shoulder before heading to the cabinets. Midoriya stood there, looking lost; his gaze snapped between the others for extra confirmation.
Momo found her voice. “I think we’re more curious if he has particular romantic preferences when it comes to characters in books, and things like that. We’re trying to find something he’d like to read.”
A cabinet door opened and shut, and Kaminari pouring water into a cup filled the void.
“I—oh. I don’t think so?” Really, Midoriya just looked bewildered. “Kacchan’s never been interested in anyone that way.”
He said it like it was an immutable fact.
“Okay, well, what’s his favorite anime, at least?” Mina’s voice was playful, entreating. “Even battle shonen’s got room for romance.”
Somehow, that seemed to give their classmate a foothold in the discussion, even if he still looked utterly thrown. “He doesn’t watch much anime, just hero things like the old All Might cartoons and documentaries. There’s not—I mean, some heroes were together, but Kacchan never cared about that.”
“Yeah, well,” Kaminari said, returning to the circle with his drink, “that’s just what he watched growing up, right? You never know, maybe he changed.”
Midoriya blinked at him, and all his disorientation gave way to something less clear. “Maybe.”
This wasn’t a productive conversation. Momo resisted the urge to rub at her temples; all it had served to do was make him uncomfortable, probably because Midoriya was always uncomfortable talking about girls, although his posture didn’t seem too stiff and he wasn’t blushing. But he was obviously not interested in speculating, which was fair.
Almost like he’d noticed her scrutiny, he looked at her and gave her an awkward smile. “I’m sorry I can’t help more. I just think Kacchan doesn’t read or watch things like that, so—I’m sure you’ll have better luck with something else.”
“It’s alright,” she said. “Thank you anyway.”
He left quickly, explaining that he couldn’t keep All Might waiting, and the others were alone once more.
“Back to the drawing board,” Kyouka sighed, scrolling through her phone. “I’ll look for recs online, but I don’t know. The internet has pretty bad taste.”
Kaminari made a wounded noise. “I like the internet’s taste.”
“Yeah, point proven.”
“Touche.”
“Hey, listen, Yaoyorozu.” Kirishima sounded thoughtful. The smile on his face was gentle, like he’d realized how disappointed she felt. “You should probably just go with your gut. It’s trial and error, right? Bakubro’s harsh, but he knows that you’re trying. And you can always try again.”
Of course she could, if Bakugou would let her. Yaomomo nodded, letting herself breathe with her eyes closed, as if that could reset her priorities. When she opened them, the others were looking at her with what she’d optimistically call complete confidence.
“I’ll start simple,” she decided.
Simple was, in retrospect, a bad idea.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Bakugou dropped the manga volumes on the kitchen island once again. She’d left three by his door that night, each a standalone. He must have blown through them.
“There were no ghost demon soccer players,” she said carefully.
“No shit, there were no ghost demon soccer players.”
It was early, but both of them were dressed in their UA uniforms. Today was the day of their class assignments, after all—the day they’d all filter into the building in a mimicry of a school day, to find out what towns and cities they’d help rebuild.
Bakugou had gotten better at doing his tie and buttons one-handed.
“Explain what’s wrong,” Momo tried. She’d just finished making toast, and she hoped she’d get a chance to eat it before they had to leave. They didn’t have that much time, after all, and their classmates were getting ready and chatting around them, giving Bakugou a wide berth.
“What’s wrong?” He sounded incredulous. “Everything’s wrong. There are no plots, all the characters suck ass, the dialogue sounds like it was written by a half-sentient bag of tissue paper—”
“What would that sound like?”
“—and there’s no point to any of it.” Bakugou’s temper gave way to exasperation. “All of these were lame as shit. Do better.”
Do better?
The toast lay forgotten on her plate. She knew he was just being himself, but she couldn’t fathom how she was supposed to “do better” when he couldn’t communicate his wants like a normal person.
And it wasn’t fair to him, since he’d saved the world, not to mention he’d nearly died—he had died, actually—but at least she knew she wasn’t pitying him when she said, “I’m doing my best with what you’ve given me, which is basically nothing.”
She didn’t look at him when she spoke.
“So if you’d care to actually outline what you’re looking for, and what you’re not looking for, I’ll consider that.” Her throat felt crowded. “But don’t blame me for not knowing what you like, alright? I apologize. But I thought they were nice romances”—this part she whispered, in case he didn’t want the subject of his ire known to spectators—“and I’m doing my best.”
Do your best.
“Hey, Yaoyorozu, I need to borrow the toaster oven.”
She nearly recoiled when Shinsou, class 2-A’s newest member, materialized at her side. She’d forgotten he’d moved into their dorms.
Still not looking up, she extracted her plate of toast from the counter and made room for Shinsou. To his credit, he only looked vaguely interested in the conversation.
She couldn’t take it any longer and chanced a glance back. Bakugou was watching her, eyes sharp and focused, mouth a firm line, but his brows weren’t furrowed how she’d grown accustomed to. Oh. He was considering her.
That was a kind thing about Bakugou: he treated people seriously, time and time again.
She took a bite of toast, waiting.
“I’m looking for something that ain’t crap,” he said at last, low and gravelly. It wasn’t an apology, but it was soft enough to count. “The plot doesn’t haveta have fights or quirks or whatever, but it’s gotta be a plot. Something’s gotta move forward. It can be the characters. Actually, it should be the characters no matter what else’s going on.”
Momo blinked. Wait, she felt she should say, let me write this down.
Bakugou kept talking, listing each demand with his fingers. “If it’s shooting for some kinda romance, the characters haveta mean something. They can’t be cardboard cutouts of bullshit who don’t think about anything except sucking face.”
“That’s indecent,” Momo said. He rolled his eyes.
“That aside, they have to mean something to each other.” His seriousness might’ve been laughable, if it weren’t so… she didn’t know. Important to her that he was communicating. Important to him for reasons unknown. “They gotta make sense, otherwise I’m wasting my time.”
“And these characters,” she deduced, “they don’t make sense?”
She couldn’t see why. Chie and Noriaki, Kazue and Ren, Ayane and Daichi… all the couples were logical as she understood them. Chance meetings, soulful gazes, plenty of blushing, teasing friends or disapproving parents, depending on the story. And different endings: a final sweeping confession, a quiet acceptance of love, a flash forward to a brighter future.
“They’re coasting on bullshit,” he said. “Just acting all mushy about each other for no reason. The hell does it come from? People telling ‘em to like each other? Where’s the actual meat to their stupid-ass feelings?”
“The… meat,” she said, and—okay, she understood what he was saying, in theory. “Well, they’re attracted to each other.”
He waved his bad arm as if to say not important, then covered up his wince with a scowl. “You think that’s believable? Look at Chie—she’s a loser who meets a guy at school, and suddenly she’s mooning over him just ‘cause he’s tall and looked her way one time. She doesn’t even know him.”
“You don’t have to know someone to find them attractive.” She felt firmer in that statement, at least. It was something she could substantiate with her own experiences.
Well, aesthetically, at least.
Bakugou just looked affronted, though. And maybe a little baffled, not unlike Midoriya’s expression yesterday, like he genuinely couldn’t understand her. “Why would anyone give a shit if they get together, then?”
They were at an impasse. Momo was just glad Shinsou had left sometime around “the meat,” and the rest of their classmates were largely just passing through.
“So, alright, you think none of these characters feel deeply enough about each other,” she surmised, taking another bite of toast. “What about Ayane and Daichi? They grew up together.”
“That’s rich,” Bakugou sneered, snatching up the top manga from the stack to his side. She watched him flip open the book one-handed like he already knew what page held the evidence to shove in her face, nearly knocking the toast from her hand. “It’s not like growing up together makes people friends.”
Strange bitterness laced his tone.
“Okay, but they become friends after—”
“No, they don’t. Ayane’s only friends are girls, and Daichi’s only friends are guys. All their damn interactions with each other are just them thinkin’ about how their friends want them to bone.”
The first page in front of her displayed the end of a flashback scene. Two kids, playing in the woods in a group, blushing at the word balloons around them. You’re gonna make such a cute couple! Aww, look, she’s giving him a bracelet, how sweet! Momo supposed it was true that they didn’t interact much, on account of all the teasing.
The next page showed the main characters at a diner among a group of their high school friends, and Momo wanted to point out that they were all spending time together, regardless of gender, at least.
But now that she thought about it, Ayane didn’t interact with the boys at the table at any point in the story. And when did Daichi ever talk to the girls?
“Maybe the author thought”—it was hard not to stammer with Bakugou’s unblinking glare so close to her—“that mixed-gender friendships would be grounds for jealousy?”
His teeth showed, derisive, not a smile. “Yeah, don’t talk to half the population to appease someone’s fragile ego. Sounds right.”
“And you don’t understand fragile egos?” That felt like a cheap shot, and she wasn’t even sure why she said it. Her mouth pressed together, regretful, but she already saw the hit land in his eyes and posture. The open book dropped to his side.
With uncharacteristic gravity, he told her, “I’m saying that’s not romantic.”
It felt like a shutdown, and one that was too heavy for talking about fiction.
Oh. Momo wondered, probably too late, if she’d stumbled into something best left untouched, and if maybe Mina’s idea the previous day to probe into his love life hadn’t been too off base after all. Maybe Bakugou had some real, personal reason for wanting to read a love story that mattered to him.
Because—he did want to, didn’t he? That’s why he was still here, entertaining this debate.
She didn’t get the chance to pry, even if she’d intended to; with a huff, Bakugou turned away sharply and dropped the manga back on the kitchen island, running a hand over his eyes, suddenly looking tired in a way he’d never looked before the war. “Point is, if you’ve got shit where the characters actually give a rat’s ass about each other, not just ‘cause they’re filling cookie-cutter boxes, I’ll read it. Obviously. Now finish your damn toast before you’re late to class.”
He brushed past her and stalked out the front door, frowning at the ground as if it would wound him to make eye contact with anyone. Shouto and Tokoyami had just exited the elevator, and they looked fairly confused.
Momo sighed and collected her manga volumes. The last piece of toast wasn’t warm anymore, but just for the sake of respecting her classmate’s wishes, she finished it off.
“He’s doing better,” Shouto observed.
At least that was true.
It was a while later that she was able to devote time to brainstorming new recommendations. The day had gotten terribly hectic from meeting the new class year of fawning soon-to-be heroes and beginning the reconstruction effort at their assigned site, and then poor Ochako had suffered a delayed reaction to the events of the war. And Midoriya, hand in hers, had shared the news of his powers slowly fading from him.
The two of them retired early for the night, so Momo made tea for the others, a breather as they all unwound from the stresses of the day. And it turned out Bakugou didn’t have any complaints about herbal tea, after all.
He didn’t speak much at all that night.
The next day was filled with more hero work at the reconstruction site, and Momo didn’t return her thoughts to the predicament until late, perched on the side of Kyouka’s bed while she tuned her bass guitar. The new ear prosthetic was detached, resting on her nightstand; in an effort not to stare at the space it left behind, Momo focused on the cord of Kyouka’s remaining ear as it plucked the strings.
“So that’s what he said, huh?” After hearing everything except the gut feelings Momo felt were best kept to herself, Kyouka didn’t look surprised. “I mean, it makes sense.”
“Does it?” She chewed her lip, thinking it over. Two points had stood out to her: Bakugou wanted an emphasis on full, dynamic characters, and he preferred that the characters interact closely before mentioning the possibility of feelings for each other.
“Yeah. I mean, he doesn’t want to read something superficial, right?” Kyouka shrugged, plucking a low note. An A flat, Momo guessed, though her ear wasn’t nearly as accurate.
“Yes, that’s a good way to put it.”
“So what’s wrong?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? “It just… all seems so subjective.”
For instance, the characters Kazue and Ren interacted plenty, and each had life goals and standout traits, but Bakugou still hadn’t liked that manga. Momo felt like she was missing a clear direction.
Kyouka played the note again, adjusted sharper this time. “Yeah, it is. But maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way.” She paused, then set the bass aside, drawing her leg underneath herself on the bed to face Momo. “Maybe we’re focusing too much about the parts of the whole, and not why those are the things he wants to read.”
Momo frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, you know how Ashido called him unromantic?” At her nod, Kyouka went on, “If you think about it, that’s just how we see him. Maybe Bakugou’s just working with a different definition of romance than the rest of us, and we should really be asking what he’d call even love.”
A love story that matters to him.
“And what would you say is the answer?”
Kyouka scratched the back of her head, like that embarrassed her. “I mean, I don’t know. But from what you told me and what he’s said himself, I feel like it starts with deep connection. The kind of loyalty and trust you get from being a hero duo, and stuff like that.”
Momo hummed thoughtfully, a little crestfallen by the vague answer, and Kyouka must’ve noticed because she added, “I think he’d like a manga that examines the idea of love, honestly. You mentioned he said all those relationships were in ‘cookie-cutter boxes,’ right? And how their friend groups put all kinds of expectations on them?”
“Right.” That was her takeaway, at least.
“Maybe he’s more romantic than we give him credit for.” Kyouka’s smile curved up, and she nudged Momo with her earphone jack. “Maybe, to him, love isn’t real unless there’s proof it came from the heart. Not from just… looking like a couple, or being pressured by other people.”
That was particularly philosophical, coming from her, but it made sense. Inexplicably, Momo felt her face warm. “Is that…” She was sorry to ask. “Is that how you feel about love?”
Kyouka’s resultant blush was all the answer she needed. “I—well, I think I’m still figuring that stuff out, but I’m just saying I think about it, sometimes. Like how sometimes you want to be friends with a guy without it turning into a big deal. Or if you’re friends with a girl, but—”
She cut herself off with a shake of her head, lifting the bass off the bed and slinging the strap around her shoulder.
“But…?”
“Eh, never mind.” Kyouka plucked at the third string. She’d never finished tuning. “My point is, I think you should think outside the box.”
Momo considered her options.
Outside the box. That meant a lot of things, and she wondered how far she could stray before a story no longer qualified as romance.
Well, some series came to mind, at least. She hadn’t considered them before, because they didn’t fall neatly into the fluffy categories that Kaminari had pushed her towards, but they were still possibilities. A tragic romance about pianists. A classic romance about supernatural cats.
There was one in particular she felt was a strong contender. A long series, not even finished yet, and the main characters weren’t even together, exactly, but that could be a good thing; their romance was slow, putting far more emphasis on their friendship, and in a sense, the story interrogated what it meant to care for each other, especially as it progressed.
The main girl spent a lot of time separating her personal feelings from outside influences. The main boy felt that nursing a crush was less important than friendship, so he wanted to be friends. And their friend group wasn’t too partitioned by gender, she felt, although now that she was considering it, the sheer number of stories upholding that divide staggered her.
She decided to drop the tankobon off that afternoon. The moment the class returned from their hero duties, she showered, changed, and retrieved a copy from the closest library, which was battered from the war, but still stocked and functioning.
A handful of her classmates were eating dinner when she got back. Kaminari had cooked, and Midoriya was gently explaining seasoning to him; Momo didn’t have the self-worth to compare it to her own cooking, so she decided to eat later.
She wasn’t sure if Bakugou would be in his room, but she knocked regardless.
“Bakugou-san?”
No answer. Well, she could leave the book outside his room and text him. Just as she turned to leave, though, the door opened, and a head of blond hair and two red eyes greeted her.
“What?”
His voice was level, his T-shirt rumpled, hanging in a way that made her realize just how much muscle mass he’d lost since the war. Well, of course. On account of his injury, he had to keep exercise light.
Maybe he’d been sleeping, she realized. It was awfully rude to wake him up out of nowhere.
“I, ah,” she said. His glare was dispassionate, as if he didn’t have the energy to be mad. “I found another manga you might want to try. This one is on loan from the library, though, and it’s a series, so it might be better to read the rest online.” Since he’d been given phone access back.
His expression didn’t change. “Sure, whatever.”
She took a step away awkwardly, unsure why his demeanor seemed so lackluster. “Alright, then.”
“I’ll get it back in a day or two.”
“That’s alright, take your time.”
He didn’t move, and she felt she ought to say more.
“Are you…” She hesitated, hoping to express concern without setting him off. “Getting enough sleep? I could make earplugs.”
It wasn’t as though he could hear the voices of their classmates downstairs, but still. It might still have been grounds for a snappy response, but he only muttered, “Don’t need ‘em. That all?”
He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. The injured one was no longer bound to a sling, but it still looked uncomfortable to pose in such a way.
“That’s all.” Momo chewed her lip, and before he could shut the door—“Just, one more thing.”
He waited. Still so subdued, and she couldn’t tell why.
What does love mean to you?
She cleared her throat. “Um. Never mind, I’m sorry.”
The old Bakugou would’ve snapped at her for apologizing. Or at least complained about her wasting his time. And maybe this was just him showing emotional maturity, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something else.
“S’fine,” he muttered, and the door shut between them.