Chapter Text
The applause didn’t feel like something Bakugo was standing in, so much as something that was just happening to him.
It pressed in from every direction, heavy and constant, like the entire auditorium had become a single living thing made of sound and expectation. Lights from the stage rigs burned against his eyes, too bright and too clean, washing everything in gold and white until the edges of reality blurred. Somewhere in the distance, his name kept getting repeated like a chant, like a conclusion everyone had already agreed on long before he ever stepped onto this stage.
Number One Hero.
Dynamight.
The winner.
He adjusted his grip on the award without really meaning to. The metal was polished smooth, almost cold enough to sting against his palm despite the heat of the room. It should have felt like victory. It should have felt like proof. Something solid and undeniable after years of blood, sweat, broken bones, and sleepless nights that had all been justified by the promise of this exact moment.
Instead, it just felt… quiet.
Too quiet inside his own head.
He lifted his gaze again, partly out of habit, partly because standing still and accepting everything without moving felt wrong. The crowd was still on its feet, still clapping, still shouting his name like it meant something sacred. Cameras flashed in violent bursts, capturing angles of him that would be replayed, analyzed, turned into headlines by morning.
Bakugo Dynamight becomes Number One Hero.
Bakugo Dynamight fulfills destiny.
Bakugo Dynamight proves the world right.
Except none of it reached him properly.
Because his eyes had already drifted away.
He told himself it was accidental at first. A reflex. A habit from years of scanning battlefields, of checking surroundings, of never letting his guard down even when there was no danger left to fight. That was what he told himself.
But his eyes still found him anyway.
Izuku Midoriya sat near the front rows, surrounded by familiar faces that had once been too loud, too chaotic, too close. They were older now. Sharper around the edges. Even Kirishima looked less like a teenager trying to be strong and more like someone who actually was.
And Izuku—
Izuku looked like someone who had finally stopped apologizing for existing.
That alone should have been fine.
Bakugo had wanted that, hadn’t he? He’d spent years dragging him forward, yelling at him, forcing him to keep up, demanding he survive, demanding he grow.
So why did it feel like something in his chest tightened at the sight of it?
Izuku was smiling.
Not the fragile kind he used to wear in school when he was trying too hard to convince everyone he belonged. Not the strained expression he used when he was injured but refused to admit it.
This was different.
This was easy.
Natural.
Like he didn’t have to think about it at all.
Bakugo’s jaw tightened before he even realized it.
And then he saw her.
Uraraka Ochako sat beside Izuku like she had always been meant to be there. Their shoulders brushed occasionally when they shifted, small unconscious movements that didn’t look planned or staged or performed for anyone watching. And then there were their hands.
Intertwined.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that demanded attention.
Just… existing like that.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Bakugo looked away immediately.
The applause didn’t change. The lights didn’t change. Nothing in the room acknowledged that anything had shifted at all.
But something inside him did.
He tightened his grip on the trophy again, harder this time, like pressure alone could force whatever this feeling was back down where it belonged. It was stupid. It was pointless. It didn’t matter. Izuku could do whatever he wanted. Uraraka could do whatever she wanted. Everyone could do whatever they wanted.
None of it had anything to do with him.
He was Number One.
That was the only thing that mattered.
That was supposed to be the only thing that mattered.
The presenter’s voice cut through the noise, calling him forward. Bakugo moved because there was nothing else to do, because standing still in front of thousands of people while his own thoughts started to fracture didn’t feel like an option. The microphone was placed in his hand. The crowd began to settle slightly, anticipation replacing celebration.
This was the moment.
This was what he had worked for.
He stared out at them.
All of them looking at him like he was something worth remembering.
His eyes drifted again.
Izuku was watching him.
Of course he was.
There was something steady in that gaze. Something familiar. Something that had been there since they were children shouting at each other across school hallways and training fields and broken battle sites.
Pride.
Admiration.
That same look Izuku always gave him, like Bakugo was something worth chasing even when he didn’t understand why.
And for a moment, Bakugo felt something sharp twist inside his chest.
Because Izuku was proud of him.
He had always been proud of him.
But that wasn’t the same as choosing him.
The microphone crackled slightly when he finally spoke.
“Thanks.”
A laugh rippled through the audience, immediate and familiar. It eased some of the tension in the room like everyone had been waiting for permission to breathe again.
Bakugo exhaled slowly through his nose.
“I’m not gonna stand here and give some long speech,” he continued, voice rougher than he intended. “I’m still aiming higher.”
More applause followed instantly, louder this time, like they understood exactly what they wanted him to be saying.
But Bakugo wasn’t looking at them anymore.
He was looking at Izuku again.
And Izuku was still smiling.
Like this was everything it was supposed to be.
Like it made sense.
Like nothing about this moment was wrong.
Bakugo stepped back from the microphone.
The ceremony moved on without him.
The world kept celebrating.
The title was real. The award was real. The rankings were real. Everything he had worked for had finally collapsed into a single undeniable fact:
He had won.
So why did it feel like, somewhere along the way, he had lost something he didn’t even realize he was holding?