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After the war, Bakugou’s hand required several hours of rehabilitation. Hours spent at the doctor’s office, home exercises, special ointments, and exercises he had to perform regularly at set intervals to relax his muscles, get his bones moving, and get his hand working as it should. Several times a day, he had to let his hand hang down by his side as it tingled, and he wasn’t allowed to make any sudden movements to get rid of that unpleasant sensation. Sometimes it was annoying—and mostly painful—but his own desire and conviction constantly drove him not to give up. He was Katsuki Bakugou—he never backed down from anything, and this was just another challenge he intended to overcome. He’d always tell himself, “I’m no fucking wimp!” and try even harder.
A month later, during a bandage change, the doctor praised him for his diligence and hard work. Still, that wasn’t enough for him—he wanted to recover quickly, use his hand to its fullest, and fly through the air like before. “You can’t rush this, Mr. Bakugou,” the doctor told him gently when he noticed the fire in his eyes, “but some light manual work might help you recover faster.”
No one could have expected Bakugou to let it go. It was yet another challenge. And he rose to the challenge, winning and setting records.
His first try was origami. In a single afternoon, he folded a thousand paper cranes. They were absolutely perfect, geometrically precise. They were so sharp that Kaminari cut himself so deeply on one of them that he had to be taken to the infirmary. Bakugou just rolled his eyes and told his friend he was being way too dramatic, even though the nurse asked him how long the knife must have been that cut him. But Bakugou didn’t enjoy folding for long. He didn’t mind the routine, but the inability to put the origami to further use made it lose its meaning for him. Although he did use most of the cranes as throwing stars every time someone in the main room chewed or laughed too loudly.
He tried to follow in his father’s footsteps, who loved everything about trees, flowers, and gardening. Their garden bloomed year-round and bore several kinds of fruit; he also grew vegetables and arranged a new bouquet of flowers for Mitsuki every week. So he decided to take up bonsai, bought a pair of tiny scissors, and set to work shaping them. He sculpted them, carefully trimming every leaf. Under his stern gaze, the bonsai seemed to straighten themselves. But it was boring—the trees grew so slowly.
Next came assembling and painting miniatures. His parents had been saving a lot of money for him in an account since childhood, so he was able to buy the most expensive and largest set right away. With microscopic tweezers, a face mask, and a scalpel in hand, he shaped the figures, glued them, assembled them, and put them together into the dioramas he was creating. Then he moved on to painting; using only the tiniest brushes, he was able to render even the smallest details and shade the armor. Midoriya drooled over his precision and tried to steal the figures for his own games. “Breathe on them one more time, and I’ll ram that scalpel so deep into your throat I’ll give you a tracheostomy!” He threatened him, but in the end, after two weeks, he let Midoriya have them. He enjoyed creating them, but since he wasn’t the type to enjoy board games or other cooperative games (he’d rather turn on his computer and blast away at a bunch of enemies until he was the best sniper), he gave up on that hobby as well.
One weekend, Sato, with the best of intentions, asked Bakugou if he would help him decorate gingerbread cookies with royal icing. He gave him a piping bag with the thinnest tip so he could try making delicate border designs. He was hoping to help a friend and perhaps finally teach someone something new through his own hobby. But it seemed pointless. Within moments, Bakugou had grasped the system of decorating, and after a few hours of manual labor, Sato received a batch of gingerbread cookies with baroque patterns and precise little roses, which Sato forbade anyone from eating and declared it was a national treasure. Bakugou stole one gingerbread cookie for himself and ate half of it on the way to his room, tossing the rest away at school. He hated sweets. It bothered him how much his hands smelled of sugar. His nitroglycerin sweat already smelled like caramel in the heat, and he couldn’t stand that smell.
A few aggressive, shouting outbursts in class later, Aizawa brought him a ship-in-a-bottle kit with an ironic smirk. Supposedly, it was to help him learn to control his anger. Bakugou nearly chewed through the desk he was sitting at. As he struggled to thread a piece of twine through the narrow neck of the glass using a pair of thin tweezers, he cursed so viciously, elaborately, and creatively that Iida had to cover his ears and leave the room. To the surprise of everyone passing by, however, he didn’t break the bottle. By the next day, he had assembled a perfect replica of a Spanish galley. He slyly returned it to his homeroom teacher and went off to find something else—something that would entertain him so much he wouldn’t want to stop.
Ashido once suggested that he try his hand at embroidery. She designed her own patterns for her clothes because she found the ones from the store “boring” and “dull.” Bakugou never understood why she bought such awful pieces with garish colors, but instead of answering, she shoved her embroidery kit into his hands and waited to see what he’d come up with. What she didn’t expect was a photorealistic embroidery of All Might—perfect shading, not a single flaw, everything clean and even. She looked at it admiringly, wondering what she would do with the portrait. Bakugou had snatched it for himself and refused to give it back. The pricked fingers from the needle didn’t bother him that much, and he actually admitted that he was enjoying it, but something was still missing. He was close, though.
So he tried his hand at making jewelry. There was a time when everyone in their class used to make their own bracelets. Why not go back to that? It seemed childish, but it was a good activity for his fine motor skills. He sorted beads, threaded strings, and sewed elastic. He created geometric and floral patterns. Uraraka walked around his creations admiringly and wanted some for herself. But Bakugou preferred to unravel them instead and create something else. Uraraka puffed out her cheeks cutely, but she didn’t give up. One day, however, Mineta joined her and asked him to make him a bracelet featuring a woman’s bust with erect nipples. Before he could even let a drop of saliva fall onto the table where he was working, Bakugou wrapped a bracelet with daisy patterns around his neck—patterns that dug into his skin. It was small enough that he could fasten it. He wore it in humiliation for three days before Aizawa cut it off with scissors and lectured the purple-haired boy on proper behavior.
It still wasn’t quite right, but he told himself that maybe things would change if he started creating for others. The thought terrified him. Ever since he’d apologized to Izuku, they’d become friends, the truth about One for All had come out, and there had been a war; he’d softened. He could feel it in himself. He was opening his heart more to people, and he didn’t like it. He was just wondering whether Jirou would prefer a black-and-white or a black-and-purple bracelet when he walked past a store window displaying yarn. He stopped, looked at the price of the red yarn, and headed back to the dorm with a new hobby instead of beads.
That’s how Bakugou discovered knitting—a hobby that ultimately stuck with him long after he no longer needed it.
Perhaps it had something to do with his internship at Best Jeanist, but working with yarn unexpectedly suited him. He discovered that the fluid, rhythmic movement of the needles was exactly what his stiff joints and tendons needed for a perfect recovery. And as with everything else—he became an unrivaled master at knitting as well. He knitted at machine-gun speed. The needles clicked metallically in his hands. The stitches were perfectly tight, the patterns flawless.
Summer struck with hellish force. Temperatures soared to tropical levels, and knitting woolen hats and scarves no longer made sense, even as a form of rehabilitation. Despite this, he had no intention of giving up his newly discovered hobby. Instead, he smoothly transitioned to cotton yarn, bamboo fibers, and intricate lace and eyelet patterns. The delicate work with fine needles suddenly became all the more essential for his hand, and thanks to it, he began to feel much more sensitivity in it. He created lightweight summer cover-ups for swimsuits, breathable mesh tank tops, and beach tunics. His speed put even a fully automated textile factory to shame.
It didn’t take long before he started knitting for others. He’d insist furiously while doing so that he had “too much yarn and that stupid closet won’t even close because of it, so here you go, you idiots!” but everyone who knew him as more than just a loudmouth hero knew there was a hidden message behind the gesture. Ojiro was very surprised when Bakugou once threw a light beach cover-up at him in the main room, saying, “Tail, catch!” It had a hole for his tail in exactly the shape he needed so that the fabric wouldn’t cut into his soft, sensitive skin. Todoroki received an asymmetrical beach shirt from him, half of which was embroidered with cooling bamboo and the other half made of combed wool—designed precisely so that his body could regulate its temperature properly in such heat and he wouldn’t harm himself with his Quirk if he got too cold or overheated. Todoroki hadn’t even had a chance to thank him when Bakugou had already walked past him and gone to sit in his room to work on another of his creations.
One muggy evening, when Bakugou wanted some peace and quiet away from everyone, he was sitting on the balcony, knitting a tank top for his mother, who was suffering from sunburn, when Kirishima appeared on the balcony next door. He greeted him, and Bakugou knew right away that something was wrong. His voice was quiet and frightened. He frowned and looked at him. “What?” he asked irritably. His friend walked over to the edge of the balcony that separated them. He had one hand behind his back. He was nervous. That wasn’t like him. It had to be something important.
“Bakugou, since you’re knitting right now…” He paused. He swallowed. He was gathering the courage to ask. He was his best friend. They knew more about each other than was healthy; they’d been through so much together—happy, sad, and embarrassing moments. There was no reason for him to be this nervous.
Bakugou set his knitting needles down on the small table next to his chair and stood up. He walked to the edge, just a short distance from Kirishima. “Spit it out.”
“I was wondering if you could knit something for me to wear to practice,” he asked him.
No one had ever approached him about this before. Everyone just waited to see who he would choose next and vied with one another over the beautiful things he had created for them. Bakugou’s heart leapt. He liked it when people praised him and sought out his opinions, experience, and knowledge. He knew he was one of the best at many things. But whenever Kirishima asked him for something, he felt not only proud of himself but also flattered. Kirishima’s smile, which formed wrinkles around his eyes, made Bakugou’s knees go weak. He hoped no one had noticed.
“What do you want?”
“A tank top. I even bought you some yarn.”
Bakugou frowned. He liked being able to choose his own materials. “Let me see. If it’s some crappy synthetic stuff, I’ll throw you right off that balcony with it.” Kirishima laughed, finally pulling his hand from behind his back and handing the yarn to Bakugou. There were three skeins, all cotton blended with spandex. It was a good quality yarn—comfortable to work with and well-ventilated. But what caught Bakugou’s attention were the colors he’d chosen: pink, dark blue, and purple. He looked at his friend, gritted his teeth, occasionally ran his tongue over his lips, and his eyes darted between the yarn and Bakugou. “Those… Those are colors—”
“I know what those colors are; I’m not some uneducated idiot.” He tried to sound as nonchalant as ever to reassure Kirishima.
Kirishima began rubbing his fingers together. “Does that bother you?”
Bakugou pretended not to hear him. “Do you want a regular fitted tank top or a loose one?”
“Fitted.”
“Alright. Tomorrow afternoon. Come pick it up at three. Right on time.”
Kirishima hadn’t even had a chance to thank him before Bakugou had already shut himself in his room. He sketched out a simple design, made sure to arrange the colors in the correct order—just like on the bisexual pride flag—and set to work knitting. He hadn’t slept. At school, all he could think about was for everything to be over so he could return to his room and finish the tank top.
Just as he was cutting the last thread that would otherwise ruin his perfect creation, Kirishima knocked on the door and walked right in. He knew he didn’t have to announce himself. He’d had free access to Bakugou’s room ever since they moved into the dorm. “Wow,” Kirishima whispered as Bakugou stood up and handed him the tank top. “That’s great, Bakugou.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t be able to do it?”
“Of course not.” With that, he put his arm around his friend’s shoulders and pulled him slightly closer. “Thank you, Bakugou.” Bakugou was already reaching out to return the hug, but Kirishima had already pulled away. He left his arms hanging awkwardly in the air. Fortunately, Kirishima didn’t comment on it. “I’ll wear it tomorrow to Aizawa’s practice with 3-B. Hopefully no one will say anything stupid.”
“No one’s going to say a damn thing, or else I’ll beat them up. I’m sure Denki would have a few choice words for them, too.”
Kirishima laughed. Bakugou was right. His friends always stood by him. No matter what. He squeezed the tank top in his hands a little tighter. “I hope… I don’t run away like a coward again.”
Bakugou stepped closer to him. He looked into his face, and when he saw the dark shadow of depression trying to surface, he quickly flicked Kirishima on the nose. The redhead winced in pain. “You’re not a fucking coward, Eijirou. Chin up.”
Kirishima’s eyes glistened. Maybe with joy, maybe with tears. He just nodded and smiled sincerely at Bakugou. Bakugou smiled back. His heart skipped a beat. He liked that idiot. Maybe a little too much.
And that’s exactly why Bakugou decided to kick Kirishima out and lock himself in his room. He still had a lot of work to do. What Kirishima didn’t know was that that very night, Bakugou had found out which store sold the yarn he’d given him. He ordered express delivery, and before classes even started, Aizawa handed him the package that had arrived at his office. As their homeroom teacher, he had to check all their packages.
While Kirishima was contentedly dozing in his room, Bakugou was knitting like crazy. He needed to finish it in time for it to work out. He wanted to do something for Kirishima—a gesture that would show him just how much he cared.
A few hours later, still in the morning, before the sun had reached its zenith, Classes 3-A and 3-B were already standing on the practice field. Everyone was sweating. The heat was crazy.
Kirishima was one of the last to emerge from the locker room. He was wearing the tank top Bakugou had made for him. The stripes flowed seamlessly from one to the next, and the mesh fabric revealed his well-defined muscles. He tried to stand up straight, but his heart was pounding wildly. Sero whistled at him as he walked past, and Ashido proudly gave him a thumbs-up. He felt a little safer. But he also felt burning stares on his back. It gave him goosebumps.
Before he could sink into his thoughts, the locker room door flew open again – hard and loud. It was always Bakugou who entered that way. Kirishima turned to look at him and opened his mouth in surprise. He was wearing an identical tank top of the same cut. The stretchy mesh hugged his chest, and the holes revealed all the scars from the war. But what caught everyone’s attention were the colors he was wearing—sharp transitions between black, gray, white, and purple.
The whole class held its breath; some began to whisper. Bakugou walked over to his best friend, fastening black power-ups to his injured hands. He gazed into Kirishima’s eyes with his crimson ones. His face showed pride and solidarity. He almost burst into tears right then and there.
Bakugou growled loudly, “What are you all staring at? Let’s go train, you losers!” Everyone immediately snapped back to reality and began training. No one paid them much attention anymore—or perhaps they were just good at hiding it. Kirishima didn’t care. His eyes never strayed from his best friend, who, whenever he caught his gaze, would smile at him and wink.
Summer promised to be even hotter, but with the right colors on, he knew they could handle anything.