Archive of Our Own

Bullshit.

His fingers dig deep into his pockets with force. Though his silhouette stretched ahead, mirroring his hunched posture, it failed to reflect the frustration carved into his features. Pressing against his back is the sun – more symbolic than scorching – as he distances himself from his home, stepping away from its embrace. Not that it matters—the warmth was an illusion, and damn that old hag.

Is he leaving with a container of her mabo dofu? Yes, but only because she wouldn't take a no for an answer—His father’s smile as he enjoyed the second serving means nothing, he's just naturally sentimental.

His shadow mockingly mimics his steps, Katsuki clicks his tongue.

Maybe today could have been the day his mother decided not to be a pain in the ass—but no, she’s still unbearably insufferable. She was nagging him with, "Be nicer to the cameras, Katsuki.” He knows full well the media dreads him. Honestly, it’s great that those vultures hesitate before pestering him with their dumb questions.

Sure, he needs public support to rise in the rankings, but damn. He sends a pebble skittering down the sidewalk.

There is no one on the street, so he scoffs at the memory.

Even now, he could almost taste the air of home, alive with the spices fragrant his mother had chosen for their meal.

The air swayed with the whisper of shoyu and chili sauce.

He had barely finished his second bite when conversation subtly shifted from family gossip to the trajectory of his career. Parents will be parents. Fuck.

With a scrunched nose, he mumbles his mother’s words in a high-pitched, whining tone, “It's really wonderful to see that little Izuku is growing up,” his voice dripping with mockery.

“Hmm, it's satisfying, isn’t it? Do you two still meet up to train, Katsuki?" his father asked, his gaze dripping with warmth, unbothered by the reply. "Yeah yeah, Deku has his own personal stalkers now, asking to watch us fighting.”

"Don't call the students that, Katsuki." He threw his head back slightly, dragging out the vowels with an exaggerated eye roll.

Three houses ahead, a cat perched on a wall watches him, its black tail swinging.

“Yeah, she's a pain, isn't she?”

Staring blankly, the cat flicks its ears at his words before leaping into someone's yard.

He clicked his tongue and stepped through a bush, making the branch snap before his next words.

“He’s still awkward in front of the cameras, that kid.” His mother said.

“Despite the cape, he’s still just a nerd.”

As affectionate as a Bakugo Katsuki could manage, he said it—but his mother wasn’t one to miss an opportunity to poke fun at him.

"Well, brat, at least he makes sure everyone knows he’s there to protect them.”

He snorts, the sun no longer shining on his back as he turns a corner.

“Hey man, looks like we arrived together!”

Red thorns flood his vision, Katsuki greets them, "Hey, shitty hair.”

He's in regular clothes, his shift starts in an hour, and he's here to get the lunch he should have packed. Big sturdy hero Red Riot is still the same as he was in UA.

Ugh. The sun didn’t totally disappear when he turned the corner after all.

His voice drowned out the echo of his mother’s in his head—cheerfulness wrapped in teasing. “Dude, Fatgum gave me some sweet buns and I had told him I hadn’t eaten anything yet.”

“Because your brain is covered in gel.”

Kirishima ignores him. “So I brought them for you.” He says.

Katsuki only now realizes he’s carrying a bag as well.

He hands it over with a grin. “Hey, take it as a thank you for bringing that bento.”

It makes him take his hands out of his pocket, the packed lunch poking his thigh because of the switch. Great, it's still warm.

“Here, my old hag said hi.” Katsuki gives him the bag.

In fact, she kept nagging him to bring Eijiro over, throwing his name around just to make it clear she was still talking to him behind his back. “Why should I call him Kirishima? That boy treats me better than you do.”

The previous conversation echoes in his mind, but instead of sinking into it, he grabs the bag the other is offering. “Hmph, Better be good.”

You need to be softer in front of the cameras brat, right honey?

Kirishima holds the meal pack up in front of his face, the corners of his lips tugging upward as he catches a whiff of the warm food steam.

Katsuki stared at the box, his mom’s words playing on repeat in his brain.
The urge to mutter something bitter crept up, but then Kirishima made this little happy sound, and it totally threw him off.

You need to be softer in front of the cameras brat, right honey?

He looks at Bakugou. “I bet those sweets are good,” he says, lowering the bag and tilting his head with a grateful smile. “But not better than this one—this smells amazing, man.”

You need to be softer

The red in those eyes gleamed golden, sunlight flickering like it was alive in them. Katsuki stared, completely caught up in the glow swirling at the center of that gaze.

“Don’t eat too much if you don’t want to get sluggish on patrol.” He shoved his free hand into his pocket.

Kirishima stuck out his lower lip in protest. “Don’t boss me around, bro! Your mom’s cooking is seriously awesome.”

In front of the cameras

Bakugou clicks his tongue.

A flicker of amusement lit Kirishima’s face, his expression morphing from sulky to boldly teasing. “Maybe it’s even better than yours.”

You should be softer

He scowled, “Ugh?” then snapped, “Say that again and you’re banned from my kitchen!”

The idiot with the shitty hair was laughing at him. “Just the kitchen?” he choked briefly between laughs. “Does that mean I can still crash on your couch?”

He arched a brow.

“Why would you even want to stay on that excuse for furniture?”

Kirishima cracked up even harder. “Bro, stop hating on your own couch already!”

Katsuki grumbled, “I regret buying that damn abomination every single day.”

“It was cheap! Either sit on a bad couch or have none at all!” Kirishima replies.

“Still unconvinced,” Katsuki stands with a wrinkled nose. “Honestly? The stupid floor probably beat that disaster of a couch. That thing has a freakish power for swallowing people in its mushy foam.”

They exchange a look.

Kirishima’s face softened, brows easing as he murmured, “It’s nice talking to you before work.”

Katsuki could relate. His mother’s voice was less annoying in his head now. What stuck around was the savory smell and the comforting ripple of a laugh he knew by heart.

You need to be softer in front of the cameras

Kirishima shifts feet, his body turning away, but he looked him in the eyes. “We’re still grabbing lunch at that new ramen shop, right?”

Right, honey?

“Right, honey.” Bakugo replies, smirking, “Just to make you finally quit raving about how awesome that place is.”

Kirishima freezes, wide eyes like a deer in the headlights.

It took Katsuki a few seconds after the words had already left his mouth—then it hit him, slamming into his mind like a train. The meaning of the lapse settled in and let his lips dry.

They both breath hitched.

“Ok, great” Kirishima tries to laugh it off, “I'm going now,” He points out, voice quietened, turning around and leaving Katsuki standing there like he just witnessed a car accident.

It was the first time Katsuki accidentally called Kirishima by a pet name, and it was entirely his mother's fault. He walked all the way home with his mind completely blank. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last time he did something like this.

…

The second time it happens he is on patrol when he hears giggles.

He gives the two girls across the street an indifferent look. As he adjusts his gauntlets, his steps falter just long enough to hear, “Red Riot is such a pretty boy!” The phrase halts him mid-step, his eyebrow shoots up involuntarily.

“He definitely will be in the top 10 most beautiful pro heroes!” They exchange grins, “I didn't get my attention on him until I saw him clearly, the boy is pretty.”

“Isn't he?” One of the girls nods, “Remember when he saved that dog and got his hair all wet?” she sighs dreamily, and Bakugo rolls his eyes.

He leaves them behind, and the last thing he hears in the background is, “Look at those eyelashes—definitely topping the rank!”

The conversation doesn’t stay in Bakugo’s mind. He spends the rest of the day taking down villains and dealing with Jeanist. It’s only by the time he gets home that the ranking—something he hadn’t known about before—crosses his mind.

He’s only stopping by to swap outfits, just long enough to head out again and meet the spiky guy these chicks were talking about.

At the time he sat on a table waiting for that dumbass, he had already said the word “pretty” in his mind enough times to warrant a linguistic thesis. He knows It's not a code, there's no need to read into it. Still, they were talking about his friend. (And Bakugo is self-aware enough since UA to accept that the idiot was, in fact, his friend. Yeah he matured.) And calling a guy who was always trying to look fierce by such a delicate word was totally off.

It doesn’t take long for Kirishima to show up. He sits across from him with the ease of someone who knows he’s welcome. Bakugou’s eyes flick to his eyelids, then shift into a deliberately weary glare—just because he can, a subtle riot against the idiot’s relentless optimism.

Kirishima gives him a gentle smile and sinks into his seat.

“Did you already order something?” The words settle naturally into the room’s inviting hush. Katsuki catches sight of those pointed teeth and, for a second, wonders if they could pass as “pretty.” Personally, he thought they were way too tough for that.

“Nah,” he answered. “Just got here.”

Kirishima hums and throws an arm over the chair. "Can we get that pork special?” It’s more a declaration than a question. "You can ask for your deadly spices if you want," he adds, shrugging carelessly, as if they both didn’t know the chef treats his menu like sacred scripture.

"You're insufferable," Bakugo says, hand raised to place the order.

Kirishima’s lips twitch, barely holding back a grin. Bakugo exhales dramatically, like someone who's being dragged into a deal he has no choice to oppose at any time. He has.

“It’s cheaper,” Kirishima points out. Katsuki shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut, as if he’s not blatantly letting red get ramen for half the price.

The truth is, Bakugo had mellowed over time. Taking Kirishima’s suggestions without much resistance and often just going along with whatever he set up.

Is he somehow turning into his father?

Some trace of horror must show on his face, because the other just chuckles softly and shifts into a comfortable silence. While Katsuki tries to sidestep away from a weird mid-adulthood crisis. What had he been thinking about again? Anything to hold on to. Anything but him turning into a wimp like his father.

Oh right, semantics. Something about pretty things.

He blinks at Kirishima making their order and snaps back at he clearing his throat.

“You’re furrowing your brow,” he states, narrowing his eyes toward Bakugo in silent emphasis. For a brief moment, his lashes nearly brush his cheeks.

Bakugo shrugs.

Kirishima tilts his head, letting Katsuki stare at him unbothered.

These few minutes make Bakugo notice how soft his skin is despite his quirk. How his eyes are feline shaped, with bright red that seem to embrace every hue around them.

The table is quickly filled with two bowls of ramen. Bakugo’s fingers flinch toward the chopsticks, but he doesn’t move. He just watches Kirishima lean in delighted, palms wrapped around the bowl, unfazed by the heat.

Joy isn’t the kind of thing he describe as pretty. But if it ever wore a face—if it ever tried to be anything more than a feeling—it might look a lot like Kirishima.

Just semantics, really.

Bakugo isn't blind. Each of the guy’s features is beautiful in its own way, harmonious as a whole, and captivating when combined with his presence. Without charisma, what good would those eyes be? They would be just another glaze. Teeth would remain hidden in shadow without a smile, his spirit is what makes it all matters, and how. It's Kirishima who manages to make himself beautiful.

His smile alone earns him a spot among the top 10 most beautiful heroes—but with his laugh, he’d rank even higher.

Those girls were right.

“You are a pretty boy.” Bakugou proclaims and then immediately shoves ramen into his own mouth.

Maybe the word 'ranking' triggered something in his mind, and his instinct was to shoot straight to the top. Not that he was actually admitting anything — even if it sounded like he was — he was just pointing out something he heard.

Kirishima stops blowing on his bowl. His mouth hung slightly open.

He freezes, like a bell absorbing the waves resounding through the core. His hands hover just above the ramen, not quite touching it, trembling slightly for a moment when before they were soaking in the warmth.

Bakugo’s a bit fed up with himself—can he please fire the brain-to-mouth filter that keeps mixing up his sentences? Time to hire a new one.

Kirishima slowly lifts his gaze to him, his palms turning toward the table.

“Ahn?”

He looks completely lost.

“Some girls called you a pretty boy." he clarifies, then adds with a hint of curiosity, “Did you know there was a top 10 list of the most handsome heroes?”

Kirishima wrinkles his nose, eyes gathering on Bakugo 's face.

“Uh, yeah,” he swallowed hard, “Kaminari told me about it.”

He peers at Bakugo, battered his eyelashes while mechanically starts to eat.

Bakugou claps eyes on the action, distantly thinking about cats.

A quiet warmth bloomed in his stomach as he shamelessly watched Kirishima slurp his food, letting the feeling nestle behind his ribs when a soft hum of satisfaction escaped his mouth. Bakugo follows him, taking a bite, intrigued by how it didn’t quite stir the same warmth in him.

A kind of resigned sigh escapes Kirishima, a soft smile returning to his lips. “They'll realise the results after tomorrow.”

Shitty hair sips a bit of the broth, some of it dripping down his chin, and he runs his tongue to clean it. Clumsy idiot.

“This is stupid.” Bakugo scoffs.

Kirishima paused, thoughtful. "I don't think so," he said, bringing a finger to his chin. "People can cheer for their favorites." He clenched his fist with a grin. "And that's totally manly!"

Bakugo clicked his tongue. "The only ranking that matters is the one where I'm number one." Kirishima let out a chuckle.

"Yeah, I figured you wouldn't care about that," he says, glancing at him casually before turning his attention to his food.

He mumbles between bites, “Doubt I'll be on it,” He props his face on one hand, “I also wouldn’t even care to look.”

Bakugo shot him a glance, but Kirishima just met it with an easy, unbothered gaze.

Katsuki paused briefly. “You aren't as bad as a dunce face.” He remarks.

Kirishima bit his tongue, "What was that?"

Bakugo frowned. "Whatever," he muttered, going back to chewing with renewed aggression.

Staring wide-eyed at his food, Kirishima sank his face into his hand, “You really think so?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Kirishima shut up.” Bakugo growled through his teeth.

He couldn’t care less about that ‘who’s hot’ nonsense.

The next day Katsuki checked the rankings online. He was kinda unfancied by the pair of lashes that they put on 7th place. These people aren't so blind, but they should improve their taste. He was surprised to find he was at 5th.

Best Jeanist was in 6th, he smugs.

Then he clecheted his teeth when he saw Todoroki in second place.

…

"This is unfair!" Kaminari complains.

"It's not that bad, there are other areas where you can shine," Kirishima tries with a smile.

Bakugo hears the whining from across the room. The red-haired girl from Class B shoots him a curious glance, but he answers with a bored eyerolls. She wisely decides that paying attention to dunce face's drama isn't a priority and goes back to chatting with that cheap iron knockoff of Kirishima.

"I didn’t even get qualified!" He moaned, slumping onto the gears of Red’s hero suit.

Bakugo holds back a sigh, fixing Best Jeanist who is still gathering mission intel with Fatgum.

He then stifles a growl when the pro hero meets his gaze and replies with a look that says, “just wait a little longer.”

In the background, Kaminari exclaims “Bakugo was in fifth place!" grabbing both shoulders of Kirishima, who just blinks, visibly thrown off. "I should’ve been in the top five—actually, maybe the ladies didn’t want to hurt the older heroes feelings by putting me in there.”

Bakugo side-eyes the ridiculous display Kaminari’s putting on and lets his lip curl with pure contempt.

"You’ll get it next time, bro!" Kirishima says, giving him two pats on the back — because that’s just the kind of nice guy he is. Which only makes the whole thing even funnier.

It’s simply because Katsuki knows that Kaminari knows who made into the ranking that he throws his head back with a wicked grin and calls out, "Hey, Pretty boy!" The words slide out without hesitation.

Both of them turn to look at him, confused, which only makes Bakugo’s grin widen. "Don’t let Pikachu make pathetic excuses for his terrible performance.”

The dumbass’s face twists into the most offended scowl imaginable, and Katsuki bursts out laughing.

Kirishima, clearly tired of dealing with the two of them, just shakes his head as Kaminari accuses Bakugo of insulting his yet-to-be-discovered beauty.

Katsuki is so caught up laughing at Pikachu that he completely misses the wide-eyed looks Class B is throwing their way.

He doesn't notice the knowing glances exchanged between Fatgum and Best Jeanist either.

…

They were weaving through some stalls at a street market.

Kirishima bumps into his shoulder, “It's great that you showed up.”

Bakugou was dragged out of his house in the morning the moment he opened the door to a redhead far too cheerful to be reasoned with. He tried to argue that staying home on his day off was the best way to be productive but he didn’t stand a chance.

He growls, scrunching his nose at Kirishima. He gets a smile in return.

His spiked hair is competing with the morning light to see which one shines brighter. He stands out in the crowd like a sore thumb.

People are gladly too caught up in their own routines to ask for autographs. At least the adults who recognize them keep a respectful distance, and the few teenagers who do see them tend to back off because of Bakugo’s scowl.

Still, Kirishima makes a point of waving to those who stare at him. He’s even gone off his way to talk with a couple of people who were too shy to approach him first.

His eyes dart around, drawn to every little thing he finds interesting—whether it's food or people.

In other words, everything.

And as soon as he tries to move away from Katsuki's side, his arm is pulled in by an automatic gesture that keeps him close. “Keep walking.”

Kirishima offers no protest and does exactly what was told.

“I still don't know what to get Fatgum.” He mentioned.

Bakugo looked at him with a sigh. “Just pick something, damn it.”

Kirishima let out a huff, eyes lit with fiery resolve. “No way! I’ve got to find something manly enough to repay him for those sweets buns.” He stopped in his tracks, planted a fist on his hip, and shot Bakugo a sharp look. “You should be helping, you know. I gave them to you.”

Bakugou shakes his head, “Don't put me into this.”

Kirishima pouts.

Rolling eyes, Bakugou reassures. “He will like anything.”

They start to walk again. “Well, I still can try my best.”

Worn out from arguing, Bakugo just shrugs. “Do whatever you want.” As Kirishima starts listing off food options, he turns him out, letting his gaze drift around the place.

They walk past two clothing stalls and a family with two kids who apparently can’t control their quirks and have turned the merchandise into giant blobs of jelly.

Kirishima raises an eyebrow at the scene, but Katsuki stops him from thinking too hard and deciding they should step in.

They don’t.

Bakugo’s criteria to act are:
a) It has to be dangerous,
b) The person has to be a jerk.

So the answer is pretty obvious.

“Focus” he demands.

As he passed a few more crowded food stalls along the street, Katsuki caught a glimpse of creamy, fluffy, colorful treats. He stopped in his tracks, leaving Red behind as he made his way toward the pie stall.

He approaches like a cat watching a light on the wall—curious and drawn to the shape. There are two people in front of him who step aside as soon as they sense his presence. The owner of the place, a middle-aged man with a metamorphic quirk that gave him rounded horns on his head—Katsuki guesses they’re from a ram, or maybe a goat?—and a curled mustache that made him look like he was smiling even without moving his mouth. As soon as he finished serving another customer, Bakugo was next in line.

“What would you like, young man?” the man asked.

Bakugo considered, looking at the display case with options like strawberry, mango, and other fruits.

“We’ve got one that’s pretty popular, our sugarpie! Simple, but it never fails,” the man said with a friendly wink.

Well, that shitty hair is probably too busy thinking about everything and nothing, so he’ll want something tasty first, and then—yeah, Bakugo knows—he’ll want dessert.

“I’ll take that one, then,” he says.

While that, Kirishima is a few steps ahead, distractedly looking at—no surprise— another stall.

“Whoa, they’ve got some amazing takoyaki here,” he exclaims, pointing to the fragrant food stall. “Can we grab some—?”

Before he can finish, Bakugo steps up holding two plates. “I already got us some sugar pie.”

"...did you just call me, sugar pie?"

He slowly turned to Bakugo, pink dust covering his dazed face. Katsuki stared into those eyes that blinked twice as he tried to process the question.

Holding the slices of pie, he frozens with confusion. “What?

Kirishima bit his lip, glancing around nervously. Did he mess up what he intended to say again?

Uh, wait.

Due to the way Bakugo's words were spaced out and the chatter from the surrounding, to anyone listening, it apparently might come off like he'd just called the guy "sugar pie".

Of all things.

“Why would you think I was calling you that?!” He blurted, still careful holding the slices of pie as his ears steamed.

He watched the whole scene of Kirishima stumbling over his words, ”Er—because,” anxiously licking his lips, "Well—excuse me!” and nearly choked on his breath, "You've kind of called me things like that before!"

Bakugo just stared at him, both hands forgotten around the pie.

Shitty hair attempts to take a deep breath, fumbling in a panic—probably drawing a lot of attention, but like hell Katsuki cares about that right now. “I mean- it's not like it's a wild thought!”

Katsuki let out a sound like static from a broken radio. "Of course it is!" he snapped.

"You're the one who's been calling me pretty boy all this time!" Kirishima shot back.

This caught him off guard.

He just blinked, totally speechless, while Kirishimaa stood there, finger out, talking like he'd been dying to get this off his chest for a while now.

"You've been calling me 'pretty boy' all week," he repeats, more confidently now, some of his earlier composure back.

“This isn’t a big deal—” Kirishima just gave him a look, “Goddamnit, it’s not like that!”

He hadn’t meant to let all those cheesy names slip out. Damn it.

Katsuki was completely called out. "It’s not that deep, alright? This is crap!”

He avoided eye contact, while Kirishima raised an eyebrow.

“Bullshit.” He muttered, looking properly chastised.

Seriously, why did he have to bring it up? Fuck kirishima for pointing Bakugou 's nonsense. Yeah.

Then he felt the other approaching, and glanced sideways with a scowl, a faint flush creeping up his neck—though it didn’t stop him from looking skeptical.

Kirishima picked up a plate, looking at him. “Thanks for the pie.”

With his free hand, Katsuki dragged it down his face, muttering incoherently.

Kirishima gave him a gentle, almost apologetic smile—one Katsuki caught through the gaps between his fingers.

"This is kinda awkward," Kirishima mumbles over a bite.

He shoots him a glare sharp as daggers. "Well, whose fault is that?"

Kirishima just smiles, cheeks full.
…
The class was all over the place. They may be professionals now—functioning adults capable of having a drink at a Izakaya—but Katsuki's former classmates are still scattered far and wide.

Despite having chosen the table near the exit, if he looked to the right, he’d see Ponytail politely signing autographs. In his line of sight, and behind Pikachu’s chatty headboard, Asui is showing fireflies through the window to Round Face. Not to mention that the smokers and a few others are outside chatting. And if he glances over his shoulder, he’ll spot someone at the bar ordering something.

He catches fragments of Ears's bantering with Pinky, seated to his left. He takes another sip of his cider, watching over the rim of his mug as Kirishima returns to the table carrying a tray of ribs.

Deku lifts his head. “Kirishima-kun,” he says, rearranging a few salt shakers on the table to make room for the plate, “you didn’t have to.”

Raccoon Eyes doesn’t hesitate—she ducks under Red’s arm and grabs a piece. “Calling dibs on this one,” she grins. Across from her, Dunce Face snatches another before Kirishima even hits the seat.

Wrinkling his nose, nerd’s sniffs. “I could’ve gone to get it, I’m closer.”

It earns him a side eye from Bakugo.

The distance hardly matters—they’re seated across from each other, equally far from the back of the bar.

But Bakugo is too comfortable in his spot beneath the yellow fairy light to say anything, so he just rolls his eyes and extends his hand toward the dish chestnuts that Kirishima generously brought closer to him.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Kirishima waves off the protest. “I was gonna get myself another round of it anyways,” he says, adjusting in his seat with a shrug.

"Well, hey there, tough guy," Kaminari drawled, leaning toward Kirishima with glassy eyes and a tipsy grin. "I'm cracking open a new bottle that's almost as hard as you—and I think it needs a partner in crime."

He and Mina clinked their glasses, laughing. Kirishima smiled at them, but Kaminari wasn’t done.

"You in for another shot, or are you gonna leave me to wrestle this bad boy alone?"

"Man," Kirishima groaned, drawing a few chuckles from around the table. "Why would I take another shot now?"

"Are you abandoning us?" Mina gasped dramatically. "‘Why would I take another shot,’ he says! The betrayal! The cowardice!"

“That's not what I meant,” Kirishima pouted, cheeks flushed from the beer. "Fine, I’m in." He raised both hands in surrender, grabbed the shot glass, and downed it in one go.

“They’re so full of energy, aren’t they?” Izuku uttered, exchanging glances between the Dumb Trio and the rest of the table. He smiled warmly. “It’s contagious!”

Pony tail giggled behind her hand, “Absolutely! Such high spirits they have,” she settled back on her seat on Ears’s side, who let out an indulgent “hm.” and took a sip of her drink.

As for Bakugo, he just watches as Racoon Eyes slaps Pikachu hard on the back, laughing out loud after he proclaims winking to Kirishima like a mantra, “We’re going to paint the town red until the night ends!”

"We are a riot unleashed tonight—” Pinky raises her glass. “Amped up and untamed and ready to blow off some steam!” she declares, shooting a quick glance at Jiro and Bakugo.

In return, Ears gave a salute with her drink.

Mina’s grin widens and then takes a sip. Kirishima and Kaminari laugh beside her, tossing her playful compliments between bursts of laughter.

Katsuki is grinding the chestnuts between his teeth with a soothing and immersive pace, making him feel like time has stood still.

He doesn't remember whose idea this meeting was, but maybe they were right to take some time to relax.

A bit hypocritical of him to think that, but he's secure in his thoughts. And as long as Kirishima doesn't stare at him for too long, he won't give away that he's actually enjoying himself.

He lets his arm dangle off the chair, and reaches for another kuri. Ears watches him humorously. He arches an eyebrow. "Can't a guy relax these days?" he grumbles, shooting her a half-hearted scowl.

He returns to a state of calm as soon as he chews another nut. His gaze settles on Kirishima, sipping his beer with an effortless ease, radiating a carefree spirit that’s almost infectious. Deku was right, after all.

Drowned out by Kirishima’s voice—at least in terms of Bakugo’s sensory priorities—Jiro leans in to offer a refill to Yaoyorozu.

Bakugo’s gaze drifts to the corner of the table, where Kirishima’s forgotten drink sits abandoned. The can of chuhai now replaced by a fresh glass of beer—where the hell did Kaminari even get that, he has no idea—and Bakugo finds himself mourning the loss of that faint peach scent that used to linger on Kirishima’s breath, now overpowered by the stench of alcohol.

Personally, Katsuki prefers lemon chuhais.

It’s more acidic and refreshing, but tonight—since Bakugo’s the one driving—he went with cider instead. Not that it’s a big loss; he doesn’t usually drink anyway. It’s something he shares with his partner—Kirishima doesn’t mind alcohol, but he definitely prefers flavored, fruity drinks.

Izuku is sharing Umeshu with Yaoyorozu because they are both light weights. Jiro is drinking beer.

Katsuki smiles.

All those people were part of his life, and even after graduation they chose to stay and keep in touch.

Everyone laughs at something Kirishima said, across the table he smiles back at Bakugo for a brief moment.

Taking another kuri, he thinks to himself.

The class is part of his life. Ugh, who would guess? Not past Bakugou for sure.

Little gremlim him just have to deal with the fact that he accepted their friendship.

Yet only those red thorns in his line of sight decided to take root—whether in Bakugo’s mind, planting memories of the two of them and making him think of the redhead at every little moment; In his body, which had grown used to Kirishima’s touch—and even longed for it; or in his heart, where roots of affection and safety wrapped around the symbolic organ, making Katsuki want to thrive and grow with Kirishima’s constant presence.

Now at this izakaya, Kirishima’s chatter with his friends is setting him alight. Making him pulse with energy, move with excitement, and brim with purpose. The background sounds folded into a vast melody where he belonged, where he shone. With his hair, his laughter, his eyes, his clothes.

He wasn’t exactly surprised—the light seemed to welcome Kirishima as though he were a child in a cradle, tender and serene, wrapped in a gentle embrace.

Golden hues kissed the crimson of his hair, making it burn brighter, drawing out the warmth in his cheeks, and turning his teeth into the centerpiece of Bakugo’s private analogy of thorns and blades. Sharp things lingered there between full lips that endured, day after day, the inevitability of a cut.

And yet, somehow, they remained immaculate—no longer cracked or dry, thanks to the lip balm he had started using in their second year as professionals.

He swelled like a flower just unfurled, with imperfect yet natural and free petals.

There was beauty in that, a quiet satisfaction in watching something so small and fragile could stand tall in its own presence.

He left an impact on people’s hearts, a symbol of devotion and the will to seek, to vow loyalty and commitment.

With deep roots, sharp leaves, rough yet elegant, completing the warning: “I am not defenseless.”

Powerful, profound, and romantic in his ideals. Even if it’s cheesy, it remains a classic for a reason.

Kirishima is a rose—corny to the point of cliché. And yet, Katsuki finds meaning in it.

Dunce Face struts over to Jiro, raising a glass. “Think you can keep up with me?”

She answers with a grin, “I don’t need to prove anything—we both know who the lightweight is,” which makes her and raccoon eyes high five laughing.

Unaware of Katsuki’s deep thoughts, Kirishima nudges him under the table with his foot, flashing a dazed smile as he asks, “Do you know if it’s getting late?”

It comes muffled, hidden and meant only for Bakugo.

He manages to understand it solely because his eyes were already on Kirishima, and they instinctively read the subtle movement of his lips.

Draining the last drop from his mug, he takes the chance to glance at the watch on his wrist.

Since Kirishima has an unpaid personal driver—Bakugo—he knows its meaning. Is it time to go?

The answer is yes.

He picks up one last kuri and starts to get up.

"Yeah. That's enough for the night rose. We're going...." Katsuki shallows the nut.

Did he just?

The fairy light twinkles mockingly at him.

Oh you can count on his mouth to let out anything he thinks.

So yes, he called kirishima by rose out loud.

Something beautiful, delicate, and romantic. The perfect mix of humiliation that Katsuki needed to be heard calling his friend.

Who treasures his masculinity more than anything, for All might sakes.

And coming from Bakugo’s lips, it’s three times worse, because since when is he soft and sweet? Katsuki Bakugou is not sensitive. Fuck.

If before Katsuki was cosy and warm, now it was like a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head.

He can't hold his tongue. Can he?

For a moment, the table fell into a silence so deafening that one could hear a pin drop.

Mina, after recovering from the initial shock, seemed enchanted. Kaminari whistled, and before Katsuki could decide how to react, Midoriya jumped from his seat and cleared his throat, stuttering, “What a shame.”

Izuko catches how Its sounds and sinks back, mortified. ‘I-I mean… It’s such a shame you two have to leave so soon.”

Jiro bowed her head, probably in mourning for Katsuki's dignity. Beside her, Yaoyorozu covered her mouth like a refined lady embarrassed on his behalf, her expression caught somewhere between astonishment and confusion.

Bakugo steadied himself, teeth clenched, calling up the sharpest image of Aizawa’s indifference he could manage.

He had spent years learning that sometimes it’s wiser to let things pass than to draw attention by shouting. Now the time had finally come to put it to the test.

He looked directly at Kirishima, feigned ignorance, and repeated, “We’re already leaving.”

Kirishima paused with half a yakitori still in his mouth.

He swallowed, then gave a small nod.

“We’re already leaving,” he repeated, pushing aside the rest of the meat and averting his gaze, a dusting of pink coloring the apples of his face, and ears.

Heat grew in Bakugo’s throat, a burn that threatened to creep up his neck. Perhaps it was already flushing, but nothing his jacket couldn’t fix.

He diligently ignores everyone at the table and rises a little faster than usual, “Right.” His gaze stays lifted as he stops behind Kirishima’s chair, one hand pulling it back while the redhead stands and begins to say his goodbyes.

He lingers behind Kirishima’s back, a presence in the background that grants him the chance to convince himself it’s perfectly acceptable to indulge in a poetic reflection on your friend’s appearance and to leave with an affectionate nickname for him.

Their farewell is filled with Kirishima’s promises to stay in touch, easing away any awkwardness from the moment before, with hugs and smiles being the last things left behind.

Apparently used to Katsuki’s mouth running over his mind, Kirishima heads toward the car, chattering as usual and ignoring the glances that Katsuku was throwing at him seeking for reassurance that nothing would happen with him. Nothing did— they kept orbiting each other, trading their usual teasing remarks.

It was a good night.

...

They are in Bakugo’s car.

Kirishima fiddles with the radio, flipping through a few stations until he settles on one that seems to please him.

A soft, subtle noise fills the car.

Looking satisfied with himself, he smiles and gazes out the window.

They remain like that for a while—Kirishima watching the world outside, and Katsuki driving.

“Looks like someone had a good time tonight,” He says without turning, the smile clear in his voice.

Bakugo mutters, “Where is this guy?”He swerves the wheel into a turn, his reply louder, his mouth twisting in scorn. “Do we have someone in the trunk?”

Kirishima snorts.

Bakugo shoots him a quick look before returning his attention to the road with a smirk.

He doesn’t even blink when they arrive at Kirishima’s place.

“We’re here, shitty hair,” Bakugo says, pulling the handbrake.

“Quite amusing, blasty.” Kirishima leaned back on the seat, replying out of time, “I recall somebody grumbling about meeting up with the crew on their day off.” He shot a quick glance, rubbing his thumbs together in circles against his palm.

He offered him one of those dopey smiles.

On any other night, Katsuki would have jokingly kicked him out of the car, and that would’ve been their farewell. But there was something in Kirishima’s posture that made Bakugou frown.

There was nervousness in the motion of his hands, softer than if he were about to scold Bakugou, more like he was hesitant about it.

Catching the scrutiny, Kirishima’s smile softened. He swung the passenger door open. “Come on, get out for a bit,” he called, half his body already outside.

Bakugou breathed out at the briefly tapping on the hood from the tipsy Kirishima, already walking off with his upper body out of view.

He always grew touchy whenever he was about to say something he felt unsure of —fingers fidgeting, fists clenching to anchor himself and summon courage, his hand rubbing his nape in search of comfort.

Bakugou stepped out, leaving the key inside, going to the passenger side.

He met Kirishima’s gaze—kinda accusatory, which was absurd, given Katsuki hadn’t done anything wrong. Right?

Maybe he did. Shit.

Perhaps the discomfort from the earlier situation finally caught up with Kirishima, and he needed to vent.

Katsuki sights, he can deal with it.

“Come on,” he says, leaning against the car, arms folded. “Just hit me with whateve-”

“You can call me by my name.” He blurted out.

Katsuki 's jaw dropped.

“You can call me Eijiro,” he repeated helpfully, looking beneath his eyelashes, fist tight.

He looked at Bakugou with expectation. A loss for him, though, because the Bakuronions were burning.

Kirishima inhaled deeply. “You’ve called me all sorts of things lately,” he murmured, hand at his neck, cheeks flushed. “I was ‘pretty boy,’ and I didn’t mind it.” His voice cracked, tongue brushing his lips. “But then you stopped, and I…”

He glanced up at Bakugou. “I keep asking if that’s still me—and it’s fine if it isn’t, I don’t have to be, but…” His cheeks warmed, and he turned away.

Overloaded with information, Bakugou’s neurons were burning—completely fried.

“Maybe it doesn’t spark anything in you anymore?” He caught himself rattling and faced Bakugou again, pulling himself together. “The point is, whenever you called me something, I felt like I had to give back. And I wanted—I still want—to call you Katsuki.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the jolt of electricity that surged through him.

He wasn't ready for this.

Bakugo doesn’t understand the buzz in his chest, though he recognizes the urge in his hands to set off an explosion. To his surprise, nothing bursts from his palms.

Kirishima’s fingers are clutching the edge of his shirt, fists clenched, awkwardly shy in a way that doesn’t help at all with Bakugo’s trance.

His mouth is dry like a desert, and he blinks stupidly at Kirishima. “Mhm.” He lets out a sound after a minute.

It comes out so low even to his own ears. He blinks, unsettled. This is nothing like him.

He wets his lips, “you’re relentless,” because it feels as if Kirishima had struck him on the head.

It comes out hoarse and whispered, he hopes is enough.

From the way Kirishima brightens it is, “You can call me Eijiro, Katsuki.” he offers softly, his wide eyes glowing with the night lights and a smile that makes his cheeks puff.

Bakugo isn’t ready to confront the vulnerability of this moment, what does he do now? He is not good with this, It is too raw.

After all, he spent years as a repressed teenager.

So he deflects sentimentality.

Replying, "Now, why should I do that?”

Kirishima stares in confusion, only to catch the way he gulps nervously and sees right through him.

Eijiro hummed, "Because you can.”

“Yeah, I got the memo,” Bakugou snaps ironically, the corners of his lips tugging upward.

Kirishima grins, dragging out each syllable, “and you’re not the type to back down from a challenge.”

Bakugo arches a brow. “That was a challenge?”

“Not from me.” He affirms inwardly, “But maybe it’s a big step,” hands crossing behind his back as he turns away, pretending not to watch him. “I thought you might at last rise above your own thoughts and take that win.”

Bakugou’s brow twitches, his arms falling to his sides.

Kirishima shrugs casually, “I mean, after everything that’s happened… you didn’t seem in control of what you were saying. They were slip-ups. Bold ones, but still slip-ups.”

Ah, the little punk was poking Bakugou’s competitive streak.

Kirishima chuckled, his stance softening. “Don’t take it too seriously,” he murmured, “You don’t have to do it now.”

The offer brought a tingling sensation to his hands. It was only a suggestion, yet it stirred a strange pride in his chest.

He rubbed his palms against his pants.

Behind them, out on the street, a car passed—not fast enough to leave that buzzing echo in the head, yet not slow either.

The hum of an engine still running, a reminder to Katsuki of his own car left on.

For a fleeting instant, the headlights reflected off Kirishima.

“Doesn’t matter, you know?” He muttered to himself. He paused, still not facing bakugo. “You can take your time with that and—”

“You talk too much,” Bakugo growled, snapping Kirishima out of his trance and silencing his endless muttering. Kirishima turned toward him, wide eyes blinking with uncertainty. Bakugo repeated, “I got it, shitty hair.”

They looked at each other—no trace of discomfort or shame on the redhead’s face then, and that was what fueled Bakugo. A smile tugged at his mouth. “Go to sleep, Eijiro.”

Kirishima looks ecstatic, turning fully toward him with his teeth bared in a grin. He laughs, winking, “You know you could’ve used that earlier,” he teases, “don’t you, Katsuki?”

That makes Bakugo’s smile falter for just a second before stretching impossibly wider. He lets out an incredulous laugh, “You’re a damn menace." He’s smiling.

This time it's Kirishima who laughs in exasperation. “Uh-huh, right,” he says, looking at Katsuki as if he were stupid, “I’m not the one who spent months calling me pet names just because you wanted to say my name.”

Bakugo crosses his arms at the audacity, but since he has no argument to counter It, he goes with the traditional method.

He uncrosses his arms and blasts an explosion right in his face.

…

A few days later, an article popped up: “Is Dynamight actually soft when it comes to Red Riot?”

“I never imagined Bakugo-kun would call anyone pretty. It's really nice of him,” confessed heroine Kendo.

According to witnesses, the hero was overheard at a street market calling Red Riot “sugar pie.”