Archive of Our Own

Bakugou looks at Kirishima incredulously, which is odd, because he feels, himself, like it is an unearned thing. Because Kirishima all at once subtly shrinks away.

Bakugou, for most of his life, was centripetal in most, if not all, conversations he found himself in. As if to prove something, he planted his feet and remained immovable, as others orbited around his being like a small, social solar system. Questions only asked about him, and the only pronouns he used were me, and I. And though it may be true he soaked up any and all attention like he was starved of it, he had his own reservations beyond his “I am better than you” facade. 

Namely, recognizing strength in others meant implying weakness in himself. 

And of course he recognized this as an issue, he was much more capable of self reflection then others thought him to be. The only problem was, he wasn’t sure how to quell it, exactly.

Because where do you even begin, interacting with others in that way? Of asking someone personal questions, like they demanded to be asked? How exactly did you.. well.. Care? And not just in competition like he tended to, but in sincerity?

Because that’s the one thing he never understood in other people’s lives. How utterly wrapped up they were in the dramas of others. The woes. The insecurities. All of it was equally uninteresting to him, in the majority of contexts. People, inversely, tended to pry into him as if he was a particularly juicy mystery. And he’s only now realizing the weight of it, as he attempts, shallowly, to replicate the intricate elements such a thing requires.

“Just..” uhm. “..why?” Bakugou finds, eventually. The roof of his mouth incredibly dry by the time he shuts it. It’s such a broad question. But broad questions were the equivalent to small steps, and by god, did he need to get moving. Just one thing everyone else excelled at that he didn’t. Just one more thing for him to-

See, that was the issue, wasn’t it? He gave such a big shit about other people, not because he actually cared for them, but so he could measure the circumference of his own value. And really, it wasn’t as big of a circle as he wished it were. But maybe, when it came to measuring things like that, you only got caught up with the numbers, and the unused inches on the leftover tape.

He reminds himself that’s why he was like this. He only saw other people as obstacles to get over, not people to know, or that could be possibly interesting past the things that they did that directly affected him. And damn it, was it annoying, because to a certain extent, that mindset actually pushed him to succeed. And how, at 18, he was forced to overwrite it, such a deep seeded thing, because he knew it would only get worse the longer it carried on.

I want more x, I’m useless if I can’t do y, they have z that I want. It was annoying. It was all annoying.

Kirishima looks at him, his brow crumpling. Bakugou can see the scar on his forehead crinkle with the motion. It’s strange, you would have thought Bakugou said something egregious. Like he’d murdered someone in cold blood, or had found the love of his life.

“Damn it, you don’t have to answer if you don’t fuckin-“ Bakugou pulls his focus back to his lap, where is gauntlet sits between his legs, half torn apart. The floor was hard underneath his thighs. Kirishima had no carpet on his lacquer floor, but Kirishima was also the kind of person to have a life full of solid things.

“Well, ah—“ Kirishima recovers quickly. “Just how I used to act, y'know, in middle school.”

“Yeah, I’m asking why you think you were a coward.” Bakugou wiped down some grit that got caught in a seam. Some old smoke and dirt. “I’ve never.. you never seemed like you’d back out from a fight, to me.” 

If there was anything about Kirishima that Bakugou admired, it was that. But he wouldn’t be caught dead praising him. Bakugou just wasn’t that kind of guy.

But.. he could be.

“Well, I’ve changed since then.”

“It’s-“ Bakugou began, tsking. What did he say, exactly? Cool? Yeah, he wasn’t fucking Deku. He wouldn’t start prancing around, crying Kirishima sugoi!, like the nerd so easily does for Bakugou or any other one of their classmates. Hell, he’s sure Izuku would do that for anyone, as long as they didn’t regularly kick puppies or commit other mortal sins. “just the way you are now is—..”

He trails off, every adjective caught in his throat. And he could say them all, but he won’t. How easy it would be, to make the sounds Kirishima would interpret as his praise. But for whatever reason, his body doesn't allow it. Instead, the ball transforms into a nauseating thing at the base of his larynx. 

“Don’t hurt yourself, Bakugou.” Kirishima laughs from his spot atop his bed, and it creaks as he adjusts how he’s sitting. “I get what you’re trying to say.”

“But that’s the issue, isn’t it.” Bakugou seethes, scrubbing harder with his cloth at a particularly stubborn blemish. “I need to be able to say it.”

Kirishima smiles, in what Bakugou knows is his encouraging smile. It’s not pity, it never is from Kirishima, and Bakugou stomps down the reflexive thoughts that tell him otherwise. Because this wasn’t about him. Kirishima just opened up about an insecurity he may or may not still have, and now Bakugou, as a human, was supposed to console him and ask fucking questions about it. So if he knew the steps, why was it so goddamn hard to execute!? Damn it! 

And Kirishima still was looking at him. Infuriatingly patient. Because he was so far ahead of Bakugou with this sort of thing. Because Bakugou was starting to be convinced every other single human on the planet was better than him at this. Save for maybe all for one, but he was dead as dust, so that hardly counted. 

“I just think,” Bakugou begins, pausing, biting his bottom lip before continuing, “..that you have a lot of courage, okay? While fighting and.. otherwise.” Bakugou spits, all at once, when he talks, and when he isn’t, the silences stretch awkwardly long. “So, it’s hard to believe you were ever a fuckin’ coward.”

Kirishima laughs. “Even a compliment sounds like an insult, from you.”

What? What exactly did he say? Bakugou could feel his neck heating in embarrassment. This was a stupid fucking idea. Stupid, incredibly—

“But.. I’m glad, hearing that from you.” Kirishima says, past all his teasing. “It makes me happy.”

Really? Bakugou felt the unmistakable bubbles of happiness in his chest, and allowed himself to feel them. Because he wouldn’t squash them. Because he was trying not to do that anymore. Because apparently it was unhealthy to suppress the positive stuff, too. 

He hadn’t told Kirishima about it. In fact, he hadn’t told anyone about his attempt to be better, because hell. What if he told them and didn’t succeed? He thinks he would rather die.

Maybe that’s what made Kirishima’s response so stiff, despite how nice it had sounded to Bakugou’s ears. He avoided looking at the idiot, because his face was certainly baffled to match it. And the worse part is, Bakugou couldn’t blame him. Knowing himself, he knew how confusing it must be. He doesn’t remember the last time he praised someone, let alone attempted a compliment like that.

“Actually.. are you Bakugou?”

Bakugou hears the creak of the bed again, then feels the soft connection of Kirishima's knuckles to the back of his skull. His hands tighten on his gauntlets in an instant, hackles prickling at the sudden nature of the touch. Maybe because it’s an easily compartmentalizable, constant pressure, and not just a tap, does he not freak out at Kirishima. Instead, he sits with it long enough till the skin there prickles. Till he’s conscious that his shoulders have jumped up, like invisible threads pulling up walls to guard himself from further touch. 

The hand feels like a weight, and he just sits with it. Like impromptu exposure therapy. 

He forces his shoulders back down, molding them into a relaxed state. Somehow, it takes more effort than actively tensing them. 

“Shut up.” Bakugou rasps, not exactly meaning it, before going back to cleaning his gauntlets, doing his best to ignore the point of contact on the most fragile part of his body. Because when it boiled down to Kirishima it, frankly, was something he could handle. He’s had a hell of a lot worse non-consensual touches. 

Not that this specific instance was anything as bad as non-consensual implies. But frankly, he found no better wording, and he thinks it might even be what he needed. To build up tolerance. To realize not every single touch from another person was painful, and didn’t have to be in order to be justified.

And as it sat with it, he began thinking that he didn’t really mind as much as he thought he would. 

He heard Kirishima huff. A breathless, unbelieving sort of thing. His decision to not push was practically audible. Bakugou was glad for the little bit of grace. Kirishima was always good at that. At recognizing just what was too far.

Bakugou was sure he would regress, were that not the case. 

“Are you almost done with those?” Kirishima asks instead. His hand stayed there, perhaps to see how far he could take it. Perhaps because he forgot entirely where it was.

No, that latter option was not likely. Still, Bakugou considered entertaining it, because it would remove the weight of the gesture. Make it easier to breathe. 

“Yeah.” Bakugou huffs. He enjoyed cleaning his gauntlets, no matter how many times he’s done it. It was a nice little practice he could get lost in. A predictable thing. It was a shame when it ended, if only because he was ripped out of his thoughts, before presumably occupying himself in some other way.

“I have to pick up a book with Mina. Do you wanna come?”

“Why didn’t you just order it?” Bakugou asks, despite how the answer was yes. Like he wasn’t always elated to be invited to something. 

At least, initially, before he inevitably got caught up in the why. In the what do they actually want? When his brain just couldn’t seem to accept anyone would want to hang out with someone like him. 

He blinked, long, willing the thoughts away. They didn’t completely disappear, but he refocused on the way Kirishima’s hand was still plugged into the back of his skull like a charger port. Trying to think of quite literally, anything else.

“Supporting local libraries, bro.” Kirishima grinned. “So, you coming or not?”

Yes. “I’ll think about it.. and don’t you mean bookstores?”

“So vague!” Kirishima laughs, ignoring the question, and his hand slides from its spot. Like a period, marking the end of their emotional conversation. Like it had been a sentence in the book of their relationship. Like Kirishima was eager to start with the next, and keep writing. 

Bakugou couldn't understand what Kirishima even wanted, with an emotionally constipated bastard like him. But then again, he was laughably bad at asking such questions, so maybe he would never know. 

Tell someone else what you're doing

Accountability to yourself is weak. You can rationalize, make excuses, or just forget–

Bakugou slides away from his laptop, pulling his hands to rest over his stomach, sitting back in his chair. Every other self-help article said this. Different variations of You can't change on your own. and it's the community that shapes the person. Or any and all other regurgitations of the same garbage. A million and one “you can't do this alone”’s

And, well, he hated the fact he wasn’t ready. 

Who would he even tell? His mom? 

Yeah, right. He scoffs at the thought. Maybe he would have better luck with his Dad, but then what? “That's cool, Katsuki. You want to go back to therapy?”

Yeah, even if it would help him, fuck that. Bakugou hated talking to Hound Dog, or any of his associates and large web of therapists that Bakugou clicked with zip of. He swore, every time he had walked into that office to ask for the next recommendation in his sophomore year, he could feel the man internally sighing. again?

So he stopped going. But then again, that was before he committed to change. He was an adult now, and knew better. Well, maybe, anyway. He had more time to think, since then, about everything that's happened, and where he stood with the burden of it. 

It was difficult, but easier. Time facilitated that, mostly. It really did heal all, but only when coupled by patience and understanding. Both of which he thoroughly struggled with. 

So he was browsing self help articles, done with his homework and agency work, at 8:30. And damn it, who exactly was he supposed to tell?

Kirishima? Maybe. But when it came to things, well, he just wasn't sure he’d actually be able to get it out in front of him. And by association, he couldn't trust any of the other idiots in his friend group, because if he couldn’t trust Kirishima with it, he definitely wouldn't trust any of them.

Well. There's one other person that came to mind. Who knew, if only because of Bakugou’s own stupidity earlier that month, the extent of it. But it was unthinkable. Bakugou bit at his fingers nervously. 

If he couldn't tell him directly, then maybe.. Well maybe he could imply it. And maybe deku, being the person who he was, would understand. 

And it was unfair. Because he should be able to tell Kirishima, and privately have him in his corner, just as Bakugou has done in the past. But Deku had this way of carrying his burdens in a way that spared Bakugou the desire to rip his skin off. That he could get angry at, and eventually, lash through with him. He wonders if Izuku would accept his attempt at a new format, and he doesn't have to think for long, because of course he was. Izuku. By now, Bakugou realizes just how deep their mutual.. whatever it is... Runs. 

And he partly hates it, because of course, at the end of the day, Izuku would be the first person he would tell. And suddenly, telling him at all feels fickle. He's sure the next time they talked, Deku would pick it up immediately, and in that wordless way he did, would accommodate without question. 

But that's the problem, isn't it? The whole point of this is being able to put things into words. And that would only reinforce Bakugou’s bad behaviors. 

Hell. He should get this over with now, when he has time, before Izuku next talks to him in a moment he wouldn't have the opportunity to explain. Because Bakugou doesn't trust himself not to let it go, but maybe that was just the article making him doubt. 

He stands from his chair, pulling out his phone automatically and checking bullet train schedules. Ever since the war, Izuku had gone back to living at home, and every year, Bakugou expected him to come back. And he never did. Only now, did Bakugou accept he never will. Which was foolish, because he had stayed for so long, waiting for him. 

Perhaps the U.A dorms just reminded him of the time he was no longer wanted there. Like vestiges, making Deku feel guilty for staying. 

Or maybe Bakugou was just looking too far into it. 

Bakugou walks up to Midoriya’s childhood apartment, and a strike of nausea hits him all at once. A flood of memories that he once struggled to repress. All at once he lets himself stew in it, for the first time in years, and it is almost too much. If not for the commute time, he surely would have turned around and left. 

Instead, he finds himself at the door, knocking politely in a way that makes him feel odd. Like the apartment is a foreign one. Like he's a door to door salesman, convincing the Midoriyas to invest in him once again, even if he didn't necessarily deserve it. 

And, unfortunately, the door opens to Inko, and his coat feels oddly hot. 

Embarrassment rakes up the hot coals of his back, and he forgets himself. He opens his mouth, closes it, like a fish. 

“Oh, Katsuki?” Inko says, quizzically, because he hasn't knocked on this door in 13 odd years. He wonders if it feels like a timeline to her. What she would say, if she was the same person she was 13 years ago. If Izuku told her anything. He still wonders about that. He doesn't think he would ever ask, because any answer feels torturous and would fill him with shame. 

“Is-” and he’s suddenly five again, with a water pail. “Is Izuku here?” I want to catch frogs. Something so innocuous resurfacing. He almost wishes that's what he was here for. That he brought that bucket. He’s sure, even now, Deku would agree. But the subject matter weighs on him like lead, and sours the thought.

But he’s answered preemptively, by a sprout of a person down the hall, peeking in curiosity to the intruder of the Midoriya nighttime routine. Bakugou hates how his eyes light up, so he just looks away. 

“Kacchan!?” Midoriya is there in an instant, and his mother steps to the side to allow him purchase in the doorframe. “What are you doing here!? It's past your bedtime!”

Bedtime. He can almost laugh. 

“We need to talk.” He finally shoots an experimental glance towards Izuku, locking eyes with him. He sees how the words sap all the excited energy from Izuku’s shoulders. How they fall into something strange and tense. 

“What happened?” Izuku asks, gravely. And Bakugou bites back a scoff. 

“Grab a coat. We’re going on a walk.” Bakugou swivels on his heel, already walking down the hallway. 

“Kacchan, wait—”

“I said grab a coat, nerd! Its fuckin freezing out here!” 

“Arg–! You're so difficult.” The front door closes behind him, and Bakugou is at the edge of the street by the time he hears a distant slam, and Deku’s succeeding footsteps pattering down the sidewalk. It's rained, recently, and the asphalt shimmers like a million black gemstones. Clinging to the cold wet. 

He can see from the corner of his eye Deku, struggling to pull a sweatshirt over his shoulders, wearing untied shoes. It's then that Bakugou stops, annoyed at the way the laces are getting soaked. Seriously, did Deku not care at all to take the extra twenty seconds? He knew where he could find Bakugou. It's not like he had been walking particularly fast. 

Bakugou stops abruptly, just as Izuku finishes fluffing up his hood. Bakugou scoffs, scrunching his nose, before dropping one knee to the wet floor. Helpless. 

“Eh!? Kacch-”

Bakugou finds Izuku’s shoes, realizing one of them isn’t even fitted properly to his foot. The back of its opening folded behind Izuku’s achilles tendon. Bakugou uses his thumb to smooth it out, yanking it less than gracefully into place.

 “Kacchan– What are you doing?”

Then he pulls the tongues flush. “Shut up already.” and to his suspicions, the end of the laces were, in fact, getting wet. He sighs, tightening the laces and rhythmically tying each shoe. Just as he had years ago, when they were kids, because Izuku was helpless with the standard knot method. Even now, Deku uses the bunny eared one, never having learned the quicker way. Between his tie and his shoes, he was hopeless. Bakugou finishes each leg by smoothing Deku’s pants back over the shoe, making sure they weren't caught, running a hand down his calf.

“You–You didn't really give me enough time, you know that?” Izuku stammers, Bakugou still on his knee, causing the latter to look up. That's when he meets Izuku’s eyes with the force of a freight train meeting a mountain. Suddenly, a crushing, buckling pressure on his form, and he unsure in that moment if he will ever be able to stand. 

Because Izuku is staring down at him, and it feels indecent, and Bakugou isn't exactly sure how he is supposed to feel about that. That somehow, despite their positioning, he doesn't feel lower at all. It's almost where he belongs, at Izuku’s feet like this. Subdued, and just as easily able to be struck down each moment to the next.

 He opens his mouth to say something, but quickly shuts it. Like anything he will say, anything at all, would reveal just how he felt. The unasked questions. Do you feel this too, Izuku?

“Yeah.” Bakugou says, mouth dry, instead of sorry. Because he really wasn't sorry. Because something primal in his hindbrain lit up when he heard the haste in Izuku’s footsteps. When he hadn't tied his shoes, or finished putting on his coat, because Bakugou was just more important. 

“Well. It's tied now.” Izuku says, strained, because Bakugou is on his knee in the middle of a residential street at 9 pm, in front of one of the most well known people of this century. You can stand now. He’s saying, and Bakugou only wants to ask do you not like me down here?

Regardless, Bakugou finds his footing, feeling the damp patch on the pants of his left knee. It feels like valuable proof, and he can’t surmount why.

He looks at Deku for a second, how he’s two or so inches shorter, which meant relatively nothing, until they stood as close as they were now. Izuku’s jaw only the briefest angle upwards. 

“Kacchan?” Izuku says, maybe to part the silence. It leaves his lips briskly, like it would burn them. 

“Izuku.” He identifies. 

Izuku frowns. “We should start walking now.”

Bakugou pauses at that, ripped from the moment by the abrupt nature of the words. 

“Yeah.” he croaks, and swivels on his heel. He begins walking, and hears Izuku’s footsteps only a moment later. “How is studying going?” 

It's been a month since Izuku got accepted into Todai, Japan's finest university for aspiring teachers. Which means there is only a month left of U.A. it feels sudden, almost. Like life is slipping through his fingers. Bakugou is going to be independent in a month. And something about that is terrifying as it is.. Slightly underwhelming. He can't pinpoint it, but everything about it is rather melodramatic. Life continues on. 

“Nothing to study yet, Kacchan.” Izuku laughs, and Bakugou snorts. 

“Study your campus, then.” He grins. 

“Would you like to come?” Izuku says, too quickly.

“To what?” Bakugou huffs

“A campus tour. There are a few lined up.”

Bakugou feels the smile tug at his lips, and he teases. “And make it more of a spectacle? Dynamight and Deku exploring a college campus?”

“You know you don't care about that.” Deku argues. 

“I'm asking if you do.” Bakugou says, easily. 

“I don't care if we’re seen together.” Izuku says, suddenly serious. “We’re friends, Kacchan.”

That's right. They were, weren't they?

Bakugou focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. Slowly ambling down their childhood streets. The path each of them walked everyday to get to elementary school, then in different times, during the entirety of middle school. So much history in that familiar trail. Bakugou didn't think he’d miss it as much as he did. 

“You do know that, don't you?” Izuku murmurs, and Bakugou almost misses it. “That I think of you as a friend?”

Bakugou doesn't believe it, but Midoriya was also not the type to lie. He had no idea that simple statement started a war of attritions within Bakugou’s mind. Even unknowingly, Midoriya pushed him. 

He wants to say I don't think you should, but even that felt too self loathing for him. So he bites at his lip, pinching the skin between his teeth. A nervous tick he’d picked up, ever since his costume allowed for the concealment of half his face. 

“You want to say something.” Izuku states, causing Bakugou to drop his lip. “Say it. I know you didn't come out just to see me.”

Suddenly, his stupid plan to tell Izuku his stupid plan felt even stupider. What did he expect, now standing in front of Izuku? To just be able to spit it out? When he hadn't even been able to give a surface level compliment to Kirishima just earlier? 

“That's not true.” Bakugou says, kicking at a rock when Izuku looks at him with his big doe eyes. Stupid. He’d admit all his secrets, if Izuku kept looking at him like that. Maybe that's why he did it. Stupid Deku. “I wanted to see you.”

“That’s what you got from that? Kacchan. You know what I meant.” Izuku says, exasperatedly. He’s been a lot more sassy since Bakugou ended up in the hospital. As if there was something he could see that Bakugou was blind to. Hell, maybe there was. No, there definitely was. 

“I-..” He drops off. It's not like he could say it didn't matter, or avoid it. He had initiated this, goddamn it. So why was it so hard?

“Why is it always like pulling teeth with you?” Izuku says, like he isn't the same way for different reasons. He stops, and Bakugou is forced to stop with him. To face him properly. “Theres nothing you could possibly do that would make me hate you, if that's what you’re caught on–”

“Thats exactly what worries me, Deku.” Bakugou barks, old hurts resurfacing, and that was NOT what this conversation was for. He needed to reel it in, but he keeps fucking talking, because Midoriya is looking at him expectantly, like he’s grabbing for a stray string of Bakugou’s emotional yarn sweater. “Theres nothin’ I can fucking do to you, or others, or myself that you wouldn’t forgive me for.”

“I'll take it back, then.” Midoriya says, suddenly, and Bakugou blanches. “Because, you know what? I can't forgive one of those things, Kacchan. And the truth is–, I haven't!”

Bakugou feels his jaw drop. He feels resentment towards Bakugou? Well, part of him knew this deep down, but for Izuku to say it so cleanly.. Well. it almost.. “Well if you were that fucking certain..” Bakugou trails off, looking toward the glossy street. It mocks him with its shiny, pure nature. 

“I haven't forgiven you for last month.” Izuku says in a rush, shoving his hands in his pockets. “That's one thing I can't forgive. When you hurt yourself.”

Bakugou almost wants to refute it, deny any claims of self harm and the like. But he cant lie, and that’s the fucking worst. Of course that's Izuku’s one gripe. One catch. And it's the thing Bakugou feels he needs the most to keep his head on straight. 

“That's not fair.” Bakugou says, breathlessly. “To everyone else.”

“But isn't it?” Izuku says, and it's his turn to look away. This little dance they play. Avoiding responsibility like each other's eyes. “I ne–” Izuku hesitates. “You should stay.”

“I said I would, Izuku”

“It's not only that, is it?” Izuku says, and he’s there so suddenly, grabbing onto Bakugou's forearms like a life raft. “Why does this feel like a goodbye?”

Bakugou’s eyes widened in silent realization. How did he get this so wrong?

“Izuku I'm not going to–”

“You’ve been avoiding everyone recently, you’ve been hesitating establishing your agency anywhere, you’ve been wearing your winter costume far too early, for god's sake! And now you're here, past your strict bedtime, walking our childhood streets like it's the final time. Say it's not true! Let me see if i even believe you–”

“Izuku!” Bakugou interrupts, and suddenly his attention is all over him. His eyes raked over Katsuki’s torso, his thighs, his forearms, like he could see through the clothes and assess the wounds there.

And those were simply not important. Bakugou winces at the scrutiny. At the knowing. He breaths heavily. Most of those things, the agency, the avoidance, were explained away for completely reasonable reasons. But Deku didn't know that, and Bakugou wasn't sure he had the time to explain. Especially so when it would leave one unsaid, which Izuku was too right in his suspicions of. 

But whatever! It didn't matter. Bakugou had a few vices, and that was fine. He just needed to convince Deku he wasn't going to kill himself tonight. So it all spills out, in a blind panic, because he wanted him to just stop looking at him like that. 

“I wanted to tell you I'm trying to get better, okay? Seriously this time.”

He saw Izuku pause at that. As if chewing the words, considering them for lies. 

“I don't want you to stress anymore.” Bakugou continues, to fill the silence. 

“Do you mean it?” Izuku says, so quiet and withdrawn. He drops Bakugou’s wrists, slowly letting them sink like a rock in ocean water. 

“Yes.” Bakugou chokes. On everything he meant it. 

“And you’re serious?”

“I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't–” Bakugou pauses, because Izuku fucking beams at him, brow crumpled from the remnants of worry.

“Kacchan, I'm so glad.” and again, Izuku is in his arms, and he gets this sickening sense of deja vu. Last time he did this, Izuku was heartbroken on his behalf.

“Don’t be too happy, idiot.”

“What can I do to help?” Izuku says, into his hoodie. Bakugou notices that he smells like a recent shower.

“Idiot. That's not your place. I just wanted to tell you.” Bakugou says, reluctant, or at least pretending to be, in wrapping his arms tighter around Izuku. He feels the remnants of shaking in Izuku’s shoulders. Christ. He was wound so tight. How often, had he stressed on Bakugou’s behalf? Again, he feels guilty.

“But I want to.” Izuku answers, propping his face on Bakugou’s shoulders. Bakugou only hopes he can't feel how hot his skin is. He thinks about how different this was, and again tells himself that the touch is okay. That touch doesn't have to be violent. That it can be almost enjoyable, like how Izuku was, in his arms. 

And he also knew how Izuku was. He’d make it to be an excuse to not take care of himself to, presumably, save his Kacchan. Which was the opposite of what Bakugou wanted, and not a responsibility that was uniquely Izuku’s. So Bakugou pulls away, just enough, to smack both sides of Izuku’s cheeks, squishing his face. Ignoring to the best of his ability how Izuku still clung to him, resting his hands on Bakugou’s waist

“Idiot. This isn’t about what you want.” Bakugou says, to get it through his thick skull. “Listen, I can't.. Do this alone, but that doesn't make my own mental health anyone’s responsibility but mine.”

“Wow.” Izuku says, voice squished just as his face is. “Wise words from Kacchan.”

“Thanks. I got it from a self help article.” he jokes, a grin on his face as Izuku properly considers his words. 

“Kacchan reads self help articles!?”

“You gonna add that to your fun facts section?” Bakugou slides his hands down to instead cradle Izuku’s face, giving him a bit more room to breathe. Blind, or at least pretending to be blind, to how intimate the gesture must look when Izuku’s hands are on his hips like this.

“Ah! How do you know about that?!” 

“I didn't, but you just confirmed that it existed.”

“Kacchan!”

Bakugou snorts, because maybe it was worth it. 

Maybe it was all worth it, to have Izuku looking at him like this.

He spent the rest of the night with Deku, then. Selfishly stretching their meeting into the early hours of the morning, after Deku had called and quelled his mothers worry. 

They talked about everything and nothing at all, like tides, a pushing and pulling. A wanting and waiting. And as the moon dragged across the sky, Bakugou could only think about how funny it all was, to begin with. These borrowed hours, thrumming along at the pace of his carefully measured breaths. Midoriya, filling them, as if he belonged there, despite the conventional silence the night demanded. But he burned brilliantly that night, Midoriya. His smiles like fireflies, glittering in the sheath-like stalks of tall grass. Bakugou tried his hardest to remember every minute detail of it, if only to selfishly pull it out later. Unfolding the image in the darkness of his most isolated hours, and pressing it all over again across his conscious. 

Eventually, they reach Midoriya’s house again, and Bakugou is heavy with the promises he has just made. He only hopes he can keep them. 

 but then again, wasn't that the reason he told Midoriya, in the first place?