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one.
Kariage never asks Katsuki out.
Not officially, anyway.
There’s no confession under a cherry blossom tree, or chocolates exchanged on White Day.
They don’t even say anything, really; they don’t need to.
They both feel the shift, when Kariage looks at him through the glass windows of the UFO Catcher machine one day as they’re loitering around the arcade. He’s smiling crookedly around an unlit cigarette, holding up the Sailor Moon plush he’s just won.
All yours, princess, he mouths smugly, and Katsuki—Katsuki laughs.
He sees, through his squinted eyes, the shock, imperceptibly pleased, that flits across Kariage’s expression. It’s quickly shoved away again, replaced once more by that ever-present cocky smirk.
Kariage is the only fucker with the guts to say shit like this to Katsuki. He’s the only fucker with the guts to say anything to Katsuki, really. Since the Sludge Villain attack, the usual losers who’d previously hung around Katsuki, eager for handouts, have made themselves scarce. They avoid him in the classroom, flinch away when he brushes past them in the corridors. The only one who came back was… Kariage. Kariage, who’d never been all that close to Katsuki before then, who had only really stuck around for the protection the blond’s presence offered. Kariage, who’d returned the day after the Sludge Villain, sleepy eyes red-rimmed and swollen and forehead pressing to the ground as he asked for Katsuki’s forgiveness, devoid of all his usual characteristic pride.
Kariage, who’s looking at Katsuki all these months later with something warm and fond and possessive in his eyes, corner of his lip ticking upwards as Katsuki’s laughter slowly subsides.
“I’ll kill you,” the blond says finally, eyes sparkling with residual mirth.
There’s a tension to the air that hangs between them, thickening as they draw closer to one another.
“Harsh,” Kariage teases, sidling around the display case with the soft toy gripped loosely at his side. “I guess I’ll keep this for myself, then.”
Katsuki stiffens.
“Give it,” he demands, hand outstretching expectantly. The plushie, oversized and brightly-coloured, is an eyesore. It’s hideous enough under the flashing strobe lights of the arcade, and it’s going to be even uglier in Katsuki’s room, sitting on top of his black comforter. He can’t wait.
“Make it worth my while,” Kariage says slyly, lip curling up with that pleased, knowing edge that Katsuki can’t bring himself to hate.
“Wanna die?” he snaps back, words cracking around the grin that splits his mouth wide.
Kariage’s onyx eyes glint, thin fingers raising to tug the cigarette out of his mouth. The air is thick between them, time moving syrup-slow. Then he’s stepping forward to fist a hand in the fabric of Katsuki’s shirt and tug him close until their lips meet at the middle, slow enough that Katsuki could stop him if he tried.
Numerous thoughts cross the blond’s mind here, in quick succession. The first is that he’s never been kissed before. The second is that he feels none of the nervousness which the first would typically warrant. The third? Kissing Kariage, pressed up against the humid glass of the claw machine with smoke filling his senses, feels like coming home.
They finally part, and Katsuki breathes a smile into the air between them.
“‘S fuckin’ ugly,” he rasps, gesturing to the Sailor Moon toy that’s made its way into his grasp at some point.
“Suits you, then,” Kariage prods, earning an elbow to the ribs.
“Fuck’s that say about you, asshole?”
“Says I’ve got shitty taste in guys.”
Kariage’s hand doesn’t leave his waist until long after they leave the arcade.
Later that evening, the Sailor Moon toy is tucked into Katsuki’s bed, obnoxiously colourful and striking and every bit as hideous as he’d expected.
He’s still staring at it, lips twitching upward involuntarily, when his door creaks open.
“Brat,” his mom says. “It’s getting late, aren’t you—what the fuck is that? ”
She’s staring at the new addition to his bedroom like it’s an alien.
Katsuki blinks at her slowly.
“You buy that?” she demands, eyes narrowed in bemusement.
“No,” he says. Then, after a moment’s contemplation: “That undercut bastard won it at the arcade.”
“Undercut…” his mother echoes quietly. “Kariage? From your class? Katsuki, you know I don’t like that boy! Inko says she’s seen him smoking cigarettes!”
When Katsuki doesn’t respond, she pauses and leans in to study him closely. Whatever she sees, it’s enough to visibly soften her.
“Just…” she sighs eventually. “Don’t get caught up in any funny business.”
She sighs again, long-suffering, and turns to retreat from his room. Just before the door shuts behind her, she pauses.
“I’m glad you’re making friends, Katsuki.”
He doesn’t respond for a moment, back turned to her as his hand slowly raises to ghost over his lips.
Friends, Katsuki echoes to himself, thinking back to the taste of smoke and cheap spearmint gum.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
two.
The students are lively this year. Toshinori watches from the window as the new first-years amble down towards the campus, parents bidding them goodbyes and steps light with excitement for the new school year and fresh start that accompanies it. It’s one of the reasons he became a teacher, really. Of course, Young Midoriya’s need for mentorship remains his priority, but the sight of the next generation of bright-eyed heroes is inspiring nonetheless.
Strangers that they are, the new students walk awkwardly alone, some exchanging anxious smiles with others as they pass by. They’ll form friendships soon, but for now the stilted childishness is refreshing. He only hopes they’ll retain it as long as they can.
From the corner of the courtyard, a motion catches his eye. On the road, a sleek black motorcycle pulls up to the curb sharply. Atop it, two figures, tiny from the distance. The rear passenger dismounts, lifting their hands to tug off a helmet to reveal unruly ash-blond hair.
Bakugou, Toshinori thinks with a spark of recognition. Young Midoriya has spoken of his childhood friend in extensive detail since the incident with the sludge villain, with shining eyes and a childish nickname that’s been long outgrown. The boy looks every bit as standoffish as Toshinori’s student has described, alertness lining his body so stiffly that it’s visible even from the distance. The driver of the vehicle then twists his leg over the fuel tank with practised ease, sliding off and ambling closer to Bakugou in a lazy manner that is the complete antithesis of Bakugou’s controlled movements. He yanks his helmet off with none of the grace that his blond companion had exercised, black hair looking so disheveled that Bakugou’s seems tidy in comparison. His grin is wide as he reaches a hand forward, nestling it in the other’s locks and ruffling harshly. Bakugou jerks away, leaning back as he jabs the black-haired boy in the gut hard enough to earn a wince. Toshinori’s smile fades slightly but the stranger simply grins wider in response, leaning forward to wrap a persistent arm around Bakugou’s shoulder without fear.
Toshinori cannot help but lean closer, breath caught in his throat as he observes the peculiar duo. They contradict each other in every way conceivable way: Bakugou’s loose but immaculate white uniform against the boy’s rumpled black leather jacket and ripped pants; Bakugou’s straw-blond hair against the other’s jet-black mop; Bakugou’s stiff, cautious posture against the stranger’s lazy, artless slouch. Despite the way Bakugou seems to be admonishing his companion—quite colourfully, if the wide-eyed, disapproving gazes of the passers-by are anything to go by—the latter looks unphased, smiling carelessly. They look, oddly, like a pair out of a painting. Casted in the bisque-tinted glow of the spring morning, they cut an image which would not look out of place in a coming-of-age vignette stripped from a movie of Toshinori’s childhood.
Toshinori wants to stay and watch them for a while more, inexplicably intrigued by their interactions, but the sound of the first bell of the school day jerks him out of his observations. It’s time for him to greet the new students, he thinks with a tinge of weariness that is quickly shoved down. Maintaining his muscle form grows increasingly difficult with the passing days, but he doesn’t dare to consider any alternatives, which would indubitably involve shirking his duties as the number one hero. He has an image to maintain, after all.
With an inaudible huff of pain, his muscles creak as he shifts form. The warm, familiar thrum of One for All under his skin does little to alleviate the soreness that’s set into his bones. He turns to cast one final glance at the pair wistfully. With his eyesight sharpened by his quirk, Toshinori can see some of the finer details of the duo now. Bakugou’s flushed cheeks, the cigarette that dangles from the corner of his companion’s upturned lips. Upon closer examination, the black-haired boy appears younger than Toshinori had anticipated; possibly even Bakugou’s age. He definitely looks too young to be smoking cigarettes or riding a motorcycle, Toshinori thinks with vague disapproval. Regardless, that’s neither here nor there. He’s not close enough with Bakugou to be forming judgments on the company he keeps; not yet, at least.
With his quirk-enhanced hearing, he can just barely hear the heated curses that the blonde spits, wrestling with the outstretched hands of his friend.
“—don’t fucking stop messing with my hair, I swear I’ll kill you, Kari!” the blond is snarling, his efforts futile against the other’s advances. “The hag’s already on my back about me looking presentable without you making my hair look like a fucking bird’s nest—”
“Aww, c’mon,” the black-haired boy—Kari—drawls, voice sounding every bit as unphased as his loose posture suggests. “I think it looks cute.”
This earns another round of impassioned swearing from Bakugou; but now, with his heightened senses, Toshinori sees the way the blond’s attempts to shove Kari away are only half-hearted. He can see the way the nickname rolls off his tongue with a jarring sort of fondness, and how the way he grips the boy’s wrist is belied by the gentle curl of his fingers, not nearly hard enough to hurt.
There’s a darkening flush on Bakugou’s cheeks, and his eyes are downcast and devoid of any fury that his words convey.
Toshinori smiles unwittingly at the sight. From Young Midoriya’s recounts, Toshinori had been apprehensive that Bakugou would be difficult to guide: he’d harboured concerns about the boy’s apparent stubborn independence and hostility. This, however, puts some of his worries to rest. The boy is just, well… a boy.
“Make me proud, yeah?” Kari teases lightly from the courtyard. Bakugou shoves him again, but only half-heartedly struggles this time when the other reaches out to muss his hair again.
Toshinori’s beam widens as he straightens, smoothing out his suit.
Bakugou is very precious to Young Midoriya, as evidenced by the warm admiration in his mentee’s voice whenever he describes the other. Very precious, but with the weight of everyone’s expectations, undoubtedly very burdened, too. He feels closer to him already, just by this simple display from a distance. He hopes to grow closer still, finding out exactly what it is about the boy that has Young Midoriya so taken, and perhaps even offer guidance of his own. That’s a matter for the future, however. For now, Toshinori needs to focus on getting through his welcome speech without botching the school motto.
As he turns to make his way to the assembly hall, he spares a final passing thought: it’s nice to see that Young Bakugou has such close friends to rely on.
three.
Tsunagu isn’t entirely sure how he feels about Bakugou Katsuki just yet. To put it plainly, the boy makes absolutely no sense. He drags his feet when he walks, and he bares his teeth crudely at anyone whose eyes linger too long. But in the same stretch, he flawlessly analyses the situations he encounters, and reads the intentions of those they pass with such ease that even Tsunagu is left reeling at moments.
‘Fucking kids,’ the teenager will snap coarsely, moments before gracelessly tugging a wandering child out of the way of a swerving bicycle which had escaped even the pro hero’s own attention.
Tsunagu never knows whether to praise him or scold him when all his actions hold the complexity of a double-edged sword.
Now, he watches the boy manoeuvre around the agency kitchen with practised ease. He hasn’t noticed Tsunagu’s presence yet, though this in itself took considerable effort on the man’s part. Bakugou is scarily observant, but here, where he is under the impression that he’s alone, he moves with an unfamiliar languidness.
He tosses stir fry in a wok with even, controlled movements, shoulders loose and hip pressed heavily against the edge of the countertop. He looks, for the first time since he arrived here, every bit of the careless teenager that Tsunagu had initially expected, albeit one with formidable culinary skills.
Bakugou moves around the kitchen in silence for a while, while Tsunagu watches curiously from the shadows of the entrance. He’s probably being creepy, he realises distantly, but this is the first time all week that he’s gotten to see the more human side to Bakugou. If it takes him observing the boy in secret in the late hours of the night, then so be it.
As the teenager pulls a communal carton of eggs from the fridge, a phone rings. Tsunagu startles, instinctively reaching for his own phone. He realises a moment later in muted intrigue that it’s Bakugou’s phone that’s buzzing. This is unforeseen, if only because Bakugou has shown a disinterest in his phone during patrol that is quite uncharacteristic of most people his age. Even Tsunagu’s most hard-working, competent sidekicks tend to glue themselves to their phones during break time. He can’t fault them for it; as long as they are focused on work when they need to be, the way they choose to spend their time otherwise is of no concern to him. All within reason, of course, but he trusts them deeply enough to know they are being responsible. Regardless, the sight of Bakugou’s phone is unfamiliar. He watches silently as the boy sighs before accepting the incoming call, pressing a button before propping it up on the countertop.
“What,” he snaps heatlessly. The person on the other side of the line, who has seemingly been put on speakerphone, laughs dryly. It’s a male; young, by the sounds of it.
‘Pleasant as always, Katsuki,’ the anonymous caller drawls. Tsunagu raises an eyebrow. Bakugou doesn’t have any siblings that he knows of, and he hadn’t expected the boy to have any friends who he deemed close enough to warrant the use of given names.
“For you? Always,” the blond mutters with a sarcasm lining his tone that Tsunagu finds to be entirely foreign.
The other person laughs again, brighter this time.
‘You really know how to make a guy feel special, huh.’
“I’m a man of many talents.”
Tsunagu chokes on his next breath. It takes a lot to phase him typically, but for some unfathomable reason, Bakugou having a sense of humour comes out of left field.
‘And calling me back is not one of those talents, is that right?’
Bakugou huffs slightly at this, movements unfaltering as he cracks an egg into his wok with one hand and tosses the wok with the other deftly.
“You’re sounding a little needy there. Don’t get too obsessed with me.”
His tone is off, but it’s barely perceptible. It’s layered thickly with his usual self-assured smugness, yet lighter somehow.
‘You make it hard for me,’ the other says without missing a beat. It’s exaggerated, totally characteristic of teenage boys’ typical prurient humour, but entirely sincere even over the phone. Tsunagu wonders for a second if he should leave, before ultimately deciding against it. The boy has decided to hold this conversation in a communal kitchen, after all.
Bakugou doesn’t reply to this brazen comment, understandably. But his cheeks darken in the kitchen light, lips pressing tight.
‘So,’ the boy on the line says easily. ‘Best Jeanist. How’s that goin’?’
“Ugh,” Bakugou says immediately, with feeling.
Well. That’s rude.
‘You’re talkative today.’ The words are dripping with sarcasm, but Tsunagu is hyperaware of the fact that this is the most he’s heard Bakugou talk since the internship started.
“That’s all I gotta say.”
The other boy doesn’t reply, and Bakugou sighs again.
“It’s…” he grunts, setting down his chopsticks and leaning against the counter heavily as he stares at his pan. “He’s okay. But he’s annoying, too.”
Tsunagu blinks. Is he… is he about to hear Bakugou’s genuine thoughts about him?
The person on the line hums patiently, and the blond clicks his tongue, gazing distantly at his egg roll.
“He’s good at his job. I guess. He’s gotta be, to be number four. But…”
A pause.
“... he’s touchy,” he says finally.
There’s a sympathetic sound from the phone, followed by a low breath that crackles through the line.
‘Have you talked to him about it?’
They’re talking about something else, it seems, because Tsunagu has found himself suddenly unable to follow the conversation. Touchy? He doesn’t recall expressing any kind of physical affection with the boy; in fact, he’s barely touched him since he…
“Fucking talk to him,” Bakugou scoffs roughly, as if confirming Tsunagu’s spiralling thoughts. “Him and his stupid fucking— fibres. Keeps shovin’ me around with ‘em like it’s nothing. I can’t stand it.”
Tsunagu doesn’t dare breathe. The relaxed aura that Bakugou had been projecting is gone, replaced with his usual tension.
‘Katsuki,’ the other says solemnly. ‘He’s a hero. If you’d just tell him, he’d stop—’
“Shut up,” Bakugou says roughly. “Shut up, Kariage. I’m not telling him shit. If he’s a damn hero then he should know better than to push people around like that in the first place. I’m not gonna hold his fucking hand through basic lessons on fucking—consent and triggers.” He throws his hands up, eyes slipping shut as he tilts his head towards the ceiling and sucks in a deep breath.
Oh.
“Internship’s already basically over anyway, so there’s no point startin’ shit now.” These words are said with a sense of finality.
His friend—Kariage—doesn’t reply.
Tsunagu decides it’s time for him to leave; and maybe do some reflecting of his own. He feels vaguely like he’s been suckerpunched in the gut. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s come across here, or what lines he’s crossed, but it’s clear he’s stepped on a metaphorical landmine.
He turns to leave, eyes downcast as he contemplates his intern’s words.
“And stop callin’ me Katsuki,” the blond adds on, quietly. “You know I hate that shit.”
Evidently, he seems to be all out of tolerance for emotions and talking. Already, in these few minutes, he’s shown more about himself than Tsunagu had ever known; he feels like he’s looking at another person entirely. Consent, Tsunagu echoes to himself. Triggers. He thinks back to the first day of the internship, when he’d strung the boy in front of everyone with his fibres. The act was a simple one, meant to de-escalate, but now that he thinks back on it he realises he can’t actually remember how Bakugou reacted to it. This… he’s failed his intern, no matter how he spins it. And even now, he oversteps by eavesdropping on what is clearly a private conversation.
Kariage sounds like a good friend, Tsunagu thinks as he leaves silently.
Now it’s time for him to figure out how to be a better mentor.
With the kitchen receding behind him and Katsuki still oblivious, Tsunagu just manages to miss Kariage’s soft and exasperatedly fond response.
‘Sorry, babe, you know I’m just worried.’
“Shut up.”
four.
Eijirou can’t feel his fingers.
His heart feels like it’s suspended in his throat, chest numb and cold.
Bakugou is back.
Bakugou is back.
The recently-recovered blond is standing at his side, stiff and distant.
Eijirou longs to take his hand again; to reach out and wrap his numb fingers around the other and not let go.
Safe, Eijirou thinks to himself. He wants to ask if Bakugou’s alright, but his friend is staring at the ground hollowly, and words feel inadequate.
Besides him, Midoriya slumps with tear-stained cheeks. The other has been crying since All Might’s battle despite an hour having passed.
“Bakugou,” Eijirou says quietly. “You…”
His friend looks small. All withered like a husk that’ll blow away at the slightest breeze. It feels wrong, especially when not even three hours ago the other had stood his ground against multiple A-rank villains without hesitation. All by himself.
God.
As strong as Bakugou is, something like that… Eijirou can’t imagine it.
There’s a call from behind them. Surprisingly, not many people have been paying them mind. They received a few looks initially, undoubtedly due to the fact that Bakugou’s face has been plastered all over the news the past few days, but the attention has since been stolen by All Might’s big battle. Now, though, someone breaks past the wide berth that they are unintentionally given.
Eijirou and Midoriya turn to face the commotion, hyper-vigilant in the wake of their night, but Bakugou doesn’t stir from where he’s staring at the ground.
It’s a teenage boy, around their age.
“... Katsuki?” he calls desperately. His ink-black hair is falling into his face messily, eyes wide and red-rimmed with dark circles underlining them. “Katsuki!”
The name is spoken like a prayer, and this time Bakugou finally looks up.
The stranger jolts towards the blond, and Eijirou moves to block him instinctively. He’s cut short, however, by Midoriya’s quiet whisper: “... Kariage?”
The black-haired boy doesn’t acknowledge him, bowling past them and wrapping his arms around Bakugou tightly.
“Don’t—” the blond rasps, the first words he’s spoken in a while.
Eijirou moves again to shove off this stranger, an irrational protectiveness rearing its head in his gut, but Midoriya stops him with a hand to his hardened shoulder.
“That’s…” he says slowly, staring with wide eyes.
“Who the hell is this guy, Midoriya?” Eijirou asks impatiently.
Bakugou tries again to pry the boy’s arms off him, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Eventually, he slumps in his grasp.
“Kariage,” Midoriya says again. “He was… a friend of Kacchan’s. In middle school. I didn’t know they kept in touch.”
He’s not staring, Eijirou realises carefully. He’s glaring. At this Kariage person.
“He’s really here?” the shorter boy murmurs to himself, eyes narrowed and cold. “After the way he ran that day…”
There’s disgust in his words, so uncharacteristic that Eijirou’s jaw drops.
“I…” the red-head says dumbly, feeling out of his depth.
“I—” Bakugou breathes from beside him, eyes unseeing as he stands limp in Kariage’s arms.
“I’m here,” the boy—his friend—says intently. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re good. You did good, Katsuki, you hear me?”
Eijirou watches with an open mouth as Bakugou shakes his head slowly but makes no move to shove the other off.
Jealousy unfurls in his gut, ugly and hot at the sight. He wants to do that; he wants to be the one comforting Bakugou right now. He’s been itching to do it all night, worried sick about his friend only for someone else to swoop in and so effortlessly have their consolations accepted.
Beside him, Midoriya trembles with a similar frustration, although his seems to run deeper if the look of pure resentment he’s levelling at Kariage is any indication.
Eijirou shakes his head roughly, trying to pull himself out of his own thoughts. He’s worried, that’s it. It’s not manly to get upset about something like this.
“You’re good,” Kariage murmurs again, eyes bright, and Bakugou shakes his head more vehemently this time.
“Just—stop—”
“Katsuki.”
“Stop.”
“Look at me,” Kariage snaps, gripping Bakugou’s chin with one hand and wrenching it forward until the blond has no choice but to meet his eyes. “Look at me. You did good. You read my fucking lips, Katsuki. You did all you could.”
Eijirou waits with bated breath as the two watch each other in silence.
And here, it happens in slow motion. Bakugou’s expression doesn’t change for a moment, entire form unnaturally still. And then his gaze flickers, lip twitching. In the dim street lights, his eyes glint with moisture.
“Don’t,” he whispers brokenly, pleading. His face twists, expression contorting into one of anguish as his lower lip trembles and his brows draw together.
“You’re good,” Kariage whispers, gently tugging the blond forward to press their foreheads together. “I’m so proud of you.”
And here, at this, Bakugou breaks, slumping with his entire body into Kariage’s waiting arms as he sucks in a low, keening gasp. “No,” he hiccups. “No, no— ”
Eijirou takes a shaky step back, exhale caught in his throat. He feels like he’s intruding on something profoundly intimate—can feel it in the way the air seems to stand suspended in time between the pair—and yet he can’t look away.
“You’re okay,” Kariage is murmuring, hands fluttering over the blond’s back carefully as he maneouvres the boy inwards to hide his face. “You’re okay, I got you. I’m right here.”
No one sees them, Eijirou registers in distant relief. The crowd has long since turned their attention to All Might, leaving only Eijirou and Izuku to stand static, voyeurs to the way Bakugou shatters in the arms of this boy. It’s a small comfort, knowing that no one else is witnessing this moment, but a comfort nonetheless.
Bakugou is shaking like a leaf, face buried in Kariage’s chest, and the jealousy drains from Eijirou’s body all at once. He can’t bring himself to feel anything but relief anymore, at the way that his friend is safe. The sight of the usually-reserved boy crying makes Eijirou’s heart clench tightly in his chest, but it’s preferred greatly over the alternative, which is… nothing.
Besides him, Midoriya is the same, staring wide-eyed at the pair with his previous anger nowhere to be seen.
The two catch eyes, crimson meeting viridian, and a silent agreement is formed.
It doesn’t matter who Kariage is. It doesn’t matter that this mysterious boy gets to be the one that comforts Bakugou. None of it matters. All Eijirou cares about is that right now, Bakugou needs a friend. And Kariage’s doing a pretty damn good job.
five.
They’re walking back from their remedial classes when a black motorcycle jerks to a sharp stop at the curb. It’s a nice motorcycle, Shouto thinks to himself. Very vintage delinquent-style, the exact kind that his father despises. Beside him, Bakugou curses loudly.
The biker pulls their helmet off, revealing tousled black hair and a lopsided smirk.
“Looks like I’ve found myself some heroes,” he drawls, eyebrow raising.
“How did you know that we’re heroes,” Shouto wonders curiously.
“Shut up, Icy-Hot,” Bakugou says. Then, he jerks his chin towards the strange biker. “You shut up too, asshole.”
“Bakugou, you shouldn’t tell civilians to shut up,” Shouto says blankly.
“Get off my dick, fucking half-assed stupid piece of candycane shit I’ll tell whoever I want whatever the fuck I want—”
“Here we go,” Shouto sighs, pursing his lips.
“Ex-fucking-cuse me?”
“You’re excused.”
The black-haired man is still watching them with an expression of utter amusement. Boy, Shouto corrects internally, not man; he looks to be around their age.
“Are you old enough to be riding that motorcycle?” he asks, curious.
“Definitively not,” the black-haired boy responds cheerfully.
Shouto nods sagely.
“That’s illegal,” he says. “Good for you.”
Bakugou turns to give him a look so scandalised it puts Iida to shame.
“And you were just fucking lecturing me on civilian etiquette, as if you’re not enabling illegal bullshit like a fucking socially inept loser fuckwit—”
“You like my illegal bullshit,” the black-haired boy reminds Bakugou.
“Shut up,” Bakugou says. It seems his vocabulary for the day is quite limited when he’s not conjuring up increasingly detailed and offensive nicknames for Shouto.
“Make me,” the black-haired boy says, leaning closer to Bakugou with a widening grin.
Bakugou lurches forward, fully intent on making good on that taunt, and Shouto reaches out to tug him back for the nth time of the day.
He stops, however, blinking when he realises that Bakugou is not fighting this stranger, but in fact kissing him. Quite passionately, too, if the way his hands fist in the mesh of the boy’s shirt is any indication.
“Oh,” Shouto says slowly. “You two already knew each other.”
Bakugou breaks away from his lip-lock to stare at Shouto with a look of rare pity.
“You never have any idea what’s going on, do you?” he asks after a long moment of silence.
“Not particularly,” Shouto concedes pleasantly. “Do carry on. My apologies for interrupting.”
Bakugou observes him for a long moment, eyes calculating. Then he shrugs and turns back to kiss the black-haired stranger some more.
They seem like very good friends, Shouto thinks. Good for them.
+ one.
Getting a text from your boyfriend is pretty nice, Kariage thinks. Especially when he hasn’t replied to any of your messages in four days.
Opening said text to find that it is a shaky selfie of your stupid boyfriend in a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages and machinery with the caption ‘i lived bitch’? Considerably less nice.
‘what the fuck’ he texts back instantly, which is quite an understandable reaction in his opinion.
‘im sleep’ Katsuki replies eloquently. This is followed by: ‘eitehr all might is in the cornern of my room or my sleep paralslkis demo nis wearing cospaly’.
Kariage blinks at his screen.
He blinks some more.
Then he calls Katsuki.
‘G’mornin’,” Katsuki says happily.
It is three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Baby,” Kariage says calmly. “What the hell happened.”
'Mmmn,' Katsuki replies. '‘m like swiss cheese.'
“What?”
'Cheese,' Katsuki informs him. And then he hangs up.
Twenty-two minutes later, Kariage is storming into Tokyo General Hospital, phone clenched in his white-knuckled grip.
“Hi,” he tells the receptionist briskly. “My boyfriend’s landed himself in a hospital bed and I need to make sure he’s alive.”
The receptionist, a young woman with large circle-frame glasses, blinks at him owlishly.
“Your…” she echoes.
“Bakugou Katsuki,” he says.
“Oh.” Her lips press into a thin line. “That one.”
Kariage grimaces.
“What’d he do?” he asks, finding himself unsure if he really wants to know the answer.
She gives him a smile that’s halfway between sympathetic and weary.
“He tried to bite his doctor. And succeeded.”
“Ah,” Kariage says succinctly. “Is his doctor, uh…”
“She is up to date on her tetanus immunisations,” the receptionist says.
Kariage relaxes.
“The next nurse, who your boyfriend proceeded to bite approximately seventeen minutes after the first event, was not. She had to get a booster shot.”
Kariage un-relaxes.
“I’m really sorry,” he says. “I swear, he’s not normally... Did you put him on sedatives?”
At her nod, he wilts.
“His quirk reacts to ‘em weird,” he explains briefly. “He gets all loopy. Listen, is he alright?”
Her expression smoothes out at this, morphing into a vaguely pitying one.
“You can go up to see him,” she says gently. “He’s stabilised now, and the nurses should let you in if he’s feeling up for visitors. Don’t be too upset if he’s not, though. He hasn’t been accepting many people.”
He nods, thanking her briefly and heading up towards the room she directed him to.
Stabilised, he thinks. It sounds too clinical; too serious.
He pushes into the room without waiting for any nurses’ instruction, and is greeted with the sight of Katsuki, dwarfed in a mountain of sheets and bandages.
“Shit,” he breathes, heart dropping. “What the hell happened, Katsuki?”
His boyfriend perks up from where he’s been staring at the ceiling.
“It’s Kari!” he announces, visibly brightening.
He’s adorable.
Kariage hates him.
“What happened?” he demands again, chest tight.
“Hurt m’ arm.”
Katsuki raises his left arm, which is suspended in a sling, as if to prove his statement.
Kariage blinks.
“You just hurt your arm?” he asks carefully, heart settling slowly. Katsuki hums in response, wiggling his toes where they poke out from the bottom of his blanket fort.
The black-haired boy releases a deep sigh, leaning back against the wall.
“God,” he breathes. “I thought you got hurt really bad, Katsuki. You started talking about dumb shit. Fucking All Might and swiss cheese.”
“Swiss cheese?” Katsuki echoes, perking up again.
“Yeah. You remember?”
“I’m like swiss cheese!” Katsuki announces excitedly.
Kariage sighs, unable to keep the fond smile off his face now that he knows there’s no imminent risk.
“Yeah?” he asks lightly. “Why’s that?”
Katsuki wriggles himself into an upright position, gripping the edges of his blankets to his chin tightly.
“Shhh!” he tells Kariage. “‘s a secret!”
Kariage nods patiently, edging closer.
In one swoop, Katsuki tears the blankets away from his body to reveal a thick wad of bandages wrapped around his abdomen and shoulder, stained dark red at some parts.
“Swiss cheese!” he beams, pointing down at the sight.
Kariage’s smile disappears.
Ten minutes later, he’s finally calmed down.
“Kari,” Katsuki says, poking his cheek. “Are you mad at me?”
He takes a deep breath, before turning to face his frowning boyfriend.
“I’m not mad,” he tells him.
“Y’look mad.”
“I was worried about you.”
“Oh.”
He hums, eyes glued to the bandages that wrap around Katsuki’s midriff.
“I was worried about you too,” the blond informs him after a minute of silence.
“I’m not the one in the hospital, babe.”
“Yeah you are. You’re sittin’ right there.”
Kariage exhales sharply, biting his lip to ward off his smile.
“You’re not cute,” he tells Katsuki.
“I’m adorable,” the blond corrects. “Gimme your hand.”
“Why?”
“Kiss.”
Kariage examines him carefully, observing the way his boyfriend eyes his hand.
“You just want to bite me,” he decides finally.
“Wanna kiss,” Katsuki insists. “Gimme.”
Kariage sighs, resigning himself to his fate as he offers his hand to his boyfriend, who’s now shamelessly making grabby motions at him.
Within two seconds, Katsuki’s got his incisors sunk into the meat of Kariage’s palm and is grinning up at him through crescent eyes.
“You’re not cute at all,” Kariage tells him again, lip twitching upward. “You’re just a bitey little brat.”
“Mmmrph mmrn mmmph,” Katsuki tells him around the hand that’s jammed in his mouth.
“Yeah” Kariage agrees, nodding with a pacifying smile. “My little dumbass.”
Katsuki’s eyes glint at the insult, and he sinks his teeth in deeper just to watch the black-haired boy hiss.
“I’m smarter than you,” he tells Kariage once he’s dislodged his hand. “I can do integration now.”
“Integration?”
“Mmh. It’s the one with the squiggly line. All you gotta do is add C.”
“That doesn’t sound right, sweetheart.”
“It is.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“G’boy,” Katsuki tells him, reaching up to pat his cheek softly.
Kariage stares at him for a long moment, drinking in the sight of his dumb boyfriend looking all battered and dopey.
“You’re an absolute idiot and you drive me nuts,” he tells him finally.
“Love you too,” the blond says simply in response, because he somehow manages to be the one with the emotional maturity between them.
“Fuck,” Kariage mutters, throat suddenly thick.
He leans forward to kiss Katsuki, attempting to alleviate the sudden heat twisting in his chest.
There’s a cough from behind them, and Kariage whirls around to see a crowd of approximately fifteen teenagers staring at him like he’s just committed murder.
“Oh,” he says weakly. “Hi.”
His boyfriend makes a noise of protest from behind him.
“Oh my god,” Kirishima, the boy who’d rescued Katsuki during the summer, says. “Wait. Since when.”
“I’d like to second that question,” a blond boy with a black streak in his hair chimes hesitantly, sparking a wave of assenting murmurs from his companions.
“I can’t believe Midoriya is missing this,” the black-haired boy with the tape quirk—Soy Sauce Face, as Katsuki dubs him—breathes.
“I can’t believe I missed this!” Kirishima cries. “How could you not tell me, Bakugou?”
Katsuki blinks at him languidly from where his arms are wrapped around Kariage’s thigh.
“I’ve been datin’ this fucker longer than I’ve even known your dumb ass,” he informs him primly.
Kirishima makes a wounded noise.
“What did you miss?” Todoroki asks curiously.
“That Bakugou and Kariage are dating!” Kirishima wails.
“Wait,” the acid girl says. “You know this guy?”
Kirishima groans into his hands.
“He was there after the thing at Kamino Ward. I should’ve—how did I not know—”
“Dating?” Todoroki echoes, mulling the word over.
“Yeah,” Kariage says, eyeing him apprehensively.
A lightbulb goes off in the boy’s eyes.
“So that day when you were kissing…?”
“Yup.”
There’s a beat of silence where a dozen necks crane to face Todoroki in synchronisation.
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN ‘THAT DAY WHEN THEY WERE KISSING’— ”