Bakugou’s voice is low, dangerous. His eyes are sharp as they stare at you.
“What?” You blink rapidly at him.
After a year of being friends with Bakugou, you’re used to him frequently being at some level of pissed off or annoyed.
But you’ve never seen him look so angry. Like he could tear the world apart.
“This.”
You’re not prepared when Bakugou reaches up to angle your chin towards him, your breath catching as his calloused fingertips grip against your skin. He brushes his thumb, feather-light, against your cheekbone. It’s then you remember the bruise there.
“Oh! I had a practice bout with one of the new kids at our gym. He got in a lucky punch but hit me a little too hard. He’s still learning,” you say.
You smile at Bakugou and raise your hand to pat his, the one cupped against your cheek.
“Don’t worry, Bakugou. It looks worse than it actually is.”
Bakugou grunts. You expect him to step back, let go.
But he’s still, gaze locked on your face, thumb brushing back and forth against your skin like it doesn’t send shivers through your entire body, like it doesn’t make your face feel like the surface of the sun.
Nervous about his intense attention, you bite your bottom lip. Bakugou’s eyes drop to track the movement and stick there.
You can’t breathe. Is he…?
The sound of distant footsteps drawing nearer pops the bubble you’re in.
Bakugou pulls away. He doesn’t go too far, though, and because you’re so close, you can see that the tips of his ears are red, despite his neutral expression.
“Don’t box with that kid again,” he says, voice raspy, a little husky.
You swallow and nod before his words can process. Bakugou nods back, satisfied, before turning to walk away.
He’s halfway down the hallway before you come to your senses. Wait. You make a face.
“You’re not the boss of me!” you call at his retreating back.
He stops. Turns.
“What’d you say?” he asks, eyes narrowed at you, handsome face skewed into a scowl.
You know you should be intimidated, but. You think about the look in his eyes when he touched you. The heat of his palm.
In a different life, you still meet Bakugou when you're young, children. You see Bakugou's lights, but he doesn't see yours.
You keep it a secret.
You grow up together, pulling apart, unraveling at times like fraying seams, then snapping back into place like puzzle pieces, like magnets. He’s not an easy person to keep close to the heart.
You’re resentful, sometimes, though you know it’s not fair; it’s not his fault. You hate yourself, sometimes, for being happy to have him in your life, even when it hurts.
And then the war happens.
And you nearly shatter, struck with such deep regret that it chokes you. You should've told him, one way or another, when you had the chance.
Because you lose him, and you feel it, and it's like nothing will ever be right again.
But the light returns to his eyes. He survives. He wins. The war ends. And when he sees you for the first time after everything, his eyes widen, his expression turns blank, and he reaches out for you. You go to him before you can even think.
“What the fuck?” Bakugou says, running his hand up and down your arm. He pulls his hand away and stares at it as if he expects something to have transferred. He looks up at you and narrows his eyes.
“Can you see mine?” he demands, and your ears ring. Your breath catches, exhales in a shudder.
“Yes,” you say, your voice unsteady. “Since I first met you.”
“Since—” he snarls, cuts himself off. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn't think it mattered. You couldn’t see mine, so. So why now—?”
“Fuck if I know,” he says, scowling ferociously.
He's furious, lighting up in flares of orange that rival his explosions. You’re a little bewildered at the intensity of his reaction. What does it matter? If you told him at first meeting, it wouldn’t have changed anything. You try to wrap your mind around the fact that he can see your lights, now, but beyond his anger, beyond your confusion, you’re just so grateful that he’s okay.
He looks into your face, and it’s like he can tell what you’re thinking. His expression softens. He exhales harshly.
“You’re so fucking dumb. Come here.”
You protest. You don’t want to hurt him, he has all these things plugged into him, there’s his arm and his bandaged face and his chest, but he’s dragging you onto his hospital bed, pulling you to him.
He bites your bare bicep and it’s like an electric shock. His mouth on you sends shivers through you. You push at his head. “Ow. Stop, Katsuki.”
“S’what you get,” he tells you, a growl. “Knew it. You’ve always been mine.”
SUMMARY: Soul-lights aren’t as common in this day and age as they were in the past, before quirks, but they’re common enough that people do still find their soulmates.
At thirteen, you meet Bakugou Katsuki, and he lights up for you in orange and gold. You tell him he's your soulmate. He sneers and tells you that you aren't his. He makes your adolescence miserable until you part ways.
You meet again as adults, late at night, in a grocery store, over a pile of bok choy. He apologizes for how he treated you when you were children.
(In which you have a choice—to reject Bakugou's apology, reject him, or to let him show you the man he's become, to learn with him what it means to love and forgive.)
The thuds are intrusive, loud, and they pull you out of sleep with insistent hands.
A bleary glance at the clock on your bedside shows that it’s too early on a Sunday morning for you to want to be awake. After a minute of squinting up at the ceiling, it processes that the thuds you’re hearing are knocks on your front door.
Throwing an arm over your eyes, you try to ignore it and go back to sleep. Someone’s got the wrong apartment and you hope they realize it soon.
Sure enough, after a solid minute, they finally stop. You relax. Drift a little, sleep enticing you back into its arms.
Then your doorbell goes off. Once. Twice. The knocks resume, alternated with your doorbell.
You sit up in a flurry of motion. Wipe your hands down your face, groaning. Throwing the covers off your body, you shove your feet into your slippers and march to the door.
When you swing the door open, you’re nearly smacked in the face by a fist.
You jerk back belatedly, but there’s no need; Bakugou’s reflexes are much better than yours, and he pulls back immediately upon seeing you.
For a moment, you just blink stupidly at him, wondering if you’re still dreaming.
The seconds tick by, and reality kicks in. Just the sight of him floods you back up with any tension sleep had taken from you. You hate that you’re suddenly self-conscious about how you look, hair a mess, clothes rumpled.
Scowling, you ask, “What’re you doing here?”
You tug down the hem of your sleep shirt as if that’ll fix how much of your legs your shorts fail to cover. Bakugou’s eyes flick down at the motion, then swiftly back up to your face. He crosses his arms over his chest then quickly lets them fall back to his sides. He shoves his hands into his pockets, a scowl that matches yours on his face.
“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.
You pause. You know you’re being contrary, you know, but what right does he have to pound on your door so early in the morning to talk on his terms? So you say, “I’m really not in the mood. I just woke up.”
“I can tell,” he says, and any other day, he’d say it with a sharp grin, a pinch to your cheek. Any other day, you’d laugh, knowing he’s teasing. But today, now, everything he says prickles, offends. He doesn’t smile. You don’t laugh.
When you continue to stare at him, mouth set in a terse line, he exhales harshly.
“I want to talk about yesterday,” he says.
His eyes are red, bloodshot, you notice as you meet his gaze. If you thought the circles under his eyes were dark yesterday, they’re nothing compared to the shadows there today. And he’s wearing the same clothes you saw him in outside the gym. Did he even go home last night?
You chew on your bottom lip, hating that you’re worried, hating that you’re still upset with him and can’t bring yourself to ask if he’s okay.
“Look.” Bakugou exhales sharply. “I didn’t express myself right. Shit went down wrong. Can we talk about it?”
You try to focus on him, on what he’s saying. But his lights are distracting. They’re so dim, you can barely see them against his skin. They don’t look right, flickering weakly. Is he sick? You’ve never seen them this way.
Bakugou takes in your lack of response, and his face hardens. He says, “If you need more time, I’ll leave. But I’ll be back. I don’t do unresolved bullshit.”
Down at his sides, he clenches and unclenches his fists. He waits.
You finally give him your full attention. Study him for a long moment. Decide.
“...Come in,” you say finally, and you step back, pulling the door open. “I’m gonna go wash my face and change. You can wait wherever.”
He nods, but you don’t stay long enough to see it, already on your way to the bathroom.
You brush your teeth and wash your face, wincing at how puffy your eyes are. You didn’t even cry or anything yesterday, but it sure looks like you did. It’s so fucking dumb.
Yesterday passed by in a blur. You’d woken up from your nap because Mikan had stepped right onto your chest with his full weight, wanting to be fed. After, trying to lose yourself in action, you’d cleaned up around your apartment a little bit, played with Mikan for a while, tried to do some stretches you’d picked up from Kiri. Even those things had exhausted you, so resigned, you’d just gone to bed.
Glancing at yourself in the mirror one last time, you grimace. You wish you could get your cold compress in your freezer to take the swelling down, but you’re unwilling to do it with Bakugou here. It feels a little too much like losing, admitting that he’s gotten to you.
So instead, you head to your room and change.
As you close the door to your bedroom, you pause and lift your head. Wisps of scent and sound waft over you—the rich, bracing smell of coffee, the clatter of a pan against your stovetop, the opening of a cabinet, a drawer.
Incredulous, you furrow your brows. Is Bakugou cooking?
You round the corner into the kitchen, and he is. With his back facing you, he says, “S’almost done. Go sit.”
You stare at him for a moment, watching the shifts, the interplay of muscles along his back. You sigh.
“Bakugou… We should just talk. Don’t needa eat.”
You’re not sure what he’s thinking—is he trying to ingratiate himself, soften you towards him before you have a conversation? Or is he just so used to using your kitchen… cooking for you, that it’s second nature, even though it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him, eaten anything he’s made?
Your traitorous stomach growls a little, reminding you that you skipped dinner last night.
Bakugou glances over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowed.
“Sit,” he says, and you know that tone. You know it means he won’t take no for an answer, and you don’t want to argue with him. Not anymore than you already have. Not yet, at least.
So, shoulders slumped, you open a cabinet and pull out a pair of plates, bowls. A drawer gives you utensils.
You set the kitchen table with these after filling a glass with water and head over to the coffee machine just as the rice cooker beeps. It doesn’t look like Bakugou’s made himself a cup yet, so you grab a mug and fill it with coffee. After snagging the creamer from the fridge and pouring a splash into his cup, you head over to the table.
Bakugou’s there setting two bowls of rice next to bowls of miso soup. Tamagoyaki is in the center of the table, looking pretty and golden and perfect. You’re sure he’d have made more, cooked some veggies and other protein, but your fridge is pretty bare.
Your stomach growls again, and you sit, defeated.
“Thanks for the food,” you murmur before digging in.
It’s silent for a while except for the sounds of chopsticks against bowls, plates.
You focus on the food; it’s good, like Bakugou’s food always is, but it settles like lead in your stomach.
You watch him sip his coffee and regret getting it for him because making his cup came a little too naturallyl; sitting here with him is a little too domestic. A month ago, this was all you ever wanted, you think. But now things are so complicated.
When both your plates are empty, you stand, taking the dishes from the table, and head to wash them in the sink. Bakugou watches you from the table, you can feel it, with his mug of coffee between his hands.
You linger, wiping your hands dry on a towel—you don’t want to sit back down. But there’s no avoiding it.
“Do you… do you want to move to the living room?” you ask him.
He nods.
The silence between you settles heavily, like a thick cloud of fog. The last time you felt this uncomfortable around him was that night at the grocery store, over the bok choy.
Then, every cell in your body just wanted to be away from him. You could barely meet his eyes, and looking into his face only brought back painful memories.
And then he opened his mouth and apologized.
God, you want him to go, you want him to stay. You’re gratified that he’s come to talk things over with you, but at the same time you’re still so angry. About what he said to you and how he said it. About how dumb you feel worrying over him when he hadn’t been thinking about you at all.
You stare down at the coffee table and wait for him to speak.
But he doesn’t say anything, his eyes just lingering on you. You wait, and wait, and wait. It gets to the point of being unbearable, so you take a deep breath.
You ask, “What’d you mean, when you said you didn’t express yourself right?”
Bakugou is silent for a long moment.
“When I said it has nothing to do with you,” he starts, “I meant I didn’t not contact you on purpose. Wasn’t ignoring you or whatever. S’just I gotta take care of the job first. Do you get that?”
His faced is screwed up in frustration, mouth a stark slash across his face.
You swallow. You run your hands across the material of your pants, up and down your thighs, fiddling with the fabric.
“I get it,” you say. “But you’re saying you didn’t give notice that you were leaving to Kiri, or your other friends, or your family? And that you didn’t tell anyone you’re back?”
“...I messaged Ei on our work channel,” he says grudgingly. He’s so tightly wound, sitting forward, leaning his forearms on his knees. “But that’s because we own the agency together. He needs to know if I’m gone, when I’m back.”
“So you had time to message him,” you point out. “I would’ve appreciated some of that time, too, you know?”
Bakugou exhales explosively, sitting up sharply. “Why does it matter? I would’ve told you eventually. Shit, sorry, but I had work to do and it came first.”
Crossing your arms over your chest, you narrow your eyes at him.
He glares at you. You meet his glare for a moment then look away.
Sighing deeply, you sit back into the couch and close your eyes, trying to keep calm, but your teeth are clenched tight and you’re beginning to feel like it’s hard to breathe. Something shivery and painful in you throbs. You snap.
“You know why it’s unfair,” you say, unable to help the venom that tinges your words. “You’ve been in the city for days now. I get I’m not the biggest priority in your life, but I would’ve settled for a goddamn emoji, Bakugou. If not the first day back, then the second. Hell. The third.”
His eyes flash, then narrow. Fists clenched, he says, tone ragged, “Hero work’s unpredictable. I had shit to do right the fuck away because it couldn’t wait, and I’ve barely gotten any sleep since stepping foot in this fucking city. So I can’t always let you know where I am or what I’m doing or when I’ll be back—it’s shitty and you might not get it, but s’how it is. Fuckin’ deal with it.”
His words are a slap to the face. Your body numbs out, as if losing all sensation, all feeling. You feel yourself retreating, as if you’re viewing yourself from outside your body.
Willing your voice not to shake, you say, “No, you don’t get it. And I don’t wanna fucking deal with it.”
“I don’t know what you want from me, fuck,” Bakugou snarls.
Something cracks inside you.
“I want you to leave,” you say, voice steel.
“We’re not fucking done.” Bakugou stands, looming, and your body, instinct, forces you to your feet.
“Stop running away,” he growls, voice low. Threatening. He steps into your space, face inches from yours.
“Leave,” you say.
“Not until—”
“Not until shit, Bakugou,” you say explosively. “What more is there to say? You’re not even listening, you don’t fucking get it. If you don’t leave, I will.”
You head for the door and begin pulling on a pair of shoes, any shoes, anger narrowing your vision into a tunnel.
Bakugou grabs your upper arm. “Wait, fuck. Fine, I’ll go!”
You stand rigid, refusing to look at him. He lets go of your arm with a sound of pure frustration. Stuffing his feet into his shoes, uncaring that he creases the heels and leaves the laces untied, he yanks the door open and walks out.
Breathing hard, you stand unmoving, watching the door come to a slow close.
You’re the dumbass who thought this thing, whatever it was, could work out between the two of you. You only have yourself to blame for thinking he’d changed, that he finally understood how his actions could affect others and was better. But he’s the fucking same.
You refuse to think about him, waste a single second more on him.
“What do we think about this one?” Mitsuru asks, spinning slowly.
The dress she’s wearing is a deep burgundy, beautiful against the tan of her skin. It’s a simple cut with a fitted bodice, the front curving into a square neckline with the back dipping into a deep u-shape. The skirt of the dress flares out to her ankles in a few gentle pleats that swish as she turns.
You study her critically, mouth pursed.
“I really like the color—you’re gorgeous in it,” you say, eyes scanning up and down her body. “But it kinda bunches up weird in the back, don’t you think?”
Mitsuru twists so she can look at herself reflected in the mirror. She frowns, turning this way and that.
“You’re right,” she finally says, sighing. She ducks back into the changing room to try on the next dress.
“You should keep it as a maybe, though.” You rest your chin on your propped up hand. “It’s not too bad. Maybe we’ve just been looking at dresses too long. Shopping fatigue or whatever.”
“No, I trust your eye,” Mitsuru says, voice a little muffled behind the curtain, barely audible over rustling fabric. “I want to look good at this wedding, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” you say, amused. “But regardless of what you wear, Souta’s gonna take one look at you and regret allllll of his dumbass choices.”
Mitsuru snorts. “Counting on it!”
She comes back out in a silky emerald green dress that hugs her from the chest to knee until the fabric flares out more loosely, to the ground; a high slit runs up the bottom to her mid-thigh. Thin straps hold up the neckline. When she turns, making a circle, you see that thin straps criss-cross across her bare back.
“This one,” you say immediately. “Your ass looks fantastic. God, you’re hot.”
Mitsuru barks out a laugh.
“Thanks babe,” she says warmly, looking at herself in the mirror. Nodding, she says, “Yeah, I’m getting this one.”
“You should do hair down, I think, since your shoulders are bare,” you say.
She fiddles with her black hair, bringing it up with her hands to imagine an updo and then releasing it.
“You are always right,” she says, grinning at you through the reflection in the mirror.
“I saw your guy’s back in town,” Mitsuru says, watching her straw make circles in her iced coffee. “Was on the news for stopping some rando villain.”
You stiffen, your grip on your drink tightening.
Oblivious to your reaction, she sips at her coffee. “How was that trip he was on?”
You chew on the tip of your own straw, mind scrambling for what to say. God. You’d just told her only a couple weeks ago about Bakugou. About how much you trusted in his change, about how good he is to you. Fuck. Part of you is embarrassed to even tell her about what’s happened between the two of you. You don’t know what’s worse—her thinking that you’re immature for being upset over this, or her confirming that she was right to distrust him.
That’s a lie. You know which one is worse.
“Seems like it went fine,” you say eventually, not meeting her eyes. Instead, you pretend to be looking at the cafe’s pastry menu, squinting at the text.
“Seems like?” Mitsuru echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s hero stuff, top secret or whatever.”
“Hmm.” She hums out an unconvinced sound, tapping her nails against the table.
Swallowing, you glance at her. She’s staring at you with narrowed eyes.
“Something’s up with you,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You’ve been off all day, and now you’re acting like you don’t give a shit about Dynamight when he’s all you could talk about these past couple weeks.”
Wincing, you avert your gaze. Hesitate. You decide to come clean. “I—things aren’t the best between us right now, okay? Shit happened.”
The clacking of her nails stops.
“What happened,” she says.
“All he could say was, ‘That’s how it is. Deal with it.’ Like I’m a little kid that doesn’t deserve an explanation, or, or a compromise. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t know why I can’t get through to him. He’s such an asshole.”
Your hands are shaking, you realize, so you clasp them together and move them off the table.
You told Mitsuru everything. The more you talked, the more angry you got. It was an effort to keep your voice low, appropriate for a public space. And damn, you’ve never before had a problem with Mitsuru’s non-reactions, her ability to keep quiet until the whole story’s out, but this time, it’s driving you crazy.
Falling silent, you wait for her judgment.
Mitsuru’s brow is furrowed as she gazes down into her coffee, the ice now long-melted. She looks up at you.
“So what are you gonna do?” she asks.
You blink, taken aback. “What?”
“I mean, what now? Are you gonna cut him loose? Or are you gonna try to fix things with him?” Mitsuru flicks at her glass with a nail, the motion generating a lovely ting.
You stare at her.
“I swear this isn’t me telling you I told you so,” she says.
You grimace, and she grimaces back.
“But this sounds very like him, just doing whatever he wants and not giving two shits about anyone else,” she says. “Do you think you can change him after a lifetime of that? Or is this something you can accept—that he can’t always keep you looped in?
“I don’t think you’re wrong for wanting to be informed. And I do think it was an asshole move for him not to give you a timely heads up that he was back in town. He should apologize for that, even if it’s something he can’t change. But at the same time, you and I are both, like, normal people. We don’t know anything about hero work. Who knows what he has to deal with behind the scenes. And two things can be true at the same time, y’know? That he did something shitty, but it’s something he didn’t have control over. Or if he did, that there are other factors at play or whatever.”
Mitsuru sighs deeply, leaning back in her chair. “God. Not you making me be sympathetic towards a man, even partially. Especially that man.”
You laugh humorlessly, shaking your head.
“I mean you don’t have to be sympathetic towards him. You could just be on my side, you know,” you say, smiling faintly.
“This is a bullshit free zone, bestie,” she says. “Sorry to tell ya.”
“Ugh.” You slump over, burying your face in your hands. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll let you know when I figure that one out.”
“You do that.” Mitsuru reaches over and strokes your hair. “And you tell me if I can do anything for you, okay?”
You raise your head, peeking through your fingers. “Buy me a cookie?”
Mitsuru snorts.
“I’ll buy you two, how about that,” she tells you.
The truth is, you still miss him.
It was hard not knowing where he was or when he’d be back. You thought that was the worst things could get.
But he’s here. In Musutafu. At his agency, at his apartment, out with his friends, out on the streets on patrol. Yet somehow, he feels the farthest away from you he’s ever been.
And you wish you were stronger, that you could keep your promise to yourself not to waste your time thinking about him anymore. But he’s everywhere. In the coffee cup that sits on your dish rack, bone dry, for days. In the bite of food from your favorite takeout place, suddenly tasteless. In the slant of light that shines in your eyes, just like it did in his that time on the roof, as you play with Mikan in the living room. In the sunset as you’re walking home from work, rays of gold against a brilliant orange sky.
When did he become such a big part of your life, for you to have all these thoughts associated with him?
You know that maybe you’re not going about this in the best way. But what options do you have? Both times you tried to talk to Bakugou about how you felt, he just. Didn’t get it. Like talking to a brick wall.
But you miss him. Fuck, you miss him.
“Hey, I’m so sorry. I think one of the delivery drivers took your order by accident,” the girl behind the register tells you.
Internally, you scream. It’s been a long week, and to top it off, you had to work overtime today. On a Friday. So you figured you’d stop at your favorite homestyle diner for takeout on your way home. A little comfort food.
“That’s okay, it’s not your fault,” you say, reining in your emotions. You may have had a bad week, but you’re not about to take it out on her.
“If you don’t mind waiting a little,” she says, “we can remake your order right away!”
“Sure, no problem.” You don’t have anywhere to be, anyway. “Would I be able to get a time estimate?”
“Fifteen to twenty minutes, tops. Again, so sorry.”
You reassure her it’s fine, then pay and step aside to let the next person talk to her. Sighing quietly, you move towards the door, intending to wait out in the fresh night air, a nice change of pace from the stifling crowd of people waiting to be seated or picking up food.
The door opens to let a group of people in, and you step aside and wait for them to pass. Your eyes scan passively, not looking at anything in particular, when they meet a familiar pair of red eyes.
You freeze. Red eyes widen.
Hurriedly, you look away, hoping he doesn’t say anything to you, but of course he does. He calls your name before you can slip out the door behind him.
“Hey, how’ve you been!” Kirishima exclaims, a grin on his face, eyes creased, friendly.
On the list of people you want to talk to the least, he’s high up on it. You can’t believe your luck.
“Hey, Kiri,” you say, giving him a half-hearted smile.
“You haven’t been around the agency all week. Been busy?” he asks.
Blinking, you pause. Is he just playing ignorant, or does he really not know that you’ve been purposely avoiding the agency? You decide to give a safe answer; you don’t want to prolong this conversation anyway.
“Yeah, work, you know how it is.” You shrug.
Glancing behind Kirishima, you see his party lingering a short distance away; they’re plainly curious and not at all hiding it as they watch the back and forth between the two of you.
Pinky’s immediately recognizable. She’s distinctive with her long, pink hair, the curved horns, her eyes with the black sclera and golden irises. The dark-haired man behind her takes you a second to place; he’s Cellophane. You see the elbows now. Next to him is a shorter blond man with a black zigzag in his hair. You can’t quite recall his name… Something to do with thunder? Or lightning?
They’re all heroes, you note until you’re jolted from your thoughts, forced to step out of the way as the door opens again for more people.
It suddenly strikes you. If Kiri’s here, what if…?
“Kiri, it was nice seeing you, but I don’t want to keep you from your friends,” you say, heartbeat spiking as you try to edge toward the door, half-afraid you’ll see orange and gold come through at any second. “I’ll see you around.”
“Wait!” Kirishima says, reaching out to catch your arm. He drops his hand when you stiffen slightly.
“Sorry,” he says softly. “Please, wait. Do you have a minute to talk real quick? I promise it won’t take long.”
As you stand there, indecisive, Kirishima looks over his shoulder. “Guys, go ahead and grab a table. I’ll be right there.”
It takes Cellophane nudging Pinky and the blond guy in their sides to get them moving.
Sighing deeply, shoulders drooping, Pinky then perks up, waving goodbye at you. By reflex you wave back. The boys nod at you before following her.
“C’mon, let’s get out of everybody’s way,” Kirishima says, opening the door for you.
Your attempt at escape thwarted, you step outside, walking a couple feet away from the restaurant to the entrance of an alleyway, beyond the stream of people walking Musutafu’s streets. Adults in office wear, students heading home from cram school, a hero or two patrolling in the distance. It’s a busy night.
“Thanks for staying,” Kirishima says, smiling at you.
“No problem,” you say, though that’s pretty much a lie. Your eyes can’t help but scan the faces of people walking by, on alert.
Kirishima touches your shoulder, grabbing your attention.
“Bakugou’s holed up at the agency,” he says. A complicated flash of emotion crosses his expression before he goes on to say, “So… you don’t have to worry. He didn’t come with us tonight.”
Relief floods you like a cool rush of air. Then a tightness squeezes your chest. Really, how much does Kirishima know?
Like, it makes sense if he knows everything. He’s Bakugou’s best friend. Of course Bakugou would tell Kirishima, if he would tell anyone. It’s not like it’d be wrong of Bakugou to talk about what happened between the two of you.
But just… someone else knowing about those painful moments, the hurtful words you’d exchanged—it’s like you’ve been stripped bare for Kirishima to see, uncomfortably naked. What exactly did Bakugou say? That you were unreasonable, controlling? Demanding of things you’re not entitled to?
Did Bakugou talk about the shakiness in your voice when you asked him to leave? What your face looked like as you held back tears?
“What did you want to talk about?” You force the words out. Your tone is flat, unnaturally so. But it’s all you can manage right now.
Kirishima pauses, studying your face.
Voice gentle, he says, “I just wanted to ask how you’re doing. I… I missed seeing you for our workouts this week.”
“I’m okay,” you say. “Like I said, work’s been busy. Haven’t had the energy to go to the gym.”
“Alright,” Kirishima says, eyes still searching your face.
You will your expression into stone; you won’t give him anything more.
Brow furrowed, he sighs, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Taking a deep breath, he says, “Look. I think I went about this the wrong way. I’m sorry I brought up Bakugou. I know that maybe things aren’t cool between you guys right now. And Bakugou can be a jerk sometimes. I really do want to know how you’re doing, how you’re holdin’ up.”
He ducks his head a little so he can look into your eyes.
The sincerity in them is unmistakable. His worry is crystal clear.
Maybe all of it combined melts some of the ice that’s been choking you. He’s a bystander in all this, after all. He’s only ever been kind to you. None of this is his fault.
Exhaling sharply, you shake your head.
“First—tell me what you know,” you say. “What did Bakugou say to you? About… our argument?”
“Nothing much, really,” Kirishima says, quick to reassure. His shoulders straighten, as if a weight’s been lifted from them as he reacts to your mood shift.
“I only picked up something was wrong when he came into work on Monday in a really terrible mood. Like worse than usual. And it hasn’t gone away. He’s been taking it out on everyone, even poor Pulsar.”
You wince, thinking of the young girl, then scowl as pinpricks of annoyance flicker through you. Bakugou needs to grow up and have some emotional maturity. He’s all about work, clearly. Where the hell is his professionalism?
Kirishima scratches the back of his head. “So I might’ve… teased him a little, saying he should go over to your place to chill out.”
You don’t know what expression you make, but it mustn’t be good because Kirishma says hastily, “Because he’s always in a better mood after he hangs out with you and the cats!”
“But how did you know we argued about him not telling me he was back?” you ask.
“Oh.” His eyes widen. “I didn’t. I mean I didn’t know until just now. You guys argued about that? Wait, he didn’t tell you he was back?”
You shake your head.
Light dawns on his face. “Damn. Jeez. So how’d you find out?”
“I was at the agency a week ago, working out at the gym,” you say. “Bumped into him. He said he’d been home for days at that point.”
Kirishima winces. He looks at you, expression suddenly awash with guilt.
“Hey. I’m really sorry for not telling you right when he got back. I know I promised. I—it’s going to sound like an excuse when I say this, but I thought he told you when he got back. He’d been back for hours when I got his message on our work channel. I figured you’d be the first one to know!”
Weariness drenches you, turning the corners of your lips down and filling you with sadness. The reminder that Bakugou’d told Kiri he was back the same day… Shaking your head, you look away, saying, “It’s okay, Kiri. It’s not your fault. It’s on Bakugou at the end of the day, and on me for having expectations.”
Looking miserable, Kirishima bites his lower lip. “I’m not saying you should let this slide. But—”
It happens between one second and the next—Kirishima whips his head around, as if sensing something you can’t; an ear-piercing screech punches its way down the block; you fall to your knees, hands clamped desperately to your ears as you try to protect them; the streetlights and the restaurant’s windows shatter as Kirishima lunges towards you, body hardening to form a shield.
He’s fast, but not fast enough—you wince as shards catch at your face, your hands. The street is plunged into darkness.
Kirishima touches your forearm. Ears ringing, sharp pain throbbing through your head, you look up at him, crouched over you. He’s talking to you, you realize. You lower your hands to hear him better, only to register that they’re wet.
Emergency lights begin to flicker on here and there throughout the street, and with their dim light, you see that there’s blood on your hands. From what? That’s when you feel liquid trickling down your neck, from your ears. Oh.
You stare down at them in a daze until Kirishima puts his hand on your back, jostling you a little. Even as you strain to hear him, you can’t make out what he’s saying above the endless ringing.
It scares you. What if this is permanent? Your breath shallows out as you begin to breathe faster.
You watch as Kirishima’s skin smooths out from where it’s hardened from activating his quirk. His hands reach out to gesture towards his face. His mouth, more precisely. You force yourself to focus.
“I’m okay,” you say, once you manage to read his lips. “Are you?”
He nods. “Go inside the restaurant. Stay there.”
He says a couple more things, things you don’t quite catch with how quickly he’s speaking. You just nod, and then he’s standing, calling to Pinky and Chargebolt, right, that’s his name, who’ve emerged from the restaurant.
They take off down the street, and you watch for a long moment, still coming to grips with what’s happened.
Now that there’s enough light to see, scenes of chaos up and down the street become apparent to you. Some people are still on the ground, as lost as you are. Others are stumbling around, looking panicked.
A touch to your elbow draws you back to yourself. It’s Cellophane.
“Are you hurt? Can you stand?” he says, and with relief, you realize you can sort of hear him.
“I’m okay,” you say, and with his help, you get to your feet.
He leads you into the restaurant, well away from the windows and broken glass, deeper in where people are huddled, sitting together with flashlights.
“You’re okay,” Cellophane tells you as you take a seat. His eyes and hands are clinical as they canvas your body, searching for any pressing injuries. “EMS are on their way, and heroes are taking care of the situation. You just sit tight here. I’m going to go back outside and help some of those people out of the street.”
The longer he talks, the more clarity your hearing gains. It’s such a relief you almost topple over.
“What happened?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know much of anything, if I’m being real with you. We think it was probably a villain attack, but can’t be too sure.”
“Okay,” you say softly, gazing down at your hands. You wipe them against your pants to try to clean them, leaving smears of dark red.
Looking up at him, you say, “Thank you.”
“No prob,” he says, grinning reassuringly, and his smile is all teeth and friendliness.
EMS does show up soon after, and you wait your turn as others who’d gotten more severe injuries are treated first.
There are no more noise explosions, no signs of further violence, to your relief. News soon trickles down via the EMS workers that it’d been a villain and her quirk responsible for the destruction and chaos. She’d been apprehended, and you were told it was no longer necessary to shelter in place.
“Thank you,” you tell the medic as she finishes up with a final bandage on your face.
“You’re very welcome,” she says cheerfully. “You took it like a champ. No glass fragments at all in you, but I know these thin lacerations sting like hell.”
She pats you on the back. “You’re free to go. Make sure to follow up with your doctor about the ears if any ringing or hearing loss persists.”
As you gather yourself and move away from the EMS vehicle, only a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye warns you before you’re surrounded by warmth, a firm grip, a familiar scent. Orange and gold.
“Thank fuck,” you just barely hear, and tears unbidden suddenly spring to your eyes, catching you by surprise. You inhale sharply.
It’s scary how quickly you’re undone just by the sound of his voice, his presence, all your composure and levelheadedness gone. You blink rapidly, tears creating wet tear tracks down your cheeks.
Bakugou cups your face.
You look up at him. Bakugou looks at you, crimson eyes blown, his gaze tracking the bandages scattered across your face, the remnants of dried blood in the edges of your hair, the bandages on your hands, the stress of the night tight at the corners of your mouth.
“Fuck,” he repeats, and he hugs you close, arms so tight around you that not even a sliver of air separates your bodies.
You don’t even mind the buckles and protrusions of his hero suit digging into you. Just seeing him, touching him—it’s more than enough. Because you know in your bones that you’re safe in his arms, that he’ll take care of everything. Your only thought is Bakugou. Bakugou.
“Let’s go home,” Bakugou mutters into your hair, and you nod, burying your face into his chest.
Author's Note: Hi friends... how ya doing... long time no see..........
Though I did respond to an ask saying I'd post this in January, I really wanted to get this out in time for my birthday, which is today! (Sorry to you, friend who sent in the ask, for the accidental lie!) I am 32 this fine Sunday, and let me tell you, my 30s continue to be the best years of my life. (Though this chapter almost didn’t make it up today; it’s been very… eventful. I am on a road trip with my sister and disaster struck. But we are safe and working on making dinner as I write this!)
If you can believe it, this chapter was 50% written by March, and I wrote the other 50% in the past two days. (So if you see any typos—no you don't.) The usual a11eya at tumblr dot com excuses: this year was super busy for me with work, and despite some chaotic personal things that've made this year challenging, I can say that I'm fine—safe and healthy, which is all anyone can ask for. I did pick up a new hobby, which is part of the reason I was away this year: ceramics! I took a class at my local community college, and I made several bowls, mugs, even a small vase! I'm happy to say that I'm taking the next level offered for the class this spring. If anyone's interested, I'd be happy to show you all what I made via pictures!
Thank you to all of you who've sent in messages and left comments on ao3 wishing me well and asking after lwgyh. I appreciate you so much. (And I will reply soon.) Thank you for your continued interest and generosity with your time and attention. This one's for you.
Happy holidays, and happy new year, everyone. Wishing you all good health, warmth, and happiness. I'll see you in the next chapter.
on your first date, kirishima takes you out to dinner. after an hour in, you already know.
you want this man.
you want to see him for a second, a third, a tenth date.
and the way he hasn’t looked away from you once the entire night. the way he smiles, shy, when your hands touch. the way he laughs at all your dumb jokes, not all of them funny.
the way, when you cross your legs under the table, a foot coming to rest against his calf, he flushes a pretty pink and his eyes meet yours as a flicker of unmistakable want darkens them.
SUMMARY: Soul-lights aren’t as common in this day and age as they were in the past, before quirks, but they’re common enough that people do still find their soulmates.
At thirteen, you meet Bakugou Katsuki, and he lights up for you in orange and gold. You tell him he's your soulmate. He sneers and tells you that you aren't his. He makes your adolescence miserable until you part ways.
You meet again as adults, late at night, in a grocery store, over a pile of bok choy. He apologizes for how he treated you when you were children.
(In which you have a choice—to reject Bakugou's apology, reject him, or to let him show you the man he's become, to learn with him what it means to love and forgive.)
Bakugou smells faintly of smoke and caramel, an intoxicating combination you’re used to smelling when he comes straight to your apartment after an eventful patrol. His body is radiating heat, despite the relative coolness of the night. His scent, his warmth, and the way his hand is running slowly up and down your back have you sagging into him. He takes your body weight like it’s nothing.
Seconds, minutes, hours—you don’t know how much time passes in his arms until the sound of more EMS vehicles arriving brings you back to the present, suddenly remembering yourself and where you are.
You clear your throat and take a step back, putting some space between the two of you. Bakugou frowns. The air feels too cool as it rushes over the places you’d been connected.
“What—how are you here?” you ask him.
Bakugou’s eyes can’t seem to settle; they dart from your eyes, to your ears, to your hands. His brow furrows as he reaches up to touch the side of your neck. A blotch of sticky, drying blood comes off onto his glove.
“Heard about the villain,” Bakugou says, and he clenches his fist, lowering it.
His voice and other sounds still come across as muffled, as if your head’s wrapped in a blanket or as if you’re underwater. You shake your head a little, as if trying to dislodge water that had gotten into your ears after swimming. Of course, the motion does nothing except exacerbate the headache you have.
Wincing, you glance around. Thankfully, it seems like everyone’s too busy doing damage control to have paid any attention to you and Bakugou. You’re relieved; you don’t know what you’d do if another media incident featuring the two of you came as a result of this night. Still—
“We should go,” you say. No need to push your luck any further.
“Not yet,” Bakugou says. “You’re getting those ears looked at.”
“They already checked me over and gave me the go ahead.”
Bakugou scowls ferociously. “Well they did a shitty job. Let’s go.”
Sighing, you trail Bakugou as he makes his way to an EMS medic preoccupied with healing a woman with some nasty looking cuts on her legs. The woman looks as exhausted as you feel and doesn’t even look up when the both of you approach, seeming dazed as she stares down at the bright green glow emitting from the medic’s palms.
“Hey, hedgehog head,” Bakugou says to the medic, to your horror. Sure, the man’s hair is styled—or maybe naturally?—spiky, but there isn’t any need for name-calling.
“Hey, Dynamight!” the medic says cheerfully. “What can I do ya for?”
“Fix this shit,” Bakugou says, gesturing to your ear.
Your eyes widen, and you wave a hand in front of yourself. “Please finish up with your current patient! I was already seen by someone else, so no need—”
“The hell there isn’t,” Bakugou snaps, and you glare at him.
Perhaps taking pity on you, the medic smiles. “No worries. This lovely lady is all patched up, so this seat is up for grabs.”
The green glow fades from his hands, revealing clean, unblemished skin on the woman’s legs.
You open your mouth to protest again, but Bakugou shuts you up with a look that has you reluctantly taking the seat the woman evacuates. You make a silent promise to yourself to get him back for this.
The medic is apologetic that he’s only able to heal the cuts on your face and your ear damage; he explains that he needs to save his juice for really serious injuries, and there are still several people who need medical attention.
Before Bakugou can continue to be a menace, you quickly thank him, jumping up from your seat and speed-walking away.
Bakugou can only follow you with a frown on his face, redirecting you over to his car where it’s parked just beyond the EMS vehicles and taped off areas to prevent people from stepping into the path of glass and other debris.
He’s walking so close to you that every step has you brushing your shoulder against him, your elbow. When you try to give him some space, he scowls at you and closes the distance, bumping against you.
He opens the front passenger door and ushers you in. Rounding the front of the car, he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the car.
As you sit there, you deflate. Truthfully, you’re grateful for Bakugou’s pushiness. The injuries to your ears had cranked up your anxiety levels, and now you have one less thing to worry about.
“Thank you, Bakugou,” you say quietly as he puts the car into reverse and reaches out to brace a hand on the back of your headrest.
Your eyes make contact for a brief moment before he nods, continuing to reverse.
The car is silent as Bakugou makes his way through congested streets, backed up because of the incident. You look out the window, studying the damage the villain had caused—the shattered windows and dark streets, unlit because of the broken street lights. But your eyes can’t help but be drawn back to Bakugou. The line of his left arm connected to the steering wheel, handling the car with ease, as his right arm rests casually on the door’s window ledge. The shadows under his eyes deepened by the dim lighting of the car’s console cast on his face.
In the chaos of everything, it hadn’t even occurred to you that it’s been almost a week since you’d seen Bakugou and it’s been radio silence between the two of you. That the last time you’d seen him left a bitter taste in your mouth, his voice ringing in your ears, filled with anger.
It’d all been washed away upon seeing him, being in his arms.
But now that you’ve had time to catch your breath, it all comes flooding back, and. You don’t know. Is it trivial, the fight you’d had? It feels like it in this moment. But you don’t want to just brush it aside, as if it’d never happened. Because what if it happens again?
Swallowing, you break the silence. “The agency’s pretty far from here… Was the villain so dangerous that they called heroes further out?”
“No. Local patrol had it handled, and it was settled when Ei, Raccoon Eyes, and Dunce Face got there to support.”
Raccoon Eyes? Dunce Face? You know Ei’s Kirishima. Context clues point toward Raccoon Eyes being Pinky… though you’re not sure the nickname’s entirely accurate, given Pinky’s golden irises. Maybe something like Wolf Eyes would’ve been more accurate… Dunce Face has to be Chargebolt, though you have no idea why. You wonder if Bakugou’s just being mean for no reason.
You realize your train of thought is a little rambly, scattered. You're not exactly firing on all cylinders. An overwhelming wave of tiredness washes over you, settling into your skin, leaving you struggling to keep your eyes open.
The car stops at a light. Bakugou drums his fingers against the wheel, glances over at you.
“How’re your hands?” he asks gruffly.
“Stings a little, but they’re okay.”
A yawn comes trailing after the ends of your words, and you just barely cover your mouth in time. At the corner of your eye, you see the corner of Bakugou’s mouth twitch upwards.
Now that you’ve gotten clear of the area damaged by the villain incident, the streets go by faster. They’re familiar to you, but they don’t lead home.
“Bakugou, this isn’t the way to my apartment,” you say, straightening up.
“My place is closer,” Bakugou says.
You blink, open your mouth, then bite your lip, falling into an uncertain silence.
The silence stretches.
Bakugou’s hands tighten around the wheel, knuckles whitening.
“...I’ll take you to yours,” he says, low, switching lanes. He doesn’t look at you. Something in you clenches.
“No,” you blurt out, surprising him, surprising yourself. He glances over at you.
“No,” you repeat, a little more quietly. You gaze at the profile of his face, the shadows that pass over them as you drive past lights, the slope of his nose, the firm set of his lips.
“Let’s go to yours. Let’s—let’s just go home.”
Bakugou’s shoulders lower just an inch, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel releasing. He drops one hand to rest on the center console, keeping the other on the wheel. He gives a short nod, still not looking at you.
For a moment, you just watch him.
Then, tentatively, you reach over and touch the back of his hand, fingertips gliding over his skin.
A quick glance at you, then back at the road.
He flips his hand over and takes yours in his, gentle, mindful of your bandaged cuts.
He doesn’t let go.
The minute you step into his apartment, it’s like the strings holding your body up are cut. It becomes difficult to keep yourself upright, the fatigue weighing you down.
“Hungry?” Bakugou asks, and you just shake your head wearily.
“Can I have a toothbrush and some clothes? I just wanna shower and sleep,” you say, yawning again. It’s so wide that you’re barely able to cover your mouth with your hands. Bakugou snorts.
“Forget the shower.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “How’re you supposed to wash yourself with those hands, dumbass.”
Shaking your head, you say, “I’ll just suck it up with the cuts and rebandage them after. I can’t sleep with blood in my hair and dirt on my skin.”
Bakugou scowls, narrowing his eyes at you. Stiffening, you brace yourself for an argument.
His eyes take in your expression, and he drops his arms quickly, his face flattening into something more neutral. You watch him cautiously, unwilling to trust that he’d back down so quickly.
Brows furrowed, he’s quiet for several long moments, thinking.
“I’ll wash your hair,” he says finally. “And I’ll close my eyes or some shit while I wash your body.”
For a moment, you can only blink. Then you burst into laughter, half in surprise, half in disbelief about the suggestion. He makes a face.
“Bakugou,” you say once you calm down enough to suppress your giggles, still grinning, “How would that even work? You gonna work it out by feel?”
You’re amused, but you feel your face warm a little at your own gall to tease him like this, warm at your imagination, when it begins to sketch out what exactly his solution would entail—his hands on your body, on your bare skin. Those calluses on his fingertips dragging, catching.
But it’s nothing in comparison to how Bakugou’s cheeks pink, the tips of his ears reddening.
Your eyes widen, and his gaze meets yours for an electric, singing moment before he looks away, hand coming up to cover his mouth.
Your heart’s racing, your mouth dry. Your smile fades, and you bite your lip.
Shaking your head, you swallow and say, “Do you have gloves?”
Luckily, Bakugou has nitrile gloves and medical tape in his first aid kit. After you put the gloves on, he tapes the openings against the skin of your wrists so that water isn’t able to run down into them. For good measure, he makes you put another pair of gloves on to protect the tape.
If you were less cranky, you’d acknowledge that it’s a good idea, because it does keep your bandages dry when you brush your teeth and then step into the shower to scrub your body down. Your dexterity is greatly affected though, as you keep dropping things, causing Bakugou to nearly burst into the bathroom the first time the body wash bottle you drop makes a loud thud. Only your frantic shout that you’re fine saves you.
But soon, you’re forced to admit defeat just before getting to shampooing your hair. In the beginning, you’re able to just barely handle the stinging sensation from the constant hand movements as you wash your body. Gritting your teeth through it is possible only up to a point, though, as soon you feel a dampness on your hands that you identify not as water leaking into the gloves but blood from your reopened wounds.
Just the thought of what you’ll find under the gloves has you queasy enough to stop.
You step out from under the shower head. You wish you could rub yourself dry, but you’re afraid to make things worse, so you settle for gingerly wrapping a big, fluffy towel loosely around yourself.
“Bakugou?” you call out, hoping he’s nearby to hear you.
You start to make your way to the door, dripping water across the floor.
“What’s wrong?” His voice comes immediately, muffled through wood.
“I need help,” you say, and make sad, shuffling noises against the door with the back of your hand. You wish you could turn the knob to open the door, but just the thought of applying pressure to your palms makes you wince. “Open the door, please?”
The door opens with a swiftness that has you startling backwards, nearly slipping and causing you to loosen your grip on the towel—a near disaster. You clutch at the towel, holding the cloth to your body with your arms. You feel yourself beginning to flush as you look up into Bakugou’s face.
His ears are completely red, charmingly so. The crimson creeps up his cheeks as his eyes dart around, unsure where to rest before settling on a distant point behind your shoulder.
Clearing your throat with effort, you step closer. “Can you… fix my towel, please? Like tuck the edge in so it’s secure?”
His eyes flicker. Wordlessly, he does as you ask, clumsily. The brush of his fingers against your body has you shivering, goosebumps rising across your skin.
“You cold?” Bakugou looks at you consideringly, then shuts the door behind him.
You laugh a little, helplessly. You’re glad he thinks your goosebumps are because you’re cold.
The moment seems to help him regain his composure. He looks you in the eye, careful not to let his gaze drop, and asks, “What do you need help with?”
“Were you serious about being willing to wash my hair?” you ask. You raise your hands a little. “Because I may or may not be bleeding under here and I don’t want to make it worse…”
Bakugou’s expression darkens. Before he can say anything, you jump in.
“You can save the ‘I told you so,’ for later! Please, Bakugou, I just want to finish up so I can go to bed.”
You must look exceedingly pathetic, because instead of grouching at you further, he goes to grab a stool you can sit on. He places it against the edge of the tub and motions for you to get situated so you can lean back with your head hovering over the tub.
For the first few minutes of him dampening your hair, you’re a little tense, preoccupied with keeping the towel tightly against your body and self-conscious about how much skin you’re showing. With how big the towel is, you’re about as covered up as you’d be if you were wearing a flirty sundress. But in this context, knowing you're naked underneath this rectangle of cloth, with Bakugou leaning over you… It’s a lot.
His expression is concentrated, laser-focused as he rubs along your hairline, protecting your face from the splash of water with a hand. He’s gentle, almost excessively so, working his fingers through the strands of hair and to your scalp, massaging the shampoo in. It’s involuntary, how your eyelids soon slide shut and you lean into his hands, a soft sigh exhaling.
“S’okay?” Bakugou says, and sleepily, you murmur an affirmative. You could fall asleep right here, putty in his hands.
You drift a little, you think. Maybe more than a little, because the next thing you know, you’re in what must be Bakugou’s bedroom, only a dim lamp illuminating the room as he sets you down on the bed and adjusts your towel so it’s a little more secure against your body.
“Clothes’re right here,” he says, voice a quiet susurration. “Get dressed and then I’ll dry your hair.”
He leaves the room. You do as he says, putting on clothes that smell like his detergent and peeling off your layers of gloves. When he returns with the first aid kit and a blow dryer in hand, not even the whir of the machine and hot air do anything to deter you from your path to sleep.
When Bakugou begins applying fresh bandages to your palms, you can barely keep your eyes open, swaying a little as you sit.
It’s only until Bakugou turns off the light and moves to get up that you stir.
“Where’re you going?” you mumble, yawning widely.
“Sleepin’ out in the living room,” he tells you, voice low. “Go to sleep.”
You make a sleepy noise of protest, eyes fluttering open with effort. “No… I’ll go, you sleep in here. S’your bed.”
Bakugou breathes out sharply through his nose. “Hell no.”
“Bakugou—” you start, starting to stand up.
He pushes you down, then places his hand over your eyes, covering them.
“Sleep,” he tells you.
You wrap your fingers around his wrist, ignoring the pain, so you can pull him away.
“Stay?” you ask. Even if you were wide awake, you’re sure you wouldn’t be up to Bakugou’s fighting weight when it comes to getting your way; you should’ve known he wouldn’t take the bed when you’re a guest in his home. But maybe you can convince him to compromise…
“Please?” you say, eyes rising to meet his. Your hand slides down from his wrist, coming to rest loosely in his grasp, your fingers entangling.
Bakugou looks down at your entwined fingers. He nods jerkily.
His hand slips from yours, and he makes his way back to the bathroom. The door stays cracked open, and as you wait, you hear the shower turn on. Steam trickles through the light streaming from the gap in the door.
You do try to wait up for him. But sleep’s siren song calls you, and you pull back the covers, getting in.
The bed dips next to you, and you stir. The movement’s enough to rouse you into tentative wakefulness as you begin to slide closer to the center of the bed. You make a drowsy, querying noise.
“S’just me.” Bakugou’s voice is a rumbly rasp, so quiet as it is.
There’s a feather light touch to your cheek and your body softens, relaxing, and then you’re asleep again.
Nose scrunched, you make a sleepy sound that’s a cross between a whine and a groan as you register that you’re way too warm, from head to toe, and that’s what’s drawn you out of dreamland.
You don’t want to wake up. Eyes still closed, you tense your muscles in a stretch—from the arches of your feet to your calves to your core to your back—then relax, trying to fall back asleep.
A soft laugh, just a quiet exhale of air through the nose, makes your eyes shoot open.
Directly in front of you is a broad chest in dark blue, rising up and down in a steady rhythm. Now that you’re wide awake, it registers that underneath your head is not, in fact, a pillow, but warm skin, firm muscle—an arm. Your hand clenches fabric, and there’s a grunt right above you, close. Immediately, you let go when you realize your hand is gripping Bakugou’s shirt, crumpling it over his abdomen.
Bakugou’s voice is deep, more gravelly than usual, sending little involuntary shivers through your body that you desperately hope he doesn’t notice, when he says, “Finally awake?”
You can feel his voice in your body with just how close you are to him, tucked into his side as you are. There’s a line of heat that travels all the way down the front of your body where it meets the contours of his, uninterrupted even by air. He smells so good; his natural scent combines with the fresh notes of whatever shampoo or body wash he uses, and this combines with the fragrance of clean, laundered sheets wrapped around both of you.
You half wonder if you’re still dreaming.
But consciousness comes back to you in waves.
It’s hard not to be self-conscious about a myriad of things—of morning breath, of how swollen your eyes must be, of the bandages on your hands, of how comfortable you’ve made yourself, nestled into him.
Flashes of the night before hit you, and you’re embarrassed by your helplessness. Your audacity. Of your honesty. You should really move away, make some space between you, but you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.
You feel Bakugou’s bicep flex under your head as he shifts a little, and you resign yourself to getting up.
But to your surprise, Bakugou’s only moved so that he’s laying on his side, facing you. Looking at you.
The room is dim because the curtains are still drawn, but slants of light still seep out around them, brightening the room just enough for you to see the crimson of his eyes, the blond of his lashes framing them. The scar on his face, the messy ruffle of his hair, a crease mark on his face from the pillow, maybe.
The orange and gold of his lights pulse around him with a deep warmth, the gold sparking in places like you’ve never seen before. Entranced, you slide your hand up his free arm, from bicep to forearm and back, watching as the colors swirl in your wake. Beneath your touch, the hues seem to almost intensify, but you’re sure it’s your eyes playing tricks.
Bakugou inhales sharply, and the sound snaps you to the present, eyes jumping to meet his.
He’s gazing at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat, then beat faster, insistently. Your breath shallows out. When he reaches up to touch your face, the movement dislodges your hand, but you barely notice.
Bakugou cups your jaw for a long moment, just looking at you. His thumb strokes your cheek, just once.
Then he pinches your nose.
“Breakfast,” he says.
Breakfast is a quiet affair.
Bakugou puts together a hearty breakfast. When you try to help, he scowls at you, bumping you out of the way with a pointed look at your hands. So you content yourself with messing around with your phone at the dining table, all the while sneaking glances at him. The fluidity of his movements around the kitchen, his quiet skillfulness with a knife. The neutral lines his expression falls into as things come together.
Eating together is peaceful, uninterrupted by conversation. You can tell Bakugou’s thinking about something, and you’re preoccupied yourself, trying to muster up the courage to address the elephant in the room.
It’s not until the table is cleared and you’re idling, just watching Bakugou load the dishwasher because he refused your help again, that you ask, “Don’t you have to go into work?”
Bakugou shakes his head, closing the dishwasher door and washing his hands in the sink. “Called out. Ei’s handling shit today.”
“Oh.”
You fidget a little, shifting your weight back and forth, then make up your mind. You don’t want to talk about it today. Going home is probably the best thing you can do.
Just as you open your mouth to say your goodbyes, Bakugou’s eyes slide to meet yours.
He asks, “Y’wanna get coffee? At our usual.”
His lights flicker erratically, orange flaring in spikes before settling into a moody dimness around him.
You should say no. But—you don’t want to; you want to say yes. Last night was so chaotic that you couldn’t properly process your feelings. This morning, with how you’d woken up to him, how you’d fallen into a rhythm during breakfast… It all reminded you of how uncomplicated things could be.
“Okay,” you say. Then you furrow your brow. “But we shouldn’t be out in public together, right? Ikeda would have a conniption.”
Bakugou scowls, then shrugs a shoulder. “The story’s that you work for me. Wouldn’t be weird.”
“I guess… but in these clothes?”
You look down at yourself, dressed in one of Bakugou’s black shirts with a skull on it, a little tight on you, and sweatpants that are too loose; you had to roll up the bottoms and tighten the drawstring as far as it could go. No matter how Bakugou or Ikeda could spin it, no way would anyone buy that you work for him wearing what you’re wearing.
Bakugou’s jaw tightens, then releases. “I’ll drop you off at yours, then.”
Something in his expression, subtly downcast before it’s tucked away into a neutral stillness, makes your heart twinge, an involuntary response.
“If you don’t mind,” you say carefully, “I could get changed at my place quickly and then we could go to the cafe.”
He stares at you for a moment. He looks away. “You’re not wrong that people could be annoying and take pictures or whatever. S’better if I just take you home.”
“If—If you don’t mind, I don’t mind,” you say firmly.
A couple months ago, when the pet store incident happened, you did mind. You minded a lot. But now… so much has changed. You don’t care anymore what people think. They don’t know you, and they don’t know Bakugou. There’s a feeling in your gut that if you turn Bakugou down now, you’ll regret it.
Bakugou reaches up, pauses at your cheek, then moves on to tuck some hair behind your ear.
“Okay,” he tells you.
Mikan greets you at the door with yowls. He’s upset because it’s way past his breakfast time, which you’re guilty about.
“I know, baby, sorry,” you say as you reach down to pick him up, giving him a big smooch on his head. You head to the kitchen, and Mikan wriggles out of your arms as you grab his food bowl. As you crack open a can of food, Mikan meows loudly and impatiently twines himself through your legs.
You don’t even realize that Bakugou’s cleaning the litter box until you’ve set Mikan’s bowl down.
“Bakugou—” you start.
“Go get changed,” he says, then glances around.
“Where’re the other furball?” he asks you. “Only the greedy one came out to eat.”
A pang of sadness pulses through you. Shaking your head, you say, “Natsu was adopted while you were gone. It’s only Mikan now.”
A beat of silence, then Bakugou nods. Moves to the sink to wash his hands.
You retreat to your room to change, but not before seeing Bakugou lean down to stroke along Mikan’s back, the orange cat arching into his touch briefly before stuffing his face back into his food.
It’s late enough into the morning that you’ve successfully managed to avoid the morning rush, so you take your time to look at the menu instead of immediately falling into line.
“What’re you getting?” you ask as your eyes scan the boards hanging above and behind the counter.
“Usual,” Bakugou says. He hasn’t looked once at the menu. Instead, he’s scanning the cafe, a sharp look in his eye.
He’s wearing a baseball hat and a black hoodie for some anonymity, you think, but the hoodie doesn’t do a good job of hiding much of anything. At the least, they don’t disguise his broad shoulders. And the expression on his face is anything but civilian.
“Boring,” you tell him, trying to soften him. Looking down at you, he pinches your cheek, rubbing a thumb against the skin before letting go. You jab an elbow into his side, but he dodges it easily.
“Hi! Can I get an iced houjicha latte, please?” you say to the cashier with a smile.
Bakugou steps up behind you, close enough to feel his body heat, and hands her his card as he recites his order right after yours.
As you wait for your drinks, Bakugou suddenly says, “You haven’t thought about keeping ‘im?”
“What?” You blink at him.
“The furball.”
“Mikan?”
“Who else.”
“I’ve thought about it,” you say slowly. And you have. Mikan’s been with you for ages now, and you’ve grown to love his spontaneous bursts of energy as he zooms through your apartment or hunts down the feather attached to your wand toy; his moments of stillness as he curls up in your lap; his affection as he butts his head against your mouth before settling on top of your chest when you lie down, paws tucked underneath him, purring.
You look down. “But I don’t know. He was just matched with someone. I’d hate to take him from them.”
The barista calls your name, and you pick up your orders.
“Fuck it,” Bakugou says as he holds the door open for you to exit ahead of him. “I’ll tell your pet organization or whatever that I wanna keep ‘im. I’m sure they have other furballs that need homes. Those people can choose from them.”
“Thought you didn’t like Mikan,” you say, glancing up at him.
Bakugou’s nose scrunches up in a way that makes you laugh.
“Got used to ‘im, I guess.”
You hum, a thoughtful noise, as you walk. You’re not sure why Bakugou’s suddenly suggesting this or if he’s actually serious.
What you are sure about is that you’re not quite ready to get back in his car and go home. There’s a normalcy to the rhythm you’ve both settled into, reminiscent of how things were before he left for his mission. You’re reluctant to disrupt it.
“Do you wanna walk off breakfast?” you ask. “There’s a park nearby.”
Bakugou grunts an assent, and you keep walking past his parked car.
As you walk, his hand lightly brushes against yours from time to time. You don’t pull away, though you feel the tips of your ears warming and you mentally berate yourself for your inconsistency. You’re upset at him, you’re hurt by him; you’re so happy to be with him, you’re soft in his hands, at his care.
Frustrated with yourself, you look up at the sky.
The sky is a heartbreakingly clear blue, with just a few white wisps to interrupt the expanse. Along the pathway cutting through the park, trees provide welcome shade from the unrelenting sun. The area is relatively empty, what with it being a weekday, except for some aunties and grandmas stretching on the other side of the park.
You think about how quickly the seasons have changed. When you bumped into Bakugou at that grocery store that night, it was early spring, with the cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom. Now it’s fall, and the leaves have just started to turn color, and everything is different.
“Bakugou,” you say hesitantly. “Do you have time to come over and talk?”
“Okay,” Bakugou says as he settles on the couch across from you. “Let’s talk. But no running away this time. I won’t do that shit a third time.”
The urge to defend yourself rears its head, and you look up at him.
His expression is set, grim; he’s leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees, hands clasped together.
The words die in your throat. For a moment, you regret inviting him over to have this conversation, your stomach churning.
Bakugou tips his head, looking at you with a glint in his eye, then says, “You needed space. I get it. But feels shitty when you leave mid-conversation. Or give me the silent treatment. Fuck that. How’re we supposed to fix shit if you’re not around to talk shit through.”
You want to tell him that you weren’t running away. That you don’t feel like it’s productive to continue conversations that have escalated into hurtful exchanges. But you take a moment to think about what he’s saying. About how this all started because you were hurt by his silence, his unwillingness to communicate and maintain connection.
Maybe you’re doing the same thing to him in your own way.
“All right,” you say, finally. “You’re right. I won’t do it again. And if I do it again you can call me out on it and I’ll get my shit together.”
Bakugou nods, and the lines of his shoulders ease. You study him, not realizing how much your actions had bothered him.
Looking down at your hands again, at the bandages Bakugou had carefully wrapped around them last night, you inhale deeply.
You begin, “I know you and Kiri own the agency together. And that you’ve been friends since UA. And our friendship hasn’t had the same amount of time, or the kinds of experiences, to develop, I know. But I wanna get there with you, someday. And I think it can only happen if we talk to each other. Tell each other things. Build trust.”
As if you’d opened a lid, everything starts to spill out, your words tripping on each other as if they can’t come fast enough.
“I—I care about you. I worry about you, and I thought about you a lot while you were gone. I counted each day, hoping that it’d be the one when you’d be back. And I know it’s not what you intended, I know you’ve explained your reasons why, but it hurt because it felt like I wasn’t worth the minute it would’ve taken for you to shoot me a message that you’re back and that you’re okay. Felt like I didn’t matter to you.”
You fall silent, hands clenched tight enough to hurt. Bakugou makes a rough sound, reaching over to touch the back of your hand, to make you let go. You try to relax, take a deep breath.
“I hear your reasons for why you did what you did,” you say, looking him in the eyes, hoping you’re getting across to him. “I get that I can’t change who you are. I just want you to know how I felt.”
Bakugou takes one look at your face and curses.
“C’mere,” he says roughly as he moves to sit next to you on the couch. He reaches over and wipes at the moisture around your eyes with gentle fingers. “Fuck, don’t cry.”
“I’m not,” you say, making a face, and your voice comes out thin, trembly. You’re not crying. You’re just—when you’re in difficult, emotional situations, sometimes it’s like your body can’t take the stress and you tear up. You’re not crying. It’s just a lot.
“M’sorry,” he tells you, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, bringing you to his chest.
You’re still, breathing him in. Stiff, trying not to give in to him. “I don’t want you to be sorry just because of—because of this. I don’t mean to. I’m not. I just get worked up.”
You don’t want him to apologize out of guilt, or to make your tears go away. You want him to understand.
When you try to pull away, Bakugou firms his grip on you, refusing to let go.
“You’re right,” he says. “It’s fucked, I messed up. I’m not just saying this shit because I want to stop arguing. If you went somewhere for work, or—or on a trip somewhere, I’d be pissed if you didn’t tell me anything. I think about you all the goddamn time. Last night stressed me the fuck out because I wasn’t sure if you were okay and dumbass Ei left you.”
Those last words end in a growl.
You’re wide-eyed in his arms, stunned into silence. You scarcely dare to breathe as you struggle to process his words.
Bakugou relents, allowing you to pull back enough to look into his face. Your eyes search his, not sure what you’re trying to find.
He says, “I do shit this way because it’s what’s worked. And I’ve been doing it a long time. S’hard because most people around me already know how hero work is and don’t expect me to do anything different. I’ll do better.”
You close your eyes, letting out a shuddery breath, letting his words soak in, weighing whether to accept them or not. His hand moves up and down your back in long, steady strokes. As if you were Mikan.
A feeling you’re not willing to name rises in your throat, and you really do feel like crying now.
You soften.
“Missed you,” you whisper against his chest, pressing yourself against him. His arm moves down to circle your waist as you reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. “Glad you’re home safe. Meant to tell you that. So happy you’re home.”
His arms tighten around you, squeezing almost a little too hard. You welcome the pressure.
“Don’t like when you cry, so stop,” he mutters.
“M’not crying,” you say, but the wobbliness in your voice isn’t very convincing.
For a moment, you’re tempted to leave things here. You think you could be satisfied with this. And yet…
You raise your head, look at him.
“I have just one last thing I gotta get off my chest,” you say, letting your arms drop.
Shifting a little, you move to put some space between the two of you. You don’t know how you got there, but you’re half in his lap, and it’s a little embarrassing. But he doesn’t let you get far, even with the face you make at him, his arm firmly holding you in place.
“Weeks ago. Before you left, when I was sick, you made this comment like, ‘You don’t get it,’ when I mentioned taking it easy with the hero work. And you said something similar when we argued.”
Swallowing, you say, “And I want to tell you that it makes me feel lonely, hearing you say that. It feels like you don’t want to explain because you think I wouldn’t understand. It sucks.”
With how close the two of you are, you can feel Bakugou’s body tense up in response to your words.
“I don’t say that kind of shit to be exclusionary,” Bakugou says. “It’s just. It’s fucking true. Civilians can’t understand the job. And I can’t take it easy. People depend on me.”
You scan his expression, trying to read him. Trying to pick your words so that they click.
“I know. You’re right. But… that reasoning can be used for any line of work, right? Or life experience. You can’t know what it’s like to be—to be an office worker. Or a doctor. An engineer. An artist. A mother, or a sibling. We’re all living different lives, and the only way we can come together is by sharing our lives with each other. That’s how I see it. What about you?”
Bakguou is silent for a beat. Then he exhales. “The hero stuff… it’s not all glory and saving people and happy endings. Sometimes shit is fucked, and all we do is try to keep it from being worse. I don’t want you to have to deal with that too.”
A bitterness you’ve never seen before turns down the corner of his lips, sharpens his eyes, furrows his brow. There’s sorrow there, too, a bone-deep fatigue. It makes you want to reach out and touch it, erase it, so your hand cups his cheek before you can think. Your thumb strokes his skin. His eyes lock on yours and hold.
“That’s my choice,” you tell him gently. “I don’t need to be sheltered from things, like I’m a kid. If it turns out I can’t handle something, I’ll tell you. If there’s something you’re not comfortable sharing, or you’re not allowed to tell me something, I’ll respect that. But you should communicate that with me instead of not giving me any explanation at all. I think that’s fair.”
Bakugou is quiet for a long moment, and you’re content to let him think. Finally, he says, “Okay. But you have to promise to tell me if shit’s too much for you.”
“Promise,” you say, a small smile lifting your cheeks. You give in to the urge to pinch his nose, payback for this morning, and he nips at your fingers as you retreat.
A thought occurs to you, and you pause. There’s one last thing, one true last thing, that you haven’t talked about yet. You’ve been avoiding it all this time because you’re afraid to shatter what’s between you. But so many things are out in the open now, and it feels a little bit like maybe it’ll be okay if you bring this thing up too.
“I lied,” you tell Bakugou. “I have one more last thing to get off my chest. It’s the actual last thing though, I swear.”
“Better be,” he growls at you, and you laugh a little. It helps you be brave.
“I—I know that for you, at least part of what we are might just be trying to make up for what happened when we were kids, but you don’t need to. I already forgave you, okay? I don’t care that I’m not your soulmate because…” You hesitate, avoiding his gaze. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Regardless?”
Bakugou has gone rigid around you as you’ve talked, but he startles at your last words, jerking his head up to stare into your face.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
You flinch.
Bakugou swears, then, “Fuck, no, I meant—the hell do you mean you’re not my soulmate? You are.”
For a moment, you feel like you’re separate from your body, untethered. His words echo in your ears, reminding you of how things sounded right after the villain’s attack last night. Then the words register, and you crash back down to earth.
“What?” you say, and the word comes out cracked. Something tightens in your chest. “No I’m not.”
“The hell you aren’t,” he snarls. His hand on your waist squeezes, tightening, a reflex.
“But you said that I wasn’t!”
His eyes, cutting crimson, bore into you. “When the hell did I say that?”
“When we were kids.” You stare at him. Swallow. “When we first met. You told me that you’re not my soulmate, after I told you that you’re mine.”
“Fuck.” Bakugou simmers in silence for a long moment. “Fuck. I was a shitty kid, okay. And I said what I said because I didn’t want it to be true. Because soulmates or lights or whatever the fuck are bullshit. Some random person tells you they can see lights around you that you can’t even see yourself and that means you’re supposed to suddenly give a shit about them? Didn’t believe in that garbage and still don’t.”
He’s breathing heavily, as if he’s just sparred three rounds against Kiri at the gym. His gaze is piercing. His lights are erratic, orange overpowering the gold and flaring intensely.
“Then why the hell are you saying that I’m your soulmate like it matters? If it’s even true?” you say accusingly.
“It doesn’t!” he says, explosively. He catches himself, takes a deep breath, and continues, more levelly, “It doesn’t matter to me. But I know it does to you. And it is true. I’ve always been able to see your lights. All this time. Distracting as shit.”
He reaches out and grasps your hand gently, careful of your palms, his other rising to rest on your arm, running back and forth across your skin as if interacting with something that you can’t see. A motion you’d done just this morning, lying across from him in bed.
You’re speechless. You’re afraid. To believe, to hope.
Bakugou ducks his head to meet your eyes.
“But I don’t care about you because of some shitty lights. Want you. Didn’t deserve it, but you gave me another chance. Figured out you’re it myself. Didn’t need those dumb lights.”
Eyes intense, he looks at you, checking to see if he’s getting through to you.
He releases your hand. Tousles his hair roughly, clicking his tongue.
“Friends, whatever you want, we’ll do that. Just don’t think I’ve stuck around just because of these damn lights or what happened when we were kids. I told you. I only do shit I wanna do. Thought you were smarter than this, dumbass.” He pokes you square in the forehead, and you scowl at him, rubbing the spot.
Your scowl slowly fades as you furrow your brow, trying to process everything. But your mind’s awhirl, and trying to settle on a single thought is like trying to catch the dust specks that’re only visible in sunlight, twisting, floating.
Groaning, you bury your face in Bakugou’s shoulder.
“I give up,” you say, voice muffled. “It’s too much to think about. My brain’s going to explode.”
“You’re the one who kept bringing shit up. Last thing to get off your chest, my ass,” Bakugou snarks.
Your head jerks up, and you narrow your eyes at him.
“Watch the attitude, asshole.”
“Or what?” Bakugou scoffs.
Ooh, the urge to do something diabolical is so strong. But you restrain yourself, tallying up all the strikes he’s made against you today and tucking them aside for later.
Soulmates.
The word keeps repeating itself, a mantra in your head, as you go through the motions of the rest of the day.
Bakugou insists on driving you home, not letting you take public transportation despite the fact that you don’t live too far from each other. Maybe he senses you need the silence, or maybe it’s because he doesn’t have any words left either, but he doesn’t say much to you between the ending of your conversation to dropping you off at your apartment except to remind you to change your bandages and to call him if you need anything.
You head to your bedroom to change into your own clothes. It’s only in the privacy of your room, smelling traces of Bakugou’s body wash on your skin, his shampoo in your hair, that the past twenty-four hours really hits you.
You sink shakily onto your bed and try to breathe.
Given the revelations you’d confronted this morning, the villain attack feels like it happened ages ago, irrelevant, as ridiculous as it sounds. If the bandages on your hands weren’t proof, the event would’ve faded from your memory.
Soulmates.
You mouth the word silently.
You don’t think Bakugou would lie about this. Knowing him like you do now, it makes sense that he’d so adamantly refuse ties he has no control over. Knowing the kid he was back then, the young man he grew into, gathered from various press coverage over the years, it makes sense he’d want to forge his own path and deny anything that got in his way.
You’re just not sure what shifted between his rejection when you were children and your meeting months ago, in that grocery store. You regret not asking him, but—in the moment, you’d been so overwhelmed. You’re still overwhelmed.
How would this change things between you? If he’s been able to see your lights all this time—what do they look like to him? You’ve never told him the color of his lights; he never seemed interested, anyway. You wonder what you look like to him. You wish you could see yourself through his eyes, understand what’s going on in his brain.
Friends, whatever you want, we’ll do that.
He’d said that. And you’d said that. Friends. But if you’re truthful with yourself, that’s not what you want. You want more, and only now do you feel warranted to hope for more. You know what it feels like to be held in his arms. To wake up next to him, the first thing you see. To be treated so gently by him, like you’re important. Precious.
…But what if wanting more from him would be forcing upon him another tie he never asked for? Surely if he feels the same way you do, he would’ve said something instead of defaulting to friendship.
Just as doubt begins to creep in again, your phone buzzes, a welcome distraction.
Kiri: Hey! I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to check up on you last night. Had to deal with so many problems!!!
You smile and reply.
You: Don’t worry about it! I’m doing good. Got seen by some medics and just have some cuts on my hands, no biggie
Kiri: Wish I could’ve escorted you home! I hope you didn’t get home too late… There was a bunch of traffic and closed off streets
You: We got home in pretty good time, nw. I hope you didn’t have to stay out too late dealing with everything
Kiri: Oh? Did your friend pick you up? Or family?
You pause for a moment, wondering if you should answer. Shrugging, you tap out a response, figuring that Bakugou would tell Kiri eventually. Honestly, you thought Kiri already knew.
You: Bakugou came. We made up!
You keep it short and simple.
Several bubbles come up on Kiri’s end, disappearing and reappearing. You nearly put your phone down with how long he takes, but finally, his reply comes in a flood.
Kiri: That! Is! So! Great!!!!!!!!
Kiri: I’m so happy for you dude
Kiri: And for Katsuki ofc but damn. At least one good thing came outta this mess!!!
Kiri: Hey, would you be down to join our next hangout? It’d be with Mina and the guys, you saw them that night. Hanta and Denki
Kiri: We try to do a monthly thing, like dinner or something, but obviously that didn’t happen…
Kiri: We also usually try to get Katsuki to come! We’re not usually successful :(
Kiri: But if you come, he’ll definitely come. Pls?
You watch the messages roll in, smiling. Kiri’s energy is so infectious, even over text.
Thinking back, you hated how your last interaction went down. You regretted how avoiding Bakugou meant avoiding Kiri, the agency, and the people you’d made friends with there. Reconciling with Bakugou has been a relief in many ways, and you’re grateful that it means you can return to the life you’d built before your argument.
You: Would that be okay? I don’t wanna intrude. Esp if you guys can only meet once a month
Kiri: Dude, you would NOT be intruding. Everyone’s been wanting to meet you for ages
Kiri: Bakugou’s just been stingy hiding you
Kiri: Pls?
You gaze down at your screen, thinking. Kiri’s words imply that you have some sort of impact on Bakugou. Not only that, they reveal that somehow, Bakugou’s friends whom you’ve never met know about you. It makes you wonder what Kiri knows, what they know.
You: Okay!
You're going to find out.
Author's Note: Hi friends! This update definitely wasn't quick, but at least it didn't take a full year between updates like chapter twelve did, I guess... Seeing post-time skip Bakugou finally get animated helped! I got a ton of fan edits coming across my TikTok FYP lmaoooo. (I do wish that Horikoshi had designed Bakugou (and Izuku) to be more mature-looking, like Shouto is. Alas.)
Any how, so many important conversations happen in this chapter, though arguably, the most important one—What are we?—is still to come. Though, I know how many of you have been yelling for some clarity about the soulmate question. I've had this scene written since the beginning, so it's been a long time coming. I'd love to hear what you think of how their convos went down!!!
I have next chapter scheduled as the last one, but who really knows until I start writing it. It may be the last, or I may add a fifteenth chapter. I'll keep ya'll upated!
Finally, I hope you're all doing well and that you enjoy this chapter. 🧡 Thank you so much for all your comments, here and on ao3, for your asks, your likes, your reblogs, all your engagement. As I've said before, your interest is what keeps me determined to finish this fic. We're in the home stretch!
